“That was a long time ago, as wars count time,” Stan answered. “We’ve been away a long time. The Jerries don’t get near London any more, and I heard a rumor that the Forts and Libs are able to shoot down ten fighters for every one the Thunderbolts get.”

O’Malley snorted. “Bombers shoot down Me 109’s and FW 190’s! ’Tis jest propaganda put out by the brass hats to fool the Germans. I’ll have to see it done, me b’y.”

“From what I hear we’ll probably have a reserved seat for the show. We sit up there and watch.” Stan smiled. “But we can always elbow in and fly a Fortress or a Liberator.”

“Not me,” O’Malley declared. “I’m no good at flying a milk wagon. I’ll handle me own guns.”

“Tomorrow will tell the tale. We’re to get our first whack at Jerry in this new job,” Stan said.

“Sure, an’ I’d go to bed an’ forget it, but the minnit I get me eyes closed this stove goes out an’ I’m freezin’,” O’Malley growled. “I don’t think we’ll be goin’ any place. Them brass hats meet at Operation Headquarters an’ the generals call in Weather. Weather squints out through a porthole an’ says, ‘6/10 cloud over target.’ Then the generals up an’ go back to bed.”

“We sure miss a lot of missions because of bad weather,” Stan admitted. “One of these days some fellow will invent a seeing eye sight that will look right through the clouds.”

“You been readin’ the funny books too much lately,” O’Malley said.

“Missed any of yours?” Stan laughed as he glanced toward a pile of comic books stacked beside O’Malley’s cot.

“I think our dog robber’s been snitchin’ a few.” O’Malley yawned and stretched his arms over his head. They were long bony arms with huge hands attached to them.

“Weren’t you in Berlin before the war?” Stan asked.

“Sure,” O’Malley answered. “Bein’ a son of good auld Ireland, I was itchin’ to get into a fight an’ it looked like the Jerries were the only ones preparin’ to do anything.”