A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.

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Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilson entered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living, gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had been born of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on, at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seemingly directed at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There was seldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at himself.

Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant wasn’t able to get chummy with his men before they left him.

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