DAMN you!" Captain Grady roared, his beefy face flushing carrot red under his straw hair, "haven't you got the guts to carry out orders?" The veteran Yank ace who had joined the British in 1914 and stayed in the Service to see the advent of the Second World War was fit to be tied.

Lieutenant Redd tried to force his eyes to cling to the captain's face, tried to ward off the sting of Grady's words that were shaming him before the whole fighter squadron. His big hands were clenched so hard that the nails cut through the skin but he didn't feel them.

He groped desperately for words. "I—I couldn't get through, I tell you. The Nazis had us blocked. . . ."

Grady broke him off angrily, "Crowther got through—at least he didn't come running back here with his tail between his legs. I've seen you fight before, Redd—I've watched you dodge the tough spots and make your pitiful attempts to cover up the action. I saw men of your stripe in the last war. You ran out like a cur, let Crowther go on alone and I'll bet he never comes back."

Redd hardly heard the last words. Why must he breathe so hard? Why couldn't he stick his chest out, curse the captain for a fool, and strutting loudmouth? Why must the dull edge of fear frighten him into doing things he was ashamed of?

The odds were greater than Grady mentioned. In fact there were no odds on a sure thing. Crowther would never be back. All of the love and respect No. 10 Fighter Squadron held for Crowther couldn't bring him back. There would be no more of his humorous stories to relieve the tension before the takeoff—no more of his funny tricks at mess, nor any of his fatherly advice to the fledglings scarcely younger than himself. Crowther would never be back.

Redd's mind flashed back to that spot of hell he had just run away from. He and Crowther had been assigned to locate a hidden battery of the Siegfried Line just north of Rochonvillers and had met with four Henschel reconnaissance ships over the Maginot line.

The fight didn't last long. Crowther bored in without fear, smashed his Gloster "Gladiator" into the Nazis and crippled one of those ships. Then the other three jumped him and sent a wall of Madsen slugs ripping him to shreds. There was a moment when Redd could have torn in and ripped the trap apart—one moment when he could have dared that hail of lead and cut Crowther loose.

He let the chance go by—flew wide of the death-spot while he saw Crowther's face smashed into a pulp of skin and blood. Why must he be damned with that subconscious caution which eternally made him out a coward! Thank God these fellow officers of his didn't know the truth—thank God they didn't know that he had committed the unpardonable sin of a pilot. He was safe now, and they would never know.

Captain Grady's flushed face bleared before his eyes. He had to say something—had to carry it off with some show of resentment. After all, he had pride.

"I resent your remarks, Grady. You talk as though I—I had killed. . . ."

"Resent and be damned!"

Grady lunged toward him, his big fist driving out from the shoulder. Redd had a horrible desire to run, but he braced himself. He wasn't in the air now where nobody could see his shame. He had to stand and take it. For a fleeting instant he saw an opening through which he might land a blow, but that damning caution in his mind made him hesitate until the chance was gone.

If he did land one blow, the captain would land ten—would beat him into a blubbering pulp. Redd threw up his arms wildly, but he was too late. The captain's ?st lashed through his futile guard, struck with explosive force in his face.

Redd went staggering back—back—back right into the path of the field truck that was roaring along the line to the supply shed. There was a scream from the men—they stood paralyzed with the sudden horror of what was about to happen.

Then, out of the group of fledglings clustered near the scene, a slim form darted like a sword. The form struck Redd in a flying tackle and knocked him out of the path of the truck. But the slim form didn't roll clear. There was a cry of pain, the shouts of men.

REDD was half dazed, hardly able to recognize what had happened. He staggered to his feet, tore his way through the pack of men to the side of the youngster'wh0 had saved him from certain death. Redd was on his knees, gripping the kid's hand.

"You were a fool to do that for me I'm not worth it," he sputtered.

The youngster grinned. There was no cowardice in those brown eyes. There was a strength there that was above the slight physical body that contained it.

"It was nothing, lieutenant," the kid, whose name was Vance said eagerly.

"Hurt much?"

"My—my foot, that's all."

Captain Grady plowed through. "Get back, you blighters. Two of you carry him to the infirmary!"

It didn't take two of them. Redd, his face cut and bleeding where Grady's fist had bruised it, picked the kid up in his two thick arms and marched off with him. He wouldn't leave the infirmary until the M.O. told him that the truck had just run over the tip of Vance's shoe and had broken two of the smaller toes.

Redd needed a drink, but he didn't have the nerve to face the men in the canteen. He'd made enough mess of the day so far. He was afraid to think of what the men would do if they could guess that he had been responsible for Crowther's death. He sought his room.

He got his private bottle of cognac, and took a long pull. The fact of Crowther's death grew on him, and now that it was over he could see a dozen different ways in which he might have saved him. It was always like that. In the heat of the moment his nerve deserted him, as though some part of his mind became numb in order to protect him from personal harm. And always, after the moment was over, he could think of a dozen things he should have done, things that any man worthy of the name would have done at the right time.

Even that fight with Grady. Why hadn't he plowed in, punching, punching, punching until he could no longer stand? Why did he have to throw his arms up like some old woman to ward off the blow? He thought of the kid, Vance, and knew in his heart that had he been in Vance's place, the affair of the afternoon would have ended differently. Sure, if Vance had been a coward, he, Redd would now be dead—just like Crowther was dead!

It was always like that. As a kid he failed to make the Rugby teams and shrugged the matter off with a remark that it was a fool's game. He lacked the courage—the nerve for physical conflict. He avoided fights. He took insults rather than use his fists, and always stated with convincing scorn that it wasn't worth fighting about. He was afraid.

And yet there were other times, like when he saved his dog from the burning shed, and when he climbed up the side of the house to rescue a wounded bird. That was courage, but not the kind that fought a war.

There was a knock on the door. Redd stiffened, and shoved the cognac out of sight. "Come in," he called gruffly.

The door flung open, and Lieutenant Stringer legged in with that cocksure air of his. Redd scowled. What did Stringer want there? They were unfriendly since the day when Redd caught Stringer snooping around the captain's office and threatened to report him. He didn't report him, but then his knowledge was a threat over Stringer's head. He never learned what Stringer was looking for.

"What do you want here?" Redd said stiffly, glaring at the skinny man

"I was flying solitary, today," Stringer said.

Redd tensed. "So what?"

"I happened to see four Henschels¹ mix with two 'Gladiators'² just north of Rochonvillers. I couldn't get down in time to help. It would have been a good fight if one of the 'Gladiators' hadn't got scared out at the wrong time."

1: The Henschel Hs. 126 is a two place reconnaissance, parasol type monoplane. It is powered with an 870 h. p. B.M.W. 123DC radial, air cooled engine. One fixed machine-gun fires through the propeller and a flexible gun is operated by the observer.

2: The Gloster "Gladiator" is a single-seat, biplane fighter powered with a Bristol "Mercury IX" radial, air cooled motor of 840 h. p. It carries four machine-guns, two mounted in troughs in the sides of the fuselage and easily accessible to the pilot, and two mounted below the lower wing, one on each side of the fuselage and firing outside the propeller arc, Maximum speed is 250 m.p.h.; very maneuverable. Climbs to 20,000 ft. in 9 min.

REDD could feel his face go white. He sat very still and a thousand fears seemed to grow and grow until his mind and body were swollen with them.

"That's a lie, Stringer—you're guessing." Redd wanted to leap forward and strike the skinny man, but he didn't dare.

"If I could guess like this, I'd soon be rich, Redd. I saw Crowthers cripple that first ship, saw the other three gang up on him and tear him apart while you flew around like a baby chick with the hawk scare. They got him, all right, and it was your fault."

Redd knew that denials were useless. Gritting his teeth, he felt that old fear stirring in the back of his mind. He had to protect himself someway.

"So what, Stringer?" he asked dully. "You can't prove it was my fault. Other men have died like that."

"Do you think this gang would swallow any excuse in Crowther's case? No, damn you, they wouldn't."

"You're going to tell them?"

Stringer paced the floor, his gaunt body casting weird shadows upon the wall. "I'll not tell them on one condition."

Redd was grasping at straws. "Name it."

"Captain Grady sent me down to ask you to report to him. I happen to know he's taking you out of active patrols, going to let you handle the rookies on their warm-up flights," Stringer went on earnestly.

"What has that got to do with you and me?" Redd growled.

"You're going to lead those replacements to where I tell you. see?"

Redd felt a shock of warning. "It isn't possible you're a spy, Stringer?"

Stringer laughed. "Me a spy? Hell, no! Would I be breaking my neck to knock down Nazis if I was? I've got six planes to my credit."

"What's the idea, then?" Redd leaned forward tensely. He should have knocked Stringer down. He should have told him off and then have admitted his guilt to the squadron, suffering the penalty of his cowardice, but he didn't have that kind of nerve. All of his instincts screamed for him to take the best way out.

"Never mind that, now," Stringer said slyly. "Do you fly where I say?" "I'll have the youngsters to think of."

"It might do them good."

Five minutes later, as he faced Captain Grady's tight face, he winced under the man's stinging rebuke. Let them insult him, damn them! At least he was alive.

"I'm taking you out of active patrols, Redd. Crowther hasn't come back, and I don't think he will. From now on, you're nursing the replacements. Keep 'em out of trouble. I don't have to warn you on that score," he said cuttingly.

BUT Redd didn't sleep well that night, for he knew that whatever Stringer had planned, it meant trouble for the fledglings. Maybe he'd better take his medicine after all. Crowther was gone, and the others couldn't do any more than snub him. Or could they? They might harm him, might force him out on a. suicide flight. No, he'd take his chances with Stringer.

The next day, Redd strode to the line and found a dozen youngsters eagerly waiting for him. Respect was in their eyes, a little awe in their young faces, for he was a veteran with three victories to his credit. Three victories, when he should have had ten!

Stringer drew him aside. "Take 'em across Sierek and angle up toward the Moselle sector, Redd."

Redd flushed angrily. "That's bad country, Stringer. Action is concentrated in that sector. We'll be jumped sure as hell in Deuteronomy."

"They've got to meet the Nazis sometime. Might surprise you what they can do. After all, you know, we're not all yellow."

Redd winced at the dig, and strode to his ship. He legged in, pulled his goggles down, and inspected his gauges. Vance, the kid, was hobbling around on a crutch to watch the takeoff. He waved with a wide grin.

'Redd waved back and then kept his eyes on his ship. He jabbed the throttle wide, felt the Bristol "Mercury" buck and roar in a blast of red-tongued power. He throttled back, signalled to the eager kids. Chocks out! He kicked the engine wide and felt the Gloster slide forward and gather speed. Then he was circling up, up, up!

He thrilled to see how expertly those kids zoomed into formation. Then he realized what his promise to Stringer meant. He knew Stringer would follow them, but he didn't know just why.

After all, they might not meet a Nazi ship on the flight. He headed for Sierek and saw the "pillboxes" of the Maginot Line slide past his wing tip. There was real hell down there—mud and ?lth and rats and constant death.

He circled over Sierek and headed toward the Mosselle. He looked back at the perfect formation and a weird echo seemed to throb in his head. He suddenly realized what it meant and waggled his wings fiercely. He dodged out of formation as the six Heinkels tore through, taking a rooky with them.

Redd flattened and stared wildly about him. A black column of smoke marked the death dive of the first rooky. He was afraid the others would lose their nerve at the sight, but he was wrong. Those kids swarmed upon the Nazis like pups on a pile of bones! The Huns recognized the rookies for what they were and played the old smart game.

Redd tried to warn the kids. The Nazis would let the rookies get on their tails, then they would flip over in an expert Immelmann and blast the unsuspecting youngsters. One kid went down that way, but the others caught on.

TWO of the rookies downed a Heinkel between them. Redd saw another Heinkel roar in to wreak vengeance upon the fledglings, and lined his own sights. He knew he should tear through the fight and bust that play, but to do that meant daring the fire of a dozen Madsens bristling from the Hun ships.

Redd stabbed the trips in a long, wild burst, and saw one of the Heinkels explode in a flurry of flame and smoke. That shot was pure luck, but the kids didn't know it. They cheered him by waving their hands.

The kids got another Heinkel, and things tightened up. At the same instant a "Gladiator" dived down out of the clouds, a dirty "Gladiator" with a horse's head on the pit. Stringer slashed in, caught a Heinkel dead center and gutted it. Then he pulled out, turned tail and ran for home.

Redd began to suspect the play. Stringer was using the rookies as bait for his own benefit. He was padding his score of victories at the expense of the kids. The Nazis, so engrossed in the cold meat, failed to see him drop upon them.

But why did he run out? Why didn't he stay and help mop up? That was it! Four more ships were zooming up, green Messerschmitts with the white cross of Von Goetig upon the wings!

The rookies didn't know what that meant, but Redd did. The ace outfit of the Nazi Air Corps was coming into the fight. There would be more of those green Messerschmitts above them, perhaps they were coming down already!

In desperation, Redd slammed his crate through the fight. The three remaining Heinkels turned their guns upon him. He felt slugs hammer into his longerons, heard them smash into his crashpad, saw them cut swatches from the wings!

The rookies were awed by his daring. Redd was numbed with fear and his white lips kept praying, praying, praying until the prayers turned into screams and curses as the rookies lagged behind. At last he got them clear. He didn't stay behind to protect them, rather he souped the "Mercury" and set the pace for their flight back to the drome of No. 10.

Not until his wheels touched the ground, did he realize what he had done. He disobeyed orders, he lost three out of the twelve kids—three of those youngsters who, but an hour before had flattered him with their rapt attention.

But there was another side to that story, too. The kids had shot down three ships! That was a record for any flight. Redd himself had downed one, and Stringer another. Five ships accounted for!

Five ships could never make up for the three kids who had died. That thought haunted Redd. He could see, now, the looks of surprise, and horror upon the faces of those kids who had died. He had taken them out there to save his own dirty hide!

Dumbly he waited for Captain Grady to send for him, but there was no call. Why? Why didn't; the captain call him on the carpet and denounce him? He had disobeyed orders.

He sat on his bunk and, with his teeth, he pulled the cork from his cognac bottle. Then he drank long and hard. The cognac surged through his blood like flame. The room seemed to spin about him and he could see fades—white faces—bloody faces—faces twisted with horror. Then he saw a face that made him stiffen with rage. It was the skinny, sneering face of Stringer coming in through his door.

Redd crouched to his thick legs and put the bottle down. Stringer was talking in his cocksure, confident way:

"Damned pip pip fireworks, lieutenant. Smart to take my advice. The kids didn't do bad at all."

Didn't do bad? Three of them dead before they could get a taste of glory. Three young, strong bodies that had been born in agony, reared in love, fed and clothed with all the devices of industry. Three young bodies that had been trained to kill and to glory in the act. Those three bodies were no more, just because he was a coward, and Stringer was a heartless buzzard!

"Damn you, Stringer, you made me kill those kids!" Redd cried hotly. He was lunging forward, his ?st was crashing out. He struck Stringer on the side of the head and banged him against the wall.

THE shock of the blow drained the anger and hate from Redd and he felt again that old haunting fear of physical hurt. He steadied himself, waited for Stringer to lunge at him, but Stringer didn't lunge.

"Cut the dramatics, Redd," he said crisply. "The kids didn't do bad at all; fact is that not another flight in the squadron could have done better."

It was a laugh. Hadn't he run out with his rookies when the going got tough? Those first victories had just been beginners' luck. The same as his long shot had been lucky. The next time—no, there wouldn't be any next time. He said so. "We're quits, Stringer. I'm not baiting any more cold meat for you."

"I think you will."

"Like hell!"

"The men are having a testimonial dinner for Crowther in a few days. It would be just fine if they should learn then that you fed Crowther to the Nazis because you were afraid to save him."

Redd felt cold as ice, and he could feel his heart pounding. He knew that Stringer had him beaten.

"Where do we fly tomorrow?" he asked dully.

"Farther north where the Mosselle corkscrews at the foot of the Hunsneck mountains," Stringer said quickly.

"That's Von Goetig's territory."

"Righto. I'd like to get the Von reward and all that, you know."

When Stringer had gone, Redd drank again. If he had any guts at all, he'd go to the captain and tell him the whole works. He'd beat Stringer to the jackpot by confessing what he had done. After all, he owed the rookies a chance.

As though in answer to that thought, the door opened and the rookies who flew with him that morning crowded in. Vance, on his crutches, was with them. Redd tensed, and then he realized the kids came to praise him, to thank him for the chance he had given them to get into the real fight.

The curly headed Lieutenant Woodruff did the talking, and his eyes glowed with admiration. "You gave us a chance few kids get, sir. Of course we lost three men, but we more than made up for that. We just hope you'll take us back to the Front again. If it's against orders, we'll cover it up."

Redd felt a flush of admiration for the plucky youngsters. He told them so, and he told them a lot of other things about the empty husk of glory, and the doubtful cloak of honor. They brushed his arguments aside.

When they left, Vance remained behind. "I want to fly with you, Redd. My foot don't hurt much and the cast will keep the bones in place. The fellows haven't talked of anything but that fight and how you can pick off a Nazi from impossible angles."

Redd began to feel a strange glow that had never been his. He was a hero to those kids, and he wouldn't let them down. But with Vance it was different. He had to save Vance from that certain death.

"You can't fly with a clubbed foot. It takes every damned thing you've got to slam a plane around in a dogfight. Tenths of a second mean the difference between life and death. Ten days from now, maybe, when the cast is off your foot." Redd thought, dully, that ten days from now there wouldn't be a rooky left.

But it turned out that he was wrong. The next day he took them out. They roared into a dogfight with some red Heinkels. Von Goetig didn't show up, but Stringer did, and when. Stringer made his kill, he remained to help mop up the Germans.

STRINGER got two victories that day, the kids got two among them. One of the rookies was forced down and another was burned. Redd gave no thought to making a tally himself. He was too busy screaming in here and there to save the kids from death.

Not until he got back to the drome of No. 10, did Redd notice the holes in his wings, the splayed left outside strut, nor the bullet hole in his pyralin windshield. During the fight he had no sensation of exceptional danger. He had been so engrossed in herding the rookies he had forgotten about himself!

Perhaps that was the trick—the way to escape cowardice. Even Stringer congratulated him, and though it was more in sarcasm, Redd knew that it was backed up with truth.

He didn't hit the bottle so hard that day, and waited for Grady to send for him. But Grady didn't send for him. What the hell? The captain must know what was going on. The kids put up a score board in the hangar and proudly marked their victories upon it. Everybody could see it. Everybody could understand.

He didn't fly the next day. More recruits came and filled the ranks for those who had gone. The following day, Redd ran head on into hell. They were mixing with some Heinkels near Verdun, when Von Goetig's green Messerschmitt's wings slammed in among them, the Daimler-Benz motors spewing flame from the exhausts.

Stringer flashed down, trying cautiously for a shot at Von Goetig. Redd, stunned by the swift strike of death, saw four of the dozen rookies go down almost at once. The sight sickened him. He roared in to cut them loose, and suddenly found himself in a position to get Von Goetig.

The realization of that fact wiped everything else from his mind. jerking a look back, he saw two Nazis screaming toward his tail. The old fear gripped him. He could get the Von, maybe, but the Huns might also get him. Cursing himself for a coward, he swung off frantically, roared back against the Glosters and forced them out of the fight.

When he got back to No. 10, he strode to the hangar to make out his report. He heard Stringer come in minutes after the flight had landed. Stringer's ship was shot to hell and he fought to hold it into the wind. It struck the ground drifting, smashed into a ground loop and Stringer was catapulted from the cockpit.

Stringer, shaking but unhurt, legged up to Redd with his long legs working like pistons. His face was chalk white. Without a word, he struck Redd across the mouth with his open hand.

"Damn you, Redd. You ran out like a cur, herded the kids away from a he-man fight and left me there to die!"

Redd could feel a deadly anger surging through his body. He leaped and struck!

"You made your bed, Stringer!"

Stringer half-dodged the blow, bored in with his lean fists slashing like clubs. Redd felt the bony knuckles bruise and cut and smash. He felt little pain. He crouched, warily, pushed in toe to toe and felt his arm numb as his ?st found the mark.

THE ackemmas³ and ground men circled them, the rookies closed in cheering for their leader. Redd heard the jumble of sound but he saw only Stringer. His hate of the man consumed every other feeling.

3: Mechanics.

Grunting, pounding, dodging the two men fought. Blood masked out their straining features, dust rose like a veil about them. Redd saw that lean, bloody face clearly through the haze. He jabbed his fist for the crooked nose!

Stringer went down, and Redd felt a terrible urge to fling himself upon him, and sink his fingers into the lean throat. He shook himself, turned dazedly and wormed his way through the crowd and reached his own room.

He had a curious feeling of satisfaction over that fight. Not once was he plagued with fear. He did the things that he always before thought of too late.

Three more days until the testimonial dinner! Redd didn't wait for Stringer's direction any more. He led the kids into the fighting zone because they wanted it. Stringer followed them like a vulture eager to feast upon offal.

Redd noticed a peculiar thing. Of his first twelve rookies, eight were left. The ones who filled in those other four spots were the ones who died. The eight seemed to be born for this grim business.

Woodruff had already made his ace tally, an almost unheard of thing in so short a time. Two others were just one victory behind him. The rooky flight began to take on importance and the list of their victories posted in the crateshack grew longer every day. Redd was shocked to see the size of his own score. The kids kept careful account of his victories—victories which he almost forgot in the heat of the fight.

Vance troubled him daily for a chance to fly, but Redd kept putting him off. The kid had to be saved. He wasn't one of the favored eight. He would be one of the unfortunate four. Redd told him so and refused to let him fly.

The day of the dinner, Redd got sloppy drunk. He didn't want to be at the dinner, and he deliberately got himself into such a condition so they would have to ignore him. He was afraid to ask what had gone on during the dinner.

A lot of Gold Braid and some high French Officials had come for the dinner and the next morning Redd heard from Vance that the rooky flight had been given high praise. Vance had the cast off his foot, but despite his effort not to limp it could be seen that the foot was weak from lack of exercise.

"I belong to that bunch, Redd. You've got to take me up today because the visitors are going to inspect the drome," the kid pleaded.

"Maybe you think I'm hard, kid, but I'm not. I owe you a lot, and I don't want to have you die on my hands."

"I'll be responsible for my own fighting."

"Sure, but that won't make you any less dead when the Nazis whack you down."

AS Redd crawled into his ship preparatory to leading the Rooky Flight out, he saw Captain Grady leading the visiting officers toward the line for inspection. He didn't want to face the captain, and looked quickly along the line to see if the kids were ready.

Vance was hanging around still anxious to go, but he couldn't go as there wasn't an extra ship. Redd quit worrying about him on that account. Then, suddenly, the ground seemed to shudder at the roar of twin engines blasting from the sky. Redd jerked a look up and saw three huge Dorniers with their twin 950 h.p. Daimler-Benz motors filling the sky with thunder.

Here was a chance to put on a real show. Those bombers were returning from a raid on children and women! If the rookies really wanted to do something they could blast them into hell!

Redd jabbed his trips, walked the Gloster off the chocks. He saw Stringer taking off at the same time. After them came the rookies, only the favored eight of them. Redd circled up—up—up! Five thousand feet—six! Ten thou-sand!

He jerked a look back and mentally counted the planes. Eight? No, there were nine of them! He could see Vance's freckled face grinning at him across the cowling of a dirty "Gladiator."

A thrill of horror shot through Redd. The ship had been on the repair line and the crazy kid had taken it off without an O. K. There must be something wrong with it. It seemed to fly all right. Hell, he couldn't waste time on the kid.

They were level with the Dorniers. The swift "Gladiators" soon overtook the rear Dornier. Redd dived his ship for the bomber, saw the man in the top pit swing the bracketed gun. Redd felt hot lead whip past his ear. He didn't falter, he jabbed the trips and saw the Dornier's tail feathers flap loosely, control wires shot away!

The rookies crowded in, helped him chop the bomber to bits, and he watched it wheel, turn over, and explode as the gas tank let go. He waved them on. Vance was close alongside of him, thumbing his nose at him in a happy gesture of revolt.

They were across the lines when they caught the second ship. Redd forgot danger in that moment of excitement. He saw Vance sideslip in and send a short burst at the Dornier—a burst that was a little wide. Then he thumbed his own guns. Vickers coughed and sputtered. The Dornier sagged—Redd nosed down and turned the heat on. The left prop sheared off and the big ship spun into a weird dance.

Only then was Redd conscious of the Messerschmitts screaming down like leaves whipped by a hurricane. Von Goetig was out in force and he would demand vengeance for the destruction of the valuable Dorniers.

Redd found himself flying like a madman, trying to prolong the lives of the kids he had grown to love. He saw one "Gladiator" go down—one of the favored eight! He saw another turn into a torch and a white-faced, screaming kid took to the silk. The horrible scream as the ship fell, haunted Redd.

Now he was above the flight. He could see the faces of the killers in the green Messerschmitts, and the old fear stabbed through his mind. It was suicide to try and beat Von Goetig. It was the end of glory and life and everything.

BUT at the same time he saw something else that made his throat choke up. Vance, in the stolen Gloster, enfiladed one of the green ships. Redd wanted to scream for the kid to run away, but he couldn't. The kid had a chance to get that ship—Vance deserved a victory if he could get it.

Redd could see the kid's thin, white face framed with the black leather. He could see the kid's padded thumbs hovering over the trips like blackened bones. Now was the time—now!

The blackened bones moved with a jerky movement. White smoke coughed from the guns. Redd half rose in his pit as the thing happened. The wisps of tracer didn't leap out and touch the Messerschmitt. Instead, Vance's Gloster shuddered, the prop seemed to explode.

Redd knew, then, why that Gloster had been on the repair line. The Constantinesco gear had been worn—now it had slipped a cog, was pumping the slugs at the prop instead of through it!

Redd saw a dozen things at once. He saw Captain Grady leading A-Flight down to help them. Grady had followed, knowing the bombers would be protected or revenged by the Nazis. But Redd saw something else that caused him to curse.

Vance was fighting the stick to hold his ship level and gunning in on Vance's tail was Von Goetig, himself, eager to take the cold meat. No one could stop Von Goetig but Redd himself, and even he would have a hard time making the turn to dive in time to get in a shot and save the kid.

He forgot his own danger. Vance, who had saved him from inglorious death, was going to die unless Redd saved him. Redd saw Vance's Gloster shudder in the hail of Von Goetig's shots. Then Redd kicked the bar, pulled the stick over and ahead and swirled down at a crazy angle.

He went screaming headforemost for the Nazi. He saw Von Goetig's piggish eyes squinting at the rings, his mouth twisted into a snarl of hate. Redd pumped his guns, saw his slugs bore into the Von's wings. He couldn't stop him that way!

Blindly, Redd swerved, cut in between the Boche and the kid in a suicide maneuver. He felt his Gloster buck and twist as the German's prop beat itself off on the tip of his wing. He felt his own ship twist about and saw his prop crash into Von Goetig's wing, ripping it from the fuselage!

Vance was pulling free, nursing his crippled ship toward home. Von Goetig didn't have a chance—was hurled from the cockpit as his ship turned completely over and screamed down. The Hun plummeted through space—and his chute didn't open.

Redd fought his own stick. His prop was gone, his left wing was crushed. He didn't have chance, either, but he felt a curious lack of fear. He had paid up his debt to the kid, that was all that mattered.

The earth rushed up at him like a mad whirlpool. Objects grew into definite shapes. With a mighty effort he flung himself free and clawed wildly for the rip cord. He saw trees, a field. The silk cracked over his head and the chute harness bit agonizingly into his body. Branches whipped past him, a terrible shock and he could see no more.

WHEN he came to, he was looking up into Captain Grady's beefy face. He jerked a look around. His wrecked ship was not a hundred yards away and he was behind the Nazi Siegfried Line.

"You had no right to come here, captain. Get out—I'm not worth saving. I—I let Crowther get killed. . . ."

"I guessed as much, but that's over. After what I saw, you're worth saving. Get on my wing—let me help you."

"No, damn you! I disobeyed orders because of Stringer. I got those rookies killed. You just want to take me back so you can courtmartial me."

"Shut up, you fool. I planned all that for your own good—Stringer is a friend of mine, unofficial Military Intelligence. Some of the kids were bound to die. You've built up one of the deadliest flights from the rest of the rookies, and I've put in a recommendation for your promotion to rank of captain. We've got to get home for decoration."

"What decoration?" Redd husked, climbing from the wreck.

"The decoration France wants to bestow upon you and your kids who have shown a lot of vets just how a war should be fought!"

And that's how Lieutenant Redd came to be the leader of the Go-getters, who carved out a name for themselves that will never be forgotten when the tales of brave men are told.