Rutherford G. Montgomery

“ A delightful sensation of helpless lethargy crept over him. This was the sort of thing he had read happened to people when death was very close and inevitable. It was Nature's kind way of drugging the perceptions against the impact of death.
He began to hear a buzzing in his ears, and he decided that was the beginning of the end. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered. Not even the war.
The buzzing grew louder and became a distinct annoyance. ”

“ The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night, their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-off signal.
"Check your temperatures," Allison droned into his flap mike.
Stan Wilson settled himself against his crash pad and got his chute squared under him. He had taken up his belt a notch beyond what he thought was possible. Tension gripped him. This was combat with a flaming trail ahead. He wasn't test diving and stunting now, he was hunting and would be hunted. And up there the night was as black as the inside of a cellar. ”

“ He waited for the burst from Allison's guns that would send the Nazi down, but it did not come and Allison thundered over the enemy ship, taking a ripping hail of lead as he went.
"His guns are out," Stan groaned as he sent his ship over in a roll and went down after the raider, who was banking to dive upon Allison's defenseless tail. Stan's lightning drop carried him down just in time to drive the Messerschmitt away from Allison. The crippled Spitfire ducked into a cloud. Allison's voice came to Stan, mocking but with his old drawl. ”

“ A row of Defiants had been rolled out. Men worked around them or scurried to and from the hangars. There was an uneasy feel about the scene. Stan scented action and a feeling of irritation filled him. Red Flight was on barge patrol when it should have been on combat. It was fools like Garret who messed up battle plans.
He was about to turn toward the mess division and had turned into the narrow alley leading to the building, when he halted and stepped back, close to the wall. Garret was coming out of the doorway of the mess and beside him walked a tall man. ”

“ He knew the unseen cables were swaying and reaching, eager to knife him or to snarl his plane. Losing a wing wouldn't be as bad as having the cable come down on you. If you tangle in a cable you can't bail out. Stan peered down at the muck of shellfire below. He knew he wouldn't be able to hit the notch without help from at least one of the veterans.
Then he saw a searchlight beam pick up a dark shape below. It was a bomber going down to unload. Stan nosed over and sent the Spitfire down in a screaming dive. The flaming field of muck leaped up to meet him and shells burst close. ”

“ The gunners on board the battleship were taking notice and frantically trying to swing guns to bear upon the plummeting Hawk. Stan caught his breath and held it. This was exhilarating, almost glorious. He didn't think about the danger [Pg 121] of meeting a bursting shell, all he thought about was the drop and the mighty surge of power. The plane swayed and shuddered as big shells burst close to her.
Then the field of blossoming shells was above them and the deck below was big. They could see men scrambling about, their faces white blobs as they looked upward. ”

“ Stan gathered him up and carried him toward a field ambulance which was roaring toward them with its siren screaming, while O'Malley trudged along behind muttering savagely to himself.
A white-coated ambulance surgeon leaped out to meet them as the ambulance slithered to a stop. Stan laid his burden down gently and stepped back out of the way, dragging O'Malley with him. The surgeon knelt beside the unconscious man and made a swift examination, then turned and snapped to a couple of internes hovering behind him:
"Get a stretcher down here. This man is badly wounded." ”

“ Stan muttered and grinned. The High Command was sending a great flight of bombers and fighters to blast [Pg 204] enemy positions and they called it Heather Raid.
"Heather Raid—Heather Raid—rendezvous—zero hour." That was the Squadron Leader. Stan watched and listened. Nothing more came in and Allison kept flying straight ahead.
They were drifting along above the clouds. There was a moon and plenty of stars. The pale light made the squadron look like a school of fishes swimming through a blue-black sea. The clouds would be fine for everyone but the Jerries. ”

“ A few minutes later Stan strolled into the mess with Allison. He felt tired and would have gone to his cubicle only he wanted to see what the boys did when they came in.
"Black coffee, that's the thing for balloon nerves," Allison said and looked sharply at Stan. "It's on me." He waved a hand to the mess corporal and called. "Two, black." Facing Stan, with a glint of humor in his eyes, he said. "Not bad, old man, but you're a Yank and you learned to fly in a fighter. ”

“ Stan sent his Spitfire into a screaming reversement, tipped out of it with his guns hammering as he laid his sights on a leering swastika. It was over quickly. The Messerschmitts had no stomach for such a deadly game. After a gesture at rescuing their bombers, they fled into the night.
"Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in."
Then O'Malley's brogue burred. "Begorra, 'tis a very fine avening."
Stan grinned. He was glad to hear the voice of the wild Irishman. After a battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bent forward.
"The same to you, Irisher." ”

“ Stan recognized him at once as Charles L. Milton. He didn't have to guess twice why Garret had him in hand and why he had taken him to the squadron mess. Garret wanted Milton to see Stan. Quickly moving around a corner, Stan headed for a hangar. He was sure they had not seen him.
As he strode swiftly along, Stan faced the ghost of his past. Milton was an American aircraft engineer. He had designed at least two of the newest models and knew everyone in the industry over in the United States. He knew Stan Wilson very well. ”

“ When you have them set up and ready to fly, I'll send Allison and O'Malley up there to help you bring them back."
Stan waited but the O.C. had nothing more to say, so he got to his feet.
"When do I leave?"
"As soon as you can get away."
"Do I fly a Spitfire?"
The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. "You're too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders."
"I'll be on my way in an hour," Stan said as he snapped a salute.
As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.
"Whoa there, you're in a big rush, aren't you?" Garret asked with a grin. ”

“ The next morning Allison came barging into the breakfast room glowering savagely. He dropped into a chair across from Stan and O'Malley and snapped his order at the corporal. O'Malley gave him a brief look, then returned to his job of spreading jam on a huge stack of hot cakes which were flanked by a double order of sausages. The lank Irisher was not in a talkative mood. Stan grinned at Allison.
"What's eating on you? Did some civilian steal your gal?"
Allison glared at him. "We have friends over here at Croydon. The way they run a war! You'd think somebody would wake up to a few things!" ”

“ Before Stan could do anything at all, he was up through the muck, and then through the clouds, into a real battle. The sky was full of twisting, diving planes, all spitting at each other in deadly fashion. He was so busy keeping Messerschmitts off his tail that he lost track of Allison and O'Malley. He noted that there were only a few Spitfires and Defiants near him, though the air was literally filled with Jerries. It dawned on him that they might wish to force down this [Pg 210] new plane so as to have a look at it. And he wasn't able to get a single swastika inside his sight circle. ”

“ Positions were taken and the Hawks slid up to be above the bombers, out of their way and into the path of diving Messerschmitts and Heinkels. But the lone fighter seemed to be the only enemy ship in the air.
As Stan watched the action he realized that bombing wasn't just releasing a stick or two of bombs. Its complications were apparent. Far below them the earth had suddenly begun to erupt fire and flame. They were clear of the clouds and their objective was below, a circle inside a ring of flaming guns all pointed at the bombers. And the Liberators were going down with feathered propellers. ”

“ He forced himself to relax, let the life jacket support him. It might be hours before rescue came. It looked hopeless, but a man never gave up hope while life remained in his body. If he could keep his head above water, keep from swallowing too much of the salt sea, he could last a few hours at least.
And he clung to the belief that Allison or O'Malley would return to look for him. ”

“ Out of this avenue the three Spitfires bored. When they were clear Allison's drawl came in clearly:
"Pick yourself a bandit." [Pg 11]
Two blades of silver light knifed upward. They swept back and forth, then stopped, remaining straight up. This was a signal Allison understood perfectly.
"Four bandits, quarter left," he snapped.
Before Stan could lay over, Allison's Spitfire was hurtling across his hatch cover, zooming up at the droning bombers. A second later he sighted a big Dornier just as she lurched upward in a frantic effort to avoid Allison's Brownings. ”

“ Stan nodded soberly. "The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast as [Pg 115] we can. And we'd better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call."
O'Malley yawned and nodded agreement. "Though it's not likely they'll be sending us up again soon," he muttered pessimistically. "Always coddlin' us, that's what they do."
A few minutes later they were waddling out on the field. The blast of steel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up on the cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures in coveralls swarmed over and around the planes. ”

“ Stan grunted, "You don't have to be polite to me."
"I don't intend to from now on, old man." Allison's eyes were twinkling.
"What's on your mind? Regulations and such rot, I suppose." Stan was still hot under the collar.
"We don't do it that way here," Allison said. "A rotter like Garret is always taken care of."
"You mean he's out?"
"No, I can't swing that, but we don't have to have him in Red Flight." He reached for the cup of tea the corporal had set in front of him. "You made an enemy who will go a long way to stymie you." ”

“ They walked back to O'Malley's room. Over a battered desk hung a piece of the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and on [Pg 114] the desk lay a heavy German pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.
Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, "If this war keeps up you'll be able to furnish a museum."
O'Malley shook his head disconsolately. "'Tis little enough," he complained. "This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Every time I down a plane it's me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leaves nothing behind for me to remember it by." ”

“ Stan shouted back.
"She isn't lost," O'Malley called back.
They were sliding down and away from the big fight. Even with a crippled motor the Hawk could show her tail to a Messerschmitt. They saw the Spitfires and the Hurricanes now, battling the Jerries up above, keeping them from opening a path for the Stukas. The cruisers and the destroyers were throwing shells into the sky recklessly and at the same time pounding to pieces two floundering Nazi battleships. ”

“ Allison was cutting away far to the left and the carefully planned blitz was already a fearful rout, with death as the lot of most of the killers. Scattered, they zoomed and dived, seeking only to escape. As they went twisting out of their formations, low over the city, the cables of death claimed many victims.
Then the Spitfires of Moon Flight came roaring in from a wild chase to the east and the rout was complete. ”

“ Stan's laugh rang out and he made for the briefing room. Sure enough, O'Malley was there and he was fuming.
"'Tis time I quit this job," he shouted at the briefing officer. "When a man can't stay an' settle an argument like a gentleman, 'tis time to quit."
The officer grinned at O'Malley. Stan slapped his pal on the back. "I'll buy you a pie, and darned if I don't eat one myself."
O'Malley considered this for a moment, then said: "If a man can't fight, then the next best thing is to consider a bit of food."
Arm in arm the three fliers of Red Flight walked into the mess. ”

“ Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. "Would you boys have some pie?"
"No, thanks," both spoke in unison.
The O.C. rang and an orderly appeared. He took the Commander's order and hurried away. When the door closed the O.C. turned to Allison.
"I always get the bad part of every deal. Before me I have an order transferring you three men to Croydon Field. As soon as I get a few satisfactory men around me they are taken away." He looked sourly at O'Malley as though blaming him. "Take this wild man, O'Malley. He has begun to attract notice." ”

“ He kept Garret from getting tossed out of the service and worked it so he was made a Squadron Leader. They planned to get a man like Garret into every squadron if they could."
"'Tis black, the likes of such a man is," O'Malley said with a scowl.
"Garret admitted bleeding Stan's gas tank and leading Moon Flight off the trail. I asked him how he found out Stan was a Yank and he said the information was sent him from the Nazi secret service." Allison leaned back and smiled. "I have an idea our Intelligence will do a lot more snooping from now on." ”

“ Stan reminded him.
The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan had known him. "Faith, an' I think of them poor devils sometimes," he muttered. "'Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fighting because they're told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one man orders them to. ”

“ Questions that Stan Wilson couldn't answer without having his new officer's commission stripped from him. He waited breathlessly to see if Tommy would notice the challenge in Allison's voice, but the tall youth merely 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 tenseness filled the air of the room.
"Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!" ”

“ The flight sergeants had cleared the ships and Allison had gotten his orders from the recording officer. In another minute the lead Spitfire had cramped about and was sliding toward the line. Stan swung into place and watched Garret get set. The new flier slid his plane up to the line with showy flash, gunning and idling the big motor in a way that made Stan's nerves rasp. To him a motor was a living thing and he hated to see one abused.
"Steady, Red Flight," Allison was snapping into his flap mike. "Check your temperatures." ”

“ With a last careful survey of the grass runway he was off. The Spitfire rocked and dipped her wings and swayed drunkenly, but she lifted and cleared the stone fence. Now that he was in the air Stan had to decide what he should do about Arch Garret. As he circled for altitude, he tried to figure it out.
He had a hunch Garret was just a cog in a bad machine. He was the logical man to shove into the middle of things and the British were eagerly picking up overseas pilots. The Royal Air Force was well filled with [Pg 165] Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, and others from the empire at large. ”