his head. "Are the big boys going out?"

"Yes, sir. Conditions over target are very good." Weather grinned when
he said it.

"We won't get much of a whack at the Jerries," the colonel said rather
testily.

"The Forts and Libs will make it through," Weather said with a lot of
cockiness. He was beginning to act like the rest of the gang around
headquarters who believed that the Forts and the Libs could go it alone
all the way and shoot down any number of fighters the Germans could send
up. Colonel Holt was a strong supporter for fighter cover. He was
battling for a flock of longer-range fighters that could accompany the
big fellows all the way to Berlin. The way things were going he might
not be escorting at all within a few weeks. His Third Fighter Command
might be on scouting duty.

"We'll see what can be done about it," he said as he turned away.

The colonel walked out of the high-ceilinged room which was buried under
thirty feet of steel reinforced concrete. He came up out of the building
into a drab night. A raw wind stabbed at him, and sent light clouds
scudding across the face of the moon. Overhead, a night fighter growled
its way through the lonely sky. The country spread around the base was
flat with only a few hills to break the sameness.

Out on the dispersal area Colonel Holt could see guards watching the
shadowy forms of the Thunderbolts. A jeep came chugging up a muddy
street and turned off toward the mess barracks. At one-five in the
morning the base looked peaceful enough. Sheltered by darkness, its mud
ruts and half-finished buildings were softened by the gloom. Still
scowling, the colonel strode away.

Several hours later, in a tunnel-shaped hut with a corrugated iron roof
and a cement floor, two fliers sat near a wood stove. Stan Wilson was
poking wood into the stove.

"I wonder if anyone ever kept one of these gadgets burning all night,"
he said sourly.

"Sure, an' 'tis against the rules," Lieutenant O'Malley said and
grinned.

"I'm beginning to think Allison showed good sense in running out on us
and joining a bomber outfit," Stan growled. "Here we are sitting up all
night keeping this stove poked full of wood."

"That big bum," O'Malley snorted. "Only today he said that he's livin'
in a palace with a sure-enough butler to buttle." O'Malley shook his
head sadly. "The spalpeen says that butler can sure bake a foine pie."

"On top of that we get to fly Thunderbolts for the fun of it." St