  When Dave told Brand and the young Lord the news of the sinking, true to their British tradition they had little to say. Next day, however, they appeared on the field prepared for the dawn patrol. Dave saw new, hard lines about their lips. “I’d hate to be their enemy today,” he thought, as a thrill ran up his spine. They had been cruising, four of them, the young Lord, Brand, The Lark, and Dave, for an hour when out of a very small cloud, for all the world as if it had been waiting there for days, came that same formation, five planes in a V-shape. One plane following the leader on the right and three on the left. “Can I believe my eyes?” The Lark shouted into his speaker. “You can.” The young Lord’s voice was low. “Not another word. No shouting, please. You all know how we planned it. I’ll take the talk man of the three on the left. You know the rest. Tallyho!” “Tallyho,” came echoing from the others. They were away. Since they were a thousand feet above the enemy and in the end they came swooping down from above. They were not seen until the young Lord was all but upon his victim. His was a murderous assault that could have but one ending. As if in rehearsal, The Lark slipped into the place left vacant by the young Lord as he dropped into a power-dive. The Lark’s man went down in flames. Deserting his post, the third man tried flight, but with the luck of a beginner, Brand shot downward, then climbed straight up to riddle the Messerschmitt’s motor and send it down in a cloud of yellow smoke. As for Dave, the whole affair had gone off with such speed that he found himself in a half daze, headed straight for the side of a gleaming Messerschmitt. Then his eyes registered an astonishing fact. He was facing the boasting Wick himself, he who called himself a deadly killer. On the tail of his plane was a black blotch. Dave knew this to be fifty-six black lines, one for each victim Wick claimed. For a space of seconds Dave’s blood was turned to ice. Then, with a rush, it was like molten steel. They were close now, dangerously close, yet each was out of range of the other. Suddenly gripping his emergency lever, giving his motor its last ounce of power, Dave banked sharply, saw the terrible Wick rise into his sight, pressed the firing button, heard for one brief second his machine-guns speak, then went into a spin. Whirling over and over and going down, down, down where the good soil of Merry England lies, he thought, “This is the end!” He was wrong. He came out of the spin. How? He would never know. After levelling off he looked up, then down. To the right of him a Messerschmitt was falling in flames. Even as he looked it exploded in mid-air. Far in the distance the one remaining enemy was speeding away. Off to the left the young Lord’s line was forming. Climbing slowly, Dave at last joined that line. Then, in the Sky Over England that was once more England’s own, they cruised the blue until the young Lord gave the word and they went thundering home. As they left their ships on the landing field the young Lord walked over to Dave, put out a hand, gripped Dave’s hard, then without a word walked away. It was enough. Dave understood and was glad. Just at mess time that evening an old man, member of the Home Guard appeared at headquarters. Under his arm he carried a flat, paper-wrapped package. “Thought you might like it, sir,” he said as he placed it in the young Lord’s hand. As the others gathered around the flight leader unwrapped it, then handed it to Dave. It was the tail of a Messerschmitt. On it had been painted two letters, H. W. Below these letters were 56 long, black lines. “This,” said Dave, “should be yours.” He gave it back to the young Lord. “All trophies belong to the leader of the flight.” “To the entire squadron,” the young Lord replied huskily. “Come. We’ll put it up where all may see.” He placed it on the mantle. “Not that we need to boast,” he said quietly, “but that all men may know that the Sky Over England is England’s alone.” |
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