SPITFIRE SQUADRON

By Arch Whithouse

Illustration by Julian S. Krupa

"HERE we go again! said Whitey Trail, standing beside his own Spitfire. "Always a madhouse of noise, then no enemy!"

The Spitfires of No. 65 Squadron, with their brand-new squadron crests emblazoned on their cowlings, stood in line on the tarmac at Arbroth a few miles northeast of Edinburgh. The squadron crest was a circular garter design, surmounted with a royal crown. In the center a black lion stood in a challenging attitude before a palisade of flared-out broadswords. Below on the ribbon were boldly lettered the words: "Vi Et Armis."

Ever since he had joined this strange outfit, Whitford "Whitey" Trail had wondered what that "Vi Et Armis could mean. He had no intention of asking these Englishmen. Most of them had been to Oxford or Cambridge, whereas Whitey Trail had never gone much further than his Freshman year in high school. He'd forgotten the most elementary rules of Latin. (Vi Et Armis—With force of arms. See page 50.)

Somehow he hated that squadron crest. The flared-out broadswords reminded him of a row of racing pylons. Anything that stuck up in the air reminded him of racing pylons, and he cursed every pylon in the world to perdition. There was a reason for that, too.

But they were tightening their highspeed belts¹ and snapping 'chute harness snaffles. A scrawnching siren raged and ranted over the brick building that was serving as a Recording Office. Spitfire props were snarling as they snapped into glinting rhythm. Men in white coveralls with the squadron crest embroidered on their breast pockets, threw long legs over the cockpit coamings and dropped inside, their arms and hands held high as they wriggled their rumps into the confined quarters.

1: All pilots in British high-speed squadrons are compelled to wear a broad belt to support their stomach muscles in fast dives and tight maneuvers.-Author.

Squadron Leader "Chunk" Hartney, a guy with a monocle who had a row of ribbons nine inches long across his chest, was running along the tarmac with his batman attempting to fasten his coverall at the gallop. Hartney had won those ribbons more than twenty years before with the same outfit, when it was flying Camels outside Baieulle. He was still in there punching—and flying Spitfires,² and everyone wondered how he did it.

2: The Supermarine "Spitfire I," manufactured by Vickers-Armstrongs, Ltd., at Southampton, England, is said to be the fastest military airplane in the world. It is by and large the outcome of the Schneider Trophy Contests held for a number of years in England, the lessons from these races having been incorporated in this particular warplane.—Ed.

The siren scrawnched and Flight Lieutenant Meredith Pawl, the skipper of "C" Flight, raised himself on his elbows and glanced along the third row of Spitfires and got the signal.

Whitey Trail, the only American in the outfit, gave his impression of a salute as he got the office from his flight leader. Already Squadron Leader Hartney was clambering up a small ladder to get aboard as he blazed out orders over his shoulder.

"A madhouse," repeated Trail as he made himself comfortable and waited. "Well, I hope we see some action this time. I'm getting sick of air raid warnings."

A flight sergeant, braving the whip of the slipstream, climbed up on the wing and wrenched the cockpit cowling back.

"'C' Flight will take the southern tangent, sir. From Arbroth to Fife Ness and down as far as Berwick."

He pronounced "Berwick" as though it had been spelled "Berrick," which was just another reason Whitey Trail felt uncomfortable here—at least when he was on the ground. Chunk Hartney, the squadron leader, the guy with the monocle, seemed like the only bird he could talk to, and there was a reason for that.

The flight sergeant disappeared while Whitey Trail glanced at the strip map. He plugged in his earphone jack and snapped the radio switch, caught the test sentences coming from Pawl, leader of his flight.

"—stay together all the time. You can't risk being lost out there," Pawl was saying crisply. "Some of you new men are not acquainted with this area, so stick together. Reports are that a scouting formation has passed over Dogger Bank. That's all."

TRAIL snapped the cockpit hatch A above and the small fold-down door at his left elbow. He checked the oxygen bottle, saw that "A" Flight was already whanging away down the field that a few months before had been a crolf course fairway. Three weeks before Whitey Trail had hardly known there was a war on, and yet here he was in the sky-blue uniform of the British Royal Air Force, a single ring of silver braid on his sleeve and the embroidered wings of a pilot officer on his breast.

"All because of that damned pylon at Cleveland," Trail said at least ten times a day.

"B" Flight was rolling away to take position now. These Spitfire birds simply planted their ships out there on the grass as tight as they could get them; then, on signal from the leader, who had narrow red wingtips, all let the Rolls-Royce engines out and stood on each other's propwash and raced away.

"And I used to think those High Hat guys at the races used to put on a show," Whitey Trail husked every time he watched this mad performance. "But here I am doing it too, and somehow I hke it. I like this guy Hartney too, even' though he does wear a monocle. The guy sure can fly."

And that was all that mattered in Whitey Trail's book. He didn't care who they were, where they went to school, what accent they seemed to affect or how many rings they had on their sleeves—as long as they could fly. That was his creed, morning, noon and night.

There was only one thing wrong with flying—but that was all past now. It was those damned pylons at Cleveland, Ohio, back in the States. Every time Trail looked up at the wind-sock, it reminded him of a pylon. A radio mast back of the little village two miles away gave him the willies, too.

But there was no time for further reflection. Skipper Pawl was fanning his rudder around and they were rolling out for position. "A" and "B" were already away and hammering through the skies for their areas to stop the raiders. The six Spitfires wheeled into position on the tarmac and stood there, panting and anxious for action. Their pilots got a questioning order from the leader, and one by one they reported as ready for flight. Pawl's hand went up and six hands began to move the throttles up gently. The recognition light behind Pawl's head blinked twice, held it and then snapped again. The brakes came off, the throttles went up again and the Spitfire tails stiffened out. They trembled a trifle at the trailing edges and then they were away.

Spitfire Squadron!

They turned in blanket formation as they approached the leaden coastline, turned back for the field and one by one retracted their landing gears. Then they huddled back and warped in closer as they turned again and began their climb for position, before carrying out their patrol over the specified territory.

Presently—"All guns loaded and oxygen gear handy?" demanded Pawl from up front.

The order rasped through Whitey Trail's head-set, and he always cringed somehow at inter-plane radio communication. It seemed to cut off all privacy and the dignity of single-seater flight. Always, when he was glorying in flight and the soul-satisfying beauty of command, that damned radio would blare out and bring him back to earthly things again.

But Whitey Trail checked his eight Browning machine guns, ran his eyes over the bank of instruments again and tried to' become accustomed to reading the word "Petrol" for fuel. It was all so different and screwy at times, and yet—there was no pylon business connected with it.

The Spitfires of "C" Flight turned south and huddled together at 8,000 feet and raced toward the tip of Fife Ness. Below them rimmed the Scottish coastline, the Firth of Tay, Bell Rock Light; Carnoustie, the birthplace of many Scottish golfers; Leuchars, training station for the Fleet Air Arm, where Navy fighters were taught to take the thud of catapult effect. The great St. Andrews golf course, and then the grim spire of the light on the Isle of May.

Then they got what they'd come out to intercept.

CHAPTER II
Pylon Fright

OUT of nowhere came a formation of black Heinkel 111s,³ their nose turrets twinkling with gunfire. A Spitfire to the left of Whitey Trail twisted hard and almost swerved into him. The American gasped, reacted like a bull-fighter and yanked his mount away. The swerving Spitfire shook its head, nosed up and blew itself apart.

3: Heinkel 111s are light German fighter-bombers, capable of about 261 m.p.h.-Author.

Whitey Trail let out a wholesome scream and lost position. There were Heinkels all around them now. Pawl was screeching into the radio somewhere but his words meant nothing to Trail. He was trying to discover a manner of staying alive. That explosion had burned a hole clean through him, and he felt that someone had jabbed a long icicle into his vitals.

But some of the Spitfires were in the thick of it now. Trail saw Pawl calmly lead two others smack into the center of the turning Heinkels. The three Spitfires together released their spume of death, and a Heinkel disintegrated in mid-air, It threw a motor nacelle clean across the sky, Its tail came up and over, to beat a mad drumfire on the metal fuselage.

It swirled savagely and rammed itself full into another Heinkel and the two locked wings, hung there with a tangle of dural fluttering away and then, nodding their metal heads in resignation, they fell away. Before Whitey Trail realized what had happened, Pawl had swung the rest of the Spitfires back into position and had "picked up" the squadron's only Yank with as neat a bit of maneuvering as one would care to witness.

Trail fell into position sheepishly. The rest of the Heinkels were somewhere below and ahead. They were heading for the wide mouth of the Firth of Forth.

The American started down after them, but a scream from Pawl up front yanked him back.

"Stay with us, Trail," barked the Englishman over the radio. "The others are upstairs, man!"

Whitey Trail drew his stick back and glanced up through the glare on top of his windscreen. There he could see another formation of German bombers—the real thing, this time. Big Dornier Do. 17s⁴—the "Flying Pencil" outfit. The suckers could do 292 m.p.h., if it got tough.

4: Dornier Do. 17s are high-speed medium-type bombers of fairly long range. They are mid-wing cantilever monoplanes with twin 950 h.p. Daimler-Benz liquid-cooled engines.-Author.

"What a dope I must look like," Trail muttered, forgetting his microphone set just below his chin.

"Don't worry about it. Forget it," answered Pawl from up front. "This is the first time you've seen the enemy. Take it easy and stay with us."

Whitey Trail frowned and glanced down at the mike. He started to swear at it, but he held his tongue this time.

"A guy can't even think in these boilers," he reflected. "I forgot that mike."

Then he turned back and watched the two Heinkels and the wreckage of the Spitfire hit the water a mile east of the Isle of May light.

He wondered who had gone down in that mess, but he didn't say it aloud this time. He wondered what they would do; what they would say when they got back. He tried to picture tire scene, even though Squadron Leader Pawl was fighting to get up at the Dormers above and stop them from reaching the bridge.

Now the guns of the Ack-Ack batteries w6re blazing away. The bracketing shells etched their four-spot designs on the blue sky, and the fifth shell cranged smack in the middle of the Dorniers. One bomber drew away gingerly and left tire formation.

The Heinkels below were being set upon by the two-seater Demon⁵ squadron, manned by the City of Edinburgh Squadron, an Auxiliary Air Force mob—Saturday afternoon pilots, the Spitfire guys called them. But they were breaking up the Heinkels with their rear turret fire and splitting them wide.

5: Demons are almost obsolete two-seater fighters, now being used mainly by Auxiliary Air Force Squadrons.-Author.

Then the Spitfires were in the thick of it. The Dorniers were nosing down the chute and heading for the Firth of Forth bridge.⁶ The old city of Edinburgh lay on the southern side of the Firth. The antiaircraft guns from the castle below were spatting, and more guns from Hollyrood Hill joined the mad chorus.

6: The Firth of Forth Bridge, over which much present-day air fighting has taken place, is a mile and a half in length and 450 feet high. All the stunts pulled in the story can be done here. The writer has flown under this bridge several times himself.-Author.

ALL hell broke loose now. Spitfires tangled with Dorniers. Demons went headlong into the Heinkels. Guns chattered from the leading edges of the winged fighters. Vickers-K⁷ guns cracked from the Thompson-Nash turrets aboard the two-seaters. Parabellums wailed and thumped their uneven tango, and the Knott-Bremse weapons coughed and hurled their 7.9-mm. stuff all over the sky.

7: The Vickers- K gun is the new movable weapon now being used by the British in place of the old Lewis gun. This Vickers-K uses .303 ammunition, is fed from a drum and has a very high rate of fire.-Author.

Whitey Trail lost all sense of time, all sense of speed, all sense of safety. He bashed in and out and sought black Germans. His guns fanged and raged. Machines crashed together in mid-air. Wings came away and became menaces to navigation. Chunks of dural flopped and floated about, hammered at tail sections and left great dents in slithering fuselages.

They were down low now. The raiders had passed the bridge and were hammering for the vessels anchored off Rosyth. Trail cut one off, and it turned and faltered on back toward the bridge. The American hammered after it and set himself for a killing burst. He steadied himself in his seat, hitched the belt tighter and looked around.

Pawl and another Spitfire guy were off to his left, hammering death into a faltering Dornier. They had it in flames now, and Trail decided to emulate their show, single-handed.

He went after the floundering bomber, checked his guns again—but champed on the memory of the exploding Spitfire. Then he revolted against it all. The memory of the Spitfire, the explosion, the terrible tangle of it—and pylons!

The German bomber swerved dangerously close to the northern tower of the Firth of Forth bridge. Below, across the suspended runway, steamed a scarlet train. There was a gleaming festoon of suspension latticework—and that damned tower standing up like a pylon.

Something drained out of Whitey Trail. He leaned hard into his belt and held his stomach down. He took one glance into the Aldis sight, caught the girder lines in the structure of the bridge tower—and funked it!

The German bomber leap-frogged across the dangling suspension span and tried to release its load. Whitey Trail closed his eyes and let the stick go over, and the bomber cleared.

Therh were no frantic heroics. He said nothing. Not even a sob came to release the tension on his constricted throat. He simply quit cold and he knew it.

The bomber was across the bridge now and her bombs were fanging deep into the Firth below. So the bridge was safe—the floundering Cornier had missed. But Whitey Trail had let her get away.

"Damn those pylons to hell!" he screamed, and then clapped his hand over the microphone that hung from his neck.

He peered about. Flight Lieutenant Pawl was flying alongside of him, his face tense and drawn as he stared wildly at the Spitfire flown by the American. He could have said something over the inter-plane radio—but he didn't.

Somehow, the Dorniers and Heinkels were driven off. The cocky Demons with their Saturday afternoon pilots at the sticks harassed them all the way out to sea and then turned back, bleeding and battered, but triumphant.

Somehow, four Spitfires of "C" Flight returned to ArbrotK. One had gone down into the sea; a second had plowed up a fairway at Kirkcaldy.

Fawl led the flight in. Whitey Trail almost forgot to drop his landing gear until the undercarriage siren⁸ behind his head began to wail. He snapped the lever down low near his feet and waited for the light on the dash to go green, and then went in again.

8: The undercarriage gear siren sounds when the throttle is brought back a certain distance, or when the flaps are lowered for a landing.-Author.

But there was no triumph for Whitey Trail. He simply put her down, checked his flaps, rolled her up to the cab-rank and followed the rest across the apron to the Flight Office, where they were to make out their reports.

NOT even "Bagpipe" McBride, his Scottish fitter, seemed pleased at bis return. That worthy surveyed the Spitfire with a wary eye, checked it from prop to rudder. Then he gave Trail a guilty glance.

"Ye'll no hae ony bullet holes, Muster Trail, sor," he said.

"Say it again, in English," growled Trail.

"Ah mean tae say, ye ha no damage, sor. Nae bullet holes. Ye were no i' the fight, sor?"

"Of course I was in the fight! Where the deuce do you think I was?"

"Ah dinna ken, sor. But Muster Pawl said ye no shot at the Jarmin who were trying tae bomb the bridge, sor."

"He said that, Bagpipe?" asked Trail, as he loosened his belt.

"Ay, sor. An' ye see, ye hae no bullet holes, sor."

"No. Well, that's your luck. You won't have to work on her long. You can practice on that damned squeal-bag of yours instead."

"The pipes, sor, are the true Highland instrument, sor. The pipes hae lead Scottish so'jers fra centuries, sor. Ye canna larn the pipes i' a few months, sor."

"And who the hell wants to?" Trail exploded. "Those damned screaming ear-piercers!"

"I do, sor," explained the muttonfaced McBride, his pride cut to the quick. He stood there and watched his pilot stalk off. Then the Scot ran his hands over the smooth surfaces of the Spitfire, in the hope that he too could boast of a few bullet holes his pilot had collected in defense of the Firth.

There wasn't a scratch anywhere—and "Muster Trail" had said unkind things about the bagpipes, to add insult to injury.

"Ah, weel," reflected Bagpipe McBride, "yon lad's an Amurrican, an' ye canna figure the Amurricans. They say they be neutral, and then they come over here and join the Air Force. Vurra strange people, the Amurricans!"

Trail knew nothing of all this, of course, but he sensed a new tinge of hostility when he thumped into the Flight Office, his parachute pack slapping at his thighs.

Pawl was there, tired and oil-streaked. Johnny Murchison, who was supposed to be some Earl's son, but who never mentioned it, was squatting on an ammo box, scrawling away on a sheet of buff paper. Flying Officer Wagstaff, a former Schneider Cup pilot, sat on the corner of the deal table that went for a desk. He was thoughtfully sucking on a short end of pencil.

A fluttery corporal with two stripes on his arm skated about, trying to hand out report forms and pencils. He shoved one rudely at Trail and handed two message flimsies to young Pawl.

"What's this for?" demanded Whitey Trail.

"Your action report. You fill it out and tell what happened—in your own words," explained Pawl. "You've made them out before. What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just thought—"

"Look here, Trail," said Pawl, turning back to the American. "Why did you let that Dornier get over the bridge like that? He might have blasted that main tower of the bridge out. You didn't fire a shot at him."

"I know. You see," faltered Trail, "I—I was afraid—"

"You were what?" barked Pawl.

"He said he was afraid," laughed Johnny Murchison. "Well, at least he'll have it all over the rest of us. We were all afraid, but none of us will admit it. I was scared pink when I saw old Grumbler go down. But I shan't put that in my report."

Wagstaff was still sucking on his pencil and staring strangely at Trail.

"I've been afraid ever since I first saw an airplane," he said. "The damn things scare hell out of me. Any airplane."

PAWL turned and stared at the Schneider Cup star, and then put it down to a damned nice gesture to make Trail feel better. That was Wagstaff all over. But the man had set a record in the Schneider Cup.

"I—I didn't mean it that way," floundered Trail again.

"So you weren't afraid?"

"Well, yes. But I mean, I was afraid I'd shoot him down smack on the bridge. He was right over it, you know."

"Yes, I know. He got away from you by skating around the main buttress, didn't he?"

"Well—er—yes, he did. But I was afraid he'd fall on the bridge and blow up. That would have done as much damage as a bomb, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know," replied Pawl, turning back to his report. "But that was damned fast thinking—if that's the way you thought."

"I wouldn't have thought of it," admitted Murchison. "I simply can't think with you bellowing at me all the time, Pawl. Always bellowing over the radio. I don't get half you say. Why don't you try singing some time?" wagged young Murchison with a grin.

"Well, you at least nailed one blighter, whether you can think or not. Don't forget to put that down, too," said Pawl, scrawling away at his own sheet.

Whitey Trail felt like an outcast. He knew he had failed in his first actual combat patrol, but he couldn't tell them why. He held the buff form between his fingers and stared about the room.

"If you can't write," suggested Johnny Murchison, "draw pictures on it and let the Intelligence blokes at the Group headquarters try to figure that out."

Suddenly Trail remembered the Spitfire that had exploded and the man they had called the Grumbler. The fellow wouldn't grumble any more. He'd be down in the casualty list tomorrow in the London Times—just like that guy out at Cleveland—and the pylon. Trail winced at the thought of that again.

"What about that—that Grumbler chap?" he asked faintly.

"What about him?" demanded Pawl, swinging around hard.

"Yes, what about him, Trail?" repeated Murchison.

"Well, I mean—about him going down. He acted as though he didn't see that Heinkel. I saw it in time."

"That's just it. Law of compensation, Trail," snapped Pawl. "You saw it in time. Grumbler didn't—^so he got it."

Whitey Trail gulped.

"But, is that all? Is that all we say about it?"

Trail was on thorny ground now. This was all new to him. He had heard of the lack of emotion among the British, but he had never expected to face it like this. The room was charged with an electric tension. He could feel his heart thumping; wondered if these Englishmen could hear it, too.

The buff report crinkled in his fingers. Somewhere outside another Spitfire came in, snorting and fighting the check of the throttle. Whitey Trail tried to think fast and unearth a statement that would get him out of this pickle. He didn't want to run away again. He was afraid now, but in a different way.

He stared from face to face, but they were all the same—like a lot of masks in a theatrical costumer's shop. There was no particular Johnny Murchison, no Flying Officer Wagstaff, no Flight Lieutenant Pawl. Just faces staring at him. He wished to hell now that it had been he who had hit that pylon back there in Cleveland on that Labor Day.

CHAPTER III
Pylon Polisher

TRAIL tried again. "But do we just A let it go at that? I mean—do we just accept the Grumbler thing and say nothing?"

Pawl got up. He was white. His hands trembled and he swallowed hard before he spoke.

"Just what do you want us to do, Trail? Give the full details of how he stopped a packet in the belly? How his legs were drawn up and then how they straightened out? One foot hit the rudder and rammed it over. One hand clutched at something. All that, and then hell blowing up in your face at twelve thousand feet? Do you want all that?

"All the details—the break-up, the slow spin and finally the crash that throws a geyser of water two hundred feet high—like a depth charge? Do you want to write all that? God, man, don't we know what happened? Do we have to all live those few seconds over again? Do we have to write it down here?"

"Steady, Skipper," warned Johnny Murchison.

Pawl turned, regained his control. "Thanks, Johnny. Remind me to buy you a drink." He sat down and continued his writing.

But Whitey Trail said nothing. He wished someone would offer to buy him a drink. If only someone would offer him even a cigarette—He hadn't meant to cause all this. Damn that buttress pier of the Firth of Forth!

None of them heard the door open. They were all too busy trying to strangle their nerves. Pawl turned around again and asked:

"What about that pylon business, Trail? I heard you yell something about a pylon when that bomber got away. What about it?"

Trail stood there dumb. His hands were shaking and there was no saliva in his mouth. Someone behind him spoke out quietly, but distinctly.

"I think you should know about that, Pawl. I think we ought to get that straightened out—right here. It's a very interesting story."

That was Squadron Leader Chunk Hartney, D.S.O., D.F.C., M.C. (and bar), Legion of Honor, Croix de Guerre (avec palms), and a few more as the reward of service too active to mention.

They all stood to attention, but the squadron leader waved them down and threw his helmet on the table.

"I've just been talking to that mechanic of yours—what do you call him, Trail?"

"Bagpipe, sir?"

"Ah, that's it. Bagpipe McBride, I believe. You know, gentlemen, if you ever want a straight story on any subject in this squadron, go to your mechanic. He'll give it to you straight. Bagpipe was sitting in Mr. Trail's Spitfire just now, producing some of the most awful bloody sounds imaginable. He told me he was practicing to play a Clan Forbes battle cry skirl on the pipes for Mr. Trail, his pilot."

"Bagpipes—a skirl, sir?"

"That's right. He said that he was afraid that Mr. Trail was afraid of something, and he was going to try to pick up the Clan Forbes battle march and play it for him every time he went on a show, just to give him courage. It seems that his Mr. Trail came back from battle without any bullet holes in his plane."

"What the devil?" demanded Pawl.

"That's his story, at least, and I decided that something ought to be done about it. So first off, we'll get Mr. Trail's story about the pylon business straight. By the way, is this a temperance office, Pawl?"

"No, sir. I have a bottle here in this file cabinet."

"The right place to keep it, too. Tot it out, will you?"

The reports were forgotten, the drinks were totted out, as Chunk Hartney wanted it; and explanations were in order. Only Whitey Trail felt uncomfortable now.

"I should be in my office doing paper work," Hartney began, "but it can keep. I know now that many of you are wondering how Mr. Trail, an American, managed to get into the Royal Air Force so soon after war broke out. There are a thousand more Trails over there in America who want to get in too, just as they did in the last war. Drink up, Trail. You'll need it, later on."

THE American's face was pale.

"I got Mr. Trail into Number Sixty-five Squadron, gentlemen," the squadron leader went on, lighting a monstrous briar pipe. "I ran into him one rainy night on Tilbury Docks in London. Strange meeting, that," Hartney reflected as he stared up into the blue plume of smoke. "He was about to commit suicide. About to jump into the river, when I came upon him."

The others stared at the American and were more puzzled than ever.

"He had just come off a boat at Tilbury. 'Getting away from it'; all that sort of thing. He had come over to try to join up, but he had discovered that he was not eligible at the time. And so, discouraged and—well, let's say thwarted, he decided to end it all, there on the docks. I got there just in time—and after hearing his story, I decided that we needed him in this squadron."

"What were you doing there, sir?" demanded young Johnny Murchison.

"A fair enough question, young fellow. A fair enough question," Hartney agreed. "I was looking for a man who used to be my batman, out there in France in the old days. I decided that if he were still alive I could use him. He was the greatest scrounger on the Western Front.

"He once scrounged a grand piano, a marble fountain, a footbath, a complete set of chorus girls' tights and a diving suit, all of which we needed for a Christmas show we were putting on at the old squadron. You can always use a good scrounger, gentlemen, in any war."

There was a short silence after the laughter, and then the squadron leader went on.

"I never found my old batman, though I found Mr. Trail here. But he'll turn up, if he is still alive."

Johnny Murchison was unimpressed.

"But the pylon business, sir?"

"Ah yes, the pylon business. I think this is where Mr. Trail takes up."

Trail finished his drink and gave Chunk Hartney a glance of thanks.

"When I've told it, you'll want me to chuck in my papers—my commission, I suppose, but here it is," the American said.

"Mr. Trail was an air racer. A very good air racer, I might add," the squadron leader broke in.

"I was. Which is how I got into this squadron," said Trail. "I was until Labor Day—that's a national holiday in the United States. It happened to come on the fourth of September last year—the day after Great Britain declared war, if you remember. Whether that had anything to do with it, I don't know; but we were running off the Thompson Trophy race at Cleveland, a closed course affair where everything goes.

"I was in there with a souped-up Marco Comet. I was not a favorite. A pal of mine, Paul Sweeney, tooling a Blitzen Special, something he cooked up himself, was a sure winner. He went into the hole about twenty thousand bucks for it, too, and he really needed to win."

The Yank seemed embarrassed. "Go on, Trail," encouraged the squadron leader.

"Well, the field was pretty hot this year, and I figured to win second money, at any rate. But at the last minute, a guy named Hugh Krouse put in an entry that seemed just the thing to put Sweeney out of the big dough. It was a German racing version of the Messerschmitt fighter; the same plane, I believe, which had put up that phony speed record some time before.

"You all know that story—how they phonied up the pictures in the electrotiming device. Naturally we were all pretty sore when Krouse's ship was shoved in as something of a post-entry. I felt sorry for Paul Sweeney more than anything else. After Krouse's crate turned in a time-trial that indicated that it was the best ship on the run, I decided something needed to be done about it."

"Did Krouse win?" young Murchison exclaimed.

"No. I'll explain is so that you will all understand."

Trail took the bottle from Chunk Hartrtey and downed a healthy swig.

"I used to be known as a 'Pylon Polisher' out there. That means, I used to play the pylon close to my chest on the turns. I figured that if I could outgame Krouse on the turns, I might drive him wide enough to let Paul sneak through—and save some of the dough he had sunk in his plane.

"WELL, to cut a long story short, we took off and for about seven laps it was a pretty race, I guess. Both Paul and I drove Krouse out on the turns, with me riding well inside. Then on the ninth lap, this guy Krouse started to get gay and tried to ride both of us out. I don't know; maybe it was the war, maybe it was that Messerschmitt, maybe it was just that I was sorry for Paul.

"Anyway, I decided to do something drastic. On the home pylon on the ninth lap—that was right in front of the grandstand, remember—Krouse had a slight lead. I learned later that Paul had approached high for a dive around the pylon. I didn't see him, honest to God I didn't—but that's how it happened."

Trail wiped the perspiration from his forehead and stopped.

"What happened?" young Murchison demanded.

"Well, Krouse was coming in tight on the pylon. I slammed in to beat him to it and didn't see Paul, who was below me, until I was actually in the turn. God, I wish I had never seen it!"

"What happened?" came the chorus.

"I cut in between Krouse and the pylon, all right. I had him beat, and I figured Paul was behind me. Believe me, I was hoping he would sneak through. I would have let him pass me in the last stretch, just to get him the money. But instead, Paul came up from below, not knowing that I would take the chance between Krouse and the pylon.

"Then it was too late. Paul had to make a quick decision. It was either me—or the pylon. He took the pylon."

"Good Lord!" Murchison gasped.

"Well, I saw him hit as I went around it. He went clean through it and ripped his wings away."

"Right in front of the grandstand?"

"His wife and kid saw it all. Saw him burn, trying to get out."

"And you won?"

"No. I never finished. I folded up, then and there, and landed. Krouse won hands down."

"This chap Sweeney was killed?" Pawl demanded.

"Yes. And they blamed me for it. They said I was too yellow to go on and win after I had rubbed out my best friend. So I beat it to New York and made my way here, to England, and decided to try to get rubbed out myself in the war."

"But it wasn't your fault, Trail," Pawl argued, his tone of voice changed. "You tried to help him win. You didn't even go on to win after he—after he piled up."

"I know! I know! That's what made it tougher. They said I could have won, that I could have given part of the money to Paul's wife and kid, but that I had—well, as you birds say, 'funked it.' They were certain then that I had rubbed him off on the pylon, and then hadn't the guts to gb through with it."

They all sat there silent for many minutes, until Pawl cleared his throat.

"So now you—you're afraid of anything that reminds you of a pylon? Is that what you are trying to say?"

"Well, every time I see something like that, naturally I am reminded of it all. It was the same way with that German bomber this afternoon. I wanted more than anything in the world to shoot that baby down, just to justify the squadron leader here, who believed in me.

"But when that German wabbled toward that high bridge buttress, all I could see was a checkered pylon and poor Paul Sweeney crashing into it. I simply had to pull away. I had to let them get away, because I was afraid myself to go near that buttress. It was a racing pylon to me. Understand?"

The room seemed to take a deep breath.

"We understand, all right," agreed Squadron Leader Hartney, getting up. "What we're worrying about is how you can get over it. You can fly, Trail. You must have had good training in the U. S. Army Air Corps before you quit to take up racing. But what the deuce can we do about that pylon business?"

There was no answer to that, so they left it there, hoping that it would settle itself. They went back to their reports and left Whitey Trail to his own reflections.

"But don't think you can get out of this mob by resigning," warned the squadron leader as he left. "You may resign and you may quit and leave, but you've had a taste of Spitfire fighting, and it will do something to you. It can never be purged from the blood. You'll be back in a week, banging on the door to be taken back again. I know. Look at me. I was in the other war and I'm still trying to overcome one great fear."

"What is that, sir?" asked Trail, amazed.

"I'll tell you, when you become a pylon polisher again. See you at dinner, Trail."

CHAPTER IV
The Color of Blood

IT was all very perplexing to Whitey Trail after they had all left. He was grateful to them for leaving, now that he had said his piece; for he felt not unlike a man who has been stripped of his all, to display his wounds and weaknesses before a morbidly curious, unsympathetic gathering.

He wondered, too, why he had so unburdened his soul. After all, he could have quit, asked for his papers, since he was a commissioned officer and not a ranker. He could have quit and—gone back to Tilbury Docks.

But he remembered the squadron leader and his warning. There was something about this business. It got into men's souls, a virus for which no scientist could discover a serum.

"That's the worst of it. I can't quit now. I've got to keep on—keep on until I find a way of overcoming the pylon business. I can't let these guys down. Why, they believed every word I said I They all saw it clearly, and they were not in that grandstand, either. They were with me, right from the start. They didn't blame me. They believed every word I said!"

He scrawled out a report, being careful not to make more than a superficial mention of the Grumbler episode. He gave the number of his plane, the takeoff time and the return. The rest was very military and very cold-blooded. It would suit Flight Lieutenant Pawl—and it would suit the men at Group Headquarters.

After that, Whitey Trail wandered over to what had been the golf clubhouse, and stowed his coverall and parachute in his locker. He washed up and straightened out his tunic, changed his short-length flying boots for a pair of brogan golf shoes and went back to the hangar, a temporary canvas affair reminiscent of World War days.

He wanted to talk to this bloke, Bagpipe McBride. Maybe the Scot would have some idea. Not that the man ever had an idea that stretched far beyond the limits of the Tweed. But still, he might be easier to talk to than the others, who were probably scoffing brandy and sodas in the Officers' Mess and dragging their Yankee comrade through the harrow teeth of mess room gossip.

Whitey Trail entered through the small framework doorway at the back of the hangar, listened. There could be no question about it. Bagpipe was in there. The mournful wail and lament of the pipes was evident in the far corner. Trail worked his way through the staggered Spitfires and eventually came upon McBride.

The Scot was stoically fingering his chanter and pressing the bag with his elbows, thus producing a combination of pig-squeal concerto combined with drones which added a most unsuitable fixed-note obbligato. Upon his hairy face was the expression of a man who has taken on a task far beyond his physical or mental talents.

Whitey Trail vratched the Scot in silence for some minutes, until Bagpipe's wind gave out and he had to give in for a few minutes. The man looked up with a pained expression and finally said:

"Ay, an' ut's you, sor!"

"What the deuce are you trying to do—give yourself a heart attack?" demanded Trail, glancing at the soggy instrument.

"Ah'm tryin' tae remember the Cath Ghlinn Eurainn; thot's the Clan Forbes pipe march, sor. I was a theenkin', sor, that perhops if ye had a little Clan courage i' ye bones, ye could shoot doon the Jarmins, sor. Ye ken ye're a great flyer, sor, but ye need a little Highland courage tae help ye oot at the richt time, sor."

"So you figure that if you could think of the Clan Forbes war march and play it on that thing there, you could work me up to a beautiful lather, eh? Well, maybe it's an idea, McBride," grinned Whitey Trail not a bit upset by the insinuation. "Still, since this is only a single-seater, and I can't take you along with me to pipe me into action, I don't quite see how it could work."

"Ay," agreed the worried Scot, scratching his thin thatch with a horny forefinger. "Ah hadna thocht o' thot, sor."

"No? Well, you'd better start thinking about servicing this boiler. We may have to buzz off again any minute, you know, and you can't tell—there might be some bullet holes in her somewhere."

"Ay, but the Cath Ghlinn Eurainn is a beautiful tiling, sor. A beautiful thing. It makes a mon o' a mon, sor!"

"Okay. When you think of it, you let me know and I'll come down and get an injection, McBride. But in the meantime, a little juice in the tanks and a spot of oil in the crankcase won t do a bit of harm."

"Ay, sor," agreed the Scot, who turned away and stuffed the bagpipes in the nearest toolbox.

WHITEY TRAIL wandered out again and worked his way along the front of the hangars, mainly for the want of something to do, but actually to think. His mind was a turmoil of clashing conclusions. He wondered what Hartney, Pawl and the rest of them really thought about him.

They had declared that he was not to blame for that Cleveland affair. But these Englishmen were so damned clever with their words. They are all natural actors, Trail told himself; always manage to say the right thing at the right time, no matter what they are really thinking.

The Yank airman pondered all this as he turned off the tarmac and cut across the open ground of what had been the golf course. It was a typical Scottish afternoon, a trifle cool, but the air was mellow and felt good to the lungs. Trail decided to take a long walk and see if the exercise would do him any good.

He strode out now, taking the gorse and dunes, shoulders and head back and his arms swinging like an infantryman. He gloried in it because he was in the physical pink.

He soon came to the limits of the course and finally cut over a low stile. There he found a narrow roadway which had been used by the wheeled carts of the farmers and their plodding, long-horned cattle. He continued on now, aglow with enthusiasm, and strode along for a mile or more until he came out in a small common.

A few thatched cottages met his eye, one or two timber and stucco buildings with storefronts and, of course, the ever-present village ale house, which appeared to be held together by the judicious distribution of metal advertisements for Scotch whisky.

A few children and a couple of Scottish shepherd dogs romped on the grass. A kilted ghillie⁹ stalked across the common with a hefty walking stick, followed by a stern-faced collie. He headed for the ale house, and that gave Whitey Trail an idea.

9: A ghillie is a Scotch estate worker, one usually connected with the beaters for shooting and hunting.-Author.

"I might as well pull in there and get a glass of ale and some of this famous Scotch bread and cheese," he reflected.

The doorway of the ale house was low and somewhat out of plumb, but the interior was cosy and inviting. The floor was of stone, over which a light sprinkling of white sand had been dusted. There was a massive fireplace, a churchwarden's bench on each side and a small bar in one corner.

The ghillie took one side of the fire, grunted contentedly and sat down. The collie curled up at his feet and eyed Whitey from between his paws. The landlord, a full-paunched fellow with a twinkle in his eye, came from around the bar, nodding at the ghillie as if he knew his order in advance, and then greeted Trail.

"I'll have a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese," said the American.

"Would ye be wan o' the flying gentlemen who fought the Jarmins o'er the Firth ta'day, sor?" the landlord asked with respect.

"Well, I was there and had a shot at them, but I didn't get any down. It was my first try."

"They'll coom again," the ghillie muttered without being asked.

"Ay, weel, ye'll get wan next time, na' doubt," the landlord said, with a grimace at the ghillie.

"I hope so. I'll try, anyway," said Trail. "Now, may I have something to eat?"

"Ay, ye can and tae drink too, sor. Ut's oot o' hours, sor, but Ah'll serve ye just the same. But there's wan thing. Ye canna pay fra it."

"I can't pay for it? Why not?"

"No fightin' so'jer can pay fra drinks or food in my establishment, sor. Ye take ut free, or ye get none."

"McKenzie's a bit daft on so'jers," the ghillie explained from the other side of the fireplace without changing his expression. "Ye canna pay fra onything here. Ha, he's daft!"

"Daft or no daft," stormed the landlord, "he'll no pay fra food or drinks here, Ranald. I'll be gettin' ye ale, sor."

"McKenzie ha' three sons at the front," explained the ghillie when the landlord had gone. "He thinks only o' them. He sees hi'self giving it tae Angus, or Bruce or young Douglas. He no sees ye fra a flying so'jer. Ye could be a stoker, a gunner or a chap i' the Tanks, Ye'll still be wan o' his sons."

"But he'll go broke doing that if the war lasts very long."

"Trust a McKenzie, sor," the ghillie said shrewdly.

THE landlord came back with a giA gantic platter of cold ham, bread and butter and some chunks of cheese that would have staggered a stevedore. A brimming tankard of ale was clapped down beside it.

"But look here," argued Trail. "I can't accept this. I want to pay for it." He didn't like the way that collie was eying him, either.

"Ye can pay fra ut wie a Jarmin, sor. Ye shoot the Jarmins doon, sor, an' ye can come here an' pour yer own ony time."

Trail sat back and contemplated the meal. He took a deep swig of the ale while the Scotch tavern keeper watched benignly. It was excellent Scotch ale, too. Without another word, Trail went to work on the platter.

"I'll get you a 'Jarmin,' McKenzie," he was muttering to himself, as the ghillie watched him between glances at the old clock as the man waited for official "opening" time.

By the time Trail had finished, the light outside was beginning to fade. The Yank glanced out of the window toward the airdrome. Slashes of white light carved across the sky. Somewhere in the distance guns boomed. The rumble of motors came in waves from the hazy distance.

"What's up?" demanded Trail.

The tavern keeper glanced outside anxiously and then snapped on a very ancient wireless set. It crackled and spluttered, and then they caught the crisp words of the Daventry announcer.

"—enemy aircraft approaching the Scottish coastline again. The public is warned to take air raid precautions in that area. We shall be off the air except for further warnings until further notice."

Trail gulped the last of his ale and sat up.

A covey of Spitfires screamed out from the airdrome and curled around over the little village common.

"Jees!" gasped Trail. "They're going without me!"

He sat there for some minutes pondering what to do. The ghillie eyed him suspiciously. The collie raised its head and peered up into the eyes of the man who was his master. Trail took all that in and reached for his cap.

"Ye could ha'e got ye a Jarmin, sor," McKenzie said coldly. "If ye had been there, eh?"

"Maybe I can still get one," growled Trail, getting up and looking out of the window.

Another swarm of Spitfires screeched away and climbed up over the village.

"Thanks for the meal, McKenzie. I'll try to get you a German—complete with all the trimmings."

"We'll be awaitin' on ye," the ghillie answered, still staring ahead.

Trail halted, devoured the significance of the statement and darted out He hurried at a lope through the village and found the narrow roadway. He had to slow up there because of the Cart tracks. Once he stopped to listen to the gunfire a few miles off to the east. The Ack-Ack batteries flamed away. There was a chatter of .303 stuff and the roar of engines as planes banked and twisted through the maelstrom.

The Yank found the village fence wall, clambered over it and went into his dog-trot again. At times shrubs tripped him up and he went sprawling, but he got up and staggered on. Then something caught his ear—the telltale wail of a plane coming in from somewhere. He stopped and stared up. Finally he caught the knifelike wings of a Spitfire, wabbling in toward the open stretch nearby.

There were two scarlet stripes across the wingtips. Whitey Trail sucked in his breath—and waited.

"Get your wheels down, sir. Get your wheels down!" he cried.

But the Spitfire still wavered in, halfstalled and let one wing go down.

"Jees! They got Hartney," gasped Trail. "They got the C.O.—the stinkin' Jarmins!"

HE had no idea why he had lapsed into the Scottish vernacular, but he kept cursing at the "Jarmins" for no reason at all. The Spitfire fluttered over his head and Whitey Trail screamed up at it.

"Get your wheels down! Get your wheels down!"

But the Spitfire hit, threw away her prop blades and skated along on her belly. The tail went up once, and she pivoted on her nose and almost went over on her back. Trail sprinted after her and wrenched at the cockpit hatch. He ripped it back and then tore down the short section of the cockpit wall and reached inside.

"Who's that?" asked a faint voice from within.

"It's me, sir. Trail. I was out for a walk."

"Fine. Good old Trail. You all right now, Trail?"

It was Squadron Leader Hartney. He was very white, very haggard but very game.

"It happened, Trail. The very thing I was afraid of. It happened to me, Trail. Now I'm not afraid of it any more."

"Are you badly hurt, sir? Can I get you out?"

"I'm badly hurt, yes. My feelings are sorely tried, Trail. But I'm not afraid of it any more."

"But you'd better get out, sir!" Trail pleaded. "Maybe I can help a little."

"No. You can't help. I've got to sit here until they can get me out properly. I'm a little tired too, Trail. But I'm not afraid of it any more."

"But you'll bleed to death, sir!"

"I don't think so. You see, I got nicked in the leg. Quite a sizable little nick, too. I'm afraid the bullet severed an artery. But as long as I keep my handkerchief tourniquet above the wound, I'll be all right."

Trail stared at his squadron leader in amazement. "But if I could get you out of that plane and to a surgeon, he'd sew it up in no time. Then there'd be no danger."

Hartney seemed to shudder at the thought. "My God, no, man! If anything should make that tourniquet come loose, I'd—I'd bleed to death."

"Nonsense!" snapped Trail, nervously impatient. "I'll handle you very carefully. It won't come loose—and if it does, I'll tighten it right up again. Come, now." He made as" if to assist Hartney out of the wrecked ship.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" shouted the squadron leader. Then, catching Whitey Trail's altogether incredulous look:

"I'm afraid of blood! I've always been afraid of bleeding to death! I can't stand the sight of my own blood, do you understand?" Hartney blurted out. "There, now I've told you! You can't stand pylons—and I can't stand blood!"

Whitey Trail looked bereft of his senses. "Well, ye Gods, man, what do you want me to do?" he gasped.

Squadron Leader Hartney relaxed visibly. "Now, that's better. That's sense. Trail, since I was a little boy I've been afraid of blood. One day when I was a little shaver, I went in swimming with a crowd of my schoolmates in an old abandoned stone quarry—a makeshift swimming pool. Well, in playing about underwater I cut my foot and nearly bled to death. Ever since—"

The man looked appealingly at the Yank. And Whitey Trail smiled back sympathetically.

"I understand, sir. But we've still got to get you out of that ship."

Chunk Hartney became himself once more. "That's right. Have to be practical. Well, now run off, like a good fellow, and get old Swabs and Bandages and an orderly to come out here. Tell the doctor to bring along a hypo, to put me to sleep. Then, when they take me out of this wreck, I shan't know about it."

TRAIL stood there on the wing root, biting his nails. Beyond to the east, the battle was still in progress. He had to go. His squadron leader had stopped a bullet in the leg and was obsessed with the remote possibility of bleeding to death. A collie dog had given the American a glance that almost left him limp.

Bagpipe McBride was trying to remember a Highland war march to dribble through his drones. Tavern keeper McKenzie, with three sons in France, had given him free beer and a meal, because the Scot expected that some day his guest would shoot down a "Jarmin" for him. And there were other guys in the outfit who believed the American's story about Paul Sweeney.

What the hell was he doing, standing there like a dope?

There were no pylons in Scotland—only the Firth of Forth bridge, and perhaps a few ship masts. That was all. That, and that damned collie dog which had looked at him as though he had taken its best and slimiest bone.

"Shove off, Trail," the squadron leader said, extending his hand to slap him on the shoulder.

And Whitey Trail did exactly that.

CHAPTER V
Hell on Wings

WHEN the Yank got to the field, panting like a cross-country runner, he found Bagpipe McBride still svheezing into the bladder of his wailing instrument. The Scot was leaning against the leading edge of Trail's Spitfire, his great face a mask of blubbery frustration. He pulled the pipe out of his mouth with a plop and stared at the American.

"Where were ye, Muster Trail?" he demanded.

"Never mind. Wind that boiler up while I get the ambulance out. The squadron leader is down over there, shot through the leg."

Trail bellowed the report into the Recording Office, saw a flight sergeant leap for a telephone, and tore off again.

A half minute later he was in the squadron's field hospital. Without preliminary he barged into the chief medical officer's private office.

"I say—" exclaimed that gentleman, who had been busily writing out in longhand a dissertation on machine gun wounds.

"Dr. Raycross," Whitey Trail piled in, "I'm afraid I have no time for explanations now. The point is4 Squadron Leader Hartney is down in a smashed plane—I've told the Recording Office where—with a bullet through his leg. He's afraid he'll bleed to death."

"Dammit, man, why didn't you say so in the first place!" the chief medico demanded, rising hurriedly. Hartney was a favorite of his.

"Fine, fine!" Trail panted, still out of breath. "Now, when you go for him, bring a hypodermic with you. You've got to knock him unconscious before he'll leave that wreck, understand?"

"No, I don't understand!" Dr. Raycross snapped.

"Well, I do, and that's sufficient!" Trail called, hurrying to the door. "And don't forget that hypo!"

"I'll save some of it for you, you—you interloper!" the medico burbled. And Whitey Trail, catching the words as he ran, smiled fleetingly at a deed well done.

Still out of breath, he headed back to the tarmac. As he approached he could hear the thunder of the Rolls-Royce engine which McBride had started up. Ignoring the requirements concerning flying equipment, Trail clambered up on the root.

"Ye hae no parachute, sor!" bellowed McBride.

"I won't need one. Get the hell out of the way!"

"Ye hae no helmet, sor," McBride stubbornly persisted.

"Who cares? I'll shut all the windows and keep the draft out. Get those chocks away, McBride!"

"Ye canna go thot way, sor."

"Who says so?"

McBride never had time to puzzle out an answer to that, so he yanked the chock ropes and let the Spitfire roll away. Trail glanced up at the wind sock, set the prop blades, checked his manifold pressure and rolled her around, just as the ambulance with the chief medical officer clattered across the sparse gorse in search of Squadron Leader Hartney and his wreck. Trail waited and let it get into the clear, and then gave the thermometer another glance. It was risky, but he had to risk it now.

The Spitfire slammed away with a retch of prop blast. It climbed National Air Race fashion and thundered off into the lowering dusk.

Once in the clear the Yank turned southwest and headed straight for Edinburgh. The distance was about 45 miles. The Spitfire clipped it off in exactly eight and one-half minutes, which brought Trail smack bang into the middle of a mad melee staged over Rosyth.

Screeching Heinkels were still slamming up and down the Forth, trying to get bombs on the decks of the Naval craft anchored there. The pom-pom gunners aboard the cruisers were filling the air with .303 stuff. The Ack-guns were firing pointblank over open sights, so low down were the raiders. A Dornier came out of nowhere and tried to get through a lineup of Albacore¹⁰ fighters from a two-seater outfit.

10: Albacore fighters are new armored two-seater fighters built by the Fairey Company for the British Fleet Air Arm. They can also be used for longrange reconnaissance and light bombing.-Author.

BUT Whitey Trail hurtled in and practically buried the needle nose of the Spitfire dead into the Dormer's port engine nacelle. His guns barked and the longerons rang with the vibration. He yanked out just in time to avoid the explosion, for the big Dornier blew lengthwise and hurled her tail away like a broad-finned projectile. What was left, tied itself up into a ball and dropped near a cruiser in the Firth.

Trail grinned and yelled: "That's one for Grumbler!"

He whanged over again and tore through a formation of Demons, to let fly at a Henschel. The German twoseater whipped up to clear but faltered. Again the mad Trail poured slugs at her. A big wing ripped up, screeched in unbearable pain and fell over flat against the rear turret. The blow flattened the gunner down like a piledriver sinking a shaft.

The Spitfire just managed to clear that, and Trail bawled: "That's one for mussing the squadron leader's boots!"

At that moment a great black Heinkel bomber lunged at him, and a gunner slapped a packet into his port aileron. Trail swore. He fingered the stick and got a fair response, rammed the wingtip down and dragged the stick back into his stomach and reversed the controls.

The Spitfire came around with its nose almost poking out a Heinkel window. Trail pressed the gun gear. His lower weapons sliced a dural fuselage clean in two as he hedgehopped over what was left.

All around him were planes in various degrees of dismemberment. There were Heinkels without tails, Spitfires struggling into spins with one wing dragging back. There were Dorniers with their outer wing panels drooping from the engine nacelles. A Demon rolled over on its back and vomited forth two men. A Henschel,¹¹ trailing a scarf of flame and smoke, spiraled down from somewhere above and lunged with a frightful roar into an Albacore.

11: Henschel is a German two-seater reconnaissance plane.-Author.

There was the stench of powder and burned oil. The pungent smell of cordite and guncotton. The acid tang of burned dural and the choking odor of gelignite.

But Whitey Trail saw none of this. He banged through a storm of debris and pecked at a Dornier that was steadying for a dive on a cruiser below. The Dornier cleared and swung around hard. It came with all turrets screaming at Trail, who swished hard to get clear. He came out level—and screamed!

Directly in front of him was the upper structure of the Firth of Forth bridge. The old ghost of the pylon galloped back, but Whitey Trail somehow steadied, held her hard and then snapped a wing down again and drew the stick back. The Spitfire zoomed around and just cleared.

Trail saw a crazy kaleidoscopic slide of faces through the metal framework of the bridge latticework. He saw the face of Bagpipe McBride; saw a collie with big droopy eyes. There was Tavern Keeper McKenzie, and Ranald, the ghillie, quaffing his ale. There came into the framework the white and drawn face of Chunk Hartney and his bloody leg, the proud profile of Pawl and the lean countenance of Wagstaff—and then a terrible crash.

Trail looked back. The Dornier had smacked the top of the Firth of Forth bridge. It had stopped cold and dropped its wreckage into the leaden water below.

"Swell! It's an idea," yelled Trail, ramming after a Henschel. "Come on, boys, follow the leader!"

The German took up the challenge and raced after the Spitfire. Trail rammed up in a climb, stalled, fell off and went into a power dive. The enraged Henschel followed and tried to pepper its antagonist from the front guns. Trail glanced back once, nosed down steeper and then slammed at the narrow space between the first two piles that supported the approaches to the bridge.

"'Pylon polisher!'" he raged, tipping a wing down and going through on his elevators.

The Spitfire screamed, went down, came around like an enraged hawk and completed the turh around the tall piling. It came out into the clear on the other side just as the Henschel slammed with a roar into the lattice girders at the top. The pilot had pulled out too late to clear, and he went into the iron structure without ever knowing what he hit.

"That's for Mr. McKenzie and his three sons," growled Trail. "Now for one more—just for me!"

HE charged across the Firth again and singled out a Heinkel that was picking on a laboring Spitfire. It had a single bar of scarlet across its wingtip.

Trail's guns opened up and the Heinkel turned. Trail turned, too, and enticed the big bomber away. Gunfire spattered all around him from the Heinkel's turrets, but he had to draw it off to pull his pylon-polishing trick again. He faked a faltering ship, wabbled, and the Heinkel came in again. Trail nosed down and went scooting across the water, and the Heinkel came after him.

"Now, then. Get ready to have your back teeth picked with a bridge piling! " raged Whitey Trail.

The Spitfire let the Heinkel draw up closer. It fish-tailed to avoid the fire of the enemy gunner and then nosed down some more, to shoot under the center span of the bridge. The Heinkel followed. Trail ripped the stick back and flew the Spitfire up and over the main span. There was a stalled railroad train there on the tracks, and the Yank could have spat down its funnel as hd went over.

The Heinkel never saw what became of Whitey Trail. The German pilot was so intent on pursuing him that he had his ship up on its tail and stalling dead, before ever he realized that the Spitfire had completed half a loop and had rolled at the top to come out clean. The Heinkel slipped back, caught its tail on the edge of the main span, choked itself completely with its own telescoped fuselage and dropped with a splashy thud into the Firth.

THE rest was just a matter of mopping up.

Trail went back and picked up Pawl and Johnny Murchison, and together they chased what was left of the raiders well out to sea. Young Johnny got a Henschel before they quit, but it was not necessary, for three more went down into the sea with punctured tanks soon after they'd limped past the Isle of May.

The Spitfire swung into three-ship element formation again and started back. For the first time Whitey Trail realized that he didn't have earphones over which to take orders. But he could see Johnny Murchison making bawdy gestures at him, and Whitey Trail knew then that he was "in."

They swarmed back to Arbroth and landed, and it was obvious at once that something unusual was up. The squadron was breaking all the blackout rules with bonfires. Véry lights were curling up toward the smoke-streaked sky in all colors.

So they landed and were swarmed all over by aircraftsmen and mechanics. More Véry lights were fired and the place was in an uproar. Pawl crawled out through the mess and grabbed for Whitey Trail. He was astonished to see the Yank in his ordinary uniform. Bagpipe McBride was yelling:

"Ah've got ut, sor. Ah've got ut!"

"Where the deuce did you come from?" Pawl demanded of the Yank. "You nearly cleaned the lot up. They were giving us hell till you came along."

"I just followed you," said the puzzled Trail.

"Followed us? Well, don't ever expect anyone to follow you! I thought you said you were afraid of pylons!"

"I am—" And then Whitey Trail gasped. "Jees! That's right! That's what I was doing, wasn't I? I was cutting pylons and making the Germans crash. Hell, that's right! I was cutting pylons, wasn't I?"

They yanked him down, and at the same time an ear-splitting w'ail was struck up.

"Ah've got ut, Muster Trail! Ah've got ut—the Cath Ghlinn Eurainn, the Clan Forbes fightin' song—on ma' bagpipes, sor!"

And Bagpipe McBride, wheezing and droning, led them back to the Officers' Mess to the wail of Cath Ghlinn Eurainn, which simply means: "We'll Battle at the Bridge."

That night the Yank took Pawl and Johnny Murchison to McKenzie's ale house, where the ghillie was still sitting with a collie at his feet.

"We heered ut on the wireless," explained McKenzie, who came up with a bottle. "Ye said ye'd do ut, sor, an' here's the bottle as promised."

"Don't tell me you did all that 'just for a free drink?" laughed Pawl.

"No, not quite," admitted Whitey Trail, putting down his hand to pat the collie's head. "Not quite. Too bad about Chunk Hartney, isn't it?" he added offhandedly as the dog stood up.

"Whut manner o' mon is this?" growled the ghillie. "Niver before ha' any mon but me been able to stroke yon dog's haid."

"Trail's quite a lad," explained Pawl. "He can stroke anything. You ought to see him stroke bridge buttresses with the belly of a Spitfire."