STAN'S PAST RISES
O'Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across
the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after one
look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.
"We'll be collectin' a bushel of medals in about a minute," O'Malley
said.
"We'll probably lose a strip of hide for not bringing the Hawk home,"
Stan replied grimly.
They entered the mess and found a large number of men about. The rousing
welcome O'Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked
at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite
tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn't like at all. The
Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.
Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in
the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were
looking at him and there was hostility in the glances they shot his way.
Tossing aside the paper, he got to his feet. There was one quick way to
find out. He'd collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a
straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to
him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving
everywhere but upon the Flight Lieutenant.
"Wing Commander Farrell wishes to speak to you, sir," he reported.
"Thanks, I'll be right over," Stan answered.
Stan guessed what had happened. Garret had tracked him down. Possibly
had seen him. Stan stepped over to O'Malley. The Irishman, his mouth
full of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside the
remainder of his pie.
"Sure, an' you been seein' a ghost." Then his big mouth clamped shut
tight. After a moment's thought, he added, "If they try givin' you a
ride for the job I did, I'm in on it."
"No, O'Malley." Stan shoved out his hand. "But if I don't see you again,
here's luck."
O'Malley looked at the hand, shook his red thatch and glared at Stan.
"By the bomb rack of a Stuka," he snarled, "I'm standing by. Let's go
get the spalpeen that's makin' the stink!"
Stan grinned in spite of himself. At that moment O'Malley would have
laid a bony fist on the jaw of an Air Marshal. He had never seen the
Irishman so wrought-up; he was twice as mad as he ever got when he went
into action.
"This is something only Stan Wilson can handle." Then he added more
softly, "It hasn't anything to do with the little show we put on. And
you can't help me. Thanks, just the same."
O'Malley stood glaring after him as he went out, then he faced the man
in the mess and his eyes were snapping dangerously.
Stan went straight to headquarters and an orderly let him into the Wing
Commander's office without delay. The instant he stepped into the room
Stan knew his whole world had blown up under him. Beside the O.C.'s
desk sat Charles L. Milton and across from him was Garret, smiling
triumphantly and smugly. He leaned forward as Stan hesitated at the
door.
"Come in, Wilson," Farrell said curtly.
"How are you, Stan?" Milton said. He was clearly upset over what he had
been listening to before Stan arrived.
"I am fine, thanks."
Garret said nothing. He just leaned back with a sneer on his lips.
"You wished to speak to me, sir?"
"Sit down, Wilson." Farrell straightened some papers on his desk,
cleared his throat, then looked at the young flier. "Lieutenant Garret
has laid your former record before me and Mr. Milton has confirmed it."
The Wing Commander paused and his eyes followed the lines of the report.
He looked up and his eyes bored into Stan. "You were charged with
selling plans of the Hendee Hawk to Nazi agents." Stan knew he was
supposed to answer.
"I was tried and acquitted."
"That is true, but no American firm would hire you and the Army refused
to allow you to enlist. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
The Wing Commander cleared his throat. "Have you anything to say for
yourself that would clear up this angle?"
"I was the victim of Nazi agents who stole the plans. That was proved at
the trial. Later, they cleverly planted rumors and suspicions about me
so that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. In plain American,
I was framed." Stan spoke slowly, putting all the conviction he could
into his words. He didn't expect the O.C. to believe him any more than
the American firms or the army officers to whom he had applied for entry
into the service.
"You have done a splendid job here, for which the British people and His
Majesty's Government thank you; but, in these times of great danger, we
cannot take chances with anyone whose past record is in doubt. I am
sorry, Wilson, but I have orders to release you and send you back to the
United States."
Stan sat looking at the Wing Commander. Suddenly anger boiled up inside
him, a savage, cold anger.
"If you can show no more appreciation than this, I do not care to stay.
My record with the Royal Air Force should be proof that the charges
against me were phony."
The O.C. reddened. He looked at Garret. Scowling blackly, he said, "I
took that attitude, personally, but my superior officers have ordered
your release."
"Before you release him I suggest that you consider another angle,"
Garret said. "I have just learned that, though he and an Irish recruit
returned safely, the new plane did not return. The fighters of all
groups have been questioned and they did not see the Hawk in action
against the enemy at all. I think the plane was delivered to Nazi agents
on the coast." Garret's voice was little better than a snarl when he
finished.
Stan's gaze locked with that of the lieutenant. "The Hendee Hawk will be
delivered here at the field in a few days. Lieutenant O'Malley set her
down on a carrier in the channel after she was put out of action."
Garret laughed harshly. "That is a fine story, Wilson, but one that only
a fool would believe."
"It is an impossible story," the O.C. agreed.
"He should be locked up," Garret insisted.
"I hardly think that will be necessary," a voice from the doorway said.
The men turned and saw Allison standing just inside the room, supported
by the strong arm of O'Malley.
"Sure, an' did I hear someone say I didn't set that Hawk down on a
carrier?" O'Malley growled. His glare traveled from Farrell to Garrett
and fastened there. Garret shrank back in his chair.
The pair moved into the room. Allison's face was white and thin but his
eyes were snapping. The Wing Commander frowned.
"This is an intrusion. Remember, gentlemen, you are junior officers."
Farrell fixed O'Malley with a cold glare as the Irishman pulled forward
a chair for Allison.
"We felt it of great importance, sir," Allison said as he sank into the
chair. "I am sure you will agree when I explain." He took a thick
envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the O.C. "These
papers will be of interest to you, sir, I am sure."
The Wing Commander opened the envelope and spread a sheaf of papers on
his desk. He bent over them, reading deliberately.
After laying aside the last report he looked up. His eyes were on
Garret.
"It seems, Lieutenant, that you have made a jackass out of yourself and
out of me. These reports are from the American Federal Bureau of
Investigation, and from the British Intelligence. Both departments give
Lieutenant Wilson a clean slate. Both report he was, as he says,
'framed.'" He turned to Stan.
"With these reports you could join the United States Army Air Corps any
time you wished. After the treatment you have received here I feel it my
duty to offer you a release so that you may do so."
The sudden turn of affairs had Stan groggy; however, the realization
that he was at last freed of the smear that had blackened his name
started a surge of warmth and elation through him. He turned to Allison.
"You knew it all the time," he accused.
Allison grinned. "Yes, that report came in with your credentials. I took
it out of the file to have a bit of sport with you. It was dumb of me to
forget to replace it. But you were so stubborn over the whole matter I
didn't feel you needed to know."
Garret got to his feet. His face was white and his voice was not very
steady. "I merely did my duty as I saw it, sir. I had no way of knowing
what was in the report Allison has laid before you. I ask leave to
retire."
"Stay where you are. I want to talk to you," the O.C. snapped.
Stan got to his feet. Milton was thumping him on the back and O'Malley
was grinning like a wolf. Milton rumbled in his deep voice:
"I said it all smelled fishy to me." He turned to the O.C. "Wilson is
the best test pilot that ever stepped into a plane."
"Allison's comin' back in a couple days an' Red Flight goes out in
Spitfires," O'Malley broke in eagerly. "Sure, an' there's no war on over
in America. 'Tis right here you'll be staying or I'll give you a fine
dusting when we get outside."
"I'm staying until the war is over. In a way I figure it's our fight,
too, sir. If you don't mind, I'll stay in Red Flight."
"Mind! I'll recommend you for top honors." The O.C. was beaming.
An orderly stepped into the room and laid a report on Farrell's desk. He
glanced at it, then picked it up. A minute later he pounded the desk
with his fist and began to laugh.
"This report says His Majesty's carrier, _Staunch_, has on board a new
type of dive bomber which put a pocket battleship out of action and
later landed upon the deck of the carrier. The commander considers the
plane so valuable he is putting in to deliver it."
"Until we can get three of those Hawks for you boys, you will fly
Spitfires as Red Flight," the O.C. said. "After that you will likely win
the war without any help."
"Sure, an' we'll do just that, sor, as a special favor to you," O'Malley
answered.
The O.C. looked at him and frowned. He wasn't sure whether O'Malley was
spoofing or meant it. Allison and Stan were sure O'Malley was in dead
earnest.
"Thank you, sir," Stan said. "We'll run along now."
When they were outside the office, Allison said in his slow drawl:
"That ought to be the last of Garret."
"Sure, an' he'll be brewin' trouble if he stays around, you can bank on
that," O'Malley said.
Stan had the same feeling. There was something about Garret he could not
understand. He had a feeling there was more than just a grudge against
him in Garret's acts. The lieutenant had certain connections that seemed
to reach very high up into official circles. Stan planned to do some
quiet checking, now that he didn't have to be so careful.
During the next three days Stan poked about asking a lot of questions.
He was very careful not to arouse suspicion. He learned very little.
Garret came in as a ferry pilot and later was given a chance in the air.
He was a Canadian who had lived most of his life in the United States.
Why he was not released from the Air Arm after Allison reported his
action in deserting Red Flight was not clear. And no one seemed to know
how he had managed to get himself placed in a responsible position close
to the O.C.
One thing looked good to Stan. Garret had left the squadron and no one
knew where he had been sent. He was out of the way, yet Stan had a
feeling he had not seen the last of him.
The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a night
defense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and Red
Flight was included. O'Malley was so excited over the order that he
walked away from a half pie, forgetting it entirely.
"Sure, an' this is me dish," he crowed.
"Swatting Stukas in the dark?" Allison asked grimly. "Dodging balloon
cables and ducking through Ack-Ack muck?"
"This Moon Flight is the toughest job in the service," Stan admitted.
"But we should be swelled up. Look at the list of boys posted."
"Oh, yes," Allison admitted. "All aces." He laughed shortly.
"You've recovered all right," Stan said with a grin.
There was reason enough for setting aside twelve of the toughest, most
reckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed and
battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the
balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent
their cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys with
the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.
The first action came at eleven o'clock that evening. The call for the
new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around
speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They
rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab
rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors,
trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness
after the skulking killers.
Allison stumbled out after O'Malley, and Stan came behind the Britisher.
They got their flight orders, tested their throttles, then pinched wheel
brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in
threes. Red Flight was third out and O'Malley fumed into his flap mike
over the delay.
The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. A
mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide
beam slapping down the runway.
"Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures," ordered the Squadron
Leader.
Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew that
voice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!
Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was
in a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight that
called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky
night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the
darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he
slid his hatch cover into place.
"East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east," Garret's voice
gritted into Stan's ears.
The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining
to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored
into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts.
Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then
the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like
rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the
searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They
smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They
rent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under the
debris.
Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. "They've slipped in
behind us. Come on, Red Flight!"
"Sure, an' I'm way ahead of ye," came the voice of O'Malley.
Moon Flight wheeled and went thundering back. They could not stop the
raging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, but
they could make sure that few of the raiders ever made a return trip.
In the dull glow from the fires below Stan saw O'Malley's ship dive
down, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that was
flying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was over
unprotected territory. O'Malley's guns drilled fire and the Junkers'
right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killer
nosed over and went down like a flaming torch.
Stan was into the battle before the wrecked Junkers had dropped 500
feet. He laid over and raked a big death ship with his Brownings. It
folded and slid off, spewing its crew into the night.
Having made contact Moon Flight really went to work. Their first savage
attack had broken up the spear-shaped Stuka formation. Now they gave
their attention to individual combat. There was no need for commands
from anyone. They swung about on invisible hairpins and screamed after
the big fellows.
It didn't take so very long. Stuka after Stuka went down. From the black
pit above the Jerry fighters were diving down to see what had happened
to their charges. The Messerschmitts twisted and ducked and dived,
clearing their guns for action.
Down at the 4,000-foot level the Spitfires were knocking down the last
of the raiders. This done, they nosed upward to meet the Messerschmitts
as eagerly as they had attacked the killers. They were overeager to
contact the fighters and one of them caught a crossfire as he roared in.
His ship went slithering off to the west, spinning madly. The Spits
darted through the flame filled sky. They flipped over and spun and
dived, always seeking targets to make their guns flame.
Stan sent his Spitfire into a screaming reversement, tipped out of it
with his guns hammering as he laid his sights on a leering swastika. It
was over quickly. The Messerschmitts had no stomach for such a deadly
game. After a gesture at rescuing their bombers, they fled into the
night.
"Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in."
Then O'Malley's brogue burred. "Begorra, 'tis a very fine avening."
Stan grinned. He was glad to hear the voice of the wild Irishman. After
a battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bent
forward.
"The same to you, Irisher."
"And to you, Yank," came Allison's voice.
They slid in like mottled ghosts and Stan counted them. Nine Spitfires.
There would be three new faces in Moon Flight tomorrow. Three new men
for the raider shift. He toyed with the idea of slipping by and checking
Garret's guns, but gave it up. Garret would be wise enough to fire a
burst or two. And, of course, he might have misjudged the lieutenant.
In the briefing room there was little talk. The boys were grim and sour.
London had been bombed. They got little comfort out of the impressive
score they had chalked up--ten Stukas and six Messerschmitts. They knew
that if they had headed west they would have stopped the raid.
No one challenged Garret when he claimed one Stuka and a Messerschmitt.
Nobody spoke to him. They went on into the mess and flopped down to wait
for the metallic voice of the intersquadron speaker.
O'Malley lay on a bench with his feet up against the wall. Allison lay
back, his eyes closed, his thin face colorless. Stan sat staring at the
floor. He was trying to get a lot of things straight in his mind. He
couldn't honestly say Garret had led them east purposely. The main
control room must have sent them in the wrong direction, but it all
bothered him, anyway. And he knew the other boys had the same feeling.