Focke-Wulfs in a blaze that rivaled a Fourth of July celebration. He kept an eye on Allison's Fort and saw an FW go down flaming after a thrust at the bomber. Stan chuckled softly.

"Allison got one!" O'Malley yelled. "'Tis a sad day, this, for Mrs. O'Malley's son."

Allison's Fort got another FW and O'Malley's flow of abuse against the Me's increased. He was in a towering Irish rage. But it did no good. The Me's hung on, waiting for the Thunderbolts to turn back. It was a case of who ran short of gas first. Now "lace-panty" flak was blossoming all over the sky. It exploded in pretty pink bursts and that was why the boys gave it such a fancy name.

"We have to go in," Sim ordered grimly.

"Go in!" O'Malley bellowed. "Why not give them birds a scare anyway?"

"We'll zoom up and scatter them," Sim said. "But any man who stays to put on a show will have to walk back."

Stan eased over and kicked on a bit more power. The Germans had the attack route well charted. They knew just how far the Thunderbolts would be able to penetrate. With a burst of speed Stan went up and over. Every Thunderbolt did the same, but O'Malley beat them all to it. He roared over Stan's head, almost ripping away his hatch cover.

The Me's ducked gracefully and scattered. They looped and dived for it. Stan saw at once the chase was hopeless. The Jerries meant to tease the Thunderbolts deeper into Germany so that they would be sure to run out of gas. It was infuriating, but there just was nothing that could be done about it. Stan watched O'Malley as he roared after a Jerry.

"Come back, Irisher. They're just tricking you out of gas," he called.

"The spalpeens!" O'Malley roared, but he zoomed up and over, then tailed in after Red Flight which was heading for home.

Stan saw the Me's dive down to overtake and attack the Forts and Libs. He had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He still was not convinced that the big fellows could take care of themselves. They had a hundred miles more to cover before reaching their targets, and then another hundred to return before fighters could meet them.

Red Flight slid in on its home field, a sleek flight group in fine trim, except for one slight wound. Sim's ship had picked up a small piece of flak, but it had done no damage. 

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