head, he spotted
Tommy and then Allison. They rocketed down through the notch, as sure of
the narrow pathway as though the noonday sun was shining on the cables.
Stan ducked in on Tommy's tail and went home with them.

"Why ask silly questions," Tommy was shouting to Allison. "Allison got
one, Wilson got one, the Ack-Ack boys got one. Tommy got nothing except
Allison's Spitfire in his lap."

Allison's voice came back in a sarcastic drawl. "I just shut my eyes and
cut loose. When I opened them, there was a bandit minus one wing. How
about you, Wilson?"

Stan cuddled his flap mike and laughed. He was sure of himself now. He
had hit the glory trail and could laugh at its terrors. "I just did
potshooting. Later I'll clip off tails and wings for you."

"Later?" There was that mocking note in Allison's voice.

The recall signal was calling them in. They swung over the blacked-out
city and headed for home. Ten minutes later they did a parachute walk
into the briefing room. Brooks, Squadron Leader, eyed them wearily. He
acted as though he hadn't had any sleep for a good many nights, which
was about correct. The three pilots moved over to his high desk and
reached for report forms.

"Everybody all right?" the Squadron Leader asked as he began filling out
their time record.

"Fit as flying fish," Tommy answered, grinning broadly. "Me, I like
balloons." He winked at Stan.

"Shut up," Allison snapped.

"What did you spend on yours?" Brooks asked, looking at Allison.

"Six or eight seconds in one burst," Allison answered.

"Hundred rounds," the officer jotted down. Then he looked at Tommy.
Tommy nodded toward Stan.

"Eight or ten, I guess. I used a pretty long burst," Stan admitted.

"One hundred thirty rounds, eight seconds," the officer jotted down.

A few minutes later Stan strolled into the mess with Allison. He felt
tired and would have gone to his cubicle only he wanted to see what the
boys did when they came in.

"Black coffee, that's the thing for balloon nerves," Allison said and
looked sharply at Stan. "It's on me." He waved a hand to the mess
corporal and called. "Two, black." Facing Stan, with a glint of humor in
his eyes, he said. "Not bad, old man, but you're a Yank and you learned
to fly in a fighter. And I think you'd best break down and tell me about
it."

"Sorry, but I can't think of a story you'd believe," Stan said and
grinned to hide his uneasiness. Allison was sharp as a tack. He had it
in