After levelling off he looked up, then down. To the right of him a Messerschmitt was falling in flames. Even as he looked it exploded in mid-air. Far in the distance the one remaining enemy was speeding away. Off to the left the young Lord’s line was forming. Climbing slowly, Dave at last joined that line. Then, in the Sky Over England that was once more England’s own, they cruised the blue until the young Lord gave the word and they went thundering home. As they left their ships on the landing field the young Lord walked over to Dave, put out a hand, gripped Dave’s hard, then without a word walked away. It was enough. Dave understood and was glad. Just at mess time that evening an old man, member of the Home Guard appeared at headquarters. Under his arm he carried a flat, paper-wrapped package. “Thought you might like it, sir,” he said as he placed it in the young Lord’s hand. As the others gathered around the flight leader unwrapped it, then handed it to Dave. It was the tail of a Messerschmitt. On it had been painted two letters, H. W. Below these letters were 56 long, black lines. “This,” said Dave, “should be yours.” He gave it back to the young Lord. “All trophies belong to the leader of the flight.” “To the entire squadron,” the young Lord replied huskily. “Come. We’ll put it up where all may see.” He placed it on the mantle. “Not that we need to boast,” he said quietly, “but that all men may know that the Sky Over England is England’s alone.” _Chapter_ XXIV Searchers of the Sea Next morning the squadron commander received a strange request. Young Lord Applegate walked into his quarters, saluted, then said: “Commander, I wish to ask for a transfer.” “A transfer?” The Commander sat forward in his chair. “Why? You are doing magnificently. Only yesterday—” “Begging your pardon, sir,” Applegate broke in, “that has no bearing on the case. I ask for a transfer to the bomber service that patrols the sea. I was trained for that work, had a full year’s training. That should be enough.” “But you are a born fighter.” “Perhaps,” the young Lord admitted. “And perhaps too one may fight with a twin-motored bomber.” “There’s seldom an opportunity on sea patrol.” “We will make an opportunity. My men, Ramsey, Barnes and The Lark, wish to go with me. Old Jock, from Ramsey Farm, a gunner, first-class, who lost a leg in Flanders, will join us.” “I still don’t see—” “Commander,” the young Lord’s face was tense with emotion, “with me this is a personal matter. You’ve heard of the sinking of the Queen Bess?” The Commander nodded. “Cherry Ramsey was on that ship. You know her, I’m sure.” “I have met her. A charming girl. She was doing a grand piece of work. Was she lost?” “Her name is not on the list of those rescued. But it is believed,” the young Lord’s voice rang with hope, “that one life-boat, not swamped by the storm, remains unreported.