ACTION
Stan and O’Malley found Allison in his comfortable quarters, an old English mansion set on a little hill. It stood in the middle of well-kept grounds. As they drove up in their borrowed jeep, O’Malley scowled at the house.
“A blinking castle,” he said in mock cockney British.
They parked the jeep and went inside. The boys were gathered around an open fire lounging in easy chairs. Allison moved out of a huddle and crossed the room.
“Welcome, you wallflowers,” he said with a big smile.
“Sure, an’ yer a disgrace to the both of us, lollin’ in the lap o’ luxury,” O’Malley answered with a big grin.
“How was it?” Stan asked.
“Very rugged,” Allison admitted. “Sit down while I order a pie for O’Malley.”
The boys seated themselves and Allison described the mission. He loaded his pipe and sat staring into the fire.
“Not much like pushing a Spitfire or a Thunderbolt. You just plow along through the muck and hope the boys will bat down all of the fighters coming at you from every angle.”
“How many did you get?” O’Malley asked.
“Six for sure,” Allison answered. “The real fun started when we headed for home. We had been plowing through flak as thick as a swarm of bees but we had been lucky. Two of our flight went down flaming and we saw the boys bail out. I thought we were slipping through pretty nicely when an Me winged us with an explosive cannon shell. After that we got hit plenty. We picked up a shell which went off inside our outboard engine. It started rolling smoke but no flames. Then a shell smashed the intercom system and communications went dead.” Allison bit down hard on his pipe.
“Must have been tough,” Stan said.
“We couldn’t hold our altitude. We lost about a thousand feet a minute and nothing the copilot and I could do would hold her up.”
“Sure, an’ you did a good job of it gettin’ in,” O’Malley praised.
“When I couldn’t talk to the crew I turned the controls over to the copilot and went aft. I got to the top turret man and told him to get the gunners together in the radio compartment. I figured we’d smack right down into the channel.” Allison fingered his pipe and stared into the fire.
“I went back to the copilot and we fought her head. She sagged in over the coast and came right on home, smoking like a torch. As we came in, we found we had a belly landing on our hands, so we skidded her in. Poor Old Sal is a mess right now.”
“Anybody hurt?” Stan asked.
“Bombardier got a piece of flak in his leg. The tail gunner had his greenhouse blown into his face and is in the hospital. I forgot to say we dumped our guns and everything else we could pry loose. I guess that saved us.” Allison leaned back. “When you fellows going to shift over? This is the real thing.”
“Sitting duck stuff,” O’Malley snorted. “You jest sit there an’ take it. You never fired a gun on the whole trip.”
“No,” Allison admitted. “But we bagged six Jerries and there was plenty of shooting. You should see my boys work those 50’s.”
“We aim to stir up a bit of excitement,” Stan said.
Allison frowned at him. “You birds better remember this is modern warfare, not the Battle of Britain or the Pacific. They’ll bounce you high and quick for breaking rules. This Eighth Air Force is big stuff now.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Stan answered. “But we plan to go through proper channels.”
“And it’s a deep secret,” O’Malley added.
O’Malley’s pie arrived and he dropped out of the talk for a time. Stan and Allison chatted about the changes and the amazing way the Eighth had grown up until it took a large section of British farmland to house it.
Stan and O’Malley left early and hurried back to their own mess. They wanted to corner Colonel Holt. They found him in the mess looking very dour and gloomy. He was alone. None of the other men seemed to care about trying to cheer him up. Stan and O’Malley barged over to his table.
“May we sit down, sir?” Stan asked.
“Sure.” Holt motioned to two chairs.
The boys sat down. Stan ordered coffee and O’Malley ordered pie.
“I need just a bite to get me in shape for supper,” he said when Stan glared at him as he gave his order.
“Lousy show today,” Holt grumbled. “I don’t mean the way you fellows flew it, but the way the Germans have everything figured out so neatly. We lost eleven bombers.”
“We might fool Jerry,” Stan suggested.
“How?”
“Suppose we just toted along some extra tanks of gas and cut them loose about the time the show should start. We know their tactics and pattern. We’d have a lot of fun.” Stan leaned forward.
“Can’t do that,” Holt said. “You fellows might have to get busy as soon as you hit the coast. Kicking off a tank can’t be done with an FW dropping out of a cloud on your tail.”
“Just half of us will go with extra loads. The others can cover for us. We’d sure surprise Jerry.” Stan spoke eagerly.
“Foine idea an’ one I’d have been proud to have thought up,” O’Malley broke in.
Colonel Holt began to smile. “I believe you have something there. The element of surprise and all that sort of thing. We’ll take a crack at it.”
“Elegant,” O’Malley said. “I’m speaking for extra gas.”
“You and O’Malley get extra tanks. You’re both old heads at lone wolf tactics. I’m beginning to think we have too much handling out of the control room.” He bent forward and his smile faded. “But, remember this, I’m under a general who’s a stickler for the book, so be careful.”
“We won’t let you down, sir,” Stan promised.
O’Malley just grinned wolfishly. “I got a date with that Jerry with the red beard.”
“You boys tend to the installing yourselves. Oversee it yourselves. I’ll put through an order clearing everything for you.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Stan said. “Now we’ll run along and get busy.”
“First you come with me and we’ll figure out how much tank capacity you’ll need and how many men will go along.” The colonel got to his feet.
“If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like to have you sponsor the idea. We intended to take it up with Lieutenant Sim Jones first. Wouldn’t want to be going over his head.” Stan spoke quickly.
Holt looked at him and nodded. “That’s fine of you boys. Mind if I claim the idea for the present?”
“Not in the least,” Stan answered.
“In that case you’ll hear from me later through regular channels. I see you men know your way around in this army.”
Stan and O’Malley saluted and moved off. O’Malley grinned. “Slick work, Stan,” he said. “Now we won’t get blamed for anything.”
“And we won’t get a medal, either,” Stan remarked as he matched O’Malley’s grin.
Returning to their Nissen hut the boys policed their living quarters and got things in order. The hut was such a primitive affair that little could be done to keep it in order. The round wood stove leaked ashes on the floor which was always tracked deep with mud. There was a little wash bowl and a table which O’Malley used to stack his laundry upon. The cots were GI with GI mattresses.
After they had cleaned up, the boys went over to the huge sheds where the mechanics worked over the planes. They learned from the chief mechanic that Colonel Holt’s order had come through.
“I have the boys on your ships,” the sergeant said. He did not seem to approve of the idea.
“I’ll be after lookin’ out fer me own ship,” O’Malley said and hurried away.
“You don’t seem to like the colonel’s idea,” Stan said.
“We’ve tried it before, sir,” the sergeant replied.
“What happened?”
“The boys got jumped out of cloud cover and were sitting ducks for the Jerries,” the sergeant said sourly. “Too much cloud cover and too many Jerries for that stuff.”
Stan grinned. “I’ll drop around and let you know how it works this time.”
Walking back to his ship he watched the boys working on her. He was soon satisfied that they knew just what should be done and made off. O’Malley did not show up at mess and Stan began to wonder where he had gone. He finally sauntered into the rest room where he found O’Malley shooting the breeze with a group of fliers.
“You missed a steak dinner,” Stan greeted him.
O’Malley grinned, “That’s what you think,” he said. “I had me a steak dinner with the corporal that fixed up me ship. You know that feller hadn’t had a steak for a month. He sure went for it.” O’Malley seated himself and elevated his feet to the top of the radio. In this position he promptly went to sleep.
Stan talked with the boys until time to turn in. He wakened O’Malley and they sloshed through the mud to their hut. During their absence, two other boys, replacement men, had been quartered in the hut. They greeted the two old heads eagerly.
They were Bugs Monahan and Splinters Wright, both from Toledo, Ohio. They had just finished flight combat school and were eager for action. Someone had given them the records of Stan and O’Malley. They were both eager to talk to the veterans. Splinters was a tall, thin youth with a little mustache. Bugs was short and fat with a round beaming face and a quick smile.
“We’ve heard a lot about you fellows,” Bugs said.
“Never believe anything you hear in the army,” Stan advised with a grin.
“Sure, an’ ye’ve been taken in by me auld pal Goebbels,” O’Malley added.
“I’m turning in. We’ll get a call along about four in the morning,” Stan said. “See you boys over at the rest room. That’s where we shoot the breeze.”
“See you at midnight when we get up to poke wood into that stove,” O’Malley contradicted.
“We’ll keep the fire going. We’re not sleepy,” Splinters said. They were both disappointed that the old heads did not want to go into a gabfest.
Stan and O’Malley turned in. They had learned to get as much sleep as possible. The two replacements kept the fire going as they had promised, and the boys did not waken until they were called at three-fifty the next morning. Bugs and Splinters had gotten a little sleep. They were up instantly and eager to trail along and see what was going to happen.
“Ye’ll soon learn to sleep when ye get a chance,” O’Malley said.
They sloshed across to the operations room and joined their flight. Maps were ready and Colonel Holt was standing with his fellow officers. The room was filled with a buzz of talk. Something was up and the boys knew it. Stan and O’Malley sat in the second row with Bugs and Splinters beside them. Stan turned to the boys.
“When you leave here you are not to talk to anyone about the operations planned, not even to other officers,” he warned.
“There must be something up,” Bugs said. “We’ll keep mum.”
“When we get back we’ll give you the story,” Stan promised.
Colonel Holt began speaking, and the talking stopped. “Men, we are going to try a different approach. Weather says we’ll have clear going.” His pointer moved along a red ribbon. “The bomber objective is a fighter station and a plant near Huls. Ordinarily we’d turn back just beyond Antwerp. Today we’ll have a flight along which will carry enough extra gasoline to add two-hundred-twenty miles in range. I’ll spot those ships for you and it will be the job of those carrying the regulation one-hundred-ninety gallons to protect the specials until they drop their extra tanks.”
The pilots who were to be long-range fighters grinned happily; the others looked their disappointment. The colonel went on giving the details.
“The long-range ships will deploy and go in under the leadership of Lieutenant Wilson. He will have detailed evasion orders.”
The boys listened to the rest of the briefing impatiently. Stan stayed after the others left. Colonel Holt went over the plan with him, then Stan hurried out to get his group together. Sim Jones met him as he entered the flight room. He gave Stan a cold look.
“Did you engineer this, Wilson?” he asked.
“I did not ask to be put in command, if that’s what you mean,” Stan answered.
“You act like you thought you had to take over here,” Sim said and his eyes blazed.
“Wilson has forgotten more about flyin’ than you’ll ever know,” O’Malley cut in. “And ye better remember that.”
“Easy, now. This is a teamwork job,” Stan said. “Your orders are to cover our long-range ships. They’ll be heavy and gas logged. My planes have to get to use all of that extra gas, Sim. What we’re doing is trying to break the jinx on the fighters.”
“Yeah? It smells bad to me. I think you’re trying to get yourself an extra bar on your shoulder.”
Stan’s lips pulled into a straight line. “I don’t care what you think of me, personally, but you better cover my flight, and cover it right.”
The other fliers were staring at the two officers. They had worked under Sim Jones a long time. Stan was a newcomer the same as Colonel Holt; both had seen much service in other theaters of war. Stan sensed that they were siding with Sim. He turned away and began getting into his outfit. O’Malley was beside him.
“That bird may try something,” O’Malley said out of the side of his mouth.
“We sure slipped up when we didn’t let him tell this plan to the colonel,” Stan said sourly.
The boys sloshed out on the field. Stan looked over the dim outlines of the planes. He would have six ships in his penetration flight. His boys had been carefully instructed. They were to break away and appear to leave with the other fighters, then loop up and over and come in on the enemy from out of the sun when he dived down after the bombers.
One by one the Thunderbolts slipped into the raw morning darkness. Stan eased his ship off the ground and up into the sky. He dropped into place in Sim’s flight along with O’Malley. They were separated by one ship. The Thunderbolts carrying extra weight were spotted so they could be covered by the others.
Soon they picked up the Forts and Libs and were headed across the channel toward Flushing. Day broke and they could see the bombers below them. The air was clear and cold but there were many scattered banks of clouds all around. Stan kept his eyes open. Today he was not watching the beauty of the bomber formation, he was checking on his own flight of fighters. Sim was holding his ships in perfect formation. They roared along with Stan and his boys using gasoline from their reserve tanks so that they could get rid of them as soon as possible.
Their first action came near the coast. A flight of Focke-Wulf 190’s broke out of a big cloud and roared in on them.
“Break for action. Cover specials!” Sim called.
The formation of Thunderbolts broke up and the fight was on. As usual the Jerries were not aiming to close with the Yanks. They were willing to pick off a cripple or a plane cut out from the flight but not to make it a real battle. Their job was to delay and to pull the fighters away from the bombers.
Sim handled the situation well. The Thunderbolts did not break away, nor were they delayed. They met each thrust and stab, but they refused to be pulled into side shows. For once O’Malley was ignoring a Jerry fighter. He was well up in front heading straight for Germany. Stan was in the rear where he had been spotted. Sim was flying his cover, having dropped back for that purpose.
“I guess he’s all right,” Stan muttered. “He’s making it his personal business to see that I get through.”
At that moment two FW’s dived down at the tail ships. Stan did not shift course.
All Sim had to do was to make a pass at the Jerries, loop over and shoo them away. Suddenly Stan realized Sim was not making a pass. He had stabbed at a Jerry coming in far to the side.
Kicking his rudder, Stan went into action. The Jerries, seeing their chance, had cut him off and now he would be sucked into a fight. The Thunderbolt responded awkwardly. Stan reached for the tank release, then his hand froze. If he kicked loose his tanks, the Jerries would be wise to the trick. They would radio the information to base. Grimly Stan dived and then zoomed.
The two Focke-Wulfs gleefully tore in upon him. Stan gave one of them a burst but missed. He was caught like a clumsy float plane and knew it. Up he went and over, using every evasive trick he knew. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sim had banked sharply and was coming back to help him. He also spotted the cloud the Jerries had used to ambush the flight. As he laid over and made for it, one of the FW’s knifed in and splattered him with lead. He felt the bullets pinging against his armor plate and ripping through his wings. Ducking, he went down under the cloud, just what the Jerry wanted.
Sim had cut out one of the FW’s but two others had joined the hunt, bent on finishing the Thunderbolt they had cut off. Stan laid over and wobbled around just as though he was hit bad. The Jerry banked and went up a bit to get a better dive. He figured he had plenty of time because the Yank was crippled. That was what Stan wanted. He kicked the Thunderbolt wide open and zoomed for the cloud. Too late the Jerry saw what was up. He roared down through the misty edge of the cloud and barely missed a head-on crash with Stan.
The instant the cloud closed around him Stan kicked off his extra tanks, then he dived up and over the cloud. The Jerries were waiting for him. Sim was chasing one FW, but three waited for the cripple. When Stan came zooming out of the top of the cloud, they were a bit startled and showed it by their hesitation. Stan grinned as he snapped his ship over and dived on the nearest Jerry.
Before the German could get going Stan had him in his sights and his thumb had squeezed the gun button. His six 50’s flamed and the recoil set the Thunderbolt back on her flaps. The Jerry shuddered an instant, then broke in two and burst into roaring flames. Stan went over the wreckage and cut in between the other two Jerries. They were alive now and in action. Around the three went, up and over, painting the chill sky with streaks and loops of vapor. Stan did not hold on long. The instant he had a chance to dive and run for it he did. And the Jerries did not chase him. They were convinced he was no cripple.
As Stan roared after his formation he saw Sim closing in from far to his left. He was red-hot and wanted to tell Sim a few things, but he knew the setup was such that he had to keep his mouth closed. Sim had made an error of judgment in going after the lone Jerry and letting the other two cut him out. Stan was sure it was intentional, but he could never prove it.
Another thing that worried him was that he did not know how much gasoline he had used out of his reserve before he kicked his tanks loose. He was flight leader of the group headed for Huls. If he went on with his flight and there was much dogfighting, going and coming, he might not get home. Sim’s voice came in.
“Wilson, sorry I couldn’t handle all three Jerries. You’ll have to go back with our flight.”
Stan scowled. Sim appeared well pleased with the idea. “I’ll use my own judgment,” Stan snapped back.
“Name a leader and go back,” Sim barked. “That is an order.”
“Sorry,” Stan answered. “I’m taking the boys on through.”