"Sure, an' you did a good job of it gettin' in," O'Malley praised. "When I couldn't talk to the crew I turned the controls over to the copilot and went aft. I got to the top turret man and told him to get the gunners together in the radio compartment. I figured we'd smack right down into the channel." Allison fingered his pipe and stared into the fire. "I went back to the copilot and we fought her head. She sagged in over the coast and came right on home, smoking like a torch. As we came in, we found we had a belly landing on our hands, so we skidded her in. Poor Old Sal is a mess right now." "Anybody hurt?" Stan asked. "Bombardier got a piece of flak in his leg. The tail gunner had his greenhouse blown into his face and is in the hospital. I forgot to say we dumped our guns and everything else we could pry loose. I guess that saved us." Allison leaned back. "When you fellows going to shift over? This is the real thing." "Sitting duck stuff," O'Malley snorted. "You jest sit there an' take it. You never fired a gun on the whole trip." "No," Allison admitted. "But we bagged six Jerries and there was plenty of shooting. You should see my boys work those 50's." "We aim to stir up a bit of excitement," Stan said. Allison frowned at him. "You birds better remember this is modern warfare, not the Battle of Britain or the Pacific. They'll bounce you high and quick for breaking rules. This Eighth Air Force is big stuff now." "Thanks for the warning," Stan answered. "But we plan to go through proper channels." "And it's a deep secret," O'Malley added. O'Malley's pie arrived and he dropped out of the talk for a time. Stan and Allison chatted about the changes and the amazing way the Eighth had grown up until it took a large section of British farmland to house it. Stan and O'Malley left early and hurried back to their own mess. They wanted to corner Colonel Holt. They found him in the mess looking very dour and gloomy. He was alone. None of the other men seemed to care about trying to cheer him up. Stan and O'Malley barged over to his table. "May we sit down, sir?" Stan asked. "Sure." Holt motioned to two chairs. The boys sat down. Stan ordered coffee and O'Malley ordered pie. "I need just a bite to get me in shape for supper," he said when Stan glared at him as he gave his order. "Lousy show today," Holt grumbled. "I don't mean the way you fellows flew it, but the way the Germans have everything figured out so neatly. We lost eleven bombers." "We might fool Jerry," Stan suggested. "How?" "Suppose we just toted along some extra tanks of gas and cut them loose about the time the show should start. We know their tactics and pattern. We'd have a lot of fun." Stan leaned forward. "Can't do that," Holt said. "You fellows might have to get busy as soon as you hit the coast. Kicking off a tank can't be done with an FW dropping out of a cloud on your tail."