Then all of a sudden the sun popped out and drove a vermillion shaft through the window.
Everybody shouted. They knew what that meant.
“There it is! Up and at ‘em in a minute, lads!”
Correct. With the scattering of the mists there was hunting to be done and in an hour the group was off in echelon formation. They took three new replacements over with them, just three. Too many new hands on one sortie limited the poaching and made the responsibility too great.
Dorman stood at the tarmac and watched the flat-winged birds drive their way over the Woevre, his heart pumping torrents of blood against his temples and his palms wet with sweat. He felt that he was pretty close to something.
He stared into the sky, his thoughts off in the blue, unaware of anyone within a thousand miles. Then, suddenly, he looked around and there was Saufley, the little sergeant, first class, who could spot motor trouble before the landing gear was on the ground.
“What?” asked Dorman, for he was dimly conscious that Saufley had said something.
Saufley grinned. And when he spoke you knew he had done duty with the British.
“Bloody fine hunting they’ll have,” he said, looking up at the specks. Sergeants, first class with combat units, had a queer way of feeling when new replacements needed information. “J-2’s across the line.”
“Oh,” Dorman said. He didn’t know exactly what J-2 was. Saufley knew it.