A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.

THE HAWK DROPPED UPON THE BATTLE WAGON BELOW.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.
Frontispiece (Page 120)

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A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.

BY

AL AVERY

ILLUSTRATED BY

Paul Laune

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK


Copyright, 1941, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

[Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

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[Pg 1]

A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.

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CHAPTER I

GLORY TRAIL

Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilson entered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living, gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had been born of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on, at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seemingly directed at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There was seldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at himself.

Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the[Pg 2] whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant wasn't able to get chummy with his men before they left him.

Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, a plump youth who was unofficially known as "jelly bean"; McCumber, a silent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased to whistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat Irish Kelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a real lead slinger.

A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffee before him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressing it seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clipped and the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan's gaze held a hint of insolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazy Flight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savage fighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward the table.[Pg 3]

Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped into it.

"I'm March Allison," he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan with irritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan, but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.

"I'm Stan Wilson," he said, "the new member of Red Flight."

"Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?" Allison clipped the words off in a manner that was almost derisive.

"That's what my card shows," Stan said testily.

"You're a Yank," Allison snapped. Then he grinned and little wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I can smell a Yank," he added.

"If you don't mind suppose we leave it as the card reads?" Stan said coldly.

"All right with me, old fellow," Allison answered. "Only I hope you're a faster flier than the planes the Yanks have sent us so far."

That nettled Stan. A picture leaped into his mind—the picture of a trim fighter[Pg 4] plane with low wings, and two banks of Brownings on each side of a 2,000-horse-power radial motor. Stan had nursed several of those babies into the blue. He didn't have to close his eyes to remember the test flight card he had filled out.

"Climbed to 20,000 feet in six minutes. Performed two barrel rolls, three loops. Checked all controls in neutral. Fired all guns and checked temperatures of gun-warming units. Did a series of sharp dives with steady pull-outs." As Stan's thoughts wandered back he grinned into Allison's face. He had put a number of Spitfires through their paces and knew that they were mud hens compared to the new babies which would soon be coming over from the United States.

"You'll soon get one with 2,000 horses up ahead and then you'll junk your Spitfires and Hurricanes," he said.

Allison cocked an eye at him and grinned widely. "Do you suppose you and I will be hitting the glory trail then?"

"I figure I'll be around doing something," Stan answered and matched the Lieutenant's grin.[Pg 5]

A mess corporal was standing near by hopefully fussing with Stan's chit book which had just been issued to him. Stan gave the corporal a nod.

"Black coffee," he ordered.

At that moment Tommy Lane strolled over and flopped into a chair. He winked at Stan as he elevated his lank legs to the top of the table, almost upsetting Allison's coffee.

"If the notch don't get you the Messerschmitts must," he hummed softly. He seemed to be trying to tease Allison. When the Flight Lieutenant failed to show any interest, Tommy said, "Your treat, Allison. I'll have black coffee with a big jug of cream on the side."

Allison ordered Tommy's drink and watched the corporal mark it up in his chit book. He rolled an eye lazily toward the lanky youth.

"Stan Wilson from Canada," he drawled.

Stan grinned at Tommy Lane. His eyes bit into Allison. He did not like the way Allison was acting about his past record. If he was to have his chance to get a whack at the Jerries in this war, it was important that he be considered a subject of the British Empire,[Pg 6] and he had come a lot of miles to get that chance.

An Exercise in Translation

Nous ne pouvons donner ici une biographie complète de M. Émile Zola: chercher à saisir quelques traits de sa personnalité, mettre en évidence quelques nuances de son talent, voilà tout ce que nous voulons essayer de faire.

Sa jeunesse, on le sait, a été fort pénible. Orphelin, sans fortune, il dut abandonner ses études pour soutenir sa mère. Qui sait si, dans le cas où la vie ne l'aurait pas étreint si rudement, il serait parvenu à la position qu'il occupe aujourd'hui? Il avait, de bonne heure, renoncé aux études de lettres pour se vouer aux sciences; son tempérament tranquille et son goût pour la retraite le prédestinaient peut-être 10aux humbles fonctions de médecin de village, ou de modeste chimiste.—Mais il dut gagner son pain, comme simple employé de la maison Hachette; et bientôt, peut-être, au contact de toutes les œuvres qui lui passaient par les mains, il sentit s'éveiller en lui les instincts littéraires. Ses premiers essais furent blâmés par son patron, qui n'entendait pas que ses employés perdissent leur temps la plume à la main. Malgré cela, il parvint à publier ses Contes à Ninon, qui le firent un peu connaître. Il fut chargé de la revue bibliographique dans le Figaro, et se vit à même d'entrer dans la littérature, de renoncer au rôle d'employé.

Les idées hardies dont il entreprit la défense ne tardèrent pas à blesser beaucoup de susceptibilités, à lui aliéner une grande partie du public. Comme tous les vrais artistes, il était (et il est encore) très personnel; il appelait un salon: mon salon, et des critiques littéraires: mes haines. En outre, comme tous les hommes de nature énergique et calme, comme tous les penseurs convaincus, il était lutteur. La forme 11dont il revêtit ses critiques, toujours violentes, souvent acerbes, leur donnait l'air d'une polémique: polémique contre toutes les conventions, contre tous les succès immérités, contre toutes les admirations non justifiées, quelquefois même contre des talents universellement reconnus et admirés.—Sa franchise sans fard,—brutale parfois, mais jamais impolie,—impatienta le public; l'on fut obligé d'interrompre la publication de Mon Salon.

Ainsi, le journalisme allait lui manquer.

Il avait déjà publié ses romans de Thérèse Raquin et de Madeleine Férat qui, très contestés, avaient pourtant été lus. On y trouve en germes la plupart des traits caractéristiques de son talent: c'est déjà la description minutieuse des hommes et des objets, la tyrannie des choses qui se fait sentir dans toute sa puissance, une intrigue toute simple, mais se développant par elle-même, aboutissant à la catastrophe par une sorte de fatalité. Ces deux livres renferment des pages superbes, et ont une puissance dramatique qu'on ne retrouve pas au même 12degré dans ceux qui les ont suivis. On dirait même que, plus tard, entièrement dominé par sa pensée philosophique, obéissant sans réserves à son désir de peindre les mœurs dans toute leur crudité, M. Zola s'est interdit tout écart de fantaisie; il semble, aujourd'hui, s'éloigner de plus en plus de l'intrigue, se borner à l'étude pure et simple des cas humains et des phénomènes sociaux. Ses romans forment, dans leur ensemble, une sorte de traité de physiologie, qui est pourtant une œuvre d'art.

Mais la production hachée et lâchée de romans paraissant en feuilletons ou chez l'éditeur qui voudrait bien les imprimer et qui, suivant sa spécialité, demanderait des changements, ne plaisait guère à M. Zola. Sincère avant tout, possédant le respect de son talent et le respect de ses lecteurs, il rêvait une grande œuvre. Ce fut à toute une suite de circonstances qu'il dut la première idée de sa série des Rougon-Macquart.

D'abord, le roman de Madeleine Férat posait 13une question physiologique qui intéressait beaucoup M. Zola: une vierge, ayant reçu l'empreinte d'un premier homme, est-il possible que les enfants qu'elle a d'un autre homme ressemblent pourtant à son premier amant? De nombreuses observations, faites par les éleveurs, tranchaient la question d'une manière affirmative [1].

Le jeune auteur, étonné lui-même des effets qu'il avait pu tirer d'une observation toute scientifique, résolut de mettre dorénavant la science au service de l'art.

The Heart of Wessex

A fine walk over Ballard Down not only commands some exceptional and sweeping views of the Dorset and Hampshire coast, but leads to Studland, a charming village with an ancient Norman church and a glorious little bay of golden sand, that is edged by the wide expanse of unenclosed moorland known as Studland Heath. The magnificent panorama from the high land above Studland embraces nearly the whole of the eastern half of Dorset, the far-famed Isle of Purbeck, and as we turn from the amphitheatre of rolling downs the eye ranges to the blue sea breaking at the base of the chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight, or foaming round the near promontory of Peveril Point.

Away in a north-easterly direction the low-lying lands that edge the creeks and mudflats of Poole Harbour spread out like a map, and contrast their warm greens with the silvery tones of the great harbour. A brief description of Poole is given in one of the short stories of Life's Little Ironies, where it figures beneath the thin disguise of "Havenpool".

During the smuggling days Poole, together with the majority of these south-country ports, enjoyed a very unenviable reputation, and was the home of the celebrated Harry Paye, or "Arripay" as the Spaniards who so dreaded him rendered the name, who is said to have brought into Poole Harbour, on one occasion, more than one hundred prizes from the ports of Brittany, and "to have scoured the channel of Flanders so powerfully that no ship could pass that way without being taken".

Poole has retained quite a number of its ancient domestic buildings, including the problematical fifteenth-century structure known as the "Town Cellars"; but nothing is known with regard to the purposes for which it was originally erected. Some antiquaries believe it to have been connected with the Guild of St. George, others hold that it was used as a manorial storehouse, wherein were deposited the goods left by the lord of the manor. Michael Drayton in his Polyolbion depicts the rivers Frome and Puddle as entertaining each other, "oft praising lovely Poole, their best beloved bay"; and in truth Poole Harbour is charming at any state of the tide. It has been the haunt of the painter since the days when Turner found such uncommon sources of inspiration along the shores of its wooded creeks, and counterfeit presentments of this Dorset lakeland hang on the walls of many a European picture gallery. Exclusive of all islands the area of this vast sea-lake is ten thousand acres, while it has been calculated that thirty-six million tons of water flow into and out of the narrow entrance at every spring tide.