The Jerry was standing with his arms still elevated. He was alone and unguarded.
“And be lettin’ O’Malley of Red Flight be knowin’ where you put the bye. I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts.” O’Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and saluted stiffly.
Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post outside headquarters.
Wing Commander Farrell was just finishing a flight report. His gray eyes were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O’Malley for a long minute, then remembered him and his pie.
“What do you want, Lieutenant?” he snapped. “I suppose you have that new enemy gun in your pocket.”
His sarcasm was lost upon O’Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped aside.
“Indaid, an’ I hope it’s the latest model. I put a very good Jerry flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin’ it to you.”
The Wing Commander’s eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.
“So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about,” he said. “It would seem some rumors are correct in this war.”
“An’ now, sor, I’ll be running along,” O’Malley said. “I’m feelin’ a bit o’ the pinch of hunger.”