holes. His bombardier had laid their eggs squarely on a factory building. It had been a good show for the Forts and Libs.
“What I’m worried about,” Allison said as he got ready to leave, “is that the Wellingtons and Lancasters will blow Berlin off the map before we are able to penetrate that far.”
“Them nighthawks?” O’Malley showed his scorn by frowning savagely. “Flyin’ boxcars!”
“They haul a lot of TNT and they get through, to their targets, but there’ll be a lot of stuff for the precision sights of the Forts and Libs,” Stan said. “You notice when they want important targets like locks or sub pens or carefully placed factories they send you boys to get them.”
“I know, old man,” Allison said with a grin. “But I’d like to make the Berlin run.”
“With those hidden fighter fields out of the way you could go in and out alone,” Stan pointed out. “The way it is now, they keep sending up fighters all along the route.”
“I have to run for it,” Allison said. “Pilots meeting.”
After he had gone Stan and O’Malley headed for Colonel Holt’s office. Bugs and Splinters came in just as they were leaving. They were both highly excited. They had been assigned to active duty. Stan smiled at them but he was thinking that they were taking the places of the men who had been in his flight.
The boys were waiting for the colonel when Sim Jones came out of a side door. He paused for a moment. Stan eyed him coldly; O’Malley walked on into the colonel’s office without speaking.
“I suppose you think I deliberately tricked you, Wilson. You’re headed for the Old Man.” His lips pulled tight. “I don’t blame you, but I didn’t pull that stunt to get you cut out. It was a boner on my part.”
“It was,” Stan agreed dryly. “And I’m not squawking to the colonel.”
Sim looked Stan in the eye; he flushed a deep red. “I figured I was so good I could cut back and take out all three Jerries.”
“Forget it,” Stan said and grinned. “We all pull ’em.”
Sim turned and hurried away without another word. Stan was still smiling as he entered the colonel’s office. O’Malley scowled up at him.
“Did you bop him one?” he asked.
The colonel was seated at his desk. He looked from Stan to O’Malley and lifted his eyebrows.
“No,” Stan said. “I made a date to have lunch with him.”
O’Malley’s eyes opened wide. The colonel leaned back. “Go ahead with your story, Lieutenant,” he said.
O’Malley finished his story and the colonel considered the matter for a few minutes.
“It sounds fantastic,” he finally said. “But it fits in very neatly with what we have been able to learn about German fighter tactics. I think we should look into it. I’ll let you men know what I plan to do.”
“Could we have any special assignment growing out of this?” Stan asked.
“You will get the special assignment,” the colonel promised.
“Thank you, sir,” Stan answered as he got to his feet.
They saluted and left the office. O’Malley was still in a sour mood.
“You made up with that Jones bird?”
“I did,” Stan said. “Now let’s head for the mess.”
When they entered the mess, the boys greeted them warmly and crowded around. There was no trace of resentment or jealousy. The fellows were eager to know what had happened over Huls. Stan and O’Malley were the only two pilots to get back. Sim sat at a table alone.
Stan talked with the boys a while, then walked over to where Sim was seated. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Glad to have you,” Sim said and meant it.
After a bit O’Malley came over. He had noticed that Stan and Sim were laughing over something and he did not know what to make of it.
“Sit down,” Stan greeted him. “Have a pie on me.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll do that,” O’Malley said. He sat down and waited to hear what he could.
Stan and Sim laughed and talked and finally O’Malley joined in. It was clear that the boys had buried the hatchet, so he saw no reason for being grumpy. Besides, the cook had just made some blueberry pies and they were extra tasty.
After mess Stan got a call from Colonel Holt and hurried off, leaving O’Malley and Sim together. The colonel had two officers with him when Stan went in to see him.
“General Ward and Major Kulp,” the colonel said. “This is Lieutenant Wilson.”
The men shook hands and all sat down. The colonel passed several papers across to Stan.
“You are on special detail. You’ll be equipped with P-51 ships and have a flight of three. General Ward suggests you do a bit of rhubarb raiding.”
“Thank you, sir. These 51’s are the new long-range fighters?”
“They have the same range as the Libs and Forts.” The colonel smiled. “But we have only a few of them. Later, perhaps, we’ll have a great many.”
“Check carefully on location and construction of fields. Each ship has a camera to record the details of any fields you locate.” General Ward spoke in a Texas drawl.
“Don’t trust the cameras entirely. Get down low and see all you can,” the major added.
“The third pilot, who is he?” Stan asked.
“Did you have a man in mind?” Colonel Holt asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I should have consulted you, but I already have promised a man the job.”
“Who is he?” Stan asked, trying not to show his disappointment.
“Lieutenant Jones.”
Stan began to grin. “The same man I had in mind,” he said.
“Good. Now take over.”
Stan hurried away. He found the boys listening to the radio in the rest room. At his nod O’Malley and Sim joined him at a reading table.
“We get special rhubarb detail,” he said.
“Foine,” O’Malley said eagerly. “Only we’ll never be able to fly far enough into Kraut territory to see anything.”
“I get to go along?” Sim asked.
“Colonel’s orders,” Stan said and grinned. “And we get P-51 ships with the same range as the Forts.”
“Sure, an’ we’ll fly to Berlin,” O’Malley said.
“You better be thinking about locating that airfield,” Stan answered. “There was a general at the meeting I just left.”
“As long as he won’t be askin’ to go along, it’s all right,” O’Malley said.
“Now let’s get some shut-eye.” Stan got to his feet.
In the operations room the next morning, their papers were ready and they headed out on the field where three big Mustangs stood ready and warmed up. They were powerhouses with wicked armament and plenty of wingspread. In addition to wing guns, they had bomb racks which were fitted with extra gasoline tanks.
“Sure, an’ they’re one-man bombers,” O’Malley crowed.
“They weren’t built for hedge-hopping, but the major said they could do about four hundred miles per hour on the treetop level,” Stan explained.
Sim whistled. “Wait until the Eighth gets a flock of these,” he said.
“You plot the course, O’Malley,” Stan said. “We’ll stay in close until we start down over Germany, then we’ll keep within striking distance to cover each other. We’re camera equipped but we have to use our eyes, too.”
The boys climbed up and got settled. Control gave Stan clearance and he called to his flight.
“Rhubarb Raid, check temperatures. Sim, take off first. Rendezvous at twenty thousand.”
Stan leaned back and checked his instruments. He watched Sim slide away and shoot skyward. The 51’s were plenty fast. O’Malley went off next and was in the air almost at once. Stan kicked his throttle open and roared after his pals. The Mustang hopped off as though she weighed only a few pounds instead of three tons or more.
The three P-51’s slipped into close formation and headed out across the channel. The day was a good one for
