against one for Allison. When he came up, O’Malley was on the tail of the Messerschmitt and bawling at Allison:
“By the shades of St. Patrick, you keep out of this!”
The Jerry was hurt, but not badly, and O’Malley had him on the run. When the Jerry dived O’Malley was on his tail. He didn’t shoot him down. When he dropped off on one wing, peeling away under full throttle, O’Malley had him covered. Then Stan heard the Irisher yelling at the Jerry pilot.
“Leave that gun like she is, you spalpeen, or I’ll send you to the fishes!”
Apparently the Jerry did not understand what O’Malley said, possibly his radio wasn’t set to pick up the transmitter of the Spitfire, but he did understand the short bursts of fire that clipped pieces out of various parts of his ship. He headed the way the lank Irishman pointed and drove ahead.
Allison and Stan dropped in behind, letting O’Malley have his prize. Stan called to Allison:
“Somebody ought to tip off the Ack-Ack boys or O’Malley may get a warm reception.”
“Let him show his stuff,” Allison drawled and Stan thought he heard the Flight Lieutenant chuckle.
The Messerschmitt ducked over the coast and down with O’Malley steering him expertly to the field. Bursts of gunfire began to blossom below and puffs of white smoke broke around the Jerry and his pursuer.
“They think O’Malley’s Spitfire is a captured plane with a Jerry in it,” Stan muttered.
O’Malley sent his catch down through the shellfire, twisting and turning. The Nazi pilot was an expert and wiggled through until they got close in, then the fire got so hot he and O’Malley had to hit for the ceiling. They circled and were high up when Stan and Allison slid down the field.
Undaunted, O’Malley came in again and this time he sent his prize through the rain of exploding shells. The Messerschmitt rolled to a stop with O’Malley close behind him. In a moment the flustered Jerry was climbing out of his shattered hatch with his hands elevated above his head.
Ground men closed in around him, shouting and doing a war dance. O’Malley climbed out after removing part of the hatch cover from around his neck. He strode to the Messerschmitt and bellowed at the ground men.
“Git ye a hump on yerselves an’ pull out that fore gun!”
Four mechanics raced away to get tools while O’Malley stood guard over his prize. He refused to let anyone touch the ship. A senior ground officer came hurrying up and O’Malley gave him a sloppy salute. The officer snapped:
“I’ll take charge here now.”
“Ye’ll do nothing of the sort,” O’Malley shouted. “And as I live and breathe them’s Wing Commander Farrell’s very orders!”
The officer looked at the wild-eyed O’Malley and decided it would be best to wait for reinforcements, possibly a Group Captain or an Air Commodore.
“It’s my job, you know, old man,” he said but his tone had changed.
“’Tis my job, me hearty,” O’Malley assured him.
The mechanics arrived and in a few minutes the fore gun was on the ground at O’Malley’s feet. It was so heavy he could not handle it. He turned to the grinning Stan who was standing beside Allison.
“Lend a hand so we can deliver this gadget before sundown.”
Stan and Allison stepped forward.
“This is positively against regulations,” the senior officer sputtered.
“An’ who, may I ask, bagged this here gun?” O’Malley demanded. “I may be bold, but I suggest ye give some attention to that Jerry waitin’ over there to be captured accordin’ to regulations.”
The Jerry was standing with his arms still elevated. He was alone and unguarded.
“And be lettin’ O’Malley of Red Flight be knowin’ where you put the bye. I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts.” O’Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and saluted stiffly.
Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post outside headquarters.
Wing Commander Farrell was just finishing a flight report. His gray eyes were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O’Malley for a long minute, then remembered him and his pie.
“What do you want, Lieutenant?” he snapped. “I suppose you have that new enemy gun in your pocket.”
His sarcasm was lost upon O’Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped aside.
“Indaid, an’ I hope it’s the latest model. I put a very good Jerry flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin’ it to you.”
The Wing Commander’s eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.
“So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about,” he said. “It would seem some rumors are correct in this war.”
“An’ now, sor, I’ll be running along,” O’Malley said. “I’m feelin’ a bit o’ the pinch of hunger.”
“Have two pies on my chit book,” the Wing Commander said and smiled broadly.
“Indaid, that I will,” O’Malley answered gravely.
The three coal barge nurses returned to the briefing room and checked their chutes which had been discarded on the field. They found Lieutenant Garret waiting for them. He drew his mouth into a triumphant frown. Beside his desk lay the three chutes, neatly piled there by the field crew.
“See those chutes?” he snapped.
“Sure, an’ one of them gadgets is a personal friend o’ mine,” O’Malley said and grinned broadly.
“I’m putting it down against you. You discarded them on the field without properly caring for them. That is a violation of general orders.” Garret scowled at the Irish flier.
O’Malley leaned his elbows on the desk and regarded the officer thoughtfully.
“Very remarkable, indaid,” he said softly.
“Red Flight reports two Dorniers and three Messerschmitts down and one captured,” Allison said and his eyes locked with those of the briefing officer.
“Red Flight gets credit for two Dorniers. The Royal Navy reported them. And one Messerschmitt brought in.” Garret’s eyes gleamed triumphantly.
“Sure, an’ are ye certain ye can give us one Messer?” O’Malley asked. “Perhaps the poor bye got himself lost an’ mistook this berg for Berlin.”
“There is no independent check on the other fighters,” Garret snapped.
Stan said nothing. He could not trust himself to speak. What he wanted to do was to lay a right on Garret’s jaw.
“You fellows better walk pretty straight from now on. And keep yourself looking like officers,” Garret barked.
Without bothering to fill in a report, O’Malley shoved off to the mess room. Allison filled out his report and Stan made his out. They reported the exact action and the results. They left Garret scowling at their cards.
“Wilson!” Garret called sharply as Stan started to walk away at Allison’s side. “I want a word with you, alone.”
Stan turned back and stood at the desk. His gaze locked with Garret’s.
“Have you ever flown stunts or test jobs in the United States?” He leaned forward and his small eyes searched Stan’s face.
Stan returned his stare. “You have my card where you can dig it out. Suppose you take a look at it?” Stan turned on his heel and walked away.
Garret let him go without asking any more questions, but he was shaking his head and frowning as though trying to remember something or somebody that had slipped his mind.
“He’s about got my number,” Stan muttered to himself as he went into the mess.
