“Come back, Irisher. They’re just tricking you out of gas,” he called.
“The spalpeens!” O’Malley roared, but he zoomed up and over, then tailed in after Red Flight which was heading for home.
Stan saw the Me’s dive down to overtake and attack the Forts and Libs. He had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He still was not convinced that the big fellows could take care of themselves. They had a hundred miles more to cover before reaching their targets, and then another hundred to return before fighters could meet them.
Red Flight slid in on its home field, a sleek flight group in fine trim, except for one slight wound. Sim’s ship had picked up a small piece of flak, but it had done no damage. Sim had it in his hand when he climbed down and joined his men.
“A foine battle!” O’Malley fumed.
“I was hit,” Sim said, grinning.
“’Tis the fillin’ out o’ one o’ yer teeth,” O’Malley answered.
“I counted eight fighters shot down by the big boys,” a pilot remarked.
“Check in all kills you observed,” Sim said. “It will help the bomber boys get credit.”
O’Malley stared gloomily up into the sky. Stan nudged him. “How about some breakfast?” he asked.
O’Malley brightened a bit. “I ordered a pie for breakfast,” he said. “If that cook forgot my pie, he’ll be no more than a grease spot when I get through with him.”
O’Malley got his pie, a thick apple pie dripping with juice. He cut it into quarters, slid one slab out on his fist and began munching, paying no attention to the dripping juice. Stan stared into his coffee cup. He was thinking.
O’Malley finished his second quarter of pie. He looked at Stan.
“What you dreamin’ up now?” he asked.
Stan smiled faintly. “You know, I have a hunch we might fool those Jerries. They have this all down to a science. A flight is reported to their head man and he figures out just how far we can fly. If we could do say a hundred miles more, we’d have some fun.”
“So you’re goin’ to order planes with a hundred more miles gas supply.” O’Malley grunted and attacked his third piece of pie.
“We could take along emergency tanks and drop them,” Stan said.
O’Malley halted the movement of his hand. His mouth was open like a cavern. He closed it.
“Sure, an’ ’tis a brilliant idea. We’ll see the general about it as soon as I’ve finished me pie.”
“No, we’ll see Holt. He’s our superior officer. Let him have the credit.” Stan leaned back.
“If we tell a lot o’ brass hats, the Jerries will sure hear about it,” O’Malley said sourly.
“I think not. We have to get permission to install the tanks, you know. This isn’t the South Pacific where you just go to your ground crew and ask them to rig up something for you.” Stan laughed as O’Malley screwed his face into a frown.
“I’ll say it’s not the South Pacific,” he agreed. “We got so many rules here a fellow gets tangled up before he takes off.”
“We have lots of time on our hands. We’ll barge over and have Allison tell us what happened. He’ll be back after a bit.”
O’Malley gave Stan a suspicious look. “You’re not thinkin’ o’ askin’ fer one o’ them crates full o’ guns?”
“No,” Stan answered. “If I did, I doubt that they’d take me. I’ve been a fighter pilot too long.”
“They took Allison,” O’Malley said.
“Allison is a natural for bombers, he has no nerves and he can handle a crew.” Stan got to his feet. “Finish your pie and we’ll be on our way.”
CHAPTER II
ACTION
Stan and O’Malley found Allison in his comfortable quarters, an old English mansion set on a little hill. It stood in the middle of well-kept grounds. As they drove up in their borrowed jeep, O’Malley scowled at the house.
“A blinking castle,” he said in mock cockney British.
They parked the jeep and went inside. The boys were gathered around an open fire lounging in easy chairs. Allison moved out of a huddle and crossed the room.
“Welcome, you wallflowers,” he said with a big smile.
“Sure, an’ yer a disgrace to the both of us, lollin’ in the lap o’ luxury,” O’Malley answered with a big grin.
“How was it?” Stan asked.
“Very rugged,” Allison admitted. “Sit down while I order a pie for O’Malley.”
The boys seated themselves and Allison described the mission. He loaded his pipe and sat staring into the fire.
“Not much like pushing a Spitfire or a Thunderbolt. You just plow along through the muck and hope the boys will bat down all of the fighters coming at you from every angle.”
“How many did you get?” O’Malley asked.
“Six for sure,” Allison answered. “The real fun started when we headed for home. We had been plowing through flak as thick as a swarm of bees but we had been lucky. Two of our flight went down flaming and we saw the boys bail out. I thought we were slipping through pretty nicely when an Me winged us with an explosive cannon shell. After that we got hit plenty. We picked up a shell which went off inside our outboard engine. It started rolling smoke but no flames. Then a shell smashed the intercom system and communications went dead.” Allison bit down hard on his pipe.
“Must have been tough,” Stan said.
“We couldn’t hold our altitude. We lost about a thousand feet a minute and nothing the copilot and I could do would hold her up.”
“Sure, an’ you did a good job of it gettin’ in,” O’Malley praised.
“When I couldn’t talk to the crew I turned the controls over to the copilot and went aft. I got to the top turret man and told him to get the gunners together in the radio compartment. I figured we’d smack right down into the channel.” Allison fingered his pipe and stared into the fire.
“I went back to the copilot and we fought her head. She sagged in over the coast and came right on home, smoking like a torch. As we came in, we found we had a belly landing on our hands, so we skidded her in. Poor Old Sal is a mess right now.”
“Anybody hurt?” Stan asked.
“Bombardier got a piece of flak in his leg. The tail gunner had his greenhouse blown into his face and is in the hospital. I forgot to say we dumped our guns and everything else we could pry loose. I guess that saved us.” Allison leaned back. “When you fellows going to shift over? This is the real thing.”
“Sitting duck stuff,” O’Malley snorted. “You jest sit there an’ take it. You never fired a gun on the whole trip.”
“No,” Allison admitted. “But we bagged six Jerries and there was plenty of shooting. You should see my boys work those 50’s.”
“We aim to stir up a bit of excitement,” Stan said.
Allison frowned at him. “You birds better remember this is modern warfare, not the Battle of Britain or the Pacific. They’ll bounce you high and quick for breaking rules. This Eighth Air Force is big stuff now.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Stan answered. “But we plan to go through proper channels.”
“And it’s a deep secret,” O’Malley added.
O’Malley’s pie arrived and he dropped out of the talk for a time. Stan and Allison chatted about the changes and the amazing way the Eighth had grown up until it took a large section of British farmland to house it.
Stan and O’Malley left early and hurried back to their own mess. They wanted to corner Colonel Holt. They found him in the mess looking very dour and gloomy. He was alone. None of the other men seemed to care about trying to cheer him up. Stan and O’Malley barged over to his table.
