Before Stan could do anything at all, he was up through the muck, and then through the clouds, into a real battle. The sky was full of twisting, diving planes, all spitting at each other in deadly fashion. He was so busy keeping Messerschmitts off his tail that he lost track of Allison and O’Malley. He noted that there were only a few Spitfires and Defiants near him, though the air was literally filled with Jerries. It dawned on him that they might wish to force down this new plane so as to have a look at it. And he wasn’t able to get a single swastika inside his sight circle. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice calling:
“Heather Raid, come in. Objective successfully attacked. Heather Raid, come in.”
“Good idea,” Stan agreed. He laid over and sliced into a mass of Messerschmitts ahead of him, opening his throttle wide and cutting in his booster. As he bored into the formation it opened to let him go through. Only one ME failed to give way. It roared straight at him as though bent upon ramming him. Stan’s lips pulled into a tight line and he reached for his gun button.
“Sorry, feller,” he muttered. “But you don’t ram me.”
He pressed the button but no burst answered. He was out of ammunition. With a yank he pulled the Hawk up, then twisted her over. The hair at the back of his neck lifted as his understructure raked across the hatch cover of the Jerry. Lead streamed below him as he flashed past.
Stan kicked off his booster and headed for home. The Messerschmitts gave chase but they slipped away from them as easily as a swallow would outdistance a plover. Behind him he heard his gunner laughing.
“What’s up?” he called back.
“I touched up that Jerry who tried to ram us, sir,” the sergeant answered. “Potted his rudder and you should see him do stunts.”
Stan had completely forgotten he carried a gunner. The man had been silent all of the time. Now Stan knew he must have been giving an account of himself.
“How did you make out?” he asked.