soon as you can get away."

"Do I fly a Spitfire?"

The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. "You're
too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders."

"I'll be on my way in an hour," Stan said as he snapped a salute.

As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.

"Whoa there, you're in a big rush, aren't you?" Garret asked with a
grin.

"Sorry," Stan grunted and was off.

As he strode across the field he got to wondering if Garret had been
listening at the door. It didn't seem possible. Eavesdropping in an
officer of Garret's standing would have laughed him out of the service
if he had been caught. He dismissed it from his mind.

He told Allison and O'Malley about his plans and warned them not to
mention his trip to anyone. Allison grinned lazily. O'Malley was
excited.

"Sure, an' the war's about over," he boasted. "With me coaxing one of
them sweet colleens through the skies there won't be a Jerry left in a
week."

"You lugs come a-rattling when I send in the call," Stan said as he
strode toward his quarters.

A half-hour later he was kicking his Spitfire into line. He was into the
air swiftly and laid his course across the serene green countryside to
pick up the shore of the North Sea at the nearest point.

At that height it was difficult to realize he was in the sky above a
war-torn nation. There were no evidences of destruction below, and the
blue sky was clear of enemy planes. The steady throbbing roar of the
Spitfire's motor was a pleasantly lulling sound, and he settled back
comfortably with his mind at ease, checking over the structural details
of the Hendee Hawks in his mind for use in putting the dismantled ships
together as fast as possible when he landed at the naval base where they
awaited him.

It was pleasant to be out of danger for this brief period. It gave him a
chance to examine his thoughts, do a little readjusting of his personal
concepts to the grim realities of war. He found he had been under such
terrific tension every instant since reporting to the Red Flight that
this was the first chance he had found to look back over what had
happened and realize how supremely lucky he had been thus far to escape
death.

Flying at 4,000 feet, he appeared to be merely creeping across the green
blanket of England beneath him. Ahead, he could faintly see a silver
line of mist marking the shore of the sea. Though the Spitfire was
tunneling through t