O’Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after one look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.
“We’ll be collectin’ a bushel of medals in about a minute,” O’Malley said.
“We’ll probably lose a strip of hide for not bringing the Hawk home,” Stan replied grimly.
They entered the mess and found a large number of men about. The rousing welcome O’Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn’t like at all. The Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.
Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were looking at him and there was hostility in the glances they shot his way.
Tossing aside the paper, he got to his feet. There was one quick way to find out. He’d collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving everywhere but upon the Flight Lieutenant.
“Wing Commander Farrell wishes to speak to you, sir,” he reported.
“Thanks, I’ll be right over,” Stan answered.
Stan guessed what had happened. Garret had tracked him down. Possibly had seen him. Stan stepped over to O’Malley. The Irishman, his mouth full of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside the remainder of his pie.
“Sure, an’ you been seein’ a ghost.” Then his big mouth clamped shut tight. After a moment’s thought, he added, “If they try givin’ you a ride for the job I did, I’m in on it.”
“No, O’Malley.” Stan shoved out his hand. “But if I don’t see you again, here’s luck.”
O’Malley looked at the hand, shook his red thatch and glared at Stan. “By the bomb rack of a Stuka,” he snarled, “I’m standing by. Let’s go get the spalpeen that’s makin’ the stink!”
Stan grinned in spite of himself. At that moment O’Malley would have laid a bony fist on the jaw of an Air Marshal. He had never seen the Irishman so wrought-up; he was twice as mad as he ever got when he went into action.
“This is something only Stan Wilson can handle.” Then he added more softly, “It hasn’t anything to do with the little show we put on. And you can’t help me. Thanks, just the same.”
O’Malley stood glaring after him as he went out, then he faced the man in the mess and his eyes were snapping dangerously.
Stan went straight to headquarters and an orderly let him into the Wing Commander’s office without delay. The instant he stepped into the room Stan knew his whole world had blown up under him. Beside the O.C.’s desk sat Charles L. Milton and across from him was Garret, smiling triumphantly and smugly. He leaned forward as Stan hesitated at the door.
“Come in, Wilson,” Farrell said curtly.
“How are you, Stan?” Milton said. He was clearly upset over what he had been listening to before Stan arrived.
“I am fine, thanks.”
Garret said nothing. He just leaned back with a sneer on his lips.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?”
“Sit down, Wilson.” Farrell straightened some papers on his desk, cleared his throat, then looked at the young flier. “Lieutenant Garret has laid your former record before me and Mr. Milton has confirmed it.” The Wing Commander paused and his eyes followed the lines of the report. He looked up and his eyes bored into Stan. “You were charged with selling plans of the Hendee Hawk to Nazi agents.” Stan knew he was supposed to answer.
“I was tried and acquitted.”
“That is true, but no American firm would hire you and the Army refused to allow you to enlist. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Wing Commander cleared his throat. “Have you anything to say for yourself that would clear up this angle?”
“I was the victim of Nazi agents who stole the plans. That was proved at the trial. Later, they cleverly planted rumors and suspicions about me so that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. In plain American, I was framed.” Stan spoke slowly, putting all the conviction he could into his words. He didn’t expect the O.C. to believe him any more than the American firms or the army officers to whom he had applied for entry into the service.
“You have done a splendid job here, for which the British people and His Majesty’s Government thank you; but, in these times of great danger, we cannot take chances with anyone whose past record is in doubt. I am sorry, Wilson, but I have orders to release you and send you back to the United States.”
Stan sat looking at the Wing Commander. Suddenly anger boiled up inside him, a savage, cold anger.
“If you can show no more appreciation than this, I do not care to stay. My record with the Royal Air Force should be proof that the charges against me were phony.”
The O.C. reddened. He looked at Garret. Scowling blackly, he said, “I took that attitude, personally, but my superior officers have ordered your release.”
“Before you release him I suggest that you consider another angle,” Garret said. “I have just learned that, though he and an Irish recruit returned safely, the new plane did not return. The fighters of all groups have been questioned and they did not see the Hawk in action against the enemy at all. I think the plane was delivered to Nazi agents on the coast.” Garret’s voice was little better than a snarl when he finished.
Stan’s gaze locked with that of the lieutenant. “The Hendee Hawk will be delivered here at the field in a few days. Lieutenant O’Malley set her down on a carrier in the channel after she was put out of action.”
Garret laughed harshly. “That is a fine story, Wilson, but one that only a fool would believe.”
“It is an impossible story,” the O.C. agreed.
“He should be locked up,” Garret insisted.
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” a voice from the doorway said. The men turned and saw Allison standing just inside the room, supported by the strong arm of O’Malley.
“Sure, an’ did I hear someone say I didn’t set that Hawk down on a carrier?” O’Malley growled. His glare traveled from Farrell to Garrett and fastened there. Garret shrank back in his chair.
The pair moved into the room. Allison’s face was white and thin but his eyes were snapping. The Wing Commander frowned.
“This is an intrusion. Remember, gentlemen, you are junior officers.” Farrell fixed O’Malley with a cold glare as the Irishman pulled forward a chair for Allison.
“We felt it of great importance, sir,” Allison said as he sank into the chair. “I am sure you will agree when I explain.” He took a thick envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the O.C. “These papers will be of interest to you, sir, I am sure.”
The Wing Commander opened the envelope and spread a sheaf of papers on his desk. He bent over them, reading deliberately.
After laying aside the last report he looked up. His eyes were on Garret.
“It seems, Lieutenant, that you have made a jackass out of yourself and out of me. These reports are from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, and from the British Intelligence. Both departments give Lieutenant Wilson a clean slate. Both report he was, as he says, ‘framed.’” He turned to Stan.
“With these reports you could join the United States Army Air Corps any time you wished. After the treatment you have received here I feel it my duty to offer you a release so that you may do so.”
The sudden turn of affairs had Stan groggy; however, the realization that he was at last freed of the smear that had blackened his name started a surge of warmth and elation through him. He turned to Allison.
“You knew it all the time,” he accused.
Allison grinned. “Yes, that report came in with your credentials. I took it out of the file to have a bit of sport with you. It was dumb of me to forget to replace it. But you were so stubborn over the whole matter I didn’t feel you needed to know.”
Garret got to his feet. His face was white and his voice was not very steady. “I merely did my duty as I saw
