In his Fort, Allison drawled over the intercom, "Pilot to navigator."
"Go ahead, pilot."
"Everybody set?"
"Navigator to pilot, hot stuff coming up."
"Right waist gunner to pilot, sir. 190's at eleven o'clock. They're after the flight ahead."
"Rear gunner Roger, sir. Flock of Focke-Wulfs at six o'clock. Coming in on our tail."
"I say, old man, don't get itchy fingers. No ammo to waste." Allison's voice was calm and unruffled.
O'Malley's voice broke in over Stan's headset. "Hey, sure an' we ought to go down an' bust that up."
"Stay where you are, O'Malley," Sim snapped. "We have plenty of Me's coming in at twelve o'clock."
Stan had been so busy watching the bombers he had not checked his own part of the sky. A glance showed him Sim was correct. A flight of some twenty Me fighters were diving and circling above.