O’Malley barged past Stan and caught the man’s hand. “Glad ye’re alive,” he said eagerly.
“O’Malley?” Sim stared at O’Malley as he said it. He looked up at Stan. “Wilson, you here, too.”
Stan grinned. “Yes, I’m here. We cracked up on a fighter strip while bombing with Mustangs. I’m glad you made it safely. When I last saw you, your P-51 had buried its nose in the ground.”
Sim’s eyes narrowed sharply. “That crack-up knocked me silly,” he said grimly. “I don’t remember much.” He put his hand to his head. “I was nuts for quite a while, I guess. Even now I forget things. Sometimes I forget what’s happened.”
“You’ll come around,” O’Malley said cheerfully.
“They might let us three have this room together,” Sim said. “I’d like to have you fellows around.”
“It could be fixed,” the Britisher said. “They let us line up about as we wish. I’ll help you fix it. I’ve been here a couple of months.”
Stan went with the R.A.F. man. They located a non-com who told them to shift around as they pleased. He seemed to know who Stan was and all about him and O’Malley.
“Ve treat you goot,” he said.
As they went back the Britisher said, “Some of these Nazis are beginning to try to make friends with us. I guess they figure they may need some friends among the Allies one of these days.”