O'MALLEY BAGS A JERRY GUN
No call came for Red Flight until late afternoon. Other flights roared
away to strafe the French coast, or to meet incoming bomber formations,
or to do scout duty; but Allison and his crew just sat around and
groused. O'Malley's good humor finally broke down and he began prowling
around hurling choice Irish words at the mess crew.
When the call did come, he was out of the room like a wild bushman. By
the time Allison and Stan reached the cab rank, he was jerking his hatch
cover into place and feeling out his Merlin.
"You'd think the boy was off to raid Berlin," Allison said sourly. "All
we have is a call from a few barges of coal."
Red Flight roared out and up, heading toward the channel. Stan had
checked his instruments carefully. Everything seemed to be in working
order, though he could not be sure of his wing guns until he opened them
up.
"Keep in close," Allison's voice droned.
They were up now and heading for the channel where a few big clouds hung
over the sea. So far as Stan could see they were kings of the air and
there might have been no war on at all. Not a wing was in sight except
their own.
"Red Flight, level off."
They leveled off and headed for a big cloud. That seemed the most likely
hunting ground. The three Spitfires were not up high because the clouds
were hanging over the sea. Below, Stan saw the cause of their call.
Seven of the foulest old tubs he had ever laid an eye on were churning
and wallowing in the choppy sea. Their propellers thrashed the water
into tawny foam. Their plates were scarred and patched with daubs of
vermillion. Red, rusty streams of water trickled down their sides. Seven
piles of rust, grime and junk belching smoke like so many volcanoes.
Coasters and not one of them over twelve hundred tons.
The boats rode high and Stan decided they were making the run from
Portsmouth to London under ballast to pick up coal. Running what was
supposed to be a death channel the old tubs would slide under the big
coastal guns of the Germans. In a few days they would plough back loaded
with coal. Their audacity made Stan grin. The British were certainly a
stubborn race of people and when they had a sea course marked out they
stayed with it. A sleek gray destroyer nosed the string of ancient boats
along like a nervous hound herding a flock of fat pigs.
"Two bandits coming out of a cloud, quarter right," Allison's drawl
announced.
Stan spotted the two Heinkel bombers as soon as Allison spoke. They were
slim-bodied, snaky-looking killers with long wings and widespread tail
structures. Their pilots hadn't seen the three Spitfires as yet, being
busy spotting the sleek destroyer.
When they did see the danger they zoomed up and laid over, plunging back
into the cloud. Stan drove straight after them because he was in the
best position. O'Malley swept around one side of the cloud and Allison
went around the other.
Stan had a chance to test his guns as his upward zoom rode him up on a
ghostly form ahead in the mist. The eight Brownings drilled furiously,
in perfect timing. The Heinkel nosed down and vanished into the wall of
fog. Stan went down to see if he had done any damage.
Breaking into the clear he saw blossoms of white silk dotting the green
of the sea. The bombers were gone but Stan knew from the number of
chutes floating down to the water that both Heinkels had been bagged.
Below them two motor launches were slicing across the channel getting
set to pick up the Jerries and make them prisoners. Then he heard
O'Malley's voice.
"Sure, an' I'm thinkin' I see four Messers off the port wing."
"Coming up with you," Allison called back. "Take them, Irisher."
"Wilson coming up," Stan shouted into his flap mike.
He went up and over a cloud and down on the other side. He saw O'Malley
drilling away to the south like an irate bumblebee. Close behind him
streaked Allison. Stan headed after them. Then Allison's voice came in
very softly:
"I think you're seeing things, Irisher."
Stan grinned as he shoved the nose of the Spitfire down a little.
O'Malley was duck hunting. He didn't aim to go back without some more
action if he could help it.
"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," droned a voice from the
field.
"Red Flight in contact with bandits!" O'Malley roared back.
"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," headquarters insisted.
"Red Flight going into defense," Allison cut in.
Stan's grin widened. Allison was going to see that O'Malley got his duck
hunt. They roared on, swinging in a wide circle, beating upward again.
O'Malley would have his way now. Allison couldn't argue with
headquarters listening in.
Stan began to think they were stymied when all Hades broke loose from
above. Out of nowhere five Messerschmitts came roaring down on them,
three One-Nines and two One-Tens.
"Prepare for attack. Peel off and take some altitude," Allison drawled.
"Start peelin', darlin'," O'Malley shouted.
They zoomed upward, spreading to let the attack slide past. The enemy
scattered out and swooped to meet them. Stan saw O'Malley drive straight
over a One-Nine almost ramming the Jerry, and missing him clean with a
burst of fire. That was not like O'Malley.
The Jerry banked and flipped over, thinking only of getting away before
O'Malley cut back across him and sawed him in two parts; but O'Malley
kept straight on. Stan picked up the One-Nine, scissoring off a wing tip
and sending him wavering away toward the east.
Stan watched O'Malley as the wild Irishman zoomed up over a One-Ten. The
Messerschmitt banked and tried to escape, but O'Malley was on him in a
reckless roaring dive. Stan shot over the two and saw the Jerry spray
O'Malley's ship with lead. Pieces of his hatch cover showered away like
feathers from a potted duck. Again O'Malley missed a perfect burst and
came up under the Jerry. He returned the compliment paid him by slicing
the top off the Messerschmitt's hatch cover. Stan knew the miss had been
deliberate. O'Malley never let one get away when he had a spot shot like
that.
Then light dawned upon Stan. O'Malley was after the Jerry's gun. Allison
was very busy himself and doing such a savage job that he was about to
clear the air without Stan's help. Stan dived down to make the game one
against one for Allison. When he came up, O'Malley was on the tail of
the Messerschmitt and bawling at Allison:
"By the shades of St. Patrick, you keep out of this!"
The Jerry was hurt, but not badly, and O'Malley had him on the run. When
the Jerry dived O'Malley was on his tail. He didn't shoot him down. When
he dropped off on one wing, peeling away under full throttle, O'Malley
had him covered. Then Stan heard the Irisher yelling at the Jerry pilot.
"Leave that gun like she is, you spalpeen, or I'll send you to the
fishes!"
Apparently the Jerry did not understand what O'Malley said, possibly his
radio wasn't set to pick up the transmitter of the Spitfire, but he did
understand the short bursts of fire that clipped pieces out of various
parts of his ship. He headed the way the lank Irishman pointed and drove
ahead.
Allison and Stan dropped in behind, letting O'Malley have his prize.
Stan called to Allison:
"Somebody ought to tip off the Ack-Ack boys or O'Malley may get a warm
reception."
"Let him show his stuff," Allison drawled and Stan thought he heard the
Flight Lieutenant chuckle.
The Messerschmitt ducked over the coast and down with O'Malley steering
him expertly to the field. Bursts of gunfire began to blossom below and
puffs of white smoke broke around the Jerry and his pursuer.
"They think O'Malley's Spitfire is a captured plane with a Jerry in it,"
Stan muttered.
O'Malley sent his catch down through the shellfire, twisting and
turning. The Nazi pilot was an expert and wiggled through until they got
close in, then the fire got so hot he and O'Malley had to hit for the
ceiling. They circled and were high up when Stan and Allison slid down
the field.
Undaunted, O'Malley came in again and this time he sent his prize
through the rain of exploding shells. The Messerschmitt rolled to a stop
with O'Malley close behind him. In a moment the flustered Jerry was
climbing out of his shattered hatch with his hands elevated above his
head.
Ground men closed in around him, shouting and doing a war dance.
O'Malley climbed out after removing part of the hatch cover from around
his neck. He strode to the Messerschmitt and bellowed at the ground men.
"Git ye a hump on yerselves an' pull out that fore gun!"
Four mechanics raced away to get tools while O'Malley stood guard over
his prize. He refused to let anyone touch the ship. A senior ground
officer came hurrying up and O'Malley gave him a sloppy salute. The
officer snapped:
"I'll take charge here now."
"Ye'll do nothing of the sort," O'Malley shouted. "And as I live and
breathe them's Wing Commander Farrell's very orders!"
The officer looked at the wild-eyed O'Malley and decided it would be
best to wait for reinforcements, possibly a Group Captain or an Air
Commodore.
"It's my job, you know, old man," he said but his tone had changed.
"'Tis my job, me hearty," O'Malley assured him.
The mechanics arrived and in a few minutes the fore gun was on the
ground at O'Malley's feet. It was so heavy he could not handle it. He
turned to the grinning Stan who was standing beside Allison.
"Lend a hand so we can deliver this gadget before sundown."
Stan and Allison stepped forward.
"This is positively against regulations," the senior officer sputtered.
"An' who, may I ask, bagged this here gun?" O'Malley demanded. "I may be
bold, but I suggest ye give some attention to that Jerry waitin' over
there to be captured accordin' to regulations."
The Jerry was standing with his arms still elevated. He was alone and
unguarded.
"And be lettin' O'Malley of Red Flight be knowin' where you put the bye.
I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts."
O'Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and
saluted stiffly.
Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped
across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post
outside headquarters.
Wing Commander Farrell was just finishing a flight report. His gray eyes
were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had
dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one
fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank
and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O'Malley for a long minute,
then remembered him and his pie.
"What do you want, Lieutenant?" he snapped. "I suppose you have that new
enemy gun in your pocket."
His sarcasm was lost upon O'Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped
aside.
"Indaid, an' I hope it's the latest model. I put a very good Jerry
flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin' it to you."
The Wing Commander's eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison
and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair
and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the
gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.
"So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about," he said. "It
would seem some rumors are correct in this war."
"An' now, sor, I'll be running along," O'Malley said. "I'm feelin' a bit
o' the pinch of hunger."
"Have two pies on my chit book," the Wing Commander said and smiled
broadly.
"Indaid, that I will," O'Malley answered gravely.
The three coal barge nurses returned to the briefing room and checked
their chutes which had been discarded on the field. They found
Lieutenant Garret waiting for them. He drew his mouth into a triumphant
frown. Beside his desk lay the three chutes, neatly piled there by the
field crew.
"See those chutes?" he snapped.
"Sure, an' one of them gadgets is a personal friend o' mine," O'Malley
said and grinned broadly.
"I'm putting it down against you. You discarded them on the field
without properly caring for them. That is a violation of general
orders." Garret scowled at the Irish flier.
O'Malley leaned his elbows on the desk and regarded the officer
thoughtfully.
"Very remarkable, indaid," he said softly.
"Red Flight reports two Dorniers and three Messerschmitts down and one
captured," Allison said and his eyes locked with those of the briefing
officer.
"Red Flight gets credit for two Dorniers. The Royal Navy reported them.
And one Messerschmitt brought in." Garret's eyes gleamed triumphantly.
"Sure, an' are ye certain ye can give us one Messer?" O'Malley asked.
"Perhaps the poor bye got himself lost an' mistook this berg for
Berlin."
"There is no independent check on the other fighters," Garret snapped.
Stan said nothing. He could not trust himself to speak. What he wanted
to do was to lay a right on Garret's jaw.
"You fellows better walk pretty straight from now on. And keep yourself
looking like officers," Garret barked.
Without bothering to fill in a report, O'Malley shoved off to the mess
room. Allison filled out his report and Stan made his out. They reported
the exact action and the results. They left Garret scowling at their
cards.
"Wilson!" Garret called sharply as Stan started to walk away at
Allison's side. "I want a word with you, alone."
Stan turned back and stood at the desk. His gaze locked with Garret's.
"Have you ever flown stunts or test jobs in the United States?" He
leaned forward and his small eyes searched Stan's face.
Stan returned his stare. "You have my card where you can dig it out.
Suppose you take a look at it?" Stan turned on his heel and walked away.
Garret let him go without asking any more questions, but he was shaking
his head and frowning as though trying to remember something or
somebody that had slipped his mind.
"He's about got my number," Stan muttered to himself as he went into the
mess.