Like so many huge birds of prey coming home to roost, the twenty-one ferry bombers slid down to a landing on the R.A.F. field at Land's End at the southwest tip of England, and went trundling over to the tarmac line and the waiting mechanics. When the last had touched earth, Dave and Freddy cut their throttles and slid down also. They landed together and taxied that way up to the line. When he reached it Dave cut his ignition, climbed out and hurried stiff-legged over to Freddy's plane.

"What was the big idea of giving me such a case of heart failure?" he demanded of his pal. "Holy smoke! That little business took fifteen years off my life, if it took a day. In future, don't do that to me, see?"

Freddy legged down and pulled off his helmet and goggles.

"You think I was just having sport?" he snorted. "Far from it, my lad. I missed my man completely. A blasted good pilot he was, too. Next thing I knew two of them had me all wrapped up and were ready to send me some place I had no fancy to go to. Much, much too close for comfort, so the only thing I could do was fake being hit and spin the bus downward. That at least threw off their aim a bit. And when I pulled out and up in the last second, they were—"

Freddy paused and grinned broadly.

"Well, the remaining blighter was too surprised to do anything about stopping me," he said. "But thanks for taking care of that other beggar. I might not have surprised both of them. Fact is, I fancy you saved my life again, old thing. I'm grateful."

"You should get tossed in the duck pond for giving me such a scare!" Dave growled, but softened it with a grin. "Well, here's England. Aren't you going to drop down and kiss the ground, or something? This is England, Freddy!"

The English youth smiled, and there were stars in his eyes.

"Yes, England again," he whispered softly. "How wonderful to return to it from uncivilized lands where they eat raw things and call them hot dogs, and talk through their teeth, and drive ninety miles an hour even to funerals! Yes, blessed England! It's like being reborn. Like—like—"

"Like waking up from a beautiful dream!" Dave snapped, and waved a hand at the sky that was now overcast. "See? No sun over here! And just thirty minutes off shore we had plenty of it. What have the weather gods got against you English guys, anyway?"

Freddy didn't have time to think up a kidding come-back for that one. They both turned at the sound of footsteps behind them, and saw Major Barber hurrying over toward them. The Commando Chief was grinning from ear to ear, and he looked as if he wanted to hug and kiss them both. He didn't, however. Instead, he grabbed each in turn by the hand and nearly shook his arm off at the shoulder socket.

"I hope some day it will be my chance to return that little favor of life saving!" he cried. "And that goes for everybody aboard the ferry bombers. I had a front seat, and what you two did sure was something to see. You seemed to have a little trouble, Farmer. Hey! You didn't get wounded, did you?"

"Him?" Dave snorted before Freddy could even shake his head. "The Nazis haven't made that bullet yet. No, sir. He just wanted to show you how fancy he could get when there're Messerschmitts around. I've just been telling him that if he pulls that on me again, I'll probably shoot him down myself. But it was pretty cute, wasn't it, Major? He should be given his wings any day now, I say. Practically a fighter pilot."

"Don't mind Dawson, sir," Freddy spoke up. "He's always that way. Pretty cool in a fight, but when it's all over he simply goes to pieces and says the craziest things. No, I wasn't hit, fortunately. I had a close call, though, and had to do a little something extra to get out of it. We're all here, though. And that's that!"

"And it's plenty!" Major Barber said with a grim nod. "It proves this sort of thing can be done on a large scale. That is—"

The Major paused and grinned.

"That is, if we have fellows like you two along," he added. "Well, stick around for a bit, will you? I've got things to do, but I want to talk to you again. There's the mess shack over there. I guess it won't make either of you mad to take aboard some breakfast, huh?"

"Oh, quite, quite!" Dave mimicked at Freddy. "And, of course, a pot of tea, what, old tin of fruit?"

Freddy Farmer groaned and shook his head, and looked helplessly at Major Barber.

"It's so utterly useless and futile, sir!" he sighed. "I mean the way Dawson murders the King's English. Something really should be done about it. Would you suggest gagging him, sir?"

If the Major replied, nobody heard it. At that moment the air raid siren mounted atop the Operations Office let forth with its blood-curdling wail. Without thinking, both Dave and Freddy spun around and dived for their planes. In nothing flat they were in the pits and rocketing their ships across the field. As Dave pulled his clear and went twisting around and upward, he snapped out of his action trance long enough to look at the fuel gauge. A sigh of relief spilled from his lips when he saw that he still had enough high octane for thirty-five minutes of flying.

"And lots of things can happen in thirty-five minutes!" he shouted aloud.

"Quite!" came the sudden and startling voice of Freddy Farmer over the radio. "And there are the blighters! Off there to the southeast. Fancy they got annoyed when they learned the bombers got through, and decided to have a go at a ground strafe. Tally-ho, Dave! And there's the R.A.F. chaps coming up to join in the fun. But we'll get first cracks at the beggars."

"Sure, but remember about last time!" Dave shouted back at him. "No funny business. Get your man this time, and no fooling around. Okay, kid! Up and at 'em!"

As Dave snouted the last he lifted the nose to a steeper angle, and went wing-screaming up toward a group of ten Nazi long range fighters that were bearing down on the Land's End field. Twisting in the seat, he glanced down back at the swarm of R.A.F. Spitfires and Hurricanes that were racing up off the field. A pleasant warmth surged through his body, and there was a glad song in his heart.

"Just like the old days!" he cried happily. "Flying with the dear old R.A.F. again. Yeah, good! Plenty good!"

As though to echo his words, he heard Freddy Farmer's guns blast away. The leading Nazi plane swerved, then dropped by the nose and started down with one engine smoking badly. Dave grunted and ruddered his P-Thirty-Eight a little to bring his sights to bear on another Nazi plane.

"Okay, first blood for you, Freddy!" he sang out. "But it's my turn, now, and how!"

His words were no crazy boast. They were simply a statement of cold fact. And as his guns started hammering out made-in-America doom, his statement was proved. A second Nazi would-be ground strafer seemed to jump straight up in the air. That is, the fuselage went upward. The wings remained at the lower level for a moment, then went slip-sliding away. The fuselage fell over by the nose and went down like a bomb as two objects popped out of it and soon became a pair of Germans going down by parachute.

The swift double kill obviously took some of the lust for battle away from the other Nazi pilots. The formation swerved this way and that, and then broke up into pairs that made half-hearted passes at the ferry bomber-covered field below. But they all should have stayed home. By then the pilots of the locally based R.A.F. squadrons were in the scrap, and their arrival just about settled things for the Germans. A couple of them did linger around a little longer, but that was very stupid of them. They went down like nailed clay pigeons, while their pals went streaking back across the Channel to their temporary homes in Occupied France.

When Dave and Freddy came down out of the air and landed, an orderly was waiting for them.

"Group Captain Farnsworth wishes to see you two officers at once," he told them.

"Guess breakfast waits, pal." Dave grinned at Freddy. "Let's go. I guess Major Barber is with the Group Captain. I don't see him around any place. So maybe this is it."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't be too sure," Freddy murmured.

Dave looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

"Nothing, I hope," the English youth grunted. "But I believe I've heard of Group Captain Farnsworth. Very much of a stickler for rules and regulations. And—well, after all, this is an R.A.F. field, you know."

"So what?" Dave demanded as he stared, puzzle-eyed. "What's that got to do with it? Hey! What's eating you, anyway?"

Freddy shrugged and started walking toward the Field Commandant's office.

"Let's go and find out," he said. "I could be wrong, of course."

"You could be nuts!" Dave growled, still mystified. "And I think you are!"

The English youth let that one slide. He simply hunched his shoulders once and walked with Dave over toward the office. They reached it in time, knocked, and went inside when a rasping voice told them to do so. Seated at the desk inside was a heavy-browed, red-headed man in an R.A.F. Group Captain's uniform. The decoration ribbons under his R.A.F. wings showed that this was not the first war he had fought in. And they also showed that he had not exactly kept his feet on solid earth all the time in either war. But his eyes were his outstanding feature. They were like frosted cubes of ice that seemed to melt everything that came into their range of vision. Dave looked into those eyes and gulped a little.

"Captains Dawson and Farmer reporting, sir," he heard his own voice say. "You wished to see us, sir?"

"Blasted right I do!" the words came smashing at him. "Just who the ruddy blue blazes do you think you two are? A little special air force all your own?"