reports.”
In the briefing room the flight officer met them with more eagerness than was usual with such an official. Nodding toward the chutes, neatly piled on the floor, he said:
“You usually take care of those things, don’t you know.”
Stan nodded grimly. He was thinking about Allison. O’Malley just grunted and planked his bony elbows on the high desk. Thrusting his chin out, he remarked:
“What you limeys need is more fire wagons like I just slid meself out of. I want one for my own use.”
“I heard the new ship was a bit of all right,” the flight officer said. “I’ll take your report. The Wing Commander wants it rushed right over.”
“We’ll be after blushin’ to give you the actual facts of what happened,” O’Malley said slowly.
“One Messerschmitt to us and three to Allison,” Stan answered.
The officer nodded and began scribbling. “Fill out one for me right away.” He shoved a blank across the desk.
“How about the varmint I dissected with me guns?” O’Malley asked.
“Did you hit one of those Stukas?” Stan asked.
“Sure, an’ I did that,” O’Malley said.
“One Stuka badly damaged,” Stan added.
They went into the mess and for once O’Malley did not order a pie. He sat down and stared at the ceiling, his big mouth clamped shut, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. Finally he said:
“Next time I get to take her, I can fly her like she was me own wings.”
“You might as well. This job is half yours,” Stan said. “Until we find out about Allison this flight will have only two men and one ship.”
“Allison’s going to be right back with us. The bye wouldn’t kick off until he had had a chance to wind up this new colleen we got.” O’Malley said it grimly, as though trying to make himself believe.
“Here comes Wing Commander Farrell and I think he’s looking for us,” Stan said.
“Sure, an’ ’tis the big man himself and no other. An’ comin’ to see us instead of us tramping over there. Me bye, the first thing we know, the King will be dropping in to have a spot of tea with us two intrepid fliers.” O’Malley’s big mouth was spread in a wide grin.
“Don’t get up, men,” the Wing Commander said as he came up. He seated himself and started in briskly. “I hear the Hawk is better than anyone thought.”
“Not better than I thought,” Stan said.
“Well, better than the inspectors and test men thought. They said she wasn’t reliable.”
“She is sensitive and temperamental,” Stan agreed.
“She chops up a Messerschmitt and spits out the pieces like me auld granddaddy used to whack up a box for kindlin’,” O’Malley broke in.
“Fine.” The Wing Commander smiled broadly. “I just dropped by to ask you boys to stay very close to quarters. We have reports of activity at sea and there may be quite a bit of action. I’d like to find out if this ship is really a dive bomber.”
O’Malley grinned happily and saluted the Wing Commander. He had not taken the trouble to get to his feet. Farrell returned the salute without so much as the twitch of a facial muscle.
“We’ll be ready, sir.” Stan stood at attention.
The Wing Commander walked away and Stan scowled down at his pal. “A fine officer you are.”
“Naval action, and my turn comin’ up,” O’Malley gloated.
An orderly called Stan to the telephone. When he returned he was smiling.
“Allison will make it. He won’t be laid up very long.”
“Hooray!” O’Malley shouted and leaped into the air. He headed straight across the room toward the counter. The corporal saw him coming and slid an apple pie off the shelf.
CHAPTER VII
SALT WATER SPRAY
The Wing Commander seemed bent upon saving the Hendee Hawk for some special show. For two days no call came for Stan and O’Malley. They lounged about, with O’Malley getting as restless as a panther and twice as grouchy. They went over to see Allison and found him sitting up. He would be out in a very short time.
Stan took the opportunity to give O’Malley a course of lessons dealing with the fine points of the Hawk.
“She carries two sticks of bombs when she’s out hunting. That’s something new. They put those sticks on just to pep you up. The other day, when we were zipping through Messerschmitt bullets, I gave them a thought or two. If a cannon ball or a bullet lands just right, off goes the stick of bombs and out you go.” Stan grinned at O’Malley as he spoke.
“Sure, an’ O’Malley will fix that,” the Irishman said. “We pick a nice spot and drop them firecrackers.”
“I’m glad you suggested it. It would have been against regulations for me to say anything about it.”
“Sure, we might find a Jerry to pop them down on, but no matter, they are no fit things to be kapin’ tucked under your wings whilst you’re sky scrappin’.” O’Malley shook his head.
“We’ll try them out. This is the best dive bomber that was ever built. You nose her straight down and pull the flaps. She settles herself to a 350 mile per hour pace and when you get your sights set you cut loose. It’s a dead cinch to pot a target that way.”
“Sure,” O’Malley agreed. “Only we aren’t bomber boys.”
They left O’Malley’s room and went to the mess. Stan read the pictorial while O’Malley took a nap. The blaring of the intersquadron speaker roused them. The Irishman’s feet hit the floor and he was awake at once.
“That’s us,” he mumbled.
“It’s everybody else, but it’s not us,” Stan growled.
It seemed the Group Captain and his men gathered around the map in headquarters had forgotten all about the Hendee Hawk.
“That’s the trouble in being a one-ship flight,” O’Malley muttered. “If we had three Spitfires we’d be up there now.”
An orderly entered and ran across to Stan. “Wing Commander Farrell’s instructions for Lieutenant Wilson,” he said as he handed Stan the paper.
Stan unfolded the paper and, with O’Malley reading the order out loud over his shoulder, he scanned the paper. They were to join a flight of Hurricanes and Spitfires setting out to contact enemy planes over the channel. Orders would be broadcast later, but the action was in connection with a naval attack. Their radio call would be Red Flight.
“Sure, an’ we’re still Red Flight,” O’Malley said as he whirled and made off.
They walked back to O’Malley’s room. Over a battered desk hung a piece of the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and on the desk lay a heavy German pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.
Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, “If this war keeps up you’ll be able to furnish a museum.”
O’Malley shook his head disconsolately. “’Tis little enough,” he complained. “This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Every time I down a plane it’s me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leaves nothing behind for me to remember it by.”
“The ones that smash up feel worse about it than you do,” Stan reminded him.
The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan had known him. “Faith, an’ I think of them poor devils sometimes,” he muttered. “’Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fighting because they’re told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one man orders them to. ’Tis a bad state of affairs this world is in, so help me.”
Stan nodded soberly. “The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast as we can. And we’d better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call.”
O’Malley yawned and nodded agreement. “Though it’s not likely they’ll be sending us up again soon,” he
