“Same to you, big feller.”
“Hey, Yancey! If you’re leading B Flight, give her the gun and high-tail it. The war’s waiting!”
“S’long, Hank. Luck, feller.”
“Get a waddle on, Mac. The war’s lookin’ up, eh?”
“I hope to spit in your mess kit.”
Laughing, bantering, shouting, they climbed into their planes. The helpers stood at the wings, ready to take out the chocks when the motors had warmed; the mechanics took their places at the props. How envious they were! The little wasps that they had so carefully groomed were going forward to the battle zone, and every mechanic offered up prayer that his ship would function perfectly and make good the hope which Cowan had expressed.
A prop went over, whish! The first motor caught and roared. Another ... another ... bedlam now. No longer any shouting, only a waving of hands, a few last minute adjustments as the motors warmed and sent a mighty dust cloud whirling back to obliterate the spot where the hangar had stood.
Straight ahead, a fiery red ball rose over a slate-colored hedge. A long flight of ravens crossed directly before the rising sun. Huh! Clumsy fellows. 127And slow. Better come over and take some lessons from some real birds.
Cowan’s plane moved forward slowly, roared into life and fairly sprang into the fiery eye of the sun. Numbers two and three followed, skimming the dew drenched grass like swallows over a lake. Then four and five. By George, this was something like! This was worth waiting for!
The falconer of war had unhooded his new brood of hawks and they mounted up, free of bells and jesses.