d
battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the
balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent
their cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys with
the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.

The first action came at eleven o'clock that evening. The call for the
new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around
speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They
rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab
rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors,
trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness
after the skulking killers.

Allison stumbled out after O'Malley, and Stan came behind the Britisher.
They got their flight orders, tested their throttles, then pinched wheel
brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in
threes. Red Flight was third out and O'Malley fumed into his flap mike
over the delay.

The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. A
mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide
beam slapping down the runway.

"Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures," ordered the Squadron
Leader.

Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew that
voice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!

Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was
in a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight that
called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky
night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the
darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he
slid his hatch cover into place.

"East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east," Garret's voice
gritted into Stan's ears.

The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining
to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored
into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts.
Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then
the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like
rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the
searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They
smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They
rent and rippe