“Everybody set?”
“Navigator to pilot, hot stuff coming up.”
“Right waist gunner to pilot, sir. 190’s at eleven o’clock. They’re after the flight ahead.”
“Rear gunner Roger, sir. Flock of Focke-Wulfs at six o’clock. Coming in on our tail.”
“I say, old man, don’t get itchy fingers. No ammo to waste.” Allison’s voice was calm and unruffled.
O’Malley’s voice broke in over Stan’s headset. “Hey, sure an’ we ought to go down an’ bust that up.”
“Stay where you are, O’Malley,” Sim snapped. “We have plenty of Me’s coming in at twelve o’clock.”
Stan had been so busy watching the bombers he had not checked his own part of the sky. A glance showed him Sim was correct. A flight of some twenty Me fighters were diving and circling above.
“Keep them up there,” Sim ordered. “But stay in your slot. You happen to be outnumbered and you also happen to have the job of seeing that those Me’s stay up there away from the bombers.”
Red Flight knifed along through the thin air, ready to smash any Me daring to go down the chute upon the bombers.