"Well, Pilot Officer Dave Dawson, of His Majesty's Royal Air Force," a voice suddenly spoke in Dave's ear, "I'll give you a penny for your thoughts. No, wait, let me guess. You were thinking about your home in Boston, Massachusetts, back in the States?"
Dave sat up and grinned down at the good-looking, sun-bronzed youth sprawled out on the grass at his side. He shook his head and held out his hand.
"Wrong, Pilot Officer Freddy Farmer, of the same Royal Air Force," he said. "So pay me the penny. I was thinking that it sure is one swell day. And I was wondering if we were going to get a little action, or if Hitler had found out we were now regular active service pilots, and had decided to call off the war."
"Hardly," the English youth said with a chuckle. "True, he's probably scared stiff now that you and I are in the R.A.F. I fancy, though, he isn't that scared. But it's pretty wonderful, isn't it? I mean, to be in the R.A.F."
Dave didn't answer. He let his gaze wander over to the line of Supermarine Spitfires powered with 1030 hp. Rolls Royce "Merlin" engines. Just looking at those swift, man-made metal birds of war made his heart start pounding and the blood surge through his body. An honest to goodness Spitfire pilot in the Royal Air Force! It was like living a wonderful dream, and it was doubly wonderful because it was true. The training and the concentrated study were all behind Freddy and himself, now. Each wore the highly prized wings above the upper left pocket of his tunic. But perhaps even more important was the fact that they had already received their baptism under fire. Each had got himself a German plane, the first payment in return for the training and instruction England had given them. For a month, now, they had been stationed with No. 207 Squadron, located on the east coast of England, just a few miles north of Chelmsford. Only a month so far on active duty—the "Babies" of the Squadron—but because of the speed with which wars are being fought these days, with each day filled with twenty-four hours of service and activity, they were just as much veterans as most of the older pilots.
"Stop daydreaming," Freddy cut into Dave's thoughts. "You are glad to be in the R.A.F., aren't you?"
Dave looked at him and raised both his eyebrows.
"Glad?" he echoed. "Boy, I'm tickled pink! Right now I wouldn't swap places with anybody else in all the world. Glad? Holy smokes! Is that a dumb question! And say, come across with that penny. Pay up, pal!"
Freddy made a face, fished a penny from his pocket and tossed it over.
"Right you are, there," he said. "I'll have you know an Englishman always pays his debts. What do you think, Dave?"