Quickly the big fighters, each with a bomb load tucked in where ordinarily extra tanks would nestle, closed into formation. The flight leader, Colonel Wellman held them in tight formation.
As they roared along Stan thought back over the past few days. He had been offered the flight leader’s job but had turned it down. When Wellman got back he would be ranked up a notch and shoved into a job where he could fly only occasionally. Already his record and his rating kept him at base most of the time. Stan grinned. He did not want anything out of the war but a chance to fly in action.
They moved across the channel, high up in the cold sky. Roaring toward Berlin in arrow-straight flight, they slid over the Netherlands. There were to be no roundabout evasive tactics tonight, not with bombs in the place of extra gasoline.
Stan checked his instrument panel and his clocks. They must be over Germany now. The country below was blacked-out entirely. There was no flak and no lights below. Darkness still filled the world, but dawn was not far away.
A buzzer signal in his headset told Stan it was time to settle down for low flying. Light had begun to show in the east. Down went the Mustangs, and as the dawn began to lighten the low country below, they roared across the German countryside. Now they were greeted by a few bursts of fire, but no heavy flak came at them. Because they were hedge-hopping at a terrific speed, the German warning systems were not spotting them in time to allow gunners to get set.
“Tactical formation, Red Flight.” Colonel Wellman broke the silence with that crisp order.
The Mustangs spread out and made a circling sweep. They had been headed straight for Berlin and would be spotted as a nuisance raid group of Mosquito bombers. No fighters would try to intercept them. The Berlin defenders would depend upon flak, as fighters were useless against the fast Mosquitoes. By swinging sharply east the Mustangs would hit the fighter hangars.
The light was good as the boys roared along at treetop level and spotted the landmarks they had been briefed to expect. They flew in perfect formation. Stan was flying the tail slot along with O’Malley. They were in a mopping-up position.
Stan saw the runways flash into sight, then he saw the lead Mustangs go in with their wheels almost touching the runways. A second later there were many flashes of flame and rolling clouds of dust. At the same moment the earth began to erupt fire and smoke and steel. The second wave of Mustangs disappeared into the inferno. Stan saw two of them blow up, then go bouncing and tumbling along the ground. That was all he had time to see. With his hand on the bomb release he went in.
The smoke and the firing was so intense Stan could make out little. He judged his distance and released his bombs when he caught a glimpse of a yawning tunnel ahead. He saw O’Malley cut his load loose. O’Malley was wing to wing with him. Then the Irishman’s Mustang stuck her nose into the ground and went end over end down the field like a wrecked kite. Stan pulled up hard and as his P-51 lifted, he felt something hit her. It was as though he had slammed into a stone wall. She staggered, let down one wing, then nosed over. Stan felt the ground slap her and heard the ripping and tearing of metal as something exploded almost in his face. A blinding flash of light stabbed at his eyeballs and blinded him.
The Mustang rolled over and over, her sturdy fuselage refusing to crumple. Stan’s one thought was of fire. He pawed aside what was left of his hatch cover and heaved himself upward and out. Staggering free of the wreckage, he found himself enveloped in a choking pall of smoke. Off to his left, a heavy explosion shook the ground. Dirt and sticks and bits of metal peppered him and the smoke surged away before the concussion of the explosion. Stan staggered back and as he did so, four soldiers leaped at him out of the smoke.
One of the men lunged at Stan from the side and two from the rear. He felt a solid impact on the back of his head and felt himself slumping forward, then everything went black.
CHAPTER VI
PRISONER
Stan opened his eyes and found himself in a big room with stone walls and high windows. Sun was streaming in through two of the windows and gleamed upon piles of straw littering the floor. A dozen Yank airmen and several R.A.F. men sat on the straw. Stan lifted his hand to the back of his head and groaned. An R.A.F. man near him said:
“A bit of a tough rap? Can I get you some water? It’s all we’ve seen so far in the way of refreshments.”
“Thanks,” Stan said. “But where am I?”
“A Jerry prison. I take it you were one of the boys who bombed the fighter fields. I’m Captain Prentiss.” The Britisher smiled.
“I’m Stan Wilson. I’m not sure I bombed anything. Is there an Irishman here by the name of O’Malley?”
“Right-o. He was dragged in with you.” Prentiss got to his feet. “I’ll go tell him you’re awake.”
“Thanks.” Stan heaved himself to a sitting position and looked around. Several of the boys nodded to him but none of them got up. All of them were strangers to Stan, men from flights he had not worked with.
O’Malley came in from a narrow hallway and hurried across the room. When he saw that Stan was sitting up, a dark scowl on his face turned into a grin.
“Sure, an’ I’ve been yellin’ at them Krauts, tryin’ to get them to send a Doc in to fix you up. They jest laughed at me.”
“I don’t need a doctor. How did the raid go?”
“The boys say we blew ’em off the map. I talked with a couple of Lib boys just brought in. We cleared the path to Berlin.” O’Malley grinned eagerly. “I’m glad ye’re feelin’ foine now. We have to get out o’ this hole.”
Stan looked up at the high, barred windows. “Yes, we do,” he said, more to encourage O’Malley than because he had any hopes. They were deep in the heart of Germany and soon would be in a closely guarded prison camp.
“They’re takin’ us to another prison in a few minutes. The guard says we get to eat before we’re locked up again. We have to be questioned by the Gestapo.” O’Malley leered angrily.
“You mean German Intelligence,” Stan corrected.
“All the same. Himmler runs ’em both,” O’Malley answered.
They were interrupted by a shout from the hallway. A burly German officer stamped into the room and stood looking at the men.
“Get to your feet!” he yelled.
The men slowly rose and stared at the officer. He glared at them, his eyes moving over them slowly.
“You should be treated as swine, you bomb cities and kill non-combatants. Der Fuehrer does not like this,” he snarled.
“We are only following the example you set at Warsaw and Rotterdam,” a British major said as he stepped over and faced the German. “We are prisoners of war and you’ll treat us as such, my fine fellow.”
Stan moved forward quickly. The R.A.F. major stood with his feet planted well apart, facing the German. The German lashed out suddenly with a knotted fist. The major swayed a bit and ducked the blow. He started a right cross for the German’s jaw but Stan dived in and pinned his arms.
“Swine! Dog!” the German bellowed. “You will pay for this.”
“Take it easy. Knocking his block off won’t help you any,” Stan said as he released the major’s arms. “There ought to be better ways.”
“I’m sorry,” the major said stiffly.
The German glared around him. He puffed out his chest and struck a stiff pose.
“You are to be moved to other quarters. Anyone trying any sneaking business will be shot. Is dot clear?”
“It’s clear. Get on with the moving,” Stan said crisply.
“You better be after feedin’ us,” O’Malley broke in.
The officer blew a whistle and a squad of soldiers filed in. The men lined up and the officer began splitting the prisoners up into small groups. He sent six men away with the guards and whistled for another squad.