He kicked over, sensing a danger behind him, and in that one motion became attacker rather than attacked. It was a closer thing this time. His foeman's gun bore squarely upon him for a brief, unguarded moment. Ramey felt something like the jerk of a hand on his sleeve, and glancing down, saw with mild astonishment that his leather flying coat was split from wristband to elbow, spilling powdery fleece. Then his 'plane righted itself, his own gun answered and--it was a most amazing thing! Before his eyes the enemy ship blossomed into a crimson bloom with burgeoning petals of black! A flower which suddenly burst asunder and spiraled to earth in a host of flaming motes. And that, he thought grimly, was _two_! The third--? * * * * * Swiftly he scanned the ever-lightening skies, but he could not locate the missing 'plane. For a breathless moment he feared that in the melee it had escaped; then the voice of his old Combat Instructor at Kelly Field seemed to whisper an old, almost forgotten warning: "_If you can't see it_, look out! _It's on your tail!_" Once more, and this time with frantic haste, he shot the ship into a climb, a wingover turn. But not before a hot hail, punching on metal behind him like the vibrant tattoo of pounding rivets, rasped a song of death in his ears. Then he was on a level with his enemy--and driving headlong at him! For a yearlong moment it seemed inevitable they must crash head on, collide and destroy each other and go hurtling to earth locked in flaming, loveless embrace! But not for an instant did Ramey's finger relax its pressure on the trigger. And when scant yards separated their whirling propellers, his bullets found their mark. The enemy pilot suddenly collapsed in his seat; his body, pitching forward, was a dead weight on the stick. And with a shuddering groan, the last Jap fighter nosed earthward in a streaking dive! It was a moment of triumph. But Ramey Winters never found time to savor that victory. For even as he pulled back on the stick to lift himself clear of the falling 'plane, the stick went dead in his hands! From somewhere deep within the entrails of the gallant little Curtis came the grinding clash of metals. At the last moment, a dying foeman had evened the score. Ramey's motors spluttered and died, and the thin song of wind lashing the fuselage was the only audible sound in an awful silence as the ship, like a dancing leaf, glided earthward out of control. There was but one thing to do. Ramey plucked at the buckle of his safety belt, prepared to go overside. And Red? Well--it was an airman's burial. A moment of flame, then an unmarked grave in the jungle. Ramey glanced once more at his chum. "So long, Red," he whispered. "See you again, pal--" Then he gasped. For Red's lips had fallen open, and a bubble of bloody spittle was leaking from one corner of his mouth--but this tiny spume pulsated faintly! Breathing! He was still alive!