Stan smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “My gas turned out a bit short and I got a ducking in the channel.”
He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned and walked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure he would have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garret entered.
“Hello, Garret,” Stan said and grinned.
Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and his eyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.
“You think you can railroad me clean out of this man’s army, but you’ll get yours, and I’ll be back in the air again.”
“If any other funny things happen to my ship I’m going to take a poke at that pretty face of yours,” Stan said.
Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walked across the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there was no mistake about that, and he hated Stan Wilson. Stan had a feeling, too, that Garret was going to make good on his threat.
He wasn’t sure how Garret intended to do it, or how much the fellow knew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan had an uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected the truth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson’s past that Stan had hoped he could leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi war machine.
But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man can ever wholly escape his past. Fate has a way of stepping in and smashing the best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate had selected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.
CHAPTER IV
NEW QUARTERS
O’Malley sat at a table with a whole pie before him. He sliced it neatly across, then turned it half around and sliced it across again. Allison snorted his contempt while Stan watched, a grin on his face.
“Niver be it said an O’Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o’ pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?”
“Thanks, no,” Stan answered. “I’m carrying all the ballast I can handle right now.”
“I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you’ve had this afternoon?” Allison cocked an eye at O’Malley whose big mouth was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.
O’Malley munched the pie. “’Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O’Malley makes, now they are pies.” He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.
At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper. Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the orderly.
“Nothin’ iver happens in this here spot,” O’Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. “And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie.”
“We’ll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O’Malley,” Allison said. “But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office.”
O’Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.
“I say, Irisher, you can’t go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand.”
“Sure, and that’s a fact,” O’Malley agreed. “Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I’ll fix it according to regulations.” He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.
Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.’s office. Their rap at the door was answered by a gruff voice and they entered.
The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said gruffly.
They sat down, O’Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn’t had a square meal in a week.
The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O’Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.
“Something reminds me I have not had a bite to eat so far today,” he said. “Do you boys mind if I have something sent in while I’m talking with you? I won’t be able to get away later.”
“Certainly not, sir,” Allison said.
The O.C. was still looking at O’Malley. “Will you boys join me? A spot of tea or something?”
Before Allison or Stan could politely refuse, O’Malley answered, “Well, sir, I’m not partial to tea, but I could manage with a wee slab o’ pie.”
Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. “Would you boys have some pie?”
“No, thanks,” both spoke in unison.
The O.C. rang and an orderly appeared. He took the Commander’s order and hurried away. When the door closed the O.C. turned to Allison.
“I always get the bad part of every deal. Before me I have an order transferring you three men to Croydon Field. As soon as I get a few satisfactory men around me they are taken away.” He looked sourly at O’Malley as though blaming him. “Take this wild man, O’Malley. He has begun to attract notice.”
“It’s been so quiet no man could attract notice,” O’Malley said gloomily.
The O.C. smiled and fished another paper out of a tray. “Twenty-four hours in the air,” he read. “Three Dornier bombers and two Messerschmitt fighters shot down by Lieutenant O’Malley.” He slid the report into a file. “So this is quiet, eh?” He actually smiled as he said it.
The orderly returned with a tray which O’Malley eyed hopefully. The O.C. lifted a cloth from his luncheon. The orderly carried a plate to O’Malley and handed him a fork. O’Malley waved the fork aside and scooped the pie off the plate. Sadly, he inspected it. It was blueberry, the same as his mess was supplying. Out of the side of his mouth he said:
“Ah well, it will do, but I thought it might be the O.C. ate at a different mess.”
“You boys will report to headquarters at Croydon at once.” He looked at O’Malley and a startled expression came over his face. The Irisher’s pie had disappeared.
“Yes, sir,” Allison said and got to his feet.
The O.C. got to his feet and his wintry face cracked into a thin smile as he shook hands with each of the boys.
“This is quite a war and we have to hit as hard as we can and all pull together. They need you more at Croydon than I do here. Good luck to you.”
The three snapped salutes and faced about. They hurried out of the building and across the square. Within a half-hour they were packed and ready for the car that was to take them to their new home.
“I’m not sorry saying good-by to those bloated balloons,” Allison said as he looked up toward the south.
“I’m glad I’m leaving. It will save me punching a fellow officer in the jaw,” Stan said grimly.
“There won’t be anything excitin’ goin’ on over there,” O’Malley said sourly.
“They may have some other kind of pie.” Allison grinned.
An eager light came into O’Malley’s eye. “Sure, and that’s a thought worth rememberin’,” he muttered.
The mess at Croydon was a large room and had a phonograph as well as a console radio. There was a nice assortment of old but comfortable chairs and lounges, and there was a counter where food and drinks were served. The three members of Red Flight arrived at the mess about the same time.
O’Malley saw the counter at once and his eyes lighted eagerly. Back of the counter were shelves and on one of the shelves sat a half-dozen pies. A Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader were leaning against the center of the counter. Allison was for barging on past without disturbing the superior officers, but O’Malley had his eyes on the pie shelf.
“Shove in, me hearties, the treat’s on Mrs. O’Malley’s son.”
