ashing at the bombers and ganging up on the
fighters. Stan realized that his flight should have had at least thirty
planes in it, and he began to suspect someone back at headquarters had
marked this down as an experiment, figuring upon losing only six planes.

Another Thunderbolt went down and then another. O'Malley was still
taking care of himself and Stan was doing all right, but his gasoline
gauge was leering at him and its needle was rolling steadily around.
When the fourth Thunderbolt broke into flames, Stan knew it was time to
go home. He probably would not make it, but there was a chance.

"O'Malley! Stan calling. Head for home!"

Looking through the smoke and the bursts of flak, Stan saw nothing of
O'Malley. The Irishman had been in the midst of a fight a few minutes
before, but now he was nowhere to be seen. He checked the bomber flight.
It was going in for its bombing run and the batteries on the ground knew
just where the automatic pilots would take over for the run. They were
putting up a box barrage at that point.

The Forts and the Libs rode into that blazing inferno of fire without
wavering or shifting formation. Stan saw bombs dropping, sticks of big
fellows. A Fort directly below him was plowing ahead when a puff of
smoke enveloped its tail. The smoke swirled away and there was the Fort
without any tail at all, only gaping holes where the rudder and the high
tail had been. The Fort sagged over and went into a terrible dive. One
after another chutes blossomed out until Stan had counted six. That was
the number alive in the Fort, the others were dead.

Stan laid over and made a sweep, ducking in and out of the flak. The
Jerries had pulled away and gone back to their fields for more
ammunition and more gasoline for the interception of the Forts and Libs
on their return trip.

Looking about, Stan saw nothing of O'Malley's ship. He headed for home
with a grim frown on his face. Everything went well until he reached the
channel. He met no German fighters and had a fair tail wind. But his
gasoline supply was very low. The needle kept bouncing off the empty
peg, riding clear, then dropping back. The English coast was a long way
off.

Stan was flying at twelve thousand feet and that gave him a chance to
drift a long way, but not far enough if his gas ran out. Steadily he
drove toward the friendly shore. Below him the channel looked cold and
choppy.

Thinking of O'Malley added to his gloom. When you work