The rest of the thought folded up in Dave's brain. At that instant he heard the savage snarl and yammer of aerial machine guns. And he had only to jerk his head around and look up to see the stabbing tongues of yellow-orange flame etched against the black sky. Nazi fighters were rushing down to enjoy a field day of killing and slaughter. But that's what they thought! There was good old Two Hundred and Three between them and the Para-troop planes. Two Hundred and Three, that had one of the best records in the R.A.F. for bringing down enemy aircraft.
"So come on down!" Dave grated, and slid his free hand up to twist the firing ring of his trigger button on the stick. "Come on down and get slapped in the face for keeps. We'll—"
"Tally-ho, chaps!" came Squadron Leader Parkinson's cry over the radio. "Company here. Let's entertain the blighters, or make them go home. After them, chaps!"
"And how!" Dave shouted happily, and started to whip his Spitfire around and up toward the part of the night sky etched with streaks of yellow orange. "We'll show—"
The rest died on his lips as common sense suddenly got the upper hand of him, and roughly jogged his memory. Heck, yes, of course! Was he nuts? He couldn't go kiting up there to do battle with those Nazi night fighters. And neither could Freddy Farmer. This was the end of the line for them. This was where they got off and changed trains. They had an exact time schedule of their own. And if they wasted minutes fooling around with those diving night fighters of Hitler's, their whole schedule could very well be thrown completely out of whack.
"But it's like quitting!" Dave groaned as he checked his turn and started to peel off and down toward the south. "Like getting the wind up and running out on the boys. And they're such swell guys. Oh nuts! Would five minutes make any difference? I might smack a couple in five minutes, stop two of them from maybe cutting down through us and spraying those Para-Commandos going down to earth. I—"
He groaned aloud again, for he knew that he was simply talking words that didn't mean anything. He had a job to do. Freddy had a job to do. And Two Hundred and Three had a job to do—without them! Major Barber hadn't kidded around on that point when he'd given Freddy and him the instructions. At the jump off spot, Freddy and he were to peel away from the squadron and get on about their own little job. And that meant peel away no matter if the whole German Luftwaffe dropped down on top of Two Hundred and Three.
"But just let me get back to England!" Dave whispered as he went roaring southward. "Just let me get back so that I can tell those boys, and have them understand how it was we pulled out and left them in the soup. Just let me do that!"
With a savage nod for emphasis, Dave squinted ahead at the searchlight beams that were now cutting up from the city of Rouen, and then looked to the right and to the left. Freddy Farmer's plane was on his right. He could see it quite clearly, now. There was beginning to be quite a bit of light. However, it was red light from explosions on the ground below that reflected upward. And those explosions meant that some of the Commandos had already landed and were going into planned action.
"Give it to them, boys!" Dave shouted impulsively, and shook his free fist. "Give them the works, and not once over lightly, either. Sock it to them where it hurts!"