“Well, well. Out for a breath of night air,” Allison drawled. No one else said anything and the men of Red Flight barged toward the door.
“Green Flight, stand by,” rasped the speaker.
Stan moved out behind Tommy Lane with Allison striding ahead. In less than three minutes they were bundled in flying suits, with parachutes batting their legs. Like waddling Arctic explorers they shoved out into the damp blackness of the night.
On the cab rank three Spitfires were shuddering under slow throttle. Flight sergeants were clambering down after warming up the motors. The ragged flare of exhausts whirled grotesque shadows across the ground, and oil fumes mixed with raw gasoline sucked up into their faces.
Sidders, Recording Officer, waved a sheaf of papers at Allison as he halted before the Flight Lieutenant. Sidders looked like a big bear with his greatcoat muffled around him. “Take the notch at 2,500. Landing signal, K. Good luck.”
Allison grinned as he saluted. “Landing signal, K,” he repeated mechanically.
A moment later Allison was jerking his hatch cover back and pinching one wheel brake. He rammed the throttle knob up and swung the Spitfire around. It lurched away and his voice came through the earphones of Tommy Lane and Stan Wilson.
“Slide up, Lane, Wilson.” His voice was cold and impatient.
The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night, their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-off signal.
“Check your temperatures,” Allison droned into his flap mike.