“I figure there were at least seventy planes parked when I popped in over the field. When I came back over they were gone.” O’Malley shook his head.
“Think anyone would believe such a yarn?” Stan asked.
“Every bomber pilot and crew member would believe it,” Allison said grimly. “Why don’t you report it and ask for a chance to check up?”
“I’ve already gone over the head of Sim Jones once and got socked for it,” Stan said. “But O’Malley ought to report it.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll be after seein’ Colonel Holt meself.” O’Malley ran his fingers through his mop of red hair. “I’d as soon have this Jones bird after me as not.”
After that the talk got around to the raid on Huls. Allison’s ship had come through with only a few bullet holes. His bombardier had laid their eggs squarely on a factory building. It had been a good show for the Forts and Libs.
“What I’m worried about,” Allison said as he got ready to leave, “is that the Wellingtons and Lancasters will blow Berlin off the map before we are able to penetrate that far.”
“Them nighthawks?” O’Malley showed his scorn by frowning savagely. “Flyin’ boxcars!”
“They haul a lot of TNT and they get through, to their targets, but there’ll be a lot of stuff for the precision sights of the Forts and Libs,” Stan said. “You notice when they want important targets like locks or sub pens or carefully placed factories they send you boys to get them.”
“I know, old man,” Allison said with a grin. “But I’d like to make the Berlin run.”