But Freddy let that one go without comment, too, and the pair went outside and onto the field.
Some three hours later that part of England's east coast shook and trembled to the thunder of many powerful aircraft engines. On one side of the field R.A.F. and Yank Eighth Air Force bomber pilots were giving final warm-ups to their bomb-laden chariots of the skyways before taking off for the combined operation against Hitler's fast crumbling European fortress. And on the other side of the field R.A.F. and Yank escort fighter pilots were doing the same thing with their fleet, deadly escort aircraft.
Not all the fighter pilots would escort the big fellows to their targets and back, because of the great distance to some of the plotted targets. It was arranged that no one spot in Hitler's fortress would feel the full bomb weight of the planes on this field, or of the planes that would take off from other fields. A dozen targets had been marked up, and, though it must have perhaps puzzled the pilots and crews, the raid upon Duisburg was to be light. Mostly incendiary stuff. The "eggs" were to be dropped at a spot farther on.
How Colonel Fraser and Major Crandall had arranged for the Duisburg raid to be light, without divulging the true reason, neither Dawson nor Farmer knew. And, in fact, neither of them cared. All that mattered to them was that they would fly as a part of the Duisburg escort. Their ships were the new North American P-Fifty-One B Mustangs that had a range that could take them well beyond Duisburg, and back to England. Only they weren't going back to England. At least not in the Mustangs they were about to fly to Duisburg.
"Seems a shame, doesn't it, Freddy?" Dawson murmured as they stood together between their two parked planes, with propellers idling over.
"What does?" young Farmer asked. "Or is it supposed to be more of your warped humor cropping up? If so, forget that I asked."
"No, not funny at all, pal," Dawson said gravely. "I mean, these two planes. Best things ever to have wings. Yet we're going to fly them into Hitler's front yard, and then ditch them and let them dive down to hit the deck. It's going to hurt to see these two babies hit and burst into flame."
"Quite, if either of us can take the time out to look," young Farmer murmured. "However, you're right. It does seem to shame to expend them that way. But what is nice about this war, anyway?"
"What's nice about any war?" Dawson grunted. "But I've got a hunch that this war is just about running out, and—"
"And keep it to yourself!" Freddy cut in. "Right now I want to think only of our private war, Dave. And speaking of this little job ahead, do you think it would help to check over the details together again?"