Then he saw it, a big old four-motored Jap snooper slipping out for a look at their carrier.
“Hot dog!” Kentucky’s plane shot skyward and then came plunging down in a steep curve. His two guns poured hot lead into the snooper’s right outside motor. The motor, almost cut away, hung by shreds.
Before the snooper could right itself, Kentucky was back, firing away at the other right motor. He set it smoking. The big plane tilted, rolled over, then went plunging toward the sea.
All this had happened in the space of seconds. Enough time had elapsed, however, for other things to be brewing. Suddenly two of his fighting pals joined him, while from up beyond there came the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire.
Rubbing his eyes, Kentucky peered into the brightening dawn. A half mile or so before him he made out the shadowy forms of several planes circling wildly, with guns blazing.
His triggerlike mind took in the situation in an instant. “Hey! Red! Blackie! Jean!” he roared into his radio. “Hold up! Circle Back! BACK!”
As they began swinging back, speaking in a low tone, he continued: “That’s only a bunch of Zeros putting on a show for us. It looks like a fight, but it’s only a sham battle. None of our planes are in there. We’re in the lead.”
Through his earphones he caught low grumbles and some unprintable words.
“Come on, now,” he invited. “Get into formation. You know the lineup. We’ll join in their game, all right, but on our own terms.”
They climbed rapidly and joined in wing-to-wing formation, Kentucky in the lead and Red bringing up the rear. Red carried a gunner, the best the Navy knew, in his rear cockpit.