The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of gunfire, hundreds of slugs, straight down her pencil-like fuselage. What would be the result? They must wait and see. The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward flight. It began to smoke, then to lose altitude. Just then it went into a cloud. “Dumb!” said Harmon. Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a long one. A full minute passed, another, and they were out. Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There was no spot against that patch of blue. The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled downward toward the sea. At last they were beneath the cloud. There was nothing hiding there. But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It was not foam. There were no white-caps. “Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll head for home. If we hurry a bit we’ll be in time for tea.” And they were. “We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young Lord whispered the minute they were on solid ground again. “But not a word about this! It’s frightfully irregular, I’m afraid.” “I’m sure it is,” Dave agreed. “And after all, it’s not your war,” his companion added. “No. Of course not,” Dave agreed. “It’s not my war.” For the first time in his life those words seemed a bit strange. At headquarters Dave asked for coffee and got it, good coffee served by a bright faced English girl. He had just taken his first swallow when two young men entered. At once the Young Lord was on his feet. The slim, dark-eyed one of the new arrivals said: “As you were.” At once tension relaxed. “Commander Knox,” said the Young Lord, “I want you to meet my friend Dave Barnes from America. He thinks he can fly.” He grinned slyly. “All Americans think that.” The Squad Commander chuckled. “Didn’t you ever notice that?” “Yes—yes I have,” the Young Lord agreed. “And mostly they can’t. But this chap,”—he gave Dave a quick grin—“I shouldn’t wonder if he could fly. Oh, just the least little bit.” “You wouldn’t be spoofing us?” said the red-headed companion of the Commander. He was grinning broadly. “No one could spoof you!” the Young Lord laughed. “You’ve already been spoofed.” “Dave,” he said, turning to his companion, “meet the singing murderer. We call him the Lark because he sings as he flies. You should hear him roaring away! He sings ‘On the Road to Mandalay’ while he swoops down on the tail of some unsuspecting Messerschmitt and blasts him from the sky.” “That,” said the Lark without smiling, “may be a joke. It works for all that. I learned the trick when I was a boy fishing for salmon in Scotland. If I could whistle, carrying a tune, while I was landing a big one, I’d not get excited and I’d land my fish. It’s the same with the sky fighting. If you can carry a tune in the thick of it—” “If you can,” laughed Dave, “then I’ll say you’re good!” “He’s right as he possibly can be,” said the Commander.