“I’ll check you right in and show you the mess,” the major said.
CHAPTER IV
FLYING TIGERS
The air was hot and humid. Great cumulus clouds were piled against the sky. Out on the landing field, which was actually a converted rice paddy, sat a flight of six Curtiss P–40 planes. The Tomahawks, as they are called in the R.A.F., gleamed in the sun as their propellers turned over idly.
Stan Wilson stood between O’Malley and March Allison, listening. Above the muttering of the six Tomahawks rose the distant roar of bomber planes coming in.
“Sounds like business,” Allison said.
A captain of the Flying Tigers appeared from a shack. He ran across the field with three pilots after him. The three newly arrived pilots saluted.
“Up and at ’em, boys,” the captain snapped. “And remember you’re not in the R.A.F. now. Make every burst count and snap it off short. Ammunition supplies are limited.”
O’Malley was away before his pals could move. He had crabbed some about flying a P–40 until he had taken one up. Now he was bragging about the ship. Stan and Allison raced to their planes and climbed in.
A Chinese corporal waved to them, shouting a string of words they could not understand, then grinned broadly and ended up with: