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614 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1948
While he talked, Captain Wiley, more and more restive, perhaps saw the fighter swarm, his preferred familiars, old squadronmates of his, coming off the runways at a hundred miles an hour; in thunder, airborne. The earth fell down under them; the winds aloft gave way. Not long after, the watchful far-off foe would note some specks on the sky. Stout he might be, skilled, sure of himself; but the man was not born yet who, seeing that sight, kept at that moment spit enough to swallow. He hadn't long to wait. On the heart's diastole, those coming fighters might look a mile off, and on the systole following, here they were.
The coming fighters had no waiting around to do, either. For God and country, for flying pay, for heart-in-mouth fun with death, for the hell of it, and in the excited hope to kill, they gave the incomparable two-thousand horsepower engines a good, swift, water-injection kick in the pants. To the expeditious brain, the expert eye said: now! A finger touch, light as the destroying angel's, broke simultaneous flame out all their guns. Behind this storm of lead, hand in experienced hand, they
bored in--once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!