Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.

The bobbies nodded their heads and grinned broadly. They lifted their sticks and moved out, well satisfied with their work. Stan called after them:

“If you meet an ambulance wandering about tell the driver to go back to the hospital and give my regards to the head nurse.” He sank into a chair and grinned up at his friends. “How about some clothes?”

“Coming right up. You can borrow my dress uniform,” Allison said. “O’Malley insisted we hold off replacements for another day. The hospital said you’d be laid up for weeks, but O’Malley had a hunch you wouldn’t let them keep you.”

Stan told what had happened. When he had finished O’Malley beat a bony fist on the table.

“Faith, an’ I think the gas business is a trick of that rotter, Garret. What he’s after needin’ is a good taste of me fist,” he bellowed.

“We have no proof. If one of you fellows beat him up we’d all be grounded, you know,” Allison cut in.

“If Garret was on the crew that handled the fueling that’s enough for me,” Stan said grimly.

“He was put in charge of our hangar by the O.C. But you can bet he covered his dirty work carefully. We’ll just have to trap him.” Allison spoke grimly.

“And in the meantime we better check our ships before we go out each time,” Stan said. “If I’d done that this time I’d have brought my Spitfire back whole and wouldn’t have had to take a bath in the channel.”

“I’ll bet the spalpeen will get a scare when you walk into that hangar,” O’Malley said with a grin.

Stan got to his feet. “I’m going out there just as soon as I get some clothes. I warn you, O’Malley, this is my fight. You stay out of it.”

O’Malley’s eyes glittered. “I niver could stay out of a good scrap, but if you wade into him I’m thinkin’ there won’t be anything left for me to do but pick up the pieces.”

“You better keep a tight hand on your temper, old chap,” Allison warned.

“I will. I’ll have the low-down before I sock him,” Stan promised.

A half-hour later, dressed in one of Allison’s uniforms, and looking little worse for his ducking, Stan strolled into the hangar. Garret was not about so he went to the crew that had handled his ship. They were really glad to see him, he was sure of that. He looked them over and had a feeling none of them had had any part in the plot.

“Who gassed my Spitfire before she went out on the last raid?” His eyes moved from man to man.

A corporal stepped forward. “I did, sir.”

“Was the tank full when you rolled her out?”

“Yes, sir. I rechecked. She was full up.” The corporal was positive.

“Did you gas her up immediately before the flight?”

“No, we always gas up as soon as the Spits come in, so they’ll be ready without delay. Sometimes they go right back up.”

Stan nodded. He had known that. “Was the squad out for breakfast?”

A sergeant spoke up. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Garret sent us all out together. Squad Four was on duty down the line and could keep an eye on things and shove out for us if a call came.”

“He went with you?”

“Yes, he walked as far as his mess with us.”

Stan smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “My gas turned out a bit short and I got a ducking in the channel.”

He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned and walked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure he would have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garret entered.

“Hello, Garret,” Stan said and grinned.

Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and his eyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.

“You think you can railroad me clean out of this man’s army, but you’ll get yours, and I’ll be back in the air again.”

“If any other funny things happen to my ship I’m going to take a poke at that pretty face of yours,” Stan said.

Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walked across the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there was no mistake about that, and he hated Stan Wilson. Stan had a feeling, too, that Garret was going to make good on his threat.

He wasn’t sure how Garret intended to do it, or how much the fellow knew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan had an uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected the truth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson’s past that Stan had hoped he could leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi war machine.

But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man can ever wholly escape his past. Fate has a way of stepping in and smashing the best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate had selected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.

O’Malley sat at a table with a whole pie before him. He sliced it neatly across, then turned it half around and sliced it across again. Allison snorted his contempt while Stan watched, a grin on his face.

“Niver be it said an O’Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o’ pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?”

“Thanks, no,” Stan answered. “I’m carrying all the ballast I can handle right now.”

“I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you’ve had this afternoon?” Allison cocked an eye at O’Malley whose big mouth was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.

O’Malley munched the pie. “’Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O’Malley makes, now they are pies.” He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.

At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper. Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the orderly.

“Nothin’ iver happens in this here spot,” O’Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. “And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie.”

“We’ll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O’Malley,” Allison said. “But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office.”

O’Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.

“I say, Irisher, you can’t go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand.”

“Sure, and that’s a fact,” O’Malley agreed. “Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I’ll fix it according to regulations.” He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.

Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.’s office. Their rap at the door was answered by a gruff voice and they entered.

The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said gruffly.

They sat down, O’Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn’t had a square meal in a week.

The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O’Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.

“Something reminds me I have not had a bite to eat so far today,” he said. “Do you boys mind if I have something sent in while I’m talking with you? I won’t be able to get away later.”

“Certainly not, sir,” Allison said.

The O.C. was still looking at O’Malley. “Will you boys join me? A spot of tea or something?”