w up.

Kicking down on one brake, he spun the Lightning around and sent her
zooming off the field, hanging her on her prop at once, and surging over
the hatch covers of his charges like a crazy angel heading for the sun.
His boys dropped in behind him and soon had snuggled in, wing to wing,
one on each side.

"So you birds were bad boys," O'Malley called across to his men.

"So what? We hear you were supposed to be a major," Liske answered
insolently.

"We didn't read the rule book careful," Wilks confessed with a laugh.

"From now on you won't be after needin' a rule book," O'Malley assured
them. He was scanning the blue sky eagerly. A pile of clouds, off to the
east, looked promising. He swung over that way. If there was a Jerry in
the whole area, he'd be hiding up in that cloud.

The three Lightnings zoomed low under the cloud but nothing happened.
The sky was as serene and calm as the sky over a Kansas wheat field or a
kirk in Kerry County, Ireland. O'Malley scowled and eased back against
the shock pad.

They roared over Pantelleria Island which had been occupied by the
British and Yanks. Sicily lay ahead and O'Malley knew evasive tactics
called for a wide sweep to the east and south. He had already flown
miles north in his hopeful quest of trouble. Easing down to two thousand
feet, they swept around in a circle that carried them within sight of
the coast of Sicily. But there was no enemy craft in sight in the air
and very few on the water along the coast. With a sigh O'Malley
straightened their course and headed in to Malta. They had flown a half
circle deep into enemy territory but nothing exciting had happened.
O'Malley was beginning to worry. If all of their ferry flights were
going to be like this, he would have to do something about it.

Picking up the radio signals from the Malta field, they slid in, spotted
the Yank landing strip, and set down. Ground crews rushed out to take
over. They swarmed around the Lightnings and had them moving off almost
before their pilots were out of the cockpits. O'Malley scowled. The
boys had no more respect for a ferry pilot than they did an M.P.

O'Malley obtained his release and acceptance of the planes from a
captain who rode out in a motorcycle. The captain seemed irritated.

"Your flight time is double what it should be. Get over to Number Three
Field and get your transportation back to Africa."

"Yes, sor," O'Malley said. "We drifted a bit off course."

The