A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  SALT WATER SPRAY

  The Wing Commander seemed bent upon saving the Hendee Hawk for somespecial show. For two days no call came for Stan and O'Malley. Theylounged about, with O'Malley getting as restless as a panther and twiceas grouchy. They went over to see Allison and found him sitting up. Hewould be out in a very short time.

  Stan took the opportunity to give O'Malley a course of lessons dealingwith the fine points of the Hawk.

  "She carries two sticks of bombs when she's out hunting. That'ssomething new. They put those sticks on just to pep you up. The otherday, when we were zipping through Messerschmitt bullets, I gave them athought or two. If a cannon ball or a bullet lands just right, off goesthe stick of bombs and out you go." Stan grinned at O'Malley as hespoke.

  "Sure, an' O'Malley will fix that," the Irishman said. "We pick a nicespot and drop them firecrackers."

  "I'm glad you suggested it. It would have been against regulations forme to say anything about it."

  "Sure, we might find a Jerry to pop them down on, but no matter, theyare no fit things to be kapin' tucked under your wings whilst you're skyscrappin'." O'Malley shook his head.

  "We'll try them out. This is the best dive bomber that was ever built.You nose her straight down and pull the flaps. She settles herself to a350 mile per hour pace and when you get your sights set you cut loose.It's a dead cinch to pot a target that way."

  "Sure," O'Malley agreed. "Only we aren't bomber boys."

  They left O'Malley's room and went to the mess. Stan read the pictorialwhile O'Malley took a nap. The blaring of the intersquadron speakerroused them. The Irishman's feet hit the floor and he was awake at once.

  "That's us," he mumbled.

  "It's everybody else, but it's not us," Stan growled.

  It seemed the Group Captain and his men gathered around the map inheadquarters had forgotten all about the Hendee Hawk.

  "That's the trouble in being a one-ship flight," O'Malley muttered. "Ifwe had three Spitfires we'd be up there now."

  An orderly entered and ran across to Stan. "Wing Commander Farrell'sinstructions for Lieutenant Wilson," he said as he handed Stan thepaper.

  Stan unfolded the paper and, with O'Malley reading the order out loudover his shoulder, he scanned the paper. They were to join a flight ofHurricanes and Spitfires setting out to contact enemy planes over thechannel. Orders would be broadcast later, but the action was inconnection with a naval attack. Their radio call would be Red Flight.

  "Sure, an' we're still Red Flight," O'Malley said as he whirled and madeoff.

  They walked back to O'Malley's room. Over a battered desk hung a pieceof the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and on the desk lay a heavyGerman pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.

  Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, "Ifthis war keeps up you'll be able to furnish a museum."

  O'Malley shook his head disconsolately. "'Tis little enough," hecomplained. "This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Everytime I down a plane it's me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leavesnothing behind for me to remember it by."

  "The ones that smash up feel worse about it than you do," Stan remindedhim.

  The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan hadknown him. "Faith, an' I think of them poor devils sometimes," hemuttered. "'Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fightingbecause they're told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one manorders them to. 'Tis a bad state of affairs this world is in, so helpme."

  Stan nodded soberly. "The best we can do is to finish the whole show upas fast as we can. And we'd better be getting back to the mess to beready for a call."

  O'Malley yawned and nodded agreement. "Though it's not likely they'll besending 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 ofsteel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up onthe cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures incoveralls swarmed over and around the planes. Flight sergeants testedthrottle knobs and officers dashed about.

  "Looks like an extra big show," Stan said as they moved toward the newlydaubed hawk. She looked freakish in her many-colored coat of sky paint.Her motor was idling smoothly.

  "Sure, an' she's a dainty colleen," O'Malley purred as he waited for thesergeant to swing down.

  "Remember this ship has to come back, so don't go wild," Stan warned."And let me have her when we get ready to unload those sticks of T.N.T.If we crack her up and no record comes in, we won't get any more Hawks.The brass hats over here aren't sold on her yet."

  O'Malley was dreamily grinning at the big fighter and didn't seem tohear him.

  The Sergeant swung down and flipped a salute. "That motor is a bit ofall right, sir," he said.

  "She is that," Stan agreed.

  They climbed in and got set in their cramped quarters. Seated very closetogether, with Stan a bit lower than O'Malley, who was at the controls,they pulled up their belts. O'Malley jerked his hatch cover shut andStan closed his. The Irishman revved up, pinched one brake and gave thethrottle a kick. The Hawk spun around with a roar. Stan noted the lookof surprise on the Irishman's face. He hoped O'Malley didn't ground loopher before they got off.

  O'Malley didn't. He was a born flier and a lover of engines. Before theygot the starter's signal, he had the feel of the big Double-Wasp motor.He took her off with a rush and a zoom, falling easily into placebetween a flight of Spitfires and Hurricanes. Later a spread of Defiantsjoined them and still later they overtook a squadron of Hampdens movingsteadily out toward the channel. The bombers were loaded heavily andmaking no attempt to climb up.

  "Don't ye forget we're pickin' a target and unloading the bombs."O'Malley was speaking through the "intercom" telephone.

  "Wait until we spot a good target. I want to see what we can do with oursticks of bombs," Stan answered.

  O'Malley began to hum a snatch of an Irish melody. He wasn't in theleast disturbed. For that matter the whole flight was slipping along assmoothly as though on parade.

  Then everything changed in a flash. "Naval battle! Naval battle!"O'Malley was bellowing into his mike.

  The Hampdens were moving into formation for action against somethingbelow and the fighters were peeling off and going down to see themthrough. Up ahead shells were bursting in the sky and the thunder of bigguns rolled up to them.

  "Boom! Boom! Boom!"

  The big fellows weren't tossing their shells aloft. They were lobbingthem at targets below. Stan shouted to O'Malley:

  "Follow the Hampdens down so we can unload!"

  "Sure, an' the quicker the better," O'Malley bellowed back. He depressedthe nose of the Hawk and they went screaming down the chute. In a momentthey had a good look at the sea below.

  Four cruisers and a string of light destroyers were fighting a runningbattle with several pocket battleships and a fleet of coastal torpedoboats. An aircraft carrier wallowed alongside the formation of cruisers.

  The scene below was a wild mixture of foaming water, smoke and flamefrom belching guns, and the roll of thunder as the turret batteriesfired. The British Navy dogs were trying to get at the pocketbattleships. The carrier held her course well west of the line ofdestroyers. The cruisers were pouring broadsides across the lashedwater, and the destroyers, like bull pups, were pounding away, holdingstation splendidly, trying to reach the enemy. One got a hit squarely onits foredeck and rolled half around, wallowing in the trough. A sheetof flame spurted from a gun turret and rolled over the deck. For amoment the little ship staggered on, then exploded.

  "The poor fellers," grated O'Malley.

  Stan said nothing but he felt cold all over. He looked down at thecarrier and saw torpedo bombers sliding off her deck like littleswallows. O'Malley's voice chopped off his thoughts.

  "'Tis a pocket battle wagon we get, no less," he almost croon
ed.

  "Thick weather down there," Stan warned.

  The muck of anti-aircraft fire made the stratum above the sea look asthough it was on fire. The smoke was stabbed by blossoming shellshurling ragged pieces of iron in every direction. There was a swarm ofMesserschmitts and Stukas and Heinkels all messed up with a crisscrossof darting, thrusting Hurricanes, Spitfires and Defiants. The Hampdenswere not having any better luck in getting through to their objectivesthan were the Stukas.

  "We better set the firecrackers off or we'll miss one foin scrap,"O'Malley called.

  He nosed the Hawk down and sent her into a screaming dive. The littleboats that Stan knew were pocket battleships began to grow in size, andthe muck swarmed up closer to them with Hades breaking loose aroundtheir ears. None of the Messerschmitts tried to stop them. The Jerriesthought the odd plane was just another crazy fighter who didn't knowwhere he was going. The cockpit shuddered and the instruments on theboard seemed to dance.

  "Set your wing flaps!" Stan screamed. "Set your flaps!"

  The Hawk began to steady as O'Malley remembered the flaps and appliedthem. Holding a plumb line at 350 miles per hour, she dropped upon thebattle wagon below. Stan could see the deck of the ship coming up towardthem as though a mighty hand were lifting it.

  The wind screamed above the din of exploding shells. The gunners onboard the battleship were taking notice and frantically trying to swingguns to bear upon the plummeting Hawk. Stan caught his breath and heldit. This was exhilarating, almost glorious. He didn't think about thedanger of meeting a bursting shell, all he thought about was the dropand the mighty surge of power. The plane swayed and shuddered as bigshells burst close to her.

  Then the field of blossoming shells was above them and the deck belowwas big. They could see men scrambling about, their faces white blobs asthey looked upward.

  "Left a point," Stan shouted as he set the bomb sight. "Now right a bit... left more."

  "Ready!" O'Malley bellowed.

  "Ready! Hold her steady!"

  O'Malley released the bomb selection levers, both of them.

  All Stan had to do was to press the button and the sticks of bombs wereoff. He pressed it hard and almost instantly the ship zoomed upward asthough tossed into the sky by a mortar. As they wound upward with theWasp engine roaring Stan looked back.

  Where the deck of the battleship had been there was now a great burst ofsmoke and flame.

  "That card will make 'em watch their course, me bye!" O'Malley crowed.

  Stan could not tell whether they had put the pocket battleship out ornot. She shifted her course and moved more slowly, but she kept going.Now the Messerschmitts decided the crazy ship was a bomber and not afighter. They swarmed upon her, which was exactly what the wild Irishmanwanted.

  Stan went to work with his guns, but he kept track of the doings of hiscrazy pilot. O'Malley seemed to have gone stark mad. He plunged up intothe path of the oncoming fighters and his banks of Brownings opened up.Lead spattered all over the Hawk and a lot of it came through. But twoMesserschmitt One-Tens went down before the flock discovered that thisnew ship had more wicked fire power than a Spitfire. They zoomed anddived and circled like angry hornets.

  "They need a bit of educatin'," O'Malley shouted. "An if they'll beswarmin' around I'll give it to them."

  Stan didn't answer because at that moment his hatch cover splinteredinto a million tiny cracks and a maze of ragged holes, the line ofbullets moving across not six inches above his head.

  O'Malley decided the only thing was to select a Messerschmitt and runhim down. He picked one and roared after it. The ME, confident that hehad superior speed, darted away. But he soon discovered this strangeship had plenty more engine than his One-Ten. He banked and shot down.O'Malley dived and was on his tail, slicing away great chunks of theJerry's ship.

  When they came up they were well inside the enemy lines and no Royal AirForce ships were in sight, though the air was full of assorted Jerries.

  "Get back on our side of the fence!" Stan shouted.

  "Sure, an' it's nicer over here," O'Malley called back.

  But a minute later he took Stan's advice. A Messerschmitt came up frombelow and a Heinkel dived from above with another ME closing in from therear. The three fighters raked the Hawk as they closed upon her. HerDouble-Wasp coughed and sputtered. She kept on running but her zip wasgone and oil and air came sucking back inside her. Stan knew it was thesea for him again.

  "Mind getting wet?" O'Malley called back cheerfully as he sent the Hawkdown and away from the enemy.

  "No, you wild man, but I do mind losing this ship," Stan shouted back.

  "She isn't lost," O'Malley called back.

  They were sliding down and away from the big fight. Even with a crippledmotor the Hawk could show her tail to a Messerschmitt. They saw theSpitfires and the Hurricanes now, battling the Jerries up above, keepingthem from opening a path for the Stukas. The cruisers and the destroyerswere throwing shells into the sky recklessly and at the same timepounding to pieces two floundering Nazi battleships.

  "Sure, an' it's a fine show," O'Malley crowed.

  He had hardly finished speaking, when the Wasp backfired savagely, shookherself, then died completely.

  "Now, you wild Irishman, slide her home if you can," Stan rasped.

  "An' what do ye suppose they have carriers for?" O'Malley called back.

  "This bus won't set down on a carrier!" Stan snapped.

  He looked down and saw the carrier, her deck looking about the size of abanana peeling. Stan figured the chances of landing on the carrier wereabout one thousand to one, but he realized that would seem likeattractive odds to O'Malley.

  The Irishman was circling down upon the carrier in a very businesslikemanner. So much so that the crew was running about like wild men. Thesuperstructure panel flashed signals neither Stan nor O'Malley couldunderstand. The little men on the deck fired warning rockets and acouple of flares, and then potted at the Hawk with a pom-pom whichsplattered the side of the ship.

  "A nice welcome to be givin' the King's two best recruits," O'Malleygrowled.

  As Stan looked down, the things that could happen to them ticked throughhis mind. They could run over the side and be chewed up by the screws,coming up in the wake of the carrier as foam and grease spots. Theycould top the bow and be smashed under by the monster plowing ahead atthirty knots. They could slap up against the superstructure island andburn there like a huge flare. Stan upped the chances. They were one ina million, not one in a thousand.

  He didn't kick or order O'Malley to bail out, which was the sane thingto do. He didn't even think about his own chute.

  The sailors were signaling again and there didn't seem to be any welcomeletters in the signals. But the deck was clear as O'Malley swung theHawk into line and set her for the crazy attempt. The panel flippedblack and white warnings frantically as they zipped in.

  "The wing flaps!" Stan shouted as the idea struck him.

  "Sure, an' I'm dumb," O'Malley came back.

  He set the flaps and they nosed over dangerously, but they slowed a lot.The carrier was rolling about, trying to take her proper position, whichshe had deserted when she started fooling with this strange Royal AirForce plane. She was now paying no attention to the Hawk at all.

  Shells from the pocket battleship sent up huge columns of wateralongside. Stan squinted through a bullet hole in his hatch cover. Theforward plane lift was down, leaving a neat but restricted patch ofdeck.

  Four long, pen-shaped bombs whistled down from the sky. The seaswallowed them and a second later belched an eruption of water.

  The Hawk was settling fast now and it seemed the carrier would get awayfrom her. O'Malley cut the incidence. The Hawk lifted a bit, lungedforward and slid over the edge. Then it squashed down, hit and plunged.Stan could see the flying bridge and many staring, white faces.

  O'Malley was showing a rare amount of knowledge of carrier landings. Hestalled the Hawk as the deck opened under her, then clamped
her downfuriously. There was a thud, dull but solid. The Hawk wrenched around,screamed complainingly, then set herself at landing position.

  Stan tossed his arm over his face and set himself for the crash thatwould tear him apart. The blow did not come. He slid his arm down, andall around the ship a ring of red-faced sailors peered at him, some ofthem grinning broadly. Then a cheer broke out.

  O'Malley was first out of the ship. He plumped down on the deck andfaced an officer who came charging from somewhere. He saluted solemnly.Standing there, with his flying suit hanging on his bony frame, his hawkface peering at the officer, he looked more like a scarecrow than one ofHis Majesty's crack pilots.

  "Where did this come from and what is it?" the officer demanded.

  "'Tis a dive bomber, the very colleen that smacked that pocketbattleship not so far back. An' 'tis a valuable specimen as must bedelivered to His Majesty's air forces," O'Malley said gravely.

  "Go up on the bridge and report at once," the officer said and his voicewas not so harsh. He had seen the Hawk make a direct hit on the deck ofthe Nazi battleship.

  They clumped up to the bridge, Stan edging in ahead of O'Malley. Thereought to be a bit of diplomacy used and he was afraid O'Malley might notuse the proper approach to the skipper. The flag officer, who hadpiloted them to the bridge, saluted smartly and retired. Stan faced agrizzled man of about sixty. Steel-blue eyes regarded him frostily. Thenthe commander smiled.

  "My compliments, gentlemen," he said. "A mighty fine effort though abit risky."

  "Thank you, sir," Stan answered. "This plane is a test job and we feltshe was so valuable she ought to be salvaged."

  "I see, so you set that superdemon down on my deck." He gave Stan asearching look. "Your navy training is good. How does it come that youare not with the sea forces?"

  "My friend, Lieutenant O'Malley, made the landing, sir," Stan said.

  O'Malley grinned broadly at the commander. "Sure, an' it was pure luck,the luck o' the Irish," he said.

  "You will be cared for and your specimen plane will be landed," thecommander promised. "In fact, I watched you dive bomb that battleshipand I believe the navy could use some of this type of ship. I will makea memorandum to that effect."

  As they walked down from the bridge, Stan looked at O'Malley. "I neverasked you where you learned to fly," he said. "Could it have been theRoyal Navy?"

  "It could have been," O'Malley answered and closed his big mouth tight.

  Stan didn't ask any more questions. They went below and had a goodmeal. Later they received word from the commander that the carrier washeaded across to the Norwegian coast, but they would be sent home bymotor launch. The Hendee Hawk would have to wait until the naval patrolswung around their course and slipped into Portsmouth, or some otherport.

  "How long will the swing take?" Stan asked.

  The young officer who had delivered the message shook his head. "Onenever knows."

  They had to be satisfied with that. No one could tell what the squadronwould run into, or when their course would be changed. Nor, of course,whether the carrier would ever see port again. In the meantime all theycould do was trust to luck that the Hawk would be delivered ashoresomehow. They were fortunate that they were being sent back by a motorlaunch and wouldn't have to accompany the squadron across to theNorwegian coast.