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CAPTAIN JIMMIE MILTON Yank Squadron Leader of No. 66 Fighter Squadron, stood on the rudder pedals and sent his Hawker "Hurricane" screaming earthward. Biting, snarling curses ripped from his tight lips. Forgetful of all else, his eyes centered ahead of him on a lone "Hurricane" that was hurtling headlong at two green Heinkel ships.

"Fitch!" screamed Milton into the slipstream. "You damned fool—damned fool—damned fool!" His fist beat a furious tattoo on the cowling. His heart jammed into his throat as he sped to his buddy's rescue.

Then, with the swiftness of light, Fitch's ship half-rolled upward out of the lethal streams—yawed. His eight Browning guns transfixed one of the Nazi pilots in his bucket seat, sent him earthward in a mass of flames.

Milton plunged on the tail of the remaining Nazi like a plummeting falcon. The Brownings came alive under his sure touch and hot lead hosed the green crate from empennage to motor. There was a blinding flash of flame, literally hurling the Nazi pilot into space, and the remaining Heinkel dissolved into shattered bits that rained toward the battle-scarred earth.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the fight was over. The remaining Nazis; formation shattered, were streaking for the safety of their rear areas. He barked terse orders into the mike and tightened up the formation. Then, at the head of the squadron roaring home, he settled into the cockpit rehearsing the tongue lashing he was going to mete out to Fitch.

WHEN they landed, he waited until Fitch legged out of the pit.

"More formation pullout stuff, eh," he snapped. "One more stunt like that and I'll break you back to ferrying ships, even if you are my best friend. If you want to commit suicide, go ahead. But don't use a plane to do it. Use poison!"

Fitch grinned disarmingly. "A good idea," he said. "Let's go over and get a dose right now."

Milton gulped his wrath down, got red in the face, and then followed his buddy, a scowl on his face. He said nothing more until they had a couple of cognacs before them. Then he said, "Son, this war isn't being fought the way it was in 'l8. This is all formation stuff. If I didn't know you better I'd think you were a glory grabber, the way you've been busting out of formation. If that Nazi squadron hadn't been scattered today, you'd be a dead Fitch right now."

Fitch studied the rim of his glass. "Sorry, old man," he muttered. "Go off my nut in a fight. Not built for team work, I guess, Just want to tear hell out of 'em."

Milton leaned on his elbows and looked fixedly at Fitch. "That's not it, you blooming Britisher," he said meaningly. "You had a beautiful case of Nazi hate on when I joined up with the British two years ago and there wasn't any war. Now that the war has come, you go off your bean only when you think we've tangled with Lichter's Jagdstaffel. What the hell have you got against Lichter, anyhow?"

Fitch's eyes narrowed. He tossed off his drink in a gulp. "All right—I'll tell you," he breathed, and his eyes became pin points of flaming hate. "Lichter, damn his soul, killed my father in the last war—twenty-one years ago. He was a youngster then. It made him an ace. He crowed over it. I'll kill that Nazi if it is the last thing I do!"

Milton slapped his glass down on the bar. "Jack, I'm terribly sorry, old man. But don't you think twenty-one years is a long time to hold a hate—and sort of futile, too. He was simply doing what we do ourselves. Fighting under orders. Killing the enemy."

"Are you taking up for a Nazi?" snarled...

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