The Me’s came in in pretty formation, three to a side, staggered so as to lay down a terrible and enclosing wall of death. Stan’s hands were cold upon the controls, but they were steady. His eyes took in all the attackers in one moving picture. He was waiting for a tip that would give him the break he needed. He had given up hope that O’Malley or Allison would be able to break through and crack the deathtrap. Fourteen Me’s were savagely attacking them, bent upon their destruction.
The Jerries gave Stan his break just before they went into the final act of the kill. They thought they were trapping an Italian pilot and they knew just how the Italian boys flew. One of the planes on the left lifted a little to clear the zoom of the Me under him. That was all Stan needed to know. The three Jerries on the left would go up, slamming lead across his path. Two of the Me’s on the right would go down and one would come in straight. 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 their tracers on him in a deadly hail of screaming steel. The Nardi bucked and turned half over as a shell burst under her belly. Ragged, saw-edged pieces of shell casing ripped through the wings. An exploding shell ripped away the whole nose and the prop. Stan felt the Nardi wobble. Her terrific speed hurled her on and out over the water, away from the pattern of shells. But she was a dead duck and Stan knew it. His greenhouse was mashed down close above his head. He tried the hatch cover and found it jammed tight. Testing the controls, he found he could still handle the ship in a glide.
Below him he could see two destroyers lying off the shore. They were blasting away at the batteries he had spotted for them. In closer, two PT boats darted back and forth, leaving trailing plumes of white foam behind them.