At that instant, they saw the six P–40’s under Munson’s command. They were high up above the clouds, too far up to intercept the low-flying bombers headed for the city.
“After them!” Allison ordered.
The three ships streaked toward the bombers. Long before they had overtaken the slow-flying 97’s, the enemy had sighted them and were spreading out.
The three P–40’s went into the formation with a slashing dive. There were twelve bombers and they scattered in twelve directions. Stan rolled over and got on the tail of a killer. His Brownings spattered lead and the bomber billowed smoke. Up he went and around and down on another bomber.
The air above the rice fields outside the city was filled with the scream of motors as the three fighters battled to keep a single bomber from getting through. They were losing the fight, even though they had shot down four bombers, when Munson and his ships came down in a screaming dive to join them. That ended the fight. The Tigers did not let a single 97 get away.
One by one, they drifted in and landed. Twelve of them came in. Not one ship was missing. Stan crawled out and stood waiting for Allison and O’Malley.
The lank Irishman waddled over to his pals. He was grinning broadly. Allison jerked off his helmet. There was a cold, icy look in his eyes. Stan knew Allison was finally jarred out of his half-amused attitude.
“Sure, an’ ’twas one grand party,” O’Malley beamed. “It fair gave me a huge appetite.”
Allison turned toward the briefing shack and they walked in to report. A sour group of pilots greeted them. The six fliers who had stayed with Munson were thoroughly ruffled. One of them turned to Stan as the three R.A.F. men reached the desk. He spoke so that everyone, even Munson, who was making out his report at the end of the desk, could hear.
“Lucky for this outfit you birds put brains before orders.”