The three Royal Air Force pilots soon discovered that men of the Flying Tigers had no real names. They were Big Moose or Jake or Sandy; any name that happened to be tagged to them by the fancy of their fellow fliers. They were lone wolves of the air, prowling in threes or in pairs or alone.
To such a group, Nick Munson was poison. Within two days after he had taken over instruction of the squadron, he had accomplished something sinister. The Tigers were spitting at one another and were not doing nearly so good a job of covering the vast area they had to protect.
Stan, Allison, and O’Malley were sitting in their little bunk room. Their bodies were stripped to the waist and gleamed with moisture. The air seemed to press down upon them, hot and suffocating. Outside, stars gleamed and a pale moon shone through a cloudless sky.
“Somebody has to start a movement to get rid of Munson,” Stan said grimly. “I never saw a tougher, more wild crew than we have, but they’ll go to pieces if he keeps at them.”
“Sure, an’ we ought to punch him in the nose. We could throw him out o’ this outfit and chase him out o’ Burma,” O’Malley said.
“There ought to be a better way,” Allison said. “A way that would not make an outlaw outfit out of the gang. The Chinese want to give us a free hand, but if we get to staging riots, they’ll have to step in and take control.”
“We each have to watch Munson and try to catch him at some trick or another, then we’ll have him,” Stan said.
“’Tis a waste o’ good time,” O’Malley argued.
“Stan is right. We’ll keep an eye on him.” Allison smiled. “But just remember this, he has the three of us spotted. He knows we became suspicious of him on the trip up here. He’ll be doing a little watching himself, or I miss my guess.”
Stan got to his feet. “It’s too hot in here for me,” he said. “I’m going for a walk.”