the cockpit. “Those fifty-caliber babies are too heavy to carry far, or
to use without a tripod. See you soon, fellows.”
A five hour search of the island revealed no human inhabitant. On the
farther side from their plane the Fortress men found the burned
remnants of a native village and a few unburied corpses. The Jap
butchers had evidently come and gone a few weeks before.
Barry and Hap downed a half-wild pig with their pistols. On their
return to the Fortress, they frightened a number of scrawny island
chickens that flew squawking into the jungle. It was plain that they
need not starve, Fred Marmon remarked, even if escape from the island
should be delayed for a month.
“I’ve no idea of waiting that long, Fred,” Barry laughed. “As soon as
it’s dark, we’ll radio the base to send a supply ship here. With a
runway of steel mats on the beach we should have no trouble in taking
off. That is, if the Nips don’t spot us!”
Reaching the plane they found Tony Romani conscious again. He had been
swallowing salt and water in quantity to make up for his loss of blood.
Despite the pain of his wound he greeted his friends with a plucky grin.
“All I want is a juicy beefsteak,” he told them. “And mashed spuds and
apple pie and—”
“You’ll have to be satisfied with pork chops,” Barry interrupted. “Beef
won’t be on the menu until we’re back at Mau River. The same goes for
potatoes. Dinner tonight will be roast wild pig, palm cabbage, and
cocoanut milk—with a vitamin pill for dessert.”
Ravenous appetites made the jungle dinner a success, even though Tony
dropped off to sleep in the middle of it. The others literally cleaned
the bones of their little roast porker. There was no campfire to enjoy,
however: the light would have betrayed them to any scouting Jap plane
within twenty miles. The moment the sun set, they kicked sand over the
coals and finished their meal in the dark.
Contact with Mau River was made quickly by radio. A brief message, not
likely to mean much to listening Japs, gave their location. Barry added
a request for supplies, and arranged radio and ground signals to guide
the approaching planes to a moonlight landing.
“The next thing,” Barry announced, “is to camouflage _Rosy_ so that
she’ll be invisible from the air. As soon as the moon rises, we’ll
begin cutting vines and leafy bushes. With only four pocket knives, it
may take us most of the night, but that just can’t be helped.”
[Illustration: _Ravenous Appetites Made the Dinner a Success_]
“There’s the moon coming up now!” Hap Newton exclaimed, pointing to a
glow on the eastern horizon. “Out with those toadstabbers, gentlemen!
We’ll cut out a new green dress for _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_—or fall
asleep trying!”
The camouflage was only half completed when the first supply plane
arrived. It was a big _Coronado_ flying boat, altered for extra cargo
space. It brought enough gasoline in cans to feed _Rosy’s_ big engines
on the trip home, and it took Tony Romani back to the field hospital.
The next two planes brought bundles of steel mats for the beginning of
a long, straight runway.
Three days later _Rosy O’Grady’s_ sunburned crew had lost ten or
fifteen pounds apiece, but the roadway of perforated steel was
completed. One end of it was under water, owing to the curve of the
beach. An incoming wave might cause the huge bomber to ground-loop at
the moment of her take-off, but that was a chance that had to be taken.
As the men piled into their ship they tried not to worry about this
danger spot; yet there was no denying the risk. Belted into his
co-pilot’s seat, Hap Newton warmed up the four big engines. Slowly he
increased the r.p.m. until _Rosy O’Grady_ was straining to be off. The
mighty slipstream ripped jungle foliage and tossed the fragments of her
camouflage screen.
“Let’s go, Hap!” Barry Blake said quietly.
With brakes released the bomber leaped ahead. She rushed down the
narrow steel runway, her airspeed gauge climbing fast. If one of her
big wheels should run off into the sand, disaster would almost
certainly result.
Almost on the “step” she reached the wet end of the strip. Spray flew
from her right hand wheel. The water tugged at the tire like a
many-tentacled octopus. Despite both the pilots’ weight on the
controls, it pulled her down. The right wing dipped into a wave.
Every man on board held his breath, bracing himself for the shock and
rending crash of a ground loop.... Then, abruptly, the ship righted
herself. When Barry eased back on the controls she lifted her
twenty-five tons as lightly as a windblown leaf.
“Home, James!” croaked Chick Enders, and a gale of laughter swept
through the Flying Fortress, releasing her crew’s badly stretched
nerves.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SECRET MISSION
The safe return of Barry Blake and his crew to Mau River was celebrated
the following night at supper. The meal was the nearest thing to a
banquet that the army cooks could turn out. There was a sort of
program, too, mostly humorous. It recalled the never-to-be-forgotten
days at Randolph Field.
Barry himself was heralded as the “Big Dog” at the moment of his
entrance into the mess tent. Colonel Bullock, as master of ceremonies,
announced:
“The Big Dog is coming in to land.... The Big Dog is rolling down his
flaps.... The Big Dog has landed.... The Big Dog is waiting to be
serviced!”
Between each announcement, the second lieutenants softly chorused:
“Woof, woof! Woof, woof!” When Barry lifted a large baked potato from
the serving dish it was announced that “The Big Dog is getting bombed
up.”
At this point an exuberant woofer from Texas lost control. Tilting his
head far back, he gave tongue to a genuine coyote howl that raised the
hair on the necks of more than one “effete Easterner.” The bumptious
ex-cowboy was penalized by being made to sing “Deep in the Heart of
Texas” with his mouth full of olives.
Following that there were speeches in praise of _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_
and every member of her crew. Tony Romani and Cracker Jackson received
their full share of glory, as wounded heroes. Finally _Rosy_ herself
was described as the plane that “sighted convoy, sank same, and retired
to a desert island, where she became a sort of Empress Jones, too proud
to come home and associate with her sister Fortresses.”
After the celebration, Colonel Bullock asked Lieutenant Blake and three
other pilots to report to his tent for a brief conference. Arriving a
moment after the rest, Barry noted that he was the only Fortress
skipper present. The others were twin-engine pilots, who had made fine
bombing records during the recent slaughter of the Jap convoy. They
were Captain Rand Bartlett, Lieutenant Thurman Smith, and Lieutenant
Ben Haskins.
The four young officers sprang to their feet and saluted as the colonel
appeared. Bullock waved them to canvas-bottomed chairs.
“I’ve been asked to supply four of my best bomber crews,” he told them,
“for a secret and difficult mission. What that mission is I don’t know
myself, but you are to fly B-26 planes. The orders from headquarters
stressed a high record of bombing hits. You’re to take off before
daylight tomorrow and fly to Port Darwin. There you will doubtless
learn more details. Have you any questions, gentlemen? You are at
perfect liberty to pass up the job—in which case I’ll choose some
other crew.”
Barry Blake was the first to break the ensuing silence.
“I think we all feel alike about it, sir,” he said quietly. “It’s a big
honor to be chosen by you under these circumstances. But as Fortress
men, my crew and I might not measure up to the best B-26 performance.
Those Martin bombers are sweet little ships, but they handle
differently from a Boeing. We wouldn’t want to let you down, sir—”
“I know all that, Blake,” Colonel Bullock interrupted with a smile. “I
chose you and your crew after a good deal of thought, just as I picked
Haskins and Bartlett and Smith. You’ve flown twin-engined planes in
Advanced Training School and you’ll get the hang of your new B-26 on
the way to Darwin. I’ll supply you with a first-class tail gunner to
take the place of Tony Romani.... Now, gentlemen, for the last time, do
you want the job?”
“Yes, sir!” chorused the four pilots.
The C.O. arose. One after the other he gripped their hands and wished
them good hunting. In that moment he seemed more like a proud parent
than their superior officer. The four young officers knew that they had
found a lifelong friend in Colonel Bullock.
_Rosy O’Grady’s_ crew, all except Tony and Cracker Jackson, were
overjoyed at their new assignment. They lay awake talking it over until
Barry curtly ordered them to “drive it into the hangar and get some
sleep.”
“_Rosy_ will be laid up for a couple of weeks’ repairs anyway,” Chick
added in a loud whisper, “and so will Tony and Cracker. We’ll probably
be back by that time. Nobody’s got any kick coming, so far as I can
see—unless it’s the Japs!”
Out on the runway at five o’clock Barry’s crew found their new ship
waiting, complete with tail gunner. The latter was a little bulldog of
a man with the map of Ireland jutting fiercely out of his helmet. He
was Sergeant Mickey Rourke from South Boston. He greeted each of his
new crew mates with an undershot smile and a brief “Pleased to meet
yiz!”
Later _Rosy’s_ crew found out that Mickey was the lone survivor of a
B-26 that had been sliced in two by a diving Zero fighter. Mickey had
bailed out of his severed tail section unharmed and had swum ashore.
After two weeks in the New Guinea bush he had walked into the Mau River
base and calmly reported for duty.
The four Martin bombers took off by moonlight and promptly headed
southwest. Barry found _The Colonel’s Lady_ as Hap had named their new
craft, strangely quick and light on the controls, compared with her big
sister _Rosy_. Flying in formation with the other three Marauders soon
cured his tendency to over-control, however.
As the sun rose, tinting the peaks of New Guinea’s high backbone ahead
of them, he turned over the controls to Hap Newton.
“Easy on the stick, Mister,” he warned his big co-pilot. “Those crowbar
wrists of yours work swell at the wheel of a Fortress, but this little
lady won’t stand for rough handling.”
“Finger-tip control!” chuckled Hap as he took over. “I may be rough,
but I can be oh, so gentle, too, Skipper! Just watch me take her
upstairs.”
The bomber formation was climbing steadily, to top the 16,000-foot
range ahead. A bitter chill seeped into the plane. The crew found
themselves breathing faster to get enough air. Automatically they
reached for their oxygen masks. Those things were lifesavers when you
got up above 20,000. Even at somewhat lower altitudes they helped keep
your head clear and your stomach in place.
At 18,000 the air was bumpy. The flight leader, Captain Bartlett, took
his bombers up to 20,000, where it was colder but smoother. Beneath
them the great range was spread out like a relief map, with patches of
white cloud here and there showing local rains.
An hour later the immense blue bowl of the Arafura Sea rose up to
enclose them with its rim of endless horizon.
“We’re like four tiny flies buzzing across a giant’s washbowl,” Barry
thought. “And yet this Arafura Sea is just a little spot on God’s
Footstool. Most high school students never knew where it was before the
war. A flier certainly comes to feel his smallness in time and space!”
The four planes loafed along at about 200 m.p.h., to conserve gas. They
dodged a thunder storm just north of the Gulf of Carpenteria and swung
back to the southwest. At noon they were over Port Darwin, Australia,
with a heavy overcast obscuring sea and land. Barry took over the
controls in preparation for landing.
“Ceiling one thousand feet and dropping fast,” came the airfield’s
radioed report. “You arrived just in time. In another hour we’ll be
closed in.”
“This weather may postpone our mission, whatever it is,” Chick Enders
remarked as they went down through the wet cloud rug. “Looks like a
general storm coming over the coast.”
“That’s something for the brass hats to worry about, Chick,” Barry
Blake replied. “We haven’t the haziest notion yet what we’ve come here
to do—There’s the field, Hap! It looks a lot better than the one we
left this morning.”
Though his B-26 was still a bit unfamiliar to the young Fortress pilot,
he set her down without a bounce. The field was hard and smooth, with
only a few patches showing where Jap bombs had recently dropped. The
lowering clouds, Barry remarked, would probably keep enemy raiders at a
distance for the next few days.
Reporting to the Operations Building, the Marauders’ four young
officers were told to return immediately after mess for instructions.
The general himself would be present, with other high-ranking officers.
All further information would be given at that time.
Mess call sounded as they left the place. In the camouflaged mess tent,
they found a number of flying officers already gathered around rough
tables. Most of these greeted the newcomers with cordial smiles, but
there was one outstanding exception. A rather handsome, sleek-haired
second lieutenant stared at them insultingly, then turned his back and
moved to a farther table.
“Glenn Crayle!” exclaimed Hap Newton. “The same swell-headed hot pilot
that he was at Randolph! Did you get that ‘dirt-under-my-feet’ look he
gave us?”
“Hold it down, Hap!” Barry whispered. “No use in stirring up more hard
feelings. The whole room heard you. After all, Crayle’s a fellow
officer.”
“He’s just as much of a sorehead as he ever was,” muttered Chick
Enders. “I’d hate to fly in formation with him, for fear he’d pull some
spite trick and crash both of us.”
“You’d probably get ‘jeep jitters’ and scare the life out of him if you
were at the joy-stick,” Hap Newton laughed under his breath. “Here come
the brass hats! We’d better take places at this table, near the wall.”
They saw no more of Glenn Crayle than his neatly uniformed back until
the meal was over and the B-26 bomber officers assembled in the
briefing room. There, after another dirty look, the sulky pilot
whispered behind his hand to a hard-eyed acquaintance. The pair of them
glanced toward Barry’s group and laughed. Whatever “crack” Crayle had
made was certainly not to the Fortress crew’s credit.
The briefing room filled quickly, until the space between the long
table and the walls was filled with the officers of four bomber
squadrons. Facing them stood the general and a rear admiral of the
Navy. As the former raised his hand, absolute silence fell on the group.
“Gentlemen,” the general said quietly, “this talk will be very brief
and, I trust, to the point. You are to leave sometime tonight on a
mission of high strategical importance. Your objective is the
Japanese-held harbor of Amboina. As you know, this is the enemy’s
strongest East Indian base. We cannot at this moment tell you why its
demolition is so important to our war strategy. Your orders are simply
to destroy every plane, ship and installation that you can, cripple its
defenses. Leave it helpless to resist the regular bombardment forces
that will follow up your attack.”
He paused impressively. In the silence Barry could feel a rising tide
of unspoken questions filling the room. How, for instance, could four
squadrons of medium bombers effect such a complete destruction as the
general had described? Why not use Fortresses and Liberators, such as
were even now smashing the U-boat pens at Lorient and Wilhelmshaven?
“You, gentlemen,” the officer continued, “have been picked from several
bomber commands for a task of utmost difficulty and danger. The planes
you will fly are B-26 bombers that have been altered to carry twice
their normal bomb load, and about one fourth of their regular supply of
fuel. Each plane will lay a two-ton, delayed action bomb directly on an
assigned target, from mast-head height. You will then go on to strafe
the Jap aircraft in the seaplane anchorage at the head of Amboina Bay.
By that time you will have just enough gas left to fly the six hundred
thirty miles back to Port Darwin—providing you meet no interference on
the way.”
“Are there any questions, up to this point?”
Captain Bartlett was the first pilot to speak.
“You mentioned that we should carry about one fourth of our usual gas
supply, sir,” he said in a puzzled tone. “But the B-26’s greatest range
with a one-ton load is only twenty-four hundred miles. To fly six
hundred thirty miles to Amboina and back again would use up more than
half of it.”
For the first time a slight smile crossed the general’s face.
“You are quite correct, Captain,” he answered. “However, I didn’t say
that you were to fly from here to Amboina. That is the little surprise
we are preparing for our enemies. Your three squadrons of Martin
bombers are already loaded on an aircraft carrier which you will board
tonight. Under cover of the weather front that is moving northwest we
hope to approach within fifty miles of Amboina. The flight deck of this
carrier is quite long enough for medium bombers. You’ll need a bit of
verbal instruction regarding the take-off, however. Am I right,
Admiral?”
The naval officer cleared his throat.
“We’ll take care of that after we’re at sea,” he said to the assembled
fliers. “You won’t have to worry about finding and landing on your
flat-top in the fog, as the Navy pilots would. Once you leave our
flight deck it’s good-by—until we see you back in port.”
“And now,” added the general, “we’ll turn to the matter of targets.
Here’s a map of Amboina Harbor, with all the important installations
marked. As you receive your assignments, please note them down,
gentlemen. With a limited number of bombs, we must have no duplication.”
The target assigned to Barry’s crew was the radio station at the
extreme tip of Nusanive Point. Captain Bartlett, Lieutenant Haskins,
and Thurman Smith were given the heavy coastal fortifications just
beyond. Other crews received the airfields across the bay at Hatu and
Lata and the antiaircraft batteries mounted in the hills along shore.
Amboina City, with its piers, its big coaling station and its naval
installations, offered the biggest group of targets. A whole squadron
was assigned to hammer it with two-ton block-busters.
At supper time the study of contour maps, targets and enemy gun
positions was still in progress. Nobody had been permitted to leave the
briefing room. So great was the secrecy with which the whole venture
was surrounded that guards had been posted several yards from the
building, to keep anybody without a pass from approaching it. Not until
ten o’clock was the order given to dismiss; but the evening was not
over.
A dozen army trucks pulled up near the door. The fliers piled in, and
the vehicles roared away toward the docks. There a number of speedy PT
boats were waiting. In these the hundred-odd flying officers were
rushed through the spray-filled darkness to a point offshore which the
steersmen seemed to find by instinct.
There lay the carrier, a long, dim shape that grew rapidly huger until
the speedboat paused close to her towering side. Ship’s ladders had
been lowered already. Each boatload of airmen climbed hurriedly to the
dark port that opened into the ship’s bowels. Behind them the PT boats
roared away into the surrounding blackness.
[Illustration: _The Fliers Piled into the Army Trucks_]
Young Navy fliers of the carrier’s own company came forward to greet
the Army men and conduct them to their mess. They were cordial chaps,
perhaps a little more formal than the Army fliers. They stood treat for
the newcomers with soft drinks and there was a lot of pleasant
small-talk. Finally they got around to showing the bomber group their
temporary quarters.
The enlisted members of the B-26 crews were already on board, bunking
forward with the petty officers. In the morning they’d all get together
and each crew would be assigned a plane. From then until the moment of
take-off they’d be responsible for its care.
Barry’s team took four bunks in a corner of the large room assigned to
the Army group. For the first time in many hours they had a chance to
talk quietly together about the mission on which they had embarked.
“It’s a smarter stunt than any of the Japs have pulled off,” Hap Newton
declared. “B-25’s and 26’s are usually considered too big to take off
from a carrier’s deck. I still don’t see how we can do it with a double
load, but the experts must have figured it out. Each ship will be
practically a flying bomb.”
“Flying Fortresses could do the same job from a land base and do it
better,” Chick Enders remarked. “We’ve done skip-bombing with _Rosy
O’Grady_. The trouble is that she’s too big a target, and she cost a
quarter of a million dollars to build.”
“Not only that,” Barry Blake put in, “but all the forts that can be
spared for this job will be coming right in after us to hammer the Jap
gun emplacements in the hills. That’ll be high-altitude bombing, if the
weather is right.”
“The weather,” agreed Curly Levitt, “is the big risk. There has to be
enough fog or low-hanging cloud ceiling to hide the carrier from Jap
patrol planes, right up to the last minute. But over the island itself
our forts and Liberators will need visibility unlimited. If the
meteorologists have guessed wrong, it will be just too bad.”
That was true enough, Barry thought, but it didn’t worry him. The brass
hats who had planned this secret attack so painstakingly must know what
sort of weather they could count on. Meteorology was almost an exact
science nowadays.
He caught sight of Glenn Crayle talking with his co-pilot at the other
side of the room. Barry could not hear what they were saying, but
Crayle’s cocksure manner suggested his familiar, boastful line.
Probably the sleek-haired pilot was thinking of this Amboina job as
offering a splendid chance to make the news headlines. At any rate,
thought Barry, the fellow must be a first-rate pilot, or he’d never
have been picked for such a mission.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OUT OF THE FOG
Flanked by two cruisers and four destroyers, the big flat-top plowed
through rain and fog across the Arafura Sea. Her speed was low, since
the weather front was moving slowly. She must stay behind its dark
curtain until the moment came for her planes to take the air.
Since the B-26 bombers were not fitted to return to her decks, there
could be no practice take-offs. However, everything possible was
rehearsed. A special catapult had been built to insure each bomber
flying speed before it reached the end of the flight deck. The engines
were checked and tested and tuned until their engineers could swear to
their perfect condition. The new bomb releases were objects of especial
care. At the last crucial second as they swept toward the target,
nothing must go wrong.
Just thirty-two hours from the time he had boarded the carrier, Barry
Blake sat at the controls of the first “flying bomb” to be launched at
Amboina. Hidden in mist, the carrier had approached within forty miles
of the island. The B-26 was already in the catapult; her Double Wasp
radial motors were roaring at full throttle. Every man on board was
braced for the launching.
The shock came, jerking the pilots’ heads back as their seats pushed
them suddenly. The heavily loaded Martin _Marauder_ literally shot
along the carrier’s fog-swathed deck. Barry eased back on the stick,
and felt the deck drop away.
“We’re flying!” Hap Newton said hoarsely. “I never was so jittery
taking off from a bomb-pitted jungle strip. I’d been wondering whether
that catapult would boost us into the air or into the sea. How does she
handle, Barry?”
“Like a lady!” replied the young skipper. “I can feel the double bomb
load, but it’s balanced perfectly. We’ll have no trouble with it.”
Barry glanced at his climbing altimeter. When it showed a thousand feet
he leveled off, heading due north. An instant later the surrounding fog
fell away like torn gauze. The carrier had been keeping just within its
edge until the moment her warhawks were released.