Jimmie raised a gloved finger to the sky. “I’ll do my best not to break anything while I’m up there.”
“There’s nothing on this plane that I can’t fix.”
“True.” Jimmie fastened his safety harness and slipped on his helmet. “Farewell, Horace.”
“Godspeed.” Horace walked away and joined several members of the ground crew near a small hangar.
Jimmie closed the cockpit canopy and started the engine. The buzz of the propeller filled his ears. He patted his flight jacket, which contained Piglet. He’s safe and sound with me, Nora.
Green Section was cleared to depart, and the pilots—one by one—accelerated their planes down the earthen runway and soared into the air. Once they were out of range of the airfield, Cobber guided his two wingmen through combat maneuvers on their journey to the border. With the passing of weeks under Cobber’s instruction, Jimmie’s aerial skills greatly improved. He’d gradually learned to mimic Cobber, who tossed his plane around in the air as if it were a toy. Although Cobber always bested him in a mock dogfight, Jimmie gave a valiant effort and held him off his tail for long periods of time.
At twelve thousand feet, Cobber banked his plane to the right and dived sharply toward the ground.
Benny and Jimmie followed his lead.
If I can get close to Cobber’s skill level, Jimmie thought, pushing hard on the control stick, I’ll have a fighting chance against a Messerschmitt.
For twenty minutes, the men performed combat maneuvers. Upon reaching France’s Maginot Line, identifiable from the air by the vast string of concrete fortifications, they leveled off at fifteen thousand feet. In a Vic formation, they flew along the border for several miles.
Cobber, without communicating over the radio that was being monitored by their airbase, veered his plane to the northeast and led his section into German territory.
Jimmie’s pulse quickened. He peered down at the thick pine forest of the Saarland. His anxiety grew as they zigzagged in and out of German airspace, all the while scanning the area. After an hour and a half of flying, they didn’t encounter Luftwaffe aircraft, nor did they discover any evidence of German ground troops.
“All right, Green Section,” Cobber’s voice said over the radio, “let’s head to base.”
“Wilco,” Jimmie said.
“Roger that, Green One,” Benny said.
Jimmie and Benny followed their section leader, who banked his plane to the southwest and leveled off at fifteen thousand feet. Minutes later, they crossed into France and Jimmie’s shoulder muscles relaxed. He peered through his cockpit glass as they approached the French town of Mertz, thirty miles from their airfield.
French antiaircraft guns flashed on the horizon.
Jimmie’s eyes widened.
“Bloody hell,” Benny said over the radio.
“Let’s check it out.” Cobber accelerated his plane.
Jimmie, his adrenaline surging, pushed the throttle and flew toward the area of gun bursts. Ahead and above him, a dual-engine light bomber was racing eastward at approximately twenty thousand feet. As the Green Section narrowed in on the target, the black cross on the plane’s fuselage came into view. And Jimmie recognized the aircraft, which looked like a flying pencil, to be a Dornier Do 17 by its unmistakable twin tails and shoulder wing. Reconnaissance mission. His heart thudded against his rib cage.
“Tally-ho!” Cobber shouted through his radio, his plane veering toward the German bomber.
Machine-gun fire erupted from the enemy aircraft.
Bullets whizzed by Jimmie’s plane. His pulse pounded in his ears.
The bomber climbed, attempting to flee the Hurricanes.
Cobber fired his machine guns.
Jimmie pushed the accelerator full throttle. He struggled to get the bomber within his gunsight. Once he was clear of his fellow pilots, he pressed the gun-firing button. Bullets exploded from his Hurricane’s eight machine guns but missed the target.
The bomber climbed higher. As it neared the maximum ceiling of the Hurricanes, Cobber turned his plane upward and opened fire.
Sparks came from the port engine of the German aircraft.
French antiaircraft guns exploded from the ground, and bullets pierced Jimmie’s fuselage. Fear flooded his veins.
“Bloody hell!” Benny shouted. “We’re on your side!” He banked his plane away from the friendly fire.
The German aircraft lost altitude and rolled into a steep dive.
Cobber chased after the bomber.
Jimmie, his plane functioning despite several holes, maneuvered into a dive. His engine roared as he gained speed. He peered through his gunsight as he fought to close in on the target.
Cobber gave a long burst of machine gun fire. Smoke spewed from the bomber and it pitched sharply toward the ground.
Jimmie’s Hurricane shuddered violently from the strain of the plummet. Bits of fabric began to peel from the plane’s wings. He pulled back on the control stick and leveled off, but Cobber continued his pursuit. A feeling of dread surged through him. “Pull up, Cobber!”
Cobber, diving toward the earth, continued to fire his guns. Bullets riddled the Dornier Do 17’s tail. It fell into a spiral and crashed into a small French village with no sign of its crew bailing out. Seconds later, Cobber leveled off, less than five hundred feet above the ground.
Jimmie lowered his oxygen mask and wiped sweat from his face.
“Are you boys all right?” Cobber called over the radio.
“Green Two—all good,” Benny said.
