“Lay off, you fool, we’ll both be cooked.”
Stan cupped his mike as he went on up. “This is Stan Wilson, Von Ketch. I’m coming up after you. This time you won’t run out on me.”
Stan went up on the tail of the burning P–40. Munson made a desperate effort to bank and swing his guns into line. He fired two bursts that came close, one slashing through a wing. Then Stan was tipping over and going down on him, his Brownings singing their last song. As he raked across Munson’s hatch cover he saw the spy’s ship nose into a wild spin and go down in an uncontrolled dive.
Then he heard a familiar voice. It was Allison. “Bail out, you nut, bail out!”
“What’s going on down there? Be ye needin’ a hand?” O’Malley called in.
“I went to sleep and a friend dropped in to wake me up,” Stan called back.
He palmed the hatch cover back and tried to rise. Suddenly he realized that his legs did not seem to have any feeling in them at all. They refused to move. Gripping the edge of the hatch he heaved himself upward. The smoke was a blinding, choking pall now and the heat was searing his face and hands. Slowly he pulled himself upward. He hung on the edge of the cockpit for what seemed an eternity. His useless legs would not give him the shove he needed.
Then the ship pitched over. It was as though his P–40 knew he needed a boost and was giving it to him. Stan tumbled free and went somersaulting over and over in the air. Feebly he pawed for his rip cord. His fingers closed over it and he pulled.
For a long space nothing happened. He seemed to be tumbling miles without slowing his speed. Then he felt a gentle tug, followed by a solid jerk. A moment later he was floating in the air. His lungs seemed to be on fire and when he lifted a hand to his face he saw that it was seared and bleeding.
“I reckon Munson got in a hit all right,” he muttered.