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.