The three fliers of Flight Five did not get time to argue. They were only half through with their dinner when the loudspeaker over the mess door began rasping and sputtering:

“Flight Three, all out! Flight Four, all out! Flight Five, all out!”

Before the speaker in the control room could repeat, there was a rush of feet toward the briefing room. O’Malley galloped along with a quarter of berry pie in his hand. He had bribed the Chinese cook into making his favorite dessert daily.

They crowded into the small shack and began scrambling into their fighting outfits.

“Munson found out we got back,” Stan said as he slid into his parachute harness.

“Faith, an’ he’s a wise bird, that fellow,” O’Malley growled. “This must be a real attack the way they are turning half the force out,” Allison said as he shoved over to the desk to get his orders.

Men raced out on the field and dashed toward their idling planes. As they ran, they looked up into the blue sky. They heard no bombers and they could see no fighters, but they knew the Japs were up there.

Never had the enemy been able to bomb Rangoon. They had been smashed with heavy losses on every attempt. The Flying Tigers were proud of their record and eager to keep it clean.

As motors roared and hatch covers slammed shut, Stan heard Nick Munson’s voice rasp in his headset:

“Instructor Munson taking command. Squadron, check your temperatures.”

Reports came crackling back.

Stan scowled as he bent forward. Nick Munson was going to lead the attack. That was not good news.

“Up to eight thousand feet. Hold your formation for orders,” Munson droned.

Stan jerked the throttle knob open, jammed down on one brake and wheeled around in a tight circle. Nine other P–40’s were whipping into line. There was less of the formality of an R.A.F. take-off. Each plane blasted its tail up with a rush of exhaust pressure and headed down the field. Stan saw O’Malley hop his ship off long before the others left the field. Allison went straight out, wide open, with Stan at his right wing.

With the ground swirling by in a blur, Stan heard Allison’s voice:

“Up, boys, and at them.”

He pulled the nose of the P–40 up and she zoomed with a lift that fairly hurled her into the sky. Allison rode up close beside him. They raised above O’Malley but he came on, leveling off to force his speed.

“Formation! Squadron, close in!” Munson was bellowing.

Stan grinned. This was the first flight the colonel had taken with the Tigers and they were not acting the way he thought they should. Finally, the nine fighters closed in and took up line formation.

“Up to twelve thousand,” Munson ordered. The Tigers went on up, following their leader. Stan looked across and saw O’Malley’s head bobbing back and forth. Suddenly, he heard O’Malley’s voice:

“What kind o’ show is this?”

“We’re out for a bit of exercise,” Allison came back.

“We ought to be over in those clouds,” Stan cut in. “That’s the place to look for trouble.”

Far to their right rose a high-piled bank of clouds. Stan kept watching that bank and wondering when Munson would head that way. He also wondered if the colonel had ever been in combat before. A man who would lead his flight through the open sky with clouds on either side needed some practical training.

Stan chuckled. The Japs would give him that training if he stayed in this game very long and went upstairs every day. Stan was still looking at the big cloud bank. He blinked his eyes. Around from the far side of the cloud came a flight of Japanese planes.

“Off to the right! Jap planes on the right!” Stan shouted into his flap mike. “Coming under the cloud.” “Peel off and after them!” Allison chimed in.

“Sure, an’ I’m on me way!” O’Malley yelled back.

“Hold formation!” Munson bellowed. “I’m giving the orders here.” His voice blurred out in a blast of static.

The three P–40’s on the right end of the line formation ducked and darted away. The others stayed in formation, following orders.

It soon became evident what the Japs were after. They were diving on the hangars and planes on the ground at the field. The three P–40’s went in with Allison in charge. They cut across the neat enemy formation and there was a scattering of ships. In and out, back and forth roared the three members of Flight Five. The twenty Japanese planes gave up the idea of strafing the field installations. They turned to the task of smacking down the roaring demons that had hurtled down on them. Three Japs went down in flames under the first dive.

Stan came back through with his thumb on the gun button. He twisted and turned; but he could not get a Jap in his sights. As he went up, he saw that O’Malley had learned his lesson. The Irishman was topping a high-zoom and coming back over, belly to the sun. As he went in, Stan saw him saw a wing off a Karigane and send it spinning to the ground.

The Japs seemed to be panicked by the savagery of the attack. They whirled and fled back toward their bases. The three victorious P–40’s roared up into the sky and circled. Allison’s voice came in with a slow drawl:

“Does that formation headed for Rangoon look like bombers?”

“It does,” Stan called back.

At that instant, they saw the six P–40’s under Munson’s command. They were high up above the clouds, too far up to intercept the low-flying bombers headed for the city.

“After them!” Allison ordered.

The three ships streaked toward the bombers. Long before they had overtaken the slow-flying 97’s, the enemy had sighted them and were spreading out. The three P–40’s went into the formation with a slashing dive. There were twelve bombers and they scattered in twelve directions. Stan rolled over and got on the tail of a killer. His Brownings spattered lead and the bomber billowed smoke. Up he went and around and down on another bomber.

The air above the rice fields outside the city was filled with the scream of motors as the three fighters battled to keep a single bomber from getting through. They were losing the fight, even though they had shot down four bombers, when Munson and his ships came down in a screaming dive to join them. That ended the fight. The Tigers did not let a single 97 get away.

One by one, they drifted in and landed. Twelve of them came in. Not one ship was missing. Stan crawled out and stood waiting for Allison and O’Malley.

The lank Irishman waddled over to his pals. He was grinning broadly. Allison jerked off his helmet. There was a cold, icy look in his eyes. Stan knew Allison was finally jarred out of his half-amused attitude. “Sure, an’ ’twas one grand party,” O’Malley beamed. “It fair gave me a huge appetite.”

Allison turned toward the briefing shack and they walked in to report. A sour group of pilots greeted them. The six fliers who had stayed with Munson were thoroughly ruffled. One of them turned to Stan as the three R.A.F. men reached the desk. He spoke so that everyone, even Munson, who was making out his report at the end of the desk, could hear.

“Lucky for this outfit you birds put brains before orders.”

“We fly by feel, me bye,” O’Malley answered cheerfully as he barged in to the desk and grabbed a report blank.

“I’m putting in for a transfer,” the pilot said with disgust. “This outfit stinks.”

Stan grinned at the angry young man. The flier was four inches taller than Stan and he had a bushy mop of black hair. His cheeks were soft and pink. His black eyes blazed.

“You’re from Texas?” Stan asked. “I’m from Texas and we don’t take anything from anyone in my country,” the youth answered.

Nick Munson scowled but said nothing.

“I’m from Waco, Texas, myself,” Stan said to the pilot. “But I migrated to Colorado and flew up there.”

The youngster stepped close to Stan. “I’m with you,” his voice had dropped below the murmur of the other men, “when Munson opens up on you like he will.”

“Thanks,” Stan said gratefully.

Nick Munson shoved over his report and his voice cracked out, brittle and hard.

“I’ll see all of you men in the mess, right away.”

The fliers turned away and moved outside in a group. O’Malley growled loudly as he walked with Stan and Allison toward the barracks.

“I need food, not jawbone. I hope he makes it snappy.”

“He will,” Allison said and smiled thinly.

“You better keep your shirt on,” Stan said to Allison. “I’d like to have a couple of nights free to do a bit of snooping before you get us all tossed into a guardhouse.”

“It all depends on what he says,” Allison answered coolly.

“You see, Munson is about to blow up the squadron. That’s just what he wants to do. If we start trouble, he’ll wreck the flying strength of this outfit. In that case, he’ll have us grounded and this sector will be wide open.” Stan pressed his point home hard. “He has a reason. I think he’s being paid off. I think his credentials are faked. It’s not hard to get into an outfit like this. The Chinese need trained pilots so bad they are not apt to go deep into their past records.”

Allison swung around. “You’re right, old man. Sorry I acted like a silly goat. Let’s talk to the men.”

They entered the mess. The men stood around waiting restlessly for Munson to appear. None of the fliers seemed to want to sit down. There was a tenseness in the air and many faces showed grim anger.

Stan and Allison split up and began talking to the men. They had to make it snappy and they did. The Flying Tigers were bright boys and they were already suspicious of Munson. By the time the colonel came stamping in, the group was silently waiting and there were no mutterings.

Munson strode to the front of the room, clicked his heels and made a turn to face them. Stan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the big fellow. Munson looked the men over with a cold eye.

“You fellows put on a lousy show today,” he snapped. Pausing, he waited for someone to contradict him or argue the point.

Silence filled the room. All eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon the commander. Munson cleared his throat and went on.

“Three of you,” he glared at Stan, Allison, and O’Malley, “broke away from formation and went off on a chase. You intercepted and broke up a fighter attack on the field, but if that bomber squadron had been as big as it was reported to me, the docks and the city of Rangoon would have been blasted.” He paused and his gaze bored into Allison.

Allison stood staring at him without any expression on his face. “You, Major Allison, ordered your flight off on that attack.” He leveled a finger at Allison and shook it threateningly.

“Yes, sir,” Allison said. “Sorry, sir.”

Munson fairly jumped up and down. His face reddened and he bit off his words savagely.

“You are insubordinate and—and—” He seemed unable to think of any more words.

“Yes, sir,” Allison said and smiled insolently.

“Wipe that snicker off your face!” Munson bellowed.

Allison’s smile faded. His gaze moved over the colonel very deliberately. O’Malley began to mutter and scowl at the commander.

“What are you mumbling about?” Munson turned on O’Malley.

“I’m after bein’ near to starved,” O’Malley said humbly.

Munson had his mouth open to shout at O’Malley. He closed it without uttering a sound. Disgust was written on his beefy face. “After this, orders are to be carried out,” he snapped. Then with a shrug of his trimly tailored shoulders, he turned and marched out.

As soon as his footsteps died away, a laugh burst from the men. They crowded around Allison and Stan. O’Malley stood back watching for a minute, then headed for the cook’s galley.

“We got him going,” the tall boy from Texas crowed.

“I have some poking around to do and I’ll get it done as quickly as I can. But, after this, we’ll fly an attack the way it should be flown and let him ground us if he dares. I’m thinking he’ll not do that because, if he did, the commander would investigate.” Stan spoke eagerly.

“We’re with you,” a number of the men answered. The others nodded their heads.

Allison and Stan walked to the cook’s galley after talking with the boys for about fifteen minutes.

“What do you have on your mind?” Allison asked.

“I’m not right sure, so I’ll have to go it alone for awhile,” Stan replied. “I guess I’ll just be snooping. But you fellows can cover up for me. I don’t want Munson to know I’m prowling around after dark.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Allison promised.

They entered the squadron mess hall and found O’Malley enthroned behind a huge dinner flanked by an apple pie.

“I showed the China boy how to cook that pie,” O’Malley said with pride. “I got him to make two o’ them so you birds can have some, too.”

Allison inspected the pie with a forced look of scorn. “Heavy as a Flying Fortress. Crust tough.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, old man, but I have my health to protect.”

O’Malley scowled. “Go ahead, swill iced tea and eat mutton chops. An Englishman niver could be expected to know decent food.”

Allison laughed as he dropped into a chair. “You sure knocked all the words out of the colonel.” He mimicked O’Malley, “I’m after bein’ near to starved.”

Stan joined their laughter. Munson certainly had been left speechless.