Rutherford Montgomery: A Yankee Flier in Italy

Ten minutes later the corporal returned. He was carrying a tin plate with half of a blueberry pie on it.

“Thank you, son,” O’Malley said as he slid the pie into his lap. He scooped out a quarter of the pie and opened his mouth. As he bit down upon the pie he began to grin. He gave his attention to the colonel with the first real show of interest he had given during the afternoon. The quarter of pie disappeared quickly. O’Malley slid the remaining quarter into his hand and opened his mouth.

“The close co-ordination between our fighter units and the low-level bombers will be secured by a system of code signals.” Colonel Benson’s voice snapped off suddenly. His green eyes were on O’Malley and sparks flashed in their depths. The other boys turned and looked at O’Malley.

“You are hungry, Lieutenant O’Malley?” Colonel Benson asked coldly.

“Yes, sor. ’Tis three hours an’ more past dinnertime,” O’Malley answered calmly as he shoved half of the pie into his mouth.

“Stop! Stop—swilling that pie!” the colonel roared.

O’Malley got rid of the pie in a simple manner. He shoved what was left into his mouth and munched upon it.

For a full minute the colonel could not think of anything to say. But his face got deeper red and his eyes blazed. Finally he rapped on his desk and said:

“Gentlemen, I will not tolerate eating during a conference. Any sort of eating. I will not tolerate eating pie while I am giving instructions. Lieutenant O’Malley, you will retire. I will consider your case later.”

O’Malley got to his feet. He handed the pie plate to the embarrassed corporal. “Thank you, sor,” he drawled as he made off.

The colonel snorted and went back to his lecture. O’Malley headed for the mess hall. The half pie had whetted his appetite. Locating a comfortable place near a window he ordered a big dinner, with a whole blueberry pie for dessert. In a leisurely manner he began devouring his meal.

He had spent most of an hour enjoying his dinner and was ready to eat his pie, when the fliers began drifting in from the conference. Several of them headed toward O’Malley’s table. O’Malley was the most famous pilot in their outfit. The stories about him amounted almost to legend. The boys admired his disregard for military usage. All of them had been working according to the colonel’s carefully explained plans for months and knew them better than the colonel did. They had been bored by the long session but had not had the nerve to show their feelings.

But none of them reached O’Malley. Colonel Benson came in and strode over to O’Malley’s table.

Nodding to O’Malley, he said, “Mind if I join you?” His voice did not sound so stiff outside his office.

“Sure, an’ I’m glad to have you,” O’Malley said, but there was a gleam of suspicion in his eye.

Colonel Benson seated himself. He watched O’Malley attack the pie. His interest amounted to fascination and he did not speak until O’Malley had finished three fourths of the pie. He ordered coffee and leaned back.

“I have heard a great deal about you, Lieutenant,” he began.

O’Malley did not think this remark called for an answer, so he went on eating his pie.

“I know you are an excellent pilot, though I understand you are a bit reckless.” There was a gleam that might have been humor in the colonel’s eye.

O’Malley leaned back. He pushed the pie plate away from him and uttered a contented sigh.

“However, I’m afraid you are not the type of man I want working beside me. With your permission, I will find you another assignment.” The colonel watched O’Malley as he spoke.

“What sort o’ work?” O’Malley asked.

“Flying a fighter plane, of course.” Colonel Benson smiled.

“’Twill suit me foine,” O’Malley said. “I’m not likin’ the idea o’ bein’ a brass hat.”

“I don’t think you would make a very good one,” the colonel said. “There will be no further mention of your pie-eating exhibition of this afternoon. You will report to operations for your new assignment.”

“Thank you, sor.”

The colonel drank his coffee and arose. O’Malley got to his feet and managed a snappy salute. The colonel moved off and the boys closed in to find out what had happened.

The sympathy of the boys in the officers’ mess was wasted upon O’Malley. He was not impressed by the advanced rating he had missed, nor was he jealous of the new and shining bars and oak leaves his pals were wearing. He had checked in and been assigned flight leader of a flight of three planes whose task was special work. All that interested O’Malley was that he was due to head out over the Mediterranean Sea with the nose of his Lightning pointed toward Italy.

“Sure, an’ I’ll have Benito captured by the time you birds go into action,” he told the gang.

O’Malley’s exact duties were not very clear, nor was his crew a reality. No men had been assigned to him and he had no flight orders, but he had the assurance of the captain at operations that he would be on his way in a short time. If O’Malley had any suspicions as to the sort of work Colonel Benson had laid out for him, he did not show them. He was in exceptional good humor.

When he was called in by Captain Marks at headquarters, he dashed to the operations room as fast as he could. The captain smiled as O’Malley sprawled into a chair.

“I understand we are about to start an invasion of Italy,” the captain began. “The details are a military secret, but it’s coming and right away. There’s some spade work to be done and you are to handle a hot assignment.”

O’Malley’s big mouth spread in an eager grin.

“The commander has assigned you to this job because he feels you are specially fitted for the work.” The captain beamed, but there was a look in his eye that made O’Malley sit up and wipe the grin off his face.

“And what may it be?” he demanded.

“You are to ferry Lightnings to Malta.” The captain lifted a hand as O’Malley came out of his chair like a cork out of a bottle of Algerian wine. “This is dangerous business. You may have to fight your way through. This will be day flying.”

O’Malley snorted. “Fight! Sure, an’ ferryin’ to Malta is no work for a fighter pilot. ’Tis a job for these new colleens you got in the ferry service.”

“Colonel’s orders,” the captain said curtly. “And the planes are to be landed in Malta in fighting trim. As soon as I round up a couple of men to work with you, I’ll give you a call. Get set, because I’ll need you any hour now.”

O’Malley leaned forward and there was a dark gleam in his eyes. “Did you say fight our way through?” he asked.

“If necessary, but I understand you are a stunting fool. You shouldn’t have to fire a shot on any trip. The planes are not to be shot up. They are for combat use in the invasion.”

O’Malley was on his feet. “Foine,” he said sweetly. “’Tis a nice job, sor, an’ I’m appreciatin’ it.”

The captain fixed him with a suspicious eye. This ferry job had been tough to fill. It was vitally important and demanded experienced fighter pilots, but none of the men wanted it. Captain Marks had not been able to get a single man to accept the job. He was relieved when the colonel had sent over word that O’Malley would serve as flight leader. But he still had to locate two men to work with the Irishman. O’Malley was taking the whole thing too nicely. Captain Marks was worried. He knew O’Malley’s reputation and he had picked up a few hints of how O’Malley had been assigned to the job.

“I’ll give you the names of your crew as soon as I get them lined up,” the captain said gruffly.