“I’m beginning to think Allison showed good sense in running out on us and joining a bomber outfit,” Stan growled. “Here we are sitting up all night keeping this stove poked full of wood.”
“That big bum,” O’Malley snorted. “Only today he said that he’s livin’ in a palace with a sure-enough butler to buttle.” O’Malley shook his head sadly. “The spalpeen says that butler can sure bake a foine pie.”
“On top of that we get to fly Thunderbolts for the fun of it.” Stan jabbed a slab of wood into the stove and slammed the door.
“We’ve jest been havin’ bad luck,” O’Malley said. “I can stand a Nissen hut jest to be flyin’ one o’ them babies. We’ll meet up with plenty o’ Jerries.” O’Malley grinned eagerly, his homely face lighting up. “Remember how we used to mix it with them Jerry bandits tryin’ to blitz London?”
“That was a long time ago, as wars count time,” Stan answered. “We’ve been away a long time. The Jerries don’t get near London any more, and I heard a rumor that the Forts and Libs are able to shoot down ten fighters for every one the Thunderbolts get.”
O’Malley snorted. “Bombers shoot down Me 109’s and FW 190’s! ’Tis jest propaganda put out by the brass hats to fool the Germans. I’ll have to see it done, me b’y.”
“From what I hear we’ll probably have a reserved seat for the show. We sit up there and watch.” Stan smiled. “But we can always elbow in and fly a Fortress or a Liberator.”
“Not me,” O’Malley declared. “I’m no good at flying a milk wagon. I’ll handle me own guns.”
“Tomorrow will tell the tale. We’re to get our first whack at Jerry in this new job,” Stan said.
“Sure, an’ I’d go to bed an’ forget it, but the minnit I get me eyes closed this stove goes out an’ I’m freezin’,” O’Malley growled. “I don’t think we’ll be goin’ any place. Them brass hats meet at Operation Headquarters an’ the generals call in Weather. Weather squints out through a porthole an’ says, ‘6/10 cloud over target.’ Then the generals up an’ go back to bed.”