the Yank was crippled. That was what Stan wanted. He kicked the Thunderbolt wide open and zoomed for the cloud. Too late the Jerry saw what was up. He roared down through the misty edge of the cloud and barely missed a head-on crash with Stan.

The instant the cloud closed around him Stan kicked off his extra tanks, then he dived up and over the cloud. The Jerries were waiting for him. Sim was chasing one FW, but three waited for the cripple. When Stan came zooming out of the top of the cloud, they were a bit startled and showed it by their hesitation. Stan grinned as he snapped his ship over and dived on the nearest Jerry.

Before the German could get going Stan had him in his sights and his thumb had squeezed the gun button. His six 50's flamed and the recoil set the Thunderbolt back on her flaps. The Jerry shuddered an instant, then broke in two and burst into roaring flames. Stan went over the wreckage and cut in between the other two Jerries. They were alive now and in action. Around the three went, up and over, painting the chill sky with streaks and loops of vapor. Stan did not hold on long. The instant he had a chance to dive and run for it he did. And the Jerries did not chase him. They were convinced he was no cripple.

As Stan roared after his formation he saw Sim closing in from far to his left. He was red-hot and wanted to tell Sim a few things, but he knew the setup was such that he had to keep his mouth closed. Sim had made an error of judgment in going after the lone Jerry and letting the other two cut him out. Stan was sure it was intentional, but he could never prove it.

Another thing that worried him was that he did not know how much gasoline he had used out of his reserve before he kicked his tanks loose. He was flight leader of the group headed for Huls. If he went on with his flight and there was much dogfighting, going and coming, he might not get home. Sim's voice came in.

"Wilson, sorry I couldn't handle all three Jerries. You'll have to go back with our flight."

Stan scowled. Sim appeared well pleased with the idea. "I'll use my own judgment," Stan snapped back.

"Name a leader and go back," Sim barked. "That is an order."

"Sorry," Stan answered. "I'm taking the boys on through."

CHAPTER III

HULS

Stan overtook his formation and dropped into place. The flight was deployed with the Jerries perched up above and around waiting for the Yanks to go home. Below lay the fields of Holland.

"Are you clear, specials?" Stan called.

"All clear," the boys called back. That meant they had zoomed down and ditched their tanks in a way the Germans would not notice.

Flak was coming up and a flight of FWs were worrying the Fortresses and Liberators below. One big fellow was out of formation and having a tough time. Fifteen FW's were after it.

"We'll go down and have a crack at those FW's on that Fort," Stan called. "So long, Sim, see you at mess!"

One after another the six special Thunderbolts zoomed down upon the FW's. They came down in a screaming dive and their first burst sent five FW's smoking to earth. Instantly the whole battle changed. The flocks of Jerries up above were taken by surprise because this was not according to the book. The Yanks should be keeping altitude, holding them pinned to the sky, and they were due any moment to start running for home.

Stan and his crew covered the limping bomber and she began to pull up into place where her flight had slowed to help her. Up above, the Jerries cut loose and the Yanks got a crack at them as they tried to filter through. For five minutes the sky was a battlefield, then the Thunderbolts up above had to leave. They broke off and headed for home. Behind them they left the wreckage of eleven Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs.

With the bombers, O'Malley was putting on a show which reminded Stan of the old days. He was stunting so wildly and slamming lead so fast the Jerries began giving him a wide berth. Stan began to realize that their mission was not to be any picnic. One Thunderbolt went down, slashed open by a cannon shell. No chute blossomed out beneath it as it twisted and rolled toward earth.

There were too many Me's and Focke-Wulf fighters. They were everywhere, stabbing and diving, slashing at the bombers and ganging up on the fighters. Stan realized that his flight should have had at least thirty planes in it, and he began to suspect someone back at headquarters had marked this down as an experiment, figuring upon losing only six planes.

Another Thunderbolt went down and then another. O'Malley was still taking care of himself and Stan was doing all right, but his gasoline gauge was leering at him and its needle was rolling steadily around. When the fourth Thunderbolt broke into flames, Stan knew it was time to go home. He probably would not make it, but there was a chance.

"O'Malley! Stan calling. Head for home!"

Looking through the smoke and the bursts of flak, Stan saw nothing of O'Malley. The Irishman had been in the midst of a fight a few minutes before, but now he was nowhere to be seen. He checked the bomber flight. It was going in for its bombing run and the batteries on the ground knew just where the automatic pilots would take over for the run. They were putting up a box barrage at that point.

The Forts and the Libs rode into that blazing inferno of fire without wavering or shifting formation. Stan saw bombs dropping, sticks of big fellows. A Fort directly below him was plowing ahead when a puff of smoke enveloped its tail. The smoke swirled away and there was the Fort without any tail at all, only gaping holes where the rudder and the high tail had been. The Fort sagged over and went into a terrible dive. One after another chutes blossomed out until Stan had counted six. That was the number alive in the Fort, the others were dead.

Stan laid over and made a sweep, ducking in and out of the flak. The Jerries had pulled away and gone back to their fields for more ammunition and more gasoline for the interception of the Forts and Libs on their return trip.

Looking about, Stan saw nothing of O'Malley's ship. He headed for home with a grim frown on his face. Everything went well until he reached the channel. He met no German fighters and had a fair tail wind. But his gasoline supply was very low. The needle kept bouncing off the empty peg, riding clear, then dropping back. The English coast was a long way off.

Stan was flying at twelve thousand feet and that gave him a chance to drift a long way, but not far enough if his gas ran out. Steadily he drove toward the friendly shore. Below him the channel looked cold and choppy.

Thinking of O'Malley added to his gloom. When you work with a man in the air, you expect the day when he does not return with you. But when the time comes it is a stabbing shock. Stan and O'Malley had seen so much action and had tackled so many tough jobs, they had come to feel they always would pull through.

Glancing at the gas gauge Stan saw that it registered empty, and the needle was not showing any signs of movement. He glanced down at the gray expanse below him and frowned. His ears strained for the first break in the steady throbbing of the Pratt and Whitney radial.

The engine kept hammering away for a long time. Stan checked his Mae West suit and made other small preparations for a bath in the channel. Then the engine sputtered, smoothed out, then sputtered again. With a wheezing blast it went dead.

Stan eased the nose down to hold his speed and began sagging down a long slope toward the channel. He scanned the choppy sea for signs of a British patrol boat. Several of the fast rescue boats should be patrolling the flight line, ready to fish Yank pilots and crewmen out of the water. He saw no sign of a boat.

Slowly the Thunderbolt settled down. Floating a fourteen-thousand-pound fighter in over a long distance is not like slipping along in a glider. If