«Say,» Hubbard shouted back at Grigsby. «Who was that fellow up on the roof?»
«His name was Thompson,» Grigsby said. «One of the rearguard men at Dunkerque. Got cut off and was left behind. He’s been carrying on a little private war all of his own since then. Had a lot of help, too. Peasants would hide him, get gasoline for the motorcycle he stole, sneak him ammunition. He’s made life miserable for the Jerries.»
«He was the guy who busted up the Krauts that nabbed me,» Hubbard decided. «Good man.»
«I tipped him off,» said Grigsby. «He liked little jobs like that. I figured, too, you might manage to get away. I couldn’t take a chance myself.»
«Sure,» said Hubbard.
He watched the Defiant with narrowed eyes. It seemed that they were gaining.
«Maybe,» he shouted to Grigsby, «we should have done something for poor old Thompson. Tried to save the guy. Stayed and covered his retreat.»
«We couldn’t wait,» snapped Grigsby. «What we’re doing is more important than Thompson’s life. Thompson knew that. I explained it to him, although no explanation was necessary. Thompson figured he was living on borrowed time, anyway. Figured he really should have been killed at Dunkerque.
«He lived for just one thing—to kill Nazis. He didn’t want to live, himself. He saw too much at Dunkerque.»
Hubbard nodded. He’d talked with Dunkerque men, sensed the things they left unsaid, came to understand the strange lights in their eyes. They were a group set aside by bitterness and hatred.
Grigsby cleared his throat.
«Something I want to say to you, Hubbard.»
«Fire away.»
«Maybe both of us won’t get through. Maybe something will happen.»
«Maybe neither of us will get through,» growled Hubbard. «This is no picnic.»
«But if you do and I don’t—if anything happens, be sure to get the papers I have inside my blouse. If it comes to the worst, if we crash and I am trapped, don’t bother about me. Get the papers first. Then if you can pull me out, well and good. But if you can’t—»
«Okay, pal,» said Hubbard. «And if I can’t get the papers, what then?»
«Tell them a new invasion fleet is being built and massed along the Norwegian and Danish coasts. The papers show the exact locations.»
Hubbard grimaced wryly.
«Take it easy,» he said. «You’ll hand them in yourself.»
«I’d like to,» Grigsby chuckled. «I cooked for them and blacked Nazi boots and took Nazi insults. I scrubbed floors—» he made a disgusted sound in his throat.
The American bent forward to inspect the damage done by the bullet that had smashed the instrument board. By luck, the ignition and oil gauge were undamaged but the rest was blasted into confusion. The radio was dead.
There wasn’t even a hum as he tried it.
The Stuka, he knew, was gaining on the Defiant, but whether he could gain enough was something else again. He hunched forward in his seat as if he would force the plane to greater speed, then realized the futility of such a posture and settled back.
If only the radio weren’t broken, he could warn the R.A.F. and a swarm of fighters would scramble upstairs to intercept the Defiant. But that was a useless thought.
He kept close watch for Nazi formations which he expected to rise up to bar his path at any moment. If the radio back at the base they had fled was working, a warning would be flashed. But it was just possible Hubbard’s bullets had taken their toll of the Nazi radio hut and it was out of commission.
By the time they reached the channel, the Stuka had cut down the distance to the Defiant by a good half.
«Will we make it, Hubbard?» Grigsby shouted.
Although not too sure of it himself, Hubbard nodded grimly. «You’ve got to do it, fella,» he told himself.
He could envision what would happen if he didn’t. Once over London, the way was clear for the Nazi pilot bent on his suicidal mission. Once the Defiant got inside the sprawling metropolis, no power on earth could stop it.
Thinking of the consequences, Hubbard shut his eyes in agony. In his mind’s eye he could see the Defiant screaming down, a silvery blur in the foggy sunlight, straight at No.10 Downing Street.
Undoubtedly the Germans knew the right time to strike. Knew that the explosive-laden plane would plunge into the Prime Minister’s residence at a time when the man all Britain depended on was at home—perhaps having breakfast, perhaps conferring with some of the members of his war cabinet—
«British plane to the north,» Grigsby reported suddenly.
Hubbard nodded. That was something else to worry about, another grim reason to force more speed out of the Stuka. The R.A.F. wouldn’t know—couldn’t know—what was going on. They would merely see a Stuka chasing a Defiant and would act accordingly.
The British plane, a coastal patrol boat, did not try to give chase. But Hubbard was certain that even now its radio was carrying the news of his approach.
When they crossed the coastline, the Stuka was less than a quarter-mile behind the Defiant, closing in fast. Below them a few coastal anti-aircraft batteries let loose, but the shots were wide.
Far to the north black dots sprinkled the sky. R.A.F. fighters! A cloud of them!
Hubbard hauled back the stick and climbed.
The maneuver lost him distance, but in the face of the squadrons before him he had to have room in which to work.
The Spitfires climbed to intercept him, but he outdistanced them, left them far below, wheeling to come back at him.
«Keep an eye on the Defiant!» he yelled to Grigsby.
Far ahead, a smudge on the horizon, was London. Far below was the suicide plane.
«That’s her!» Grigsby shouted.
«Hang on!» yelled Hubbard. «Here we go!»
He shoved the Stuka’s nose down and again the bottom dropped out of everything.
The screech of air against the fuselage and wings rose to a thin scream that hurt the eardrums. The ground below was a blur of green and brown that seemed to hurl itself upward.
Vaguely Hubbard wondered how fast they were traveling, his mind reeling at the thought. Fleetingly, he wondered if he could pull out of that dive. Strangely enough, he didn’t particularly care. The world had become a whirl of speed and shadows, an unreal place in which he seemed to hang without any sense of suspension.
«Spitfires!» gasped Grigsby, just behind him.
Grigsby was right. From below three planes knifed up. Hubbard saw them, knew that he would crash into them if they continued their course.
But he gritted his teeth and clutched the stick, trying to fight back the darkness that rose up to blanket him.
Guns were yammering thinly and he sensed the thud of tracers smacking into the Stuka. Below him eight red mouths flickered as a Spitfire’s Brownings crackled into action.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bits of fabric being chewed from the wings by the Spitfire’s bullets. The Stuka shuddered and then the Spitfire wheeled and dropped away. But still the tracer raked them, punching holes.
The Defiant now was almost directly below, a long gun range away.
Blackness was surging over Hubbard, but he fought it off. Tightening his stomach muscles, he sucked in his breath, found himself counting.
«One, two, three, four— now!»
He depressed the firing button and kept it down. Tracers slapped into the Defiant. The next moment the world turned into a red maw that writhed and dripped with flame.
The Stuka trembled as if a giant hand had grasped and shaken it.
Staggering, it slipped into the dense cloud of smoke that marked the place where the Defiant had been.
Jarred to his teeth, stunned with the concussion of the explosion, unable to see, Hubbard hauled back the stick, felt the Stuka wobbling all over the sky.