Stan nodded soberly. “The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast as we can. And we’d better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call.”
O’Malley yawned and nodded agreement. “Though it’s not likely they’ll be sending us up again soon,” he muttered pessimistically. “Always coddlin’ us, that’s what they do.”
A few minutes later they were waddling out on the field. The blast of steel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up on the cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures in coveralls swarmed over and around the planes. Flight sergeants tested throttle knobs and officers dashed about.
“Looks like an extra big show,” Stan said as they moved toward the newly daubed hawk. She looked freakish in her many-colored coat of sky paint. Her motor was idling smoothly.
“Sure, an’ she’s a dainty colleen,” O’Malley purred as he waited for the sergeant to swing down.
“Remember this ship has to come back, so don’t go wild,” Stan warned. “And let me have her when we get ready to unload those sticks of T.N.T. If we crack her up and no record comes in, we won’t get any more Hawks. The brass hats over here aren’t sold on her yet.”
O’Malley was dreamily grinning at the big fighter and didn’t seem to hear him.
The Sergeant swung down and flipped a salute. “That motor is a bit of all right, sir,” he said.
“She is that,” Stan agreed.
They climbed in and got set in their cramped quarters. Seated very close together, with Stan a bit lower than O’Malley, who was at the controls, they pulled up their belts. O’Malley jerked his hatch cover shut and Stan closed his. The Irishman revved up, pinched one brake and gave the throttle a kick. The Hawk spun around with a roar. Stan noted the look of surprise on the Irishman’s face. He hoped O’Malley didn’t ground loop her before they got off.