The lips of the English boy, Brandon Ramsey, drew into a tense white line. This was his war. Perhaps he knew the men in those one-seated fighters. He could not be sure of that, but there was an airbase for fighters not three miles from his home. He knew nearly all the fliers. As for the enemy plane, why was it here? To drop bombs on defenseless villagers, or to spy out targets for some other plane that carried tons of explosives. Who could say?
“Two to one.” His was not a happy laugh. “There are three men in that Messerschmitt. They’re in an armored cabin. Our boys are right out there in the open.” There was a touch of anger in his voice.
“I—I’m sorry,” Dave murmured, brushing a hand before his eyes. “I’ve been in England for so short a time. Guess I don’t see things your way just yet.”
“That’s all right,” was the prompt and generous response. Brand gave Dave’s knee a slap. “You’ll pick it up fast. That is,” he added, “if that Messerschmitt isn’t still carrying its bombs and if he doesn’t land one of them right on us.”
“Why would he do that?” The American boy’s eyes opened wide.
“Lighten his load. Besides, a bullet might strike a bomb. Then whew! He’d fly into a thousand pieces. He—”
The English boy stopped suddenly, for at that instant there came a sput—sput—sput from the sky.
“They’re at it!” Dave’s voice was low and tense.
The burst of fire which was short and sharp had come from the Spitfire.
“Short, broadside,” Brand explained. “You can’t do much with a broadside. Other plane’s going too fast. They’re out of range, just like that. They—