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.