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.