blast, produced a nightmare of horror for the unseasoned men. Not one
of them gave way to fear, however. The most upset man in the tent was
Tex O’Grady, who paced up and down between the cots, worrying about his
ship and fighting mosquitoes. He couldn’t get _Rosy_ into the air,
because the field had no lights as yet.
“If I knew this confounded field better,” he fumed, “I’d take off and
get her safe upstairs. But except for those shell flashes it’s as dark
as the inside of a cow. I’d only ground loop—”
WHANG!
A shell burst, nearer than any before it; tossed chunks of earth
through the open flap. Some dirt must have struck O’Grady in the mouth,
Barry guessed, from the way the Old Man sputtered and spat.
“Better get your head down, Captain,” Curly Levitt spoke up. “You’re
not as big a target as _Rosy_, but you’ll be safer on your cot.”
The shelling stopped as suddenly as it had started. Later Barry learned
that a pair of motor torpedo boats had routed the Jap cruiser, with two
gaping holes below her waterline.
The damage to ships on the flying field was comparatively light. One
bomber had received a direct hit. Three more were damaged by shell
fragments. _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_ had escaped without a scratch. The
worst tragedy was the killing of a twin-engined bomber’s crew when a
shell exploded in their tent. Seven men had been sleeping there. All
that was found of them was buried the next day in a single grave.
The attack was the last thing needed to make Barry and his friends
ready for a raid of their own. Every man in the field was fighting mad.
When O’Grady brought them the news that they were scheduled for a
bombing mission that day, the _Rosy’s_ crew cheered like maniacs.
“We’re going with the squadron to lay eggs on Rabaul,” the Old Man told
them. “High-altitude stuff. You gunners will probably get your chance
at a few Zero fighters, so make sure you load up with ammunition before
we leave. Here come the carts to bomb us up now.”
Before _Rosy_ had taken her last five-hundred pound egg on board the
squadron commander was racing his Fortress down the runway. The other
ten followed. Last of all, Old Man O’Grady took his ship up to her
assigned position at the end of the right wing.
Looking ahead, Barry Blake thrilled at the sight of the other mighty
Fortresses flying in a perfect V of V’s. To his mind they spelled
irresistible, smashing power—force which must, in the long run, blast
all the little yellow invaders out of the Pacific.
As the 600-mile distance to Rabaul narrowed, a tense expectancy gripped
pilots and gunners. The squadron was flying at high bombing altitude,
25,000 feet. Every man was in his place, for at any time now a swarm of
enemy planes might appear.
The Japs were struggling grimly to keep their grip on New Britain,
Barry knew. Many of their best fighter squadrons had been shifted there
from other fronts, in the past few weeks.
“Sixty miles still to go!” Curly Levitt’s warning came over the
interphone.
O’Grady turned his head to glance at his co-pilot.
“The Nips’ aircraft detectors have heard us by now,” he drawled.
“They’re manning their guns, and sweating some, too, I reckon. A bunch
of Zero fighters will be taking off to bother us on the way in.... How
do you feel about it, Blake?”
“As if I’d like a gun in my hands—or the lever that releases the
bombs,” Barry laughed. “I feel just a little useless.”
Tex O’Grady’s smile faded out. He gazed straight ahead.
“You won’t be useless if anything happens to me, son,” he replied,
gravely. “Keep your eyes peeled on every side now.... Those Zeros _may_
not show up until after we’ve made our run, but you never can tell.”
Sergeant Hale in the bomber’s nose began counting aloud through the
interphone.
“—thirteen—fourteen—fifteen Zeros dead ahead, and a flight of three
more just above them. Here they come!”
“Flights two, three and four, pull in closer!” barked the command
radio. “Wing men will step up—the others down—ready to repel
attacking planes.”
Glancing up and to the right, Barry caught sight of still another enemy
flight arrowing down at the Fortresses. He nudged O’Grady and pointed
with his finger. The Old Man merely nodded. Keeping _Rosy_ in her place
in the tight protective formation was his only task for the moment.
[Illustration: _Sergeant Hale Counted Aloud Through the Interphone_]
BR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R!
With a chattering roar that cut through the engines’ thunder, _Rosy’s_
nose, top turret, and side guns went into action. From the squadron’s
.50-caliber machine guns burst a storm of white tracer bullets. These
mingled briefly with the fire of the diving enemy. Then most of the
Zeros were below the flying forts.
_Rosy O’Grady’s_ belly turret opened up, followed by Tony Romani’s fire
from the “stinger” turret in the tail. As it ceased, the thought came
to Barry Blake: “We’ve knocked them out of the sky! I thought those
Japs were tough fighters, but this was like shooting clay pigeons.
There’s nothing in sight but three Zeros torching down below—”
A slamming explosion jarred the fuselage. Then the side gun manned by
Curly Levitt chattered harshly. Out of the corner of his eye, Barry saw
the nearest Fortress stagger out of place in the V.
“Pilot from top gunner!” Soapy Babbitt’s report came through the
phones. “Turret damaged by enemy shells. Machine guns still fire, but
can’t aim.”
“Are you hurt, Soapy?” the Old Man asked.
“My left shoulder won’t work right,” came Babbitt’s reply. “Nothing to
worry about. I’ll keep watch for more diving Zeros.”
“Ready, Blake!” O’Grady spoke sharply. “Watch your throttles—we’re
nearing our targets now.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER EIGHT
FLYING WRECKAGE
Barry glued his eyes to the r.p.m. indicator. He forced his nerves to
ignore the antiaircraft shells that burst closer and closer. This was
the big moment of the whole raid—when the bombs were about to plummet
down.
Cold air from the open bomb-bay doors rushed into the big ship’s belly.
There came the welcome whistle of a falling bomb; then another, and
another. A moment afterward the harbor of Rabaul swept beneath. It was
out of sight before Barry could spot the bomb hits.
KRANG!
An antiaircraft burst rocked the big bomber like a cradle. Her right
inboard engine sputtered and quit. Looking out at the wing, Barry
glimpsed a jagged shrapnel hole in the cowling. He glanced to the left.
Another Fortress had been hit. She was falling out of formation.
“Never mind, boys, _Rosy O’Grady_ can toddle home all right on three
engines,” the Old Man declared. “All you’ve got to do is to smack down
every Zero you see....”
“Here come three of ’em, straight down at us!” yelped Soapy Babbitt
from the jammed top turret. “If only I could aim these guns!”
“Maybe a Jap will cross your sights, Soapy!” the Old Man grunted, as he
reefed back on the wheel. “I’ll try to give Hale a shot.”
_Rosy’s_ nose came up. Her forward guns cut loose at the trio of diving
planes. One spun away, smoking; another changed direction. The third
kept coming, with his tracer bullets feeling for the Flying Fortress.
When they touched her the Jap pilot pulled the trigger of his cannon.
A stunning blast threw Barry hard against his safety belt.
Something—it felt like a hard-thrown baseball—struck his head. He
felt himself falling into a black void.
Someone was shaking him, none too gently. A voice, Curly Levitt’s,
pierced through his dulled consciousness.
“Wake up, Barry! Wake up and take over these controls before I have
to,” the navigator was repeating in his ear. “The Old Man is out
cold—ripped by that shell.”
Barry made a desperate effort. It was like struggling against gravity,
but he won. His eyes cleared. The plane was flying on a fairly level
keel, thanks to Curly’s hand on the wheel, but something was very
wrong. The Old Man....
One look at O’Grady’s crumpled form drove the last of the fog out of
Barry’s head. The captain’s left arm was missing below the elbow. A
handkerchief tourniquet had stopped the worst bleeding, but there were
other wounds on his left side and leg. He was mercifully unconscious.
The bomber’s machine guns were still firing, by fits and starts, but
only two engines were still functioning. The other Fortresses were
nowhere in sight. Two Zero fighters were coming head-on into Sergeant
Hale’s fire....
These impressions took barely three seconds for Barry to absorb. He
gripped the wheel hard, setting his teeth against the pain in his head.
“Thanks, Curly,” he gritted. “You tend to the Old Man.... With two good
engines even a dumb co-pilot ought to get _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_ home
okay.”
“Good man!” Curly exclaimed, as he turned to the captain. “I’ll fix up
your scalp wound later. Just fly southwest until I get a chance to
figure our exact position.”
One of the Zeros that had been heading for _Rosy’s_ nose was now
falling, with a trail of black smoke. The other had swooped past. Barry
heard one of the side guns firing, then a burst from the belly turret.
“Got him!” came Cracker Jackson’s grunt in the radiophones.
Barry eased back on the wheel and found that his crippled Fortress
could still gain a little altitude. Cold air still poured in from the
open bomb doors; a chunk of flak must have damaged the jacks that
raised them. Barry began calling the turrets one by one to learn of any
further damage.
Aside from a shell hole through the rudder and countless bullet holes,
there was none worth mentioning. Best of all, the sky seemed to be
clear of enemy fighters.
The pain in Barry’s head was easier. His brain functioned more clearly
with each minute that passed. From the crew’s reports he made a rough
calculation of the Jap planes shot down.
About thirty fighters had attacked the bomber formation as they
approached Rabaul. Thirteen Zeros had been shot down at the cost of one
Fortress. The eleven remaining bombers had laid their eggs with perfect
accuracy on the docks and ships, and flown on. The Zeros, already
decimated, had hung around just out of range. When _Rosy_ fell behind,
with one engine damaged by antiaircraft fire, the Japs had jumped on
her like wolves.
Seventeen Zero fighters against one crippled Boeing—and the Fortress
had won out! Nine of the Japs had torched down. The others had turned
back to their home base.
Barry’s heart swelled with pride in the great ship and the fighting
crew of which he was a member. Except for that last shell hit....
A glance at the slumped figure of Tex O’Grady sobered him. Curly Levitt
had finished bandaging the captain, and Fred Marmon was helping to lift
him out of his seat. The two men lugged their wounded pilot back toward
the tail and laid him down, wrapped in their coats.
“What are the Old Man’s chances?” the young co-pilot asked, as the
navigator returned.
“It’s hard to tell how deep those shell fragments in his side have
gone,” Curly answered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, too. All we can do
now is hope.... Hold steady, now, while I swab out that cut in your
scalp—oh-oh! I can feel something there.”
“So can I!” grunted Barry. “Take it easy, fella!”
Curly’s fingers touched the cut again, cautiously. Barry felt a
stabbing twinge.
“There it is, Mister!” the navigator shouted. “A bit of shrapnel as big
as my thumbnail. If your head weren’t solid bone, as I’ve always
suspected, we’d be minus a co-pilot.”
He held the scrap of jagged metal in front of Barry’s nose for a
second, then stuck it in his pocket.
“When you tie it up, be sure to leave the bone in,” Barry answered with
a grin. “When this war is over you can get yourself a nice job in a
butcher shop. It would just suit your rough-and-ready style.”
“That’s base ingratitude!” Curly retorted, applying the bandage. “I
hope Soapy Babbitt is more appreciative when I fix him up. He got a
smashed shoulder when the top turret was wrecked.”
As Curly left him, the full weight of his responsibility settled upon
Barry’s mind. Had the Old Man been at the controls, _Rosy O’Grady’s_
crippled condition would not have worried him particularly. If it were
possible to bring a ship home on only one engine, Barry would have
trusted his captain to do it.
Now, however, both the wounded plane and her wounded crew depended on
him. With little more than training school experience, could he land
them safely? As he struggled against such fears, Fred Marmon’s voice
sounded in his ears.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Lieutenant,” the engineer announced. “The
same burst of flak that jammed the bomb doors washed out the electrical
system. Your landing flaps won’t work and your wheels won’t come down.
Looks like we’ll all have to bail out and let _Rosy_ crash.”
Barry’s first feeling was one of relief. Now, at least, he wouldn’t
have to risk the lives of everybody aboard, landing a shot-up plane on
a jungle field. But, wait! How about Old Man O’Grady? Even if somebody
pulled the chute’s cord for him and dumped him out, the landing would
kill him. A parachute lets you down with about the same shock you’d
feel if you jumped out of a second story window. A half-dead man could
never survive it, even if he didn’t land in the jungle and break his
back.
“You men will bail out,” Barry said into the intercom mike. “When we
get near the field, strap Captain O’Grady into his own seat, and pad
him with your coats against the shock of a crackup. I’ll try to land
_Rosy_ on her belly without too much of a flop. It’s the Old Man’s only
chance.”
The crew got that reasoning without any trouble.
“It makes me feel like a doggone coyote!” big Danny Hale muttered,
turning to look at Barry. “My great gran’daddy didn’t leave the old
Alamo, when it was _sure_ death to stay. I reckon if he was in my
place—”
“He’d obey orders, just as you’re going to do, Danny,” Barry Blake shot
back at him. “I’m in command of this plane, while the Old Man is out.
You and every other member of the crew will bail out when we reach the
field. That’s final!”
“I agree absolutely, except on one point,” Curly’s voice chimed in.
“You’re wounded, Lieutenant. It’s a miracle that you can fly a ship at
all, with the beating you’ve had. It’s no reflection on your skill—or
your grit—to say that you might go dizzy at the last minute of
landing, and crack up. Now, I’ve had some flight training, enough to
land belly-floppers on a soft field. Therefore it’s _my_ place and not
yours—”
“Spoken like a lawyer, Curly!” laughed the young co-pilot. “You’re a
swell guy to offer, but it’s no go. So don’t argue. Just tell me when
we’re nearing our base, and then help Fred bring the Old Man back to
the cockpit.”
There was a little more discussion of the landing Barry would have to
attempt, but nobody else protested. As soon as Soapy Babbitt was made
as comfortable as he could be, the thermos jug of coffee was passed
around. Barry forced himself to eat a little.
After a seemingly endless time Curly Levitt reported that he had warned
the base by radio. The field would soon be in sight.
In the distance Barry recognized the New Guinea coastline. Now he
picked out certain mountain landmarks that gave him the exact direction
of the base.
“Bring the Old Man up front, fellows,” he said. “And then hook on your
parachutes. We have about five minutes to go.”
The men worked fast. Captain O’Grady was still unconscious under the
double effect of shock and the morphine that Curly had administered.
The navigator and Fred Marmon handled him as tenderly as they could.
The strapping was finished, and the men were back at the open bomb bay
when Barry spotted the field. Big Danny Hale was gripping the zippered
case that held his precious bomb-sight.
Barry tried to judge the proper moment for the first parachute jump.
Twisting in the seat, he raised his hand.
Fred Marmon saluted, grinned, and dived headfirst into space. The
others followed in quick succession. The bomber roared on, slowly
circling the field. Far below, Barry counted six white ’chutes drifting
toward the raw, brown slash in the jungle.
“They’re safe!” he murmured. “Wish I had a parachute for _Sweet Rosy
O’Grady_, too!”
When the last ’chutist had landed, the young pilot nosed down and came
in up-wind for his risky attempt. He cut the gun, fishtailed to kill
speed. A Fortress’s wheels should touch the ground at ninety miles an
hour, for a smooth landing; but _Rosy_ couldn’t let down her wheels. A
belly landing at ninety would be an ugly mess.
At a shaky sixty m.p.h. Barry brought her in. At the last moment he let
her drop. The bomb-bay doors dug into the runway, before they ripped
loose. The ship bounced on her belly turret, tore an engine clean out
of its mounting, and came to rest.
When the crash squad entered the cockpit, _Rosy’s_ young co-pilot was
“out cold.” Fortunately neither he nor the Old Man had received any
further hurts. A hospital-corps man jabbed a hypodermic into Barry’s
arm. Sixty seconds later, both he and Captain O’Grady were being rushed
on stretchers to the field’s temporary dressing station.
The next afternoon, Barry Blake woke up, feeling almost himself again.
The marvelous new Army drugs had given him twenty-four hours of
refreshing sleep. His head wound had been expertly cleansed, sewed and
bandaged. His greatest discomfort was a gnawing appetite. He swung his
legs over the edge of his cot and looked around for his clothes.
“Hold it down, Lieutenant!” the medical-corps man in charge warned him.
“You’re scheduled to stay right in this hangar till tomorrow.”
“Quit woofing me, Corporal,” Barry growled. “I feel fine. And I’m so
hungry my belt buckle is bumping my backbone. Did the major order you
to starve me, too?”
“No, sir,” chuckled the medical man. “I’ll bring you some chow right
away. It’s almost time for mess call so the cook will have it ready.”
“Wait a second!” Barry exclaimed, as the other turned to go. “Where’s
Captain O’Grady, and Sergeant Babbitt? They ought to be here—”
The corporal paused in the doorway, shaking his head.
“Not here, Lieutenant,” he replied. “This place is only equipped as a
field dressing station as yet. Captain O’Grady and Sergeant Babbitt
were flown to Australia last night. The Captain will have a fighting
chance in a real hospital, and they’ll probably save Babbitt’s arm,
too.”
Barry lifted his legs back onto his bunk and relaxed. So the field
doctor had given Tex O’Grady a fighting chance! That was better news
than any of _Rosy’s_ crew had expected.
The medical-corps man returned with hot chow and five grinning Fortress
crewmen. Fred Marmon was the first to grip Barry’s hand. Curly Levitt
crowded him aside, as Danny Hale and Tony Romani and Cracker Jackson
surrounded the cot. Everybody was talking at once. Out of the barrage
of wisecracks, congratulations and laughter, Barry Blake got one
definite impression: his crew was immensely proud of him, for making
that landing and saving the life of their Old Man.
The medical corporal found difficulty in drawing Barry’s attention back
to his hot chow. He succeeded at last, but _Rosy’s_ young co-pilot was
still too busy talking to know what he was eating. The six friends
would have discussed the raid, the fight, and the return trip for
hours, if mess call had not interrupted.
After supper, Curly Levitt returned to the dressing station. The
others, he said, were needed to help set up the new equipment which had
arrived during the past two days. There were electrical generators,
searchlights, floodlights, antiaircraft guns, and the first units of a
big repair shop. This last would take care of damaged planes landing on
the field. It would have crews to bring in ships that had crashed.
“When the repair plant is running, it will probably be able to rebuild
_Sweet Rosy O’Grady_,” her navigator stated.
“I wish we could hope as much for her Old Man,” Barry sighed. “But
there’s no repair shop in the world that can put a missing arm back on
a pilot.”
“It will just about break his heart,” Curly agreed, rising to his feet.
“I imagine that Mrs. O’Grady won’t feel too badly about having her
husband back, however.... Well, here’s the doctor, come to have a look
at you. That’s my signal to take off.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER NINE
NIGHT ATTACK
When Barry next saw Curly Levitt, the dapper navigator was firing a
sub-machine gun at the searchlighted sky. Black parachutes were
dropping toward the field, with Jap soldiers dangling beneath them.
Every man on the field who could find a gun of any kind was shooting at
the rain of enemies. And the Japs were firing back.
The party started with a terrific bomb barrage about midnight. The Japs
evidently believed that neither aircraft detectors nor antiaircraft
equipment were as yet set up. They were wrong about both. Another thing
they didn’t know was that most of the living quarters, supplies, and
even planes, had been moved into the jungle that fringed the field.
A few moments after the bombs started falling, the new antiaircraft
batteries went into action. They caught three of the Jap bombers with
their shells. In return, bombs wiped out two guns, three searchlights,
and their crews. Then came the parachute troops.
There weren’t many of them—not more than fifty in all. Apparently the
fire was too intense for the Jap transport planes to risk. Why these
few suicide squads were dropped remained a mystery until morning.
Barry reached the field as the first ’chutists landed. He saw a Garand
rifle in the hand of a soldier who had been killed by shrapnel. The
weapon, he found, was fully loaded—and unharmed. As he turned to pick
a target, the field’s floodlights went on.
A dozen of the Japs lay motionless, tangled in their parachutes. The
others were squirming free, or firing from bombholes with their small
caliber sub-machine guns. Barry felt a bullet tug at his trouser leg;
another burned the skin of his shoulder. He threw himself prone.
A Jap had just wriggled free of his chute and was diving toward a bomb
crater. Barry took a snap shot at the man, and saw him collapse. He
switched his aim to a hole from which the pale flames of Jap machine
guns were licking like serpents’ tongues. They were firing at the
floodlights, which were rapidly going out.
The shadows deepened across the bomb-torn field. Barry was sure that
some of them were Japs crawling toward the jungle. He fired at the
nearest. Suddenly he realized that he was trying to shoot an empty gun.
Bullets were kicking up dirt too close for comfort. Barry glanced about
and spotted a convenient bomb crater. It was strange that he hadn’t
noticed it before. Clutching his empty gun, he rolled into the hole.
As he reached the bottom a steely hand seized him by the throat.
Instinctively his hand shot up, grasped a muscular wrist. Moonlight
glinted faintly on the long knife in the hand that he had blocked.
While he struggled with both hands to wrest the weapon away, a rocket
streaked up the sky. Directly overhead the flare burst, flooding
everything with white light. Barry’s enemy gasped and dropped his
butcher knife. He was Fred Marmon.
“Lieutenant Blake!” the redhead yelped. “Thank Heaven for that flare—I
might have carved you for a Jap.”
“You mean I might have broken your arm!” retorted Barry. “Listen,
Fred—if you’ve got an extra gun or a clip of ammo, let’s have it. I
think those yellow snakes are heading this way.”
“I have something better,” Marmon replied. “A sack of hand grenades. I
got ’em when the Japs started landing. Help yourself—”
He broke off as Barry made a lightning lunge past him with his empty
rifle. A high-pitched scream rang briefly. Barry had rammed his
gun-muzzle like a bayonet into the face of a crawling Jap who had
reached the edge of the hole.
Another queer-shaped helmet appeared, and beside it a machine-gun’s
muzzle. Barry swung his gun-butt at the weapon, knocking it aside. A
split instant later Fred struck with his knife. The second Jap kicked
convulsively.
“I fixed him!” the redhead muttered. “See any more, Lieutenant?”
[Illustration: _Barry’s Enemy Gasped and Dropped His Knife_]
Other flares were lighting the field. Barry spotted a furtive movement
in a crater thirty yards from the jungle’s edge.
“There’s a bunch that’s getting ready to break for the bush, I think,”
he said. “Give me a few of your grenades.”