"The ones that smash up feel worse about it than you do," Stan reminded him.
The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan had known him. "Faith, an' I think of them poor devils sometimes," he muttered. "'Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fighting because they're told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one man orders them to. 'Tis a bad state of affairs this world is in, so help me."
Stan nodded soberly. "The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast as we can. And we'd better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call."
O'Malley yawned and nodded agreement. "Though it's not likely they'll be sending us up again soon," he muttered pessimistically. "Always coddlin' us, that's what they do."
A few minutes later they were waddling out on the field. The blast of steel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up on the cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures in coveralls swarmed over and around the planes. Flight sergeants tested throttle knobs and officers dashed about.
"Looks like an extra big show," Stan said as they moved toward the newly daubed hawk. She looked freakish in her many-colored coat of sky paint. Her motor was idling smoothly.
"Sure, an' she's a dainty colleen," O'Malley purred as he waited for the sergeant to swing down.
"Remember this ship has to come back, so don't go wild," Stan warned. "And let me have her when we get ready to unload those sticks of T.N.T. If we crack her up and no record comes in, we won't get any more Hawks. The brass hats over here aren't sold on her yet."
O'Malley was dreamily grinning at the big fighter and didn't seem to hear him.
The Sergeant swung down and flipped a salute. "That motor is a bit of all right, sir," he said.