O’Malley did not move. He lay sprawled where he had hit. Stan gritted his teeth and went up again, looking for more Japs. The sky was clear. Not an enemy ship was in sight, except for a number of wrecks on the ground.
“Flight Five, come in. Flight Five, come in,” headquarters began calling.
“Flight Five, coming in. Allison speaking.” Stan waited. “One plane lost. One pilot lost. Flight Five, coming in.”
They made rendezvous with Flight Four which was all intact and the five P–40’s went in. They eased down and landed, sliding down the field with rumbling motors.
Stan faced Allison as they climbed to the ground. Allison scowled bleakly, then he drawled.
“The next time that wild Irisher will listen to instructions.”
“There won’t be any next time for him,” a pilot said. “You can’t make that kind of flying stick out here. It might work against the Jerries, but not in a ten-to-one fight with the Japs.”
“You might be right in your tactics,” Allison said with a sardonic smile. “But you don’t know O’Malley.”
“I’m going to beat some sense into his head when he comes in,” Stan growled.
He knew both he and Allison were just talking. He remembered clearly the limp form lying in the rice paddy.