He hauled back on the stick and felt his cheeks sag. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his wingman move out a bit and shoot up with him. Perfect, he thought.

With the rapid rate of closure, the approach from below, the side, and ahead, there would be only a moment when damage could be done. Just like shooting at a duck while performing a half-gainer from a diving board.

He tightened his turn. His nose up. It was going to be dangerous. Eight aircraft in this small box. Please, dear God, make my pilots good, he prayed.

He took a lead on the enemy, using a distance of five of the radii in his circular sight and then added another. The enemy did not veer. It did not seem possible that they hadn't been spotted. Blind fools.

Now!

Greg's fingers closed on the stick trigger. The plane rumbled and slowed. Six red lines etched their way into the gray and vanished. As if drawn by a wire the enemy flew into them. Greg tightened his turn until the plane shuddered. Luck was with him. His burst held for a second on the engine section of the plane. The Jap's propeller flew off in pieces. A large piece of engine cowling vanished. It was all Greg had time to see. His maneuvering for the shot had placed him near the overcast, almost inverted and heading up into the clouds. His speed was dropping rapidly. If he spun out now, he would join his opponent on the ground.

Wingman, stay clear, he prayed. He pushed stick and rudder and entered the overcast on his back. He fought the panic of vertigo. He had no idea which was up and which was down. He held the controls where they had been. Sweat popped out over him and he felt the slick between his palm and the stick grip. His air speed dropped until he thought he would spin out.