it, sir. I had no way of knowing what was in the report Allison has laid before you. I ask leave to retire.”
“Stay where you are. I want to talk to you,” the O.C. snapped.
Stan got to his feet. Milton was thumping him on the back and O’Malley was grinning like a wolf. Milton rumbled in his deep voice:
“I said it all smelled fishy to me.” He turned to the O.C. “Wilson is the best test pilot that ever stepped into a plane.”
“Allison’s comin’ back in a couple days an’ Red Flight goes out in Spitfires,” O’Malley broke in eagerly. “Sure, an’ there’s no war on over in America. ’Tis right here you’ll be staying or I’ll give you a fine dusting when we get outside.”
“I’m staying until the war is over. In a way I figure it’s our fight, too, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay in Red Flight.”
“Mind! I’ll recommend you for top honors.” The O.C. was beaming.
An orderly stepped into the room and laid a report on Farrell’s desk. He glanced at it, then picked it up. A minute later he pounded the desk with his fist and began to laugh.
“This report says His Majesty’s carrier,
“Until we can get three of those Hawks for you boys, you will fly Spitfires as Red Flight,” the O.C. said. “After that you will likely win the war without any help.”
“Sure, an’ we’ll do just that, sor, as a special favor to you,” O’Malley answered.
The O.C. looked at him and frowned. He wasn’t sure whether O’Malley was spoofing or meant it. Allison and Stan were sure O’Malley was in dead earnest.
“Thank you, sir,” Stan said. “We’ll run along now.”
When they were outside the office, Allison said in his slow drawl:
“That ought to be the last of Garret.”
“Sure, an’ he’ll be brewin’ trouble if he stays around, you can bank on that,” O’Malley said.
Stan had the same feeling. There was something about Garret he could not understand. He had a feeling there was more than just a grudge against him in Garret’s acts. The lieutenant had certain connections that seemed to reach very high up into official circles. Stan planned to do some quiet checking, now that he didn’t have to be so careful.
During the next three days Stan poked about asking a lot of questions. He was very careful not to arouse suspicion. He learned very little. Garret came in as a ferry pilot and later was given a chance in the air. He was a Canadian who had lived most of his life in the United States. Why he was not released from the Air Arm after Allison reported his action in deserting Red Flight was not clear. And no one seemed to know how he had managed to get himself placed in a responsible position close to the O.C.
One thing looked good to Stan. Garret had left the squadron and no one knew where he had been sent. He was out of the way, yet Stan had a feeling he had not seen the last of him.
The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a night defense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and Red Flight was included. O’Malley was so excited over the order that he walked away from a half pie, forgetting it entirely.
“Sure, an’ this is me dish,” he crowed.
“Swatting Stukas in the dark?” Allison asked grimly. “Dodging balloon cables and ducking through Ack-Ack muck?”
“This Moon Flight is the toughest job in the service,” Stan admitted. “But we should be swelled up. Look at the list of boys posted.”
“Oh, yes,” Allison admitted. “All aces.” He laughed shortly.
“You’ve recovered all right,” Stan said with a grin.
There was reason enough for setting aside twelve of the toughest, most reckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed and battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent their cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys with the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.
The first action came at eleven o’clock that evening. The call for the new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors, trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness after the skulking killers.
Allison stumbled out after O’Malley, and Stan came behind the Britisher. They got their flight orders, tested their throttles, then pinched wheel brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in threes. Red Flight was third out and O’Malley fumed into his flap mike over the delay.
The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. A mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide beam slapping down the runway.
“Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures,” ordered the Squadron Leader.
Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew that voice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!
Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was in a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight that called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he slid his hatch cover into place.
“East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east,” Garret’s voice gritted into Stan’s ears.
The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts. Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They rent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under the debris.
Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. “They’ve slipped in behind us. Come on, Red Flight!”
“Sure, an’ I’m way ahead of ye,” came the voice of O’Malley.
Moon Flight wheeled and went thundering back. They could not stop the raging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, but they could make sure that few of the raiders ever made a return trip.
In the dull glow from the fires below Stan saw O’Malley’s ship dive down, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that was flying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was over unprotected territory. O’Malley’s guns drilled fire and the Junkers’ right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killer nosed over and went down like a flaming torch.
Stan was into the battle before the wrecked Junkers had dropped 500 feet. He laid over and raked a big death ship with his Brownings. It folded and slid off, spewing its crew into the night.
Having made contact Moon Flight really went to work. Their first savage attack had broken up the spear- shaped Stuka formation. Now they gave their attention to individual combat. There was no need for commands from anyone. They swung about on invisible hairpins and screamed after the big fellows.
It didn’t take so very long. Stuka after Stuka went down. From the black pit above the Jerry fighters were diving down to see what had happened to their charges. The Messerschmitts twisted and ducked and dived, clearing their guns for action.
Down at the 4,000-foot level the Spitfires were knocking down the last of the raiders. This done, they nosed upward to meet the Messerschmitts as eagerly as they had attacked the killers. They were overeager to contact the fighters and one of them caught a crossfire as he roared in. His ship went slithering off to the west, spinning madly. The Spits darted through the flame filled sky. They flipped over and spun and dived, always seeking targets to make their guns flame.
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.”
