BILL O'MALLEY
Allison leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. Stan waited for the
Flight Lieutenant to explain his sudden mirth. Allison had just come
from the O.C.'s office. He turned to Stan.
"I put in a call for a new flier. After all, I can't have a couple of
prize fighters trailing me around. I got a very sweet fighting man. He
doesn't love the English so much, and he doesn't hate the Jerries so
much. He's an Irish boy whose ancestors haven't missed a war in a
thousand years. He just couldn't stay out of this one." Allison chuckled
and nodded his head.
Stan turned his gaze toward the door, which had swung inward revealing a
tall youth.
"There," said Allison, "comes Bill O'Malley."
Bill O'Malley was long and lank, with an Adam's apple that bobbed up and
down his throat. His bony shoulders were stooped in a most unmilitary
manner, and his head boasted a thatch of flaming red hair. He was about
the last person in the world Stan would have picked as a daredevil
flier. His homely face and his sloppy figure would not have inspired
fear or confidence in anyone. Allison waved to him.
"Hi, old fellow, come over and meet a pal."
Bill O'Malley grinned as he slouched across the room. As soon as his big
mouth cracked into a smile Stan knew he was going to like this big
Irisher.
Allison arose. He was acting with deliberate and mock politeness.
"O'Malley, meet Wilson," he said with a sweep of his arm. Then the
derisive mask slipped over his face and he seated himself again.
"Sure, 'tis a quiet an' homelike place ye have here, Commander,"
O'Malley said. "Wilson, me boy, I'm right glad to meet up with ye."
"Nothing ever happens around here," Allison agreed. "It's a peaceful
place."
"Snug as a clambake," O'Malley agreed. "But much more dead. Now when I
gave me word I'd come in with you boys the O.C. made quite a talk about
how tough the job was. Here we sit like auld friends at a picnic." He
scowled bleakly at Allison.
"I'll send over for a flight of Jerries," Allison said with a grin.
"'Twill be a pleasure, me foine fellow," O'Malley answered. "I came over
here to see some action."
Both Stan and Allison knew Bill O'Malley meant just what he said. He was
wild as any crazy hare, but he had a name that was already on the
tongues of ground men when spectacular stunts were talked about. Stan
guessed that Allison had not had much trouble in getting the Irisher
away from whatever flight he was with. Few Flight Lieutenants would have
cared to be responsible for him.
The loud-speaker began to blare. "Red Flight, all out! Green Flight, all
out! Yellow Flight, all out!"
"Sounds like the whole Jerry outfit is on the way," O'Malley said as he
unwound himself from a stool and made for the door.
There was no mistaking the fact that O'Malley was a first-class fighting
man. Stan knew it by the way he got into his Spitfire and rammed the
hatch cover home. By the time they had zoomed up and away, he was sure
of it. Allison was chuckling over the radio.
"Cuddle in, Red Flight. We pick up Bristols and Blenheims at 10,000."
"'Tis no wet nurse I'll be," came the Irish brogue of O'Malley. "I
resign this minnit."
"Headquarters says the Jerries have two dozen Messer One-Nines on a
reception committee," Allison droned back.
"The spalpeens! Why such a measly little bunch?" O'Malley demanded
indignantly.
Stan gave his attention to flying. The squadron droned into a thick bank
of clouds and was swallowed. Nine demons bored ahead to take a bombing
flight through.
"Rose Raid, take position. Rose Raid, take position," came a voice over
the air from the tactics group gathered around a big map at
headquarters.
Stan grinned. The British were odd in many ways. For no good reason,
they called this raid Rose Raid instead of B-7 or some other
businesslike tabulation. Then he sighted the bombers 1,000 feet below.
Three heavily loaded Bristols and three Blenheims. Stan remembered the
fast-flying Consolidateds and the B-19's of the United States Army.
Soon, if he was lucky enough to stay alive, he might be escorting
B-19's.
Up and up they went into the clouds, with the bombers droning steadily
southeast and the Spitfires cruising above and below and around.
The radios were all strangely silent now. There was no talk and Stan let
his ears fill with the pleasant roar of his Merlin. He bent forward and
stared at his instrument panel. That gauge couldn't be right, it must be
jammed or something. If the needle was reading right he had less than a
half tank of gas. He bent forward and rapped the panel. The needle did
not change, except to surge a bit further toward the empty side. Stan's
mouth drew into a grim line. He could believe that gauge and turn
tail--or he could figure it was wrong and go on.
If it was right, he was short of gas for the trip. A hard gleam shone in
his eyes. Regardless of the gauge, his tank should have been filled
full. If it hadn't been filled there was dirty work somewhere. He
thought of Garret. Allison had said Garret had been put on the ground.
Stan wondered what job Garret had been given.
Then he snorted. He was letting himself go. Just because he was sore at
Garret he was imagining things. He rapped the dial sharply and the
needle jumped, then settled back. If he went on he would run out of gas
over German territory and have to go down. In spite of himself, he
couldn't help muttering:
"That would be a nice way of getting rid of me."
He shrugged his shoulders. Allison was dipping his wings in a signal.
They were going down to have a look below. He couldn't use his flap
mike. If he cut and ran he would have to prove he hadn't drained his
tank to get out of a hot odds-on battle; he'd have to have proof that
the tank wasn't filled when he took off. But he had to decide at once.
A guarded voice spoke. It was Allison's. "Peel off and dive by position.
Come up after a check below clouds."
The Flight Lieutenant's Spitfire lanced over on its side and streaked
down like a rocket. O'Malley followed. Stan's lips pulled into a hard
line. He flipped the Spitfire over on its side and went roaring down the
chute. The air speed and altimeter were going insane. The shriek of the
dive shook every nerve in Stan's body, and set him back against the
crash pad, holding him there with a powerful grip. The three Spitfires
roared out of the clouds at the same instant. They streaked into the
clear blue for a moment, then shot upward and ducked back into the cloud
again.
They had seen nothing except a low and rocky coastline with white lines
of breakers beating against it. Not a plane in the world, except the
squadron, so it seemed.
And then the clouds broke away and a harbor was in the frame of their
windscreens. It looked like a toy harbor with its oblong breakwater. A
great hangar with a black painted roof looked out upon the gently
rolling waters. There were seaplanes in the picture somewhere. Stan
craned his neck and saw what was holding the eyes of the men in the
Blenheims and the Bristols. Three toy boats rode at anchor beside a
dock. Those were supply ships that had slipped through the blockade.
Headquarters was taking a last desperate chance of keeping that valuable
cargo from getting through.
Then the Rose Raid actually started. The radio began to crackle. "Rose
Raid at targets! Rose Raid over targets!" That was the squadron leader
telling headquarters they were going down.
The nine light Spitfires went down in a screaming dive to cover the
Blenheims and the Bristols. The big Bristols swung into line-astern
formation and bashed through the first upheaval of Flak-88 shells. Black
and white blooms of bursting shells bracketed them as their leader slid
into the curtain of fire. The next instant the big Bristol disappeared
in a mass of smoke and flame.
A Blenheim on Stan's right twisted upward, threw away a wing and went
down in a dizzy spin, ramming its nose into the roof of the black
hangar.
The remaining four bombers plunged down upon their objective with the
Spitfires doing dizzy stunts alongside them and the air seemingly filled
with Heinkel single-seaters which had slashed into the picture from
nowhere. A darting Heinkel dived upon Stan. Stan opened up and saw an
aileron flutter away from the plummeting fighter. The formation of
Spitfires had broken up now. It was everybody into the dogfight to keep
the Heinkels from getting at the four precious bombers.
The slashing, whirling Spitfires did the job. They tore into the
Heinkels and their deadly eight-gun combinations showed at once what
superior fire power they had. Stan watched O'Malley send a fighter down
and slide over on his back, out of the path of three more, to get
another before his first burst of fire had ceased smoking. O'Malley was
a demon of the sky. He was in and out and up and down and his trail was
a trail of death. Allison was up there, too, doing just about as well
but doing it with cold precision rather than by sheer recklessness.
Stan knifed into a wedge of Heinkels darting down to drop upon one of
the Bristols. The Heinkels scattered before his fire, twisting and
ducking and darting. Stan laid over and looked down. The bombers had
unloaded. Below him the three ships, big now, and dirty in their
streaked gray and black paint, were very close. Men were running wildly
about on their decks or leaping into the water. One of them burst into
flame amidship, another seemed to explode, the third listed far over and
her stern sank slowly down.
Stan's radio was shouting at him. "Rose Raid! Rose Raid! Ten bandits
down. Two bombers have left formation. Two fighters have left formation.
Rose Raid, come in. Rose Raid, come in!"
The Spitfires could not come in. While the bombers slipped away under
full throttle, free of their loads and faster than they had been, the
Spitfires slashed and blasted and ducked. Stan watched a Spitfire go
into the bay, twisting and spinning. He wondered if it could be Allison
or O'Malley.
"Red Flight, come in." That was Allison's voice.
"Comin' soon as I get me another spalpeen," O'Malley's brogue burred.
Stan glanced at his gas gauge. It showed empty, but the Merlin was still
hammering away. He nosed her up as he cuddled his flap mike.
"Wilson coming in."
Up and up the Spitfire roared, shaking the Heinkels off her tail as she
twisted and banked, her 1,000 horses tossing her toward the ceiling.
Stan held his breath as he headed her home. Was that gas gauge a liar?
He heard the Merlin cough and knew the gauge had not lied. Looking back
he saw the dim outline of the enemy shore. Back there he could cripple
down and they would not shoot him. They would be glad to get a sound
Spitfire and they would keep him locked up for the rest of the war.
Ahead lay the gray waters of the English channel, rough and sullen, cold
as ice.
"Wilson out of gas. Making a try for home," he shouted into his flap
mike.
Above him he saw that Messerschmitt One-Tens had joined the Heinkels in
trying to finish off the Spitfires. He leveled off as the Merlin gave
its last gasp of power and sent the ship gliding toward home.
For a time Stan thought the Jerries had missed him, they were so busy up
above. Eight thousand feet below his wings the rough waters of the
channel were moving up to meet him. The first warning Stan had that he
was not to escape without a fight was a terrific jolting and ripping
that almost shook him loose from his seat; the next was the staccato
rattle of a rapid-fire cannon that was ripping great chunks out of his
right wing.
The Spitfire writhed up on her side, then rolled over on her back and
shot seaward. Stan pulled the stick back against his stomach and kicked
the right rudder viciously. He looked up just as the Jerry loosed
another broadside which missed the ship. The Jerry zoomed back up,
satisfied he had finished the Spitfire that was trying to slip away.
Stan gave the Jerry but a glance. He was battling to pull the Spitfire
out of the spin he had jammed her into. He soon realized that there was
no control left in the ship, so he unbuckled his belt and rammed back
what was left of the hatch cover. He squirmed out of the cockpit and
dived. As he slid away from the ship he felt himself caught and held.
His chute bellied out and the shoulder straps wrenched at him. A second
later he was ripped loose and whirled away from the crumpled wreck. As
he leveled off he saw that he was about 3,000 feet from the water.
It appeared also that Stan had the channel to himself. Overhead he could
hear the faint drone of motors; otherwise there was no sound except the
cries of a half-dozen excited gulls that swooped down about him
curiously as the chute let him drift downward toward the gray sea.
An inshore wind whipped at his clothing, twisting him dizzily as he
dangled there in mid-air, and he had a brief, crazy hope that it might
carry him in to land before he went down. But that wild hope died at
once when he realized the shore was miles away.
There was nothing for it but to take his wetting and hope the R.A.F.
life jacket was as good as it was supposed to be. He stared downward at
the choppy surface that seemed to sweep upward to meet him, gritting his
teeth to drive fear away. This was a chance every channel flier took ...
and sometimes they were rescued.
He handled the chute controls skillfully, easing himself down with the
wind while he fought to loosen the buckles that held the straps tightly
about him. If he went into the water with that chute dragging him down
there wouldn't be any chance of eventual rescue.
As his numbed fingers tore at the buckles he wondered what it felt like
to drown. The sea was close now. A bleak gray expanse of waves that
reached hungry arms upward to receive another human sacrifice. One
buckle came free, then another. He ripped himself out of the harness and
plummeted down the last ten feet, his body driving deep into the icy
cold water.
He came to the surface sputtering and beating the water madly, then
remembered the life jacket he wore, and let its buoyancy support him
while he took stock of the situation.
It looked hopeless. He was a single tiny speck floating on a vast
expanse of sea where every surface craft was subject to attack and more
intent on making port than searching for downed fliers. The sky overhead
was clear of planes now. He wondered if anyone had seen him bailing out.
He had reported he was short of gas. If either Allison or O'Malley made
it back safely, he had a hunch they wouldn't rest until they returned to
search the sea for him or the wreckage of his plane.
That was his only hope. Any other rescue would be purely accidental. The
icy fingers of the water were eating into his flesh. The heavy flying
togs were becoming water-soaked, dragging him down. He didn't know how
long he could hold out. He tried to swim toward the dimly distant shore
line, but the waves battered him back and the numbing cold stole away
his strength.
He forced himself to relax, let the life jacket support him. It might be
hours before rescue came. It looked hopeless, but a man never gave up
hope while life remained in his body. If he could keep his head above
water, keep from swallowing too much of the salt sea, he could last a
few hours at least.
And he clung to the belief that Allison or O'Malley would return to look
for him. Though he didn't know just what either of them could do if they
did spot him from the sky. If one of them could get hold of a seaplane
he didn't doubt that they'd try to set it down on the rough surface to
rescue him. He tried to recall whether he'd seen any seaplanes since
arriving in England.
Things were getting hazy in his mind. He gave up trying to move his
limbs. The blood was congealing in his veins. He had a strange feeling
that his flesh was becoming brittle with cold, that he would break into
pieces if he tried to move an arm or leg.
A delightful sensation of helpless lethargy crept over him. This was the
sort of thing he had read happened to people when death was very close
and inevitable. It was Nature's kind way of drugging the perceptions
against the impact of death.
He began to hear a buzzing in his ears, and he decided that was the
beginning of the end. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered. Not even
the war.
The buzzing grew louder and became a distinct annoyance. He tried to
shut it away from his consciousness, but it persisted. He felt himself
being dragged back from the coma into which he had sunk. The buzzing
became a loud drone, then smashed at his ear drums with a shattering
roar.
He came to life again, and fought to blink his salt-encrusted eyelids
open. He recognized that roar of a Spitfire motor. It was zooming over
him, flattening out in a crazy reckless pancake dangerously close to the
surface of the water.
He got one eye open and caught a flashing glimpse of a grinning Irish
face leaning over the side of the plane and shouting something to him.
The plane lifted swiftly and swept away and Stan found himself waving a
numbed hand after it.
The ice in his veins was transformed into tongues of flame that licked
through his body. O'Malley had come, just as he had known the Irishman
would. He would bring a rescue ship back. All Stan had to do was stay
alive a little longer.
He grinned happily as he watched the Spitfire become a dim speck in the
sky and then disappear. He began beating the water with his arms and
legs, and he jeered good-naturedly at the sea that had sought to engulf
him.
The plane was coming back, circling high overhead to spot the floating
pilot for a fishing boat that was putting out from shore. As the small
craft drew near Stan saw two men in oilskins waving to him. He waved
back, and then a strange thing happened. It was as though someone had
struck him on the head with a sledge hammer. He was unconscious when the
boat reached him, and he stayed unconscious for a full twenty-four
hours.
He woke up in a strange new world that was utterly different from
anything he had known before. A clean, white, antiseptic world with
narrow beds and pretty girls in white uniforms. He was tucked in one of
those beds, and one of the pretty girls in a white uniform was bending
over him solicitously.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
"This is a hospital. You are very sick," the nurse said soothingly.
"Hospital!" Stan sputtered. "I'm not staying in any hospital. I was
never in a hospital in my life!" He got to his feet as orderlies and a
head nurse came running.
"Lie down or I will report you," the head nurse said severely. "You are
sick."
"How long do you think it takes me to get over a bath?" Stan shot at the
nurse.
"You'll be here two weeks," the head nurse informed him.
Stan had visions of Allison sending out for another man to fill the trio
on Red Flight. He wrapped the blanket tighter around him.
"Get my clothes," he ordered.
"Get an officer," the head nurse snapped to an orderly.
Stan knew it was time for action. He swept the blanket ends off the
floor and dived down the hall with the nurses running after him. A
doctor came out of a room, looked at Stan, then ducked back quickly.
Stan bounded down a wide stairway and out through a pair of open doors.
People stared at him as he rushed up the street in his bare feet looking
for a cab.
On a corner he bumped into two bobbies. They closed in on both sides of
him.
"Easy, my man," one of them said. "Easy, now. We'll see you safe back to
your bed."
"Fine," Stan answered. "Get me over to Merry Flying Field as quick as
you can."
The bobbies looked at Stan then exchanged glances. He looked perfectly
healthy and very powerful, though he was a bit pale and had a wild look
in his eye. They nodded their heads.
"I'm from Red Flight over at Merry Field. Get me there and the Flight
Lieutenant will vouch for me," Stan urged as he looked down the street
and saw an ambulance rocking around a corner.
The bobbies were satisfied that this young giant was crazy and they had
better humor him. They shoved him through the curious crowd that had
formed on the corner. Within a few minutes he was seated in a cab
bowling across the city.
Allison was lounging at a table drinking tea with O'Malley when two
bobbies and a disheveled man wrapped in a wool blanket marched into the
mess. They both leaped to their feet and rushed across the room.
"Stan, old chap!" Allison shouted.
"By the scalp of St. Patrick!" O'Malley boomed. "An' I thought you would
drown sure before the boat got to you."
The bobbies nodded their heads and grinned broadly. They lifted their
sticks and moved out, well satisfied with their work. Stan called after
them:
"If you meet an ambulance wandering about tell the driver to go back to
the hospital and give my regards to the head nurse." He sank into a
chair and grinned up at his friends. "How about some clothes?"
"Coming right up. You can borrow my dress uniform," Allison said.
"O'Malley insisted we hold off replacements for another day. The
hospital said you'd be laid up for weeks, but O'Malley had a hunch you
wouldn't let them keep you."
Stan told what had happened. When he had finished O'Malley beat a bony
fist on the table.
"Faith, an' I think the gas business is a trick of that rotter, Garret.
What he's after needin' is a good taste of me fist," he bellowed.
"We have no proof. If one of you fellows beat him up we'd all be
grounded, you know," Allison cut in.
"If Garret was on the crew that handled the fueling that's enough for
me," Stan said grimly.
"He was put in charge of our hangar by the O.C. But you can bet he
covered his dirty work carefully. We'll just have to trap him." Allison
spoke grimly.
"And in the meantime we better check our ships before we go out each
time," Stan said. "If I'd done that this time I'd have brought my
Spitfire back whole and wouldn't have had to take a bath in the
channel."
"I'll bet the spalpeen will get a scare when you walk into that hangar,"
O'Malley said with a grin.
Stan got to his feet. "I'm going out there just as soon as I get some
clothes. I warn you, O'Malley, this is my fight. You stay out of it."
O'Malley's eyes glittered. "I niver could stay out of a good scrap, but
if you wade into him I'm thinkin' there won't be anything left for me to
do but pick up the pieces."
"You better keep a tight hand on your temper, old chap," Allison warned.
"I will. I'll have the low-down before I sock him," Stan promised.
A half-hour later, dressed in one of Allison's uniforms, and looking
little worse for his ducking, Stan strolled into the hangar. Garret was
not about so he went to the crew that had handled his ship. They were
really glad to see him, he was sure of that. He looked them over and had
a feeling none of them had had any part in the plot.
"Who gassed my Spitfire before she went out on the last raid?" His eyes
moved from man to man.
A corporal stepped forward. "I did, sir."
"Was the tank full when you rolled her out?"
"Yes, sir. I rechecked. She was full up." The corporal was positive.
"Did you gas her up immediately before the flight?"
"No, we always gas up as soon as the Spits come in, so they'll be ready
without delay. Sometimes they go right back up."
Stan nodded. He had known that. "Was the squad out for breakfast?"
A sergeant spoke up. "Yes, sir. Lieutenant Garret sent us all out
together. Squad Four was on duty down the line and could keep an eye on
things and shove out for us if a call came."
"He went with you?"
"Yes, he walked as far as his mess with us."
Stan smiled. "Thanks," he said. "My gas turned out a bit short and I got
a ducking in the channel."
He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned and
walked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure he
would have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garret
entered.
"Hello, Garret," Stan said and grinned.
Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and his
eyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.
"You think you can railroad me clean out of this man's army, but you'll
get yours, and I'll be back in the air again."
"If any other funny things happen to my ship I'm going to take a poke at
that pretty face of yours," Stan said.
Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walked
across the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there was
no mistake about that, and he hated Stan Wilson. Stan had a feeling,
too, that Garret was going to make good on his threat.
He wasn't sure how Garret intended to do it, or how much the fellow
knew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan had
an uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected the
truth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson's past that Stan had hoped he
could leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi war
machine.
But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man can
ever wholly escape his past. Fate has a way of stepping in and smashing
the best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate had
selected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.