For five minutes the sky was a battlefield, then the Thunderbolts up above had to leave. They broke off and headed for home. Behind them they left the wreckage of eleven Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs.
With the bombers, O’Malley was putting on a show which reminded Stan of the old days. He was stunting so wildly and slamming lead so fast the Jerries began giving him a wide berth. Stan began to realize that their mission was not to be any picnic. One Thunderbolt went down, slashed open by a cannon shell. No chute blossomed out beneath it as it twisted and rolled toward earth.
There were too many Me’s and Focke-Wulf fighters. They were everywhere, stabbing and diving, slashing at the bombers and ganging up on the fighters. Stan realized that his flight should have had at least thirty planes in it, and he began to suspect someone back at headquarters had marked this down as an experiment, figuring upon losing only six planes.
Another Thunderbolt went down and then another. O’Malley was still taking care of himself and Stan was doing all right, but his gasoline gauge was leering at him and its needle was rolling steadily around. When the fourth Thunderbolt broke into flames, Stan knew it was time to go home. He probably would not make it, but there was a chance.
“O’Malley! Stan calling. Head for home!”
Looking through the smoke and the bursts of flak, Stan saw nothing of O’Malley. The Irishman had been in the midst of a fight a few minutes before, but now he was nowhere to be seen. He checked the bomber flight. It was going in for its bombing run and the batteries on the ground knew just where the automatic pilots would take over for the run. They were putting up a box barrage at that point.
The Forts and the Libs rode into that blazing inferno of fire without wavering or shifting formation. Stan saw bombs dropping, sticks of big fellows. A Fort directly below him was plowing ahead when a puff of smoke enveloped its tail. The smoke swirled away and there was the Fort without any tail at all, only gaping holes where the rudder and the high tail had been. The Fort sagged over and went into a terrible dive. One after another chutes blossomed out until Stan had counted six. That was the number alive in the Fort, the others were dead.
Stan laid over and made a sweep, ducking in and out of the flak. The Jerries had pulled away and gone back to their fields for more ammunition and more gasoline for the interception of the Forts and Libs on their return trip.
Looking about, Stan saw nothing of O’Malley’s ship. He headed for home with a grim frown on his face. Everything went well until he reached the channel. He met no German fighters and had a fair tail wind. But his gasoline supply was very low. The needle kept bouncing off the empty peg, riding clear, then dropping back. The English coast was a long way off.
Stan was flying at twelve thousand feet and that gave him a chance to drift a long way, but not far enough if his gas ran out. Steadily he drove toward the friendly shore. Below him the channel looked cold and choppy.
Thinking of O’Malley added to his gloom. When you work with a man in the air, you expect the day when he does not return with you. But when the time comes it is a stabbing shock. Stan and O’Malley had seen so much action and had tackled so many tough jobs, they had come to feel they always would pull through.
Glancing at the gas gauge Stan saw that it registered empty, and the needle was not showing any signs of movement. He glanced down at the gray expanse below him and frowned. His ears strained for the first break in the steady throbbing of the Pratt and Whitney radial.
The engine kept hammering away for a long time. Stan checked his Mae West suit and made other small preparations for a bath in the channel. Then the engine sputtered, smoothed out, then sputtered again. With a wheezing blast it went dead.
Stan eased the nose down to hold his speed and began sagging down a long slope toward the channel. He scanned the choppy sea for signs of a British patrol boat. Several of the fast rescue boats should be patrolling the flight line, ready to fish Yank pilots and crewmen out of the water. He saw no sign of a boat.
Slowly the Thunderbolt settled down. Floating a fourteen-thousand-pound fighter in over a long distance is not like slipping along in a glider. If there were any up-drafts, the Thunderbolt paid no attention to them. She sliced on through and Stan had to nose her down to keep her from falling like a rock.
The sea came up to meet him and he began judging the spot where he would take his bath in the icy water. Suddenly he heard the roar of plane motors and looked up and back. A Fort was nosing down toward him. Stan squinted to see if he could catch the markings. He could not make them out, but he knew the ship was a bomber returning from Huls.
There was no time for further looking. The Thunderbolt hit and hit hard, as though she had slammed into a stone wall. She slewed around, jerked and bobbed, slamming Stan back against his shock pad. He palmed the hatch cover open and kicked loose from his belt and chute harness. In a moment he was leaping into the water and the Thunderbolt was swirling down into the sea. She lifted one wing as she slid from sight, as though saluting him.
“Tough luck, old girl,” Stan said. He got a mouthful of salt water and began sputtering.
The Fort was low over the sea now and Stan saw that it was shot up a bit. Then he saw the name painted on its fuselage. It was The Monkey’s Paw, the Fort Allison had taken over for the raid. He waved, and the Fort dipped her wings. She went roaring on toward the thin black line which was the coast.
That meant rescue unless the high waves battered him and pulled him under before a boat located him. He was struggling to stay afloat on the rough sea when a Spitfire began circling overhead. The Spit dropped down lower and lower. It wove back and forth and finally it dived toward him. Stan waved some more.
The Spit stayed with Stan until an orange-snouted speedboat appeared over the foam-rimmed horizon. The boat came roaring toward him, guided by the Spit. Stan grinned eagerly. Nice teamwork. Allison had radioed, the Spitfire pilot had picked up the message, and he had been rescued.
The speedboat pulled alongside and strong hands caught hold of Stan.
“Up you come, me hearty,” a seaman shouted.
Stan was so chilled he had to hang on to the arm of the sailor to keep his knees from buckling.
“A bit chilly, eh?” a young officer asked. “Come along. We’ll wrap you in a newfangled blanket your Uncle Sam just furnished us.”
“It wasn’t exactly a Turkish bath,” Stan admitted.
“I’ll radio in for an ambulance,” the officer said as he helped Stan wiggle out of his soggy clothes and into the electrically heated blanket.
“No ambulance,” Stan said. “I’ll catch a ride over to my base with someone.”
“The ambulance is the fastest way,” the officer said.
“They’d take me to a hospital, and that’s the last place I want to see. Just dry my outfit if you can.”
“Glad to, old fellow, and we’ll have a spot of hot tea ready for you in a jiffy.” The officer turned away.
Stan drank hot tea and toasted himself inside the blanket until they were near the port where they were to put in. By that time his clothing had been dried by one of the machinist mate’s men in the engine room.
Getting dressed Stan went on deck. They were edging in beside a pier. Stan was the first over the side. He shook hands with the British officer and waved to the crew, then he headed for a row of cars parked along the street near the wharf. Picking out a car with a uniformed girl at the wheel he walked over to it.
“Hi, Yank,” the girl greeted him. “You look a bit wrinkled.”
“I just had my daily bath in the channel.” Stan grinned at the girl. “My butler forgot to pack my bathing suit so I went in as is. How about a lift?”
“This is Sir Eaton Pelham’s car. I’m afraid it isn’t available.” She smiled sweetly when she said it.
Stan glanced at the other cars. There were no other drivers about. He looked back at the girl.
“Sir Eaton a kindhearted man?” he asked.
“Very,” she assured him. “He carries a pocketful of cracker crumbs for the pigeons.”
At that moment Sir Eaton Pelham appeared. He was a burly Englishman, wrapped snugly in the folds of a greatcoat. His ruddy face beamed and he nodded to Stan.
“Jolly nice weather for one day,” he said as he opened the door of the car.
“Very,” Stan answered. “How about a lift?”
Sir Eaton looked at Stan closely for the first time. “I say, a Yank flier. What could you be doing here?”
“I was just fished out of the channel by one of His Majesty’s patrol boats and want to get back to base.”
“Hop in, old man. Where is base?”
