"What kind of pie, sir?"
For a moment O'Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie.
"Apple," he said hopefully.
The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O'Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways.
"But I say, sir, we don't cut pies that way. It's against regulations, sir." The corporal was plainly flustered.
"Indaid?" O'Malley said. "An' could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?"
"Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn't be ruined and you'll pay for only the portion you eat."
"Ah," O'Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.
The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.
"The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We'd like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven't salvaged anything."