"Splendid idea!" Squadron Leader Freehill said instantly. "I'll do that. Stand by, half a moment, and keep your eyes skinned."
Dawson heard Freehill mumbling words over the inter-com to the Wellington's radioman, but he didn't bother straining his ears to catch each word. He kept his head turned to the right, and his eyes roaming about the masses of dirty grey clouds. Perhaps four minutes dragged by, and then suddenly he felt Squadron Leader Freehill's hand on his left shoulder.
"Top-hole idea, that!" the British bomber pilot shouted. "Just got a reply buzz from Dilling. He picked up a little something. Seems the beggar is up here tailing us, and keeping the ground informed. That means there must be clear air soon, and the beggars will be there to meet us. Splendid, I say! They'll wish they hadn't, I fancy!"
Dawson grinned, stiff-lipped, but didn't say anything for a moment, or two. It wasn't that he didn't welcome a scrap with Nazi planes. Well, not exactly. The point was that Freddy and he didn't have time right now to mill around the sky with Nazi pilots. This wasn't a patrol with a chip on his shoulder. This was an emergency flight to Moscow, and the sooner they got there the better it would be. No, a mess of Nazi Messerschmitts suddenly blocking the way wouldn't be a diversion that he would exactly welcome now. Freddy and he had a mission to carry out, and to get shot down, and be forced to bail out over enemy-occupied territory, would of course knock the whole carefully worked out plan high, wide and handsome. No! To be truthful, he wanted very much not to meet any German planes this trip. For once he had no desire to give battle to Hitler's black-winged vultures. He wanted only to arrive safely in Moscow, and as quickly as this Wellington bomber could get him there. However, if—
He had automatically slipped on the co-pilot's inter-com head phones, so at that moment he heard Freddy Farmer's sharp, clear voice.
"A Jerry One-Ten dead astern of us, Squadron Leader!" Freddy reported. "I'm at the tail gun now. The blighter knows we're here. Shall I open fire?"
Freehill glanced over at Dawson and caught the Yank's quick nod and grin.
"Blast the beggar, of course!" he called back. "Shoot the Iron Cross right off his tunic, old thing. And—"
And that was all Squadron Leader Freehill said for the moment. He cut himself off short, and for a very good reason. The wall of dirty grey cloud suddenly ended as clean as a whistle. The Wellington went zooming out into a world of brilliant sunshine—and considerably more than that. To Dave, snapping his eyes forward, it seemed as though half the German Luftwaffe were milling around in the air directly ahead. He took one swift glance at the aerial picture, and then jerked off his inter-com phones, tore out of the co-pilot's seat, and went charging back to the blister gun turret amidships.
By the time he had reached the blister and was swinging his twin guns into position, the air all around was alive with German planes, and the entire heavens shook and vibrated with the savage snarl and yammer of aerial machine guns, plus the louder, deeper note of aerial cannon fire.