"Hey leave it to us. You boys have a safe trip home."

"Boys let's call it a day. We're heading home."

Bill turned his plane to head back. Now away from the battle, alone in the silence he was able to think about his friends. Looking out to either side he could see how few of them were left.

On the way back to base Bill Smith spotted another aircraft. His heart leapt at first. Could it possibly be his brother. Bill left the pack to investigate. He soon realised that the other plane was small. A small reconnaissance plane. What's more it was German. It was the Fieseler Storch that had been spotted before. Anger welled in him when he saw the enemy insignia. He knew that the small single engined plane could not return fire. Bill increased his speed and zoomed past the German plane. A maniacal grin spread across his face. He wanted the enemy to see him, to know that death was coming. They'd seen him all right. What was more the 'Bastard' in the passenger seat was trying to signal him. The faces of his friends flashed before his eyes. Tommy Burke, his little brother Jimmy.

Bill watched the passenger as he flashed Morse code with a torch out of the window. Though Bill saw the signals they weren't registering in his brain. He absently read them as he flew alongside the plane before peeling off for a turn. Alfred Dennis saw the Spitfire go.

"You definitely told him that there are English P.O.W.'s on board?"

Kleber nodded.

"Exactly as you said."

"Then where is he going. Johnny keep an eye on him. Tell me what he's doing. We're sitting ducks up here."

Alf looked accusingly at Kleber. Kleber read what was behind the Englishman's eyes.

"I signalled exactly as you said. I have no wish to die here today."

Alf kept his eyes on Kleber, truly believing him.

"Johnny what's he doing?"

"He's gone round in a big arc Alf. Now he's straightened up. He's right behind us. Shit Alf! He's coming and coming fast."

Alf tried to remain calm.

"What do I do?"

"The moment he fires, if he fires, push forward on the stick and drop five hundred feet."

The Spitfire screamed in and Alf pushed the joystick forward and sent the small Storch into a dive. The little plane touched top speed. They were lucky. Bill was late in firing and the burst from his guns flew harmlessly through the air.

"Level out! Level out!" Kleber said "Too long at this speed and the engine could blow."

Alf pulled back on the controls and the engine went into a drone as the Storch climbed again.

"There must be some way of getting through to him that we're friendly. Aren't you usually protected by fighters."

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. The General wanted to keep a low profile on this mission. But if I may remind you, you did steal my aeroplane."

"Well it may have all been for nothing if we can't get this bloody idiot to understand. Johnnya.!" Alf shouted over his shoulder. "What's he doing now."

"I can't actually see him Alf," Johnny said frantically looking for the Spitfire.

"Is he still above us?"

"I can't see him. Shit Alf, he could be anywhere."

Kleber tapped Alf on the shoulder and pointed ahead. Alf looked but all he could see were mountains. Kleber pointed again and Alf saw the Spitfire so well camouflaged against the backdrop. It looked tiny against the brown slopes. The mountains were in part sun, part shade.

Alf tried zigzagging across the sky but the faster much more maneuverable fighter caught them easily. Bill waited patiently on the tail, following Alf's every move. Alf finally conceded.

"I can't shake him off."

The three men waited for the Spitfire to finish them off when Alf suddenly started laughing. Johnny looked at him as if he were mad. Kleber sat silently, resigned.

"What the hell is so funny?" The young Englishman asked.

"Everything we've been through and this is how it ends. Shot down by one of our own."

Kleber laughed also.

"Bad for you two. At least I'm being shot down by the enemy."

Bill followed the Fieseler Storch until he was absolutely sure that it wouldn't, couldn't escape him this time."

"This is for you Jimmy," he said squeezing the trigger. His machine guns exploded. The red hot projectiles eating up the distance between the aircraft.

"NOW!" Kleber shouted reacting to the sound of the rat-tat-tat.

Alf turned the plane but far too late. The bullets shredded the Storch's tail before ripping up the bodywork. Instantly the Fieseler began to twist and buck. Alf now unable to control her. Bill fired again. This time the bullets hit the engine surround and black oil splashed out covering most of the front of the plane. Alf now had a very limited view from the oil smeared windows. The Fieseler Storch's oil pressure gone, the plane started to dive. The altimiter spinning round and round Bill followed and fired once more.

The guns clicked.

Bill tried again.

The guns were out of ammunition.

Bill pulled up and turned, shaking his fist at the Storch. The smaller plane was losing height. It was travelling much slower than the Spitfire could. If Bill slowed to keep pace his Merlin engine would stall. He looked at his fuel gauge. It was nearing the quarter full mark. He had spent longer flying than he should. He broke off the attack and headed home disappointed that he couldn't stay and watch the German's demise.

Inside the Fieseler Storch's cockpit Alf and Kleber were trying the impossible. Kleber was trying to hold the joystick while Alf clambered out of the seat. But the bucking of the plane made it extremely difficult. Alf got thrown back into the seat again and as Kleber held on Alf looked out of the front window and realised it was too late. They were only feet from the ground.

"Brace yourselves," he shouted.

Johnny who was already on the floor pushed his feet into the back of the passenger seat. Kleber threw himself into the passenger seat and scrabbled for the seat belts.

"You'll have to pull up just as we hit to try to soften the impact!" Kleber yelled at Alf.

Instincts had already told Alf this. Just some gut feeling that that was the right thing to do. He wanted to let go of the controls and cross his arms in front of his chest but knew to pull up was their only chance.

The propeller had slowed drastically and Alf tested the controls. They were sluggish and he now knew they were doomed. Looking ahead he could see the ground rising up to meet them. To his surprise it wasn't coming as quickly as he thought it would.

But come it did!

The ground came rushing up and Alf tried to time his pulling on the stick with the first contact with the desert. The wheels hit the rough terrain and jolted them inside, throwing them about. Alf pulled up on the controls with no response. The plane bounced into the air and crashed down heavily again. Johnny and Kleber were thrown forward. Johnny slumping to the floor, Kleber landing back in his seat, motionless. Alf held on for dear life.

This time the Fieseler Storch bit deep into the desert. The front went down, the tail came up. The propellers snapped off. The Fieseler Storch cart wheeled along the desert, tearing itself to pieces before coming to a stop.

Alf had been thrown forward before landing back in his seat as everything went black.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

The tyres skidded to a stop and tiny stones skittered to either side. The Jeep's driver and three passengers jumped out of their vehicle and surveyed the scene. The small aeroplane was on its roof. It was German. Its markings still clearly visible under all the dust covering it. The wreckage was scattered over a quarter of a mile.

The Jeeps driver sergeant Harry Doyle whistled through his teeth at the wreckage.

"Sarge," one of his men spoke.

Doyle looked across the desert at the other vehicles. They were part of the Long Range Desert Group. An elite group of men linked to the S.A.S.

"What do you want us to do Sarge?" Albert Simmonds asked again.

"Look for anything salvageable, anything we can use. Water, food, fuel, anything. This didn't crash that long ago so there may be something. Oh and by the waya." he said as his men had started to move off. They stopped.

"a.The crew may still be in there. So be warned it may not be pretty."

"Sarge!" they all chorused.

"Just grab anything useful," Harry repeated. He took his Sten gun off his shoulder and placed it on the bonnet of the jeep. He put his back to the vehicle and began to roll a cigarette.

Bert Simmonds and Alan "Dougie" Thomas surveyed the wreckage. The fourth man, George Potts, followed the trail of wreckage searching for anything of use. He kicked pieces of debris, prodding bigger bits with his toe. He reached the end of the trail and looked toward the direction the plane had obviously come. There was nothing else in the desert to indicate what had happened. The German pilot must have just crashed simple as that. George looked back at the plane. Then he eased himself out of his trousers and relieved himself. He shook himself when finished and then slowly made his way back to the wreck. Bert and Dougie picked their way over the ruined aircraft. Bert bent down to inspect a petrol can. The sand around it had recently been wet and when he picked the can up petrol trickled from a bullet hole in its side.

"I think we may have found what brought her down," he said putting his finger in the hole to show Doug.

Doug lifted up a large piece of ripped canvas revealing the planes skeleton sides. It was riddled with bullet holes. He peered through a gash. On the floor which was in fact the roof he could see spent bullets.

"Someone shot the hell out of her."

Bert nodded.

"She didn't just crash then. Or run out of fuel."

"Let's take a look inside."

Bert followed Doug. They had to get down onto their knees to look in through the smashed windows.

"They're in there all right."

Bert got to his feet and shouted across at Harry Doyle.

"The crew are still inside Sarge."

"Any of them still alive?"

"No don't think so. No signs of movement. Couldn't see exactly how many. At least three I think."

Doyle puffed on his cigarette.

"Leave them where they are. The Germans can bury them if they want to," Doyle said now walking towards the wrecked plane, "Just quickly search it and return to the Jeep."

Doug pulled open the passenger door with difficulty. It was stuck at first and he had to put a foot on the bodywork and yank it. The first thing he came across was the inert form of Kleber. He had a large bruise to his forehead. Doug put two fingers inside Kleber's collar and felt for a pulse.

Nothing!

Kleber was cold. Doug had to pull him roughly about to be able to see past him. He could see a pair of legs sticking out from behind the passenger seat, which had been ripped from the floor and now lay upended on the plane's roof. The other body was laying face down, its legs tangled in amongst the debris. Doug turned at the door as Doyle approached.

"Anything?"

"No they're all dead. I don't think there's anything we can salvage."

Doyle peered in through the door.

"Have you checked them over?"

"Just the first one there. They're definitely dead Sarge."

"Anything else to report?"

"No Sarge."

"Sure?"

"Like what Sarge?"

"Like why two of them are wearing British uniforms."

"Are they Sarge?" Doug pushed past Doyle to look back inside the wreckage. They both looked up as they heard another vehicle approaching.

"It's the Major," Doug said.

"What! Oh shit! Let me do all the talking, okay."

The Jeep pulled up with a squealing of brakes. Major John Rushton jumped out and rushed up to Doug and Harry.

"You're taking your time Sargeant. You were supposed to just search the wreckage."

Doyle saluted.

"Yes sir. But we've found something."