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Now, a half hour left for some quick chow. Command plane over side in five minutes. Sandwich makings from home. California sardines, Chicago ham spread, oragne juice from Florida to wash it down. A squall bearing down from the sea, but the Cats leave for schedule. In all this base's history, foul weather has never stopped a flight. He slides in, hull settling deep under bomb-laden wings. Landing gear disengaged, following out for the take-off. Peeling away into the run, motors growling over the job of lifting too many men off the water, too much gas. But she's up on the step. We're off.