he Squadron Commander. As he did so he realized
he had made a mistake. They were silently watching, their faces
expressionless.

"Well then, Canuck, if you've checked my guns I'll pull down those
credits," Garret snarled.

"You said something about my lying," Stan gritted as he swung around to
face the flier. His six feet and two hundred pounds of muscular body
made him look like a certain Colorado U. half-back who had once been
picked as All-American. Stan wouldn't have admitted it, he wouldn't have
dared, but he had once been a great blocking back.

Allison stepped forward. "You come with me, Wilson," he said. "I want to
tell you a few things you ought to know."

The Squadron Leader nodded to Allison. He turned upon his heel without
looking at Garret. Snarling, his lips twisted with anger, Garret made
off to his cubicle.

In the mess Allison sank into a chair. He grinned across at Stan, who
had seated himself. "Mind if I order tea? I've drunk a gallon of coffee
just to be polite to you."

Stan grunted, "You don't have to be polite to me."

"I don't intend to from now on, old man." Allison's eyes were twinkling.

"What's on your mind? Regulations and such rot, I suppose." Stan was
still hot under the collar.

"We don't do it that way here," Allison said. "A rotter like Garret is
always taken care of."

"You mean he's out?"

"No, I can't swing that, but we don't have to have him in Red Flight."
He reached for the cup of tea the corporal had set in front of him. "You
made an enemy who will go a long way to stymie you."

"He'd better stay out of my way," Stan growled.

Allison grinned. "Guess he had, at that," he admitted.

CHAPTER III

BILL O'MALLEY

Allison leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. Stan waited for the
Flight Lieutenant to explain his sudden mirth. Allison had just come
from the O.C.'s office. He turned to Stan.

"I put in a call for a new flier. After all, I can't have a couple of
prize fighters trailing me around. I got a very sweet fighting man. He
doesn't love the English so much, and he doesn't hate the Jerries so
much. He's an Irish boy whose ancestors haven't missed a war in a
thousand years. He just couldn't stay out of this one." Allison chuckled
and nodded his head.

Stan turned his gaze toward the door, which had swung inward revealing a
tall youth.

"There," said Allison, "comes Bill O'Malley."

Bill O'Malley was long and lank, with an Adam's apple that b