Morina & the Switching Spell Ch. 03

"Captain Spelling! Just what do you think you were doing up there?" Sqn. Ldr. Porter shouted as he approached us from the hangar.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" I asked.

"You didn't check to be sure your guns were in working condition before you took off and then painting your wings that ridiculous yellow. I should have you thrown out of the service right now," he scolded.

"Sir!" "Squadron Leader Porter" Browning and Martin protested.

I opened the gun casing, and everything looked to be in working condition.

"Let me see for myself," Sqn. Ldr. Porter said, climbing back into the cockpit. The plane was pointed away from the buildings and at some distant trees. He started the engine and pressed the firing mechanism. Instantly, a small burst of gunfire spewed forth.

"I don't understand. It wasn't working before," I said after the Squadron Leader turned off the engine and stepped down.

"The four of you are late for the debriefing. Let's go," he said.

"But sir, Captain Spelling--" Hastings began.

"Now! Or you're all going on report," he said sternly.

Squadron Leader Cummings of the RAF 1-2-2 Squadron conducted the debriefing and credited the partial success of the mission in damaging the secondary target of a fuel depot. But he was irate about the number of losses and especially about the well-organized Luftwaffe defense.

It was obvious to him that the Nazis were "tipped off" about the operation. They seemed to know how our aircraft were positioned and the time of the attack, matching their Bf 109's against our slower Spitfires and their faster Bf 110s against our P-47 Thunderbolts.

Towards the end of his debriefing, he made mention of the importance of checking equipment, especially making sure the machine guns were in working condition, prior to take off. He looked directly at me when he stressed that point.

After the briefing, a memorial service was held in honor of the dead and missing pilots.

When that was over, I headed for the service hangar to look for the ground crew. They were working diligently on repairing the planes and turning them around for reuse as quickly as possible. My plane had just been brought in and they were remarking about all the bullet holes, wondering how the plane was able to stay in the air.

I spoke with Bill Jenkins, the ground crew foreman. He called the crew together about the yellow paint and the plane's machine guns.

"Which of you worked on Captain Spellman's plane?" he asked the crew.

They all looked at each other.

"I started to, sir, but then the new guy told me to take a break and he'd finish up for me."

That was Sam Hackett, a crew member I'd been working with.

"What new guy?" Jenkins asked, "I don't know about any new guy."

"He was one of the Brits, sir. I could tell from his accent," Hackett explained, "He said something about some sort of cross-training program so that our ground crews could work on their planes and vice versa."

"Nobody told me anything about that," Jenkins said, clearly frustrated, "The brass never communicates these things to me."

"Is he here now, Hackett?" I asked.

The man looked around before replying.

"No, sir. I ain't seen him around since he worked on your plane yesterday, sir," he replied.

"Did you at least get a good look at him, Hackett? What did he look like?" I asked.

"I can't really say, sir," Hackett replied, "I never got a good look at his face 'cause he was lookin' down all the time. I think he had blond hair."

"What time was that, Hackett?" I asked.

"I dunno, sir. Sometime in the afternoon, I guess. Mebbe around fourteen or fifteen hundred hours?" He replied.

"Did you notice anything else curious about him?" I asked.

He thought about it for a few moments before answering.

"Now that you mention it, sir, he did look pretty clean," he said.

"Clean? What do you mean?" I asked.

"His hands, sir. At first, I noticed that his overalls didn't have no grease on them. I remember thinking he must have put on a new pair this morning. But his hands had no grease on them, either. Look here, sir," he said, holding up his hands. They were covered with black grease, especially under his fingernails.

"These planes need plenty of grease, sir. You can't work on them without getting this black stuff everywhere, especially your hands. And it takes a long time to get it off. But his hands were clean. I dinnit see no grease on them anywhere," he exclaimed.

"Thank you, Hackett. If it's all right with you and Jenkins, I'd like to request that the only people who work on my plane are you two. If you need anyone else, they should be supervised directly by either of you. Is that possible?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," they both chorused.

"But it's going to take us a couple of days to repair all them bullet holes, sir," Jenkins said.

"Thank you, Jenkins. I'm sure you'll do your best," I replied.

By the time I got back to the 5-1-2 Squadron's camp, Martin and Browning had spread the word about my run-in with the Messerschmitts. They all wanted a first-hand account of the actions. I tried to deflect the attention back to Browning and Martin, pointing out that they easily made one kill each while my British partner Hastings shot the first one on my tail.

"But Spelling took out three Krauts without firing a shot," Browning replied.

Pressed with questions, I only admitted that my guns had "jammed" and how lucky I was that the two Messerschmitts had collided with each other after my engine cut out.

"You mean the engine was off when you did that nose dive with that third Kraut on your tail?" Browning asked.

"Yeah. How did you get your engine restarted? I'm surprise you could even reach the controls no less turn the engine over with all that g-force working against you," Lieutenant Wilkins asked. Wilkins was one of the new pilots who had joined us over the past week.

"Yeah, how did you do that?" Fitzgibbons asked.

I couldn't very well tell them I used magic.

"I'm just lucky, I guess. Maybe my guardian angel was looking out for me today," I said, smiling.

"Judging from the number of holes I saw in that plane, you must have a whole host of angels," Martin joked.

"Including all those beautiful women you seem to attract. Spellman, you certainly live a charmed life," Spinner added.

He didn't know how close to the truth that was, I thought.

Later that night, I spoke to my mother through the quilt.

"What happened to you today?" she asked in a whisper.

The way she asked was as if she knew something had happened. My heart pounded in my chest thinking about the day's events and how close I came to death.

"Nothing, it was just a routine bombing mission," I whispered back. I didn't want her to worry.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Morley Prescott Spellman. I may be over 3,000 miles away, but I can tell when you're hiding something, even through this quilt," she scolded.

I never could lie to her. How did she know? Could she feel my heart pounding through the quilt? I realized that my attempt to cover up my adventures only made her more anxious, so I fessed up.

"I didn't want to worry you, but my plane was sabotaged by a warlock, and I had a narrow escape," I whispered. I told her the whole story and how I was able to survive, especially with the help of the charmed pendant.

"Do you know who was responsible?" she asked.

"I have a pretty good idea," I said.

"Please be careful! Consider the consequences of your actions before you do anything. Remember, you don't want to draw too much attention to yourself," she warned.

"I won't, Mother, I promise," I said earnestly.

"Now show me your pendant so I can recharge it. Then I will let you go so you can get some sleep," she whispered.

***

8 May 1944, Monday.

Another sunny day. The drier weather enabled the ground crew to complete their work. Tomorrow would be the first sortie by the entire 4-0-6 Fighter Group.

Jenkins and Hackett worked all night on my P-47, along with 4 other ground crew members who were good at sheet metal work. Replacing all the bullet-riddled holes in the wings, tail and fuselage was the most time-consuming repair work that needed to be done. Fortunately, as more supplies poured in, spare parts became readily available. With any luck, I would be able to join my squadron for tomorrow's sortie.

At the USAAF morning briefing, commendations were given to Browning and Martin for their kills yesterday.

"What about Spellman? He was responsible for 3 kills yesterday," Browning called out after receiving his recognition.

"Have you seen his plane? It's been all shot up and he still made it back," Martin added.

Other members in my squadron spoke up in agreement.

Major Locke looked to the Colonel. He had a concerned look on his face.

"I'm afraid Captain Spellman doesn't qualify. According to the report I received from Squadron Leader Porter who was in command of the operation, those kills you refer to were mid-air collisions and cannot be counted officially as kills," Major Locke said.

"Does that include the Messerschmitt that followed him when he nose-dived?" Martin asked.

"That one, too," Major Locke admitted.

The hall was suddenly filled with low mumbling and the word "unfair" was clearly heard. Several of the pilots sitting near me clapped me on the shoulders and told me how sorry they were and how I had been cheated.

Mother was right, I was starting to draw too much attention. Getting credit for those three kills was less important than finding out who sabotaged my plane or more importantly, who sabotaged the mission. I needed to downplay my role in all of this.

After the briefing, Major Locke pulled me aside.

"Captain Spelling, I read Squadron Leader Porter's report about what happened yesterday, but I want to hear it from you. What happened up there?" He asked.

"My guns jammed and wouldn't fire, sir. I reported it to Squadron Leader Porter, but there wasn't anything anyone could have done because the Krauts were already on us. My partner Hastings was able to shoot one Bf 110 that was tailing me. The other two had a mid-air collision, just as Squadron Leader Porter wrote in his report, sir."

"What about that third Nazi plane?" He asked.

"Maybe his instruments jammed, sir. We were in a pretty steep nose-dive and those Messerschmitts aren't known for their maneuverability," I suggested.

The Major looked at me. He seemed to be studying my face. After a while, he spoke.

"You were very fortunate, Captain. You wouldn't believe the rumors circulating around the base about your actions up there yesterday," he said.

"I hope you're not holding me responsible for those rumors, sir," I said.

"No, of course not. But I hope your good fortune stays with you, Captain," he said.

"Thank you, sir," I responded.

After lunch, I was summoned to meet with Agatha in the conference tent.

"I heard you were attacked yesterday. Are you alright?" she asked after warding the tent.

"I'm fine, but my plane was sabotaged, and I think the mission was, too," I replied.

"What? How?" she asked.

I explained how my guns wouldn't work and my plane was marked with a bright yellow paint, both of which mysteriously disappeared after I landed. I also told her how the ground crew reported a mysterious blond-haired man wearing clean overalls and speaking with a British accent was seen around my plane the day before.

"You're thinking it was Ni- I mean, Squadron Leader Porter?" Agatha asked.

"Don't you? He fits the description, right down to the clean hands," I replied.

"Clean hands? What does that have to do with it?" she asked.

"That mysterious blond-haired man posing as a ground crewman had clean hands. Anyone who works on those planes has black grease all over their hands," I explained.

"It could have been Nigel Porter, I wasn't able to keep an eye on him because I was running errands for most of the day before returning to pick up and drive Lord Ayresdon back to London," Agatha responded. She looked distressed.

"Do you think he could have tipped off the Luftwaffe as well? Have you heard of any unusual radio transmissions coming from the base?" I asked.

"There are all sorts of transmissions sent out, especially before a mission. But it would have had to be a pretty complicated code to be disguised in such detail." Agatha pointed out.

"What about an accomplice?" I asked.

"That's possible. I'll check the log of everyone who entered and left the airfield for the past 4 days. But if there was an accomplice and he or she were magical, they might not be whom they claimed to be," Agatha replied.

"Maybe I should reveal myself to Squadron Leader Porter and confront him directly," I suggested.

"Absolutely not! If Nigel Porter sabotaged your plane thinking you were a non-magical, can you imagine what he would do if he knew you were a warlock?" Agatha asked, rhetorically.

"What do you suggest I do then?" I asked.

"Try to keep a low profile and look for more evidence. If he is behind this, then we need to know who he's working with and how he's communicating with the Nazis. In the meantime, I'll report back to Lord Ayersdon and let you know what he suggests," she answered.

"We may need to keep our meetings more discreet. I think Nigel Porter might have seen you kiss me when you dropped me off from London the other day," I said.

"What makes you think he saw us?" she asked.

"He was standing close enough to see me leave the staff car. Then he warned me to stay away from you," I answered.

"He did? That's interesting because he never said a word about it to me. It looks like we both should be careful," Agatha replied.

"Until then," I said as I left the tent.

As I stepped outside, I saw Squadron Leader Porter looking in my direction. He glowered at me as I saluted and passed by.

I stopped by the ground crew station where Jenkins and Hackett were enjoying a cup of tea.

"Well, what do you think?" Jenkins said, indicating the plane to his right with a quick head movement.

It looked like a shiny new plane! Every aluminum panel on the wings and tail had to be replaced as well as several panels on the fuselage. The new panels shone in the late afternoon sun. The older panels, mostly around the cockpit, were a dull gray by comparison.

"Jenkins! Hackett! You guys are miracle workers!" I exclaimed.

"When I told the boys what you did to them Krauts on Sunday, they worked all day and night to make sure you were ready to fly tomorrow," Jenkins said.

"Looks like I'm going to be buying a lot of ales next time we get into town," I said, smiling.

***

9 May 1944, Tuesday.

This was the day of the 4-0-6 Group's first all-American mission in Europe. There were 12 of us from the 5-1-2 and we were joined by the blue and red squads of the 5-1-3 and 5-1-4 to do a fighter sweep of an area northwest of Paris. After all the excitement on Sunday, we were expecting the worst. Instead, it turned out to be a pleasant excursion. We encountered no enemy planes. In fact, we didn't even get anti-aircraft flak.

On the way back to Ashford, I marveled at how easy a mission this was so deep over French soil. If Nigel Porter was tipping off the Nazis about our missions, he must have known we were watching him and monitoring his communications carefully.

I'm going to need to take a closer look at Porter's hands.

*******

Next Chapter: Morina arrives in London and gets interrogated.

As always, your comments are appreciated. Let me know what you think of the story so far. EM