March Allison laughed his old, cynical laugh. “A Yank,” he said and snapped a smart salute which the general returned.
Out on the street a minute later he turned to Stan. “What is his name?”
“Tom Miller,” Stan replied.
O’Malley stopped and looked at Stan. “What sort of a country have you got over there?” he demanded. “By the shades o’ St. Patrick, if that general is Tom Miller, I’m Chiang himself.”
“We have Irish policemen, Chinese lawyers and Hindu doctors,” Stan said without a smile.
“I’m going over there after the war,” O’Malley declared. “Just to have a good look.”
At that moment the Malay boy who had admitted them to the presence of General Miller appeared.
“Come, please,” he said.
They followed him toward the waterfront. At a small fruit stand they met a short Chinese youth dressed in white duck pants and wearing a flat, straw hat. Their Malay guide bobbed his head and spoke in Chinese to the youth. The youth smiled at the three fliers, revealing two rows of even white teeth.
“Welcome to the China Air Arm. I am Tom Koo, flight officer.”