seeming slow at first, then accelerating past, whizzing across his port wing.
'For God's sake,' said Lyell, ducking his head.
Suddenly the Dornier wobbled, belched smoke, turned and dived out of Lyell's line of fire. 'Got you!' said Lyell, then pushed the stick to his left and followed the enemy down. Not far below and away from them there was a larger bank of cloud. So that was the enemy's plan - to hide. In moments, the Dornier was flitting between puffs of outlying cloud, all signs of black smoke gone, but Lyell was gaining rapidly, the Merlin engine screaming, the airframe shaking, as he hurtled towards the enemy and opened fire again.
Just as the lines of tracer began to converge on the German machine, Lyell's machine-guns stopped. For a moment, he couldn't understand it-could all eight really have jammed? But then it dawned on him. He had used up his ammunition. Fifteen seconds' worth. Gone. More than two and a half thousand bullets pumped out and still that bloody Dornier was flying. Lyell cursed and watched the German disappear into the cloud. Following him in, he banked and turned reluctantly towards home, a strangely bright and creamy whiteness surrounding him, the airframe buffeted by the turbulence. Suddenly, it thinned, wisping either side of him and over his wings, and moments later he was out in bright sunshine, the Kent coast ahead. Trickles of sweat ran down his neck and from beneath his leather helmet, tickling his face.
He throttled back, lifted his goggles onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. He felt sick, not from being thrown about the sky but from bitter disappointment. The squadron's first kill! It should have been his - a sitting duck if ever there was one. And yet, somehow, it had got away.
From the corner of his eye he noticed feathery lines of grey between the cockpit and the starboard wing. He glanced up at his mirror. It was filled by the enemy plane bearing down on him, pumping bullets, its ugly great Perspex nose horribly close.
In no more than half a circle, he could see he was not only getting away from the enemy but creeping up on the Dornier's rear. Again, the German rear-gunner opened fire.
Although he was certain the enemy aircraft had neither the speed nor the agility to follow, Lyell glanced back to make sure the German pilot was not coming after him. The Dornier was banking away from the circle too, levelling out to return home. And as he straightened, he waggled his wings.
'Bloody nerve!' exclaimed Lyell. Was the enemy pilot saluting or sticking two fingers up at him? Either way, he had foxed three RAF fighter aircraft - out-thought, out- flown and out-gunned them.
About thirty miles away, a fifteen-hundredweight Bedford truck turned off the Ramsgate road that ran through Manston village, almost doubling back on itself as it entered the main camp at the airfield. The driver swore as he ground down through the gears, the truck spluttering, jerking and rumbling forward, past two hangars on the right, then towards several rows of one- storey wooden huts. He turned off the road, brought the truck to a halt and, letting the engine idle, said to the sergeant beside him, 'Hold on a minute. Let me find out where they want you.' He jumped down from the cab, and strode to what appeared to be an office building.
Sergeant Jack Tanner stepped out and went round to the back of the truck. 'All right, boys?' he said, to the five men sitting in the canvas-covered back, then pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his serge battle-blouse.
'It's certainly a nice day for it, Sarge,' said Corporal Sykes. 'Not bad up here, is it? I've always had a soft spot for Kent. Used to come as a boy.'
'Really?' said Tanner, flicking away his match.
' 'Op-pickin' in the summer. Quite enjoyed it.'
Tanner made no reply, instead turning to the open grassland of the airfield. A number of aircraft were standing in front of the hangars to their right, bulky twin-engined machines, their noses pointing towards the sky. Further away to his left, he saw several smaller, single-engine aircraft that he recognized as Hurricanes. A light breeze drifted across the field. Above, skylarks twittered busily.
'It's all right round here,' said one of the men, a young- looking lad called McAllister, 'but give me Yorkshire any day.'
'Nah,' said Sykes. 'It's always bloody raining up there. Every time I go to HQ it bloody pours. Half my kit's still damp. And the air's a lot cleaner here than it is in Leeds.' He breathed in deeply and sighed.
'I meant the Dales, Stan,' said McAllister. 'The Dales are grand, ain't that right, Tinker?' He nudged another of the men, a short, fair-haired boy.
'Don't know, really,' said Bell. 'I suppose. I like our farm well enough.'
Tanner smiled and took a drag of his cigarette. A faint hum caught his attention and he looked back towards the coast. The sound grew louder and he stepped away from the truck, a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes as he looked up into the deep blue sky.
'Sarge?' said Sykes.
'Aircraft,' he said. 'Sounds like one in trouble.'
Immediately Sykes leaped down from the truck and onto the road beside Tanner. Together they scanned the skies.
'There,' said Tanner. Hepworth and McAllister were out of the truck now too. Two Hurricanes were approaching the north end of the airfield, one above and gliding effortlessly towards the grass strip, the other belching dark smoke, a grey trail following. The engine of the stricken aircraft groaned and thrummed irregularly, the airframe slewing and dipping, the port wing sagging.
The men watched in silence as the crippled plane cleared some buildings on the far side of the 'drome,
