_Doomed Wings_
"Dave, Dave, snap out of it! We're trapped, but let's give the beggars
a go for their money. Dave! Wake up!"
Freddy Farmer's screams in the earphone seemed to touch a hidden spring
in Dave and release him from his dumbfounded trance. He let out a wild
yell, kicked his Spitfire over on wingtip and went whanging around and
over to where Farmer and Barker were closing in together. Instinct, and
instinct alone had caused him to make the maneuver. The instinct of
life preservation.
Individually not one of them stood a chance against the mass of
Messerschmitt One-Nines, and One-Tens, cutting down through the air.
Individually they would be picked off like helpless clay pigeons.
Together as a fighting trio, a fighting unit, they stood some chance
of meeting with a little success. That all three would break through
that almost solid wall of war wings, and escape back to England, was
something that could not possibly happen, miracles or no miracles.
Together as a unit, however, two of them might blast a path through air
through which the third could escape. All for one. That was it! All for
one, and that one to get on back to England with the pictures he had
taken. And, please God, those pictures would tell British High Command
at least something of vital importance! Please God, the efforts of the
two who remained behind would not be made in vain!
With that prayer on his lips Dave hurtled his plane across the sky and
dropped in along side Freddy and Barker. It was then, and then only,
he suddenly realized that the swarm of Nazis charging downward had not
fired a single shot. As a matter of fact, as he snapped a quick glance
upward he saw the leading wave of planes come out of the dive and fly
along at even keel. The second wave did the same thing a few seconds
later. So did the third, and a fourth wave, until the whole lot were as
a tent of wings over the three British planes.
"Come on, you blighters, fight! _Fight_, blast you!"
The voice was Flight Lieutenant Barker's, and before the echo had died
away he hauled up his plane on its tail and blazed away with all guns.
It was like throwing rocks at a low ceiling. The bullets had to hit
something, and they did. A Messerschmitt One-Nine staggered crazily in
the air for a minute, then up-ended on wingtip and came tumbling down
out of the sky. Hardly had it started to fall than its place was filled
by another Nazi plane. And though Barker's plane reached the stalling
point, and fell over sluggishly on wing to present a perfect target for
the pilots and gunners above, not a single Nazi sliced down in a dive
to pick off the Englishman.
As Barker recovered from the stall and zoomed back up to rejoin
formation wild hope flared up in Dave. But he felt also the stinging
pain of defeat. The refusal of the Nazis to fight unless forced to
could mean but one thing. They were under orders to force the three
R.A.F. pilots down onto the ground, and capture them alive. But why?
The question burned through the back of Dave's brain, but he gave
it no serious consideration for the moment. Another, and perhaps a
more heart chilling realization came to him instantly. This was no
chance accident, the sudden appearance of these Nazi wings. It had
been planned. They had been waiting, probably hiding in the sun or
behind the clouds while the four original One-Nines had baited the
R.A.F. lads to swoop down low. To swoop down low and lose the precious
altitude they would need in order to outmaneuver and fly away from this
Luftwaffe armada.
"Like heck we fooled them!" the words burst from Dave's lips. "They've
been wise to us all the time. We took it hook, line and sinker! And now
we're stuck!"
The echo of his own words seemed to return in his earphones to mock
him. But it was all so true, so horribly true. In cold truth they had
been "on the spot" from the very moment they crossed over the Channel
to Occupied France. Whether the Nazis had actually known they were
coming, or whether they had simply suspected things the instant they
had sighted them, were two things Dave did not know. Nor did he waste
time guessing. The fact remained that there they were more or less
pinned to the ground, and there were the Nazi planes forcing them lower
and lower.
Biting back a storm of bitter words directed at himself, Dave glanced
downward, and groaned. They were less than three hundred feet off the
ground. And as for the ground, it was now practically alive with Nazi
uniforms. The grey-green clad figures of Hitler's armies seemed to
virtually pop up out of holes in the ground. It was almost like looking
down into a swimming maze of upturned faces.
"What say, Dawson?" Barker's voice cut through Dave's whirling
thoughts. "Are we going to let the blighters push us down onto the sod?
Or shall we give a few of them something they'll remember when they
wake up in the next world ... or wherever Nazi rotters go to? Me, I
fancy that, old thing. Let's get as many as we can, while we can, what?"
Dave didn't answer right off the bat. His brain was battling furiously
with the toughest problem he had ever faced in his entire life. As
commander of the flight it was in his power to order life or death
for Freddy and Barker. He could make it life by surrendering to the
hovering Nazi wings and letting the Germans take them alive as they
seemed to wish. Or he could make it death by agreeing with Barker's
suggestions and attempting to fight through the aerial cordon of
Messerschmitts until all three of them went down in flames.
The warrior in him was all in favor of that. Why give up without a
fight? Why let these darn Nazis push them around like three rag dolls?
What was there to be gained by that? Life in a Nazi prison camp at the
most. Sure, life! But was that kind of life worth living? It was not!
Better to die, and take some of your conquerors along with you, than to
simply fold up without a single show of resistance. Heck! That was a
coward's way out! That was....
The other side of Dave, though, refused to accept that as the only
solution. On a thousand other occasions, sure. Fight until you could
fight no more. But this was something different. This situation was the
exception. There was far, far more at stake than Freddy Farmer's life,
or Barker's life, or his own life. They had come over to do a definite
job. They had failed to accomplish that task. They had failed because
the Nazis were ready, and apparently waiting for them. Why didn't the
Nazis polish them off; finish them right then and there?
It was that single question that stopped Dave from crying out the order
to do battle, and let the Messerschmitts fall where they may. That
one question that held back the warrior within him; that brought the
leadership in him to the fore. Why did the Nazis let them live? There
could be but one answer. For a very definite reason known only to the
Nazis. But a very important reason, obviously.
Dave glanced once more down at the ground, then up at the mass of
swastika wings that hovered just above his head like a cloud. He
could almost feel countless eyes boring holes through the air down at
him. Those Nazi wings were Hitler's new secret weapon? No! Those Nazi
wings were the answer to the mysterious disappearance of ten Lockheed
Hudsons? No? The answers were down on the ground below him. Of that he
felt positive. And the Nazis wanted him alive. Okay, they could take
him alive. While he had life he had hope. And while he had hope there
was the chance of 'most anything happening.
That, however, was _his_ choice. The choice for himself. But he could
not make it the choice for Freddy and Barker. In his heart he could not
order them to surrender. Neither could he order them to batter their
wings against that wall of Nazi guns. But there was a way by which the
thing could be solved. True, it might cost him his own life, but if he
timed it just right, pulled the surprise at exactly the right moment
an avenue of escape would be opened for Freddy Farmer and Flight
Lieutenant Barker.
"Close up, fellows!" he called into his flap-mike. "Close up until
you're almost touching my wingtips. Keep your engines at three quarter
throttle. Follow me around. I'm going to act like I'm leading us down
toward that level patch off to the left. But keep your eyes on me! When
you see my nose go up, and hear my guns, pull the plug and fly dead
straight ahead for all you're worth. Don't even take time to look back.
Get flying, and keep flying. I'll take care of these bums, or bust. Got
it straight?"
"See here, Dawson!" Barker's voice cried out in the earphones. "I won't
let you throw...."
"You will, and shut up!" Dave roared back. "That's an order, Barker!
You refused to give the orders, so now you take them and like them!"
"Right-o, old bean!" Barker replied. "But I won't like them, no fear."
"Just do your stuff when I give the signal, and let everything else
ride," Dave grunted. "Okay, close up some more. Here we go!"
"Rubbish to your orders!" came Freddy Farmer's voice out of the air.
"I think I know what you're planning, and it's silly. Dave, I just
won't...!"
"So I've got trouble with you, too!" Dave snarled at him. "Listen,
pal! You do as I say, or you're off my list forever. And I mean that,
Freddy. This is something bigger than all three of us, and I'm taking a
whirl at the only possible way out. I'm not thinking of you, or Barker,
or even myself. I'm thinking of Colonel Trevor's brother. We going
to let him down? You're darn tooting we're not! Now, button up those
pretty lips, Freddy. I mean business, and no fooling!"
"Okay, Dave," came the hoarse whisper over the radio. "Sorry, old
thing. And God bless you. I'm ready!"
Dave choked back the lump that rose up into his throat, blinked his
eyes hard, and then hauled the throttle back to the three quarter
mark, and started to bank around in a slow circle. Sitting tight in
the seat, every nerve drawn taut as a piano wire, he scrutinized the
mass of planes overhead. It was only his imagination, of course, but
the instant he acted as though he were going to lead Freddy and Barker
down to a landing it seemed as though every Nazi above him slackened
his vigilance and relaxed visibly. But it was not his imagination
when he saw three or four of the Messerschmitts drop noses slightly to
lose altitude and escort the three R.A.F. pilots right down onto the
ground. It was not imagination, it was fact, and wild hope leaped high
in Dave's breast.
The four Messerschmitts dropping down left a "hole" in the sky. A hole
in the wall of Nazi wings. Quick as a flash Dave shot out his hand and
banged his throttle wide open. At the same time he hauled up the nose
of his ship toward the hole, and started hammering away with all guns.
"Freddy! Barker! Get going! Get going and keep going! This is your
chance. So long, fellows!"
In the thunderous yammer and clatter of his guns his own voice came
back to him as an echo from a great distance. He longed to tear his
gaze from that hole to see if Freddy and Barker were obeying orders.
To see if they were streaking straight forward at top speed, and just
off the ground. But he didn't dare look. In the next few split seconds
his piloting ability and his marksmanship would mean life or death for
Freddy and Barker.
By charging straight for that hole his plane served as a sort of screen
for Freddy Farmer and Barker. The Nazis, seeing him gun blasting
upward, would instantly guess that the three of them were trying to
skip through the hole in the huge formation of German wings. Guessing
that, the four pilots that had dropped down would instantly zoom back
up to fill the gap. And some of the others would swing in closer to
present a wall of fire spitting guns to the onrushing British plane.
It was that for which Dave fervently prayed and hoped, as he went
rocketing upward. And his prayer was answered. As though by magic the
hole in the sky became filled with German planes. He saw his tracers
bite into a One-Ten. Saw the German plane explode in a thousand flaming
embers and go slithering earthward. A One-Nine cutting straight down
off to his right caught his eye. Fear chilled his heart. The German
pilot had suddenly realized that it was all daring bluff, a daring
trick. He had seen Farmer and Barker streaking along underneath Dave
and right down under the outer edge of the cordon of German planes. He
had seen, guessed, and was high tailing down to cut off the avenue of
retreat.
"Leave them alone, bum!" Dave howled and jabbed his trigger release
button at the same instant he kicked his Mark 5 around in a flash half
turn.
The German pilot saw what was coming too late. He made a frantic effort
to pull out of his dive and whirl off into the clear, but Dave Dawson's
shower of bullets had the greater speed. They hit the One-Nine like
a shower of hot sizzling steel and practically blasted it apart in
midair. The Messerschmitt's wings fell off, the fuselage buckled, and
the whole business burst into flame and went down ... fast.
No sooner did Dave see that his burst was going home than he tore his
gaze from the doomed plane and lined up another Nazi Messerschmitt in
his sights. However, before he could jab the trigger button the German
pilot wheeled his craft to one side, dropped sharply by the nose, and
then came zooming up under the Spitfire.
For a split second the finger of Death was pointed straight at the Yank
born R.A.F. ace. Then the danger was passed as Dave went right up on
wingtip and around in a tight power turn that scrambled his brains, and
made his eyes feel as though they were two white hot coals revolving in
their sockets. He opened his mouth to relieve the terrific pressure on
his eardrums, and braced himself hard against his safety belt harness
in a desperate effort to beat back the wave of inky darkness that would
"black him out."
Meantime he let his plane slice around in the wing howling turn, and
fervently prayed that no German plane would get in the way. If one did
it would be just too bad for the Nazi, and for himself. But perhaps
Lady Luck was riding the cockpit with him during those few seconds. At
any rate the Spitfire did not plow headlong into a Messerschmitt, and
presently the black curtain was drawn away from in front of his eyes,
and he could see again.
It was then he realized that the Mark 5 had stalled off the tight turn,
and was slanting downward at a comet's rate of speed. Impulsively he
hauled up the nose, and started to turn back and give battle again to
the Nazi pilot striving to cut down past him and attack Freddy and
Barker who were now almost in the clear. A wild cry bursting from his
lips, he checked the turning maneuver, and went prop-clawing around in
the opposite direction, instead. To have caught the Nazis off guard
and opened up an avenue of escape for Farmer and Barker, had been to
perform a miracle. And to hold off the mass of Nazi wings so that his
two pals could get well under way toward safe air, had also been a
miracle in itself.
But neither miracle had been enough. The gods of war, and bad luck, had
thrown their weight on the side of the Germans. As Dave came out of his
tight turn, that had actually become a power dive earthward, he caught
sight of two Messerschmitt One-Nines cutting down through the air far
off to his right. Cutting straight down on top of Freddy Farmer and
Barker who were right down over the tree tops and racing northwestward
at top speed.
One look and Dave's world seemed to come tumbling down around his ears.
One look and he knew that all his efforts had been in vain. Being at
such a low altitude his two pals were unable to flash maneuver out
from under those diving Messerschmitts without catching a wing on the
ground, and crashing in. To attempt to zoom upward and away would be
sheer suicide. They would simply present better targets for those two
vultures of Goering's roaring down. Luck, fate, or whatever you wanted
to call it. It made no difference. Freddy and Barker had failed in the
last few seconds to make good their escape. They were trapped. They
were caught cold ... with no choice save the choice of death!