“I don’t know,” Stan snapped.
They barged out of the mess close upon Allison’s heels. Everything was rush, with parachutes to adjust and flying suits to climb into. Stan paid no more attention to Garret until they were outside.
The three Spitfires of Red Flight were throbbing with restrained power on the cab rank. Stan felt better about sliding into his cockpit because the sun was shining and he could see the silver wires attached to the hydrogen gorged balloons. This was better.
The flight sergeants had cleared the ships and Allison had gotten his orders from the recording officer. In another minute the lead Spitfire had cramped about and was sliding toward the line. Stan swung into place and watched Garret get set. The new flier slid his plane up to the line with showy flash, gunning and idling the big motor in a way that made Stan’s nerves rasp. To him a motor was a living thing and he hated to see one abused.
“Steady, Red Flight,” Allison was snapping into his flap mike. “Check your temperatures.”
Stan called back his O.K. Garret did not clear. Allison’s voice came in angry, cold.
“Are you set, Garret?”
“Sure, big boy, I’m always set,” Garret replied.
“Then sound off as you should,” Allison snapped.
A second later they were off, tails lifting, boring across the turf. With a wrenching lift, they bounced up and lifted into the blue where big clouds floated over the city of London. Allison’s voice came in. The crispness was gone and the drawl was there again.