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Stan and O'Malley found Allison in his comfortable quarters, an old
English mansion set on a little hill. It stood in the middle of
well-kept grounds. As they drove up in their borrowed jeep, O'Malley
scowled at the house.
"A blinking castle," he said in mock cockney British.
They parked the jeep and went inside. The boys were gathered around an
open fire lounging in easy chairs. Allison moved out of a huddle and
crossed the room.
"Welcome, you wallflowers," he said with a big smile.
"Sure, an' yer a disgrace to the both of us, lollin' in the lap o'
luxury," O'Malley answered with a big grin.
"How was it?" Stan asked.
"Very rugged," Allison admitted. "Sit down while I order a pie for
O'Malley."
The boys seated themselves and Allison described the mission. He loaded
his pipe and sat staring into the fire.
"Not much like pushing a Spitfire or a Thunderbolt. You just plow along
through the muck and hope the boys will bat down all of the fighters
coming at you from every angle."
"How many did you get?" O'Malley asked.
"Six for sure," Allison answered. "The real fun started when we headed
for home. We had been plowing through flak as thick as a swarm of bees
but we had been lucky. Two of our flight went down flaming and we saw
the boys bail out. I thought we were slipping through pretty nicely when
an Me winged us with an explosive cannon shell. After that we got hit
plenty. We picked up a shell which went off inside our outboard engine.
It started rolling smoke but no flames. Then a shell smashed the
intercom system and communications went dead." Allison bit down hard on
his pipe.
"Must have been tough," Stan said.
"We couldn't hold our altitude. We lost about a thousand feet a minute
and nothing the copilot and I could do would hold her up."
"Sure, an' you did a good job of it gettin' in," O'Malley praised.
"When I couldn't talk to the crew I turned the controls over to the
copilot and went aft. I got to the top turret man and told him to get
the gunners together in the radio compartment. I figured we'd smack
right down into the channel." Allison fingered his pipe and stared into
the fire.
"I went back to the copilot and we fought her head. She sagged in over
the coast and came right on home, smoking like a torch. As we came in,
we found we had a belly landing on our hands, so we skidded her in. Poor
Old Sal is a mess right now."
"Anybody hurt?" Stan asked.
"Bombardier got a piece of flak in his leg. The tail gunner had his
greenhouse blown into his face and is in the hospital. I forgot to say
we dumped our guns and everything else we could pry loose. I guess that
saved us." Allison leaned back. "When you fellows going to shift over?
This is the real thing."
"Sitting duck stuff," O'Malley snorted. "You jest sit there an' take it.
You never fired a gun on the whole trip."
"No," Allison admitted. "But we bagged six Jerries and there was plenty
of shooting. You should see my boys work those 50's."
"We aim to stir up a bit of excitement," Stan said.
Allison frowned at him. "You birds better remember this is modern
warfare, not the Battle of Britain or the Pacific. They'll bounce you
high and quick for breaking rules. This Eighth Air Force is big stuff
now."
"Thanks for the warning," Stan answered. "But we plan to go through
proper channels."
"And it's a deep secret," O'Malley added.
O'Malley's pie arrived and he dropped out of the talk for a time. Stan
and Allison chatted about the changes and the amazing way the Eighth had
grown up until it took a large section of British farmland to house it.
Stan and O'Malley left early and hurried back to their own mess. They
wanted to corner Colonel Holt. They found him in the mess looking very
dour and gloomy. He was alone. None of the other men seemed to care
about trying to cheer him up. Stan and O'Malley barged over to his
table.
"May we sit down, sir?" Stan asked.
"Sure." Holt motioned to two chairs.
The boys sat down. Stan ordered coffee and O'Malley ordered pie.
"I need just a bite to get me in shape for supper," he said when Stan
glared at him as he gave his order.
"Lousy show today," Holt grumbled. "I don't mean the way you fellows
flew it, but the way the Germans have everything figured out so neatly.
We lost eleven bombers."
"We might fool Jerry," Stan suggested.
"How?"
"Suppose we just toted along some extra tanks of gas and cut them loose
about the time the show should start. We know their tactics and pattern.
We'd have a lot of fun." Stan leaned forward.
"Can't do that," Holt said. "You fellows might have to get busy as soon
as you hit the coast. Kicking off a tank can't be done with an FW
dropping out of a cloud on your tail."
"Just half of us will go with extra loads. The others can cover for us.
We'd sure surprise Jerry." Stan spoke eagerly.
"Foine idea an' one I'd have been proud to have thought up," O'Malley
broke in.
Colonel Holt began to smile. "I believe you have something there. The
element of surprise and all that sort of thing. We'll take a crack at
it."
"Elegant," O'Malley said. "I'm speaking for extra gas."
"You and O'Malley get extra tanks. You're both old heads at lone wolf
tactics. I'm beginning to think we have too much handling out of the
control room." He bent forward and his smile faded. "But, remember this,
I'm under a general who's a stickler for the book, so be careful."
"We won't let you down, sir," Stan promised.
O'Malley just grinned wolfishly. "I got a date with that Jerry with the
red beard."
"You boys tend to the installing yourselves. Oversee it yourselves. I'll
put through an order clearing everything for you."
"Thanks, Colonel," Stan said. "Now we'll run along and get busy."
"First you come with me and we'll figure out how much tank capacity
you'll need and how many men will go along." The colonel got to his
feet.
"If you don't mind, sir, we'd like to have you sponsor the idea. We
intended to take it up with Lieutenant Sim Jones first. Wouldn't want to
be going over his head." Stan spoke quickly.
Holt looked at him and nodded. "That's fine of you boys. Mind if I claim
the idea for the present?"
"Not in the least," Stan answered.
"In that case you'll hear from me later through regular channels. I see
you men know your way around in this army."
Stan and O'Malley saluted and moved off. O'Malley grinned. "Slick work,
Stan," he said. "Now we won't get blamed for anything."
"And we won't get a medal, either," Stan remarked as he matched
O'Malley's grin.
Returning to their Nissen hut the boys policed their living quarters and
got things in order. The hut was such a primitive affair that little
could be done to keep it in order. The round wood stove leaked ashes on
the floor which was always tracked deep with mud. There was a little
wash bowl and a table which O'Malley used to stack his laundry upon. The
cots were GI with GI mattresses.
After they had cleaned up, the boys went over to the huge sheds where
the mechanics worked over the planes. They learned from the chief
mechanic that Colonel Holt's order had come through.
"I have the boys on your ships," the sergeant said. He did not seem to
approve of the idea.
"I'll be after lookin' out fer me own ship," O'Malley said and hurried
away.
"You don't seem to like the colonel's idea," Stan said.
"We've tried it before, sir," the sergeant replied.
"What happened?"
"The boys got jumped out of cloud cover and were sitting ducks for the
Jerries," the sergeant said sourly. "Too much cloud cover and too many
Jerries for that stuff."
Stan grinned. "I'll drop around and let you know how it works this
time."
Walking back to his ship he watched the boys working on her. He was soon
satisfied that they knew just what should be done and made off. O'Malley
did not show up at mess and Stan began to wonder where he had gone. He
finally sauntered into the rest room where he found O'Malley shooting
the breeze with a group of fliers.
"You missed a steak dinner," Stan greeted him.
O'Malley grinned, "That's what you think," he said. "I had me a steak
dinner with the corporal that fixed up me ship. You know that feller
hadn't had a steak for a month. He sure went for it." O'Malley seated
himself and elevated his feet to the top of the radio. In this position
he promptly went to sleep.
Stan talked with the boys until time to turn in. He wakened O'Malley and
they sloshed through the mud to their hut. During their absence, two
other boys, replacement men, had been quartered in the hut. They greeted
the two old heads eagerly.
They were Bugs Monahan and Splinters Wright, both from Toledo, Ohio.
They had just finished flight combat school and were eager for action.
Someone had given them the records of Stan and O'Malley. They were both
eager to talk to the veterans. Splinters was a tall, thin youth with a
little mustache. Bugs was short and fat with a round beaming face and a
quick smile.
"We've heard a lot about you fellows," Bugs said.
"Never believe anything you hear in the army," Stan advised with a grin.
"Sure, an' ye've been taken in by me auld pal Goebbels," O'Malley added.
"I'm turning in. We'll get a call along about four in the morning,"
Stan said. "See you boys over at the rest room. That's where we shoot
the breeze."
"See you at midnight when we get up to poke wood into that stove,"
O'Malley contradicted.
"We'll keep the fire going. We're not sleepy," Splinters said. They were
both disappointed that the old heads did not want to go into a gabfest.
Stan and O'Malley turned in. They had learned to get as much sleep as
possible. The two replacements kept the fire going as they had promised,
and the boys did not waken until they were called at three-fifty the
next morning. Bugs and Splinters had gotten a little sleep. They were up
instantly and eager to trail along and see what was going to happen.
"Ye'll soon learn to sleep when ye get a chance," O'Malley said.
They sloshed across to the operations room and joined their flight. Maps
were ready and Colonel Holt was standing with his fellow officers. The
room was filled with a buzz of talk. Something was up and the boys knew
it. Stan and O'Malley sat in the second row with Bugs and Splinters
beside them. Stan turned to the boys.
"When you leave here you are not to talk to anyone about the operations
planned, not even to other officers," he warned.
"There must be something up," Bugs said. "We'll keep mum."
"When we get back we'll give you the story," Stan promised.
Colonel Holt began speaking, and the talking stopped. "Men, we are going
to try a different approach. Weather says we'll have clear going." His
pointer moved along a red ribbon. "The bomber objective is a fighter
station and a plant near Huls. Ordinarily we'd turn back just beyond
Antwerp. Today we'll have a flight along which will carry enough extra
gasoline to add two-hundred-twenty miles in range. I'll spot those ships
for you and it will be the job of those carrying the regulation
one-hundred-ninety gallons to protect the specials until they drop their
extra tanks."
The pilots who were to be long-range fighters grinned happily; the
others looked their disappointment. The colonel went on giving the
details.
"The long-range ships will deploy and go in under the leadership of
Lieutenant Wilson. He will have detailed evasion orders."
The boys listened to the rest of the briefing impatiently. Stan stayed
after the others left. Colonel Holt went over the plan with him, then
Stan hurried out to get his group together. Sim Jones met him as he
entered the flight room. He gave Stan a cold look.
"Did you engineer this, Wilson?" he asked.
"I did not ask to be put in command, if that's what you mean," Stan
answered.
"You act like you thought you had to take over here," Sim said and his
eyes blazed.
"Wilson has forgotten more about flyin' than you'll ever know," O'Malley
cut in. "And ye better remember that."
"Easy, now. This is a teamwork job," Stan said. "Your orders are to
cover our long-range ships. They'll be heavy and gas logged. My planes
have to get to use all of that extra gas, Sim. What we're doing is
trying to break the jinx on the fighters."
"Yeah? It smells bad to me. I think you're trying to get yourself an
extra bar on your shoulder."
Stan's lips pulled into a straight line. "I don't care what you think of
me, personally, but you better cover my flight, and cover it right."
The other fliers were staring at the two officers. They had worked under
Sim Jones a long time. Stan was a newcomer the same as Colonel Holt;
both had seen much service in other theaters of war. Stan sensed that
they were siding with Sim. He turned away and began getting into his
outfit. O'Malley was beside him.
"That bird may try something," O'Malley said out of the side of his
mouth.
"We sure slipped up when we didn't let him tell this plan to the
colonel," Stan said sourly.
The boys sloshed out on the field. Stan looked over the dim outlines of
the planes. He would have six ships in his penetration flight. His boys
had been carefully instructed. They were to break away and appear to
leave with the other fighters, then loop up and over and come in on the
enemy from out of the sun when he dived down after the bombers.
One by one the Thunderbolts slipped into the raw morning darkness. Stan
eased his ship off the ground and up into the sky. He dropped into place
in Sim's flight along with O'Malley. They were separated by one ship.
The Thunderbolts carrying extra weight were spotted so they could be
covered by the others.
Soon they picked up the Forts and Libs and were headed across the
channel toward Flushing. Day broke and they could see the bombers below
them. The air was clear and cold but there were many scattered banks of
clouds all around. Stan kept his eyes open. Today he was not watching
the beauty of the bomber formation, he was checking on his own flight of
fighters. Sim was holding his ships in perfect formation. They roared
along with Stan and his boys using gasoline from their reserve tanks so
that they could get rid of them as soon as possible.
Their first action came near the coast. A flight of Focke-Wulf 190's
broke out of a big cloud and roared in on them.
"Break for action. Cover specials!" Sim called.
The formation of Thunderbolts broke up and the fight was on. As usual
the Jerries were not aiming to close with the Yanks. They were willing
to pick off a cripple or a plane cut out from the flight but not to make
it a real battle. Their job was to delay and to pull the fighters away
from the bombers.
Sim handled the situation well. The Thunderbolts did not break away, nor
were they delayed. They met each thrust and stab, but they refused to be
pulled into side shows. For once O'Malley was ignoring a Jerry fighter.
He was well up in front heading straight for Germany. Stan was in the
rear where he had been spotted. Sim was flying his cover, having dropped
back for that purpose.
"I guess he's all right," Stan muttered. "He's making it his personal
business to see that I get through."
At that moment two FW's dived down at the tail ships. Stan did not shift
course.
All Sim had to do was to make a pass at the Jerries, loop over and shoo
them away. Suddenly Stan realized Sim was not making a pass. He had
stabbed at a Jerry coming in far to the side.
Kicking his rudder, Stan went into action. The Jerries, seeing their
chance, had cut him off and now he would be sucked into a fight. The
Thunderbolt responded awkwardly. Stan reached for the tank release, then
his hand froze. If he kicked loose his tanks, the Jerries would be wise
to the trick. They would radio the information to base. Grimly Stan
dived and then zoomed.
The two Focke-Wulfs gleefully tore in upon him. Stan gave one of them a
burst but missed. He was caught like a clumsy float plane and knew it.
Up he went and over, using every evasive trick he knew. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw that Sim had banked sharply and was coming back
to help him. He also spotted the cloud the Jerries had used to ambush
the flight. As he laid over and made for it, one of the FW's knifed in
and splattered him with lead. He felt the bullets pinging against his
armor plate and ripping through his wings. Ducking, he went down under
the cloud, just what the Jerry wanted.
Sim had cut out one of the FW's but two others had joined the hunt, bent
on finishing the Thunderbolt they had cut off. Stan laid over and
wobbled around just as though he was hit bad. The Jerry banked and went
up a bit to get a better dive. He figured he had plenty of time because
the Yank was crippled. That was what Stan wanted. He kicked the
Thunderbolt wide open and zoomed for the cloud. Too late the Jerry saw
what was up. He roared down through the misty edge of the cloud and
barely missed a head-on crash with Stan.
The instant the cloud closed around him Stan kicked off his extra tanks,
then he dived up and over the cloud. The Jerries were waiting for him.
Sim was chasing one FW, but three waited for the cripple. When Stan came
zooming out of the top of the cloud, they were a bit startled and showed
it by their hesitation. Stan grinned as he snapped his ship over and
dived on the nearest Jerry.
Before the German could get going Stan had him in his sights and his
thumb had squeezed the gun button. His six 50's flamed and the recoil
set the Thunderbolt back on her flaps. The Jerry shuddered an instant,
then broke in two and burst into roaring flames. Stan went over the
wreckage and cut in between the other two Jerries. They were alive now
and in action. Around the three went, up and over, painting the chill
sky with streaks and loops of vapor. Stan did not hold on long. The
instant he had a chance to dive and run for it he did. And the Jerries
did not chase him. They were convinced he was no cripple.
As Stan roared after his formation he saw Sim closing in from far to his
left. He was red-hot and wanted to tell Sim a few things, but he knew
the setup was such that he had to keep his mouth closed. Sim had made an
error of judgment in going after the lone Jerry and letting the other
two cut him out. Stan was sure it was intentional, but he could never
prove it.
Another thing that worried him was that he did not know how much
gasoline he had used out of his reserve before he kicked his tanks
loose. He was flight leader of the group headed for Huls. If he went on
with his flight and there was much dogfighting, going and coming, he
might not get home. Sim's voice came in.
"Wilson, sorry I couldn't handle all three Jerries. You'll have to go
back with our flight."
Stan scowled. Sim appeared well pleased with the idea. "I'll use my own
judgment," Stan snapped back.
"Name a leader and go back," Sim barked. "That is an order."
"Sorry," Stan answered. "I'm taking the boys on through."