“I’ll see that you get your vacation in a pie factory,” he promised.
Three sergeants came in and stood waiting. Stan went to them.
“Kent, Ames, and Martin, sir, reporting as gunners,” one of the men said.
“Fine. Come along and I’ll give you a one minute lesson on the guns you’ll use, though you likely don’t need it.” He turned to Allison. “Pack out my togs, will you?”
“I’ll bring a helmet and a chute,” Allison drawled. “The Nazis will make it so hot for you, you won’t need a fur suit.”
Stan grinned in response to Allison’s casual manner. Both knew this would be the most important action they had yet been engaged in, that it would be one of the most terrific and devastating raids staged during the entire war, yet it was best to kid about it. That was the only way to relieve the tension all of them were under, keep them cool and collected until the shooting actually started.
CHAPTER XII
LUFTWAFFE IN REVERSE
The night was cloudy but there was little low fog. In a dozen scattered flight centers men were busy. Coveralled ground squads swarmed around fighter planes, medium bombers and long-range giants whose lettering B Y 3, painted there by Yank builders, had been smeared over with British lacquer. Exhausts flamed, bomb trucks trundled in and out, while pilots and gunners checked rigging and outfits. The big show was on, the biggest the Royal Air Force had ever planned.
Stan and O’Malley and Allison waited with their gunners near them. They had checked the Hendee Hawks so many times they could see every detail of the ships if they closed their eyes. O’Malley had come near being recommended for court-martial when he battled the O.C. over an order to carry extra gasoline instead of racks of bombs.