“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 remember the test flight card he had filled out.
“Climbed to 20,000 feet in six minutes. Performed two barrel rolls, three loops. Checked all controls in neutral. Fired all guns and checked temperatures of gun-warming units. Did a series of sharp dives with steady pull-outs.” As Stan’s thoughts wandered back he grinned into Allison’s face. He had put a number of Spitfires through their paces and knew that they were mud hens compared to the new babies which would soon be coming over from the United States.
“You’ll soon get one with 2,000 horses up ahead and then you’ll junk your Spitfires and Hurricanes,” he said.
Allison cocked an eye at him and grinned widely. “Do you suppose you and I will be hitting the glory trail then?”
“I figure I’ll be around doing something,” Stan answered and matched the Lieutenant’s grin.
A mess corporal was standing near by hopefully fussing with Stan’s chit book which had just been issued to him. Stan gave the corporal a nod.