"They could be R.A.F. planes headed out to give us a hand with the escorting," he murmured.
Even as he spoke the words, however, he knew that he was simply whistling in the dark. If it had been decided for R.A.F. planes to fly out from England and meet them, they would have been informed of that fact before leaving Botwood. No, those three dots weren't R.A.F. planes. So there was only one answer. They were Nazi long range fighters, and Colonel Stickney's words about German Intelligence not being stupid were bearing fruit. Word of this ferry bomber-Commando aerial convoy to England had reached German ears. And there were three Nazi planes tearing out to do something drastic about it.
For a moment or two Dave took his eyes off the three dots rushing up out of the dawn light and glanced at the bomber formation prop-clawing toward England. Ice coated his heart, and his throat became dry and tight. Twenty-one bombers heading for England, unarmed. Twenty-one bombers, each of which carried its crew and a certain number of highly trained Yank Commandos!
"And it's up to Freddy and me to see that they get there!" Dave muttered grimly.
In the next instant a wave of blazing anger swept through him. What did Colonel Stickney think Freddy and he were? A whole confounded fighter squadron? It wasn't fair to give them complete charge of such an important aerial convoy. More fighter pilots should have been sent along to help them out, just in case. Doggone it! What did they think Freddy and he were? Cats with nine lives apiece? Darn it...!
The wave of anger vanished just as quickly as it came. A cold calmness took charge of Dave, and he deliberately reached up his free hand and twisted the ring on his electric trigger button to "Fire." Then he turned his head and glanced over at Freddy. A set grin was on the English youth's face, and as their eyes met Freddy lifted his right hand with the fingers closed and the thumb sticking straight up. Dave nodded and returned the thumbs up sign.
"After all, there're only three of them," he grunted, and switched his gaze back to the advancing dots. "If Freddy and I can't handle three of the tramps, then we just don't belong!"
The dots were no longer dots. They had taken on definite shape and outlines. And they were as Dave expected them to be, three long range Messerschmitt One-Tens. At that very instant the two wing planes broke away from the center plane to opposite sides, and took up positions for a three direction attack on the ferry bomber formation. Dave shot out his hand and shoved the throttles of the P-Thirty-Eight's Allison engines wide open. Then he eased the nose up a hair, and with Freddy right at his wingtip he went streaking up over the ferry bombers and straight for the center Messerschmitt.
Not a word, of course, had been spoken between them. But there was no need for words. Too often had they tackled three enemy planes in spread out line formation not to know exactly what should be done, and to do it instinctively. And so, wingtip to wingtip, they slammed straight at the center Messerschmitt as though it were the only enemy craft in the air, and they were bent on its immediate destruction.
When they were still a ways from it they both opened fire and sliced a shower of hissing bullets across the sky. If they got any lucky shots into the center Messerschmitt, they didn't know. But hitting it was not their big idea. On the contrary, they counted on exactly what happened. The pilot of the center Messerschmitt didn't like the idea of two P-Thirty-Eights boring in at him. He started to return the fire, then lost heart and slammed down in a sharp dive.