A YANKEE FLIER IN
THE FAR EAST
CHAPTER I
REST CURE IN SINGAPORE
The air squadron mess of the Royal Air Force, Near East Command, was hot and close. Outside, white sunlight glared down on the steaming pavement and on the rank vegetation growing against a rock wall. Beyond that rock wall rose the marble and stone buildings of the city of Singapore.
Lieutenant O’Malley of the Royal Air Force elevated his feet to the top of a chair and lay back against a damp cushion. He craned his long neck and looked out upon the sweltering scene. Little rivers of sweat trickled down his neck and spread out under his shirt. Sadly, O’Malley contemplated the large slab of berry pie he held in his hand.
“’Tis a terrible thing to consider,” he muttered.
Lieutenant March Allison, who was sitting near him, opened his eyes and blinked.
“What,” he asked listlessly, “is so terrible?”
“I niver thought Mrs. O’Malley’s boy would iver be so hot he couldn’t eat a slab o’ pie.” O’Malley set the pie on the window ledge and pulled out a huge handkerchief. “This is as close to Hades as I iver plan to get.”
Leaning back, he elevated his feet a bit higher. Bill O’Malley was a lank Irishman with a skinny neck and a big Adam’s apple. His uniform hung on his bony frame in a most unmilitary manner. O’Malley’s most striking feature was his flaming red hair seldom disturbed by a comb. He was not a person to inspire fear or confidence.