d and made
off.

They walked back to O'Malley's room. Over a battered desk hung a piece
of the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and on the desk lay a heavy
German pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.

Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, "If
this war keeps up you'll be able to furnish a museum."

O'Malley shook his head disconsolately. "'Tis little enough," he
complained. "This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Every
time I down a plane it's me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leaves
nothing behind for me to remember it by."

"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.

"She is that," Stan agreed.

They