"I say, old fellow, you should be crowing. You are now a flight commander and I understand you are to rate nothing less than a major."
"'Tis not the stripes I want," O'Malley muttered. "Sure, an' I'm told this Colonel Benson who is to be in command is a spalpeen of the worst sort. Niver did I care fer brass hats an' now I am to be near one all the time."
"I understand Colonel Benson holds to a strict diet, no coffee, tobacco, or pie," Stan said gravely. "He expects his men to follow his example."
O'Malley snorted. "Sure, an' I'll be after eatin' pie right off the top o' his desk."
"He is said to be the best-dressed officer in the Army." Allison had his gaze fixed upon O'Malley's sloppy uniform. The shirt was open at the neck to allow O'Malley's huge Adam's apple to roll up and down, free and unencumbered. O'Malley's cap was wrinkled and sagging as it attempted to cover his shock of wild hair.
"I'm a fightin' man," O'Malley said gravely. "As such I waste no time on trifles." His big mouth was tightly clamped shut and a frown wrinkled his homely face.
Stan and Allison broke out laughing. Colonel Benson would have to take O'Malley as he was, that they well knew. They had fought side by side with him in the Battle of Britain, in the Far East, and now in Africa. O'Malley was known as the wildest pilot in the service and one of the best.
"We better get going," Stan said as he rose to his feet. He held out a hand to O'Malley. "Hold off the invasion of Sicily and Italy until we get back, pal."
"I'll be startin' it tomorrow," O'Malley said sourly.
"Cheerio," Allison added as he shook hands with his pal.