"Of course it's nice to have this cloud protection against Nazi ground gunners," he told himself, and laughed a little nervously. "But there are a lot of us up here, and not a sky traffic cop in sight. Wouldn't it be sweet if I should suddenly tangle wings with some guy in this muck, and have to hit the silk? Or Freddy! That--Oh, cut it, Dawson! Don't be a jumpy old woman all the time, for cats' sake. After all, you've--" But Dawson never finished the rest, for at that moment the clouds over Occupied Europe suddenly came to an abrupt end. He streaked out into clear night air, and as he had expected the new day was beginning to dawn far, far to the east. After making sure that he wasn't crowding the tail of the next ship in front of him, he twisted around in the pit, and stared back. Instantly a happy grin curled his lips, and a thin layer of ice slid off his heart and melted away. There to his right rear was the shadowy shape of Freddy Farmer's Mustang cutting along right with him as though the two planes were tied together. "And me stupid enough to worry about Freddy, the hottest pilot ever to take off any field!" he chuckled. "Boy, would he ride me if I ever let him know about it. Okay, Freddy boy, so far so good!" Well, maybe it was so far so good, up to that moment. A moment later, though, it seemed as though all the flak guns the Nazis possessed started to hurl up everything, including the kitchen stove. Dawson's formation was riding high ceiling cover, and as he peered down at the bomber formations a good five thousand feet below him the bursts of red, orange, and yellow flak fire gave him the impression of a huge fire-works factory exploding. "Hitler's welcome!" Dave murmured. "Only I don't mean he's glad to see us. He'll be even less glad when--" A bursting flak shell right under Dawson's left wing seemed to spew a shower of red and gold straight into his face. The Mustang lurched crazily off to the other side, and for one heart-chilling moment Dawson feared that the aircraft had been hit, and badly crippled. But such was not the case, fortunately. The bursting flak was farther away than it had looked, and it was simply concussion that sent the Mustang sliding off to one side. A touch of stick and rudder, and Dawson had it back into position in no time. And then the radio silence was broken. "Bandits ahead at six o'clock, fighter aircraft!" came the escort leader's voice over the air waves. "Same level but starting to dive on the big boys. Green and Blue Fighters go down and engage. Don't let the bums get through. Smack 'em. Other flights hold your altitude and course."