  Next day, just after lunch, feeling very much like a small boy slipping away to go fishing, Dave made his way toward the airdrome. He wanted, he told himself, to study a Spitfire. He had seen that one in action over the farm on the day of that air battle. It had fascinated him. Truth was, he hoped to run across the Young Lord and perhaps to be invited for one more ride in that two-seater. There was, he realized, a slight element of danger in such an excursion, just enough to give it tang, like a frosty morning. He was not to be disappointed. Lieutenant Applegate was just having the machine rolled out. “Greetings!” he cried. “Just in time! But then,” his voice changed. “I must not tempt you too much. This, you will understand, is our life. It is easy to ask too much of one who is not in on the great game.” “I’ll be glad to go up again,” Dave said quietly. “To tell you the truth, that’s what I had hoped to do.” “Righto! Climb in!” Applegate exclaimed. “You see,” he added, “we’re just giving this ship a tryout. Perhaps after we’ve done a stretch of patrol, we’ll ask the ground crew to run up a sky target and I’ll let you have a try at it with a few bursts of machine gun fire.” “Oh!” Dave caught his breath sharply. But if he had known! “We’ve always got more men than ships,” Applegate went on. “So if two men in a ship like this, by dividing the things to worry about, like dials, controls, gun-sights and all, can accomplish more than one, why then, that’s the berries. What say? Shall we be away?” Dave nodded. Then they were off and away into the blue. As on that other day, the sky was magnificent—bright blue, with clouds like huge cotton balls floating through it. Dave could not recall a moment in his life he had enjoyed so much. There was the thrill of speeding through space at three hundred and better miles an hour, and of looking down upon a world that was entirely new to him. Added to this—a real dash of red pepper—was the possibility that they might—just might bump into an enemy craft. Did he wish the last? He could not tell. Flying was strange. It was like a game, basketball or football—you went into it cold. As your blood warmed, a certain reckless daring came over you. You didn’t will it, perhaps did not, in your sober moments, so much as want it. It was there, and for the time being you could but yield to its urge. Today it was just like that. Now diving into a fleecy cloud, they were lost to the entire world. But not for long. Like a dove flying from a cloud in a picture postcard, they glided once more into the bright sunshine. Little patches and squares, forests, fields, homesteads, lovely villages all lay beneath them. Seized with a sudden impulse, Dave spoke hoarsely into his mouthpiece: “Let me take her for a minute.” Ten seconds later he was working the joystick and Applegate, like an old lady in a wheelchair, was lolling back in his place. But not for long. Suddenly Applegate straightened up, shaded his eyes, stared straight ahead, reached for his field glass, looked again, then said in a cheerful voice: “See that long white cloud over to the left?” “Ye—yes.” Dave’s heart pounded, he scarcely knew why. “Swing over into it, then stay in it, going straight down it toward the channel. It must be all of four miles long. I—I rather smell a Hun.” Dave obeyed instructions. The world was again lost to view. Their journey along that cloud could scarcely have lasted two minutes, but to Dave that seemed a long, long hour. What was beyond the other end of the cloud? Something, he was sure. Did it mean a fight? He hadn’t counted on that. This was not his war. Was he sorry? He did not know. The ways of a human mind are past finding out. Then, as if their plane had given a sudden leap, they were out of the cloud. And there, off a little to the right, was a dark spot against the blue of the sky. The Lieutenant made one gesture, a stiff arm, pointing. That was all. They were a full ten minutes coming within striking distance of that large plane. Every second of that exciting race Dave expected his companion to take over his controls, and all the time he remained silent, impassive. At last, in a calm, even tone, he spoke: “That’s a Dornier. London took a terrific beating last night. Many women and children were killed or injured. That Dornier’s been taking pictures so they can find fresh spots to bomb. His pictures must not reach Allemond. We must get him.” His words were like rasping steel. Even then he did not take the controls. A strange, cold wrath took possession of Dave’s entire being. “Women and children killed and injured.” He did not want the Young Lord to take the controls. And he knew what was to be done. He wanted to do it, at all risks. Dropping a little below the flying level of the Dornier, he added a little speed, then streaked straight on. His heart was pounding, but his head was clear. At last, having risen to the attack, they were within striking distance. “It’s football,” he was thinking calmly. “That Dornier’s got the ball. But in the end, it’ll be thrown for a loss.” Even as he thought this, the Dornier banked sharply to soar away to the left. At the same time the air was ripped,—rat—rat—rat. The side shots from the Dornier went wild. Once again they were after the foe. Once more they were all but upon the enemy’s tail when he swung sharply to the left. From the Dornier’s side came a wild burst of gunfire. “Wasting his slugs,” Applegate exulted. “Keep right after him.” His hand was on the firing button. One push and eight guns would spray death, nearly ten thousand shots a minute. He could wait. It took just ten seconds when everything was right. On the tip of Dave’s tongue were the words; “Here, take the controls.” He did not say them. His tongue would not waggle that way. The Dornier took a nose-dive. When he came out of it the two-seater was with him. He tried climbing. No use. They could outclimb him, two to one. Once again he straightened out, then curved to the right. Recalling how so very often a football runner will repeat a pattern, a dash to the right, one to left, then straight ahead, Dave worked out a plan. Would it succeed? Only time, a terribly short time, could tell. True to his pattern the Dornier pilot banked first right, then left, and after that went into a power dive. Measuring this dive with greatest accuracy, Dave managed to come out of his own dive just in time to glide squarely up on the enemy’s tail. Squinting through his sight, the Lieutenant gripped his gun control and waited. Dave found himself counting, “One—two—three.” Then came a sudden burst of sound that all but startled him into a tail spin. Regaining his control, he shot heavenward. The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of gunfire, hundreds of slugs, straight down her pencil-like fuselage. What would be the result? They must wait and see. The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward flight. It began to smoke, then to lose altitude. Just then it went into a cloud. “Dumb!” said Harmon. Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a long one. A full minute passed, another, and they were out. Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There was no spot against that patch of blue. The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled downward toward the sea. At last they were beneath the cloud. There was nothing hiding there. But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It was not foam. There were no white-caps. “Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun” “Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll head for home. If we hurry a bit we’ll be in time for tea.” And they were. “We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young Lord whispered the minute they were on solid ground again. “But not a word about this! It’s frightfully irregular, I’m afraid.” “I’m sure it is,” Dave agreed. “And after all, it’s not your war,” his companion added. “No. Of course not,” Dave agreed. “It’s not my war.” For the first time in his life those words seemed a bit strange. At headquarters Dave asked for coffee and got it, good coffee served by a bright faced English girl. He had just taken his first swallow when two young men entered. At once the Young Lord was on his feet. The slim, dark-eyed one of the new arrivals said: “As you were.” At once tension relaxed. “Commander Knox,” said the Young Lord, “I want you to meet my friend Dave Barnes from America. He thinks he can fly.” He grinned slyly. “All Americans think that.” The Squad Commander chuckled. “Didn’t you ever notice that?” “Yes—yes I have,” the Young Lord agreed. “And mostly they can’t. But this chap,”—he gave Dave a quick grin—“I shouldn’t wonder if he could fly. Oh, just the least little bit.” “You wouldn’t be spoofing us?” said the red-headed companion of the Commander. He was grinning broadly. “No one could spoof you!” the Young Lord laughed. “You’ve already been spoofed.” “Dave,” he said, turning to his companion, “meet the singing murderer. We call him the Lark because he sings as he flies. You should hear him roaring away! He sings ‘On the Road to Mandalay’ while he swoops down on the tail of some unsuspecting Messerschmitt and blasts him from the sky.” “That,” said the Lark without smiling, “may be a joke. It works for all that. I learned the trick when I was a boy fishing for salmon in Scotland. If I could whistle, carrying a tune, while I was landing a big one, I’d not get excited and I’d land my fish. It’s the same with the sky fighting. If you can carry a tune in the thick of it—” “If you can,” laughed Dave, “then I’ll say you’re good!” “He’s right as he possibly can be,” said the Commander. “The good old Leader of Squadron 73 over in France used to say: ‘Boys, you may have as many good points as you like, but two are absolutely necessary: courage that will stick, and an unfailing sense of humor. Nothing keeps up a fellow’s sense of humor better than a song.’ “Guess we’ll have to toddle along.” The Commander moved away. “Good to have met you, Barnes. If you can really fly, and I must say you do look the part, we’ll sign you up just any time you say.” At that he and the Lark vanished through the swinging doors. As Dave stared after them, awed respect was registered in his eyes. “So he was with Squadron 73!” he murmured. “Sure was.” Applegate beamed. “In France, all the way, right through the Blitzkrieg. That was the fightingest aggregation that ever flew in formation. They shot down more than a hundred planes for sure, and sent a likely hundred more limping home.” “How many came back to tell the story?” Dave was visibly impressed. “Nearly all,” was the reply. “I think they lost two commissioned and two non-commissioned officers. That was all.” “Sayee!” Dave murmured. “Air fighting is almost as safe as football!” “Absolutely,” his companion agreed. “Providing you know your stuff and have been born in the air.” “And that,” Dave thought, as he started for home some little time later, “is how I keep out of this man’s war. I’d better look up the plane schedule to Lisbon tomorrow.” But would he? |
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