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"Whisky in the JAR," the driver sang to himself shifting through gears. "Musharingumgoogee . . . WAK for the Daddy-O . . . " He turned and shouted over the engine, "Where you coming from?" "Wiesbaden." "Germany?" "Yes," Patrick shouted back. "WAK for the Daddy-O . . . Good beer, the Krauts." They flew off bumps and jolted around curves for five or six miles. Conversation was impossible.
I could hardly believe me own eyes. When I came back down to scare the daylights out o' them Krauts, there wasn't a plane on that field. They just vanished." O'Malley looked hard at his pie and kept on shaking his head. "It's all right to tell that yarn to me, but don't ever tell it to a general," Stan said. "Did they all take to the air?" "Nary a plane in the air.
"The worst part of it is the way Rivers was killed. See, back in Kaiser Willie's war, before I was assigned a company of my own, I was regimental bayonet-instruction officer. And after we got to France, I always carried a rifle and bayonet at the front; hell, I must have killed close to a dozen Krauts just the way Rivers was killed.
It's some black magic them Krauts have conjured up, if ye ask me." It was clear that O'Malley was in dead earnest. Stan believed O'Malley had seen the planes. He also believed there was some trick the Germans had worked out to hide their fighter fields and to protect them. "We'll have another look," O'Malley said. "I have the place spotted."
"Sure, an' I've been yellin' at them Krauts, tryin' to get them to send a Doc in to fix you up. They jest laughed at me." "I don't need a doctor. How did the raid go?" "The boys say we blew 'em off the map. I talked with a couple of Lib boys just brought in. We cleared the path to Berlin." O'Malley grinned eagerly. "I'm glad ye're feelin' foine now. We have to get out o' this hole."
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