“Whoops!” shouted the Lark. “Up and at them, boys!”
In a low, sober note the young Lord said, “Boys that’s the bragging Hun, Wick, or I’m a liar!”
“Correct!” shouted the Lark. “His identical formation, V shape, one behind on his right, three behind on the left. In a scrap he’s safe. Perfect, I’d say for a hero.” Then in a roaring voice this red-headed pilot sang, “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long way to go.”
Dave didn’t want to sing. Truth was, he could not have said a word. His tongue at that instant was glued to the roof of his mouth. Only the night before a veteran fighter had said to him, “Wick may be a coward. I wouldn’t doubt that. But he’s been a long time in the air. And that means just one thing, he knows how to pick brave men to do his fighting for him.”
“Brave men,” Dave whispered as he clutched his ‘joy stick’ with a firmer grip. Then, through his radio headset, above the roar of motors, he caught a familiar sound. It was one of the tunes Fiddlin’ Johnny had played back there in the Hideout. It was “Londonderry Air.” Startled, as if expecting to see the strange boy fiddling as he flew, he glanced back. Johnny was in his place, all right, staring straight ahead.
“Whistling!” Dave murmured. “How do they do it?”
“Those Messerschmitts are looking for bombers, not fighters,” he told himself. “Haven’t seen us yet.”
The young Lord barked an order into his receiver. “We’ll climb into the sun, then drop down upon them.”
They climbed. They circled until the sun was at their backs. Then, with motors booming, they swept down upon the enemy.
With a sudden burst of speed the Messerschmitts scattered. Two planes alone remained in formation.