BILL O’MALLEY
Allison leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. Stan waited for the Flight Lieutenant to explain his sudden mirth. Allison had just come from the O.C.’s office. He turned to Stan.
“I put in a call for a new flier. After all, I can’t have a couple of prize fighters trailing me around. I got a very sweet fighting man. He doesn’t love the English so much, and he doesn’t hate the Jerries so much. He’s an Irish boy whose ancestors haven’t missed a war in a thousand years. He just couldn’t stay out of this one.” Allison chuckled and nodded his head.
Stan turned his gaze toward the door, which had swung inward revealing a tall youth.
“There,” said Allison, “comes Bill O’Malley.”
Bill O’Malley was long and lank, with an Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down his throat. His bony shoulders were stooped in a most unmilitary manner, and his head boasted a thatch of flaming red hair. He was about the last person in the world Stan would have picked as a daredevil flier. His homely face and his sloppy figure would not have inspired fear or confidence in anyone. Allison waved to him.
“Hi, old fellow, come over and meet a pal.”
Bill O’Malley grinned as he slouched across the room. As soon as his big mouth cracked into a smile Stan knew he was going to like this big Irisher.
Allison arose. He was acting with deliberate and mock politeness. “O’Malley, meet Wilson,” he said with a sweep of his arm. Then the derisive mask slipped over his face and he seated himself again.
“Sure, ’tis a quiet an’ homelike place ye have here, Commander,” O’Malley said. “Wilson, me boy, I’m right glad to meet up with ye.”