“We’ll see what can be done about it,” he said as he turned away.

The colonel walked out of the high-ceilinged room which was buried under thirty feet of steel reinforced concrete. He came up out of the building into a drab night. A raw wind stabbed at him, and sent light clouds scudding across the face of the moon. Overhead, a night fighter growled its way through the lonely sky. The country spread around the base was flat with only a few hills to break the sameness.

Out on the dispersal area Colonel Holt could see guards watching the shadowy forms of the Thunderbolts. A jeep came chugging up a muddy street and turned off toward the mess barracks. At one-five in the morning the base looked peaceful enough. Sheltered by darkness, its mud ruts and half-finished buildings were softened by the gloom. Still scowling, the colonel strode away.

Several hours later, in a tunnel-shaped hut with a corrugated iron roof and a cement floor, two fliers sat near a wood stove. Stan Wilson was poking wood into the stove.

“I wonder if anyone ever kept one of these gadgets burning all night,” he said sourly.

“Sure, an’ ’tis against the rules,” Lieutenant O’Malley said and grinned.

“I’m beginning to think Allison showed good sense in running out on us and joining a bomber outfit,” Stan growled. “Here we are sitting up all night keeping this stove poked full of wood.”

“That big bum,” O’Malley snorted. “Only today he said that he’s livin’ in a palace with a sure-enough butler to buttle.” O’Malley shook his head sadly. “The spalpeen says that butler can sure bake a foine pie.”

“On top of that we get to fly Thunderbolts for the fun of it.” Stan jabbed a slab of wood into the stove and slammed the door.

“We’ve jest been havin’ bad luck,” O’Malley said. “I can stand a Nissen hut jest to be flyin’ one o’ them babies. We’ll meet up with plenty o’ Jerries.” O’Malley grinned eagerly, his homely face lighting up. “Remember how we used to mix it with them Jerry bandits tryin’ to blitz London?”