They had to be satisfied with that. No one could tell what the squadron would run into, or when their course would be changed. Nor, of course, whether the carrier would ever see port again. In the meantime all they could do was trust to luck that the Hawk would be delivered ashore somehow. They were fortunate that they were being sent back by a motor launch and wouldn’t have to accompany the squadron across to the Norwegian coast.
CHAPTER VIII
STAN’S PAST RISES
O’Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after one look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.
“We’ll be collectin’ a bushel of medals in about a minute,” O’Malley said.
“We’ll probably lose a strip of hide for not bringing the Hawk home,” Stan replied grimly.
They entered the mess and found a large number of men about. The rousing welcome O’Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn’t like at all. The Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.
Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were looking at him and there was hostility in the glances they shot his way.
Tossing aside the paper, he got to his feet. There was one quick way to find out. He’d collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving everywhere but upon the Flight Lieutenant.
“Wing Commander Farrell wishes to speak to you, sir,” he reported.