And with another nod for emphasis he slanted the plane earthward, after he had pulled it out of its stall drive, and went coasting down through the drifting patches of cloud toward the home drome of the Two Hundred and Fifth Squadron, Fighter Command, U. S. Eighth Air Force. He got Operations on his R.T., received permission to land, and went sliding in. After he had braked to a stop he trundled the plane over to its dispersal bay. His mechanics were there waiting for him, and the technical sergeant in charge of the group gave him a questioning look as he killed both engines and legged out of the pit and down onto the ground.
"Is there a foundry near here, Sergeant?" Dawson asked as he pulled off his helmet and goggles.
"A what, Captain?" the other echoed.
"A foundry," Dawson repeated, and jerked a thumb back at the plane. "We could take it down there and have a brass handle fitted on so we'd have something to hold on to when we throw it away."
The technical sergeant blinked and then grinned.
"Not so hot, eh, sir?" he said.
"Very snafu!" Dawson said with emphasis, using the Air Forces slang for snarled up. "And you've got me as to what's wrong. Both engines practically cut out on me as I reach the stall after a power zoom. Pressure just falls right downhill. There's a bug in both systems somewhere."
"I know, sir," the technical sergeant said, and shook his head sadly. "The darn thing just hasn't been right since we got it. I thought maybe we had got it licked, but I guess not, if she does that. Looks like she's got to have two new engines."
"More than that, I'm afraid," Dave said. "She's tail heavy, and she insists on scooting around to the left on her own. She needs a complete re-rigging from tip to tip."
The technical sergeant groaned and heaved a long sigh.