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  "Tate, are you ready to head in?" Captain Dawson asked. "Looks like they've cleared the runway down there."

  "Uhh..., yeah... sure, I'm ready," Tate mumbled in response.

  Dawson and Tate were short of time, their Spitfires were practically empty of fuel. Anxious to land before the situation worsened, the Squadron Leader barked into his radio to get Tate's attention.

  "Tate, look sharp! Line up on my wing. We're going to land."

  Captain Dawson's terse command made Lieutenant Tate brace in his seat. Side by side, the two Spitfires descended toward the mouth of the grassy runway. As they neared earth, Dawson continued talking his pilot in.

  "Landing gear down," Dawson called.

  "Roger," Tate replied, "gear down."

  "Full flaps and throttle back," Dawson continued.

  "Flaps," mumbled the drowsy pilot, "and throttle back."

  Captain Dawson's head swiveled back and forth, trying to watch Tate and land his own plane at the same time. As they edged closer to the field, a crosswind caught the Spitfires. Tate's wings started to tip and the nose plunged forward.

  "Watch your horizon," Dawson sternly warned.

  Tate had barely leveled his wings when the tires of his plane slammed into the turf. Constantly by his side, Captain Dawson's wheels gently settled in the grass at about the same time.

  Lieutenant Tate's smoking Spitfire bounced down the field. Just then, his battered fighter veered right. The sudden change of path forced Dawson to quickly correct in order to avoid a fiery collision with the plane cutting in front of him. Dawson cleared out of the way, and Tate rolled to a stop at the end of the field.

  Emergency vehicles sped to the crippled Spitfire. Instantly, a swarm of medics scrambled onto the wing of Tate's plane. Captain Dawson wanted to help, but could only watch while they quickly pulled the wounded Lieutenant from his cockpit. Moments later, an ambulance raced Tate off to the field hospital. Dawson knew his pilot was in good hands and joined the rest of the men gathered on the hardstand.

  It didn't take long before the chatter between pilots reached a frenzy. Their encounter with the German Focke-Wulf 190s and near collision of the two Spitfires would soon become airfield folklore. As the tall tales grew taller, the men could be overheard preaching the need for better airplanes and more experienced pilots.

  Captain Dawson briefly glanced over his shoulder and noticed Harry Winslow standing in his familiar place on the other side of the hedgerow fence. The look in Harry's eyes told it all, he witnessed everything. Dawson waved at his young friend, assuring him things were all right.

  Redirecting his attention back to his men, Dawson called, "Come on lads, off to the Briefing Room. Headquarters will want to know all we can tell them about those Focke-Wulf fighters."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TIME TO JOIN

  Harry Winslow ran all the way back to his house. He burst through the front door and shouted for Stuart and Erin. Mrs. Winslow rushed from the kitchen, worried by the fuss. Behind her followed his two alarmed friends.

  "Harry, what's wrong?" Mrs. Winslow gasped. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine," Harry exclaimed in a winded voice. "You should've seen what happened at the airfield!"

  Stuart and Erin immediately started begging Harry to tell them what they missed. Comforted just to know her son was unharmed, Mrs. Winslow patiently corralled the excited children back into the kitchen to finish their lunch. Harry gulped down his meal while recounting every instant of the squadron's return, including a detailed description of the near collision of Spitfires.

  "Well, I'm certainly glad it ended well and that everyone is safe," Mrs. Winslow concluded.

  Then, changing the topic, she informed Harry, "While you were watching the squadron land, the three of us were busy planning our trip to the carnival."

  "Carnival?" Harry asked, swallowing hard. "What carnival?"

  "The one I mentioned earlier," Mrs. Winslow replied.

  "Harry," Erin broke in, "don't you remember? Your mom is taking us all to the carnival this weekend."

  "Oh, that," Harry replied, shaking his head. "Can't go. Captain Dawson is going to show me how to work the radio in his plane this weekend. A pilot needs to know his equipment."

  Frustrated with Harry's single-mindedness, Mrs. Winslow scolded her son. "Harry, you're not a member of the RAF. You need to slow down, take a day off and enjoy yourself. The carnival will only be here for the weekend. It will be good fun, and we're all going. End of discussion!"

  To emphasize her point, Harry's mother dropped some dishes in the sink and stormed out of the kitchen. The three children timidly stared at each other, careful not to upset Mrs. Winslow any further.

  Then Harry whispered across the table to Stuart, "The RAF needs pilots. I heard them talking about it on the hardstand."

  Harry was devoted to his pilot friends. From shining their shoes and sewing their buttons to saving them from disaster, he was always there to help. Now, Harry was convinced he could give them what they needed most by joining the squadron.

  "Stuart, you and I could help them," Harry urged proudly. "We should sign up today."

  "You two... pilots?" Erin chortled.

  "And why not, little Miss Smarty Pants?" Stuart shot back, excited by the thought of joining the RAF. "We know more about those planes than anyone else around here."

  "Except for the real pilots!" Erin reminded them.

  "Well, yeah," Harry stumbled. "But Captain Dawson... I mean, the RAF needs more. They were all saying something about needing better planes and more pilots, fast."

  "I heard they've been taking most anyone who will sign up," Stuart eagerly added.

  "Anyone old enough to know what they're doing," Erin corrected.

  "No, Erin, Stuart's right," Harry argued. "They've bent the rules a bit. They'll take someone who's under age, with a parent's permission. I think now might be the time for us to join."

  "Right," Stuart agreed, "Now is the time! Except, not today. I need to persuade my mother it's the right thing to do."

  "Oh yeah," Harry confided, "I'll need to convince my mom, too."

  Erin rolled her eyes and huffed, "You two are mad."

  Stuart's younger sister knew it was ridiculous to think the Royal Air Force would ever allow twelve year olds into their ranks. More to the point, she knew her mother would never give Stuart permission before he turned eighteen.

  "It's agreed then," Harry announced. "We'll get permission from our mothers and sign up with the RAF tomorrow."

  Stuart gulped down the last bit of milk in his glass and bravely nodded, "It's agreed."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SEND-OFF

  Captain Dawson and the rest of the squadron gathered in the Briefing Room with a group of very interested commanders and intelligence officers. The pilots did their best to provide every ounce of information about the new Focke-Wulf fighters they encountered. And just when they thought they were finished reporting even the smallest details, they were asked to tell the whole story over again.

  An officer asked Lieutenant Gainey if he remembered anything else important. The mischievous pilot, growing tired of the whole ordeal, replied, "Come to think of it, the plane hounding me had marks for four kills painted on it."

  "What's critical about that?" the officer asked.

  "Right from the off, I knew if he shot me down he'd be a new German ace," Gainey wryly announced. "That was incentive enough for me to make sure it didn't happen."

  The room broke into laughter. Still, the need for information remained serious. The squadron had battled with the German Luftwaffe's newest weapon, and it was important to learn as much as possible. Any knowledge gained could be used to help the entire RAF.

  Moments later, Colonel Harrison, the base commander, stepped into the room. Captain Dawson quickly excused himself from the fact gathering flurry of retold stories and joined the Colonel. He hoped to hear some good news on the condition of his injured pilot.

>   "I'm afraid Lieutenant Tate's concussion is rather severe," Colonel Harrison explained. "The flight surgeon feels it could be up to a month before he's able to fly again. I'm sending him off to Group 13 in Scotland for a rest. There's not much action up there. When he's better, we'll bring him back to Hampton."

  Captain Dawson quietly nodded his head. He was relieved to know Tate would recover, but braced himself for the hard part. His job included informing the Lieutenant he was being sent away.

  "When do you want me to tell him he's being transferred to Group 13?" Dawson asked.

  "The surgeon says he's fit to travel anytime," Harrison replied. "Go help the lad pack his things, and I'll have a car waiting to drive him north."

  Harrison left for his office to make the necessary travel arrangements. Meanwhile, Dawson found Captain Simms and explained the precarious situation. The RAF pilots were like family. Sending one away, even for needed rest, affected everyone. The squadron would sorely miss their gallant friend, on the ground and in the air.

  Dawson drew a deep breath and headed for the door, ready to break the news to Lieutenant Tate. Stopping at the threshold, he looked back and told Simms, "Pass the word to the rest of the men. Prepare for a send-off."

  Simms winked and nodded his head, then quickly went about telling the others. Moved by the serious condition of their fellow pilot, the rest of the squadron slipped out of the room and headed for the airfield.

  It wasn't long before a pale and weak Lieutenant Tate stepped outside of his quarters, accompanied by Captain Dawson. The two men solemnly marched to a cab sent by Colonel Harrison. Dawson reached to open the door on the passenger side. When he straightened up, he found Lieutenant Tate stiffly standing at attention with his hand to his forehead in salute.

  Captain Dawson eyed the frail pilot. Tate's service record listed him as just nineteen years old. But while Dawson studied the young man's drawn face, he realized how much the daily struggle of being a combat pilot had aged the Lieutenant.

  "Chin up, lad," Dawson softly consoled. "You'll be back with us soon."

  "Yes, sir," Tate replied, forcing a smile. "The sooner, the better."

  With Lieutenant Tate slumped in the back seat, the car drove off. The injured pilot blindly stared out the window as the cab passed through Hampton Airfield's gate and rumbled down the rutted country way. He wondered who would replace him, and if that man would be good enough to protect his friends in his absence.

  After several miles of twisting and turning through rolling pastures, the winding road straightened. Tate knew they had reached the border of Hampton County. A long trip north to the Scottish countryside lay ahead. The young lieutenant settled back in his seat. Resigned to being dispatched to the inactive northern airfields, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

  "Lieutenant," the car's driver nervously interrupted, "why do you think those airplanes are following us?"

  Surprised, Tate straightened up.

  "Look!" the driver blurted out and pointed at the rear view mirror hanging in front of him.

  Tate twisted around to look out the back and get a better view. The airplanes were pressing up from behind, flying barely above the tree tops.

  "Tell me they're not German," the worried cabby demanded. "After all, you would know, right?"

  Hurling through the air, the odd flight of planes roared over the top of the car and raced out in front of them. The frightened driver clung to his steering wheel while trying to watch the road and the planes at the same time. Amazed by the low flying formation, Tate counted eleven RAF Spitfires powering through the sky. When they turned, he noticed the squadron markings on their sides.

  "It’s my mates from Hampton!" Tate shouted.

  "It's my mates from Hampton!" Tate shouted.

  The thundering Spitfires darted across the countryside and regrouped for another pass. Overwhelmed, the cab driver pulled off the road and squealed to a stop. Both Tate and the cabby jumped out of the car to watch as the squadron raced up the road and flew over again. Impressed by the display, the driver pointed at an empty gap in the otherwise perfectly spaced formation.

  "They're missing one," the cabby remarked, confused by the apparent mistake.

  "That's where I used to fly," Tate replied in a dejected voice.

  As he spoke, the eleven remaining Spitfires of the 14th Squadron nosed up at full throttle and climbed high into the air. They passed out of sight an instant later, and the deafening engines faded into the distance.

  The awestruck driver looked at Tate and said, "You must be something special for those lads to chase you down like that."

  Tate quietly stared at the empty sky and whispered to himself, "No, they're the special ones."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "THE NEW KID"

  Back at the airfield, Colonel Harrison provided a guided tour for a new recruit. After making arrangements for Lieutenant Tate to recuperate in Scotland, Harrison requested a replacement pilot be assigned to the squadron in order to keep them at full strength. The new flyer seemed young and fresh, especially in comparison to the career RAF base commander. His cropped red hair, youthful look and crisp new uniform made him stand out, even though all he wanted was to fit in with the others.

  Colonel Harrison pointed at different buildings, sheds and hangers while explaining operations at Hampton to the new man. Making their way to the hardstand, they stopped to visit with some of the mechanics and crew. The nervous new pilot silently shadowed his Colonel's every move.

  "Sergeant Pendleton," Harrison called to Captain Dawson's maintenance chief, "have you seen Dawson? Or the rest of the squadron, for that matter?"

  The stocky Sergeant stopped in his tracks. He was unsure of what Colonel Harrison would think about borrowing RAF aircraft and using precious fuel just to say good-bye to a fellow pilot. And with an unfamiliar stranger standing within earshot, Pendleton groped for the right words to answer the Colonel's question without divulging the Squadron's exact whereabouts.

  "Captain Dawson is leading the Squadron on some... training maneuvers, sir."

  "Training maneuvers?" Harrison asked, rubbing his chin. "What kind?"

  "Ahh... formation flying," Pendleton delicately replied. "He took the lads on formation flying training maneuvers."

  Harrison glared at Pendleton. A combat veteran himself, the Colonel was fully aware of his men's loyalty to each other and supportive of it. He leaned in close to the crew chief's ear and whispered, "When Captain Dawson returns from his send-off for Lieutenant Tate, do have him report to me. There's someone here I want him to meet."

  Pendleton's face flushed red, caught in the unnecessary ruse. With a respectful salute, the embarrassed sergeant quickly replied, "Yes, sir!"

  No sooner had Sergeant Pendleton finished, then the squadron of Spitfires thundered over the airfield, returning from their personal mission. One by one, the eleven planes smartly settled into the grassy turf. The pilots taxied to the hardstand in front of the maintenance hangers where they cut their engines and called for their ground crews.

  Captain Dawson climbed from his cockpit and jumped to the ground. As usual, Sergeant Pendleton was there, greeting Dawson with a pat on the back and ready to tend to his airplane.

  "I assume you ensured Lieutenant Tate is well on his way to Scotland," Pendleton knowingly remarked.

  Nodding his head, Dawson replied, "That's right, Thomas, we sent the lad on his way."

  A warm smile quickly flashed on Sergeant Pendleton's face, fueled by the bonds between all the men at Hampton. Focusing his concentration back to Dawson's Spitfire, the stocky flight mechanic asked, "Is there anything you need me to look at?"

  Dawson dropped his headgear and tugged to release the straps of his parachute. "No, Thomas, nothing special. Just keep the squadron ready, including Tate's plane. There's always more flying to do."

  "Yes, sir, I'll set the men to work," Pendleton replied, already signaling his mechanics to start refitting the Spitfires. "They'll be ready, whene
ver you need them. Oh yes, one more thing. Colonel Harrison would like to see you, straight away. He's found a new kid."

  Glancing across the hardstand, Captain Dawson spied Harrison and the new pilot waiting for him. While the Colonel seemed to be growing impatient, the new recruit was glad to bide his time watching the veteran RAF pilots and mechanics discuss their aircraft. Dawson collected his gear and made his way down the field to meet with Harrison and the replacement. When the young pilot saw Captain Dawson approaching, he stiffened up and cleared his throat, trying to make a good impression.

  "Ah, Ted, come over here," Colonel Harrison called. "I'd like to introduce you to our replacement pilot, Lieutenant Daniel Fitch."

  Fitch snapped to attention. Dawson eyed the young Lieutenant. A head of flaming red hair instantly distinguished the new recruit. But what Dawson noticed most was his freckled face, shining with soft blue eyes and a hearty grin. To the hardened Squadron Leader, Daniel Fitch looked more like a schoolboy than a fighter pilot. Dawson immediately questioned the new kid's experience.

  "So tell me, Lieutenant," Dawson asked, "how many hours of Spitfire flight training have you had?"

  Lieutenant Fitch hesitated, trying to frame his answer. "In flight school we flew over 500 hours in Gladiators to earn our wings."

  "Gladiators?!" Dawson snorted. "Biplanes like the Gladiator are extinct. I asked you about Spitfire training."

  Fitch swallowed hard and offered, "I've logged over 100 hours of training in Hurrybacks. In fact, my flight school squadron even got bounced by Messerschmitts once. Only, our instructor ordered us not to engage."

  Dawson studied the young pilot and shot back, "We used to fly Hurricanes, but our entire squadron was upgraded to Spitfires months ago. How much experience do you have flying Spits?"