A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 10

"I think you're seeing things, Irisher."

Stan grinned as he shoved the nose of the Spitfire down a little.

O'Malley was duck hunting. He didn't aim to go back without some more action if he could help it.

"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," droned a voice from the field.

"Red Flight in contact with bandits!" O'Malley roared back.

"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," headquarters insisted.

"Red Flight going into defense," Allison cut in.

Stan's grin widened. Allison was going to see that O'Malley got his duck hunt. They roared on, swinging in a wide circle, beating upward again.

O'Malley would have his way now. Allison couldn't argue with headquarters listening in.

Stan began to think they were stymied when all Hades broke loose from above. Out of nowhere five Messerschmitts came roaring down on them, three One-Nines and two One-Tens.

"Prepare for attack. Peel off and take some alt.i.tude," Allison drawled.

"Start peelin', darlin'," O'Malley shouted.

They zoomed upward, spreading to let the attack slide past. The enemy scattered out and swooped to meet them. Stan saw O'Malley drive straight over a One-Nine almost ramming the Jerry, and missing him clean with a burst of fire. That was not like O'Malley.

The Jerry banked and flipped over, thinking only of getting away before O'Malley cut back across him and sawed him in two parts; but O'Malley kept straight on. Stan picked up the One-Nine, scissoring off a wing tip and sending him wavering away toward the east.

Stan watched O'Malley as the wild Irishman zoomed up over a One-Ten. The Messerschmitt banked and tried to escape, but O'Malley was on him in a reckless roaring dive. Stan shot over the two and saw the Jerry spray O'Malley's s.h.i.+p with lead. Pieces of his hatch cover showered away like feathers from a potted duck. Again O'Malley missed a perfect burst and came up under the Jerry. He returned the compliment paid him by slicing the top off the Messerschmitt's hatch cover. Stan knew the miss had been deliberate. O'Malley never let one get away when he had a spot shot like that.

Then light dawned upon Stan. O'Malley was after the Jerry's gun. Allison was very busy himself and doing such a savage job that he was about to clear the air without Stan's help. Stan dived down to make the game one against one for Allison. When he came up, O'Malley was on the tail of the Messerschmitt and bawling at Allison:

"By the shades of St. Patrick, you keep out of this!"

The Jerry was hurt, but not badly, and O'Malley had him on the run. When the Jerry dived O'Malley was on his tail. He didn't shoot him down. When he dropped off on one wing, peeling away under full throttle, O'Malley had him covered. Then Stan heard the Irisher yelling at the Jerry pilot.

"Leave that gun like she is, you spalpeen, or I'll send you to the fishes!"

Apparently the Jerry did not understand what O'Malley said, possibly his radio wasn't set to pick up the transmitter of the Spitfire, but he did understand the short bursts of fire that clipped pieces out of various parts of his s.h.i.+p. He headed the way the lank Irishman pointed and drove ahead.

Allison and Stan dropped in behind, letting O'Malley have his prize.

Stan called to Allison:

"Somebody ought to tip off the Ack-Ack boys or O'Malley may get a warm reception."

"Let him show his stuff," Allison drawled and Stan thought he heard the Flight Lieutenant chuckle.

The Messerschmitt ducked over the coast and down with O'Malley steering him expertly to the field. Bursts of gunfire began to blossom below and puffs of white smoke broke around the Jerry and his pursuer.

"They think O'Malley's Spitfire is a captured plane with a Jerry in it,"

Stan muttered.

O'Malley sent his catch down through the sh.e.l.lfire, twisting and turning. The n.a.z.i pilot was an expert and wiggled through until they got close in, then the fire got so hot he and O'Malley had to hit for the ceiling. They circled and were high up when Stan and Allison slid down the field.

Undaunted, O'Malley came in again and this time he sent his prize through the rain of exploding sh.e.l.ls. The Messerschmitt rolled to a stop with O'Malley close behind him. In a moment the fl.u.s.tered Jerry was climbing out of his shattered hatch with his hands elevated above his head.

Ground men closed in around him, shouting and doing a war dance.

O'Malley climbed out after removing part of the hatch cover from around his neck. He strode to the Messerschmitt and bellowed at the ground men.

"Git ye a hump on yerselves an' pull out that fore gun!"

Four mechanics raced away to get tools while O'Malley stood guard over his prize. He refused to let anyone touch the s.h.i.+p. A senior ground officer came hurrying up and O'Malley gave him a sloppy salute. The officer snapped:

"I'll take charge here now."

"Ye'll do nothing of the sort," O'Malley shouted. "And as I live and breathe them's Wing Commander Farrell's very orders!"

The officer looked at the wild-eyed O'Malley and decided it would be best to wait for reinforcements, possibly a Group Captain or an Air Commodore.

"It's my job, you know, old man," he said but his tone had changed.

"'Tis my job, me hearty," O'Malley a.s.sured him.

The mechanics arrived and in a few minutes the fore gun was on the ground at O'Malley's feet. It was so heavy he could not handle it. He turned to the grinning Stan who was standing beside Allison.

"Lend a hand so we can deliver this gadget before sundown."

Stan and Allison stepped forward.

"This is positively against regulations," the senior officer sputtered.

"An' who, may I ask, bagged this here gun?" O'Malley demanded. "I may be bold, but I suggest ye give some attention to that Jerry waitin' over there to be captured accordin' to regulations."

The Jerry was standing with his arms still elevated. He was alone and unguarded.

"And be lettin' O'Malley of Red Flight be knowin' where you put the bye.

I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts."

O'Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and saluted stiffly.

Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post outside headquarters.

Wing Commander Farrell was just finis.h.i.+ng a flight report. His gray eyes were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O'Malley for a long minute, then remembered him and his pie.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" he snapped. "I suppose you have that new enemy gun in your pocket."

His sarcasm was lost upon O'Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped aside.

"Indaid, an' I hope it's the latest model. I put a very good Jerry flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin' it to you."

The Wing Commander's eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.

"So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about," he said. "It would seem some rumors are correct in this war."