As though a Nazi anti-aircraft gunner on the ground wanted to help out, a shell exploded with a terrific roar just on the right to punctuate Dave's last sentence. It was close enough to send his Spitfire jumping a bit, and he almost slipped into a spin before he regained control. When he did he spent a couple of very anxious moments waiting to see if shrapnel pieces had done any serious damage. None seemed to have, though, for the Rolls-Royce Merlin in the nose continued to roar out its song of mighty power and pull the Spitfire through the night air at close to four hundred miles an hour.
That single exploding shell, though, was but the first greeting of many. As Freddy and he went clipping across Rouen, and over the twisting Seine, it seemed as though all the anti-aircraft batteries in Europe had opened up on them. And there were so many searchlight beams poking upward and swinging back and forth, and around in circles, that the sky ahead and on all sides was like a shimmering white fishing net. And the searchlight beams certainly were fishing for the two Spitfires.
A dozen times one caught Dave's plane cold and blinded him for a split second or two. But just as an anti-aircraft battery would take a new sight on him, he would manage to whip out of the brilliance of the "Peeping Tom" and into blessed black sky that hid him from view. And just as many times he saw lights catch Freddy's plane, and make the English-born air ace do his trick dance before getting out of sight again.
As a matter of fact, the closer they came to Evaux the more guns started shooting at them, and the more searchlights sprang into action. The sky was lighted up almost as though it were high noon. There were few "black" spots, and cold sweat trickled down Dave's face as shells seemed to burst right on top of his wings, and even inside the cockpit—which of course they didn't.
"We're going to have to be good!" he muttered, as he dropped the Spit's nose and cut down into momentary concealment. "Plenty good, or they'll see us step off, and start a man hunt by the time we've reached the ground. And that mustn't happen. Those birds down there have got to think we're still in the ships when they see them catch fire. And so—well, it's up to us to make it good."
As he spoke the last he put his lips to the flap mike.
"Better get out of here, Freddy!" he shouted.
It was the signal they had arranged in Major Barber's office, the only words they would speak over the air. But they would mean plenty. Dave's speaking those words was the signal for them both to bail out in the next possible second, after yanking the lever that started the time mechanism of the fire bomb. So the instant the words were off Dave's lips he cut deeper into the dark area in the sky, yanked the fire bomb lever, shoved open the greenhouse cowling, unfastened his safety harness and got up on the seat.
With his foot he moved the stick over to the right to tilt the Spitfire in that direction a little. Then, after bracing himself, he dived out and down, holding his breath for a couple of split seconds for fear he had done it wrong and would get practically cut in two by the Spitfire's tail plane. But he had done it right, and he went spinning end over end down through the night air that grew darker the lower he fell. He counted up to twenty, then tightened his grip on the rip-cord ring and jerked it hard.
"You'd better work," he muttered, "or I'll be plenty sore at the manufacturer!"