rmed around
fighter planes, medium bombers and long-range giants whose lettering B Y
3, painted there by Yank builders, had been smeared over with British
lacquer. Exhausts flamed, bomb trucks trundled in and out, while pilots
and gunners checked rigging and outfits. The big show was on, the
biggest the Royal Air Force had ever planned.

Stan and O'Malley and Allison waited with their gunners near them. They
had checked the Hendee Hawks so many times they could see every detail
of the ships if they closed their eyes. O'Malley had come near being
recommended for court-martial when he battled the O.C. over an order to
carry extra gasoline instead of racks of bombs.

"Didn't we blow up a pocket battleship?" he argued sourly.

"After Jerry serves us up a welcome reception we'll talk," Allison said.
"I'm expecting it to be hot."

At that moment the intersquadron speaker began to rattle off clipped
orders. Every man was on his feet instantly. The moment had come for
them to take off. Number 30 swarmed out on the field. Allison was in
command again, Stan had insisted upon that arrangement. Allison was cold
and calculating, Stan Wilson was a fighter and wanted action. Anyway,
Allison had earned that right to lead. He was the original flight
lieutenant of Red Flight.

Stan grinned eagerly as he swung himself into the cockpit and glanced
back to see that his gunner got set. He called back over his shoulder.
"Tight straps, Sergeant, we likely will be in a few tight spots."

"Yes, sir," the gunner answered. He settled back against his shock pad
and adjusted his belt.

Strange how a fellow can always take up another notch in his belt, Stan
thought. Then he jerked the throttle open and the Hawk roared and
strained on the cab rank. He pinched one brake and swung around, heading
down the field with a finger of light guiding them.

"Red Flight, check your temperatures. Red Flight, are you set?"
Allison's voice was crisp and metallic.

Stan and O'Malley cleared and the Hawks swung around. The recording
officer and the coveralled mechanics had slipped back into the darkness.
A mobile floodlight thumped over the black field ahead, took position,
and a yellow shaft of light slapped down the field. The adjustment was
made on the shadow bar and the three Hawks nosed into the band of black
and waited, trembling, ready.

The signal came from the recording officer's Aldis light and they were
off. Screeching into the night, twisting u