“And does he boast!” The Lark put in. “Claims fifty planes shot down, or is it sixty. No matter. He’s head of a flight and sees to it that he stays ahead. One of his fighters always protects him from behind. If he sees one of our planes that’s shot up and wobbling, he just steps in and finishes them off. And that’s number forty-seven, or fifty-seven. Or what—” “We caught up with him once,” the young Lord laughed. “The Lark here downed the man who protected him from behind. I would have polished him off right then but I got a slug in my motor. Oil started spurting. So I had to make a crash landing. “Too bad, Johnny wasn’t with us,” he added with a good-natured laugh. “Johnny’d been up there fighting yet.” “I’ll be with you next time,” Fiddlin’ Johnny said, and he did not laugh. “Tomorrow,” he went on, “we’ll be up with the dawn. The O. C. told me that just before I left. Said we could go up in five formation.” “Who?” Dave sat up quick. “You’ll be in on it,” Johnny grinned. “You and Brand. Only the O. C. said we were to watch and see that you don’t do anything rash.” “You watch them! That’s a joke.” The Lark gave Johnny a slap on the shoulder. “All you can see when you’re in the air is crosses and swastikas.” “All the same,” the young Lord insisted, “Johnny’s one swell little fighter.” A half hour later they were gone, leaving Cherry to wonder how many of them would return, and how soon. At dawn five Spitfires left the landing field. They flew in formation, first the young Lord, then the Lark. After these came Dave and Brand. Fiddlin’ Johnny brought up the rear. It was a beautiful morning. Red still streaked the eastern sky. Did they see the sky? Perhaps Johnny did. He saw and heard everything that was beautiful. Dave did not see the sky. He saw only his instrument board, thought only of that which might be ahead. For they were the dawn patrol. And out of many a dawn, when the thin clouds were still red and gold, had come death. Dave shuddered at the thought but kept straight on his course. Of a sudden he caught the young Lord’s voice in the phone. It was high and cheerful as he shouted: “Enemy ahead. Let’s tap in.” ‘Tap in’, Dave knew meant ‘have a good time.’ Would they have a good time? Would they? He wondered. Then, as if he had taken a breath of pure oxygen, his spirits soared. Have a good time? Why not? This was a game. In this game one must have a good time or die. They were putting on speed. At first he did not see the enemy. Then he saw them all too well. Five Messerschmitts came zooming out of a thin cloud. The rising sun struck their wings and turned them to burnished silver. “Whoops!” shouted the Lark. “Up and at them, boys!” In a low, sober note the young Lord said, “Boys that’s the bragging Hun, Wick, or I’m a liar!”