Men raced out on the field and dashed toward their idling planes. As they ran, they looked up into the blue sky. They heard no bombers and they could see no fighters, but they knew the Japs were up there.
Never had the enemy been able to bomb Rangoon. They had been smashed with heavy losses on every attempt. The Flying Tigers were proud of their record and eager to keep it clean.
As motors roared and hatch covers slammed shut, Stan heard Nick Munson’s voice rasp in his headset:
“Instructor Munson taking command. Squadron, check your temperatures.”
Reports came crackling back.
Stan scowled as he bent forward. Nick Munson was going to lead the attack. That was not good news.
“Up to eight thousand feet. Hold your formation for orders,” Munson droned.
Stan jerked the throttle knob open, jammed down on one brake and wheeled around in a tight circle. Nine other P–40’s were whipping into line. There was less of the formality of an R.A.F. take-off. Each plane blasted its tail up with a rush of exhaust pressure and headed down the field. Stan saw O’Malley hop his ship off long before the others left the field. Allison went straight out, wide open, with Stan at his right wing.
With the ground swirling by in a blur, Stan heard Allison’s voice:
“Up, boys, and at them.”