Clifford Simak - No Life of Their Own And Other Stories

A new sound came … the sound of a diving ship. Douglas stared upward, saw the Messerschmitt storming down the sky … straight at the gliding Hurricane. A vulture swooping on a wounded helpless victim.

With a curse of rage, Douglas slid his ship around on its wing, started a plunge that would intercept the diving M.E.

He half expected the Nazi to veer off and try to make a getaway, but the ship came on.

Once again his brain was clicking … like well-oiled wheels functioning mechanically. Figuring out the angle of attack, trying to anticipate what the Messerschmitt pilot would do, keeping the Hurricane aimed at that hypothetical sector of space where it would intercept the Jerry.

Like avenging meteors, the two machines bellowed down the sky, overhauling the gliding Hurricane.

Once the Jerry sees I’m going to block his play, the brain was clicking, he’ll pull out and try to get me from above. So the thing to do is to anticipate him.

Douglas sucked in his breath, watched with narrowed eyes, measuring the distance, hand clutching the stick.

The Messerschmitt suddenly snapped upward and as it did, Douglas shoved the throttle to the last notch. With mere yards to spare, he sent the Hurricane hurtling under the belly of the Messerschmitt, jerked back the stick, drove his machine into a sharp climb. The Merlin screamed in rage, swishing the ship around in a tight loop. For a sickening second, the plane hung upside down and in that instant, the upward roaring Jerry climbed into the ring sight. Douglas squeezed the button and ahead of him the Messerschmitt shuddered and stalled, swung over and headed for earth with smoke streaming from the motor.

With throttle full out, Douglas slanted his ship after the gliding Hurricane.

A voice was shouting in his earphones, a voice he recognized.

“Douglas, you damn fool, go back. Thanks for what you did, but you can’t do any more.”

“Grant, there’s a field down there,” Douglas yelled. “Mush her in. I’ll be right behind you. Then we’re getting out of here.”

“You’re mad,” Grant protested. “It can’t be done. Get back, I tell you. It’ll only mean the two of us instead of one. Go back. That’s an order.”

“To hell with orders. I’m coming after you. You’re going home with me. Lashed to a wing …” He laughed. “Not dignified. But what the hell. We can’t lose a man like you.”

Grant was raging now. “I’ll have you up for insubordination.”

Douglas chuckled savagely. “Insubordination for what? For stopping you from making another grandstand play? Like the time you did before. Coming home in a boat.”

Deliberately he reached out and jerked out the earphone plug.

Grant’s ship just cleared the trees at the edge of the field, was pancaking toward the meadow. It struck and bounced, bounced again, threatening to nose over, then rolled to a stop.

Douglas brought his Hurricane down in a smooth landing, taxied swiftly toward the other ship.

Quickly he reached up and hauled back the hatch, leaped nimbly to the wing and hopped to the ground.

“Stay where you are!” snapped a voice and as he wheeled he saw Grant standing at the end of the wing, a Webley in his hand.

“One move,” said the flight lieutenant, “and I will let you have it.”

Douglas stared, wide-eyed, not understanding.

“You’re crazy,” he gasped. “Put that damn thing up. You’re going back with me.”

Grant laughed … a vicious laugh.

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Douglas. I’m not going back and neither are you.”

“You aren’t serious, Grant.”

“Never more serious in my life, my British friend.”

Silence hung between them … an awkward silence.

“So,” Douglas said finally, “that is how it is.”

Grant nodded, tight-lipped. “Clever wasn’t it. And you English pigs never once suspected.”

“Clever,” said Douglas bitterly. “Yes, terribly clever. How many of your Nazi friends have you shot down? Over fifty, isn’t it?”

“If I hadn’t, someone else would have,” Grant declared. “And, after all, what are a few lives more or less? Those I shot down would have gone gladly to their death had they but known.”

He chuckled. “There’s something else … something for you to think about behind the barbed wire of your prison camp. When my mission here is over, I shall go back again. As I did before. And I shall be a great English hero …”

“You’ll go back to do it all over again?” asked Douglas calmly.

“That’s right,” replied Grant. “Over and over and the English will never know. For do I not shoot down the Nazis right and left?”

“That,” declared Douglas, “is about the lowest form of treachery I can think of.”

“Not treachery,” said Grant. “I am serving the fuehrer.”

The flight lieutenant motioned with the muzzle of his pistol.

“And now let us get going.”

In answer, Douglas stooped and hurled himself under the wing of the plane. Grant shouted and the Webley cracked, the bullet whining viciously as it ricocheted off the ship’s metal skin.

Rolling to get full protection of the wing, Douglas scrambled to his knees, hauling his Webley from the pocket of his flying togs. Another shot rang out and a bullet chugged into the ground not more than three feet from where he knelt.

Silence then … a long, terrifying silence. He could see nothing of Grant, not even his legs moving about. The man, he knew, must be stalking him. The short hairs rose at the nape of his neck, bristling with an atavistic fear.

If only he could see something … if only he could stand up and shoot it out! Anything but the sense of being trapped … of knowing that out there somewhere in the field a man was deliberately maneuvering himself into position to send a bullet through him.

Carefully he inched himself closer to the body of the plane, straining his eyes, listening intently. A mumbling roar came to his ears … the beating of a far-off motor.

So there he was, he told himself, hunkered beneath the plane, waiting for Grant to get into position … waiting until the one-time flight lieutenant could send a bullet through his brain. There wasn’t much, he admitted, that he could do about it. The meadow was flat as the top of a table. If he showed himself, Grant would see him and start shooting. For a moment he considered a swift break, an attempt to get back into the cockpit of the Hurricane and be off, but he rejected it almost as soon as he thought of it. He preferred waiting here, waiting for the break that might never come. His fist tightened on the Webley. If he could just locate Grant!

It had been foolish to have gotten himself into such a mess. It was not, he admitted to himself, all through a desire to save Grant from falling into German hands.

That, of course, had been the first impulse … to save a fellow flier from capture. Funny that such a thought should have come to him unquestioningly when he knew … and Grant knew … that he hated the flight lieutenant. Hated with good cause.

But even at that, in the face of Grant’s orders to turn back, he might have pulled off and continued on to England, had not the ludicrousness of bringing Grant home, lashed to the Hurricane’s wing, occurred to him. The idea of spiking another possible hero-stunt like crossing the channel in a stolen boat had been too much to resist.

Such a thing, he knew, was possible, although rather tough on the wing rider. But that would have been giving Grant something that would be good for him … something to deflate the ego of a career-fighter.

The mumbling roar he had heard was growing louder now … louder and closer … until he knew it was a plane, the deep-voiced thrumming of a Messerschmitt. And it was coming toward the field.