Early in November the clouds lifted enough to carry out the assigned missions.
And Sweeney Squadron put its first marks on the combat record.
Every plane that could fly was sent into the air.

Cricket took eight ships and went south across the Straits and along the north coast of Mindanao to Cagayan.
Anything the enemy flew or floated was his target.
Fleischman with eight was to patrol the Leyte Gulf area, with his main task to get any kamikaze before they got to the ships.
Greg himself took two flights, with Todman leading the second, to patrol and look for targets of opportunities around Ormoc on the east coast of Leyte.
Each plane carried two five-hundred pound bombs.

A weapons carrier took Greg, Todman, Belton, Banjo Ferguson, and Walters and the others the two miles from the bivouac area to the strip.
It was a rough long ride through the mud and pot holes.
No one had much to say.
The sky glowered down at them.
There was a feeling that this mission would be canceled like all the others and that this muddy wet dark world of combat would go on forever.

The truck dropped them off at the various revetments spread through the jungle.
Donovan snatched Greg's chute from him with a belligerent motion and almost ran to the plane with it.
His face was dark as the sky above it as he stood on the wing and waited for his pilot.
Greg climbed into the cockpit feeling as if he had never been in one before.
But his hands and those of Donovan moved automatically adjusting and arranging in the check-out procedure.

"I've got her as neat as I can", Donovan said, as he dropped the straps of the Seton harness over Greg's shoulders.
"But this goddamn climate.
It's for carabao not airplanes".

"We'll make out.
Don't you worry, chief", Greg replied, wondering if he himself believed it.

"Yeah.
See you", Donovan said as he jumped off the wing.
The expression was his trade-mark, his open sesame to good luck, and his prayer that pilot and plane would always return.
At the prearranged time, Greg started the engine and taxied out.
From the time the chocks were pulled until the plane was out of sight, he knew Donovan would keep his back to the strip.
He wondered where the superstition had originated that it was bad luck for a crew chief to watch his plane take off on a combat mission.
Yet long before the scheduled time for return, Donovan would be watching for every speck in the sky.

Greg rumbled down the rough metal taxi strip, and one by one the seven members of his flight fell in behind him.
The dark brown bombs hanging under each wing looked large and powerful.
The pilots' heads looked ridiculously small.
The control tower gave him immediate take-off permission, and the clean roar of the engine that took him off the rough strip spoke well of the skill of Donovan.

Greg's mission was the last to leave, and as he circled the ships off Tacloban he saw the clouds were dropping down again.
To the west, the dark green hills of Leyte were lost in the clouds about halfway up their slopes.
Underneath him the sea was a dark and muddied gray.
Water splashed against his windshield as he led the flight in and out of showers.
The metal strip they had taken off from was coal black against the green jungle around it.
He possessed the fighter pilot's horror of bad weather and instrument flying, and he wondered, if the ceiling did drop, whether he and the other flights would be able to find their way back in this unfamiliar territory.
He shivered in the warm cockpit.

The overcast was solid above him.
As far as he could see there was no hole to climb through it.
They would have to go west through the narrow river valley that separated Leyte from Samar and hope that it didn't close in before they returned.

Greg pushed the radio button on his throttle.
"Todman, let's try to go under this stuff.
Stay in close and we'll go up the valley".

"Roger, Sweeney", Todman called back, and pulled his four in and slightly above Greg.

Greg took the formation wide around three A-26 attack bombers that were headed north over the Gulf.
He dropped down to five hundred feet, swinging a little north of the city of Tacloban, and punched into the opening that showed against the mountain.

The valley was only a few hundred yards wide with just about room enough for a properly performed hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.
It was only a fifteen-minute flight, but before it was through Greg felt himself developing a case of claustrophobia.
The ceiling stayed solid above them at about eight hundred feet, and at times the sheer cliffs seemed about to close in.
If the other pilots were worried, they did not show it.
The formation remained perfect.

When the sea was visible ahead of them, the relief was as great as if the sun had come out.
He spread the flight out and led them across a point of land and then down the coast.
Although they drew light ground fire they saw no signs of activity.

Once Todman thought he had spotted a tank and went down to investigate while Greg covered him.
"Somebody beat us to it"!
Todman said over the radio as he came back up in formation.

Visibility continued to be limited, and Greg was never able to get above a thousand feet.
It was frustrating.
His earphones were constantly full of the sounds of enemy contacts made by other flights.
He thought once that he identified the somewhat hysterical voice of Fleischman claiming a kill.
But Greg's area remained as placid as a Florida dawn.

Finally, as time began to run out, he headed into Ormoc and glide-bombed a group of houses that Intelligence had thought might contain Japanese supplies.
The low clouds made bombing difficult.
There was not enough room to make the usual vertical bomb run.
The accuracy was deplorable.
One of Greg's bombs hung up, and he was miles from the target before he could get rid of it.
Only one of the flight scored a direct hit and the rest blew up jungle.

With their load of bombs gone, the planes moved swiftly and easily.
Greg went up tight against the ceiling and led them back to their pass to home.
Mercifully, it was still open.
Like a man making a deep dive, Greg took full breath and plunged back into the valley.
He was about to make a gas check on his flight when Todman's voice broke in: "Sweeneys!
Three bogies.
Twelve o'clock level".

Greg's eyes flicked up from his instrument panel.
He saw them, specks against the gray, but closing fast.
They were headed straight for each other on a collision course.
Friend or enemy?
The same old question.
And only a few seconds to answer it.

"Zeros"!
Todman said excitedly, and hopefully.

And then he thought Todman might be right.
His mind flicked through the mental pictures he had from the hours of Aircraft Identification.
He narrowed the shape down to two: either a Zero or a U. S. Navy type aircraft.

If it were the enemy, tactically his position was correct.
Japanese aircraft were strong on maneuverability, American on speed and firepower.
His present maximum altitude, up against the overcast, gave him the opportunity to exploit his advantages.
But it also made him conspicuous to the enemy, if it was the enemy, and he hadn't been spotted already.
But the closing aircraft showed no sign of deviating from their original course.

In seconds, Greg made his decision.

He pushed the radio button.
"Sweeney Blue, hit the deck.
Lots of throttle.
Todman, you take the one on the left.
I'll take the middle.
Belton, the one on the right.
If they're Japs.
Let's make sure first".
Greg had the stick forward and the throttle up before he heard the two "Rogers".

The planes, light with most of the gas burned out, responded beautifully.
Greg's airspeed indicator was over 350 when he leveled off just above the trees.
The opposing aircraft continued to come on.
They appeared to be the enemy.
Greg wished the Air Corps had continued to camouflage planes.
There was, of course, no way for the other planes to get by them.
It was a box.
But they could turn and escape to the east.

Greg pushed the radio button again.
"Todman, drop your second element back.
If any of us miss, they can pick up the pieces.
Now let's make sure they're Japs".

Even as he said it, Greg knew they had found the enemy.
The shapes were unmistakable and the Rising Suns were showing up, slightly brighter pinpoints in the gray gloom.

Greg slapped his hand across the switches that turned on the guns and gun camera and gun sight.
The circle with the dot in the center showed up yellow on the reflector glass in front of him.
His hands shook.
"Arm your guns, Sweeneys".

"They're Japs.
They're Japs", came a high-pitched voice.

"Greg to Sweeney Blue.
One pass only.
No turns.
You'll bust your ass in this canyon.
That's an order".

He moved the flights over against one wall.
It gave them all a chance to make a high-speed climbing turn attack and a break-away that would not take them into the overcast or force a tight-turn recovery.
If the turn was too tight, a barrel roll would bring them out.
A hell of an altitude for a barrel roll, but it could be done.

Greg slammed his throttle to the fire wall and rammed up the RPM, and the engine responded as if it had been waiting.
The clearly identifiable enemy continued on as if no one else were around.
"They haven't seen us", Greg yelled to himself over the engine noise.
"They haven't seen us".
He hit the radio button.
"Now, Sweeneys, now.
Let's take 'em home".

He hauled back on the stick and felt his cheeks sag.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his wingman move out a bit and shoot up with him.
Perfect, he thought.

With the rapid rate of closure, the approach from below, the side, and ahead, there would be only a moment when damage could be done.
Just like shooting at a duck while performing a half-gainer from a diving board.

He tightened his turn.
His nose up.
It was going to be dangerous.
Eight aircraft in this small box.
Please, dear God, make my pilots good, he prayed.

He took a lead on the enemy, using a distance of five of the radii in his circular sight and then added another.
The enemy did not veer.
It did not seem possible that they hadn't been spotted.
Blind fools.

Now!

Greg's fingers closed on the stick trigger.
The plane rumbled and slowed.
Six red lines etched their way into the gray and vanished.
As if drawn by a wire the enemy flew into them.
Greg tightened his turn until the plane shuddered.
Luck was with him.
His burst held for a second on the engine section of the plane.
The Jap's propeller flew off in pieces.
A large piece of engine cowling vanished.
It was all Greg had time to see.
His maneuvering for the shot had placed him near the overcast, almost inverted and heading up into the clouds.
His speed was dropping rapidly.
If he spun out now, he would join his opponent on the ground.

Wingman, stay clear, he prayed.
He pushed stick and rudder and entered the overcast on his back.
He fought the panic of vertigo.
He had no idea which was up and which was down.
He held the controls where they had been.
Sweat popped out over him and he felt the slick between his palm and the stick grip.
His air speed dropped until he thought he would spin out.