SCOUTING MISSION
Stan and O’Malley had a visitor that night. Allison drove over to see them. Looking around the Nissen hut, he grinned broadly.
“Sure, an’ I’ll call the butler,” O’Malley said. “He just stepped into the drawin’ room.”
“Sit down, pal.” Stan motioned toward one of the cots.
“Homey spot you have here,” Allison observed.
“How did it go today?” Stan asked.
“You fellows did a swell job, but why only six fighters?” Allison’s smile had faded.
“The brass hats knew I was goin’ along,” O’Malley replied.
“One of those little experiments,” Stan explained grimly.
“Pretty expensive try, I’d say,” Allison answered.
“O’Malley spotted a big fighter base all equipped with vanishing planes.” Stan got to the point he wanted to discuss at once.
“There must be dozens of them, but we have never been able to spot any of them to knock them out. Those Me’s and FW’s just sprout out of the ground as we go along.” Allison frowned and shook his head. “If we could spot the fields, we could send out separate missions ahead of a raid and knock off those fields.”
“O’Malley says they snap the planes out of sight in less than a minute. He slipped in over one of them, circled, and when he came back there wasn’t a plane in sight.”
“I figure there were at least seventy planes parked when I popped in over the field. When I came back over they were gone.” O’Malley shook his head.
“Think anyone would believe such a yarn?” Stan asked.
“Every bomber pilot and crew member would believe it,” Allison said grimly. “Why don’t you report it and ask for a chance to check up?”
“I’ve already gone over the head of Sim Jones once and got socked for it,” Stan said. “But O’Malley ought to report it.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll be after seein’ Colonel Holt meself.” O’Malley ran his fingers through his mop of red hair. “I’d as soon have this Jones bird after me as not.”
After that the talk got around to the raid on Huls. Allison’s ship had come through with only a few bullet holes. His bombardier had laid their eggs squarely on a factory building. It had been a good show for the Forts and Libs.
“What I’m worried about,” Allison said as he got ready to leave, “is that the Wellingtons and Lancasters will blow Berlin off the map before we are able to penetrate that far.”
“Them nighthawks?” O’Malley showed his scorn by frowning savagely. “Flyin’ boxcars!”
“They haul a lot of TNT and they get through, to their targets, but there’ll be a lot of stuff for the precision sights of the Forts and Libs,” Stan said. “You notice when they want important targets like locks or sub pens or carefully placed factories they send you boys to get them.”
“I know, old man,” Allison said with a grin. “But I’d like to make the Berlin run.”
“With those hidden fighter fields out of the way you could go in and out alone,” Stan pointed out. “The way it is now, they keep sending up fighters all along the route.”
“I have to run for it,” Allison said. “Pilots meeting.”
After he had gone Stan and O’Malley headed for Colonel Holt’s office. Bugs and Splinters came in just as they were leaving. They were both highly excited. They had been assigned to active duty. Stan smiled at them but he was thinking that they were taking the places of the men who had been in his flight.
The boys were waiting for the colonel when Sim Jones came out of a side door. He paused for a moment. Stan eyed him coldly; O’Malley walked on into the colonel’s office without speaking.
“I suppose you think I deliberately tricked you, Wilson. You’re headed for the Old Man.” His lips pulled tight. “I don’t blame you, but I didn’t pull that stunt to get you cut out. It was a boner on my part.”
“It was,” Stan agreed dryly. “And I’m not squawking to the colonel.”
Sim looked Stan in the eye; he flushed a deep red. “I figured I was so good I could cut back and take out all three Jerries.”
“Forget it,” Stan said and grinned. “We all pull ’em.”
Sim turned and hurried away without another word. Stan was still smiling as he entered the colonel’s office. O’Malley scowled up at him.
“Did you bop him one?” he asked.
The colonel was seated at his desk. He looked from Stan to O’Malley and lifted his eyebrows.
“No,” Stan said. “I made a date to have lunch with him.”
O’Malley’s eyes opened wide. The colonel leaned back. “Go ahead with your story, Lieutenant,” he said.
O’Malley finished his story and the colonel considered the matter for a few minutes.
“It sounds fantastic,” he finally said. “But it fits in very neatly with what we have been able to learn about German fighter tactics. I think we should look into it. I’ll let you men know what I plan to do.”
“Could we have any special assignment growing out of this?” Stan asked.
“You will get the special assignment,” the colonel promised.
“Thank you, sir,” Stan answered as he got to his feet.
They saluted and left the office. O’Malley was still in a sour mood.
“You made up with that Jones bird?”
“I did,” Stan said. “Now let’s head for the mess.”
When they entered the mess, the boys greeted them warmly and crowded around. There was no trace of resentment or jealousy. The fellows were eager to know what had happened over Huls. Stan and O’Malley were the only two pilots to get back. Sim sat at a table alone.
Stan talked with the boys a while, then walked over to where Sim was seated. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Glad to have you,” Sim said and meant it.
After a bit O’Malley came over. He had noticed that Stan and Sim were laughing over something and he did not know what to make of it.
“Sit down,” Stan greeted him. “Have a pie on me.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll do that,” O’Malley said. He sat down and waited to hear what he could.
Stan and Sim laughed and talked and finally O’Malley joined in. It was clear that the boys had buried the hatchet, so he saw no reason for being grumpy. Besides, the cook had just made some blueberry pies and they were extra tasty.
After mess Stan got a call from Colonel Holt and hurried off, leaving O’Malley and Sim together. The colonel had two officers with him when Stan went in to see him.
“General Ward and Major Kulp,” the colonel said. “This is Lieutenant Wilson.”
The men shook hands and all sat down. The colonel passed several papers across to Stan.
“You are on special detail. You’ll be equipped with P-51 ships and have a flight of three. General Ward suggests you do a bit of rhubarb raiding.”
“Thank you, sir. These 51’s are the new long-range fighters?”
“They have the same range as the Libs and Forts.” The colonel smiled. “But we have only a few of them. Later, perhaps, we’ll have a great many.”
“Check carefully on location and construction of fields. Each ship has a camera to record the details of any fields you locate.” General Ward spoke in a Texas drawl.
“Don’t trust the cameras entirely. Get down low and see all you can,” the major added.
“The third pilot, who is he?” Stan asked.
“Did you have a man in mind?” Colonel Holt asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I should have consulted you, but I already have promised a man the job.”
“Who is he?” Stan asked, trying not to show his disappointment.
“Lieutenant Jones.”
Stan began to grin. “The same man I had in mind,” he said.
“Good. Now take over.”
Stan hurried away. He found the boys listening to the radio in the rest room. At his nod O’Malley and Sim joined him at a reading table.
“We get special rhubarb detail,” he said.
“Foine,” O’Malley said eagerly. “Only we’ll never be able to fly far enough into Kraut territory to see anything.”
“I get to go along?” Sim asked.
“Colonel’s orders,” Stan said and grinned. “And we get P-51 ships with the same range as the Forts.”
“Sure, an’ we’ll fly to Berlin,” O’Malley said.
“You better be thinking about locating that airfield,” Stan answered. “There was a general at the meeting I just left.”
“As long as he won’t be askin’ to go along, it’s all right,” O’Malley said.
“Now let’s get some shut-eye.” Stan got to his feet.
In the operations room the next morning, their papers were ready and they headed out on the field where three big Mustangs stood ready and warmed up. They were powerhouses with wicked armament and plenty of wingspread. In addition to wing guns, they had bomb racks which were fitted with extra gasoline tanks.
“Sure, an’ they’re one-man bombers,” O’Malley crowed.
“They weren’t built for hedge-hopping, but the major said they could do about four hundred miles per hour on the treetop level,” Stan explained.
Sim whistled. “Wait until the Eighth gets a flock of these,” he said.
“You plot the course, O’Malley,” Stan said. “We’ll stay in close until we start down over Germany, then we’ll keep within striking distance to cover each other. We’re camera equipped but we have to use our eyes, too.”
The boys climbed up and got settled. Control gave Stan clearance and he called to his flight.
“Rhubarb Raid, check temperatures. Sim, take off first. Rendezvous at twenty thousand.”
Stan leaned back and checked his instruments. He watched Sim slide away and shoot skyward. The 51’s were plenty fast. O’Malley went off next and was in the air almost at once. Stan kicked his throttle open and roared after his pals. The Mustang hopped off as though she weighed only a few pounds instead of three tons or more.
The three P-51’s slipped into close formation and headed out across the channel. The day was a good one for reconnaissance, because there were many banks of clouds at high level with a very high ceiling. Stan kept his eyes open for enemy interceptors. He half hoped a few Me’s would spot them so that they could try out the new ships. No fighters were seen until they reached the mouth of the Rhine.
Below them they could see Rotterdam and beyond, Gorinchem. O’Malley was wagging his wings, signaling to go down. The fighters they spotted, three in number, did not try to intercept them.
Stan signaled back and they all peeled off. The P-51 went down smoothly but with a swift rush that set Stan back against the shock pad. He had to ease on a bit more power to stay with O’Malley who was trying his ship out.
At five thousand feet they flattened out a quarter mile apart and stalled in toward a line of trees and a windmill. O’Malley brushed the sails of the mill as he swept over it. They were close to the ground now, flipping along like cotton dusters on a Texas plantation. O’Malley was hugging the ground, popping over trees and sliding between buildings. Stan saw the white faces of people as they looked up. Most of them waved to the ship with the United States insignia. They were Dutch farmers.
The three ships hedge-hopped on over the low country. O’Malley held a speed that made the ground blur and waver. It also made dodging power lines and missing church steeples exciting business. Stan raked a pennant off the top of a building without seeing the building at all. After that he called to O’Malley.
“Hey, you. Get up a bit!”
“Sure, an’ the scenery is foine down here,” O’Malley called back. But he did take a little more altitude.
They roared in over Germany and headed for Huls. Twice they were blasted by machine guns, but they were flying so low the German detector system had not spotted them. They were put down as Mosquito bombers out hunting locomotives and trains:
“We’re coming in now,” O’Malley called.
He had swung wide of Huls and was headed for some low hills. Knifing over the the nearest hill, with their bellies scraping the tops of a row of trees, the three P-51’s nosed into a little valley.
Suddenly Stan saw the airfield O’Malley had spotted. In a snap guess he placed the number of planes lined up at one hundred. They were in a long row at the base of a hill. Runways led out to a wide flight strip.
“Strafe them!” he shouted.
The order was not necessary. O’Malley and Sim were going straight down the line of planes, their guns blasting flame and lead. The target was so narrow that Stan had to stall and slip a bit to drop behind in order to get a shot at the line.
The Mustangs went over so fast the Germans did not have time to fire a shot at them. Not a plane moved, except those which blew up or burst into flames under the withering fire from the Yank guns. Up the P-51’s went and over the ridge. They were roaring along at such a pace that it took a long zoom and bank to get lined up for a return trip.
When they came back over, the Germans were ready for them. Smoke makers were billowing thick haze over the scene and every imaginable sort of gun was slamming lead and steel into the sky. The air above the field was thick with flaming muck. O’Malley was out in front with Sim close off his port wing. He went into the muck low down. Stan came in a bit behind his pals.
Looking down into the flaming muzzles of the guns Stan stared hard. There wasn’t a plane in sight! Not even the burning ships or those blasted to bits could be seen. There was nothing but the green slope of the hill and the smooth runways leading to the flight strip.
“Well, what do you know!” he muttered.
At that instant the muck enveloped him along with the pall of smoke from the edges of the field. Just ahead of him he saw something that looked like a huge rocket lift toward Sim’s ship. It exploded with a blinding flash directly under the P-51. Sim’s ship shot upward and a wing swirled away like a dark strip of paper torn from a wall. Then the P-51 nosed into the ground and exploded. Cold sweat broke out all over Stan’s body as he pulled his ship over and up.
At five thousand feet up and well away from the hot spot, Stan took stock. He tried to call O’Malley and found his radio was shot out. Looking through his spattered hatch cover, he saw that his port wing had three gaping holes in it. But the engine was singing sweetly. His first thought was to locate O’Malley, but he had another when he spotted three Focke-Wulf fighters roaring in on his tail.
“We’ll see what you have to offer, sister,” he said softly as he kicked the Mustang wide open and laid her over.
The big ship responded with a surge of power that yanked her into the sky and over in a perfect roll before Stan could decide what was going on. Leveling off, Stan looked for the FW’s. They had missed him by a wide margin. Stan grinned.
“You don’t need a pilot, lady,” he said.
Coming over he tried a burst on one of the FW’s. It was a long shot, but the Jerry was lined up neatly in his sight. The heavy guns of the P-51 roared and bucked. Up ahead the FW wobbled and dived. The other two went up for altitude. Stan went up, too. The P-51 was a high-altitude lady and would do better up where she had rare air and plenty of space.
Stan eased away from the FW’s and did not challenge them. They circled, taking a good look at this new type of fighter. They had learned from sad experience that any new Yank ship might prove to be deadly. The Forts had taught them that.
Stan was well up now where he could look down on the flight strip below. He saw nothing of O’Malley but he did see two wrecked planes at the far edge of the field away from the hill. Nosing down Stan dived toward the field. The two FW’s dived after him, but he soon eased away from them.
Sweeping in a few yards above the runway, Stan laid over just a little. He checked the wrecks and saw that one of them was Sim’s ship. The other was an FW fighter minus one wing. The Germans behind their hidden batteries opened up with a savage burst of fire. Stan went straight toward the hill, flying low to keep out of the flak. As he shot up off the runway he stared hard at the hillside ahead, then blinked his eyes.
“So,” he said softly. “So that’s the way it is.”
He went up and over the hill, spiraling into the sky in a climb steeper than any ship had ever carried him. The FW’s had been joined by five Me 110’s, but the Jerries did not close with him. Stan headed for home as fast as the P-51 could travel, which topped four hundred miles per hour by a wide margin.
He was roaring along with no opposition in sight and a clear sky around him when he suddenly spotted a plane in his mirror. It was overhauling him rapidly. Suddenly Stan grinned. He eased back on the throttle and waggled his wings as O’Malley roared over him. Picking up speed, he dropped in beside his pal and signaled that his radio was dead. They roared on home, wing to wing.