Stan took the opportunity to give O’Malley a course of lessons dealing with the fine points of the Hawk.
“She carries two sticks of bombs when she’s out hunting. That’s something new. They put those sticks on just to pep you up. The other day, when we were zipping through Messerschmitt bullets, I gave them a thought or two. If a cannon ball or a bullet lands just right, off goes the stick of bombs and out you go.” Stan grinned at O’Malley as he spoke.
“Sure, an’ O’Malley will fix that,” the Irishman said. “We pick a nice spot and drop them firecrackers.”
“I’m glad you suggested it. It would have been against regulations for me to say anything about it.”
“Sure, we might find a Jerry to pop them down on, but no matter, they are no fit things to be kapin’ tucked under your wings whilst you’re sky scrappin’.” O’Malley shook his head.
“We’ll try them out. This is the best dive bomber that was ever built. You nose her straight down and pull the flaps. She settles herself to a 350 mile per hour pace and when you get your sights set you cut loose. It’s a dead cinch to pot a target that way.”
“Sure,” O’Malley agreed. “Only we aren’t bomber boys.”
They left O’Malley’s room and went to the mess. Stan read the pictorial while O’Malley took a nap. The blaring of the intersquadron speaker roused them. The Irishman’s feet hit the floor and he was awake at once.
“That’s us,” he mumbled.
“It’s everybody else, but it’s not us,” Stan growled.