The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a night defense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and Red Flight was included. O’Malley was so excited over the order that he walked away from a half pie, forgetting it entirely.
“Sure, an’ this is me dish,” he crowed.
“Swatting Stukas in the dark?” Allison asked grimly. “Dodging balloon cables and ducking through Ack-Ack muck?”
“This Moon Flight is the toughest job in the service,” Stan admitted. “But we should be swelled up. Look at the list of boys posted.”
“Oh, yes,” Allison admitted. “All aces.” He laughed shortly.
“You’ve recovered all right,” Stan said with a grin.
There was reason enough for setting aside twelve of the toughest, most reckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed and battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent their cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys with the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.
The first action came at eleven o’clock that evening. The call for the new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors, trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness after the skulking killers.
Allison stumbled out after O’Malley, and Stan came behind the Britisher. They got their flight orders, tested their throttles, then pinched wheel brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in threes. Red Flight was third out and O’Malley fumed into his flap mike over the delay.
The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. A mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide beam slapping down the runway.