“What the hell do we do now, Skipper?” asked his copilot, Second Lieutenant Bill Stover. The sarcastic tone of voice was not lost on Phips, who was well aware that he’d panicked and screwed up royally.

Stover continued, “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re chasing us south and west. In a while we’ll run out of gas and have to bail out even if they don’t manage to shoot us down first.”

“I know,” Phips muttered. Despite the cold, he was sweating profusely.

The tail gunner, Sergeant Ballard, broke in. At thirty, he was the old man and his deep voice had a calming effect. “Skipper, it looks like one of them is pulling back. Maybe he’s running out of fuel.”

Phips prayed it was so. The ME only had a range of about three hundred miles and must have used up a lot of gas chasing the bombers around the sky. Maybe the second one would have the same problem.

No such luck. As time dragged on, the lone ME stayed behind them, darting in and out, firing an occasional burst, and looking for an opportunity to make a kill. The German respected the bomber’s many guns, which fired short bursts every time he got within range. It looked like an impasse but it wasn’t. As long as he had fuel, the German held all the trump cards. At least they were low enough that the men of Mother’s Milk didn’t need oxygen to breathe.

“Skipper, will you take a suggestion from your beloved navigator?”

Phips managed a weak smile. “Yes, Mr. Kent.”

“We are getting farther and farther away from Mother England. If you want me to find our way home, we’ve got to stop this running shit and head back.”

Damn it, Phips thought. It was time to make up for his mistake. “Okay, we turn and attack the bastard.”

The German must have thought that the plane’s sudden and sharp banking to the right was an indication of damage and he dashed in for the kill with his machine guns and 20mm cannon blazing. Pieces flew off the bomber, and Phips heard shouting through his headset. Loose items caromed off the inside of the hull.