-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at
himself.

Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in
the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all
of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the
whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had
been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant
wasn't able to get chummy with his men before they left him.

Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, a
plump youth who was unofficially known as "jelly bean"; McCumber, a
silent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased to
whistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat Irish
Kelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a real
lead slinger.

A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffee
before him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressing
it seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clipped
and the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan's gaze held a hint of
insolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazy
Flight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savage
fighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward the
table.

Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped into
it.

"I'm March Allison," he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan with
irritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan,
but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.

"I'm Stan Wilson," he said, "the new member of Red Flight."

"Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?" Allison clipped the words off in a
manner that was almost derisive.

"That's what my card shows," Stan said testily.

"You're a Yank," Allison snapped. Then he grinned and little wrinkles
crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I can smell a Yank," he added.

"If you don't mind suppose we leave it as the card reads?" Stan said
coldly.

"All right with me, old fellow," Allison answered. "Only I hope you're a
faster flier than the planes the Yanks have sent us so far."

That nettled Stan. A picture leaped into his mind--the picture of a trim
fighter plane with low wings, and two banks of Brownings on each side
of a 2,000-horse-power radial motor. Stan had nursed several of those
babies into the blue. He didn't have to close his eyes to re