Stan kicked the Nardi over hard to the left,
heading her for the tower of a high line that swung down from the hills.

The Me's went into their act, guns blazing away, punching holes into the
air. The maneuver was a beauty. The only thing wrong with it was that
the target had shifted course suddenly, leaving them in a wild tangle
with a lot of stunting to be done before they could close in again.

But Stan's troubles were not over. His left wing raked through the top
of a small tree less than ten feet high. The power line and the high
steel tower were hurtling at him. He flattened out and held his breath.
There was no time to zoom over the heavy cables; he had to go under and
hope for the best.

Stan did not see the cables or the tower go by; all he knew was that he
was boring straight for a red-roofed building set on a knoll. He zoomed
up and drew in a big lungful of air. Looking back, he saw that his
hounds were still busy getting untangled. He spotted only five of them
and guessed that one had come to grief in the circus stunting they had
been forced to do.

Looking upward he saw, far above in the blue sky, smoke trailers and
little, darting planes. O'Malley and Allison were still up there, he
could tell by the pattern of the fight. Then he noticed that the five
Jerries who had been battling him started up to join the fight. He had a
powerful urge to turn back and help his pals, though going back would be
a suicide move.

Bending forward he felt the bulky package inside his shirt and his eyes
hardened. His job was to go ahead. O'Malley and Allison were sacrificing
themselves so that he could go on. If he went back, he would be throwing
away the fruits of their courage and daring.

Dimly and like a miniature motion picture, the battle above and behind
him was reflected on his rear-vision mirror. There was a lump in Stan's
throat as he noticed that two of the planes were coming down, twisting
and turning, trailing plumes of smoke. Before the picture faded out he
saw one parachute blossom, a tiny white flower against the green of the
hills and the blue of the sky.

A little later he spotted the coast and the sea. A line of hilly, high
ground slipped under his wings and he headed out toward the beaches.
Suddenly the peaceful sky around him exploded in his face. Coastal
batteries had spotted him. He was low, but this time the gunners were
looking for low-flying bombers and strafing planes. They laid their flak
and