“Indaid?” O’Malley said. “An’ could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?”
“Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn’t be ruined and you’ll pay for only the portion you eat.”
“Ah,” O’Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.
The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.
“The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We’d like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven’t salvaged anything.”
“How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us something,” said the Squadron Leader.
“No, if we get one it will be by pure accident,” the Wing Commander answered sourly.
O’Malley was starting on his third piece of pie. He had it in his hand and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face the Wing Commander.
“The aisiest thing in the world, gettin’ one of them guns,” he said.
The Wing Commander turned toward O’Malley and looked from his face to the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost. Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O’Malley on the shin. O’Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a sub-zero morning.