“Orders are orders,” Captain Dooley told his pilots.
When things had calmed down a little, the brass had had time to consider officer assignments, putting officers where they could do the most good. Some of the replacement officers sent to the 403rd after Captain Dooley’s assumption of command were senior to him. On the other hand, back at Sidi Slimane in Morocco, there was a newly arrived squadron none of whose officers had yet flown in combat. The problem was that the 94th Fighter Squadron was flying Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, not P-51s. Captain Dooley was not qualified to fly P-38s.
A command decision was made.
“Fuck it. Dooley’s one hell of a pilot. Give him a quick transition into P- 38s and send him to command the 94th. All they’re doing back there is running escort for transports flying in from the States. He’s a quick learner. He’s proven that. And he can teach the others how to fly combat when they’re not escorting transports. They’ll pay attention to a guy with two DFCs even if he looks like a high school cheerleader.”
Aerial resupply of the North African Theatre of Operations was performed by Douglas C-54 four-engine transports. Carrying high-priority cargo ranging from fresh human blood through spare parts to critically needed personnel, they flew from East Coast airfields to Gander, Newfoundland, and after refueling, from Gander to airfields in England.
Fighter aircraft from fields in Scotland flew out over the ocean to escort them safely past German fighters flying out of France. To keep a German fighter formation from happening upon a fleet of transports, the transports flew separately.
The same protection system was put in place as the transports flew from England to North Africa. They were escorted out over the Atlantic by fighters, then flew alone far enough out to sea to avoid German interception as they flew south, until they were met by North Africa-based American fighters over the Atlantic a hundred miles at sea, then escorted to North African air bases, most often Sidi Slimane.
“Aircraft squawking on One One Seven, this is Mother Hen. How do you read?” Captain Dooley inquired. They were approximately 130 miles out over the Atlantic.
“Mother Hen, Five Oh Nine reads you loud and clear.”
“Grandma, read you five by five. I should be able to see you. Are you on the deck?”
“Actually, Mother Hen, I’m at twenty thousand. From up here, I can see what looks like a bunch of little airplanes at what’s probably ten thousand. Is that you?”
Dooley looked up, searching the sky. He saw the sun glinting off the unpainted skin of an aircraft that looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment he had a sick feeling in his stomach.
Jesus Christ, is that a Condor?
The Germans were running their long-range transport, the Condor, from fields in Spain to South America. The 94th had been ordered to “engage and destroy” any such aircraft they encountered.
Archie Dooley did not want to shoot down an unarmed transport.
Orders are orders.
Fuck it!
“Mother Hen to all Chicks. Follow me. Do not—repeat, do not—engage until I give the order.”
He pushed his throttles forward and began his climb.
Getting to twenty thousand feet didn’t take much time, but catching up with the sonofabitch took a hell of a long time.
He has to be making three hundred miles an hour! I didn’t think the Condor was anywhere near this fast.
Jesus, that’s not a Condor!
What the fuck is it?
Dooley finally pulled close enough to see that the airplane, whatever the hell it was, was American. There was a star-and-bar recognition sign on the fuselage, and when he picked up a few more feet of altitude, he saw that U.S. ARMY was painted on the wing.
He looked back at the tail to see if there was a tail number.
Tail, hell. It’s got three of them!
“Five Oh Nine, this is Mother Hen.”
“Oh, hello there, Mother Hen. I wondered how long it was going to take you to get up here.”
Dooley pulled closer and parallel to the cockpit of the huge—And beautiful! Jesus, that’s good-looking!—airplane.
The pilot waved cheerfully at him.