with a man in the
air, you expect the day when he does not return with you. But when the
time comes it is a stabbing shock. Stan and O'Malley had seen so much
action and had tackled so many tough jobs, they had come to feel they
always would pull through.

Glancing at the gas gauge Stan saw that it registered empty, and the
needle was not showing any signs of movement. He glanced down at the
gray expanse below him and frowned. His ears strained for the first
break in the steady throbbing of the Pratt and Whitney radial.

The engine kept hammering away for a long time. Stan checked his Mae
West suit and made other small preparations for a bath in the channel.
Then the engine sputtered, smoothed out, then sputtered again. With a
wheezing blast it went dead.

Stan eased the nose down to hold his speed and began sagging down a long
slope toward the channel. He scanned the choppy sea for signs of a
British patrol boat. Several of the fast rescue boats should be
patrolling the flight line, ready to fish Yank pilots and crewmen out of
the water. He saw no sign of a boat.

Slowly the Thunderbolt settled down. Floating a fourteen-thousand-pound
fighter in over a long distance is not like slipping along in a glider.
If there were any up-drafts, the Thunderbolt paid no attention to them.
She sliced on through and Stan had to nose her down to keep her from
falling like a rock.

The sea came up to meet him and he began judging the spot where he would
take his bath in the icy water. Suddenly he heard the roar of plane
motors and looked up and back. A Fort was nosing down toward him. Stan
squinted to see if he could catch the markings. He could not make them
out, but he knew the ship was a bomber returning from Huls.

There was no time for further looking. The Thunderbolt hit and hit hard,
as though she had slammed into a stone wall. She slewed around, jerked
and bobbed, slamming Stan back against his shock pad. He palmed the
hatch cover open and kicked loose from his belt and chute harness. In a
moment he was leaping into the water and the Thunderbolt was swirling
down into the sea. She lifted one wing as she slid from sight, as though
saluting him.

"Tough luck, old girl," Stan said. He got a mouthful of salt water and
began sputtering.

The Fort was low over the sea now and Stan saw that it was shot up a
bit. Then he saw the name painted on its fuselage. It was The Monkey's
Paw, the Fort Allison had taken over for the ra