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The Merlin Factor. Chapter Eleven.
Topic Started: Dec 17 2015, 05:01 PM (104 Views)
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The Merlin Factor. Chapter Eleven.

Stimulation.


England: Coltishall, Norfolk, 1940.


"Johnny? I heard you'd had a crash! Oh Johnny I've been so worried!" Her voice was a glimpse of Eden. The rest of the world was trying to murder me.
"Oh. I'm all right, Aunt Marion. Bit shook up again. Nothing much." What a pack of lies. I was still shaking. The rest of the squadron was in mass shock after Robbie's mid-air disintegration. I went on, trying to sound brave.
"Listen Auntie, we just got word to fly down to Hornchurch. Yes. That's right. I'm afraid so..."

It was strictly against orders to say things like this, for the very walls, supposedly, had ears. I really didn't care. Not many did. The enemy knew everything about us anyway.
Her voice was rich velvet. Soothing. I wanted to go to her and never come back to this place of imminent disaster. But I could not do that. It was out of the question.
"I don't know when I can see you... Will you? Will you be able to get enough petrol? Could you?" Tears in my eyes. Gratitude pouring over me, weakening my knees.
"Thank you, Auntie. Thank you. Yes. I will. I love you too. 'Bye." The phone clunked down. Dead bakelite. Inanimate again. It had carried a little part of her to me. Across the gulf that separated us. Magic.

Word had come. Official. Get down south, soonest. No time to think, to say a proper good-bye. No time.
I had been found a patched up Spitfire - 325 - to get me there. Hornchurch was getting the Mark Twos. Already had a few. Thank heavens. No time. No time. They never gave you any time.

We took off together. Eleven noisy warriors with loaded guns. I waved to Ernie, touched at his sadness that he would no longer be able to give my machine the attention it deserved.
"Be carefuw, Sah," he had said, his wrinkled eyes big and bloodshot. "This kite's the best we could do, Sah. Don't jump around too much, Sah. Wings might drop off, like. All the best Sah."

325 was a reclamation job. A near write-off; more patches than moving parts. She juddered alarmingly just before coming unstuck and I steeled myself for another high speed encounter with the earth. The beautiful, patch-worked, elliptical wings lifted her into the air, though, and I thankfully pumped up the gear, already falling slightly behind the rest of the squadron. Red section was the last off. Three sections of three and ours - Red - of just two. I was leading, in the absence of Robbie, but it looked like I would have to lead from behind.

We were given a course to steer from the controller back at Coltishall, climbing to fourteen thousand feet to fly a heading of 197 degrees. The air was bumpy and we rocked our way through intermittent rain and smoking grey overcast. The weather could change so fast!
My oil pressure was slightly low, and the Merlin lacked its usual confident tune. Poor old bird. Stunted and thumped and shot at too many times. Sad and tired, but still full of heart. I was falling further and further behind, passing the lead to Algy Dearborn, who throttled back to stay in sight.
...ksshhhk..."Manhole calling Firefly, we have some trade for you, are you receiving, over?
"...ksshk... ...kkk..shhh.k.."Firefly receiving"...pop..k.. ..."forty-plus bandits at angels ten. Ten miles. Vector eight niner. Buster"...kk..

Here we go, I thought. Why couldn't they just leave us alone. I was missing my nice new 414 now. This poor old dear wasn't your ideal all-round combat aircraft. Willing but tired. I shoved the throttle through the gate and felt the push in the back as the supercharger kicked in and the manifold-pressure rose to maximum. Ahead, Algy was trailing black smoke, nose up as he turned onto his intercept course, climbing away, leaving me to struggle along after him at my best speed. Far off in the distance the rest of the squadron were mere specks against the cloudscape.

A trembling started in the airframe, an unhealthy juddering vibration that set my teeth on edge. I sighed into the rubber and canvas oxygen mask. I never seemed to be playing with a full deck. Something was always wrong. Give me a good machine and I'd get bounced on the runway. Give me an old jalopy and I'd have to go and mix it with forty or fifty top-line Hun fighters. Damn it anyway!

The R/T came alive as the squadron made contact, far out at the limits of vision, excited, chattering voices, high-pitched and immature. Boys playing at being men. I blasted on, fighting the urge to turn and run. I studied the oil-pressure gauge, watching it vibrate and flicker. It would drop several pounds for moments at a time before springing back to normal. My thumb flicked off the safety and the machine rattled to the tune of the eight Brownings. At least something worked as it was meant to.

I was crossing the frontier now. The imaginary line that separates thought from action. It happened every time. One moment I would be thinking, fearing, calculating, fumbling. The next - with no apparent transition - I would be removed from my body, watching it go through its practiced ritual of mastery, arming, preparing, planning, attacking, evading. All instantaneous, out of time, out of control. This was the part that scared me most. This strange body doing what it was trained to, with no guidance from the real me. Uncanny.

A bright flash up ahead as somebody exploded, black trails of smoke and tiny far-off lines of tracer, lurid against the grey murk. Closer and closer. A check in the mirror just in case. Trim nose down. Sight set for 109's. Going in...

My stomach knots into an agonizing ball of muscle as the steady note of the engine suddenly falters, the invisible prop. slowing and flickering into existence like a strobe. Oh shit! Just great! I throw the stick over hard and half-roll away from the writhing, spiralling mass of aircraft in a skidding split-S. Terror. Perfect timing. Bloody perfect. Diving in to engage and suddenly no bloody engine. This isn't just dangerous, this is guaranteed suicide. Glancing anxiously in the mirror, my anus scrunches up tight as a yellow hog-nosed cowling swims into view. Now I'm dead. Dead dead dead...

The magic body. Unknowing. Simply reacting. Razor sharp. I watch numbly as my hands drop the gear, drop the flaps, haul back and kick full left rudder, firing at the same time to kill speed. The yellow spinner in the mirror rotates, growing larger but off-center until it abruptly disappears. Two holes appear in the port wingtip as the machine lurches into a spin, upside down, chattering and banging. Wheels up, flaps up, everything strange and whirling, inverted, breathless, stick back, back, center rudder and try to keep my stomach inside me. Diving straight, aileron roll. Roll and keep rolling, check the mirror and keep checking. With an explosion of oily blue smoke, the engine roars into full-boost again for no apparent reason and I gasp in hope as the airspeed wraps around the clock. 350. 380. 400. Right, you bastard! Blood leaves my head as I haul back into a vicious climb, searching. There! The 109 is banked, observing his curious, undead kill. A rubbernecking spectator. I half-roll off the top of my loop into an Immelmann, dropping down onto his tail, surprised at the ease with which it's done and fix his wildly turning face with unblinking eyes. Alien black crosses leap into focus, sinister and unclean. Closer. His square-tipped wings fill the range-bar - ready - ready... He snap-rolls to port, noses down, black smoke belching from his cowling, streamers of vapor spinning from his wingtips. A deadly, terminal image. I half-roll after him, pulling back until the stick must surely snap. Blackout. No! Not quite! The fucking corset! I laugh a breathless, ugly laugh, blood pounding in my ears and my cheeks pulled down to my neck with the force of the maneuver. Killed by a kid in a lady's corset. Got you. Got you, you slimy black shit!
He steadies in the gunsight. Eighty yards away. Kill! I howl and hammer at the button, rage foaming from screaming, tortured lips. Shit! The guns are silent. Shit! He rolls away, I roll with him, tighter, tighter. He noses over and dives, right through the circle made by Bishop, pursued by another 109, vertically banked in a merry-go-round turning duel. Right through the middle of this game that is part of another game, that is as far from being a game as anything ever could be. Bishop's pink face flashes past my awareness and I stare at my left hand as it waves in passing. Watch me, Bishop! Watch me pretend to shoot this bastard...
I see the Hun's eyes in his own mirror - a bolted-on car-mirror - wide and terrified. The guns have gone u/s. Cheap-shit bloody aeroplane! I rage in impotent fury and dive away, leaving him to cower and quake. I have no more time to waste in this stupid game.

Seconds afterwards, I am quivering like a leaf in a gale. Crying like a wet kitten. Soaked in sweat and urine. Diving down and down, scanning the mirror for death. Ahhhh....

My head won't stop shaking. The nearness of everything. The utter unpredictability of existence. I suck on pure oxygen - great lungfuls of it - to still the panic. No guns. No engine. No luck. No, I decide. Without luck, I would not be sitting in my cramped little cockpit pissing into my parachute. With frequent checks in the mirror, I head south once more. South to where it's even worse than here. For better or worse. South.

Fred comes up behind me, waggling his wings, easing into formation. A big hole shows scattered daylight just behind his canopy and his helmet is off. His airscrew wobbles, fore and aft, out of true. It must be vibrating like a jack-hammer in there. He points to his ears and shakes his head. The slipstream blows his blond hair all over. He yawns and shrugs. Grinning. Another day. Just another day.

The squadron lands in ones and twos, a wide interval separating the first from the last. No matter how long we wait, there will be only nine of us. Nine rattling, shaking, dog-tired pilots, nine battered Spitfires, oil-stained and creaking. Algy turns up about six that evening, with a stitched-up gash in his skull and numerous minor facial lacerations. Cawley, a quiet Pilot-Officer from Thetford, is dead.

*****

Hornchurch, Essex, 1940.


"Hot stuff, eh? Just the thing." Robbie Burns had said that. Now it was Fred's turn as he sat in the cockpit of his new Mark 2, polishing the perspex hood with his handkerchief. I had one too. Number 602.
"Ready then? Think you can fly it?" There was just enough light left for a quick orientation flight. "Battle-climb. Test these new superchargers everybody's talking about. Right?"
"Battle-climb? Why a bleedin' battle-climb? My fuckin' ears are killin' me. How about a nice, ordinary climb?" He laughed at himself.
"Why do we always battle-climb?" It was a good question. But I couldn't answer it. So instead I said:
"All right. Ordinary climb, double-quick. I'm going to kick the shit out of you!" He laughed again. I envied him.
"Mount up, Johnny-boy. You're keepin' me waitin'!" As soon as I'd run a mag-drop, I waved away the erks and thundered out after Fred. We lined up and sped away together into the gathering dusk, engines sweet and strong.

There certainly was more power here, I realized, as the wings flexed and trembled. Faster to accelerate. A vigorous thump in the back as the blower banged in. Wheels up. Wobble. The characteristic Spitfire jitterbug as you changed hands from stick to hydraulic pump. Fred kept his nose low to the ground, gaining speed, before lifting out into a maximum performance climb. My ears popped again and again as we left the earth far behind in what seemed to be a remarkably short time. Up into the heavens.

It was lighter up here. Another half-hour of daylight at least. Through ten-thousand. Fifteen. Eighteen. Fred levelled out and waggled his wings to signal the show was about to begin. Grinning, he showed me two fingers and peeled away instantly to starboard. Gone. I broke to port and craned my neck to follow the fast dwindling speck. We raced around to confront each other at a closing speed of nearly seven hundred miles per hour, breaking early to cut down on the death-rate. It would never do to damage these new machines without good reason. There were far too few of them around as it was. Only five had been ready when we arrived and only the most experienced pilots were entrusted with them. That answered another question. I was an experienced pilot. Reefing around after Fred, I realized again that the corset was helping to keep me from blacking out under the huge loadings produced by violent maneuvering. I felt impossibly grateful to Marion. What would I do without her? I wondered if I could make myself dive into combat if it wasn't for her. She lived somewhere on that big island down below. She had to be protected from these murderous air-pirates. Had to be. It meant more to me than any patriotism or ideal of courage. Auntie Marion. My personal reason to go on with this suicidal activity. The only reason.

Fred did his best to shake me, but as if our two machines were strung together by an invisible wire, I remained glued to his tail. Finally he waggled his wings again and let me draw alongside. His face was bright red, and even from my position, fifty feet from his wing, I could see the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was shaking his head from side to side, drawing his finger across his throat. Dead. You killed me, he was saying. And I thought you were my friend.

We sank back towards the darkening earth, throttled back, gliding. The R/T was silent, for once, and the world seemed a peaceful place. All illusion. At any moment, streams of black murderers could come pouring out of the east to terrorize and kill. Men, women and children. Nobody was safe. Nobody. But, thankfully, they didn't.

*****

Our new Squadron Leader was a stocky fellow by the name of Gurney. With big jaw muscles gained, no doubt, from champing on the stem of his foul-smelling and ever-present pipe. He had come to us, courtesy of the Fleet Air Arm; the Royal Navy probably having little use for one so incorrigibly abrasive.
He had a barrel chest and even though he was quite short, gave the impression of being a very dangerous character. His first name, being Danny, soon gained him the nickname of Dangerous Dan. Not a man to like, still I admired him. He seemed born to lead. So unlike my own uncertainty and fear. He was no better a flier than I, but something in his make-up made him pure terror in the air.
He would do impossible things with his Spitfire - things that should have over-stressed it - and still manage to make such things look quite elementary. Horrible things. Like `Bunts' - to demonstrate the new float-less carburetors our aircraft were now being fitted with.
His accent was ghastly. Muddy Lancashire. Nasal and harsh. "We'll 'ave noo moore o' they nassty Gairmans dookin' away from us nahw, laike! Shoow they boogers a thing or twoo, raight en-oof!"
For the Messerschmitts had been able to push over and dive vertically away to avoid combat any time they chose, with their fuel-injected Daimler-Benz engines, leaving our conventional carburetor equipped Merlins gasping for breath and far behind. We could only half-roll, inverted, and pull back to go down after them, losing time. It was infuriating. Now it looked like we could pare away that sneaky little performance edge and go right down with them. Look out, kraut.

Fred was disappointed that I had an engagement with Marion that evening. He was dead set on patronizing the new pubs.
"Aw, come on Johnny! Let's bat on over to Romford and guzzle a pint or two. Lady 'anworth won't miss you for one bleedin' night!"
"No. But I would miss her. And it's been two nights. She's coming all the way from Norwich to see me. Using up all her petrol. I'd jolly well better be there, eh?"
"Always chasin' your bleedin' prick, you are. You'd think you'd not 'ave the energy after a day like this. Honest yer wouldn't."
"Takes more energy to guzzle a few pints than to sleep with a grateful woman."
"Oooh! Grateful, is she? Prob'ly just feels sorry for yer!"
I span around, furious.
"Sorry, Johnny. Didn't mean that. Just pullin' yer leg." I swallowed. Blushing and angry.
"Do you really think that?"
"Nooooo. Said I was sorry, didn't I? Just kiddin'." I took a deep breath and shrugged.
"She's a good woman, Fred."
"Right enough she is. An' I'm just jealous. That's all." He slapped my shoulder again, knocking me off balance.
"Jesus, Fred! I wish you wouldn't do that."
"Sorry, Johnny. 'Ave a nice wet one for me..."

*****

She was waiting at the main gate, sheltering in the guardroom and looking gorgeous. I'd never seen such high heels as the ones she wore, and never a woman who could walk so gracefully in them. Knowing her calves were superb, she liked to emphasize them by going around on tip-toe. She wore a tightly-fitting tailored suit and a black-veiled hat, and all I could see of her face at first was a generous pair of crimson lips.
The two S.P.'s were casting furtive glances at her as she sat with her legs crossed, the vent of her skirt open to her knees, motionless against the wall. They looked up at me, gaping, as she rose and, striding right over to me, kissed me warmly on the lips.
"Johnny! My darling Johnny. Let's not waste a moment dear. I have a motor..."
As we left the station I distinctly heard one of the policemen muttering: "Some blokes 'as all the bleedin' luck." On impulse I stopped and turned.
"I beg your pardon, Corporal?"
"Just wishin' you an' the lady a nice night, Sir!"
Marion hugged me and chuckled.

She chattered away as she drove fast through the blacked out streets, describing her journey, the many road blocks, on her way to who knew where. I lay back and savored her feminine fragrance, one hand stroking her silk-stockinged thigh and fingering the little bulge of a suspender-snap.
"Did you fight today, Johnny?"
"Ah - well - as a matter of fact we did. Yes."
"Well? Did you get any?"
"No. Not today." I felt her disappointment. "But I got one yesterday."
"Yesterday? You shot down a German yesterday?"
"Mmmm."
"Johnny! Why didn't you tell me?"
"It wasn't official until this morning, Auntie."
"But you could have called!"
"Sorry Auntie. I didn't think it was important."
"Not important? Really Johnny! You deserve a good spanking! Just as soon as we get to my room I'm going to take you over my knee and discipline you! Do you hear?"

Oh. Ohhh. How did she do this to me? My heart was fluttering like a moth before a candle, my loins squirming and hot. She could make me feel so incredibly aroused just by saying a few words in that certain, authoritative way.
"I asked you if you understood me?"
"Yes Auntie. I'm sorry Auntie..."
"Yes. Well. I have a nice pair of boots for you to help me into. Would you like that?"
"Oh yes, Auntie. Thank you."
"How was the corset? Did it help?"
"Oh! It was amazing, Auntie! I could turn much more tightly than I could before. It really works. The M.O. found out about it, though." I blushed at the memory.
"What did he say?" "Oh. Not much, really."
"There. I told you so. Oh Johnny. I'm so proud of you. Another German shot down. You are so clever. Such a good boy. Would you like me to spank you? I won't unless you want me to. You may lace up my boots anyway. Well?"
I gasped and blinked. Trembling. Oh how she excited me. "Please spank me, Auntie Marion. I would very much like you to. Will you? Please?"
I knew it would please her to have me ask. She did this often.
"Of course. Certainly." She smiled beneath her veil. Almost purring. "I shall take care of everything, my dear. Just you wait and see."

She had taken a room in a small hotel in Hornchurch and quickly apologized for its simplicity.
"I must get back tomorrow, dear. I'll try to make it down for next week. Would you like that? If I can arrange it?"
"Please, Auntie."
"Very well. Now come here."
I stood before her, feeling much smaller than I really was.
"Undress me, Johnny. Down to my underwear."
She guided my trembling fingers to her blouse and looked into my eyes while I fumbled with the buttons. She was no longer smiling, but wearing that cool, aloof expression she always wore when about to do what she was about to do to me. I was breathing raggedly as I feasted my eyes on her heavy bosom, bulging over the cups of her white longline brassiere. Her lips narrowed into a tense, hard line and she pulled my face down into her deep cleavage, pressing hard, making it difficult for me to breathe.
"I want you to smell me, Johnny. Remove my skirt. Keep your face there. Pressed into my breasts."
She had absolute control over me, and she knew it. I drank in the warm, secret softness, easing the tight skirt down over her hips and letting it fall to the floor.
"Go to the cupboard, Johnny. Bring me my boots."
I hurried away and found the long cardboard box. It was surprisingly heavy. I laid it on the bed and watched her as she sat down, crossed her legs and removed one of her shoes.
"Go on," she said. "Take them out."

They were the most fantastic boots I had ever seen. Almost three feet in length, laces running from instep to thigh, with heels that must have been almost six-inches in height. They shone with soft reflected light and the sweet, musky aroma of fine leather swam around me like opium smoke. I fitted first one, then the other boot to her silken legs, carefully tensioning the laces until the leather hugged her like a second skin. It took a very long time. All the while, she was whispering to me how much she enjoyed what I was doing and how much she was going to enjoy taking me over her knee. I felt like - I don't know what I felt like - it was too strange, really, to describe. She could have done anything at all to me. I would have let her. Anything. If it was her doing it, it was all right.
"Kneel between my legs, Johnny. There's a good boy." She stood up, spreading her legs a little more, grasped my hair and shoved my face down into her thighs. "Stay there!"
I felt her moving, unsnapping little feminine snaps, and knew by the soft, double tug, that she had let her breasts fall free from her brassiere.
"Look at me, Johnny."
I raised my face from her most intimate parts and gazed up at her. Her breasts hung down, bouncing slowly, and her face had gone strangely hard. She looked at me for what seemed a long time.
"I am going to give you everything I have to give, Johnny. I am going to give you pleasure such as you have never known. And pain too. I think you would like that." She paused. "Well? Would you?"
I could only swallow and nod. Speechless.
"I will do this Johnny, because I believe in you. I will give you this if you will give me what you have. Do you know what I want, Johnny?" She raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
I shook my head. Unsure.
"I want you to take your Spitfire and kill the Nazis. Stop them from hurting innocent people. That is what I want from you. Do you understand?"
I choked. Oh yes. I understood. Tears came again. The certainty of death. She stroked my head.
"And I want your love. All you can give me. Because I love you, Johnny. I love you very, very much. I believe that the only way you will survive this war is to become the coldest, cruellest killer you can become. Otherwise it will be they, who will kill you. You know that, don't you?"
I nodded, caught in her spell. Absolutely. They would kill me anyway.
"For every German you kill, you will have my undivided attention. For every time you return empty-handed, you will have my neglect. Understood?"
Maybe it was some kind of game. I studied her. No. She was deadly serious.
"You want me to hurt you, don't you, Johnny? It makes it easier for you." She pressed my face, once more, into her thighs. "I understand, dear. I understand..."
She sat down on the bed again.
"Lie across my thighs, Johnny. Get yourself comfortable. We have three whole hours. We won't waste another moment."
She took a silk stocking and grasped my wrists, knotting them together behind my back. "This is going to be quite painful," she breathed. "Really rather painful..."

*****

It was midnight by the time she had me back at the main gate. I was shocked and subdued. Humbled and cowed. She was smiling a warm, motherly smile, pulling me to her to be kissed one last time.
"Did you enjoy it, Johnny?" I smiled a small smile and buried my face in her shoulder. My behind was radiating heat but really wasn't very sore any more.
"I knew you would. I've known all along. That's why I brought the boots. I am very happy we can share such things together, dear. Very happy indeed. Now off you go. And remember what I said. Call me when you are successful."
She cupped my chin in her gloved hand, pulling my face up to look into her eyes. "And be careful. I don't want to lose you. Dear God, don't let me lose you!"

I watched her drive away into the night, ignoring the snickers from inside the guard-house. I held on to that last look that had crossed her face as she had gazed into my eyes. A hunted look, somehow. Pained. Desperate, almost. It puzzled me. Did she know..?
I felt empty. She had emptied me out. No energy. No craziness. No shame. But most of all, I realized with a sigh, no fear.

*****

"At ease, Sergeant." Dangerous Dan Gurney surveyed me from the other side of his big, scarred desk. His fingers were steepled and his face thoughtful. He cleared his throat.
"Ah - I was having a word with the M.O. from Coltishall yesterday, Sergeant." He paused, letting my face turn bright red. "I see you remember. It appears you have taken to wearing non-service clothing. Is this correct?"
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and decided I had to stand up to him. "Yessir! That is correct, Sir!"
"A..." he cast his eyes up at the ceiling, "A lady's corset?" Oh it was hard.
"Yessir." I felt quite faint.
"Are you wearing it at present, Sergeant?"
"Yessir."
"Do tell. Would you care to enlighten me as to why a male representative of His Majesty's Royal Air Force would take it upon himself to dress in female underwear? Hmmm?"

His nasty accent made everything he said sound much worse than it really was.
"Well, Sir..." I coughed and took another deep breath. "I was having trouble with my back, Sir, and my - ah - my..." What the devil could I refer to her as? "...that is - my woman - ah - suggested that it might help to wear it."
"And how is your back now, Sergeant?"
"Much better thank-you, Sir."
"Any reason then, why you shouldn't return this feminine garment to its rightful owner?"
"I - ah - I'd rather not, Sir..."
"Grown attached to it, have you?" Thick, pointed sarcasm.
"Ah - it's not that Sir..." I was almost in tears. So humiliated. "I - ah - find it helps me in battle, Sir. I can turn tighter. Loop shorter. Stand up to a lot more G's, Sir."
His eyebrows went up. "Really?"
"Yessir!"
"Well. I can't have my pilots wearing non-regulation dress, Sergeant..." He re-filled his horrible pipe and lit it, taking his time. "...Unless there is a very good reason for it. A practical reason. Are you telling me there is a practical reason?"
"Yessir!"
"Right. Get over to dispersals. Battle-climb to angels twenty-five. I'll find you. If you can't get me off your tail, I'll bloody well shoot you down myself for the flaming pansy you are! Dismissed!"
I saluted, wide-eyed. What? He meant it too. I was sure of that.
I about-faced and left the office, my mind whirling. I ran all the way to dispersals to gain as much of a lead as possible, shouting to my new fitter, Mead, to get the engine going.
"Mornin' Sir! One man scramble, is it Sir?" He was grinning.
"None of your bloody lip, Mead! Don't jerk me around, d'you hear! Get the bloody thing going, smartish!"
I was getting angry. If Marion gave me something of hers to wear I was damned well going to wear it. For her. Sod the Squaddie. I'd bloody well show him...
I finished my checks almost halfway down the field, tail up and running. Sweet new machine. Fit for a king. Lean and mean and clean. Dangerous Bloody Dan was in for one big surprise. Bastard!

My ears popped so many times that I lost count. Up through the clouds into the sunlight. I climbed right on through twenty-five thousand, sure that he would try to bounce me from superior height. I circled, looking down. That was the way he would have to come. I used the time to climb still higher into the bright sun, breathing oxygen, insulated against the icy atmosphere outside by sheepskin boots, jacket and gloves.

There. Far below. A tiny speck, hard to see even against the clouds, growing larger. I started down in a long shallow dive. I was grim. Cold. He had angered me more than anyone had in a long, long time. He had deliberately humiliated me and then gone so far as to threaten to shoot me down. Sod him. I'd damned well shoot him down if it came to that. I hoped I could. He was a fine pilot, but then, so was I. I'd better be...

I leveled out to twenty-one thousand feet moving at around four hundred and forty miles per hour, all downhill. His Spitfire grew in my range-bar and I could have blown him apart right then. The perfect bounce. He couldn't have seen me, diving down from that big, blinding-bright sun. I rolled over him, travelling nearly one hundred and fifty miles per hour faster, pulling up into a climbing turn with a half-roll off the top to come back and...

He was gone.

My neck rotated as if it was mounted on gimbals. What the...
I rolled, pitched down, pitched up, glanced in the mirror...
Just in time, I saw the spinner lining up. Just in time to flick-roll aside. Ugh. Let's see you roll that fast Mr. Danger Man!
He was still coming, but the speed of the move had thrown him. I led him into a vertical bank and screamed as I wrenched the stick back into my stomach. Aaaaahhhhhh!
A filling snapped somewhere in the back of my mouth as I clung by my fingernails to the last grey filaments of consciousness, searching the mirror, searching, finding it empty. A moment more, and I caught sight of him spinning violently earthwards. With a gasp of anxiety, I nosed over and dove after him, wondering what had happened.
Before I knew it, the falling Spitfire had suddenly snapped out of its spin and was climbing up behind me again. You bloody...
I hauled back and looped. A bone crushing, blood draining over-the-top at high speed; a speed he couldn't hope to match, recovering from his spin. He swam in front of me, a mote among many dancing flecks, writhing, snake-like, blackening, clearing. I had to make a conscious effort to stop myself from firing on him, so strong was the urge to blast any aircraft so perfectly centered in the sight. Got you, Danger Man. Got you!
He tried again. Desperately. He was good. Very good. But I had started out higher and come from the sun. And I'd proved I could turn tighter than he. He threw his hood back and pointed down before diving away towards Romford, four miles below.
I followed him all the way down, formating as closely as I dared, only feet away from his elevators. Grinning savagely all the way. Pansy eh? You should stick to bloody gardening, mate!

He strode over to me at dispersals, sweating and rather rumpled-looking. Our eyes met and locked, both our faces expressionless. For a long moment he stared me down while fitters and riggers tried not to notice. Then he blew out a long jet of air, scratched his head and said:
"By golly, Johnny! Where can I buy myself one of those?"

*****

"Squawk!" said the crow, and then made space.
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