SPECIAL MISSION
Stan was further mystified the next day when Garret came to him in the
mess. He was smiling and very friendly.
"I have been a rotter, Wilson," he said and held out his hand. "After
all, this is pretty serious business and there isn't much place for
personal grudges and gripes."
Stan hid his surprise. He could find no words to answer Garret. He shook
hands with the Squadron Leader. Garret slapped him on the back.
"I have the toughest gang of sky-busters in the whole Royal Air Force,"
Garret said. "We'll see that no more bombs land on London."
As he walked away Stan looked after him. Now that Garret had left him he
could think of several things he might have said. Allison came up and
there was a mocking leer on his face.
"So you are teacher's pet from now on?"
"Search me, but I still don't think he likes me," Stan said.
"He's about to collar O'Malley." Allison chuckled. "I'd give a new
shilling to hear what that Irishman tells him."
It happened they were near enough, because O'Malley bawled out what he
had to say so loudly it could have been heard out on the field. Garret
had halted and was smilingly giving O'Malley the glad hand. He stepped
back a pace and his face flushed as the Irisher cut loose.
"Sure, an' ye can save yer blarney!" O'Malley roared. "I'd as soon hang
one on that hooked beak of yours as to be after lookin' at ye!"
Garret backed up a step and lifted one hand. Stan and Allison could not
hear what he said, but the officers near the pair were openly grinning.
O'Malley loosed one more blast and his words brought chill, brittle
silence to the room.
"I'm a thinkin' you'd best head the Moon Flight in the right direction
when the spalpeens come over again."
The clicking of Garret's heels was the only sound in the room. He
marched out without a word. Everyone looked about uneasily. Such talk to
a Squadron Leader was unheard of. Any other commander would have had
O'Malley's hide off in a minute and draped all over the place. The very
fact that the Irishman had gotten away with it had a depressing effect
upon the fliers. Allison broke the spell. He barged over to O'Malley and
shoved out his hand.
"Shake, Irisher," he said.
Judd, McCumber, and Kelley, all men who had belonged to the first spread
Stan had been with, strolled over and a little group formed around
O'Malley. Judd squinted up at the lank Irishman. He was a short,
chubby-faced youngster of nineteen. His face was beaming happily.
"I'd never had the courage to talk like that to a Squadron Leader. I
just went into a funk when he soaped me."
O'Malley squinted down at Judd. "'Tis with me own eyes I saw you cut the
fire of three Messers, me bye. Don't you be blatherin' me about
courage."
Judd flushed. He was all right when he was up there by himself, but he
was bashful in a crowd. McCumber looked across at Allison.
"Red Flight should get a break after this," he said meaningly.
Allison grinned wolfishly. "Really, now, Mac, Garret knows every boy in
Moon Flight loves him."
Kelley had not spoken nor had he laughed with the others. "He'd better
stay out of my circle. I have folks living out beyond Kensington
Gardens."
No one said anything more about the raids. They all knew Kelley's home
had been smashed that night and that his father had been injured.
Allison changed the subject.
"We certainly should get rid of Garret for the good of the service. He's
no fit leader and the squadron will go into a funk under him."
"How will we do it?" Mac asked.
"I don't know, but it has to be done. A decent leader would have wiped
the floor with O'Malley and then grounded him for the rest of the war.
A yellow streak has no place in this outfit."
The men nodded their heads. What they could not understand was how
Garret had gotten the job. They felt helpless because they had always
depended upon the men at headquarters. Finally the group broke up
without anyone offering a workable plan.
Just after noon the next day the O.C. sent for Stan. He was alone in his
office and in very good spirits. Stan sat down beside his desk and
waited.
"We have a few Hendee Hawks coming in," Farrell beamed happily. "You are
the man to handle them and to show the boys their fine points. In fact,
you're the only man we have who can do it quickly. We need those
superfighters badly. Headquarters would like to do a little daylight
bombing. Do you think a flight of Hawks could take a squadron of
Liberators through?"
"They could," Stan assured him. "Give me nine Hawks and my pick of
pilots and well ride right in over Berlin."
"You won't get nine for a while, but we have three coming in." The Wing
Commander seemed interested in what Stan thought of that.
"Three will take a small flight through," Stan said.
"I have to depend on you, Wilson. Without you, it will take several
weeks to get them lined out and set for action."
"We need train only one man. Allison can learn quickly." Stan smiled
broadly. "O'Malley learned in a couple of flights."
The O.C. smiled, too. "Yes, your pie-eating friend will handle one, if
we can drill some sense into his head."
"O'Malley's crazy but it's the sort of lunacy we need," Stan answered
dryly.
Farrell nodded. He was already thinking about other things. "The Royal
Air Force considered this shipment so important they routed the
freighter north to avoid submarines and Stukas. It seems Nazi agents
found out when she left. She had quite a trip and was chased far north,
damaged by a sub and finally landed at our naval base in the Shetlands."
"We pick them up up there?"
"I'm sending you up there to service them and get them ready. When you
have them set up and ready to fly, I'll send Allison and O'Malley up
there to help you bring them back."
Stan waited but the O.C. had nothing more to say, so he got to his feet.
"When do I leave?"
"As soon as you can get away."
"Do I fly a Spitfire?"
The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. "You're
too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders."
"I'll be on my way in an hour," Stan said as he snapped a salute.
As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.
"Whoa there, you're in a big rush, aren't you?" Garret asked with a
grin.
"Sorry," Stan grunted and was off.
As he strode across the field he got to wondering if Garret had been
listening at the door. It didn't seem possible. Eavesdropping in an
officer of Garret's standing would have laughed him out of the service
if he had been caught. He dismissed it from his mind.
He told Allison and O'Malley about his plans and warned them not to
mention his trip to anyone. Allison grinned lazily. O'Malley was
excited.
"Sure, an' the war's about over," he boasted. "With me coaxing one of
them sweet colleens through the skies there won't be a Jerry left in a
week."
"You lugs come a-rattling when I send in the call," Stan said as he
strode toward his quarters.
A half-hour later he was kicking his Spitfire into line. He was into the
air swiftly and laid his course across the serene green countryside to
pick up the shore of the North Sea at the nearest point.
At that height it was difficult to realize he was in the sky above a
war-torn nation. There were no evidences of destruction below, and the
blue sky was clear of enemy planes. The steady throbbing roar of the
Spitfire's motor was a pleasantly lulling sound, and he settled back
comfortably with his mind at ease, checking over the structural details
of the Hendee Hawks in his mind for use in putting the dismantled ships
together as fast as possible when he landed at the naval base where they
awaited him.
It was pleasant to be out of danger for this brief period. It gave him a
chance to examine his thoughts, do a little readjusting of his personal
concepts to the grim realities of war. He found he had been under such
terrific tension every instant since reporting to the Red Flight that
this was the first chance he had found to look back over what had
happened and realize how supremely lucky he had been thus far to escape
death.
Flying at 4,000 feet, he appeared to be merely creeping across the green
blanket of England beneath him. Ahead, he could faintly see a silver
line of mist marking the shore of the sea. Though the Spitfire was
tunneling through the blue at 350 miles an hour, he suddenly found he
was impatient for even more speed. Behind him men were even now fighting
and dying. He wanted to get back into it, start doing his part again.
An alien sound obtruded suddenly into the throbbing of his Spitfire. He
heard it almost without consciousness of what it portended, then was
abruptly aware that a stream of bullets was ripping through his
fuselage.
A Heinkel had slid up behind him from nowhere and its smoking guns were
streaming hot, leaden death at him. For a moment he was too amazed to
properly meet this unexpected danger. He had a curious feeling that it
was after _him_. That it wasn't merely a stray enemy plane making chance
contact. It was an absurd thought, but it gripped him strongly and he
couldn't shake it off.
Another burst of lead hosed from the Heinkel. Stan rolled the Spitfire
to the left, then pulled it up tight and hard. The Heinkel shot under
him, went into a loop, then faked a turnover. Stan smiled grimly.
"That won't fool me, son," he muttered. He leveled off fast and eased
over into a three hundred yard safety zone. Setting the Spit on her ear,
he faced the Heinkel, testing his Brownings as he slid into place.
The Jerry was a crack flier. The Heinkel came in with a roaring thrust,
her Madsen slugs drilling away at the Spitfire. Stan heard the stingers
zipping through his fuselage. A blue flame began playing up and down
over a hole in his fuel tank.
"Well," Stan muttered sourly. "I'll have to put a stop to this, or
else----"
He sent the Spitfire off to the right like a streak. The Heinkel zoomed
past, building altitude for a death thrust. Stan cracked the throttle
wide open and kicked in the emergency booster. The Merlin answered
splendidly.
Glancing into his mirror he took in the setup, then faked a steep climb.
Up he went, 500 feet, then sent the Spitfire into a screaming back-over
roll, holding his ship upside down until he was behind the Heinkel and
above it. Then he dropped the Spitfire as though she were crippled. This
placed him under the Heinkel and he went up. The Jerry was now trying to
make a run for it. Stan saw a spread of fuselage and a wing through his
windscreen and he pressed the gun button. The Brownings spat fire and
lead. The Jerry was trapped and knew it. He swayed and rocked and
twisted in an attempt to get away. The bullets drilled out again, a
four-second burst.
Fire and smoke rolled out of the port motor. The flames licked in around
the stricken ship. A rancid whiff came to Stan and reminded him that
his own fuel tank was on fire. It would be only a matter of seconds
until he would be in a flaming coffin himself.
The Merlin was still hitting beautifully. Stan squirmed about and jerked
loose a fire extinguisher. He turned the handle and pumped frantically.
The liquid spray feathered out and blanketed the fire. Stan sucked in a
deep breath and looked down at the plummeting Heinkel. The Jerry was
trying to bail out, but he wasn't making much headway. Stan nosed down
and watched the struggle.
He was sorry for the pilot but it was not pity that made him circle
lower and check the field toward which the Heinkel was spinning. Stan
wanted to ask that Jerry a few questions, and the Jerry had to be
rescued from his firetrap or he couldn't do it.
The Heinkel turned over, flattened and eased up, then plunged into a
tangle of bushes beside a road. Stan gauged the rolling field which
spread beside the road. He could have set a Hurricane down on that field
easily, but a Spitfire was different. Her landing gear was high and
narrow. He side-slipped and leveled off, then skimmed over the grass
and bumped down, jerking and swaying. The Spitfire rolled up to within a
safe distance from the burning plane and Stan leaped out.
The Jerry had almost made it out of the plane. He was draped over the
side with his parachute harness caught in the smashed hatch cover.
Risking an explosion which would have finished them both, Stan jerked
the pilot loose and dragged him a safe distance from his ship. They were
less than fifty feet from the Heinkel, when her tank cut loose and
billows of smoke and flame rolled up, licking at the grass and brush.
The Heinkel's pilot sat on the grass. He watched his ship vanish and his
face worked. If it had not been for the Royal Air Force pilot bending
over him, he would at that moment be frying to a crisp. He shuddered and
licked his lips.
Stan gave his attention to the fellow's wounds. He was badly hit in the
shoulder and bleeding freely. His face was white.
"Who tipped you off that I'd be flying solo along this route?" Stan
demanded.
The Nazi lifted blue eyes to Stan and shook his head grimly.
"Better talk, son, you are bleeding plenty."
"That would be revealing a military secret," the Nazi said in clipped
English.
"I suppose you think I followed regulations and war rules in ducking
down into this pile of rocks to drag you out of your crate?" Stan's eyes
were cold and hard.
The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. "I am indebted to you," he said
slowly.
"If I don't get you to a doctor, you'll be as bad off as if you were
still in that bonfire," Stan snapped. "Talk and I'll see what I can do.
And hand me that Luger." He reached down and jerked the officer's gun
from him. The Nazi had been too weak to make fast use of it.
"I suppose you are right." The officer coughed again and his hand
slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with
blood.
"I might as well talk." Fear was showing in his eyes.
"Good. Who tipped you off?"
"A man who has quite an inside position with you. His name is--" The
Jerry paused and coughed.
"Yes?" Stan bent and steadied him. He was afraid the Nazi would pass out
before he spoke again.
"Arch Garret," the Nazi said, then went limp in Stan's arms.
Stan stared down in the gray face for a moment. His lips were drawn into
a tight line and his eyes were blazing. Then he remembered his promise
to the unconscious Nazi. Picking the man up he carried him to the stone
fence which separated the field from the road.
An old car had halted and a man and a woman sat staring at the smoking
Nazi plane and the trim Spitfire. When Stan appeared they started to get
the old car into action.
"Wait!" Stan shouted.
The man recognized Stan's uniform and a broad smile came to his lips. He
halted the car and waited while Stan carried the wounded man to the
roadside.
"Can you get him to a doctor at once?" he asked.
"Verra easy," the man said.
"Take him to a doctor, then notify your authorities that you have a
Nazi prisoner. You should get a handsome reward for such a prize. He is
a pilot and pilots are valuable."
The man and the woman began to talk at the same time. Stan loaded the
wounded officer into the back seat and waved to the pair. Turning, he
headed for his Spitfire.
Stan plugged the hole in his gas tank and warmed the Spitfire a bit,
then rolled her to the far end of the field. There was some question as
to whether he could make off the rough field, but he was in a terrible
hurry and did not care to wait for help.
With a last careful survey of the grass runway he was off. The Spitfire
rocked and dipped her wings and swayed drunkenly, but she lifted and
cleared the stone fence. Now that he was in the air Stan had to decide
what he should do about Arch Garret. As he circled for altitude, he
tried to figure it out.
He had a hunch Garret was just a cog in a bad machine. He was the
logical man to shove into the middle of things and the British were
eagerly picking up overseas pilots. The Royal Air Force was well filled
with Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, and others from the empire
at large. Garret was a Canadian citizen, even though he had spent his
last few years in the United States. Now it was very clear why Moon
Flight had missed the bombers until they had done their work of
destruction.
The question was whether he should fly back and report--or whether he
should call Wing Commander Farrell and have secret agents put on
Garret's trail. Garret would undoubtedly have an airtight alibi. And he
certainly had backing that went high up. Stan might just make a fool out
of himself. After all, the whole thing sounded like a tall story.
He finally decided to go on to the navy base and then send for Allison
and O'Malley at once. They would believe him and help him. He would have
a good crew of mechanics at the field to slap the Hawks together quickly
and might be able to get them off in one day. Then there was one other
thing that tipped the balance in favor of going on. This was pretty much
a personal matter between himself and Arch Garret. This was the second
time Garret had tried to wipe him out.
Heading north he drove along and did not see any more Heinkels. He was
hailed by a scouting squadron from the fleet arm.
"Where to, Spitfire?" called a very English voice over the radio.
"Navy base. Shetlands," Stan called back.
"Good luck and cheerio, Yank," came back the English voice.
Stan grinned broadly. His western accent sure marked him well. He bored
ahead, his eyes seeing far into the distance, his mind working upon the
crooked plotting of Arch Garret.
He spotted the naval base and circled around to give the boys at the
batteries a chance to see who he was, then set down and turned the
Spitfire over to a ground crew. Taking his file of papers he headed for
the commander's quarters.
The commander was an affable man, ruddy-faced and square-jawed. He had
heard about Stan and O'Malley's attack upon the pocket battleship.
"I was so inquisitive about those ships I had them unloaded and
uncovered. They are beauties, sir. But I can't see what you'll want
with so much motor."
"I'll show you," Stan promised. "Now I want to make a call back to
London and then I want a squad of your best mechanics. I have to get
these Hawks into action at once."
"You will get all the help you can use," the commander promised.
Stan got Wing Commander Farrell on the wire and talked to him. He did
not report the brush with the Heinkel, though he would have to mention
it in his written report. And he did not mention Arch Garret. When he
asked that Allison and O'Malley be sent up at once, the O.C. hesitated.
"We have been having poor luck keeping the bombers out," he said. "I'll
have to replace you three and add six more Spitfires, if I can get
them."
"I need them at once. The sooner you get them up here, the sooner we'll
be back to help you."
"I have an old Defiant they can both pile into," the O.C. finally said.
"I'll get them off tomorrow before daylight."
Stan waited a few minutes, then put in a call for Allison. Presently
the Britisher's drawl came in over the wire clearly:
"What's the matter, Yank, grounded in some cow pasture?"
"I landed in one but didn't like it," Stan said with a laugh. "I'm
calling from the navy base."
"What's up?"
"Just this. I'm sending for you fellows and you will get orders to leave
just before daylight. Look out for clouds. Fly that old Defiant low and
watch for Heinkels. And tonight, if there's a raid, just you duck in the
opposite direction from the way the Squadron Leader orders. I'll spin
you a yarn when you get up here. Keep mum but pass the word to the boys
to follow you if there's a raid."
"Well, really, old man, you know O'Malley and I can keep still and we
can get orders mixed up badly."
"See you tomorrow." Stan hung up.
That night Stan slept soundly. He was still snoring away when the bugler
outside his window blew first call. The moment his eyes opened he tossed
aside the blankets and jumped out of bed. He wolfed his breakfast and
was out on the field and headed for the hangar where the three Hawks
were taking flying shape.
Allison and O'Malley came in before nine o'clock. Allison was flying the
ship. He smiled thinly at Stan as he climbed out.
"I brought her up here. When you mentioned Heinkels, O'Malley was for
hunting in the clouds a bit."
"I hated to waste a good trip," O'Malley complained.
"The boys at the factory sent the Hawks out almost ready to fly. We'll
be in London tonight," Stan said.
O'Malley's eyes were on the three Hawks which had been rolled out into
the sunshine in front of the hangar.
"'Twill be swell flyin' a ship that hasn't been all daubed up and
smeared with messy paint," he said.
"We'll fly them in without camouflage," Stan agreed.
Five minutes later O'Malley and Allison were helping with the Hawks.
O'Malley was burning up to be off, but the fighters had to be carefully
checked. As they worked Allison told Stan how they had been chased by
three Messerschmitts.
"If you hadn't warned us, and if we hadn't decided to change our time of
departure, we might have had plenty of trouble," Allison said.
Stan came around from behind one of the Hawks. "I might as well tell you
the whole yarn while the boys are tuning up the motors," he said.
They sat on a bench in the sun while Stan told what had happened to him
on his trip over. When he came to the part about making the Jerry talk,
and name Garret, O'Malley leaped to his feet.
"Splinter me rudder!" he shouted. "I'm fer kitin' back this minnit. Wait
till I get me hands on that spalpeen!"
"No use to go off half-cocked," Stan warned. "We need to catch Garret
red-handed. I figure we'll get a few real spies along with him. But we
won't be on schedule. Garret has a way of finding out what's going on in
the O.C.'s office. He will tip off the Nazis and they'll be waiting to
gang up on us."
"Sure, an' that's just what we want," O'Malley broke in. "They gang up
an' we spatter the smithereens out of them."
Stan shook his head, but he had to laugh, O'Malley looked so wild.
"We'll be doing much better service trapping Garret and his rats."
"Stan is right, old fellow," Allison said grimly.
"I want to know what you fellows think of our handling this just among
ourselves? We can keep Garret from sidetracking Moon Flight when a raid
comes over. And we can round up the snakes he's working with at the same
time."
"How about tonight? Suppose the Jerries hit tonight?" Allison asked.
"We'll get off early and be there for any raid. I'll ask the naval
commander not to report us out until midnight. That will throw Garret
off," Stan said.
"How soon can we hit the trail?" O'Malley asked.
"Two or three hours will have them in shape. You come with me and I'll
show you all you need to know about a Hawk to make her do things," he
said to Allison.
Stan and Allison headed toward the nearest ship. O'Malley stretched
himself out in the sun and closed his eyes. He figured he already knew
more about a Hawk than the Hendee aeronautical officials.