crests of the waves. When Stan dipped, the Jerry missed him and shot past. Stan pulled up sharply just as a great cloud of water and smoke lifted above the sea. The Jerry had hit nose-on. Stan saw the tail of his ship and one square-tipped wing rise above the green water, then slip from sight.
In coming up Stan went over the third Me. It managed to flatten out but went skidding along the tops of the waves for a half mile before it got into the air again.
That gave Stan his chance to get away. He could outrun the Me’s once he got them down on his level, where they could not use their diving speed. But the three fighter craft he had first spotted were coming down now. They were dangerous ships. All three of them were FW 190’s, and diving on an enemy from above is a job the FW does best.
Stan settled down close to the channel again and kept racing on. The FW’s were sloping in at a screaming pace. Stan felt their first lead as it hailed around him. He stayed in the fire a split second, then bounced up and over. He saw the three FW’s far below him. They were coming around for another climb.
“Sorry, fellows, but I just can’t wait,” Stan muttered.
He nosed down again and used the slope to build up speed. Suddenly he glanced at his gasoline indicator. It was getting wobbly. Stan went up again to have a look around. Far ahead he spotted two black specks with smoke pluming up over them. That meant larger ships than patrol boats. They might be German light destroyers on patrol, but they were the only craft in sight. He had to make a try for them.
Sloping off again, he roared away toward the ships. Slowly their hulls became larger and Stan saw that they were destroyers, small, sleek, and fast. They were plowing along at top speed, which was not a good sign. German craft in those waters would be making knots because Allied planes kept a sharp watch over the channel.
Stan went in at top speed. He was still a long way from the two ships when his engine quit. It went out without any sputtering at all, and it refused to rev up a single blast.
Flying so low, Stan knew he would not stay up over any great distance. He felt the Mustang begin to settle. The ships were closer now, but he still had not identified them. That no longer mattered. If they were German he would just sink with the Mustang. Considerable haze and smoke enveloped the ships. They were putting about and swinging away from him so that the smoke kept them covered. Stan had a wild notion they thought he was trying to torpedo them and were taking evasive measures.
“Germans,” he said between his gritted teeth.
Then the Mustang shot through the smoke, grazed the prow of one of the destroyers, and settled into the channel with a terrific splash. Stan heard anti-aircraft guns blasting away and saw flame and smoke belching from dozens of gun muzzles above him. “They aim to finish me off right,” he thought wryly.
He promptly forgot his resolve to go down with the Mustang. Pawing the hatch cover open he heaved himself out of the cockpit and tumbled into the water. A big wave rolled over him and the suction from the sinking Mustang dragged him down. Savagely he battled his way to the surface. He was pawing and sputtering but able to swim strongly.
Looking up he saw that he was close beside the destroyer or her sister ship, he did not know which. Something white came sailing down toward him and he heard a voice shout to him:
“Blimey, old man! Grab the preserver!”
Then Stan saw that two other life preservers had been tossed to him. He swam to the nearest one and grabbed it. He was shaking from the cold water but he laughed. The destroyer was flying the ensign of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
A few minutes later a boat picked him up and he was rowed to the destroyer. Climbing aboard he was met by the commander. Stan saluted the officer.
“Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, reporting, sir,” he said.
The commander looked at Stan’s clothes, then smiled. “Where were you going with that Mustang, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“I was headed for home, sir. You mistook me for a Jerry and started shooting.”
“No, we knew what you were. We just bagged two Focke-Wulf fighters off your tail. But you can report in detail after we get you into some dry clothing.”
Stan followed the commander to the officer’s quarters. After climbing into a navy blanket and swallowing hot tea, Stan told the commander his story. He did not keep anything back. When he had finished, the commander said:
“We could radio in a warning, but I think High Command might appreciate it if we took no chances. We’ll put in and rush you right to Eighth Air Force headquarters. That way the Germans won’t be able to learn anything.”
“The FW that got away will report I was blasted into the sea. Anyway, I have a personal score to settle with a Nazi who is passing himself off as a pal of mine.”
“Better get in touch with the big boys first,” the commander advised.
“I’ll take care of both jobs,” Stan promised.
CHAPTER XIII
SPY HUNT
The commander of the destroyer placed Stan in the hands of a British Intelligence Officer. Having had some experience with British methods of sending all reports through regulation channels before acting upon them, Stan merely requested that he be rushed to his headquarters at once.
“Certainly, old fellow,” the officer said. “But that will be a bit awkward, you know. Everything is upset and everybody is very busy. There’s a big show in the making. I’ll do my best. Should be able to deliver you there by morning.”
“Don’t bother, if that is as fast as you can get me there,” Stan said. “I’ll find a way out to my outfit.”
“No trouble at all, glad to help you. I’ll get you a room and you can get a nice sleep. Bright and early I’ll be around with a car.” The officer made it clear he was in a big hurry to be off.
“Thanks a lot,” Stan said. “I’ll see you later.”
The officer stared at him as Stan turned and barged out of the little office where the Navy had left him. News of a big air push made it necessary for him to get into action at once. He had to report his information in time to halt the operations, or catch Egbert Minter before he reported to Berlin. Getting a report to his own flight commander seemed the quickest way.
Without his Yank officer’s uniform Stan was at a disadvantage. The destroyer commander had had his civilian suit cleaned and pressed for him and he was wearing it, having discarded the coveralls he had worn in the German shop. Standing on a street corner in the coast village, Stan realized that he was dressed as a German civilian. Getting a ride would not be so easy. Then he began to understand why the Intelligence Officer had wanted to hold him overnight. Intelligence had not been so sure the destroyer commander knew all about Stan.
Grinning broadly he hurried down the street. A few people stared at him and one man pointed him out to another. A bobby turned and stood watching him. Stan halted abruptly. The policeman was walking toward him. Suddenly Stan realized that he did not have a scrap of evidence on him to prove he was a Yank officer. The Germans had taken all identification away from him.
A man came up the street and halted the bobby. He showed the policeman something. The bobby looked at Stan, then turned back to his beat. The man sauntered on a few steps and paused to look into a shop window. At once Stan knew he was being trailed by British Intelligence. He had a hunch he would be picked up soon.
Entering a shop he smiled at a girl leaning on a counter. “May I use your telephone?” he asked.
“Over there.” The girl pointed to a small booth.
Stan went into the little room. He got a connection and asked for Eighth Air Force headquarters after convincing the operator that he was a stranded flier. A voice at the other end of the line said in a very irritated manner:
“We are accepting nothing but accredited calls until tomorrow.”
“This is vitally important. I must speak to General Gilmer. This is Lieutenant Stan Wilson speaking. I’ve just escaped from Germany. A British destroyer put me ashore.”
