On his third mission they were jumped halfway to the target area by a pack of ME-109’s. He was on the perimeter with an unobstructed view of the thirty or forty fighters bearing down from one o’clock high. As soon as he had the command he turned into them and kicked in the supercharger. The ME’s had gained an equality in the first pass in having acquired the height; going downhill, the Thunderbolts could eat them alive.

“Are you with me, Billy?”

“Right behind you, Joe. You’re out in front.”

“Shut up, the two of you,” the squadron leader called.

In finger threes and fours, the 109’s spread out as the distance closed. Leland seemed alone in the front, burning fuel at the rate of a gallon a minute. He sighted in on the lead three-finger group, kicked the rudder pedals left and right, and sprayed. Instantly, by insane luck, the middle plane exploded. The outside ME’s broke left and right. Pieces of the middle plane splattered against the Thunderbolt as Leland powered through the black smoke, terrified. A man had died because of a lucky shot that could be in store for him, too. He was clear on the other side.

“Going down, Billy. Cover me.”

“I’m with you, fella.”

Leland skidded around to the left and followed the second ME down. He was already lifting into his first pass at the bombers. Leland crossed the arc, found him spread-eagled in the sight, and split his fingernail pushing on the button. The Messerschmitt flopped over and fell.

“You picked one up, Joe. Don’t show him much.”

“Right.”

Slipping back and forth, he looked over his shoulder and saw Billy lining up on his pursuer, and another lining up on Billy. Leland feinted left, pulled up hard right, rolled, turned, and leveled as Billy’s pursuer pulled up to intersect Billy’s arc. Leland fired into his exposed underside. Bits and pieces tumbled away, then smoke appeared. The pilot rolled the ship and pulled on the canopy. Past him now, Leland looked back and saw him tumble out. Someone else had engaged the 109 that had been on his tail.

Overhead, one of the B-17’s burst with a flash. Another churned smoke from two engines. Chutes opened. Debris rained out of the sky. Pushing his airplane in the attempt to get back to the fight, Joe Leland could feel nothing but horror.

The next day, in the same place, he made his fourth kill.

Two days after that, over Holland, he made kills five and six.

The Herald had followed its boxed item by recording the fourth plane on an inside page. Numbers five and six rated page one in all the Port Smith papers, and editorials in two of them. He had become an ace, the first in his squadron, the first from the Port Smith area.