the attack. He felt a surge of hope as a squadron of Spitfires slammed into the top cover of German fighters, the two groups first merging in a dense ball and then separating like incompatible fluids into a series of clawing individual dogfights.
Natty Flight bored in and Bandfield eased farther to the left so that he could concentrate on the oncoming Heinkels. They were sinister-looking airplanes, full of complex curves, the sun shining on the perspex canopies and the twin cowlings, little red winking dots issuing forth from the single guns in front.
He crouched down farther in the cockpit as the Heinkel blossomed in size. Pathetic, he thought, I've got this big engine in front of me like a ton of armor plate and that poor brave bastard is sitting in a fishbowl. I've got eight great guns to hit him and he's popping at me with a little pea-shooter!
The Heinkels got prettier as they got closer, the gray-green shapes sometimes flashing a bit of blue when an undersurface was exposed in a quick formation-closing bank. A slight shudder told him he was taking hits from somewhere, nothing vital, not enough to disturb his concentration. He pushed the firing button just as the circle of the reflector sight shrank around the Heinkel like the loop of a snare. The eight. 303 machine guns reached out in a harmonized pattern of ball, tracer, and De Wilde incendiary ammunition. The mass of lead converged into an arrowhead, hammering the Heinkel's perspex fishbowl into powder. The instant tornado of wind fire-hosing into the open fuselage cavity braked the Heinkel to a shuddering, convulsive stall that pitched it out and to the left. Bandfield followed Keeler into a hard turning descent to the right that rapidly changed into a prop-hanging climb to trade the energy of the dive for precious altitude. "Form up, Natty Flight," Keeler's rough voice called.
Bandfield looked around; one of the Poles was gone. Shot down? Or as the courageous Poles were prone to do, just off on some forbidden solo hunting?
The German formations had drifted to the right, extending the distance between them to almost a thousand yards. The void left by Bandfield's doomed Heinkel, now spiraling eccentrically away, had been filled by another.
"Once again, Natty Flight, line astern, attacking, go." Bandfield savored the thrill of combat, wondering at his own detachment, at his lack of concern at having killed again.
Four thousand feet above, Galland's guttural voice crackled into Josten's earphones: "Attacking."
They plunged down on the three Hurricanes, Galland fastening onto the leader. The old pro flew bucking into Keeler's slipstream, letting the brown camouflaged fuselage fill his windscreen, aiming just forward of where the huge identity letters—rf and f—flanked the blue-white-red of the cockade. He pressed and quickly released the firing button for the two cowl-mounted machine guns and the two wing-mounted 20-mm cannon. The three-second burst slammed almost twenty pounds of lead into Keeler and his fuel tanks. Swirling flames and wreckage blotted out the sky around Galland as, unable either to turn or to stop, he lunged through the debris of the exploding Hurricane.
Josten slid over to attack the number three Hurricane. He fired carefully and saw his own victim stagger, turning inverted to plunge away burning, black smoke pouring from a vicious red blot of fire. "Twenty," he thought, "now that's a decent number."
The murderous assault on Keeler forced Bandfield into a violent turn to the right.
Josten pounced on him, trying to edge the remaining Hurricane into his sights when Galland gruffly ordered, "Return to base."
Josten horsed his Messerschmitt around, glancing down to the blinking red warning light. There was just enough fuel to make it to France. He trailed Galland, pushing over in a maneuver he knew the carburetor-equipped Hurricane could not follow. Diving, he realized how right the man had been the night before. All the preparation—and
Natty Flight bored in and Bandfield eased farther to the left so that he could concentrate on the oncoming Heinkels. They were sinister-looking airplanes, full of complex curves, the sun shining on the perspex canopies and the twin cowlings, little red winking dots issuing forth from the single guns in front.
He crouched down farther in the cockpit as the Heinkel blossomed in size. Pathetic, he thought, I've got this big engine in front of me like a ton of armor plate and that poor brave bastard is sitting in a fishbowl. I've got eight great guns to hit him and he's popping at me with a little pea-shooter!
The Heinkels got prettier as they got closer, the gray-green shapes sometimes flashing a bit of blue when an undersurface was exposed in a quick formation-closing bank. A slight shudder told him he was taking hits from somewhere, nothing vital, not enough to disturb his concentration. He pushed the firing button just as the circle of the reflector sight shrank around the Heinkel like the loop of a snare. The eight. 303 machine guns reached out in a harmonized pattern of ball, tracer, and De Wilde incendiary ammunition. The mass of lead converged into an arrowhead, hammering the Heinkel's perspex fishbowl into powder. The instant tornado of wind fire-hosing into the open fuselage cavity braked the Heinkel to a shuddering, convulsive stall that pitched it out and to the left. Bandfield followed Keeler into a hard turning descent to the right that rapidly changed into a prop-hanging climb to trade the energy of the dive for precious altitude. "Form up, Natty Flight," Keeler's rough voice called.
Bandfield looked around; one of the Poles was gone. Shot down? Or as the courageous Poles were prone to do, just off on some forbidden solo hunting?
The German formations had drifted to the right, extending the distance between them to almost a thousand yards. The void left by Bandfield's doomed Heinkel, now spiraling eccentrically away, had been filled by another.
"Once again, Natty Flight, line astern, attacking, go." Bandfield savored the thrill of combat, wondering at his own detachment, at his lack of concern at having killed again.
Four thousand feet above, Galland's guttural voice crackled into Josten's earphones: "Attacking."
They plunged down on the three Hurricanes, Galland fastening onto the leader. The old pro flew bucking into Keeler's slipstream, letting the brown camouflaged fuselage fill his windscreen, aiming just forward of where the huge identity letters—rf and f—flanked the blue-white-red of the cockade. He pressed and quickly released the firing button for the two cowl-mounted machine guns and the two wing-mounted 20-mm cannon. The three-second burst slammed almost twenty pounds of lead into Keeler and his fuel tanks. Swirling flames and wreckage blotted out the sky around Galland as, unable either to turn or to stop, he lunged through the debris of the exploding Hurricane.
Josten slid over to attack the number three Hurricane. He fired carefully and saw his own victim stagger, turning inverted to plunge away burning, black smoke pouring from a vicious red blot of fire. "Twenty," he thought, "now that's a decent number."
The murderous assault on Keeler forced Bandfield into a violent turn to the right.
Josten pounced on him, trying to edge the remaining Hurricane into his sights when Galland gruffly ordered, "Return to base."
Josten horsed his Messerschmitt around, glancing down to the blinking red warning light. There was just enough fuel to make it to France. He trailed Galland, pushing over in a maneuver he knew the carburetor-equipped Hurricane could not follow. Diving, he realized how right the man had been the night before. All the preparation—and
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