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

Before Allison or Stan could politely refuse, O’Malley answered, “Well, sir, I’m not partial to tea, but I could manage with a wee slab o’ pie.”

Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. “Would you boys have some pie?”

“No, thanks,” both spoke in unison.

The O.C. rang and an orderly appeared. He took the Commander’s order and hurried away. When the door closed the O.C. turned to Allison.

“I always get the bad part of every deal. Before me I have an order transferring you three men to Croydon Field. As soon as I get a few satisfactory men around me they are taken away.” He looked sourly at O’Malley as though blaming him. “Take this wild man, O’Malley. He has begun to attract notice.”

“It’s been so quiet no man could attract notice,” O’Malley said gloomily.

The O.C. smiled and fished another paper out of a tray. “Twenty-four hours in the air,” he read. “Three Dornier bombers and two Messerschmitt fighters shot down by Lieutenant O’Malley.” He slid the report into a file. “So this is quiet, eh?” He actually smiled as he said it.

The orderly returned with a tray which O’Malley eyed hopefully. The O.C. lifted a cloth from his luncheon. The orderly carried a plate to O’Malley and handed him a fork. O’Malley waved the fork aside and scooped the pie off the plate. Sadly, he inspected it. It was blueberry, the same as his mess was supplying. Out of the side of his mouth he said:

“Ah well, it will do, but I thought it might be the O.C. ate at a different mess.”

“You boys will report to headquarters at Croydon at once.” He looked at O’Malley and a startled expression came over his face. The Irisher’s pie had disappeared.

“Yes, sir,” Allison said and got to his feet.

The O.C. got to his feet and his wintry face cracked into a thin smile as he shook hands with each of the boys.

“This is quite a war and we have to hit as hard as we can and all pull together. They need you more at Croydon than I do here. Good luck to you.”

The three snapped salutes and faced about. They hurried out of the building and across the square. Within a half-hour they were packed and ready for the car that was to take them to their new home.

“I’m not sorry saying good-by to those bloated balloons,” Allison said as he looked up toward the south.

“I’m glad I’m leaving. It will save me punching a fellow officer in the jaw,” Stan said grimly.

“There won’t be anything excitin’ goin’ on over there,” O’Malley said sourly.

“They may have some other kind of pie.” Allison grinned.

An eager light came into O’Malley’s eye. “Sure, and that’s a thought worth rememberin’,” he muttered.

The mess at Croydon was a large room and had a phonograph as well as a console radio. There was a nice assortment of old but comfortable chairs and lounges, and there was a counter where food and drinks were served. The three members of Red Flight arrived at the mess about the same time.

O’Malley saw the counter at once and his eyes lighted eagerly. Back of the counter were shelves and on one of the shelves sat a half-dozen pies. A Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader were leaning against the center of the counter. Allison was for barging on past without disturbing the superior officers, but O’Malley had his eyes on the pie shelf.

“Shove in, me hearties, the treat’s on Mrs. O’Malley’s son.”

O’Malley shoved in beside the Wing Commander with Stan and Allison facing him.

“Tea,” Allison ordered.

“Coffee, black,” Stan said.

“Pie.” O’Malley said it hungerly.

The corporal behind the pie counter fixed Allison’s pot of tea and poured Stan’s coffee, then he turned to O’Malley.

“What kind of pie, sir?”

For a moment O’Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie.

“Apple,” he said hopefully.

The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O’Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways.

“But I say, sir, we don’t cut pies that way. It’s against regulations, sir.” The corporal was plainly flustered.

“Indaid?” O’Malley said. “An’ could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?”

“Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn’t be ruined and you’ll pay for only the portion you eat.”

“Ah,” O’Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.

The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.

“The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We’d like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven’t salvaged anything.”

“How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us something,” said the Squadron Leader.

“No, if we get one it will be by pure accident,” the Wing Commander answered sourly.

O’Malley was starting on his third piece of pie. He had it in his hand and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face the Wing Commander.

“The aisiest thing in the world, gettin’ one of them guns,” he said.

The Wing Commander turned toward O’Malley and looked from his face to the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost. Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O’Malley on the shin. O’Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a sub-zero morning.

“Did you speak, sir?” he asked.

O’Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.

“I said it would be aisy, gettin’ one of them new guns,” O’Malley repeated.

“Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night,” the Wing Commander snapped.

“And may I ask who I’ll deliver it to?” O’Malley opened his mouth and the rest of the pie disappeared into it.

Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander’s face, but his voice was steady.

“Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell.”

“Sure, an’ I’ll hand it to ye personal,” O’Malley promised.

The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O’Malley. They marched off together.

“Now you’ve done it, you Irisher,” Allison growled. “That’s the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour.”

“’Tis a lot too many brass hats this man’s army has around and I don’t like them, but I’ll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein’ as he seemed a bit worked up over that new Jerry gun.” O’Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.

Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O’Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O’Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.

“Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?”

“Sure, an’ I was just offerin’ to do me bit of winnin’ the war,” O’Malley said and closed his eyes.

Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O’Malley hadn’t been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O’Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.