Then O’Malley’s brogue burred. “Begorra, ’tis a very fine avening.”
Stan grinned. He was glad to hear the voice of the wild Irishman. After a battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bent forward.
“The same to you, Irisher.”
“And to you, Yank,” came Allison’s voice.
They slid in like mottled ghosts and Stan counted them. Nine Spitfires. There would be three new faces in Moon Flight tomorrow. Three new men for the raider shift. He toyed with the idea of slipping by and checking Garret’s guns, but gave it up. Garret would be wise enough to fire a burst or two. And, of course, he might have misjudged the lieutenant.
In the briefing room there was little talk. The boys were grim and sour. London had been bombed. They got little comfort out of the impressive score they had chalked up—ten Stukas and six Messerschmitts. They knew that if they had headed west they would have stopped the raid.
No one challenged Garret when he claimed one Stuka and a Messerschmitt. Nobody spoke to him. They went on into the mess and flopped down to wait for the metallic voice of the intersquadron speaker.
O’Malley lay on a bench with his feet up against the wall. Allison lay back, his eyes closed, his thin face colorless. Stan sat staring at the floor. He was trying to get a lot of things straight in his mind. He couldn’t honestly say Garret had led them east purposely. The main control room must have sent them in the wrong direction, but it all bothered him, anyway. And he knew the other boys had the same feeling.
CHAPTER IX
SPECIAL MISSION
Stan was further mystified the next day when Garret came to him in the mess. He was smiling and very friendly.
“I have been a rotter, Wilson,” he said and held out his hand. “After all, this is pretty serious business and there isn’t much place for personal grudges and gripes.”
Stan hid his surprise. He could find no words to answer Garret. He shook hands with the Squadron Leader. Garret slapped him on the back.
“I have the toughest gang of sky-busters in the whole Royal Air Force,” Garret said. “We’ll see that no more bombs land on London.”
As he walked away Stan looked after him. Now that Garret had left him he could think of several things he might have said. Allison came up and there was a mocking leer on his face.
“So you are teacher’s pet from now on?”
“Search me, but I still don’t think he likes me,” Stan said.
“He’s about to collar O’Malley.” Allison chuckled. “I’d give a new shilling to hear what that Irishman tells him.”
It happened they were near enough, because O’Malley bawled out what he had to say so loudly it could have been heard out on the field. Garret had halted and was smilingly giving O’Malley the glad hand. He stepped back a pace and his face flushed as the Irisher cut loose.
“Sure, an’ ye can save yer blarney!” O’Malley roared. “I’d as soon hang one on that hooked beak of yours as to be after lookin’ at ye!”
Garret backed up a step and lifted one hand. Stan and Allison could not hear what he said, but the officers near the pair were openly grinning. O’Malley loosed one more blast and his words brought chill, brittle silence to the room.
“I’m a thinkin’ you’d best head the Moon Flight in the right direction when the spalpeens come over again.”
The clicking of Garret’s heels was the only sound in the room. He marched out without a word. Everyone looked about uneasily. Such talk to a Squadron Leader was unheard of. Any other commander would have had O’Malley’s hide off in a minute and draped all over the place. The very fact that the Irishman had gotten away with it had a depressing effect upon the fliers. Allison broke the spell. He barged over to O’Malley and shoved out his hand.
“Shake, Irisher,” he said.
Judd, McCumber, and Kelley, all men who had belonged to the first spread Stan had been with, strolled over and a little group formed around O’Malley. Judd squinted up at the lank Irishman. He was a short, chubby-faced youngster of nineteen. His face was beaming happily.
“I’d never had the courage to talk like that to a Squadron Leader. I just went into a funk when he soaped me.”
O’Malley squinted down at Judd. “’Tis with me own eyes I saw you cut the fire of three Messers, me bye. Don’t you be blatherin’ me about courage.”
Judd flushed. He was all right when he was up there by himself, but he was bashful in a crowd. McCumber looked across at Allison.
“Red Flight should get a break after this,” he said meaningly.
Allison grinned wolfishly. “Really, now, Mac, Garret knows every boy in Moon Flight loves him.”
Kelley had not spoken nor had he laughed with the others. “He’d better stay out of my circle. I have folks living out beyond Kensington Gardens.”
No one said anything more about the raids. They all knew Kelley’s home had been smashed that night and that his father had been injured. Allison changed the subject.
“We certainly should get rid of Garret for the good of the service. He’s no fit leader and the squadron will go into a funk under him.”
“How will we do it?” Mac asked.
“I don’t know, but it has to be done. A decent leader would have wiped the floor with O’Malley and then grounded him for the rest of the war. A yellow streak has no place in this outfit.”
The men nodded their heads. What they could not understand was how Garret had gotten the job. They felt helpless because they had always depended upon the men at headquarters. Finally the group broke up without anyone offering a workable plan.
Just after noon the next day the O.C. sent for Stan. He was alone in his office and in very good spirits. Stan sat down beside his desk and waited.
“We have a few Hendee Hawks coming in,” Farrell beamed happily. “You are the man to handle them and to show the boys their fine points. In fact, you’re the only man we have who can do it quickly. We need those superfighters badly. Headquarters would like to do a little daylight bombing. Do you think a flight of Hawks could take a squadron of Liberators through?”
“They could,” Stan assured him. “Give me nine Hawks and my pick of pilots and well ride right in over Berlin.”
“You won’t get nine for a while, but we have three coming in.” The Wing Commander seemed interested in what Stan thought of that.
“Three will take a small flight through,” Stan said.
“I have to depend on you, Wilson. Without you, it will take several weeks to get them lined out and set for action.”
“We need train only one man. Allison can learn quickly.” Stan smiled broadly. “O’Malley learned in a couple of flights.”
The O.C. smiled, too. “Yes, your pie-eating friend will handle one, if we can drill some sense into his head.”
“O’Malley’s crazy but it’s the sort of lunacy we need,” Stan answered dryly.
Farrell nodded. He was already thinking about other things. “The Royal Air Force considered this shipment so important they routed the freighter north to avoid submarines and Stukas. It seems Nazi agents found out when she left. She had quite a trip and was chased far north, damaged by a sub and finally landed at our naval base in the Shetlands.”
