“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.

“Keep them up there,” Sim ordered. “But stay in your slot. You happen to be outnumbered and you also happen to have the job of seeing that those Me’s stay up there away from the bombers.”

Red Flight knifed along through the thin air, ready to smash any Me daring to go down the chute upon the bombers.

“Come on down and fight, ye spalpeens!” O’Malley was yelling.

Stan saw that the Forts and Libs were slamming lead at the Focke-Wulfs in a blaze that rivaled a Fourth of July celebration. He kept an eye on Allison’s Fort and saw an FW go down flaming after a thrust at the bomber. Stan chuckled softly.

“Allison got one!” O’Malley yelled. “’Tis a sad day, this, for Mrs. O’Malley’s son.”

Allison’s Fort got another FW and O’Malley’s flow of abuse against the Me’s increased. He was in a towering Irish rage. But it did no good. The Me’s hung on, waiting for the Thunderbolts to turn back. It was a case of who ran short of gas first. Now “lace-panty” flak was blossoming all over the sky. It exploded in pretty pink bursts and that was why the boys gave it such a fancy name.

“We have to go in,” Sim ordered grimly.

“Go in!” O’Malley bellowed. “Why not give them birds a scare anyway?”