They leveled off and headed for a big cloud. That seemed the most likely hunting ground. The three Spitfires were not up high because the clouds were hanging over the sea. Below, Stan saw the cause of their call. Seven of the foulest old tubs he had ever laid an eye on were churning and wallowing in the choppy sea. Their propellers thrashed the water into tawny foam. Their plates were scarred and patched with daubs of vermillion. Red, rusty streams of water trickled down their sides. Seven piles of rust, grime and junk belching smoke like so many volcanoes. Coasters and not one of them over twelve hundred tons.
The boats rode high and Stan decided they were making the run from Portsmouth to London under ballast to pick up coal. Running what was supposed to be a death channel the old tubs would slide under the big coastal guns of the Germans. In a few days they would plough back loaded with coal. Their audacity made Stan grin. The British were certainly a stubborn race of people and when they had a sea course marked out they stayed with it. A sleek gray destroyer nosed the string of ancient boats along like a nervous hound herding a flock of fat pigs.
“Two bandits coming out of a cloud, quarter right,” Allison’s drawl announced.
Stan spotted the two Heinkel bombers as soon as Allison spoke. They were slim-bodied, snaky-looking killers with long wings and widespread tail structures. Their pilots hadn’t seen the three Spitfires as yet, being busy spotting the sleek destroyer.
When they did see the danger they zoomed up and laid over, plunging back into the cloud. Stan drove straight after them because he was in the best position. O’Malley swept around one side of the cloud and Allison went around the other.
Stan had a chance to test his guns as his upward zoom rode him up on a ghostly form ahead in the mist. The eight Brownings drilled furiously, in perfect timing. The Heinkel nosed down and vanished into the wall of fog. Stan went down to see if he had done any damage.
Breaking into the clear he saw blossoms of white silk dotting the green of the sea. The bombers were gone but Stan knew from the number of chutes floating down to the water that both Heinkels had been bagged.
Below them two motor launches were slicing across the channel getting set to pick up the Jerries and make them prisoners. Then he heard O’Malley’s voice.
“Sure, an’ I’m thinkin’ I see four Messers off the port wing.”
“Coming up with you,” Allison called back. “Take them, Irisher.”