ZERO HOUR
As Stan worked on the supercharger he went over his plans carefully.
With everything about ready to make tests, he was beginning to wonder if
the story Swen had told him was not just the wild fancy of a scared kid.
He even thought of the possibility that Swen had been planted to get him
off on the wrong track. There had been so many crazy things happening
that he could not afford to overlook any angle.
He had three mechanics helping him, with Hans giving his orders to the
two who spoke no English. As he worked he began to wonder if he had not
been neatly tricked. He was sure that at least one of the men hanging
around watching him was a Luftwaffe pilot. No one interfered with his
work or tried to tell him what to do. He was having as free a hand as
though he had been working in a shop of the Eighth Air Force. Some of
the men scowled at him, but most of them just watched with interest and
with something else. Stan guessed they were eagerly waiting for the trap
to spring. Then they could have a big laugh on the dumb Yank.
The supercharger parts were about installed in the ship. Stan checked
the gasoline supply. There was just enough to fly him out over the
channel if he took off before he used too much. Once out over the
channel he might be able to water-crash the P-51 near a British patrol
or pick-up boat. The trouble was that the instant the engine began to
work the trap would be sprung on him. He had to figure that one out
fast.
Swen showed up and hung around watching along with the other mechanics.
He grinned at Stan once and shook his head. Stan winked at him. Herr
Domber showed up in a sports outfit. His white spats gleamed and his
yellow tie shone. Domber was in a very genial mood.
"You are progressing?" he asked.
"I'm getting the thing together, but I don't know whether it will
work," Stan said.
"We will have lunch at a cafe downtown today," Herr Domber said without
the flicker of an eye. "I have a special cafe in mind where the sea food
is excellent and the wine very choice."
"That will be fine," Stan said and grinned as he hoisted himself up into
the ship.
He lay inside the fuselage and looked at the supercharger. There was one
valve which he had not fitted. He was afraid that if he fitted that
valve into place the Mustang would purr like a cat. He was now convinced
that the Germans had had all of their trouble with the air mixture and
the pressure intake. His instructions on the new machine had been very
detailed on these points. They were the secrets of the new supercharger.
Stan plugged the valve opening with a wad of cotton waste and tucked the
valve into his pocket. Of one thing he was sure, the Mustang's engine
had to be hot if he expected to snap her out of that hangar. And in
getting her hot he did not dare let her show signs of running smoothly.
Climbing out of the fuselage, he called to Hans:
"We'll turn her up." He wiped sweat from his forehead. The air in the
hangar was hot, kept that way to make engine starting easy.
Hans and his men wound up the Mustang. Stan climbed into the cockpit and
got set. From where he sat he could see, through a plate he had removed
from the panel, the adjustment valve he had seated with waste. He could
reach it by bending over.
The Mustang's engine turned over and she sputtered once or twice but
refused to start. The wad of waste was no good. He had to seat the
valve. Looking out he shook his head to Hans. Then he noticed that
Domber was talking to an artillery captain over by the gate. He was
shaking his head and making violent gestures.
Stan watched him carefully. It might be that Domber was telling the gun
captain not to blast the P-51 if it made a run. In that case Domber had
plans even if Stan got the ship away. Domber came back to the P-51 and
Stan looked the other way as he bent forward and seated the valve.
The tough part was that if he hit the mixture just right in seating that
valve the engine would hit it off at once. Stan knew how those Allisons
worked. Given a hot room they might flip right over and go off with a
bang. He climbed out of the cockpit and made a few last checks on the
outside.
A water boy came up and the men crowded around for drinks. Stan watched
the water boy carefully. He was again thinking about the poison
business. The water was in a pail and the men were dipping it out in a
tin cup. That did not look dangerous and Stan was very thirsty. He
turned his back and climbed into the cockpit again. He was down inside,
working on a repaired cable. Close to his face was the hole where the
shell had ripped through and severed the cable.
Suddenly Stan heard someone whispering. It was the voice of Herr Domber.
"Get set, fool, and when the boy offers him a drink you are to shake
your head. In that way he will think he has escaped being poisoned. He
is just stalling now. I want this ship tuned up. If you fail, it is the
Russian front for you."
"Yes, sir. Heil Hitler," Swen's voice answered.
Stan grinned broadly. He finished with the cable. One thing was sure.
The poison story had been a gag to make him think he had outwitted
Domber. He climbed out of the cockpit and walked over to Hans.
"We'll hit her again," he said.
Turning back he noted that several of the mechanics had moved in close.
A quick glance showed bulges under their coveralls which looked a lot
like army pistols or automatics. The water boy moved toward Stan.
Looking past the boy Stan saw Swen. Swen began shaking his head as Stan
looked at the water pail. Stan pretended not to see him, though Swen was
squarely in front of him.
Reaching down he took the tin cup, filled it, and drank deeply. He had a
second drink, then tossed the cup to the boy. As he did so, he shot a
side glance at Herr Domber and almost burst out laughing. Domber's face
was red and his mouth was screwed into a snarl. Suddenly Stan felt sorry
for Swen. He nodded to Hans as he climbed up.
Looking down he saw the mechanics with their bulging coveralls crowding
in close. Several of them had ripped their suits open and had their
hands inside. Stan eased back against the shock pad. The left brake was
the one to kick down hard. He had shoved the chock out from under the
right wheel. He had a momentary feeling that the builders of the Mustang
should have extended the armor plate further forward. The men on the
ground would have a clean shot at him. They were well forward now and
watching him like cats at a rat hole.
Hans kicked the engine over to prime her. Stan got set and eased on the
switch. She turned over slowly, fired twice, idled, then fired again.
Sweat broke out over Stan's forehead. Below him the faces of Domber and
his men blurred. The engine kept on rumbling and sputtering. Stan
relaxed as he pretended to be working on the gas adjustment.
He gave the valve a turn and the Allison smoothed considerably. Leaving
it that way he looked down at Hans, a deep frown on his face. He shook
his head and motioned to the mechanic. Hans did not know what he
wanted, but he moved around to the side of the ship. Stan was sorry to
have to use Hans as a shield but he knew, now, that a quarter turn more
on the valve would set the Allison roaring. What he needed was a bit
more heat on his temperature gauge, and he wanted to keep Hans in line.
Bending over he bellowed at Hans, making his words jumble together. Hans
looked blank and shook his head. Stan scowled at him. Then he got a
bright idea. He looked over at Domber and beckoned to him. Domber came
over. He was shorter than Hans. Stan reached down and bellowed:
"Get up and I'll show you how to adjust this type of supercharger!"
He even gave Herr Domber a hand up on the step. Domber leaned into the
cockpit. Stan pointed to the valve. His fingers closed over it and began
to turn it. Then his right arm shot out. His fingers gripped Domber's
yellow tie. The Dutch Quisling's eyes bulged and he pulled back.
In that instant the Allison surged into full, smooth power. Stan kicked
down on one brake and snapped her around. Like a falcon launching out
from a limb, the Mustang shot toward the opening ahead. Stan held Domber
over the edge of the open hatch until the ship was out in the sunshine,
then he gave the little Quisling a shove.
Hoiking the tail of the Mustang, he hopped her suddenly. It was a trick
he had depended upon to save him from the guns. As she shot upward he
saw flame and fire rip the runway. The blast was so close to his belly
that it sheared away most of the landing gear. Stan banked and dropped
back down toward the roofs of the city. As he laid over he saw the
withering fire on the runway lift. Amid the ripped up slabs of cement he
saw a man lying sprawled on his face. He was half covered by a slab of
concrete.
"One for the Dutch patriots," Stan said grimly.
As he roared over the rooftops, Stan leaned back and laughed. He would
have to fly low because the high-level dual supercharger was not
working. All he had done was adjust the regular carburization system.
He had not taken chances on his work on the high-altitude machinery.
There were no Nazi planes in the air. There had been no alert. Stan was
sure there would be no attack until he reached Rotterdam. Using the
tactics of the Rhubarb Raiders he flew low over the tile roofs and the
windmills.
In a surprisingly short time, the Mustang broke out over Rotterdam and
Stan straightened his course. His compass was out, the gyro-horizon had
been removed and both clocks were stopped. The radio had been stripped
out of the ship along with every other instrument not absolutely
necessary to test flight. Domber had only wanted to learn about the
supercharger. His egotism in believing everyone else was dull-witted
compared to himself had saved Stan.
Over the estuary of the Rhine River Stan met his first flak. A startled
battery opened up as he flipped over so low down he could see the
buttons on the artillery men's uniforms. The firing was wild, but it
roused gunners out on the Hook of Holland. There the Jerries did some
closer shooting. But Stan was dusting the concrete emplacements and the
gunners did not get their hearts into the job. Stan flipped up over blue
water with a grin on his face.
Checking his gasoline supply, he judged he could get to the middle of
the channel. He had no parachute and no life belt or Mae West suit to
float him. The chill water of the channel would soon drag him down. He
had to locate a patrol boat or a British ship of some other class. And
he had to watch for Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf fighters.
High above him he spotted three fighter craft. He saw them wheel and
bank into the sun. They would be coming downstairs to have a look.
Possibly they had been warned by radio to look for him. A minute later
he spotted five more planes and these he was able to check. They were FW
190 fighters and they were coming up from the direction of Ostende on
the Belgium coast. Then he saw two Me 109 Stingers slipping in from the
other side. Stan kicked the Mustang wide open. No use trying to save gas
by holding cruising speed. He had to get away from that coast.
The Mustang knifed ahead and Stan bent forward as the air-speed
indicator rolled up to just under four hundred miles per hour. There was
no more boost and he longed for the dual supercharger. The FW's dropped
in behind, unable to head him off, but the Me's came on like falcons
trapping a homing pigeon. Stan felt a good deal like a pigeon. He was
unarmed and he was carrying a vital message that had to get through. He
dived down close to the water and roared ahead.
One Me dived in on him and zoomed over him. Stan felt lead spattering
all over his ship and saw cannon shells hit the sea close below his
wings. The second Me came in and Stan slipped a bit, kicking the top of
a wave with his port wing.
The Jerry was coming down at a terrific rate. He did not think any sane
flier would be zooming along on the crests of the waves. When Stan
dipped, the Jerry missed him and shot past. Stan pulled up sharply just
as a great cloud of water and smoke lifted above the sea. The Jerry had
hit nose-on. Stan saw the tail of his ship and one square-tipped wing
rise above the green water, then slip from sight.
In coming up Stan went over the third Me. It managed to flatten out but
went skidding along the tops of the waves for a half mile before it got
into the air again.
That gave Stan his chance to get away. He could outrun the Me's once he
got them down on his level, where they could not use their diving speed.
But the three fighter craft he had first spotted were coming down now.
They were dangerous ships. All three of them were FW 190's, and diving
on an enemy from above is a job the FW does best.
Stan settled down close to the channel again and kept racing on. The
FW's were sloping in at a screaming pace. Stan felt their first lead as
it hailed around him. He stayed in the fire a split second, then bounced
up and over. He saw the three FW's far below him. They were coming
around for another climb.
"Sorry, fellows, but I just can't wait," Stan muttered.
He nosed down again and used the slope to build up speed. Suddenly he
glanced at his gasoline indicator. It was getting wobbly. Stan went up
again to have a look around. Far ahead he spotted two black specks with
smoke pluming up over them. That meant larger ships than patrol boats.
They might be German light destroyers on patrol, but they were the only
craft in sight. He had to make a try for them.
Sloping off again, he roared away toward the ships. Slowly their hulls
became larger and Stan saw that they were destroyers, small, sleek, and
fast. They were plowing along at top speed, which was not a good sign.
German craft in those waters would be making knots because Allied planes
kept a sharp watch over the channel.
Stan went in at top speed. He was still a long way from the two ships
when his engine quit. It went out without any sputtering at all, and it
refused to rev up a single blast.
Flying so low, Stan knew he would not stay up over any great distance.
He felt the Mustang begin to settle. The ships were closer now, but he
still had not identified them. That no longer mattered. If they were
German he would just sink with the Mustang. Considerable haze and smoke
enveloped the ships. They were putting about and swinging away from him
so that the smoke kept them covered. Stan had a wild notion they thought
he was trying to torpedo them and were taking evasive measures.
"Germans," he said between his gritted teeth.
Then the Mustang shot through the smoke, grazed the prow of one of the
destroyers, and settled into the channel with a terrific splash. Stan
heard anti-aircraft guns blasting away and saw flame and smoke belching
from dozens of gun muzzles above him. "They aim to finish me off right,"
he thought wryly.
He promptly forgot his resolve to go down with the Mustang. Pawing the
hatch cover open he heaved himself out of the cockpit and tumbled into
the water. A big wave rolled over him and the suction from the sinking
Mustang dragged him down. Savagely he battled his way to the surface. He
was pawing and sputtering but able to swim strongly.
Looking up he saw that he was close beside the destroyer or her sister
ship, he did not know which. Something white came sailing down toward
him and he heard a voice shout to him:
"Blimey, old man! Grab the preserver!"
Then Stan saw that two other life preservers had been tossed to him. He
swam to the nearest one and grabbed it. He was shaking from the cold
water but he laughed. The destroyer was flying the ensign of His
Majesty's Royal Navy.
A few minutes later a boat picked him up and he was rowed to the
destroyer. Climbing aboard he was met by the commander. Stan saluted the
officer.
"Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, reporting, sir," he said.
The commander looked at Stan's clothes, then smiled. "Where were you
going with that Mustang, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"I was headed for home, sir. You mistook me for a Jerry and started
shooting."
"No, we knew what you were. We just bagged two Focke-Wulf fighters off
your tail. But you can report in detail after we get you into some dry
clothing."
Stan followed the commander to the officer's quarters. After climbing
into a navy blanket and swallowing hot tea, Stan told the commander his
story. He did not keep anything back. When he had finished, the
commander said:
"We could radio in a warning, but I think High Command might appreciate
it if we took no chances. We'll put in and rush you right to Eighth Air
Force headquarters. That way the Germans won't be able to learn
anything."
"The FW that got away will report I was blasted into the sea. Anyway, I
have a personal score to settle with a Nazi who is passing himself off
as a pal of mine."
"Better get in touch with the big boys first," the commander advised.
"I'll take care of both jobs," Stan promised.