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The Cloud Wizard by David Goodis
They were all in awe of Bersbee, because the man was more than just a genius -- he was a veritable sorcerer in the clouds. And no one dared to ask him how he did it, until one day...
"THAT makes twenty-seven for Bersbee."
"Tops for this outfit."
"Tops for almost any outfit. He's due for a promotion soon. They can't decorate him any more, unless it's to give him a V. C."
And then they stopped talking, because Bersbee was entering the lounge of the Officers' Mess. His hair was new-combed, wet, and his face glowed red from a rough towel. He wore a clean uniform and his shoes were well polished. There was something fresh and assured and bright about him. Whenever the other men in Squadron 19 looked at Bersbee, their own feelings were upped. Their own confidence was heightened.
Flying Officer Bersbee was the best man in the outfit. He had been in the thickest part of the business since the Battle of France. Only this morning, over the Channel, near Portsmouth, he had knocked down his twenty-seventh Nazi. And he had done it with the customary Bersbee finesse. No madman stuff. No acrobatics. No suicide dives, hundred-to-one lunges, turns, swirls, roll-outs, loops. None of the wild flying that distinguished the work of other high-ranking men in the R. A. F. With Bersbee it was cold and clean and very mathematical. Although he was just as fast as any of the others when it came to running from the Dispersal Hut, taking off, climbing, moving into combat stance, he always seemed to be taking his time. He always seemed to be moving with calculated deliberateness, as if he had drawn up blueprints for every move.