“No,” Stan said slowly. “I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk.”
O’Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. “I’ll let you go along with me,” he said.
Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O’Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuff the next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O’Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler’s arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.
Allison came back and plumped into a chair. “I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house.”
O’Malley made no comeback. He was sound asleep, his Adam’s apple riding up and down gently, his lips moving as he snored deeply. Stan said in a low voice:
“He meant it when he offered to get a gun for the O.C.”
“Now, now, you Yanks are gullible, everyone knows that, old man, but you shouldn’t be taken in so easy.”
“You wait and see,” Stan said. “We’ll have to stick with him no matter what fool stunt he pulls.”
“Sure, old chap,” Allison agreed, but the sardonic twist of his mouth showed he thought Stan as crazy as O’Malley. He got to his feet. “Don’t let him miss dinner or we’ll have trouble. We aren’t on the call list until tomorrow morning. I have a bid to a bit of a dinner outside tonight.”
“Gal?” Stan asked.
“Gal,” Allison agreed.
“I’ll wake the Irisher up,” Stan promised.
The next morning Allison came barging into the breakfast room glowering savagely. He dropped into a chair across from Stan and O’Malley and snapped his order at the corporal. O’Malley gave him a brief look, then returned to his job of spreading jam on a huge stack of hot cakes which were flanked by a double order of sausages. The lank Irisher was not in a talkative mood. Stan grinned at Allison.
“What’s eating on you? Did some civilian steal your gal?”
Allison glared at him. “We have friends over here at Croydon. The way they run a war! You’d think somebody would wake up to a few things!”
“What sort of an assignment did we get?” Stan was sure Allison was riled over the assignment they had been given.
“Nursing a flock of coal barges through the channel. Just big, lumbering boats not worth as much as the coal inside them. The Jerries won’t waste a pound of T.N.T. on any of them. The only chance we’ll have will be if they try to dive bomb a destroyer tagging along.” Allison jerked a plate of bacon and eggs to him and shot a hard look at the corporal. “Black coffee,” he snapped.
“We rate better than that,” Stan said.
“My dear fellow,” Allison spoke with elaborate politeness. “We have a friend over in the flight office. He got himself transferred yesterday so as to be helpful to us.”
“He couldn’t be anyone I know,” Stan said.
“But of course he is. He is a dear friend of yours. In fact you offered to punch his nose for him once.”
“Not Garret?” Stan stared at Allison.
“Lieutenant Arch Garret.”
“How did he do it with a blackball against him?” Stan demanded.
“Pull, my dear fellow, as the Americans say. A drag somewhere. Now he’s sitting where he can retire Red Flight to a peaceful life, and if we do bag a bandit, we’ll have to have an affidavit from the King to get credit for it.”
“How about a transfer?”
“No go, he’d have a finger in that too. In fact, my dear fellow, I applied for a transfer and got turned down, all before breakfast.”
Stan looked across at O’Malley who was on his last hot cake. He was beaming pleasantly, his eyes looking out across the room. He had paid no attention at all to the bad news.
“You seem to like it, O’Malley,” Allison growled.
“Huh?” the Irisher said with a start. Then he grinned. “’Tis a poor spot in the channel that has no Messerschmitt One-Tens poking about in the clouds.”
“And we’ll sit around warming a chair waiting for a chance at a single or a double,” Allison snapped.
“Sure, an’ I can’t be worried this mornin’,” O’Malley said and got to his feet.
“What’s got into him?” Allison asked sourly.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Stan said with a wide grin.
Allison glared at him, and muttered, “You two make me tired.”
CHAPTER V
O’MALLEY BAGS A JERRY GUN
No call came for Red Flight until late afternoon. Other flights roared away to strafe the French coast, or to meet incoming bomber formations, or to do scout duty; but Allison and his crew just sat around and groused. O’Malley’s good humor finally broke down and he began prowling around hurling choice Irish words at the mess crew.
When the call did come, he was out of the room like a wild bushman. By the time Allison and Stan reached the cab rank, he was jerking his hatch cover into place and feeling out his Merlin.
“You’d think the boy was off to raid Berlin,” Allison said sourly. “All we have is a call from a few barges of coal.”
Red Flight roared out and up, heading toward the channel. Stan had checked his instruments carefully. Everything seemed to be in working order, though he could not be sure of his wing guns until he opened them up.
“Keep in close,” Allison’s voice droned.
They were up now and heading for the channel where a few big clouds hung over the sea. So far as Stan could see they were kings of the air and there might have been no war on at all. Not a wing was in sight except their own.
“Red Flight, level off.”
They leveled off and headed for a big cloud. That seemed the most likely hunting ground. The three Spitfires were not up high because the clouds were hanging over the sea. Below, Stan saw the cause of their call. Seven of the foulest old tubs he had ever laid an eye on were churning and wallowing in the choppy sea. Their propellers thrashed the water into tawny foam. Their plates were scarred and patched with daubs of vermillion. Red, rusty streams of water trickled down their sides. Seven piles of rust, grime and junk belching smoke like so many volcanoes. Coasters and not one of them over twelve hundred tons.
The boats rode high and Stan decided they were making the run from Portsmouth to London under ballast to pick up coal. Running what was supposed to be a death channel the old tubs would slide under the big coastal guns of the Germans. In a few days they would plough back loaded with coal. Their audacity made Stan grin. The British were certainly a stubborn race of people and when they had a sea course marked out they stayed with it. A sleek gray destroyer nosed the string of ancient boats along like a nervous hound herding a flock of fat pigs.
“Two bandits coming out of a cloud, quarter right,” Allison’s drawl announced.
Stan spotted the two Heinkel bombers as soon as Allison spoke. They were slim-bodied, snaky-looking killers with long wings and widespread tail structures. Their pilots hadn’t seen the three Spitfires as yet, being busy spotting the sleek destroyer.
When they did see the danger they zoomed up and laid over, plunging back into the cloud. Stan drove straight after them because he was in the best position. O’Malley swept around one side of the cloud and Allison went around the other.
Stan had a chance to test his guns as his upward zoom rode him up on a ghostly form ahead in the mist. The eight Brownings drilled furiously, in perfect timing. The Heinkel nosed down and vanished into the wall of fog. Stan went down to see if he had done any damage.