“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.