“We pick them up up there?”
“I’m sending you up there to service them and get them ready. When you have them set up and ready to fly, I’ll send Allison and O’Malley up there to help you bring them back.”
Stan waited but the O.C. had nothing more to say, so he got to his feet.
“When do I leave?”
“As soon as you can get away.”
“Do I fly a Spitfire?”
The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. “You’re too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders.”
“I’ll be on my way in an hour,” Stan said as he snapped a salute.
As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.
“Whoa there, you’re in a big rush, aren’t you?” Garret asked with a grin.
“Sorry,” Stan grunted and was off.
As he strode across the field he got to wondering if Garret had been listening at the door. It didn’t seem possible. Eavesdropping in an officer of Garret’s standing would have laughed him out of the service if he had been caught. He dismissed it from his mind.
He told Allison and O’Malley about his plans and warned them not to mention his trip to anyone. Allison grinned lazily. O’Malley was excited.
“Sure, an’ the war’s about over,” he boasted. “With me coaxing one of them sweet colleens through the skies there won’t be a Jerry left in a week.”
“You lugs come a-rattling when I send in the call,” Stan said as he strode toward his quarters.
A half-hour later he was kicking his Spitfire into line. He was into the air swiftly and laid his course across the serene green countryside to pick up the shore of the North Sea at the nearest point.
At that height it was difficult to realize he was in the sky above a war-torn nation. There were no evidences of destruction below, and the blue sky was clear of enemy planes. The steady throbbing roar of the Spitfire’s motor was a pleasantly lulling sound, and he settled back comfortably with his mind at ease, checking over the structural details of the Hendee Hawks in his mind for use in putting the dismantled ships together as fast as possible when he landed at the naval base where they awaited him.
It was pleasant to be out of danger for this brief period. It gave him a chance to examine his thoughts, do a little readjusting of his personal concepts to the grim realities of war. He found he had been under such terrific tension every instant since reporting to the Red Flight that this was the first chance he had found to look back over what had happened and realize how supremely lucky he had been thus far to escape death.
Flying at 4,000 feet, he appeared to be merely creeping across the green blanket of England beneath him. Ahead, he could faintly see a silver line of mist marking the shore of the sea. Though the Spitfire was tunneling through the blue at 350 miles an hour, he suddenly found he was impatient for even more speed. Behind him men were even now fighting and dying. He wanted to get back into it, start doing his part again.
An alien sound obtruded suddenly into the throbbing of his Spitfire. He heard it almost without consciousness of what it portended, then was abruptly aware that a stream of bullets was ripping through his fuselage.
A Heinkel had slid up behind him from nowhere and its smoking guns were streaming hot, leaden death at him. For a moment he was too amazed to properly meet this unexpected danger. He had a curious feeling that it was after
Another burst of lead hosed from the Heinkel. Stan rolled the Spitfire to the left, then pulled it up tight and hard. The Heinkel shot under him, went into a loop, then faked a turnover. Stan smiled grimly.
“That won’t fool me, son,” he muttered. He leveled off fast and eased over into a three hundred yard safety zone. Setting the Spit on her ear, he faced the Heinkel, testing his Brownings as he slid into place.
The Jerry was a crack flier. The Heinkel came in with a roaring thrust, her Madsen slugs drilling away at the Spitfire. Stan heard the stingers zipping through his fuselage. A blue flame began playing up and down over a hole in his fuel tank.
“Well,” Stan muttered sourly. “I’ll have to put a stop to this, or else——”
He sent the Spitfire off to the right like a streak. The Heinkel zoomed past, building altitude for a death thrust. Stan cracked the throttle wide open and kicked in the emergency booster. The Merlin answered splendidly.
Glancing into his mirror he took in the setup, then faked a steep climb. Up he went, 500 feet, then sent the Spitfire into a screaming back-over roll, holding his ship upside down until he was behind the Heinkel and above it. Then he dropped the Spitfire as though she were crippled. This placed him under the Heinkel and he went up. The Jerry was now trying to make a run for it. Stan saw a spread of fuselage and a wing through his windscreen and he pressed the gun button. The Brownings spat fire and lead. The Jerry was trapped and knew it. He swayed and rocked and twisted in an attempt to get away. The bullets drilled out again, a four-second burst.
Fire and smoke rolled out of the port motor. The flames licked in around the stricken ship. A rancid whiff came to Stan and reminded him that his own fuel tank was on fire. It would be only a matter of seconds until he would be in a flaming coffin himself.
The Merlin was still hitting beautifully. Stan squirmed about and jerked loose a fire extinguisher. He turned the handle and pumped frantically. The liquid spray feathered out and blanketed the fire. Stan sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the plummeting Heinkel. The Jerry was trying to bail out, but he wasn’t making much headway. Stan nosed down and watched the struggle.
He was sorry for the pilot but it was not pity that made him circle lower and check the field toward which the Heinkel was spinning. Stan wanted to ask that Jerry a few questions, and the Jerry had to be rescued from his firetrap or he couldn’t do it.
The Heinkel turned over, flattened and eased up, then plunged into a tangle of bushes beside a road. Stan gauged the rolling field which spread beside the road. He could have set a Hurricane down on that field easily, but a Spitfire was different. Her landing gear was high and narrow. He side-slipped and leveled off, then skimmed over the grass and bumped down, jerking and swaying. The Spitfire rolled up to within a safe distance from the burning plane and Stan leaped out.
The Jerry had almost made it out of the plane. He was draped over the side with his parachute harness caught in the smashed hatch cover. Risking an explosion which would have finished them both, Stan jerked the pilot loose and dragged him a safe distance from his ship. They were less than fifty feet from the Heinkel, when her tank cut loose and billows of smoke and flame rolled up, licking at the grass and brush.
The Heinkel’s pilot sat on the grass. He watched his ship vanish and his face worked. If it had not been for the Royal Air Force pilot bending over him, he would at that moment be frying to a crisp. He shuddered and licked his lips.
Stan gave his attention to the fellow’s wounds. He was badly hit in the shoulder and bleeding freely. His face was white.
“Who tipped you off that I’d be flying solo along this route?” Stan demanded.
The Nazi lifted blue eyes to Stan and shook his head grimly.
“Better talk, son, you are bleeding plenty.”
“That would be revealing a military secret,” the Nazi said in clipped English.
“I suppose you think I followed regulations and war rules in ducking down into this pile of rocks to drag you out of your crate?” Stan’s eyes were cold and hard.
The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. “I am indebted to you,” he said slowly.
“If I don’t get you to a doctor, you’ll be as bad off as if you were still in that bonfire,” Stan snapped. “Talk and I’ll see what I can do. And hand me that Luger.” He reached down and jerked the officer’s gun from him. The Nazi had been too weak to make fast use of it.
“I suppose you are right.” The officer coughed again and his hand slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with blood.
“I might as well talk.” Fear was showing in his eyes.
“Good. Who tipped you off?”
“A man who has quite an inside position with you. His name is—” The Jerry paused and coughed.
“Yes?” Stan bent and steadied him. He was afraid the Nazi would pass out before he spoke again.
