As the deck of the Victory fell away from him Dave cranked up the Skua's wheels to add to its perfect streamline design and thus gain additional climbing speed. Sections One, Two, and Three were well above him and heading westward and slightly to the north. For a second he turned his head and glanced down back at the carrier. Every plane was off and in the air. The escort destroyers were circling the Victory and laying a thick smoke screen into which the carrier could plunge and make herself difficult to see in case the approaching enemy aircraft did break through. As a matter of fact, even as Dave stared downward, the Victory seemed to merge right in with a thick layer of soot black smoke.

"Quick work, eh?" he heard Freddy's shout. "Those destroyer chaps are a little bit of all right, eh?"

"They're tops, what I mean!" Dave shouted back. "How're you doing, Freddy?"

"Right enough!" the English youth said with a grin. "Get some more speed out of her, won't you? Wouldn't like to be left behind, you know."

"You old fire horse!" Dave said with a laugh, and turned front.

The altimeter now showed fifteen thousand feet of air under the wings, and the Skua was still going up like a skyrocket, keeping perfect pace with the two other planes of its section. Dave's blood danced with excitement, and he hoped hard that the leading sections would not meet and drive the enemy aircraft away before he could get there. It had been some time since he and Freddy had tangled with enemy craft. A little practice in gunnery and combat flying wouldn't do either of them any harm.

"Doggone right!" he echoed the thought aloud. "Feel like a bandit taking this last month's pay for doing practically nothing. And I—"

He cut himself off short as he suddenly heard Group Captain Spencer's voice in his earphones.

"Well, jolly well hurry up, Dawson, and earn some of that pay today!"

Dave sat up straight, and gasped. Then as he heard the chuckle in the earphones he blushed to the roots of his hair and grinned sheepishly. For a second he had clean forgotten that every word he spoke into the radio mike went into the earphones of every other Victory pilot in the air, as well as into the earphones of every man at the operations station aboard the carrier.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled. "Just talking rot to myself, and not thinking."

"Quite all right, Dawson!" came the cheery reply in his phone. "Get six or seven of these beggars and I'll forgive you. I'll—There they are, Crimson pilots! Dead ahead at twenty-one thousand. Well, well! Quite a mess of them. Spread out and let them go down. Right-o, Crimson pilots. Tally-ho!"

Dave gripped the stick tighter and peered hard upward and ahead at the Mediterranean sky. At first he saw nothing but blue streaked by the brassy glare of the sun. Then suddenly he saw the swarm of dots—tiny dots, like a horde of gnats streaking along high up in the heavens. A moment or so later, however, they ceased to be dots that looked like gnats. The leading group nosed down and in almost no time they took on the definite shape and outline of Junker Ju. 88s, the huge long range Luftwaffe bombers powered by twin Daimler-Benz engines, which since tryouts during the winter over England had been changed some so that instead of being confined to level flight bombing they could perform Stuka or dive bombing work as well. Behind them in the second group were Heinkel 111 Ks, medium-sized bombers powered by two Junkers Juno radial engines.

Slipping the safety guard off the trigger button of his guns, Dave studied the enemy planes intently. That the Junkers 88s were heading down while the Heinkels stayed at altitude—in fact, were even starting to climb higher—seemed proof enough that a savage Stuka attack was to be made on the Victory while the main body of raiding aircraft swept onward to attack the principal unit of the British fleet a hundred miles or so ahead.

At that moment he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Freddy's grinning face close to his.

"Almost like a test, isn't it?" Freddy said, and held a hand over his flap-mike.

"Test?" Dave echoed and looked blank. "What do you mean, test?"

"As if the Fleet Air Arm Command had asked Goering to send some of his lads out from Italy or Sicily to see if we are still in shape," Freddy said. "Those are enemy planes, aren't they? It's been so long, you know."

"I think so." Dave grinned. "Tell you what, though, I'll find out for sure. Just sit tight while I fly across in front of one of them. If they shoot that funny look off your face, then we can be sure they're Nazis."

"Thank you, no!" Freddy said with a scowl. "Just you get us close, that's all. I can perfectly well find out for myself whether they're my friends or my foes!"

"Just wanted to help out a pal, that's all," Dave said, and turned front.

In another couple of moments the time for horse play and kidding was all over. The first of the diving Junkers had reached the level of the First and Second sections of the Victory's fighter planes. And those fighter planes tore in like so many steel-clawed eagles gone completely haywire. The air suddenly shook from the yammer and chatter of British and German aerial machine guns. And punctuating the rattle of the machine guns was the deeper and louder note of the air cannon mounted on the German craft.

Cannon or not, it made no difference to the pilots of the First and Second sections. As Dave fixed his gaze on them, and jammed his free hand hard against the throttle as if he could get more speed, he saw three of the 88s lose their wings and go cartwheeling off to the side, leaving behind great globs of oily black smoke hanging suspended in the blue sky. Another couple of minutes and two more 88s trying to wheel clear of the Victory's defending planes locked wings by mistake and blew up in a roar of sound that must have been heard all the way back to their home drome, wherever it was located.

A couple of more Junkers started running into trouble, but Dave didn't bother to watch how they made out. His section was now within gun range, and each pilot was picking out his Nazi plane to attack. Dave cut off and up toward the belly of an 88 that had zoomed and was trying frantically to get altitude. Dave steadied himself and the ship, got the Junkers square in his sights and then let drive with his four guns. He saw his gleaming tracers smoke up into the under side of the 88 like so many metal fireflies. At the same time four jetting tongues of flame stabbed down at him, and he knew that the Junkers' gunners were not being caught napping. He knew, too, an instant later, when his Skua shook and trembled slightly, that those gunners were not exactly blind men when it came to marksmanship.

His bursts, however, were the ones that counted. The firing from the Junkers suddenly ceased, and the craft lunged drunkenly off to the right. Dave held his ship in its zoom until the last moment, and then flung it over on its side. The maneuver left a perfect target for Freddy Farmer in the rear pit. And the young English youth was ready and set. His twin guns spat flame and sound, and even as Dave jerked his head around for a look, he saw a ribbon of flame dribble out from the port engine of the 88, and then sweep back over the wing and along the fuselage to the tail. The Nazi bomber became a roaring ball of flame in an instant, and as Dave cartwheeled away he caught the flash of its bombs falling away. The German pilot had released them so that they would not explode before he and members of his crew could bail out of the blazing plane.

It so happened, though, that the Nazi pilot forgot about one bomb, or perhaps the release toggle stuck. At any rate, that section of the sky was suddenly filled with flashing light and a blast of sound that seemed virtually to drive Dave's eardrums deep into his head. He could even feel the concussion of the explosion slap against the Blackburn Skua like a soggy wet blanket, and try to whip it over on its back. It was all Dave could do to hold the plane in its speed gaining dive and prevent it from flopping into a tight power spin.

"Nice going, Freddy!" he shouted back over his shoulder. "But next time tell the guys to shake their bombs off first. Boy! Is my head ringing!"

"So's mine!" Freddy shouted back. "Right-o, Dave! Let's get another of the beggars. Attack our fleet, will they! Up at the rotters, Dave!"

Even as Freddy was shouting the words, Dave had cut the Skua off to the right, then whipped it over and down in a lightning-like half roll. There, directly below his diving nose, was another 88. He opened fire at once, then curved up and away so that Freddy could rake the plane from nose to tail as they raced past. The Nazi craft didn't burst into flame. Instead, it rolled over in the air like a tired bird. For a moment or so it hovered on its back. Then it fell off on one wing, and down. White puffs began to appear off to the side, well below the crippled plane slowly slip-sliding downward to its final end in the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. The white puffs were the parachute envelopes of the pilots and crew members who had bailed out of the helpless craft.

Neither Dave nor Freddy, however, gave them so much as a second glance. The first group of the dive-bombing Junkers had been broken up. At least ten of them had been put out of the war for keeps, and the others were beating a hasty retreat to the west. The Heinkels, however, had not come down. They had gone up for more altitude instead, and had tried to race beyond the defending Victory fighters and reach their objectives far to the east.

They had tried, yes, but they had not succeeded. The sections in back of Dave's section had climbed swiftly up to meet those Heinkels and by sheer fighting power had forced them to turn off toward the north—that is, all but two of them. Two Heinkels had somehow broken through the barrier of defending Skuas and were now thundering down to level bomb the Victory far below.

Nazi though they might be, Dave could not help but feel a certain amount of admiration for the pilots and crews. It was a suicide attack they were about to make, and they obviously knew it. With all hope of reaching the British fleet blasted by the furious defense of the Victory's planes, two of those Heinkel pilots had decided to do what they could against the Victory below. To have continued on eastward would simply have meant a short passing of time before the speedy Skuas caught up with them and shot them out of the air. And so they had elected to do what damage they could to the Victory, and unquestionably they would pay for it with their lives.

"You've got to hand it to them," Dave muttered somewhat reluctantly as he sent his Skua hurtling downward. "At least that's two of Goering's guys who have what it takes. Too bad they signed up to play on the wrong team!"

A moment later, however, all feeling of sympathy and admiration was gone. The Victory was down there, and the enemy was wing howling down to blow it out of the water, if such a miracle could be performed. There were pals of Dave's down there on that carrier, pals who would risk their lives any day to save him. It was up to him to risk his, now, to save them. The diving Heinkels ceased to be airplanes manned by human beings like himself. They became in his mind two winged machines of death and destruction hurtling down to snuff out the lives of his pals and fellow officers.

And so he braced himself in the seat and dropped the Skua's nose down to the vertical. The Bristol engine in the nose screamed out its song of power, and the air rushing past set up a shrill constant whistle. Hunching forward, Dave pressed hard against his safety belt harness, tightened the muscles of his stomach, kept his mouth open and continually swallowed to reduce the air pressure in his ears. But all the time he kept his eyes riveted on the nearest diving Heinkel.

It all took up but a few brief seconds, and then he was streaking down on top of the German bomber. Its gunners opened up with everything they had, and the air in front of Dave's nose was filled with the wavy streams of tracer smoke. He did not veer to the left or right for an instant. He held his ship steady until a vital part of the bomber was square in his sights. Then he let out a yell and jabbed his trigger button. The four Vickers guns cowled into the leading edge of the wing, two on each side of the nose, and yammered out their song of destruction.

For what seemed an hour to Dave's tightly knotted nerves, the Heinkel continued on down in its dive. In reality it was not longer than it would take you to snap your fingers before smoke and flame belched out from the bomber to envelop it completely. It continued on down in its dive, however. But it slammed straight down into the water a good five miles astern of the zigzagging Victory.

The instant Dave saw the smoke and flame spew upward, he cut his fire, started to ease his ship up out of its thundering dive, and cast his eyes about for a glimpse of the second diving Heinkel. He spotted it almost at once off to his left, and as soon as he saw it he realized he didn't have to worry about it at all. Two of the Victory's planes, one of them piloted by Group Captain Spencer, had caught the bomber in a deadly crossfire. Three seconds later and that Heinkel was out of the war and on a one way flight down to a watery grave in the Mediterranean.

Dave relaxed in the seat a bit, pulled his plane up onto an even keel and glanced around at the heavens above him. The heavens were filled with flashing wings, but they were all wings made in England. There wasn't the sign of a single German plane. Those ships that had escaped the Victory pilots were by now so far away they couldn't be seen by the naked eye. A moment later Group Captain Spencer's voice came over the radio.

"Reform sections, Crimson pilots! Going aboard. Reform your sections, Crimson pilots. I want to count noses!"

The last caused Dave's heart to skip a beat. It wasn't until that moment he had realized the possibility that perhaps English as well as German pilots had gone down into the Mediterranean. While he hunted out the two planes of his section and dropped into formation, he tried to count noses himself. But before he had time to make sure of his count, he heard welcome words in his earphones.

"Good lads, all of you!" called Group Captain Spencer. "All present and accounted for. Fine! Fancy those beggars can't say the same. Right-o! Aboard you go in sections as you took off. Land by sections in line astern."

The last meant that as each section of three planes slid down to be taken aboard the carrier, the left and right planes would drop into line behind the center plane. In other words, instead of three abreast, or in V formation, they would be three in line behind each other, or in line astern.

By the time the first section had dropped down to a low altitude, the Victory had moved out of its protective smoke screen and was steaming into the wind. Dave glanced downward to see the escort destroyers circling back and around to pick up all surviving German airmen who might be in the water. Reaction hit him for a second and he shivered impulsively. Lady Luck had flown with him again, else he too might be down there floating around—or perhaps going down for the third time!

And then as he switched his attention back to his flying, Lady Luck did desert him, and old man Tough Luck laughed in his face. He yanked the release level that worked the mechanism that lowered his wheels—only the little red light on the instrument board did not wink out. The little red light was the pilot's guide as to whether his wheels were up or down. And the fact that it was on told him that his wheels were still up.

He worked the release lever gently a couple of times, but the light did not go out. He banged it hard with his fist, and whipped the nose of the plane up and down in an effort to jar the wheels down. The little red light, however, stayed on. At that moment Freddy leaned forward and rapped him on the shoulder.

"The right wheel, Dave!" he cried. "I can just see it from back here. It's stuck a quarter of the way down. I guess a Junkers or Heinkel gunner gave us a souvenir to take home. Cut a retracting gear cable, probably. I think I see the end of one whipping about in our prop-wash."

"Okay, thanks," Dave shouted back. "I'll try some more and then radio Operations."

Feeding high test gas to his engine, he pulled quickly upward and out of formation. Then, when he was well clear of the other sections drifting down to be taken aboard the carrier, he started kicking the Skua around in a desperate effort to get the right wheel to go all the way down. But it was no use. He could get both wheels back up into the wing sockets, but he could not get the right wheel more than a quarter of the way down. He finally gave up, gave Freddy an apologetic grin and called Operations aboard the carrier. He had been watched all the time, of course, and the orders were given to him at once.

"Get your wheels up, and keep them there, Dawson. Come down for a water landing. A crash boat will stand by to take you aboard at once. Land half a mile ahead of us. Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir," Dave replied in a voice that shook with emotion.

Of course it would be too dangerous for all concerned to attempt what is known as a "belly landing" aboard the carrier—a landing on the belly of the plane with both wheels up in the wings. The slightest skid could end up in a bad crash and quite possibly fire. And fire by accident aboard a carrier at sea is bad enough without asking for it, or tempting it. With that plan of action being out of the question, there were two other things that could be ordered done. One was to land in the water. The other was for Freddy and himself to bail out and let the ship crash. That he had not been given the last order was an unspoken compliment to his flying ability. Operations had faith he could sit down in the water without doing damage to Freddy or himself, or serious damage to the plane. Operations wanted to salvage the plane and repair it aboard, and Operations was counting on him to make it possible to save the ship.

For a moment he sat perfectly motionless at the controls, as though afraid that movement would end the thrilling spell through which he was passing. Then Freddy did break it by banging him on the shoulder.

"Get to it, my lad!" Freddy shouted. "The blasted water isn't coming up here to us, you know. You can do it in pukka style. We both know that."

Dave shook himself out of his trance, got his wheels back up into the wings, and then headed for a point half a mile ahead of the Victory. As he winged past the carrier, he saw one of the crash boats being lowered over the side. Then all that was behind him and there was just the expanse of the Mediterranean ahead. At the right moment he hauled the throttle back, and tilted the nose downward. Every muscle and nerve in him was drawn bow string tight as the blue water rose up toward him.

It was not the first time he had put a land plane down in the water, but on those other occasions it had not mattered if he cracked up the plane a bit. This time was different. The Victory needed this Blackburn Skua. The Fleet Air Arm in the Mediterranean had too few planes as it was. Every ship it could salvage was as good as two brand-new planes on the long way out from the factory in Britain. He had to make this the best landing of his flying career. He owed it to Freddy, he owed it to the rest of the boys aboard the Victory—and he owed it to himself.

One second ticked past. Two seconds—three. And then the blue water was right underneath him. He whipped out his free hand and cut the ignition. With his other hand he eased back the stick and brought the nose up a few inches. Flying speed fell off instantly. The plane seemed to hang motionless just off the surface of the water. The round crest of a gentle blue swell rolled by and whispered up against the belly of the plane. As though a thousand glue-covered fingers had touched the bottom of the plane, the Skua stuck to the water. It lurched just slightly and plowed up a faint spray. Then it settled a bit by the nose, steadied, and floated as nicely as a duck on a millpond.

Dave let the clamped air out of his lungs in a rush of sound. It was not until then he realized that his face was dripping with sweat. He gulped and turned around to look at Freddy. The blood was coming back into the English youth's face. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright with something that was far more than just friendly affection. Then he seemed to catch himself showing his inner emotions. He gave a little nod of his head and broadened his grin.

"Well done, my lad!" he shouted. "My sincerest congratulations. It was so beautiful, that for a minute I thought—Oh, let it go."

"You thought what?" Dave demanded, and tried to get his heart to ease up from thumping so hard against his ribs.

Freddy arched his eyebrows and gestured with one hand.

"Why, it was so perfect," he said, "that for a moment I thought I was flying the blasted thing."

The crazy remark snapped the tension in Dave. He relaxed completely, and laughed and made a pass at Freddy. They were still kidding and horsing around when the crash boat slid up alongside, took them aboard, and began towing the floating plane back to the hoisting crane aboard the Victory. When they reached the carrier, the cheer that came down to Dave's ears sounded like the sweetest music he had ever heard in his life.