O’Malley shoved in beside the Wing Commander with Stan and Allison facing him.
“Tea,” Allison ordered.
“Coffee, black,” Stan said.
“Pie.” O’Malley said it hungerly.
The corporal behind the pie counter fixed Allison’s pot of tea and poured Stan’s coffee, then he turned to O’Malley.
“What kind of pie, sir?”
For a moment O’Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie.
“Apple,” he said hopefully.
The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O’Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways.
“But I say, sir, we don’t cut pies that way. It’s against regulations, sir.” The corporal was plainly flustered.
“Indaid?” O’Malley said. “An’ could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?”
“Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn’t be ruined and you’ll pay for only the portion you eat.”
“Ah,” O’Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.
The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.
“The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We’d like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven’t salvaged anything.”
“How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us something,” said the Squadron Leader.
“No, if we get one it will be by pure accident,” the Wing Commander answered sourly.
O’Malley was starting on his third piece of pie. He had it in his hand and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face the Wing Commander.
“The aisiest thing in the world, gettin’ one of them guns,” he said.
The Wing Commander turned toward O’Malley and looked from his face to the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost. Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O’Malley on the shin. O’Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a sub-zero morning.
“Did you speak, sir?” he asked.
O’Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.
“I said it would be aisy, gettin’ one of them new guns,” O’Malley repeated.
“Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night,” the Wing Commander snapped.
“And may I ask who I’ll deliver it to?” O’Malley opened his mouth and the rest of the pie disappeared into it.
Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander’s face, but his voice was steady.
“Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll hand it to ye personal,” O’Malley promised.
The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O’Malley. They marched off together.
“Now you’ve done it, you Irisher,” Allison growled. “That’s the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour.”
“’Tis a lot too many brass hats this man’s army has around and I don’t like them, but I’ll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein’ as he seemed a bit worked up over that new Jerry gun.” O’Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.
Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O’Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O’Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.
“Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?”
“Sure, an’ I was just offerin’ to do me bit of winnin’ the war,” O’Malley said and closed his eyes.
Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O’Malley hadn’t been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O’Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.
“You laughin’ at me?” he demanded and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
“No,” Stan said slowly. “I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk.”
O’Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. “I’ll let you go along with me,” he said.
Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O’Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuff the next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O’Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler’s arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.
Allison came back and plumped into a chair. “I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house.”
O’Malley made no comeback. He was sound asleep, his Adam’s apple riding up and down gently, his lips moving as he snored deeply. Stan said in a low voice:
“He meant it when he offered to get a gun for the O.C.”
“Now, now, you Yanks are gullible, everyone knows that, old man, but you shouldn’t be taken in so easy.”
“You wait and see,” Stan said. “We’ll have to stick with him no matter what fool stunt he pulls.”
“Sure, old chap,” Allison agreed, but the sardonic twist of his mouth showed he thought Stan as crazy as O’Malley. He got to his feet. “Don’t let him miss dinner or we’ll have trouble. We aren’t on the call list until tomorrow morning. I have a bid to a bit of a dinner outside tonight.”
“Gal?” Stan asked.
“Gal,” Allison agreed.
“I’ll wake the Irisher up,” Stan promised.
The next morning Allison came barging into the breakfast room glowering savagely. He dropped into a chair across from Stan and O’Malley and snapped his order at the corporal. O’Malley gave him a brief look, then returned to his job of spreading jam on a huge stack of hot cakes which were flanked by a double order of sausages. The lank Irisher was not in a talkative mood. Stan grinned at Allison.
“What’s eating on you? Did some civilian steal your gal?”
Allison glared at him. “We have friends over here at Croydon. The way they run a war! You’d think somebody would wake up to a few things!”
“What sort of an assignment did we get?” Stan was sure Allison was riled over the assignment they had been given.
“Nursing a flock of coal barges through the channel. Just big, lumbering boats not worth as much as the coal inside them. The Jerries won’t waste a pound of T.N.T. on any of them. The only chance we’ll have will be if they try to dive bomb a destroyer tagging along.” Allison jerked a plate of bacon and eggs to him and shot a hard look at the corporal. “Black coffee,” he snapped.
“We rate better than that,” Stan said.
“My dear fellow,” Allison spoke with elaborate politeness. “We have a friend over in the flight office. He got himself transferred yesterday so as to be helpful to us.”
“He couldn’t be anyone I know,” Stan said.
“But of course he is. He is a dear friend of yours. In fact you offered to punch his nose for him once.”
“Not Garret?” Stan stared at Allison.
