[CHAPTER TWO]
Orders from G.H.Q.
Group Captain Spencer was a big man with iron grey hair and a face that made you think of chiseled granite. He had served as a fighting pilot in World War No. 1, and the double row of decoration ribbons under his wings were proof enough that he had served his country well. A bullet scar just over his right eye was a constant reminder of a very close shave with Death. It added to the striking appearance of his broad, square-jawed face. As a matter of fact, Group Captain Spencer had yet to see forty-five years of age, but war had left its stamp on him so that he actually looked well over fifty.
He stood straddle-legged on the small platform at one end of the Ready Room while the Victory's fighter pilots, an even thirty-four of them, filed into the room and found seats. When finally they were all seated and silent, Group Captain Spencer cleared his throat and took a step closer to the edge of the platform.
"No doubt you lads are pretty fed up with patrolling around and not getting much of a chance to do any shooting," he said, and grinned faintly. "Well, that's because the fleet has been trying to smoke out the Italian navy—that is, what's left of it."
The senior officer paused, and a ripple of laughter spread from lip to lip.
"It's now pretty plain that Mussolini's sea chaps don't fancy a fight," Group Captain Spencer continued. "They've bottled themselves up in port, and won't come out. In time we'll have to go after them like we did at the Taranto Naval Base last November Twelfth. That kind of fun will have to wait a bit, though. More important things to do first. In short, Hitler is sticking his finger in the African pie—the Libyan pie, to be exact."
A murmur of suppressed excitement spread about the room. The pilots sat up a bit straighter and waited expectantly. Freddy looked at Dave and winked. Dave winked back and nodded his head.
