ing through his spattered hatch cover, he saw that his port wing
had three gaping holes in it. But the engine was singing sweetly. His
first thought was to locate O'Malley, but he had another when he spotted
three Focke-Wulf fighters roaring in on his tail.

"We'll see what you have to offer, sister," he said softly as he kicked
the Mustang wide open and laid her over.

The big ship responded with a surge of power that yanked her into the
sky and over in a perfect roll before Stan could decide what was going
on. Leveling off, Stan looked for the FW's. They had missed him by a
wide margin. Stan grinned.

"You don't need a pilot, lady," he said.

Coming over he tried a burst on one of the FW's. It was a long shot, but
the Jerry was lined up neatly in his sight. The heavy guns of the P-51
roared and bucked. Up ahead the FW wobbled and dived. The other two went
up for altitude. Stan went up, too. The P-51 was a high-altitude lady
and would do better up where she had rare air and plenty of space.

Stan eased away from the FW's and did not challenge them. They circled,
taking a good look at this new type of fighter. They had learned from
sad experience that any new Yank ship might prove to be deadly. The
Forts had taught them that.

Stan was well up now where he could look down on the flight strip below.
He saw nothing of O'Malley but he did see two wrecked planes at the far
edge of the field away from the hill. Nosing down Stan dived toward the
field. The two FW's dived after him, but he soon eased away from them.

Sweeping in a few yards above the runway, Stan laid over just a little.
He checked the wrecks and saw that one of them was Sim's ship. The other
was an FW fighter minus one wing. The Germans behind their hidden
batteries opened up with a savage burst of fire. Stan went straight
toward the hill, flying low to keep out of the flak. As he shot up off
the runway he stared hard at the hillside ahead, then blinked his eyes.

"So," he said softly. "So that's the way it is."

He went up and over the hill, spiraling into the sky in a climb steeper
than any ship had ever carried him. The FW's had been joined by five Me
110's, but the Jerries did not close with him. Stan headed for home as
fast as the P-51 could travel, which topped four hundred miles per hour
by a wide margin.

He was roaring along with no opposition in sight and a clear sky around
him when he suddenly spotted a plane in his mirror. It was overhau