With one eye on the instrument board, and the other on the lookout for other planes in that area of cloud-filled sky over England, Dave Dawson hauled the Lockheed Lightning around to the left at a fast clip, and then deliberately pulled the nose straight up, and let the fighter plane take the bit in its teeth until it stalled. It did just that eventually, and at practically the same time the starboard Allison engine sputtered badly and started to throw black smoke.

"What gives with this heap of junk, anyway?" Dawson grunted, and eased off the throttles as the Lightning fell off the stall and went whanging down in a dive to pick up flying speed. "Talk about your cranky crates! This baby is certainly something. Or maybe it's me. Let's try it again and see."

Once more he hauled the ship to the left, and then pointed the nose toward Heaven. The fighter aircraft power climbed to the stalling point, and then the starboard engine repeated its little performance. It sputtered and started to throw smoke. And just to make it unanimous, the port engine started doing the same thing.

"Well, that's that!" Dawson said with a nod for emphasis, and eased back the throttles again. "Maybe this is a very fine airplane, but I sure don't want any part of it. No, not even for a joy hop."

And with another nod for emphasis he slanted the plane earthward, after he had pulled it out of its stall drive, and went coasting down through the drifting patches of cloud toward the home drome of the Two Hundred and Fifth Squadron, Fighter Command, U. S. Eighth Air Force. He got Operations on his R.T., received permission to land, and went sliding in. After he had braked to a stop he trundled the plane over to its dispersal bay. His mechanics were there waiting for him, and the technical sergeant in charge of the group gave him a questioning look as he killed both engines and legged out of the pit and down onto the ground.

"Is there a foundry near here, Sergeant?" Dawson asked as he pulled off his helmet and goggles.

"A what, Captain?" the other echoed.

"A foundry," Dawson repeated, and jerked a thumb back at the plane. "We could take it down there and have a brass handle fitted on so we'd have something to hold on to when we throw it away."

The technical sergeant blinked and then grinned.

"Not so hot, eh, sir?" he said.

"Very snafu!" Dawson said with emphasis, using the Air Forces slang for snarled up. "And you've got me as to what's wrong. Both engines practically cut out on me as I reach the stall after a power zoom. Pressure just falls right downhill. There's a bug in both systems somewhere."

"I know, sir," the technical sergeant said, and shook his head sadly. "The darn thing just hasn't been right since we got it. I thought maybe we had got it licked, but I guess not, if she does that. Looks like she's got to have two new engines."

"More than that, I'm afraid," Dave said. "She's tail heavy, and she insists on scooting around to the left on her own. She needs a complete re-rigging from tip to tip."

The technical sergeant groaned and heaved a long sigh.

"I guess she's just an out and out lame duck," he said as he gave the aircraft a reproachful look. "We've put in more time on her than all the other ships put together. Just a dud, that's all. One of those misfits that come along every so often. Okay. Thanks, Captain, for testing her out. But until we get a replacement plane, sir, I'm afraid you won't have anything to fly. We haven't got a single spare at the field."

"Well, that's war for you," Dawson said with a faint grin. "But not a very good beginning for me. I've been with Two Hundred and Five for just three days, and now I haven't got anything to fly. Maybe I'm my own jinx."

The technical sergeant looked at the decoration ribbons under Dawson's pilot's wings, and chuckled softly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Captain," he said. "Those ribbons sort of indicate you've done more than your share."

"Wrong, Sergeant," Dawson said grimly, and stared at the cloud-filled skies to the east. "Nobody can do more than his share in this mess. It's—Oh well, let's skip it. Sorry I couldn't tell you that she's a honey, Sergeant. But she isn't. She's got the misery in lots of places."

With a nod and a smile the Yank air ace turned and started walking over toward pilots' mess. His throat was dry, and he wanted a coke. After he'd had one he'd go to see Major Starke, the C.O., about getting a replacement plane. He was about halfway there when suddenly he became conscious of the fact that everybody about the field was staring at a lone Lightning circling about three or four hundred feet overhead. He took a look himself, and instantly felt very sorry for the pilot in that plane. Two of his wheels were down, but the other was still up in its recess. It was the starboard nacelle wheel that was obviously stuck, and as the plane circled slowly about Dave could see the pilot struggling desperately to get his third wheel down. But he wasn't even beginning to meet with any success. His starboard nacelle wheel was up in its recess to stay.

"Now there's a sweet thing!" he heard a voice in back of him say. "He can't get his third wheel down, and he can't get the other two back up so he can come in on his belly. Tough luck for the guy."

Dawson turned to see one of the ground officers from Operations standing just behind him. The man was staring at the plane, and absently speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Who is it up there?" Dave asked.

"A captain by the name of Farmer," the other said without taking his eyes off the circling plane. "He just joined us a couple of days ago. A heck of a thing for him to bump into on his first test hop, I'll say."

"Farmer?" Dawson gasped after a moment of stunned silence. "Freddy Farmer! Boy, are the two of us running in luck, I don't think. Me with a lame duck, and Freddy with a jammed landing gear!"

"You know him?" the other officer grunted. Then, as he looked at Dave, "Oh, you're Dawson, his pal, aren't you? Well, cross your fingers, Dawson. Just now as I left Operations he was pleading with the Old Man to let him come in on two wheels. But those things come in very hot, and the Old Man wants him to fly off and hit the silk. Only a screwball would—"

But Dawson didn't wait to hear the rest of the officer's opinion. He spun around and went legging it over to the Operations Office. The door was open and he heard Major Starke talking over the R.T. to Freddy Farmer in the air.

"I know, Farmer," the C.O. was saying. "You might get away with it, but it's too risky. Pilots are more valuable than planes to me. So long as you save your neck, writing off that plane doesn't matter so much. Head east and get some altitude; then cut your switches and go over the side, Farmer. I'll send a jeep out to look for you, and pick you up."

"But I've got half an hour of gas left, sir!" came Freddy's voice through the panel speaker unit. "Give me fifteen more minutes, sir. Maybe by then I can get the blasted wheels up, and come in on my belly. She's really a pukka ship, save for the blasted landing gear, sir. I don't want to have to hit the deck and burn up for a total loss if I can possibly help it. Just fifteen minutes more, sir?"

Dawson saw the squadron C.O. scowl, bite his lower lip, and then shrug.

"All right, Farmer, if you insist," he spoke into the R.T. "Do what you can, but only for fifteen minutes. We can always get another Lightning. But an experienced combat pilot is something else again. Fifteen minutes, Farmer. And I'm looking at my watch."

"Right you are, sir!" came Freddy Farmer's cheerful voice. "I'll see if I can't do something with this cranky blighter."

"For only fifteen minutes!" the C.O. had the last word. "And I mean just that!"

It seemed that Freddy Farmer was content to let his commanding officer have the last word. At least the English-born air ace made no further comment. Dawson waited for a couple of seconds, and then stepped back from the Operations Office door, and fixed his gaze once more on the plane that was circling the field at cruising speed.

"Don't be a dope, pal!" he breathed softly. "The Old Man wasn't trying to kid you. Pilots are worth more than planes. And though you wouldn't catch me telling it to your face, sweetheart, you're worth more than all the Lockheed Lightnings they ever made. So don't be a dope, little man. But definitely, don't be a dope!"

Seconds ticked by and became minutes, and the minutes increased in number, but still two of the Lightning's wheels stayed put in their down position, while the third continued to stick fast in its recess. As the end of the fifteen minute period drew near, young Farmer took his plane up for a little more altitude, and began kicking it about the sky, no doubt in a last desperate effort to shake loose whatever was jamming the stuck wheel and get it down into landing position.

"No soap, Freddy!" Dawson grunted, and gave an unconscious shake of his head. "That crate just doesn't like you, or something. It's stuck, and—"

At that instant he cut himself off short as he heard the C.O. call Farmer on the R.T.

"Time's up, Farmer! Too bad, but I guess there isn't anything you can do. Get altitude to the east of the field, head the plane toward the Channel, and bail out."

"Yes, sir, very good, sir," Dawson heard Farmer's slightly choked reply. "I guess the blasted thing still—Wait a minute, sir! The retractable gear is working. I can get the two wheels up. Can you see me, sir? They're up, and they're staying up. I can come in on my belly now, sir!"

It was true. Whatever had jammed the two down wheels was no longer jamming them. They were up in their recesses, and staying put. Dawson caught a movement at his elbow and turned his head to see Major Starke dash out of the Operations Office. The C.O. looked up at the plane, and seemed to sigh heavily.

"Certainly hates to lose an airplane, bless him!" he grunted. And then he spun on one foot and dashed back into Operations to speak over the R.T. "Okay, Farmer, have it your way!" he called out. "Come in on your belly, but come in on the north side of the field. It's softer there. Keep clear of the runway, by all means. The metal skin of your ship might strike sparks and touch off your gas. Come in easy, and—But I don't need to tell you how to do it. Good luck, Farmer."

"Thanks, sir," Freddy called from the air as he circled his plane around and into position for his landing run. "Be down there right away, sir."

"Save your breath, Freddy, and pay attention to your flying!" Dave Dawson breathed fiercely as he walked toward the north side of the field. "Just cut the chatter and get that thing down, boy!"

As the crash and fire truck went streaking by him he swallowed hard and unconsciously clenched both hands tight. It wasn't that he was really afraid that Freddy Farmer wouldn't make it. He'd seen his English-born pal in too many tight spots, and seen him get out of them slick as a whistle. And of course the crash and fire truck was simply routine precaution. Just in case, so to speak. Still, as he hurried his steps and watched Freddy come sliding down, a clammy chill seemed to take hold of his heart, and his mouth and throat went strangely dry.

Was their assignment to the Fighter Command of the Eighth Air Force a jinx move? Two weeks ago they had completed a very important mission in North Africa, and they had put in the request for assignment to the Eighth Air Force based in England. True, it had been mostly Freddy Farmer's doing. Dawson hadn't cared much where he was sent just so long as he could keep swinging at either the Japs or the Nazis. But Freddy longed for a look at his native country again, and so Dawson had agreed that that was okay by him.

But then trouble seemed to begin to dog them. For four days the worst spell of weather ever to hit Casablanca kept their Air Forces transport plane grounded. They had finally taken off on the fifth day, only to have engine trouble force the pilot of the transport to turn back when he was only two hundred miles out. It took thirty-six hours to fix the plane. Then they had taken off again and finally reached England in a pea soup fog that was forcing even the birds to walk. Luck, plus sweet beam and instrument flying by the pilot, saved them from hitting the deck and being washed out of the world and the war right then and there.

That had been four days ago. The next day they arrived at Two Hundred and Five and were given the only two replacement planes the Squadron had. And both had to be fussed with considerably before they could be taken aloft for test flight. Dawson's had turned out to be a complete lame duck. And now Freddy Farmer was bringing the other one in on its belly.

"It must be old age creeping up that lets the jitters get me!" Dawson muttered as he finally came to a halt close to where he judged Freddy's plane would touch the ground. "I'm acting like an old woman over a simple wheels up landing. Easy does it, Freddy, boy. Slide her in sweet and smooth. You can do it, kid, and—"

He let the rest trail off into silence. Farmer was close to the ground now, and coming in as slowly as he dared. Without realizing it Dawson took a deep breath and held it locked in his lungs as there ceased to be air space between the belly of Freddy Farmer's Lockheed Lightning and the ground. The Lockheed touched with a sound like that of a giant slapping the palm of his huge hand on a tin roof. And then it went rocketing forward, sending up a shower of dirt and dust that almost completely hid the plane from view. Then suddenly the left wing seemed to strike something and snag. The Lockheed flat-spun violently on the ground, crabbed off to the right, and seemed about to buckle and pile up in a heap of twisted metal. But at the last split second it managed to shake itself free, and slide forward another few feet, and come to a dead stop.

By then the crash and fire truck was right along side of the plane, and Dawson and several others, including Major Starke, were legging out there as fast as they could go. A panting gasp of relief burst from Dawson's lips as he saw Freddy push up out of the nacelle pit and climb down onto the wing, and jump to the ground. That was proof enough that Freddy hadn't been hurt, and Dawson ran the few remaining yards with a stinging sensation at the backs of his eyeballs. But when he finally reached young Farmer, the question popped from his lips just the same.

"You all right, Freddy?"

Farmer turned to him, gave a wry smile, and nodded.

"Quite," he said. "But I certainly made a blasted mess of it, didn't I? Something caught the left wing, and I couldn't do a thing. Maybe I should go back to training school. I was certain I could get her down all right, blast it!"

"Not your fault, Farmer," Major Starke said as he came up. "There was a little hump in the ground that tripped your wing tip. Hit it once myself and it practically bounced me off for a take-up. No, not your fault, Farmer. Thank God you were able to hold her from cartwheeling and catching fire."

"But look at her, sir!" Freddy cried, almost with tears in his voice. "She's twisted bad. She'll have to go to the repair depot for quite a spell before she'll fly again."

"And that'll be all right, too," the C.O. said grimly. Then, suddenly turning to Dawson, he asked, "What about your plane?"

"No good, sir," Dave replied. "Both engines have a lot of bugs, and the rest is not much better."

"That's what I was afraid of," the C.O. said with a frown. "I had a hunch that both were junk ships. Well, we'll send both of them back. And you and Farmer can go down to Replacement Depot at Kingston, and each get yourself a new plane."

"Kingston, sir?" Freddy Farmer echoed excitedly. "You mean down beyond London, sir?"

The C.O. looked at him, grinned, and nodded.

"That's right, Farmer," he said. "You'll pass through London on the way down there. And if you'd like to stop off for say twenty-four hours, that will be all right with me. Things are a bit quiet, and I expect you both could do with a look at London."

"Could we!" Freddy Farmer exclaimed, and grinned happily at Dawson.

Dave sighed and shrugged.

"Okay," he said. "But look, I know the whole history of your wonderful little village by heart. You've talked of it enough. So just take your look, and save the comments, huh?"

"Such tastes some people have!" Freddy growled, but his eyes were still dancing.