Rutherford Montgomery: A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.

“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.

The night was cloudy but there was little low fog. In a dozen scattered flight centers men were busy. Coveralled ground squads swarmed around fighter planes, medium bombers and long-range giants whose lettering B Y 3, painted there by Yank builders, had been smeared over with British lacquer. Exhausts flamed, bomb trucks trundled in and out, while pilots and gunners checked rigging and outfits. The big show was on, the biggest the Royal Air Force had ever planned.

Stan and O’Malley and Allison waited with their gunners near them. They had checked the Hendee Hawks so many times they could see every detail of the ships if they closed their eyes. O’Malley had come near being recommended for court-martial when he battled the O.C. over an order to carry extra gasoline instead of racks of bombs.

“Didn’t we blow up a pocket battleship?” he argued sourly.

“After Jerry serves us up a welcome reception we’ll talk,” Allison said. “I’m expecting it to be hot.”

At that moment the intersquadron speaker began to rattle off clipped orders. Every man was on his feet instantly. The moment had come for them to take off. Number 30 swarmed out on the field. Allison was in command again, Stan had insisted upon that arrangement. Allison was cold and calculating, Stan Wilson was a fighter and wanted action. Anyway, Allison had earned that right to lead. He was the original flight lieutenant of Red Flight.

Stan grinned eagerly as he swung himself into the cockpit and glanced back to see that his gunner got set. He called back over his shoulder. “Tight straps, Sergeant, we likely will be in a few tight spots.”

“Yes, sir,” the gunner answered. He settled back against his shock pad and adjusted his belt.

Strange how a fellow can always take up another notch in his belt, Stan thought. Then he jerked the throttle open and the Hawk roared and strained on the cab rank. He pinched one brake and swung around, heading down the field with a finger of light guiding them.

“Red Flight, check your temperatures. Red Flight, are you set?” Allison’s voice was crisp and metallic.

Stan and O’Malley cleared and the Hawks swung around. The recording officer and the coveralled mechanics had slipped back into the darkness. A mobile floodlight thumped over the black field ahead, took position, and a yellow shaft of light slapped down the field. The adjustment was made on the shadow bar and the three Hawks nosed into the band of black and waited, trembling, ready.

The signal came from the recording officer’s Aldis light and they were off. Screeching into the night, twisting up the glory trail with the hydrogen gorged balloons tugging at their cables, waiting like gloating monsters for their victims, out of the notch and up they went.

“Tight formation,” Allison droned. And Stan in the right-hand slot shoved in closer to the roaring monster in the lead.

“Contacting Liberators,” Allison drawled.

Stan looked out and saw the dull forms of the thirty ton battle cruisers of the air sliding along below. The big fellows were cutting through the night at a terrific pace considering their pay loads and their own weight. Their 4,800 horsepower hurled them on at a pace that made the Spitfires and the Defiants hustle.

Red Flight took its place high above the drifting Liberators. Below would be the Defiants and on each side the Spitfires and Hurricanes. It was a big show and would soon be on.

“St. Omer with the field at Astree Blanche as the objective,” Stan muttered to himself. This was a change in plans made after a careful study of the hunchback’s little book. It would not be so bad as flying deep into Nazi country.

“Heather Raid,” Stan muttered and grinned. The High Command was sending a great flight of bombers and fighters to blast enemy positions and they called it Heather Raid.