Микки Спиллейн: Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

“Then let’s fire the plane before we have the Jappos on our necks!”

The men squeezed out. Greg drained some gas out of the tanks and scattered it over the plane. One match and the ship was a pyre of billowing flame and smoke. The Japs wouldn’t copy this design as they did others, that was a sure thing!

Bill Halsey, the bombardier, turned around and let out a choked shout. “Look, Japs! They’re coming for us. What’ll we do?”

“Take it easy, Bill. Might be they think we’re in the plane. Let’s duck onto one of these haystacks.”

The three boys dashed for the mound of yellow grass, and burrowed under it. Right on their heels the Japs, in a fleet of motor trucks, pulled up in front of the burning plane. One, evidently the leader, walked around it, then stopped. He looked into the dust at his feet and the boys’ hearts leaped. He had discovered their tracks which, in their haste, they had failed to conceal!

At once the Japs spread out. They knew the men had had no chance to flee, and the only place they could hide was either in the barn or in the haystacks. A few of them went into the barn, then a dozen men went to a haystack and stood around it. The commander gave the word and they fired round after round of ammunition into the base of the stack... and in a few minutes they would be at the one that shielded the Americans!

For some reason, Warren was smiling. “Burrow back to the middle as fast as you can!” he whispered.

Greg and Bill obeyed without a word. It was a hard task, but they made it. Then from outside came the voices of the Japs. This was it. Warren knew that if he was wrong it would be too bad. One thing was in their favor. Their footprints had been wiped out by the Japs except for the ones by the plane. Warren hoped they wouldn’t fire the hay.

They heard the commands of the leader, followed by the roar of the guns. Breathlessly, they waited for the slugs to tear into them, but none came. Once the stack shifted as part of its base was disturbed by the power of the shots, but that was all. How long they waited, they never knew. When finally they crawled outside, darkness had settled over the city. Except for the glare of the red of still-burning buildings, Tokyo was in total darkness. They wanted no more of the American made bombs! The boys had to grin a little at this.

“Where to now?” Greg asked.

Warren Gates smiled. “Since flying is all we know, the thing to do is head for a flying field and swipe a plane... and if I’m not mistaken, there’s one not far off. Spotted it coming over!”

And there was. Keeping to the shadows of the buildings, the trio crept steadily to the south side of the city. Occasional outposts and scouting parties presented a problem, but they flattened and melted into the landscape. So far, so good!

“There she is!” The boys peered into the darkness, and there, directly ahead of them, was the field. Little lights blinked in the operations office, and toward them they made their way. Suddenly motors roared on the tarmac. Planes were being warmed up.

“Looks like they’re playing right into our hands,” Bill said. “Let’s go!”

Silently, they crawled under the wire on the edge of the field. About fifty yards away a large bomber, warming up, spat flame into the night.

Warren pointed. “Now walk as if you owned the place. We’re not liable to be suspected that way.”

They stood up and walked to the ship. Men passed, but in the darkness none challenged their presence. Walking around the tail, Warren motioned for the others to stay back. A wiry little Jap guarded the ship. He crept up behind him... and the man turned! But before the Jap could utter a word, a fist caught him square on the chin and he crumpled to the ground!

Waving for the others to come on, Warren opened the door and in he went, the others in back of him. Warren poured the juice to her. Motors roared, and with a sudden lurch the plane jumped the chocks and tore down the field! Instantly the field came to life. Lights winked on, and the plane was caught in the glare of them. Rifles barked, but the shooting was too hurried to be accurate.

The plane shot into the air... they were off! But the flight was not over. On the field below pilots leaped to the cockpits and gave their ships the gun, but suddenly out of the darkness ahead of them, Warren reversed, and with machine guns spitting a lethal dose of lead, came in on the Japs. Planes of the Rising Sun faltered and crashed. One rose, only to nose dive into the sod when a burst caught the pilot in the chest!

The Americans wasted no time getting out of there. The trip back was one to make history. All the maps were in Japanese, but Greg puzzled them out. It was late morning when they arrived over the field and started to circle... then the sky was full of gunbursts. They were firing at them! But when their buddies saw that they were trying to land, the firing stopped. The plane came down... only to be surrounded by angry soldiers. However... it took only a moment to clear things up!

When the shouting finally died down, Greg and Bill came over to Warren.

“Tell us,” they said, “how did you know we wouldn’t get hit back in that haystack!”

“Well,” Greg grinned, “I used to be a ballistics expert back in the states, and I knew that a lot of little things like some rag waste, or closely packed paper could stop a shot easily enough, and firing into all that hay was like shooting at a brick wall!”

“How come they didn’t set fire to the hay?”

“Ha! Every inch of the bloomin’ island is cultivated, and they don’t dare waste a thing. Those soldiers would’ve been shot if they did!”

Sharply, the clang of the steel cage door echoed throughout the big tent. Mark Costel, whip in hand, strode into the emptiness of the barred enclosure. His hand shook. He jumped violently at the noise of the gate shutting on him.

Two months before he had been the most famed of all animal trainers. His daring in the arena was unsurpassed. Fearlessly, he would stride into a cage full of the most vicious animals of the jungle, beasts that were ready to tear him and each other apart at the slightest provocation. But his whip would crack, his chair would poke into the faces of the lions and tigers, forcing them to do his bidding. They snarled and grimaced, but they were afraid of this man. Afraid of his courage, his strength with his meager weapons, and the look in his eye that they could not stare down.

Every time he made his appearance, the crowd would roar. His was the feature act. Every person in the stands came to see him, alone, mastering the wild cats of the jungle! Their sleek bodies would come noiselessly down the wooden chute and jump to their positions on the top of their pedestals.

The whip would crack, the chair would go forward, and the tigers and lions would begin their weird routine. Glittering dangerously, the eyes of the animals would fasten on the slim man who commanded their every movement. If for a moment he relaxed his vigilance, there was the sudden snarl of defiance, a roar, and a yellow blur as one of the great cats shot through the air at him.

But the chair would come up, the whip crack across a blunt nose, and the cat would retire, snarling, to the stool. The audience ate it up! Even Mark enjoyed his knowledge of superiority over the brutes. Never for a second did he doubt that the cats could beat him at this game! Every one of them hated the man, hated him with all their animal instinct. They waited only for the time when the chair could not be brought into play nor the whip crack.

In his belt was a gun. It served only to frighten the tawny beasts, for it had blank cartridges. Never would Mark take the chance of killing anything so valuable. His only protection against the sudden charges was the men outside the cage armed with hoses that were ready to spit a powerful stream of water at the cats if they started to attack him.