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Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
BARRY BLAKE OF THE FLYING FORTRESS
by
GAYLORD DUBOIS
Illustrated by J. R. White
Fighters for Freedom Series
Whitman Publishing Company
Racine, Wisconsin
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BARRY BLAKE OF THE FLYING FORTRESS
Copyright, 1943, by Whitman Publishing Company
Printed in U.S.A.
All names, characters, places, and events in this story are entirely
fictitious.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Randolph Field 9
II Two Kinds of Rats 17
III Jeep Jitters 26
IV Lieutenant Rip Van Winkle 33
V Sweet Rosy O’Grady 41
VI Submarines to the Right 51
VII Raid on Rabaul 60
VIII Flying Wreckage 71
IX Night Attack 82
X Hand to Hand 93
XI Lieutenant in White 110
XII New Guinea Gardens 118
XIII Mysterious Island 129
XIV Dogfighting Fortress 137
XV Slaughter From the Air 149
XVI Secret Mission 170
XVII Out of the Fog 184
XVIII Adrift 198
XIX The Catamaran 212
XX Floating Wreckage 225
XXI Patched Wings in the Dawn 238
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
Smoke Drifted Through a Crack in the Drawer 22
Barry Learned the Correct Touch on Each Control 37
“Radio’s Okay, Sir!” Came Soapy Babbitt’s Voice 53
Sergeant Hale Counted Aloud Through the Interphone 69
Barry’s Enemy Gasped and Dropped His Knife 85
“Here’s a Trench!” He Whispered Over His Shoulder 101
“I’ll Be Back as Soon as the Nurse Will Let Me.” 115
Shell Fragments Whizzed About the Plane’s Interior 143
Ravenous Appetites Made the Dinner a Success 167
The Fliers Piled into the Army Trucks 181
“Crayle Lied When He Said Our Tanks Were Dry!” 201
“Now We’ll Wring out a Fresh Fish Cocktail.” 217
Peering Through the Camouflage They All Cheered 233
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _Barry and Chick Were Among the First to Leave_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Barry Blake
of the
FLYING FORTRESS
CHAPTER ONE
RANDOLPH FIELD
The bus from San Antonio pulled in to the curb and stopped. The door
snapped open. Half a dozen uniformed upperclassmen wearing grim
expressions moved closer to the vehicle.
“Roll out of it, you Misters!” bawled their leader in a voice of
authority. “Shake the lead out of your shoes! Pop to it!”
Barry Blake and Chick Enders were among the first out of the bus, but
they were not quick enough to suit the reception committee.
“Are you all crippled?” rasped the spokesman of the upperclass
“processors.” “Come alive and fall in—_here_, on this line. Dress
_right_! I said _dress_—don’t stick your necks out. Atten-_shun_! Hope
you haven’t forgotten _all_ the military drill you learned at primary.
You, Mister! Rack it back. Eyes on a point. And out with your chest if
you have any. Keep those thumbs at your trouser seams.... All right!
Here’s your baggage tag. Write your name on it. Tag your baggage—and
make it snappy. Stand at attention when you’ve finished. _Hurry!_
That’s it.... Take baggage in left hand—left, not right. And wipe off
your smile, Mister! ’Sbetter.... Mister Danvers, you will now take
charge of these dum-dums.”
Barry was sweating. The blazing Texas sun was in his eyes. His chest
ached for a normal, relaxed breath; yet he dared not move. Mister
Danvers’ barking command came as a sharp relief.
“Right face.... Forward, _march_! Hup! Hup! Hup! Pull those chins back.
Hup! Hup! Eyes on a point! And hold your right hands still—this isn’t
a goose-step. Hup! Hup! Shoulders back—grab a brace—you’re in the
Army now! Hup! Hup! Dee-tachment, _halt_!”
For more strained moments the new arrivals stood on the arched stoop of
the Cadet Administration Building and listened to acid instructions.
The talk dealt with the proper manner of reporting for duty. The tone
of it, however, showed the processor’s profound doubt of the
“dum-dums’” ability to do anything properly. It was deliberately
maddening.
Barry Blake felt a wave of hot resentment sweep over him. A second
later cool reason met it and drove it back.
“They’re just trying to see if we underclassmen can take it,” he told
himself. “A cadet’s got to learn how to be an officer and a gentleman,
in _any_ situation. They’re teaching us the quick, hard way, that’s
all!”
Barry held his tough, well-proportioned muscles a little less stiffly.
He wondered how Chick Enders was taking the processor’s verbal jabs.
From where he stood he could see Chick’s short, bandy-legged figure
quiver under the barrage of upperclass sarcasm. Chick’s good-natured
mouth was a hard line, and his eyes were pale blue slits above his pug
nose. The homely cadet was having a hard job trying not to explode.
Suddenly he relaxed, and Barry, seeing it, chuckled inwardly. He had
known Chick Enders since they were both in kindergarten. When he got
angry, the kid’s blond bristles would stick up like the fuzz of a newly
hatched chick. That always meant a fight, unless Chick’s sense of humor
got the upper hand, as it had just now.
While the processor’s stinging remarks continued, Barry’s memory
flashed back to the day that he and Chick had graduated from the
Craryville High School. Barry had been valedictorian of the class, and
Chick, he recalled, had been prouder of the fact than anyone.
There was an almost hound-like loyalty in the homely youth’s soul, and
his hero was Barry Blake. From their earliest snow-ball battles to high
school and varsity games where Barry carried the ball and Chick ran
interference, it had always been the same. Both had enlisted at the
same time and later applied for flying cadet training.
“I’m glad we’re still together,” Barry thought, with another glance at
his friend’s freckled profile. “If he’d been sent to any other basic
training school than Randolph Field, I’m afraid it would have broken
Chick’s heart. We’ll be together here for nine weeks. After that—well,
there’s a war on. We’ll train and fight wherever we’re sent, with no
complaints....”
“All right, you Misters!” the upperclassman’s voice broke in on Barry’s
thoughts. “Right, face! Column right, march! You’ll receive your
company and room assignments upstairs. _Try_ not to forget them!”
Still under a running fire of orders and caustic comments, the
suffering “dum-dums” were taken to the supply room. Here each new cadet
proceeded to draw a full outfit of bedding, clothing, and equipment.
“I feel like a walking department store!” Chick Enders muttered as he
joined the line behind Barry. “They must have figured out
scientifically just how much a guy can carry if he uses his ten
fingers, his elbows and his teeth....”
“Roll up your flaps, Mister!” snapped a keen-eared processor, taking a
step toward Chick. “You’ll get your chance to sound off soon enough!”
Just in time Chick caught and straightened out an apologetic grin. He
had a hunch that _any_ smile just now would be asking for trouble.
Pulling his freckled face even longer than usual, he stepped out at
Barry’s heels, and hoped that none of his assorted burdens would slip.
At the barracks, while changing into coveralls and new shoes, Barry and
Chick were able to exchange a few hurried words.
“I’d heard that these upperclassmen were pretty unsympathetic,” the
homely cadet remarked, “but I never thought they’d lay it on quite so
heavy. I guess they stay awake nights inventing ways to make a dum-dum
sweat.”
“Don’t let it get under your skin, Chick,” Barry laughed. “There’s no
meanness behind their processing. It’s intended to make soldiers out of
us. The first thing they do is to prick our balloons—take the conceit
out of us, if we have any.”
“And the next thing is to toughen us up,” grinned Hap Newton, their
roommate. “Don’t worry—in five weeks _we’ll_ be processing a new bunch
of dum-dums, and making ’em like it!”
Before they had finished changing clothes the processor in charge
bellowed another order.
“Hit the ramp, you Misters!” he shouted. “On the double! Leave your
powder and lipstick till tonight.”
Barry Blake grabbed his cap. He headed for the doorway, tightening his
belt as he went.
“Come on, Chick,” he said. “I don’t know what the ramp is yet, but I
aim to hit it hard and quick.”
“Me too,” his friend grunted, “even if I lose a shoe.... Mine aren’t
laced up yet.”
The ramp, they discovered, was the broad stretch of concrete just
outside the cadet barracks. Pouring out of the door, the dum-dums were
greeted by rapid-fire commands:
“Fall in! Dress, _right_! Straighten-that-line-d’you-think-this-is-a-
ring-around-the-rosy? ’Ten-_shun_! Count off! Forwar-r-rd, march! Hup,
hup, hup! Column right, march! Column left, march! By the right flank,
march! To the re-ar-r-r, _march_! Squa-a-ad, _halt_! Left, face! About,
face! Forward, march!”
To Barry and Chick, both assigned to Squad 17, these maneuvers were a
welcome change. Having mastered close-order drill at primary school,
they now went through it automatically. Their taut nerves relaxed. The
stiff soles of their new issue shoes were just beginning to smart, when
a hollow voice boomed through the air.
“’Tenshun all squads now drilling!” whooped the invisible giant. “Squad
26! Take Squad 26 to the tailor shop.... Squad 17. Take Squad 17 to the
barber shop. That is all.”
It was the voice of the Field’s public address system. Instantly the
processors in charge of the two squads named marched them off the
drilling area. As Squad 17 entered the shop, six barbers stood waiting
by their chairs. Barry got a quick mental picture of sheep being driven
to the shearing pen.
First in line was a sulky-looking youth, whose name-tag proclaimed him
to be Glenn Cardiff Crayle. He had a sleek black pompadour, and a habit
of passing his hand caressingly over it.
“Just trim the sides and neck, please,” Barry heard him mutter to the
wielder of the shears.
The barber exchanged winks with the upperclassman in charge. He slipped
expert fingers under a long lock of Crayle’s hirsute pride.
“Maybe you’d better have it regulation, sir,” he suggested with heavy
emphasis.
_Snip-snip-snip_ went the shears. Cadet Crayle writhed as if they were
a savage’s scalping knife, but he knew he was helpless. Barry Blake
chuckled inwardly. “Regulation length” would mean no loss to his own
short, wavy hair, or to Chick’s blond bristles.
Six barbers and ten minutes for a haircut! In little more than a
quarter of an hour, Squad 17 was marching back to the drilling area.
Another half hour of close-order drill—then dinner formation.
Scarcely were they seated in the big cadet mess hall, when the nervous
dum-dums found their worst suspicions realized. Mealtime was just
another opportunity for hazing by the upperclassmen. Placed at the foot
of a table seating eleven men, Barry and Chick discovered that they
were the “gunners” of the group. That is, they must pass—“gun” or
“shoot”—food and drink up the table whenever asked.
Two minutes after the meal began, the “table commander” at the upper
end sent down his coffee cup for re-filling.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” murmured the lowerclassman nearest
him.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” repeated Hap Newton as he passed the
cup.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” Barry Blake solemnly announced, as
he filled it and passed it back.
“You, Mister!” the table commander barked, looking straight at Chick
Enders. “The potato dish is empty. You will signal the waiter by
holding it up—like this.”
With his upper arm horizontal and his forearm vertical, the
upperclassman demonstrated the proper gesture. Hap Newton giggled.
“Silence!” snapped the processor. “What’s your name? Newton? Sit
forward on your chair, Mister—on the first four inches. Chin up, get
some altitude. And take your left hand off the table. And
_remember_—for a dum-dum to laugh, smile or chortle at mess is an
inexcusable breach of manners.”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Hap Newton, so meekly that Chick Enders nearly
dropped the potato dish, trying not to laugh.
Dinner ended all too soon for most of the hungry new cadets. The food
was ample, but so excellent that the time seemed too short to do it
justice. At the close of the noon hour, Squad 17 was issued rifles, and
plunged into the monotonous manual of arms. Not until evening did the
weary dum-dums have time to relax.
Their first day at Randolph Field had been a full one—crammed with new
impressions that would whirl through their dreams that night.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER TWO
TWO KINDS OF RATS
The weeks that followed were more crowded than any Barry Blake had
known. Drills, monotonous, tiring, but excellent for physical “tone,”
occupied the first few days. On Monday of the second week the regular
training schedule began.
Mornings were devoted to Ground School. Barry and Chick put their best
into it, knowing that study was vital to passing later tests. There
were five subjects: Airplane and Engine Operation, Weather, Military
Law, Navigation, and Radio Code. Of them all, Barry Blake preferred the
first. His hobby had been flying model planes since he was in short
pants.
The classroom in Hangar V with its blueprints, charts, takedown and
working models made him feel at home. Here he “ate up” every lecture on
Fuel Systems, Motors, Electric Systems, Engine Instruments, Wheels, and
Brakes. The floor of the great hangar itself Barry found still more
fascinating. Here were displayed the real planes and their parts, with
cutaway and breakdown views. They gave him his first intimate contact
with the powerful, fighting ships that he hoped soon to fly.
Flight instruction, in the BT-9 and BT-14 training planes, was always a
mixture of anxieties and thrills. There was much to learn, and little
time to learn it. In these ships, twice as big as the primary school
“kites,” the speeds were higher, the controls more quickly responsive.
The gadgets on the instrument panels were just double in number. And
the instructors—!
“Lieutenant Baird has it in for me, Barry,” Chick Enders confided, as
they headed down the concrete apron toward their ships. “No matter what
I do, he just sits back and sulks. All the encouragement I’ve had from
him is a grunt or a glare—ever since the day I taxied into the wrong
stall with my flaps down.”
A step or two behind him, Barry glanced down at Chick’s short legs
twinkling below the bobbing bustle of his ’chute. In spite of himself
Barry chuckled. The idea that anybody could “have it in for” a fellow
as homely and likeable as Chick was just too funny.
“Perhaps Lieutenant Baird has other troubles,” he suggested. “Remember,
when your flight period begins he has already spent an hour with a hot
pilot by the name of Glenn Crayle. That lad is enough to curdle the
milk of human kindness in any instructor. I wouldn’t worry about it,
Chick. You passed your twenty-hour test all right, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Chick admitted. “Maybe it is Crayle, more than I, who’s
responsible for the lieutenant’s sour puss. Crayle’s a born show-off
and a sorehead as well. Even the processors couldn’t prick his bubble,
and they tried—oh-oh! G-gosh! I—er—hello, Crayle! I—uh—didn’t see
you coming.”
Walking fast, Cadet Crayle passed the two friends with a glare. They
turned and watched him disappear into the Operations Office. Chick
Enders let out his breath in a long whistle.
“He must have heard all we said about him before he zoomed past us,”
Barry said, with a dry smile. “Oh, well! It’s the truth, and it _may_
do him good when he thinks it over.”
Practicing his _chandelles_ that afternoon, Chick gave less thought to
his instructor’s sour mood. As a result he did better than usual. Barry
Blake, for his part, forgot the incident completely. It was not until
special room inspection, the following Saturday morning, that he
recalled Crayle’s ugly look.
Barry Blake was room orderly that week. This meant that he alone was
responsible for the general neatness of the quarters he shared with
Chick and Hap Newton. For ordinary morning and evening inspection the
preparations were simple. Beds must be made, the room must be swept and
dusted, and everything had to be in its proper place.
On Saturday, however, all three roommates pitched into the work.
Everything must be in perfect, regulation order—each blanket edge laid
just so, each speck of dust wiped up. Shoes, clothing, equipment must
be spotless, or demerits would fall like rain.
To make sure that Barry had overlooked nothing in his dusting, Chick
and Hap went over the furniture with their fingers, searching for a
smear of dust. They found none, until Hap tried the bottom of the waste
basket.
“Two ‘gigs’ for you, Mister Blake—if the inspecting officer had found
that,” he remarked, with a wink at Chick.
“You’re dead right, Hap,” Chick spoke up, wiping his finger over the
same spot. “The inspecting officer will do it with white gloves, you
know. And if he gets a smear—”
“Aw, drive it in the hangar, fellows!” Barry protested with a grin.
“Give me that waste basket and a rag. And then go wash your own hands.”
“Okay—but not in the washbowl _I’ve_ just finished cleaning!” retorted
Hap. “It’s too near inspection time. I’m going down the hall....
Coming, Chick?”
Barry polished the bottom of the waste basket as if it were brass. As
he put the cleaning rag away, he glanced about him.
“If this room were to be any cleaner, it would have to be sterilized,”
he declared. “Bring on your white gloves, and let’s see what they can
find now. Guess I’ll have just time to join Chick and Hap down the hall
and get back before inspection.”
The three roommates had figured almost too close. They were just
starting back to their room when call to quarters sounded. As they
hurried into the hall, a uniformed figure darted across the farther end.
“Say!” hissed Chick Enders. “Didn’t that mister come from _our room_?”
“I thought so,” muttered Barry. “He _looked_ like Glenn Crayle! I
wonder....”
There was no time for more speculation then. Official footsteps were
approaching. The three cadets were just able to reach their room and
stiffen at attention by their beds before the inspecting party came in
view.
The officer in charge was Captain Branch, whose piercing black eyes had
never been known to miss a spot of dirt. Square-jawed, quick-moving, he
entered the room accompanied by a cadet officer with notebook and
pencil. His thin, sensitive nostrils sniffed the air.
“Who,” he asked sharply, “has been smoking here within the last few
minutes? The room smells foul!”
A tense, five-second silence followed. Barry Blake broke it.
“I don’t know, sir,” he managed to say. “It was none of us three. We
don’t use tobacco.”
The muscles of the captain’s jaw bulged. The thin line of his lips
hardened.
“What is your idea in leaving rolls of dust under your bed at
inspection?” he demanded bitterly. “And dirty soap on your washbowl?
And that can of foot powder on the desk? And that drawer—”
He broke off, to stride across the room. From the crack of a drawer in
Barry’s desk drifted a tiny feather of smoke. Captain Branch jerked it
open. There, on a charred paper, lay a smouldering cigar.
With his face like a marble mask, the officer tossed the cigar into the
washbowl.
“Gentlemen,” he said heavily. “This is an idiotic defiance of
authority. Unless you can clear yourselves immediately in a written
report, appropriate punishment must follow. That is all.”
Not until the captain was out of hearing did the roommates dare to look
about. Then, with a sigh that told more than words, Barry stooped and
picked up two big, fuzzy “rats” of dust. Wordless, Chick Enders took
the can of foot powder from the desk and wiped up what had been spilled.
Hap Newton groaned.
“It was Crayle, all right,” he declared. “I recognized him by the way
he carries his head.... But _why_? Why should he want to sabotage _us_?”
“I think I know,” said Barry. “Two days ago he overheard Chick and me
talking about him. What we said was true enough, as this frame-up
proves—that Crayle is a sorehead, with an inflated ego.”
“Inflated and inflamed, both!” Chick Enders exclaimed. “He’s always
trying to tell what a hot pilot he is. He hates anybody who shows him
up.”
A hard grin stretched Hap’s wide, good-natured mouth.
[Illustration: _Smoke Drifted Through a Crack in the Drawer_]
“We’ll show him up for a sneaking rat,” he said. “Nose up to the desk,
fellows, and we’ll get busy on that written report....”
“Pull out of it, Hap!” Barry Blake interrupted. “We’ll only do a ground
loop that way. Our best maneuver is to say nothing about Crayle and
take our medicine. We can’t prove a thing against him, anyhow.”
Hap Newton’s jaw dropped. He sat down hard on his chair.
“You-you’re crazy, Blake!” he gasped. “We’re likely to be dismissed
from Randolph for what’s happened this morning. Why should we sacrifice
our wings, our reputation—everything we value here—to protect a
yellow snake-in-the-grass like Crayle? That’s what it will mean!”
“We’ve circumstantial evidence that Crayle did it,” Chick Enders put
in. “He had no business in our quarters. And it _would_ have been
idiotic for us to stand inspection in a room as raunchy as this, if we
could help it. That ought to be plain to anybody. Get your pen and
paper out, Barry.”
Seated at the desk, Barry Blake shook his head.
“We won’t make anything plain by accusing Glenn Crayle, fellows,” he
stated. “That mister may be a fool in some ways, but he’s covered his
tracks. Remember, we only _thought_ that he came from our room. And,
from the captain’s viewpoint, it would be natural for us to accuse
someone else if we were guilty.”
Barry let those points sink into his roommates’ minds for a full minute.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “suppose we face the music. That is
what Captain Branch would expect us to do if we were innocent and had
no proof. We’ll pay a stiff penalty, of course, but I don’t think we’ll
be dismissed from the Field.”
Hap Newton rose and stared out of the window. Chick Enders passed
nervous fingers through his short, tow-colored hair.
“You’re right as always, Barry,” the homely cadet said finally.
“There’s a paragraph in ‘Compass Headings’ that says: ‘_Flying Cadets
do not make excuses._’ I have a hunch we’ll be doing punishment tours
for the rest of our course, but I’m ready to suffer in silence.”
Hap Newton grumbled and fumed, but he, too, gave in.
“I’ll get even with Crayle,” he added vengefully. “I’ll fix him—”
“No you won’t, Hap,” Barry cut in, “unless you’re willing to fly at his
level. The ceiling’s zero down there. Come out of the clouds, fella!
And help us clean this room for the second time today.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER THREE
JEEP JITTERS
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! Up the long concrete ramp—halt—about
face—and back again. One hundred and twenty steps to the minute,
thirty inches to each step—a fast walk, in civilian life. But these
three, covering a prescribed beat at widely spaced intervals, marching
in silence and without pause, are not civilians. Not by a long shot!
They are Flying Cadets Blake, Enders, and Newton, wearing the uniform
of the day, with field belt, bayonet scabbard and white gloves. Their
penalty for a dirty room is posted on the company bulletin board: five
tours and six “gigs,” or demerits, apiece. That’s a lot easier than
they expected. Still, a “tour” lasts one hour and covers almost four
miles. They have three hours still to go.
“_And Glenn Crayle’s enjoying ‘open post’!_ Right now that mister is
doubtless disporting himself with some sweet young thing at a tea dance
in the San Antonio Flying Cadet Club.... Tramp, tramp, tramp.... Here’s
where the ‘gig’ dodger ought to be! One of these days, he’ll slip
up....”
* * * * *
Glenn Crayle never became a “touring cadet,” however. In small, clever
ways he continued to work out his grudge against Chick and Barry. One
of his bright tricks was to dust itching powder over the stick of the
“Jeep,” or Link Trainer, knowing that Chick Enders would be the next to
handle it.
The “Jeep” is a marvellous device to teach aviation cadets the art of
flying by instruments—without ever leaving the ground. Entering it,
the fledgling pilot finds himself in a cockpit like that of a real
plane. Before him is an instrument panel. Above him an opaque canopy
shuts off his view of everything else. In his closed cockpit are all
the familiar controls. His situation is the same as if he were flying
through clouds at night.
Poor Chick had a case of “Jeep jitters” from the moment he started his
“flight” under the hood. The little moving ball and the two queer
little needles simply _would_ not stay in place. According to his
instruments he dropped one wing and went into a “spit curl” or side
slip that cost him precious altitude. Correcting it, he
over-controlled. Dangerously close to Mother Earth, according to the
Jeep’s altimeter, he zoomed, stalled, and theoretically crashed.
Climbing (in theory) to five thousand feet, Chick attempted once more
to conquer the “jeepkrieg.” For some moments he succeeded. Then,
without warning, his hand on the stick began to itch. He stood it as
long as he dared, let go for one second of frantic scratching—and was
lost.
Fifty feet from the theoretical ground he pulled out of his dive. He
hedge-hopped over some imaginary trees, caught the stick between his
knees, and tried to climb while scratching. Result—a third crash.
“I give up!” gurgled Chick, slamming back the canopy and bouncing out
to the surprise of his instructor. “The thing has given me hives on my
hands, sir. I’ve committed suicide three times by the altimeter, and
I’m afraid I’ll do it in earnest!”
The instructor glanced at Chick’s reddened palm and snorted.
“Very well, Mister,” he snapped. “Spin off and get control of your
nerves. You can try it again tomorrow when you’re out of the storm. But
you’ll never learn instrument flying by mauling the stick the way you
did just now.”
Within the week Chick had mastered the art of level “flight” in a
“Jeep.” Yet he knew that his itch-inspired tantrum stood against his
record as a prospective pilot of warplanes. The men who fly the Army’s
fighting ships must have nerves of chilled steel. Those who might crack
under the strain of air combat must be weeded out.
Second thought told Chick that Glenn Crayle must have doctored the
“Jeep’s” stick. No hive ever itched as wickedly as his palm; _and
Crayle was using the trainer just before him_.
“I’ll call that rat out for boxing practice, and work him over,” the
angry cadet told Barry. “Crayle may outweigh me, but I’ll whittle him
down to my size.”
“If you did,” Barry Blake pointed out, “he’d still win, according to
his twisted way of thinking. Crayle knows that open grudges are frowned
on here at the Field. If you let yourself get mad enough to beat him
up, your supervising officer will put _that_ down to poor control, too,
Chick. Another show of nerves might wash you out as a pilot—for good.
Stick it out, man! The sixty-hour test is only a week away.”
The sixty-hour progress test is a landmark, warning the Randolph Field
Cadet that his basic training is nearly over. Sixty hours of flight
training have been accomplished. All fundamental flying movements have
been mastered, of course, at primary flying school. At Randolph Field
they have become still more familiar. Climbing turns, steep turns,
“lazy eights,” and forced landings have been learned and practiced
thoroughly. Now the pilot’s ability to fly by instruments alone is to
be judged.
Both Barry and Chick Enders had worked hard to perfect themselves in
flying “under the hood.” The test should have held no terrors for
either of them. Yet, as the hour approached, Chick grew nervous. He
knew that his instructors were watching him for signs of another
explosion.
“I’ll have to be extra good today,” he told his roommates, as the three
donned their coveralls that afternoon. “Captain Branch just had me in
the office for a little talk. I’m worried, fellows.”
“I noticed that you were sort of ‘riding the beam’ when you came into
the locker room,” Hap Newton said, picking up his parachute. “Eyes
fixed on vacancy, expression of a calf in a butcher’s cart, and all
that. ’Smatter, Chick—did he bawl you out?”
“No, Hap, he was kind—too kind entirely. Reminded me of a sympathetic
executioner. He’s flying with me on this test—in his own washing
machine. If he so much as coughs when we get ‘upstairs’ I’ll probably
reef back the stick and go into a stall.... Well, wish me happy
landings. I’m taking off.”
Barry Blake shook his head gloomily at Chick’s departing figure.
“The kid’s in a storm already,” he muttered to Hap. “If Chick were the
best gadgeteer on the Field he’d never pass a test under the hood with
that case of jitters.”
“Instrument flying will show jumpy nerves every time,” Hap agreed.
“It’s tough, Barry. The whole thing started when Glenn Crayle doped the
‘Jeep’ stick with itching powder. Of all the lowdown, squirmy tricks,
that was the worst! And he’ll be tickled half to death if Chick is
washed out.”
Barry Blake was so upset about his friend that his own nerves were none
too steady. When he stepped into the cockpit, however, he took a firm
grip on himself. Glenn Crayle, he vowed, should not have the laugh on
two of them.
Barry was a born flier. Once in the air, he lost every trace of
jitters. His performance was better than ever. He passed the test with
a high mark, and brought his instructor back smiling. Hap Newton, who
landed soon after, also passed without difficulty.
“Where’s Chick?” the latter asked, the moment they were alone.
“Still flying,” Barry said shortly. “There comes his ship. Flight
Commander Branch must have been giving him an extra-thorough test.”
The two friends watched Chick’s ship come in for the landing. With
engine cut off, it glided down. The wheels bumped—bounced—came down
again.
“He’s heading for the hay,” Hap Newton yelled, as Chick’s plane slewed
around. “Give her the gun, Chick!”
As if his frantic shout had actually been heard, Chick’s engine roared
into life. The ship leaped into the air, and climbed like a cat with a
dog after her.
“That washing machine must have developed a wobbly tail wheel,” Barry
muttered; “or maybe it was a freak breeze that caught him.”
“Shucks, Barry,” Hap answered unhappily. “There’s no use making excuses
for him. Chick’s still got the jeep jitters. He’s as good as washed out
now.”
“Not if he lands okay this time,” Barry said.
Chick’s plane banked, turned, and came down the base leg with open
throttle. The engine cut out. A wing dropped slightly, to counteract
the drift of the light wind. So far, Chick was handling her nicely. At
just the right second he lifted her nose a little to make a three-point
landing. The tires touched....
And then it happened. The tail swung sharply. Chick, feeling it,
cracked open his throttle, but he was a split second too late. The
plane swapped ends, pivoting on a wing. Dust spurted from the runway.
With a splintering, ripping crash the wing gave way. The plane nosed
over, propeller biting the dirt.
Barry groaned, and started running before the dust began to settle.
From West B. Street came the clanging of the ambulance and the crash
truck. From the length of the West Flying Line men were running, each
with an ugly picture in his mind’s eye—_fire_!
But neither smoke nor flame appeared. Instead, two helmeted figures
crawled out of the wreckage. For a moment they stared at each other.
Then, shaking his head, the Flight Commander walked away.
Barry Blake caught Chick roughly by the arm.
“Snap out of it, man!” he whispered. “Crayle’s here in the crowd,
laughing himself sick. Reef back and gain some altitude! Chin up!”
Except for Crayle, few of the cadets about the plane were laughing.
From the look that Captain Branch had given Enders, they sensed that
this was no ordinary ground-loop that would qualify Chick for the
Stupid Pilot’s Trophy. It was the tragedy that all cadet pilots
dread—the wash-out.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER FOUR
LIEUTENANT RIP VAN WINKLE
Chick’s actual elimination from basic training school did not occur for
a few days. Captain Branch’s recommendation had to be confirmed by the
Stage Commander, who first flew with the unhappy cadet in a final test.
His report, duly filed with those of Chick’s instructors and his Flight
Commander, must be reviewed at the next meeting of the elimination
board. All this took time.
On the evening before Chick was to hear the verdict, Barry and Hap made
a special effort to cheer him up.
“Being ‘washed out’ is no disgrace, fella,” Barry told him. “It doesn’t
mean that you’re kicked out of the Air Forces—only that you can’t be a
pilot. You’ll get your officer’s commission just the same, in some
other classification. So why worry?”
Chick’s homely face cracked in a wan smile. He had not regained his
natural color since the ground-loop that wrecked his plane. The
freckles stood out more plainly than usual on his snub nose.
“I hope you’re right, Barry,” he said huskily. “It’s only ‘under the
hood’ that I go to pieces. Ever since that time I got the itch in the
Link Trainer, instrument flying gives me the jitters. If it doesn’t
carry over to advanced training school....”
“It won’t, Chick,” Hap Newton assured him stoutly. “What course have
you picked for a first choice—Photography, Navigation, or
Communications? You’re better than most in ‘buzzer’ code. Why don’t you
ask for the advanced course in radio?”
“That would be my second choice, Hap,” Enders replied. “Bombardment’s
my preference, though. Next to being a pilot, I’d like to dish it out
to the enemy in big, explosive chunks. I’ve already told Captain
Branch. He’ll put in a good word for me. And, listen, you bums! Don’t
think I haven’t appreciated the way you’ve helped. A man’s got no right
to be downhearted with a couple of friends like you.”
The next day Chick came into the room with a broad grin.
“Bombardment school for me!” he announced. “I’m leaving tonight. The
board didn’t question Captain Branch’s recommendation. Now it’s all
settled, I’m almost as happy as if I’d passed all my pilot tests. Only
thing I hate is leaving you fellows, and—and the grand bunch of
officers that we’ve had here at the Field. They tried to make me feel
as if _they_ didn’t like to say good-by, either.”
“They meant it, Chick!” Barry Blake exclaimed softly. “Student pilots
aren’t just so much grist through the mill—not as our teaching
officers see us. They’re real and personal friends of each cadet who’ll
meet them halfway. It’s a big honor to know men like that!”
Parting with Chick Enders was a hard wrench for his roommates. As he
boarded the bus for San Antonio that evening, they realized that they
might be seeing him for the last time. In a world war of many fronts
only a rare coincidence would bring them all together again.
“Happy landings, you goons!” Chick gulped as he gripped their hands.
“Pick your targets, fella—and remember us when you’re dropping
block-busters on Tokyo!” Barry replied.
“Yeh, we’ll be right behind you with some more of ’em!” grinned Hap
Newton, as the bus door slammed shut.
* * * * *
A few days after Chick’s departure for bombardier school, graduation
separated the two remaining roommates. Barry, whose cool, quick brain
and steady nerves would have fitted him for either fighter or
bombardment flying, was allowed to choose the latter. Hap Newton’s one
hundred and eighty-five pounds removed him automatically from the
pursuit class. Recommended to twin engine school at Ellington Field, he
said good-by to Barry in the Flying Cadets’ Club in San Antonio.
“We’ll keep in touch, Hap,” Barry promised. “And there’s just a chance
we’ll meet up before this war is over. Keep eager, you stick-mauler!
I’m taking off for Kelly Field now!”
“Set ’em down easy, you old sky-jazzer!” Hap smiled. “If you don’t,
I’ll come along and lay an egg right on your tail assembly.”
Barry Blake strode away with a lump in his throat. He’d have to get
used to parting with good friends, he told himself. The Air Forces were
like that. Sometimes a flier had to watch his squadron members torch
down under enemy fire. That was a lot tougher than shaking hands for
the last time, with a grin and a wisecrack. Time to lay a new course,
now—for Kelly Field and a pair of silver wings!
* * * * *
For Barry, the nine weeks at Kelly Field passed even more swiftly than
those at Randolph. His acquaintance among his fellow cadets widened
considerably. Yet, perhaps unconsciously, he avoided making friends so
intimate that good-bys would be painful.
From training planes he graduated to handling the steady, reliable B-25
bombers. Taking off, flying and landing these medium bombers presented
problems quite different from those he had met at Randolph Field. Barry
caught on quickly. Gathering every scrap of skill he had ever learned,
his mind “sensed” the right maneuver, the correct touch on each control.
[Illustration: _Barry Learned the Correct Touch on Each Control_]
“You’re cut out for a Fortress pilot, Blake,” his instructor told him.
“You’re naturally methodical. At the same time you’re as quick to grasp
a new emergency as any cadet I’ve ever seen. Tomorrow you’ll shift to
the old B-17. She has no tail turret, but for training purposes she
handles like the newer types.”
Barry was more thrilled than he cared to show. Since pre-flight school,
he had envied the pilots who flew the big flying forts—the famous
B-17F’s. When the hour came that he actually sat at the controls of his
Fortress, he knew beyond all doubt that these were the ships for him.
The quadruple thunder of the bomber’s 4,800 horses was sweeter in his
ears than a pipe-organ fugue.
First, in the co-pilot’s seat, he learned the exact touch needed on the
throttles, the turbos, the r.p.m. adjustment, to keep the winged
giant’s airspeed constant. This, for accurate bombing, would be a most
important factor. Next, he learned exactly how to follow the Boeing’s
P. D. I., or pilot director indicator, which kept the ship straight on
her course with not the slightest change of altitude, while the
bombardier sighted his target.
His final lessons included setting down and taking off on small, rough
fields. Under war conditions many a bomber pilot has escaped
destruction by knowing just what his ship can do in a pinch. Barry
Blake was now as ready as any training school could make him.
What he longed for now was actual combat—the take-off before dawn on a
real bombing mission—the swift descent on the enemy city, camp, or
convoy—the blasting of his bombs on the target—the sight of enemy
fighter planes falling apart before his ship’s guns.
But where would it be? Europe, Africa, the South Pacific, or the
Aleutian chain?
Barry had hoped for a few days’ furlough after receiving his
commission. A week at home would be like a taste of paradise after
these seven crowded months. Even five days with Dad and Mom and the kid
sister would be worth the heartache of saying good-by again. Yet, at
the last moment, he learned that this was not to be.
Like a flooding tide the mighty crest of America’s war effort was
sweeping everything before it. More planes than ever were needed at the
fighting front. More planes were going there—and that meant more
pilots. Twenty-four hours was the limit of Barry Blake’s time at home.
It was all like a dream. Walking up Craryville’s old main street, Barry
felt like a beardless Rip Van Winkle. He had left there a green kid of
eighteen. Now, an inch taller and ten pounds heavier, he passed
neighbors who didn’t know him—until he spoke. And, speaking to them,
he hardly knew himself. Professor Blake’s gangling offspring, who’d
been the high school valedictorian, who had jerked sodas on Saturdays
in the corner drug store—what had that self-conscious kid in common
with Lieutenant Barry Blake, pilot of multi-engined bombing planes?
There was Mom and Dad. He’d never be different to them, or they to him.
To the kid sister, he was a hero, of course, but Betty was only
fourteen. She’d changed, too, in the past seven months. Barry wondered
what in the world she’d be like when he came back again, after the war
... if he _did_ come back. There wasn’t time for such thoughts, though.
Half of his twenty-four hour visit was gone already!
When the train pulled out of Craryville next morning, Barry the high
school kid was only a dim memory in the mind of Lieutenant Blake. His
orders were to report at Seattle, Washington, where he would join the
crew of a new B-17F as co-pilot. It was better, far better, to keep his
thoughts fixed on that. Otherwise, recalling the good-bys just ended
would be a bit too much to bear.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER FIVE
SWEET ROSY O’GRADY
His pulses pounding with excitement, Barry Blake gazed across the long
runways of Boeing Field at his first fighting ship. The great Flying
Fortress seemed to perch lightly on the ground, despite her twenty-odd
tons. Her propellers were turning slowly, glinting in the sun like the
blades of four gigantic sword dancers.
Despite her drab coat of Army paint Barry thought her beautiful. The
slim, torpedo-like profile, the high, strong sweep of her tail
assembly—even the fishy grin produced by her bombardier’s window and
forward gun ports—thrilled her young co-pilot to the core. This was
the ship of his dreams. Her name, _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_, was painted
just above her transparent nose.
Hurrying forward, he saluted the long-legged, lean-faced pilot who
stood by the _Rosy’s_ armed tail.
The lengthy captain looked up from the postcard he was scribbling. He
lifted a nonchalant hand.
“You’re Lieutenant Blake?” he said with a Texas drawl. “The rest of our
crew are all here, getting acquainted with the ship. I was just dashing
off a card to the real Rosy O’Grady—my wife. It’s finished. Come in
and meet the others. Then we’ll be ready to take off.”
Inside the big bomber, Captain O’Grady introduced Barry to the six
other members of the crew.
“Meet Lieutenant Aaron Levitt, better known as Curly,” the skipper
invited. “He’s the smartest, and probably the handsomest, ex-lawyer in
the Air Forces. Born in Manhattan.”
“Lower East Side,” Levitt added, giving Barry a cordial handclasp and a
keen look. “Happy that you’re going to be one of us, Lieutenant.”
“... and this gent is our bombardier, Sergeant Daniel Hale. He’s of the
old time Texas breed, in spite of hailing from Arizona and looking more
like a shorthorn bull. His great-granddad died fighting in the Alamo.”
Barry pulled what was left of his hand from Sergeant Hale’s
bone-crushing grip and turned to “Sergeant Fred Marmon of Glens Falls,
New York—the head nurse in charge of _Rosy’s_ roaring quadruplets.”
The red-haired engineer-gunner chuckled as he acknowledged Barry’s
greeting.
“Boy!” he exclaimed. “And do those 1200 horsepower babies keep a man
busy! Some of ’em, that is. One engine will run like a dream for fifty
or a hundred hours. Another will develop more ailments than a
motherless child. I’m hoping these new engines will be the first kind,
Lieutenant. If not—well, here are Sergeants Cracker Jackson and Soapy
Babbitt to help me out. They’re our top-turret and belly gunners, but
they know a lot about aerial power plants, too.”
Last of all, Barry Blake met Tony Romani, the pint-sized tail gunner.
The little corporal was as friendly as could be, but his sad, Latin
eyes seemed to hold all the cares and worries which his crew mates
laughingly discarded.
He was already hurrying back to his turret when Captain Tex O’Grady
said, “Okay, boys! We’ll take her upstairs! I’ll mail this postcard to
Mrs. O’Grady from Salt Lake City. If you have any letters to send you
can drop them there. We’re heading west to the Orient.”
The _Rosy’s_ four big engines deepened their song of power as she
rushed down the runway. She was a living, throbbing organism, but her
personality was yet to be learned. Newly fledged from Boeing’s great
hatchery of warbirds, she had still to get acquainted with her crew,
and they with her.
Barry Blake sat alert in his co-pilot’s seat, checking the instruments,
as the runway dropped away below him. At the skipper’s nod, he touched
the lever that retracted the landing gear. He heard the wheels wind up
with a smooth mechanical whine, and noted the time it took in seconds.
Again he moved the lever, letting the wheels down and raising them back
in place. He tested the action of the flaps, the engines’ response to
their throttles, the revolutions-per-minute of the props. In everything
the _Rosy O’Grady_ behaved as sweetly as any lady with such a name
should do.
At Salt Lake City there was a short stop; then on they flew to San
Antonio. Again Barry glimpsed the familiar countryside over which he
and Chick Enders and Hap Newton had flown. The perfect green pattern of
Randolph Field, with three or four flights of planes swinging over it,
brought a homesick pang.
“We’ll never forget that scene, Mister,” the voice of Captain O’Grady
broke into Barry’s thoughts. “I graduated from Randolph ten years ago,
but it’s just like yesterday when I look back.”
“Those were the happiest weeks of my life,” Barry replied with a choke
in his voice. “I know it now, though at the time it seemed a tough
grind.”
Captain O’Grady turned one of his warm Irish grins on the young
co-pilot.
“The real, tough grind,” he said, “will come when we reach our South
Pacific base, I reckon. Barring accidents, the life of a fortress is
about five or six months on the battlefront. Before it’s over we’ll all
feel like graybeards, kid.”
The _Rosy_ made one more stop at Tampa, Florida, where her engines were
thoroughly checked and her tanks filled. Ahead of her stretched the
long hop to Trinidad, off the northern coast of South America. If
anything should go wrong, there were island bases in the Caribbean Sea
where an emergency landing might be made. But in aviation, an ounce of
prevention is worth many pounds of cure.
That evening in Tampa the crew had their last big restaurant meal for
months to come. The following afternoon they took off despite storm
warnings. There was no long last look at their native land. A few
moments after the _Rosy’s_ wheels had left the runway she was climbing
through a heavy overcast of clouds.
As they roared over the southeastern tip of Cuba the weather cleared.
Below them the Windward Passage lay, deep blue in the sunlight. Ahead
rose the rugged mountain tops of Haiti.
Barry Blake felt a strange thrill as he gazed down into the jungle-clad
valleys where not so many years ago United States Marines had hunted
murderous voodoo worshipers. Somewhere in those dark gorges bloody
voodoo rites were probably being performed at this very moment.
Invisible from the air the Haitian border was left behind. The dark
green ranges of the Dominican Republic flowed past beneath the _Rosy’s_
wings. Again the blue Caribbean stretched ahead of her.
Crossing the long thousand miles between Haiti and Trinidad they struck
the worst weather yet encountered. At ten thousand feet the Fortress
slammed into a black storm front.
It was worse than anyone had expected. The tumbling masses of air were
like giant fists pummeling the big ship. She bucked like a frightened
horse, reared, stood on her nose, and shuddered.
Something struck the right wing from beneath, flipping the _Rosy_ over
on her side, and off course. It was only air, though it felt to Barry
like a collision with an express train. Tex O’Grady fought the controls
with every ounce of strength in his big body. Muscles stood out in
bunches on his lean jaw. In a flash of lightning Barry saw sweat
streaming down the pilot’s face.