ened up his throttle.
He jammed down hard on one brake and the Thunderbolt swept around. She
poised an instant, then knifed down the slippery runway. Stan hoiked her
tail with a blast of prop pressure and hopped her off. He went roaring
out over a mobile floodlight and up into the dark sky for the rendezvous
with Red Flight.

High above the channel, the ships of his flight tucked in and circled.
Soon they picked up the flight of Liberators and Fortresses. At
twenty-five thousand feet the big bombers left broad vapor trails behind
them. Stan looked down upon the killers from his perch in the sky. Dawn
was breaking and the scene was no longer drab.

Red Flight was covering the flank of Second High Squadron. Stan could
clearly see Third Low Squadron and First Lead Squadron. Each squadron
was composed of a first flight of three bombers and a second flight of
three bombers. Stan grinned. He knew exactly where his pal March Allison
was flying. He was in left-hand slot, second flight, Second High
Squadron, the hottest spot in a bomber formation.

Stan eased over a bit and shook O'Malley off his wing. Sim was waggling
his wings, ordering the boys to spread out and get set for interception.
Red Flight spread out but stayed in position like a football team moving
into formation for a screen pass. The bombers roared on toward Germany,
keeping tight formation so as to be able to lay out a deadly cross fire
from their fifty-caliber guns. Each Fort and each Lib was a bristling
pillbox with nose guns, waist guns, belly guns, and ball turret guns.
Stan wondered if he would not be flying one of the big fellows very
soon.

Everything went off smoothly and according to plan, except that for once
Weather had missed a bet. As the flight neared the point over Germany
where the Thunderbolts were to turn back, a cold wind washed the sky
clear of clouds and a cold sun shone upon the raiders.

"In the good auld summertime." Stan heard O'Malley humming.

"Shut up, O'Malley," Sim grated.

Suddenly flak began to blossom out from the countryside below. It
blossomed in the sky over the bombers and in the middle of Red Flight.
Thunderbolts ducked and dipped but went roaring on.

Down below, the bomber boys were scanning the skies.

In his Fort, Allison drawled over the intercom, "Pilot to navigator."

"Go ahead, pilot."

"Everybody set?"

"Navigator to pilot, hot stuff coming up."

"Right waist gunner to pilot, sir. 190's at eleven o'c