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'clock. They're after the flight ahead."

"Rear gunner Roger, sir. Flock of Focke-Wulfs at six o'clock. Coming in on our tail."

"I say, old man, don't get itchy fingers. No ammo to waste." Allison's voice was calm and unruffled.

O'Malley's voice broke in over Stan's headset. "Hey, sure an' we ought to go down an' bust that up."

"Stay where you are, O'Malley," Sim snapped. "We have plenty of Me's coming in at twelve o'clock."

Stan had been so busy watching the bombers he had not checked his own part of the sky. A glance showed him Sim was correct. A flight of some twenty Me fighters were diving and circling above.

"Keep them up there," Sim ordered. "But stay in your slot. You happen to be outnumbered and you also happen to have the job of seeing that those Me's stay up there away from the bombers."

Red Flight knifed along through the thin air, ready to smash any Me daring to go down the chute upon the bombers.

"Come on down and fight, ye spalpeens!" O'Malley was yelling.

Stan saw that the Forts and Libs were slamming lead at the Focke-Wulfs in a blaze that rivaled a Fourth of July celebration. He kept an eye on Allison's Fort and saw an FW go down flaming after a thrust at the bomber. Stan chuckled softly.

"Allison got one!" O'Malley yelled. "'Tis a sad day, this, for Mrs. O'Malley's son."

Allison's Fort got another FW and O'Malley's flow of abuse against the Me's increased. He was in a towering Irish rage. But it did no good. The Me's hung on, waiting for the Thunderbolts to turn back. It was a case of who ran short of gas first. Now "lace-panty" flak was blossoming all over the sky. It exploded in pretty pink bursts and that was why the boys gave it such a fancy name.

"We have to go in," Sim ordered grimly.

"Go in!" O'Malley bellowed. "Why not give them birds a scare anyway?"

"We'll zoom up and scatter them," Sim said. "But any man who stays to put on a show will have to walk back."

Stan eased over and kicked on a bit more power. The Germans had the attack route well charted. They knew just how far the Thunderbolts would be able to penetrate. With a burst of speed Stan went up and over. Every Thunderbolt did the same, but O'Malley beat them all to it. He roared over Stan's head, almost ripping away his hatch cover.

The Me's ducked gracefully and scattered. They looped and dived for it. Stan saw at once the chase was hopeless. The Jerries meant to tease the Thunderbolts deeper into Germany so that they would be sure to run out of gas. It was infuriating, but there just was nothing that could be done about it. Stan watched O'Malley as he roared after a Jerry.

"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