“Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures,” ordered the Squadron Leader.
Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew that voice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!
Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was in a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight that called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he slid his hatch cover into place.
“East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east,” Garret’s voice gritted into Stan’s ears.
The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts. Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They rent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under the debris.
Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. “They’ve slipped in behind us. Come on, Red Flight!”
“Sure, an’ I’m way ahead of ye,” came the voice of O’Malley.
Moon Flight wheeled and went thundering back. They could not stop the raging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, but they could make sure that few of the raiders ever made a return trip.
In the dull glow from the fires below Stan saw O’Malley’s ship dive down, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that was flying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was over unprotected territory. O’Malley’s guns drilled fire and the Junkers’ right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killer nosed over and went down like a flaming torch.
Stan was into the battle before the wrecked Junkers had dropped 500 feet. He laid over and raked a big death ship with his Brownings. It folded and slid off, spewing its crew into the night.