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Updated: May 15, 2025
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.
The Germans behind their hidden batteries opened up with a savage burst of fire. Stan went straight toward the hill, flying low to keep out of the flak. As he shot up off the runway he stared hard at the hillside ahead, then blinked his eyes. "So," he said softly. "So that's the way it is." He went up and over the hill, spiraling into the sky in a climb steeper than any ship had ever carried him.
The radio had been stripped out of the ship along with every other instrument not absolutely necessary to test flight. Domber had only wanted to learn about the supercharger. His egotism in believing everyone else was dull-witted compared to himself had saved Stan. Over the estuary of the Rhine River Stan met his first flak.
There was no flak and no lights below. Darkness still filled the world, but dawn was not far away. A buzzer signal in his headset told Stan it was time to settle down for low flying. Light had begun to show in the east. Down went the Mustangs, and as the dawn began to lighten the low country below, they roared across the German countryside.
They had been headed straight for Berlin and would be spotted as a nuisance raid group of Mosquito bombers. No fighters would try to intercept them. The Berlin defenders would depend upon flak, as fighters were useless against the fast Mosquitoes. By swinging sharply east the Mustangs would hit the fighter hangars.
"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.
Suddenly flak began to blossom out from the countryside below. It blossomed in the sky over the bombers and in the middle of Red Flight. Thunderbolts ducked and dipped but went roaring on. Down below, the bomber boys were scanning the skies. In his Fort, Allison drawled over the intercom, "Pilot to navigator." "Go ahead, pilot." "Everybody set?" "Navigator to pilot, hot stuff coming up."
The flight was deployed with the Jerries perched up above and around waiting for the Yanks to go home. Below lay the fields of Holland. "Are you clear, specials?" Stan called. "All clear," the boys called back. That meant they had zoomed down and ditched their tanks in a way the Germans would not notice. Flak was coming up and a flight of FWs were worrying the Fortresses and Liberators below.
Now they were greeted by a few bursts of fire, but no heavy flak came at them. Because they were hedge-hopping at a terrific speed, the German warning systems were not spotting them in time to allow gunners to get set. "Tactical formation, Red Flight." Colonel Wellman broke the silence with that crisp order. The Mustangs spread out and made a circling sweep.
The Fort sagged over and went into a terrible dive. One after another chutes blossomed out until Stan had counted six. That was the number alive in the Fort, the others were dead. Stan laid over and made a sweep, ducking in and out of the flak.
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