CHAPTER VII

SALT WATER SPRAY

The Wing Commander seemed bent upon saving the Hendee Hawk for some special show. For two days no call came for Stan and O'Malley. They lounged about, with O'Malley getting as restless as a panther and twice as grouchy. They went over to see Allison and found him sitting up. He would be out in a very short time.

Stan took the opportunity to give O'Malley a course of lessons dealing with the fine points of the Hawk.

"She carries two sticks of bombs when she's out hunting. That's something new. They put those sticks on just to pep you up. The other day, when we were zipping through Messerschmitt bullets, I gave them a thought or two. If a cannon ball or a bullet lands just right, off goes the stick of bombs and out you go." Stan grinned at O'Malley as he spoke.

"Sure, an' O'Malley will fix that," the Irishman said. "We pick a nice spot and drop them firecrackers."

"I'm glad you suggested it. It would have been against regulations for me to say anything about it."

"Sure, we might find a Jerry to pop them down on, but no matter, they are no fit things to be kapin' tucked under your wings whilst you're sky sc.r.a.ppin'." O'Malley shook his head.

"We'll try them out. This is the best dive bomber that was ever built.

You nose her straight down and pull the flaps. She settles herself to a 350 mile per hour pace and when you get your sights set you cut loose.

It's a dead cinch to pot a target that way."

"Sure," O'Malley agreed. "Only we aren't bomber boys."

They left O'Malley's room and went to the mess. Stan read the pictorial while O'Malley took a nap. The blaring of the intersquadron speaker roused them. The Irishman's feet hit the floor and he was awake at once.

"That's us," he mumbled.

"It's everybody else, but it's not us," Stan growled.

It seemed the Group Captain and his men gathered around the map in headquarters had forgotten all about the Hendee Hawk.

"That's the trouble in being a one-ship flight," O'Malley muttered. "If we had three Spitfires we'd be up there now."

An orderly entered and ran across to Stan. "Wing Commander Farrell's instructions for Lieutenant Wilson," he said as he handed Stan the paper.

Stan unfolded the paper and, with O'Malley reading the order out loud over his shoulder, he scanned the paper. They were to join a flight of Hurricanes and Spitfires setting out to contact enemy planes over the channel. Orders would be broadcast later, but the action was in connection with a naval attack. Their radio call would be Red Flight.

"Sure, an' we're still Red Flight," O'Malley said as he whirled and made off.

They walked back to O'Malley's room. Over a battered desk hung a piece of the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and on the desk lay a heavy German pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.

Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, "If this war keeps up you'll be able to furnish a museum."

O'Malley shook his head disconsolately. "'Tis little enough," he complained. "This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Every time I down a plane it's me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leaves nothing behind for me to remember it by."

"The ones that smash up feel worse about it than you do," Stan reminded him.

The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan had known him. "Faith, an' I think of them poor devils sometimes," he muttered. "'Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fighting because they're told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one man orders them to. 'Tis a bad state of affairs this world is in, so help me."

Stan nodded soberly. "The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast as we can. And we'd better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call."

O'Malley yawned and nodded agreement. "Though it's not likely they'll be sending us up again soon," he muttered pessimistically. "Always coddlin'

us, that's what they do."

A few minutes later they were waddling out on the field. The blast of steel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up on the cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures in coveralls swarmed over and around the planes. Flight sergeants tested throttle k.n.o.bs and officers dashed about.

"Looks like an extra big show," Stan said as they moved toward the newly daubed hawk. She looked freakish in her many-colored coat of sky paint.

Her motor was idling smoothly.

"Sure, an' she's a dainty colleen," O'Malley purred as he waited for the sergeant to swing down.

"Remember this ship has to come back, so don't go wild," Stan warned.

"And let me have her when we get ready to unload those sticks of T.N.T.

If we crack her up and no record comes in, we won't get any more Hawks.

The bra.s.s hats over here aren't sold on her yet."

O'Malley was dreamily grinning at the big fighter and didn't seem to hear him.

The Sergeant swung down and flipped a salute. "That motor is a bit of all right, sir," he said.

"She is that," Stan agreed.

They climbed in and got set in their cramped quarters. Seated very close together, with Stan a bit lower than O'Malley, who was at the controls, they pulled up their belts. O'Malley jerked his hatch cover shut and Stan closed his. The Irishman revved up, pinched one brake and gave the throttle a kick. The Hawk spun around with a roar. Stan noted the look of surprise on the Irishman's face. He hoped O'Malley didn't ground loop her before they got off.

O'Malley didn't. He was a born flier and a lover of engines. Before they got the starter's signal, he had the feel of the big Double-Wasp motor.

He took her off with a rush and a zoom, falling easily into place between a flight of Spitfires and Hurricanes. Later a spread of Defiants joined them and still later they overtook a squadron of Hampdens moving steadily out toward the channel. The bombers were loaded heavily and making no attempt to climb up.

"Don't ye forget we're pickin' a target and unloading the bombs."

O'Malley was speaking through the "intercom" telephone.

"Wait until we spot a good target. I want to see what we can do with our sticks of bombs," Stan answered.

O'Malley began to hum a s.n.a.t.c.h of an Irish melody. He wasn't in the least disturbed. For that matter the whole flight was slipping along as smoothly as though on parade.

Then everything changed in a flash. "Naval battle! Naval battle!"

O'Malley was bellowing into his mike.

The Hampdens were moving into formation for action against something below and the fighters were peeling off and going down to see them through. Up ahead sh.e.l.ls were bursting in the sky and the thunder of big guns rolled up to them.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The big fellows weren't tossing their sh.e.l.ls aloft. They were lobbing them at targets below. Stan shouted to O'Malley:

"Follow the Hampdens down so we can unload!"

"Sure, an' the quicker the better," O'Malley bellowed back. He depressed the nose of the Hawk and they went screaming down the chute. In a moment they had a good look at the sea below.

Four cruisers and a string of light destroyers were fighting a running battle with several pocket battleships and a fleet of coastal torpedo boats. An aircraft carrier wallowed alongside the formation of cruisers.

The scene below was a wild mixture of foaming water, smoke and flame from belching guns, and the roll of thunder as the turret batteries fired. The British Navy dogs were trying to get at the pocket battleships. The carrier held her course well west of the line of destroyers. The cruisers were pouring broadsides across the lashed water, and the destroyers, like bull pups, were pounding away, holding station splendidly, trying to reach the enemy. One got a hit squarely on its foredeck and rolled half around, wallowing in the trough. A sheet of flame spurted from a gun turret and rolled over the deck. For a moment the little ship staggered on, then exploded.