O’Malley got to his feet and walked into the briefing shack, which was a shed hastily erected outside the mess. Captain Marks was waiting for him. He shoved a sheaf of flight orders at O’Malley.
“You are to deliver three Lightning fighters to Malta. In case you meet enemy planes, you are to take proper evasive measures. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sor,” O’Malley said and added, “If we be attacked we fight?”
“Certainly, we don’t want these new planes shot down.”
Glancing at his flight orders, O’Malley moved leisurely out to the flight strip designated. Three Lightnings stood there with their props spinning. A ground crew was just leaving them. O’Malley nodded toward the chief mechanic who swung down out of the cockpit.
“Is this bag o’ bolts ready to fly?” he asked with a grin.
“She’s clicking fine, sir,” the sergeant answered.
O’Malley glanced at his orders. The two men under him were Ted Wilks and Pete Liske. He wondered what they had done to call down the colonel’s displeasure. Swinging up into the greenhouse, he palmed the hatch cover and got set.
“Wilks and Liske,” he called lazily. “This is your skipper, Mrs. O’Malley’s son. Get your crates hot.”
“Temperatures check,” Liske called back. His voice sounded sour.