Hoiking the tail of the Mustang, he hopped her suddenly. It was a trick he had depended upon to save him from the guns. As she shot upward he saw flame and fire rip the runway. The blast was so close to his belly that it sheared away most of the landing gear. Stan banked and dropped back down toward the roofs of the city. As he laid over he saw the withering fire on the runway lift. Amid the ripped up slabs of cement he saw a man lying sprawled on his face. He was half covered by a slab of concrete.
“One for the Dutch patriots,” Stan said grimly.
As he roared over the rooftops, Stan leaned back and laughed. He would have to fly low because the high-level dual supercharger was not working. All he had done was adjust the regular carburization system. He had not taken chances on his work on the high-altitude machinery.
There were no Nazi planes in the air. There had been no alert. Stan was sure there would be no attack until he reached Rotterdam. Using the tactics of the Rhubarb Raiders he flew low over the tile roofs and the windmills.
In a surprisingly short time, the Mustang broke out over Rotterdam and Stan straightened his course. His compass was out, the gyro-horizon had been removed and both clocks were stopped. The radio had been stripped out of the ship along with every other instrument not absolutely necessary to test flight. Domber had only wanted to learn about the supercharger. His egotism in believing everyone else was dull-witted compared to himself had saved Stan.
Over the estuary of the Rhine River Stan met his first flak. A startled battery opened up as he flipped over so low down he could see the buttons on the artillery men’s uniforms. The firing was wild, but it roused gunners out on the Hook of Holland. There the Jerries did some closer shooting. But Stan was dusting the concrete emplacements and the gunners did not get their hearts into the job. Stan flipped up over blue water with a grin on his face.
Checking his gasoline supply, he judged he could get to the middle of the channel. He had no parachute and no life belt or Mae West suit to float him. The chill water of the channel would soon drag him down. He had to locate a patrol boat or a British ship of some other class. And he had to watch for Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf fighters.
High above him he spotted three fighter craft. He saw them wheel and bank into the sun. They would be coming downstairs to have a look. Possibly they had been warned by radio to look for him. A minute later he spotted five more planes and these he was able to check. They were FW 190 fighters and they were coming up from the direction of Ostende on the Belgium coast. Then he saw two Me 109 Stingers slipping in from the other side. Stan kicked the Mustang wide open. No use trying to save gas by holding cruising speed. He had to get away from that coast.
The Mustang knifed ahead and Stan bent forward as the air-speed indicator rolled up to just under four hundred miles per hour. There was no more boost and he longed for the dual supercharger. The FW’s dropped in behind, unable to head him off, but the Me’s came on like falcons trapping a homing pigeon. Stan felt a good deal like a pigeon. He was unarmed and he was carrying a vital message that had to get through. He dived down close to the water and roared ahead.
One Me dived in on him and zoomed over him. Stan felt lead spattering all over his ship and saw cannon shells hit the sea close below his wings. The second Me came in and Stan slipped a bit, kicking the top of a wave with his port wing.
The Jerry was coming down at a terrific rate. He did not think any sane flier would be zooming along on the crests of the waves. When Stan dipped, the Jerry missed him and shot past. Stan pulled up sharply just as a great cloud of water and smoke lifted above the sea. The Jerry had hit nose-on. Stan saw the tail of his ship and one square-tipped wing rise above the green water, then slip from sight.
In coming up Stan went over the third Me. It managed to flatten out but went skidding along the tops of the waves for a half mile before it got into the air again.
That gave Stan his chance to get away. He could outrun the Me’s once he got them down on his level, where they could not use their diving speed. But the three fighter craft he had first spotted were coming down now. They were dangerous ships. All three of them were FW 190’s, and diving on an enemy from above is a job the FW does best.
Stan settled down close to the channel again and kept racing on. The FW’s were sloping in at a screaming pace. Stan felt their first lead as it hailed around him. He stayed in the fire a split second, then bounced up and over. He saw the three FW’s far below him. They were coming around for another climb.
“Sorry, fellows, but I just can’t wait,” Stan muttered.
He nosed down again and used the slope to build up speed. Suddenly he glanced at his gasoline indicator. It was getting wobbly. Stan went up again to have a look around. Far ahead he spotted two black specks with smoke pluming up over them. That meant larger ships than patrol boats. They might be German light destroyers on patrol, but they were the only craft in sight. He had to make a try for them.
Sloping off again, he roared away toward the ships. Slowly their hulls became larger and Stan saw that they were destroyers, small, sleek, and fast. They were plowing along at top speed, which was not a good sign. German craft in those waters would be making knots because Allied planes kept a sharp watch over the channel.
Stan went in at top speed. He was still a long way from the two ships when his engine quit. It went out without any sputtering at all, and it refused to rev up a single blast.
Flying so low, Stan knew he would not stay up over any great distance. He felt the Mustang begin to settle. The ships were closer now, but he still had not identified them. That no longer mattered. If they were German he would just sink with the Mustang. Considerable haze and smoke enveloped the ships. They were putting about and swinging away from him so that the smoke kept them covered. Stan had a wild notion they thought he was trying to torpedo them and were taking evasive measures.
“Germans,” he said between his gritted teeth.
Then the Mustang shot through the smoke, grazed the prow of one of the destroyers, and settled into the channel with a terrific splash. Stan heard anti-aircraft guns blasting away and saw flame and smoke belching from dozens of gun muzzles above him. “They aim to finish me off right,” he thought wryly.
He promptly forgot his resolve to go down with the Mustang. Pawing the hatch cover open he heaved himself out of the cockpit and tumbled into the water. A big wave rolled over him and the suction from the sinking Mustang dragged him down. Savagely he battled his way to the surface. He was pawing and sputtering but able to swim strongly.
Looking up he saw that he was close beside the destroyer or her sister ship, he did not know which. Something white came sailing down toward him and he heard a voice shout to him:
“Blimey, old man! Grab the preserver!”
Then Stan saw that two other life preservers had been tossed to him. He swam to the nearest one and grabbed it. He was shaking from the cold water but he laughed. The destroyer was flying the ensign of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
A few minutes later a boat picked him up and he was rowed to the destroyer. Climbing aboard he was met by the commander. Stan saluted the officer.
“Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, reporting, sir,” he said.
The commander looked at Stan’s clothes, then smiled. “Where were you going with that Mustang, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“I was headed for home, sir. You mistook me for a Jerry and started shooting.”
“No, we knew what you were. We just bagged two Focke-Wulf fighters off your tail. But you can report in detail after we get you into some dry clothing.”