There was no mistaking the fact that O'Malley was a first-class fighting man. Stan knew it by the way he got into his Spitfire and rammed the hatch cover home. By the time they had zoomed up and away, he was sure of it. Allison was chuckling over the radio.
"Cuddle in, Red Flight. We pick up Bristols and Blenheims at 10,000."
"'Tis no wet nurse I'll be," came the Irish brogue of O'Malley. "I resign this minnit."
"Headquarters says the Jerries have two dozen Messer One-Nines on a reception committee," Allison droned back.
"The spalpeens! Why such a measly little bunch?" O'Malley demanded indignantly.
Stan gave his attention to flying. The squadron droned into a thick bank of clouds and was swallowed. Nine demons bored ahead to take a bombing flight through.
"Rose Raid, take position. Rose Raid, take position," came a voice over the air from the tactics group gathered around a big map at headquarters.
Stan grinned. The British were odd in many ways. For no good reason, they called this raid Rose Raid instead of B-7 or some other businesslike tabulation. Then he sighted the bombers 1,000 feet below. Three heavily loaded Bristols and three Blenheims. Stan remembered the fast-flying Consolidateds and the B-19's of the United States Army. Soon, if he was lucky enough to stay alive, he might be escorting B-19's.
Up and up they went into the clouds, with the bombers droning steadily southeast and the Spitfires cruising above and below and around.
The radios were all strangely silent now. There was no talk and Stan let his ears fill with the pleasant roar of his Merlin. He bent forward and stared at his instrument panel. That gauge couldn't be right, it must be jammed or something. If the needle was reading right he had less than a half tank of gas. He bent forward and rapped the panel. The needle did not change, except to surge a bit further toward the empty side. Stan's mouth drew into a grim line. He could believe that gauge and turn tail—or he could figure it was wrong and go on.