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A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
THE HAWK DROPPED UPON THE BATTLE WAGON BELOW.
_A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F._
_Frontispiece (Page 120)_]
A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
BY
AL AVERY
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
PAUL LAUNE
GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GLORY TRAIL 1
II CLOUD TAG 19
III BILL O'MALLEY 35
IV NEW QUARTERS 60
V O'MALLEY BAGS A JERRY GUN 76
VI THE SEA DOGS GROWL 91
VII SALT WATER SPRAY 111
VIII STAN'S PAST RISES 131
IX SPECIAL MISSION 149
X GROUND SLEUTHING 173
XI PLENTY OF TROUBLE 193
XII LUFTWAFFE IN REVERSE 200
A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
CHAPTER I
GLORY TRAIL
Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilsonentered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living,gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had beenborn of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on,at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seeminglydirected at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There wasseldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh athimself.
Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing inthe Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows allof London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for thewhine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which hadbeen taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenantwasn't able to get chummy with his men before they left him.
Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, aplump youth who was unofficially known as "jelly bean"; McCumber, asilent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased towhistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat IrishKelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a reallead slinger.
A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffeebefore him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressingit seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clippedand the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan's gaze held a hint ofinsolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazyFlight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savagefighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward thetable.
Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped intoit.
"I'm March Allison," he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan withirritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan,but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.
"I'm Stan Wilson," he said, "the new member of Red Flight."
"Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?" Allison clipped the words off in amanner that was almost derisive.
"That's what my card shows," Stan said testily.
"You're a Yank," Allison snapped. Then he grinned and little wrinklescrinkled the corners of his eyes. "I can smell a Yank," he added.
"If you don't mind suppose we leave it as the card reads?" Stan saidcoldly.
"All right with me, old fellow," Allison answered. "Only I hope you're afaster flier than the planes the Yanks have sent us so far."
That nettled Stan. A picture leaped into his mind--the picture of a trimfighter plane with low wings, and two banks of Brownings on each sideof a 2,000-horse-power radial motor. Stan had nursed several of thosebabies into the blue. He didn't have to close his eyes to remember thetest flight card he had filled out.
"Climbed to 20,000 feet in six minutes. Performed two barrel rolls,three loops. Checked all controls in neutral. Fired all guns and checkedtemperatures of gun-warming units. Did a series of sharp dives withsteady pull-outs." As Stan's thoughts wandered back he grinned intoAllison's face. He had put a number of Spitfires through their paces andknew that they were mud hens compared to the new babies which would soonbe coming over from the United States.
"You'll soon get one with 2,000 horses up ahead and then you'll junkyour Spitfires and Hurricanes," he said.
Allison cocked an eye at him and grinned widely. "Do you suppose you andI will be hitting the glory trail then?"
"I figure I'll be around doing something," Stan answered and matched theLieutenant's grin.
A mess corporal was standing near by hopefully fussing with Stan's chitbook which had just been issued to him. Stan gave the corporal a nod.
"Black coffee," he ordered.
At that moment Tommy Lane strolled over and flopped into a chair. Hewinked at Stan as he elevated his lank legs to the top of the table,almost upsetting Allison's coffee.
"If the notch don't get you the Messerschmitts must," he hummed softly.He seemed to be trying to tease Allison. When the Flight Lieutenantfailed to show any interest, Tommy said, "Your treat, Allison. I'll haveblack coffee with a big jug of cream on the side."
Allison ordered Tommy's drink and watched the corporal mark it up in hischit book. He rolled an eye lazily toward the lanky youth.
"Stan Wilson from Canada," he drawled.
Stan grinned at Tommy Lane. His eyes bit into Allison. He did not likethe way Allison was acting about his past record. If he was to have hischance to get a whack at the Jerries in this war, it was important thathe be considered a subject of the British Empire, and he had come a lotof miles to get that chance.
All his plans would be ruined if the truth about him came out. Posing asa Canadian he had a good chance to get by, but there would beembarrassing questions about his past if his true nationality was foundout. Questions that Stan Wilson couldn't answer without having his newofficer's commission stripped from him. He waited breathlessly to see ifTommy would notice the challenge in Allison's voice, but the tall youthmerely grinned cheerfully and said:
"We get darn good men from Canada."
Suddenly the intersquadron speaker rasped and began snapping orders.Every man in the room stopped talking and listened. A sudden tensenessfilled the air of the room.
"Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!"
"Well, well. Out for a breath of night air," Allison drawled. No oneelse said anything and the men of Red Flight barged toward the door.
"Green Flight, stand by," rasped the speaker.
Stan moved out behind Tommy Lane with Allison striding ahead. In lessthan three minutes they were bundled in flying suits, with parachutesbatting their legs. Like waddling Arctic explorers they shoved out intothe damp blackness of the night.
On the cab rank three Spitfires were shuddering under slow throttle.Flight sergeants were clambering down after warming up the motors. Theragged flare of exhausts whirled grotesque shadows across the ground,and oil fumes mixed with raw gasoline sucked up into their faces.
Sidders, Recording Officer, waved a sheaf
of papers at Allison as hehalted before the Flight Lieutenant. Sidders looked like a big bear withhis greatcoat muffled around him. "Take the notch at 2,500. Landingsignal, K. Good luck."
Allison grinned as he saluted. "Landing signal, K," he repeatedmechanically.
A moment later Allison was jerking his hatch cover back and pinching onewheel brake. He rammed the throttle knob up and swung the Spitfirearound. It lurched away and his voice came through the earphones ofTommy Lane and Stan Wilson.
"Slide up, Lane, Wilson." His voice was cold and impatient.
The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night,their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-offsignal.
"Check your temperatures," Allison droned into his flap mike.
Stan Wilson settled himself against his crash pad and got his chutesquared under him. He had taken up his belt a notch beyond what hethought was possible. Tension gripped him. This was combat with aflaming trail ahead. He wasn't test diving and stunting now, he washunting and would be hunted. And up there the night was as black as theinside of a cellar.
They got the clearance signal and the tails of the Spitfires lifted witha blast of prop pressure. They slid down the runway, gathering terrificspeed. A few seconds later they were screaming over the blacked-outcity.
"Close, close, tight in," Allison's voice droned.
Stan saw below the gray rectangle that was Hyde Park Square. He watchedthe knifing flame that the searchlights stabbed into the black heavensas they probed and searched for the black bellies of the bombers. Thedull rapping of anti-aircraft shells beating against the heavy domeabove smashed back the roar of his motor. The ground boys would soonspread a muck of fire and bursting steel over London.
"Tight, tight, we're coming into the notch," Allison's voice warned.
Red Flight swept north now in a steep, battering turn. The notch wasdead ahead.
"Shove in, Tommy. Don't try slicing a cable," Allison snarled. "Come in!Come in! Here we go!"
The Spitfires slid closer together, bunched like darting swallows, theirflaming breath licking into the night. In a few seconds they would beout where they could spread and go into action. For the first time,since rubbing elbows with a Spitfire, Stan wondered how you bailed outof the roaring monster if it broke up going 350 miles per hour. He slidhis thumb across the black gun button as he set his windbreaker's edgeon a line with Allison's aileron slit.
Blood pounded in his ears and a chill eagerness laid hold upon him. Heleaned forward and would have shouted. Allison and Tommy and the wholeBritish Broadcasting System would likely get the benefit of it if he cutloose with a cowboy yell. He closed his mouth firmly and fixed his eyeson the aileron slit ahead. The 1,000-horsepower Merlin engine wasthrobbing, hurtling him up and into the night. He could feel theassuring Brownings in the wings, ready to spew a hail of lead at theenemy. He did not realize it but beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
He was glad he was coming out of the narrow channel of terror which wascharted anew each week. The notch was guarded by unseen, steel cables,slender knives of spun death, waiting to slice through the wing of aplane like a knife cutting through hot cheese. Or to come coiling downupon any ship that struck them squarely. The hydrogen bloated monstersthat held the cables aloft swayed and tugged, sometimes swinging thesteel lines far out into the notch.
Out of this avenue the three Spitfires bored. When they were clearAllison's drawl came in clearly:
"Pick yourself a bandit."
Two blades of silver light knifed upward. They swept back and forth,then stopped, remaining straight up. This was a signal Allisonunderstood perfectly.
"Four bandits, quarter left," he snapped.
Before Stan could lay over, Allison's Spitfire was hurtling across hishatch cover, zooming up at the droning bombers. A second later hesighted a big Dornier just as she lurched upward in a frantic effort toavoid Allison's Brownings.
A half-smile came to the lips of Stan Wilson. Everything they had saidabout March Allison was correct. He was a demon in the air. Stan shothis Spitfire up at the belly of the floundering Dornier. He had no timeto play spectator. Pressing the gun button he felt the kick of his eightBrownings as they drilled away. Pinkish flames spurted from themid-section of the bomber as it whirled about, sliding off on one wingwith flames, red now, belching out of it. It turned over and four mentumbled out. Stan watched long enough to see their chutes blossomagainst the red glow of gunfire from below. He was glad that the crewhad been able to bail out.
On his right Stan saw tracer bullets from Allison's guns. He made out adark hulk twisting and turning, then the hulk was lighted as the Nazicraft went down in flames. He couldn't spot Tommy as he zoomed upwardand in a split second he lost Allison. Circling, he throttled down andlet the Spitfire cruise. A chill feeling gripped the pit of his stomach.This was new stuff for him. He was out in the darkness roaring in asteep circle, looking for another bomber, but mostly waiting to hearAllison's voice. He knew the unseen cables were swaying and reaching,eager to knife him or to snarl his plane. Losing a wing wouldn't be asbad as having the cable come down on you. If you tangle in a cable youcan't bail out. Stan peered down at the muck of shellfire below. He knewhe wouldn't be able to hit the notch without help from at least one ofthe veterans.
Then he saw a searchlight beam pick up a dark shape below. It was abomber going down to unload. Stan nosed over and sent the Spitfire downin a screaming dive. The flaming field of muck leaped up to meet him andshells burst close. As Stan closed in on the dive bomber it suddenlyseemed to explode in his face.
Instantly Stan knew the cables had gotten the bandit. Frantically, hepulled the Spitfire up and sent her roaring toward the ceiling. Hesucked in his breath as he brushed past one of the bloated gas bags.That was a score for the Ack-Ack gunners and the ground boys. Then heheard Allison's voice, cool and cheerful.
"Come in close, Red Flight. Somebody got two bandits. Who got twobandits?"
Stan slid over and down, sure now of his position. Ahead, he spottedTommy and then Allison. They rocketed down through the notch, as sure ofthe narrow pathway as though the noonday sun was shining on the cables.Stan ducked in on Tommy's tail and went home with them.
"Why ask silly questions," Tommy was shouting to Allison. "Allison gotone, Wilson got one, the Ack-Ack boys got one. Tommy got nothing exceptAllison's Spitfire in his lap."
Allison's voice came back in a sarcastic drawl. "I just shut my eyes andcut loose. When I opened them, there was a bandit minus one wing. Howabout you, Wilson?"
Stan cuddled his flap mike and laughed. He was sure of himself now. Hehad hit the glory trail and could laugh at its terrors. "I just didpotshooting. Later I'll clip off tails and wings for you."
"Later?" There was that mocking note in Allison's voice.
The recall signal was calling them in. They swung over the blacked-outcity and headed for home. Ten minutes later they did a parachute walkinto the briefing room. Brooks, Squadron Leader, eyed them wearily. Heacted as though he hadn't had any sleep for a good many nights, whichwas about correct. The three pilots moved over to his high desk andreached for report forms.
"Everybody all right?" the Squadron Leader asked as he began filling outtheir time record.
"Fit as flying fish," Tommy answered, grinning broadly. "Me, I likeballoons." He winked at Stan.
"Shut up," Allison snapped.
"What did you spend on yours?" Brooks asked, looking at Allison.
"Six or eight seconds in one burst," Allison answered.
"Hundred rounds," the officer jotted down. Then he looked at Tommy.Tommy nodded toward Stan.
"Eight or ten, I guess. I used a pretty long burst," Stan admitted.
"One hundred thirty rounds, eight seconds," the officer jotted down.
A few minutes later Stan strolled into the mess with Allison. He felttired and would have gone to his cubicle only he wanted to see what theboys did when they came in.
"Black coffee, that
's the thing for balloon nerves," Allison said andlooked sharply at Stan. "It's on me." He waved a hand to the messcorporal and called. "Two, black." Facing Stan, with a glint of humor inhis eyes, he said. "Not bad, old man, but you're a Yank and you learnedto fly in a fighter. And I think you'd best break down and tell me aboutit."
"Sorry, but I can't think of a story you'd believe," Stan said andgrinned to hide his uneasiness. Allison was sharp as a tack. He had itin his head that Stan was a Yank, which would have been all right exceptthat no Yank needed to masquerade as a Canadian to get into the RoyalAir Force. Not a flier like Stan Wilson.
They sank into chairs and waited for the coffee. Tommy hadn't showed upand they had the mess to themselves. Allison leaned forward.
"I think the old man has something special up his sleeve," he said."When he acts tough and gets hard he's about to cook up a messy job.Want in on it if it comes?" He was grinning at Stan in his most derisivemanner. He might just as well have added, "Of course you won't want in."
"Check me in," Stan said stiffly.
"Fine." Allison leaned back and elevated his legs to the top of thetable. "Fine. I figure the old man is going to give us a one-wayticket."
"A what?" Stan asked. The way Allison spoke made a chill run up hisspine.
Allison turned his head and looked at Stan. "In the last war whenfighters were sent out as scouts they had to come back to report. Inthis man's war they radio back their reports. After that they play tagwith a swarm of Messerschmitt One-Tens."
"I see." Stan could well imagine what sort of tag three Spitfires wouldplay with a dozen or more ME's. It was just plain suicide stuff. "Everbeen on one?" he asked.
Allison grinned widely. "Once. A cloud, plus eight Brownings and a lotof fool's luck, brought me back with most of my ship. It beats hittingthe glory trail every night."
"Sounds interesting," Stan agreed as he pulled his steaming cup ofcoffee to him and began dropping sugar lumps into it. "I aim to get akick out of it."
Allison laughed. "Hanged if I don't believe you will. You'll go if I doany of the picking."
"And about this Yank business." Stan looked Allison squarely in the eye."It isn't international. It isn't a violation of any of the laws ofBritain or any country. It's a personal matter. If you keep on talkingabout it you'll lose a flier, that's certain."
"I see," Allison said, but he kept on grinning his superior grin. "Iknew it wasn't anything rotten. Sorry I was nosey. It won't come upbefore anyone, Yank." He lifted his cup. "Here's to the glory trail!"
Stan joined him. Tommy came in and sprawled out on a bench with hisfeet against the wall. He looked over at Allison and Stan.
"The O.C. says Green Flight is taking over for the rest of the night, soyou birds can go to bed."
"Where are you going?" Allison asked.
Tommy uncoiled himself and stood up. He began humming a snatch of song,stopped abruptly and answered Allison.
"Too quiet around here for me." Without any further explanation hestrolled out.
"That nut can't get action enough running the notch. He's on his wayover to a bombing squadron. He'll talk the O.C. into letting him go on abombing raid as a gunner." Allison got to his feet. "Me, I'm going tobed."
"Reckon I will, too," Stan answered.