“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.”