PLENTY OF TROUBLE
Stan Wilson followed by O’Malley and Allison barged into Wing Commander Farrell’s office. Before them marched Arch Garret with a Luger shoved into the small of his back. The O.C. leaped to his feet. He had been nodding in his chair and thought he must be dreaming. He quickly changed his mind.
Stan told his story in brief, clipped sentences. Farrell did not interrupt. When he had finished Garret broke in before the O.C. could say anything. He was not the defiant and arrogant lieutenant he had been. Fear showed in his eyes and his voice was shaking.
“I’ll talk if it will save me from a firing squad,” he begged.
“I may try but I do not think any power will save you,” Farrell said sternly. “But you had better talk for the sake of your own conscience.”
“They had me where they wanted me. My father was in Germany, in a concentration camp. I had to do what they ordered.” Sweat was standing out in big drops on Garret’s forehead. “I was straight and did my job until they got to me.”
“That’s why you got where you are and why you were not released after your first bad report. Your past record was fine.” The O.C. dropped back into his chair. He jerked a phone from its cradle. He was looking intently at Garret as he clicked the receiver. “Go on, talk. I’ll do what I can for you.”
“The radioman is at 30 Elm Inn,” Garret babbled. “He is to wait there for word from Herr Naggel. When Naggel gives the word, all will be clear for the attack.”
“Naggel won’t send any messages,” Stan said grimly, remembering the terrible explosion which had blown him clear out into the street.
The O.C. had gotten his man and was barking into the phone. He kept on putting through calls and talking to Stan and Allison and O’Malley at the same time.
“Get a guard, O’Malley, and turn Garret over to him. Wilson, stand by. Allison, get back to the mess and see that all of the men stand by ready for action.”
Stan watched the O.C. with admiration. He was a demon for getting things done in a speedy and effective manner. Stan handed his Luger to O’Malley. The Irishman prodded Garret with it.
“Get a move on, ye skulkin’ hyena,” O’Malley growled.
They moved out of the room with O’Malley telling the wilted Garret what he thought of him.
“We can get a crack at them before daylight, if headquarters will let us pull an immediate raid.” The O.C. held the receiver jammed to his ear with one hand while he fished into a drawer with the other. He found a cigar and bit the end off, then clamped the cigar between his teeth. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he went on.
“How did you come to bag Garret?”
“I found him in the mess, sir. He was sitting there waiting for the call to action he was sure was coming. He had warned all of the boys against loose flying. They had strict orders to stick close to him,” Stan said.
“This is one raid they won’t put over, thanks to you, Wilson.”
“We can blast them at their bases,” Stan said eagerly. “They’ll be grounded and waiting, saving their gas and getting ragged nerves while they wait.”
“Ragged nerves?” The O.C. had his man on the phone and began barking at him, arguing furiously. He waved his cigar and pounded the desk and bellowed. Five minutes later he clamped the receiver into place and swung around to face Stan. Wiping the sweat from his face, he said:
“That was the Air Ministry.”
Stan grinned. “I take it you convinced them, sir.”
“Convinced them? I routed them!” Farrell found a match and lighted his frayed cigar. Getting to his feet, he added. “We’re off for those bases and this time I fly myself. I have been wanting to see how this show stacks up with the last one, and now I’m going to find out.”
Stan followed him out into the night. After that things happened with lightning speed. Stan lost track of all the things they did and the places they went.
First of all, the radioman was caught with all of his equipment. The hunchback cracked when faced with the grim prospect of facing a firing squad within a half-hour. His code book revealed a complicated mass of information which was deciphered at once, with some assistance from him. Exact locations were charted and objectives laid out. All of it was done on the run.
Before the officers were through with the radioman, a message was sent out to the Nazis holding up the attack until further instructions were given. The message was in code and properly sent so that it would be received by the enemy as an order from their key man in London. Herr Naggel’s secret code number was signed to it.
Then there was a cold and clearheaded gathering around the big map in the central control room. Four flights would go out. Not just four ordinary flights, but four all-out invasion formations with all the punch the Royal Air Force could put behind them.
Red Flight, with its three deadly Hawks, was assigned to go with the long-range Consolidateds over France to the base from which the biggest of the Jerry bombers would take off. This would be the first wave sent over, because it had the longest route. It would be protected by the Hawks and by Defiants equipped for long-range flying. At last Stan got away from the O.C. and dashed to the mess.
He had secured three capable gunners to take along because he expected an opportunity to do some ground strafing. The early morning sky was cloudy with high fog and black clouds. If the weather held all the way over, they would be able to stage a real surprise.
In the mess he found Judd and McCumber and Kelley talking with Allison and O’Malley. Other men were gathered in small groups. The tension was high in the room.
“When do we get the signal?” Judd asked. His detail was to a field in Belgium.
“Any minute now,” Stan said. He looked over Judd’s head and saw that O’Malley was munching a slab of apple pie.
“Sure, an’ we’ll all get to go on a long vacation after this is over,” O’Malley said. “There won’t be a Jerry left in the sky.”
Stan smiled but back of the smile there was a feeling of grimness. A lot of the eager youngsters gathered in that room would not come back.
“I’ll see that you get your vacation in a pie factory,” he promised.
Three sergeants came in and stood waiting. Stan went to them.
“Kent, Ames, and Martin, sir, reporting as gunners,” one of the men said.
“Fine. Come along and I’ll give you a one minute lesson on the guns you’ll use, though you likely don’t need it.” He turned to Allison. “Pack out my togs, will you?”
“I’ll bring a helmet and a chute,” Allison drawled. “The Nazis will make it so hot for you, you won’t need a fur suit.”
Stan grinned in response to Allison’s casual manner. Both knew this would be the most important action they had yet been engaged in, that it would be one of the most terrific and devastating raids staged during the entire war, yet it was best to kid about it. That was the only way to relieve the tension all of them were under, keep them cool and collected until the shooting actually started.