A Yankee Flier over Berlin (a yankee flier) Read online

  A Yankee Flier over Berlin

  ( A Yankee Flier )

  Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

  THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

  PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

  To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License (available with this file or online at http://gutenberg.net/license).

  A YANKEE FLIER OVER BERLIN

  by Al Avery

  Illustrated by Paul Laune

  For

  LARRY SOUTHWICKE

  BOOKS ARE WEAPONS IN THE WAR OF IDEAS

  A WARTIME BOOK

  THIS COMPLETE EDITION IS PRODUCED IN FULL COMPLIANCE WITH THE GOVERNMENT’S REGULATIONS FOR CONSERVING PAPER AND OTHER ESSENTIAL MATERIALS.

  CHAPTER I

  RUGGED GOING

  The Commanding Colonel stared at the big map with its red ribbons marking air trails to and from targets. He was spotting the exact point where his Third Fighter group would have to turn back and leave the big Fortresses and Liberators to go it alone into the concentrated defenses of Germany.

  Weather Officer Miller looked glumly at the map as Colonel Holt placed his finger on a spot.

  “6/10 cloud over station six.” Station six was a Luftwaffe fighter field.

  The colonel scowled and shook his head. “Are the big boys going out?”

  “Yes, sir. Conditions over target are very good.” Weather grinned when he said it.

  “We won’t get much of a whack at the Jerries,” the colonel said rather testily.

  “The Forts and Libs will make it through,” Weather said with a lot of cockiness. He was beginning to act like the rest of the gang around headquarters who believed that the Forts and the Libs could go it alone all the way and shoot down any number of fighters the Germans could send up. Colonel Holt was a strong supporter for fighter cover. He was battling for a flock of longer-range fighters that could accompany the big fellows all the way to Berlin. The way things were going he might not be escorting at all within a few weeks. His Third Fighter Command might be on scouting duty.

  “We’ll see what can be done about it,” he said as he turned away.

  The colonel walked out of the high-ceilinged room which was buried under thirty feet of steel reinforced concrete. He came up out of the building into a drab night. A raw wind stabbed at him, and sent light clouds scudding across the face of the moon. Overhead, a night fighter growled its way through the lonely sky. The country spread around the base was flat with only a few hills to break the sameness.

  Out on the dispersal area Colonel Holt could see guards watching the shadowy forms of the Thunderbolts. A jeep came chugging up a muddy street and turned off toward the mess barracks. At one-five in the morning the base looked peaceful enough. Sheltered by darkness, its mud ruts and half-finished buildings were softened by the gloom. Still scowling, the colonel strode away.

  Several hours later, in a tunnel-shaped hut with a corrugated iron roof and a cement floor, two fliers sat near a wood stove. Stan Wilson was poking wood into the stove.

  “I wonder if anyone ever kept one of these gadgets burning all night,” he said sourly.

  “Sure, an’ ’tis against the rules,” Lieutenant O’Malley said and grinned.

  “I’m beginning to think Allison showed good sense in running out on us and joining a bomber outfit,” Stan growled. “Here we are sitting up all night keeping this stove poked full of wood.”

  “That big bum,” O’Malley snorted. “Only today he said that he’s livin’ in a palace with a sure-enough butler to buttle.” O’Malley shook his head sadly. “The spalpeen says that butler can sure bake a foine pie.”

  “On top of that we get to fly Thunderbolts for the fun of it.” Stan jabbed a slab of wood into the stove and slammed the door.

  “We’ve jest been havin’ bad luck,” O’Malley said. “I can stand a Nissen hut jest to be flyin’ one o’ them babies. We’ll meet up with plenty o’ Jerries.” O’Malley grinned eagerly, his homely face lighting up. “Remember how we used to mix it with them Jerry bandits tryin’ to blitz London?”

  “That was a long time ago, as wars count time,” Stan answered. “We’ve been away a long time. The Jerries don’t get near London any more, and I heard a rumor that the Forts and Libs are able to shoot down ten fighters for every one the Thunderbolts get.”

  O’Malley snorted. “Bombers shoot down Me 109’s and FW 190’s! ’Tis jest propaganda put out by the brass hats to fool the Germans. I’ll have to see it done, me b’y.”

  “From what I hear we’ll probably have a reserved seat for the show. We sit up there and watch.” Stan smiled. “But we can always elbow in and fly a Fortress or a Liberator.”

  “Not me,” O’Malley declared. “I’m no good at flying a milk wagon. I’ll handle me own guns.”

  “Tomorrow will tell the tale. We’re to get our first whack at Jerry in this new job,” Stan said.

  “Sure, an’ I’d go to bed an’ forget it, but the minnit I get me eyes closed this stove goes out an’ I’m freezin’,” O’Malley growled. “I don’t think we’ll be goin’ any place. Them brass hats meet at Operation Headquarters an’ the generals call in Weather. Weather squints out through a porthole an’ says, ‘6/10 cloud over target.’ Then the generals up an’ go back to bed.”

  “We sure miss a lot of missions because of bad weather,” Stan admitted. “One of these days some fellow will invent a seeing eye sight that will look right through the clouds.”

  “You been readin’ the funny books too much lately,” O’Malley said.

  “Missed any of yours?” Stan laughed as he glanced toward a pile of comic books stacked beside O’Malley’s cot.

  “I think our dog robber’s been snitchin’ a few.” O’Malley yawned and stretched his arms over his head. They were long bony arms with huge hands attached to them.

  “Weren’t you in Berlin before the war?” Stan asked.

  “Sure,” O’Malley answered. “Bein’ a son of good auld Ireland, I was itchin’ to get into a fight an’ it looked like the Jerries were the only ones preparin’ to do anything.”

  “Why didn’t you stay over there?” Stan grinned broadly as he spoke. “I hear there are pretty girls in Berlin and that their mammas can bake swell pies.”

  O’Malley sighed deeply at the mention of pie. His big Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, then his wide mouth clamped shut.

  “Sure, an’ I don’t like bein’ pushed around, an’ I don’t like to see other folks kicked an’ slugged by a lot of spalpeens dressed up in brown shirts.”

  “You may get to wave to that girl when we fly over Berlin,” Stan said.

  “I could go straight to her house, only she lives a ways out of Berlin. We used to go ridin’ in the country on our bikes. Ivery lane we’d ride down some guy in a storm trooper uniform would stop us. I kept pawin’ out me Luftwaffe card all o’ the time.” O’Malley grinned.

  “So you got out and joined up with the British and then with us.” Stan poked another stick of wood into the stove.

  O’Malley yawned again and eyed his cot. “If you insist on keepin’ the fire goin’, I’ll catch me a couple o’ winks o�
�� sleep.”

  “I’ll keep the joint warm,” Stan agreed.

  O’Malley went over to his cot. He kicked off his shoes and crawled under the blankets fully dressed.

  The minutes dragged away and Stan nodded beside the stove. An hour passed and he roused himself to poke in more wood. He dozed off again and was roused by an orderly making the rounds calling the crews. The stove was cold and he fumbled with stiff fingers as he lighted it again. When it was cherry red in spots, O’Malley poked his tousled head out from under a blanket. Stan knew he had been lying there waiting for the stove to get hot.

  They dashed water over their faces and hurried out into the raw morning. Stan glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock. They walked to the briefing room where they joined a crowd of pilots who were seated on benches staring at a square of transparent talc pinned over a wall map. Red lines showed the route of the Forts and Libs. Soon a sleepy buzz of conversation filled the air. As the pilots talked, they watched the little group of officers gathered before the map.

  Suddenly the Old Man, Colonel Holt, turned and faced them. There was an immediate hush.

  “A lot of people think we just go along with the bombers to catch a bit of fresh air and to keep from going stale. This mission promised to be our chance to crack the enemy, but unfortunately, Weather reports clouds up to our return point.” The Old Man stared unwinkingly at his men. He read the disappointment in their faces. “We are hoping that for once Weather will be wrong.”

  This brought a few grins and a snort or two from the pilots. The Old Man went on talking.

  “You are to fly formation as planned. This will be strictly a team job. There will be no free-lance hunting. Understand?”

  Everyone looked glum. O’Malley scowled. It was not his nature to like strict rules. He had learned what he knew in the days of the Battle of Britain and later in the South Pacific and then over Africa and Italy. O’Malley always had been a rip-roaring fighter who accepted battle against any odds. If trouble did not come his way, he went looking for it.

  Stan wondered if that last warning was not aimed at O’Malley and himself. All of the other fliers were trained to this sort of fighting. Stan and O’Malley were the only old heads in the flight.

  O’Malley and Stan marched out with the others and climbed into heavy flying suits. The Thunderbolts were high fliers and worked best at twenty-three thousand feet or more. That meant heavy equipment with oxygen and all of the other trappings, including heated undergarments.

  The pilots waddled out to their planes and climbed up. Ground crews moved back. They had serviced and checked the fighters and now their Pratt and Whitney twin bank radial engines were turning over smoothly. Exhausts flared blue flames which sent wavering shadows across the wet cement of the apron. Flight Officer Mickle was running about like an old hen with a scattered brood of chicks.

  Stan glanced down the wet and gleaming runway. An Aldis lamp winked down toward the shadow bar. Stan eased himself back against the shock pad. He glanced at his temperature gauge and across his instrument board. The throb of his Pratt and Whitney engine hinted at power, though it was rolling over smoothly and effortlessly. Stan remembered other nights many months past when he had sat in a Hurricane waiting for the flash of the lamp and the order from the tower to go up through the blind alley between the barrage balloon cables to wage unequal war against invading Germans. Things had changed a lot since then. Now he was a part of the Eighth Air Force of the United States Army and was fighting for his own country as well as Britain.

  “Red Flight, check your temperatures.” That was the voice of Flight Leader Sim Jones.

  The boys checked in one at a time.

  “Up to fifteen thousand. Stay in close,” Sim ordered.

  Suddenly a motor burst into full-throated roar. A dark form hurtled down the runway and lifted like a flash. Another ship darted away, and then another. Stan slammed his hatch cover shut and opened up his throttle. He jammed down hard on one brake and the Thunderbolt swept around. She poised an instant, then knifed down the slippery runway. Stan hoiked her tail with a blast of prop pressure and hopped her off. He went roaring out over a mobile floodlight and up into the dark sky for the rendezvous with Red Flight.

  High above the channel, the ships of his flight tucked in and circled. Soon they picked up the flight of Liberators and Fortresses. At twenty-five thousand feet the big bombers left broad vapor trails behind them. Stan looked down upon the killers from his perch in the sky. Dawn was breaking and the scene was no longer drab.

  Red Flight was covering the flank of Second High Squadron. Stan could clearly see Third Low Squadron and First Lead Squadron. Each squadron was composed of a first flight of three bombers and a second flight of three bombers. Stan grinned. He knew exactly where his pal March Allison was flying. He was in left-hand slot, second flight, Second High Squadron, the hottest spot in a bomber formation.

  Stan eased over a bit and shook O’Malley off his wing. Sim was waggling his wings, ordering the boys to spread out and get set for interception. Red Flight spread out but stayed in position like a football team moving into formation for a screen pass. The bombers roared on toward Germany, keeping tight formation so as to be able to lay out a deadly cross fire from their fifty-caliber guns. Each Fort and each Lib was a bristling pillbox with nose guns, waist guns, belly guns, and ball turret guns. Stan wondered if he would not be flying one of the big fellows very soon.

  Everything went off smoothly and according to plan, except that for once Weather had missed a bet. As the flight neared the point over Germany where the Thunderbolts were to turn back, a cold wind washed the sky clear of clouds and a cold sun shone upon the raiders.

  “In the good auld summertime.” Stan heard O’Malley humming.

  “Shut up, O’Malley,” Sim grated.

  Suddenly flak began to blossom out from the countryside below. It blossomed in the sky over the bombers and in the middle of Red Flight. Thunderbolts ducked and dipped but went roaring on.

  Down below, the bomber boys were scanning the skies.

  In his Fort, Allison drawled over the intercom, “Pilot to navigator.”

  “Go ahead, pilot.”

  “Everybody set?”

  “Navigator to pilot, hot stuff coming up.”

  “Right waist gunner to pilot, sir. 190’s at eleven o’clock. They’re after the flight ahead.”

  “Rear gunner Roger, sir. Flock of Focke-Wulfs at six o’clock. Coming in on our tail.”

  “I say, old man, don’t get itchy fingers. No ammo to waste.” Allison’s voice was calm and unruffled.

  O’Malley’s voice broke in over Stan’s headset. “Hey, sure an’ we ought to go down an’ bust that up.”

  “Stay where you are, O’Malley,” Sim snapped. “We have plenty of Me’s coming in at twelve o’clock.”

  Stan had been so busy watching the bombers he had not checked his own part of the sky. A glance showed him Sim was correct. A flight of some twenty Me fighters were diving and circling above.

  “Keep them up there,” Sim ordered. “But stay in your slot. You happen to be outnumbered and you also happen to have the job of seeing that those Me’s stay up there away from the bombers.”

  Red Flight knifed along through the thin air, ready to smash any Me daring to go down the chute upon the bombers.

  “Come on down and fight, ye spalpeens!” O’Malley was yelling.

  Stan saw that the Forts and Libs were slamming lead at the Focke-Wulfs in a blaze that rivaled a Fourth of July celebration. He kept an eye on Allison’s Fort and saw an FW go down flaming after a thrust at the bomber. Stan chuckled softly.

  “Allison got one!” O’Malley yelled. “’Tis a sad day, this, for Mrs. O’Malley’s son.”

  Allison’s Fort got another FW and O’Malley’s flow of abuse against the Me’s increased. He was in a towering Irish rage. But it did no good. The Me’s hung on, waiting for the Thunderbolts to turn back. It was a case of who ran short of gas first.
Now “lace-panty” flak was blossoming all over the sky. It exploded in pretty pink bursts and that was why the boys gave it such a fancy name.

  “We have to go in,” Sim ordered grimly.

  “Go in!” O’Malley bellowed. “Why not give them birds a scare anyway?”

  “We’ll zoom up and scatter them,” Sim said. “But any man who stays to put on a show will have to walk back.”

  Stan eased over and kicked on a bit more power. The Germans had the attack route well charted. They knew just how far the Thunderbolts would be able to penetrate. With a burst of speed Stan went up and over. Every Thunderbolt did the same, but O’Malley beat them all to it. He roared over Stan’s head, almost ripping away his hatch cover.

  The Me’s ducked gracefully and scattered. They looped and dived for it. Stan saw at once the chase was hopeless. The Jerries meant to tease the Thunderbolts deeper into Germany so that they would be sure to run out of gas. It was infuriating, but there just was nothing that could be done about it. Stan watched O’Malley as he roared after a Jerry.

  “Come back, Irisher. They’re just tricking you out of gas,” he called.

  “The spalpeens!” O’Malley roared, but he zoomed up and over, then tailed in after Red Flight which was heading for home.

  Stan saw the Me’s dive down to overtake and attack the Forts and Libs. He had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He still was not convinced that the big fellows could take care of themselves. They had a hundred miles more to cover before reaching their targets, and then another hundred to return before fighters could meet them.

  Red Flight slid in on its home field, a sleek flight group in fine trim, except for one slight wound. Sim’s ship had picked up a small piece of flak, but it had done no damage. Sim had it in his hand when he climbed down and joined his men.

  “A foine battle!” O’Malley fumed.

  “I was hit,” Sim said, grinning.