For a full five minutes O’Malley stood outside the office looking out toward the blue Mediterranean. There was a deep scowl on his face. Finally he sauntered into the mess and seated himself near a window. Elevating his feet, he closed his eyes and took a nap.
He was awakened by an orderly. The soldier saluted smartly and said:
“You are wanted at operations, sir.”
O’Malley got to his feet and walked into the briefing shack, which was a shed hastily erected outside the mess. Captain Marks was waiting for him. He shoved a sheaf of flight orders at O’Malley.
“You are to deliver three Lightning fighters to Malta. In case you meet enemy planes, you are to take proper evasive measures. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sor,” O’Malley said and added, “If we be attacked we fight?”
“Certainly, we don’t want these new planes shot down.”
Glancing at his flight orders, O’Malley moved leisurely out to the flight strip designated. Three Lightnings stood there with their props spinning. A ground crew was just leaving them. O’Malley nodded toward the chief mechanic who swung down out of the cockpit.
“Is this bag o’ bolts ready to fly?” he asked with a grin.
“She’s clicking fine, sir,” the sergeant answered.
O’Malley glanced at his orders. The two men under him were Ted Wilks and Pete Liske. He wondered what they had done to call down the colonel’s displeasure. Swinging up into the greenhouse, he palmed the hatch cover and got set.
“Wilks and Liske,” he called lazily. “This is your skipper, Mrs. O’Malley’s son. Get your crates hot.”
“Temperatures check,” Liske called back. His voice sounded sour.
“Which one of the Auld Man’s corns did you step on, Liske?” O’Malley asked.
“Same one I did,” Wilks called in.
“Can the chatter and get going,” snapped a voice from operations. “Lieutenant O’Malley, report out at once,” another voice cut in.
“Up to five thousand and then tuck in close to me,” O’Malley ordered.
“Read your flight sheets!” The voice from operations was sharp and snappy.
O’Malley laughed. “Shove off, me hearties,” he called.
Wilks went zooming off and Liske followed closely. O’Malley watched their take-off with a critical eye. He saw at once that he had been given two fledglings to nurse safely through. Like an old hen, he was expected to see them through by proper evasive tactics. O’Malley began whistling a bit of an Irish tune. He’d protect those kids, just let any Italian or German fighter show up.
Kicking down on one brake, he spun the Lightning around and sent her zooming off the field, hanging her on her prop at once, and surging over the hatch covers of his charges like a crazy angel heading for the sun. His boys dropped in behind him and soon had snuggled in, wing to wing, one on each side.
“So you birds were bad boys,” O’Malley called across to his men.
“So what? We hear you were supposed to be a major,” Liske answered insolently.
“We didn’t read the rule book careful,” Wilks confessed with a laugh.
“From now on you won’t be after needin’ a rule book,” O’Malley assured them. He was scanning the blue sky eagerly. A pile of clouds, off to the east, looked promising. He swung over that way. If there was a Jerry in the whole area, he’d be hiding up in that cloud.
The three Lightnings zoomed low under the cloud but nothing happened. The sky was as serene and calm as the sky over a Kansas wheat field or a kirk in Kerry County, Ireland. O’Malley scowled and eased back against the shock pad.
They roared over Pantelleria Island which had been occupied by the British and Yanks. Sicily lay ahead and O’Malley knew evasive tactics called for a wide sweep to the east and south. He had already flown miles north in his hopeful quest of trouble. Easing down to two thousand feet, they swept around in a circle that carried them within sight of the coast of Sicily. But there was no enemy craft in sight in the air and very few on the water along the coast. With a sigh O’Malley straightened their course and headed in to Malta. They had flown a half circle deep into enemy territory but nothing exciting had happened. O’Malley was beginning to worry. If all of their ferry flights were going to be like this, he would have to do something about it.
Picking up the radio signals from the Malta field, they slid in, spotted the Yank landing strip, and set down. Ground crews rushed out to take over. They swarmed around the Lightnings and had them moving off almost before their pilots were out of the cockpits. O’Malley scowled. The boys had no more respect for a ferry pilot than they did an M.P.
O’Malley obtained his release and acceptance of the planes from a captain who rode out in a motorcycle. The captain seemed irritated.
“Your flight time is double what it should be. Get over to Number Three Field and get your transportation back to Africa.”
“Yes, sor,” O’Malley said. “We drifted a bit off course.”
The captain looked at him sharply. He was very busy and delays did not improve his ragged temper.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he snapped.
O’Malley smiled at his two fliers. “Sure, an’ ’tis very ungrateful some people are. We risk our necks to deliver these crates an’ get a sour welcome.” He turned and walked away. The captain stood staring after him. He had not met a man like O’Malley before. Usually ferry pilots were not given to back talk.
The transport was waiting. O’Malley and his pals climbed in among an assortment of equipment and supplies being returned to base. In a short time they were back at their own briefing room. Three planes were ready and they took off again.
All day they ferried Lightnings across to Malta and not once did they sight enemy craft. O’Malley was wild when they checked in for the evening. He glared at the grinning Captain Marks.
“Sure, an’ something better bust loose tomorrow,” he cried.
“Probably will,” Marks answered.
O’Malley stomped away to quarters. Wilks and Liske dashed off to put in for an immediate transfer to more active duty. O’Malley hoped they got the transfer. He knew there was not much chance of him getting shifted, not as long as Colonel Benson was in command.
CHAPTER III
REUNION
Stan and Allison sat in the big Lockheed transport and looked down upon the shores of Africa. A coastal road wound along the beach. It was war-scarred and still littered with broken tanks and shattered trucks. This was the route Rommel had taken in his flight across Libya.
“Wonder what O’Malley’s doing about this time?” Stan asked. He was beginning to be sorry he had accepted the offer to return to Alexandria. O’Malley likely was leading a flight over the shores of Italy.
“I’ll bet he is seeing action,” Allison said. “But I’m satisfied to be riding in peace with a pip of a vacation ahead. You’re not beginning to get the bug to fight so soon, old man?”
“No,” Stan answered with a grin. “I aim to have a swell time and be ready for the big push into Europe.”
The trained ears of the two pilots caught a warning signal from one of the plane’s radial motors. The motor complained for a few minutes, then coughed and conked out completely.
“Looks like we might be due for a forced landing,” Stan said.
“That would be our luck,” Allison answered. “Where are we, anyway?”
“We must be near Bengazi.” Stan peered down at the coast line.
A few minutes later their fears were realized. The transport began circling for a landing. They sighted the ruins of a town and were soon over it. Ten minutes later they were standing on a sand dune along with the pilot and copilot. A group of higher-ranking officers, including a general, stood a little way from them.
“We’ll not be here very long,” the pilot said, jerking his head toward his other passengers. “Not with the big boy along. He’s on an urgent mission. We’ve already radioed for a pick-up plane.”
