SPECIAL TASK
The sympathy of the boys in the officers’ mess was wasted upon O’Malley. He was not impressed by the advanced rating he had missed, nor was he jealous of the new and shining bars and oak leaves his pals were wearing. He had checked in and been assigned flight leader of a flight of three planes whose task was special work. All that interested O’Malley was that he was due to head out over the Mediterranean Sea with the nose of his Lightning pointed toward Italy.
“Sure, an’ I’ll have Benito captured by the time you birds go into action,” he told the gang.
O’Malley’s exact duties were not very clear, nor was his crew a reality. No men had been assigned to him and he had no flight orders, but he had the assurance of the captain at operations that he would be on his way in a short time. If O’Malley had any suspicions as to the sort of work Colonel Benson had laid out for him, he did not show them. He was in exceptional good humor.
When he was called in by Captain Marks at headquarters, he dashed to the operations room as fast as he could. The captain smiled as O’Malley sprawled into a chair.
“I understand we are about to start an invasion of Italy,” the captain began. “The details are a military secret, but it’s coming and right away. There’s some spade work to be done and you are to handle a hot assignment.”
O’Malley’s big mouth spread in an eager grin.
“The commander has assigned you to this job because he feels you are specially fitted for the work.” The captain beamed, but there was a look in his eye that made O’Malley sit up and wipe the grin off his face.
“And what may it be?” he demanded.
“You are to ferry Lightnings to Malta.” The captain lifted a hand as O’Malley came out of his chair like a cork out of a bottle of Algerian wine. “This is dangerous business. You may have to fight your way through. This will be day flying.”
O’Malley snorted. “Fight! Sure, an’ ferryin’ to Malta is no work for a fighter pilot. ’Tis a job for these new colleens you got in the ferry service.”
“Colonel’s orders,” the captain said curtly. “And the planes are to be landed in Malta in fighting trim. As soon as I round up a couple of men to work with you, I’ll give you a call. Get set, because I’ll need you any hour now.”
O’Malley leaned forward and there was a dark gleam in his eyes. “Did you say fight our way through?” he asked.
“If necessary, but I understand you are a stunting fool. You shouldn’t have to fire a shot on any trip. The planes are not to be shot up. They are for combat use in the invasion.”
O’Malley was on his feet. “Foine,” he said sweetly. “’Tis a nice job, sor, an’ I’m appreciatin’ it.”
The captain fixed him with a suspicious eye. This ferry job had been tough to fill. It was vitally important and demanded experienced fighter pilots, but none of the men wanted it. Captain Marks had not been able to get a single man to accept the job. He was relieved when the colonel had sent over word that O’Malley would serve as flight leader. But he still had to locate two men to work with the Irishman. O’Malley was taking the whole thing too nicely. Captain Marks was worried. He knew O’Malley’s reputation and he had picked up a few hints of how O’Malley had been assigned to the job.
“I’ll give you the names of your crew as soon as I get them lined up,” the captain said gruffly.
“Shanghaied you mean,” O’Malley said in a honeyed tone.
“The colonel will locate a couple for me,” the captain answered with a grin.
O’Malley grinned back at him. “I know a couple I wish you could get hold of,” he said. He turned around and walked out of the office.
For a full five minutes O’Malley stood outside the office looking out toward the blue Mediterranean. There was a deep scowl on his face. Finally he sauntered into the mess and seated himself near a window. Elevating his feet, he closed his eyes and took a nap.
He was awakened by an orderly. The soldier saluted smartly and said:
“You are wanted at operations, sir.”
O’Malley got to his feet and walked into the briefing shack, which was a shed hastily erected outside the mess. Captain Marks was waiting for him. He shoved a sheaf of flight orders at O’Malley.
“You are to deliver three Lightning fighters to Malta. In case you meet enemy planes, you are to take proper evasive measures. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sor,” O’Malley said and added, “If we be attacked we fight?”
“Certainly, we don’t want these new planes shot down.”
Glancing at his flight orders, O’Malley moved leisurely out to the flight strip designated. Three Lightnings stood there with their props spinning. A ground crew was just leaving them. O’Malley nodded toward the chief mechanic who swung down out of the cockpit.
“Is this bag o’ bolts ready to fly?” he asked with a grin.
“She’s clicking fine, sir,” the sergeant answered.
O’Malley glanced at his orders. The two men under him were Ted Wilks and Pete Liske. He wondered what they had done to call down the colonel’s displeasure. Swinging up into the greenhouse, he palmed the hatch cover and got set.
“Wilks and Liske,” he called lazily. “This is your skipper, Mrs. O’Malley’s son. Get your crates hot.”
“Temperatures check,” Liske called back. His voice sounded sour.
“Which one of the Auld Man’s corns did you step on, Liske?” O’Malley asked.
“Same one I did,” Wilks called in.
“Can the chatter and get going,” snapped a voice from operations. “Lieutenant O’Malley, report out at once,” another voice cut in.
“Up to five thousand and then tuck in close to me,” O’Malley ordered.
“Read your flight sheets!” The voice from operations was sharp and snappy.
O’Malley laughed. “Shove off, me hearties,” he called.
Wilks went zooming off and Liske followed closely. O’Malley watched their take-off with a critical eye. He saw at once that he had been given two fledglings to nurse safely through. Like an old hen, he was expected to see them through by proper evasive tactics. O’Malley began whistling a bit of an Irish tune. He’d protect those kids, just let any Italian or German fighter show 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 captain looked at him sharply. He was very busy and delays did not improve his ragged temper.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he snapped.
O’Malley smiled at his two fliers. “Sure, an’ ’tis very ungrateful some people are. We risk our necks to deliver these crates an’ get a sour welcome.” He turned and walked away. The captain stood staring after him. He had not met a man like O’Malley before. Usually ferry pilots were not given to back talk.
The transport was waiting. O’Malley and his pals climbed in among an assortment of equipment and supplies being returned to base. In a short time they were back at their own briefing room. Three planes were ready and they took off again.
All day they ferried Lightnings across to Malta and not once did they sight enemy craft. O’Malley was wild when they checked in for the evening. He glared at the grinning Captain Marks.
“Sure, an’ something better bust loose tomorrow,” he cried.
“Probably will,” Marks answered.
O’Malley stomped away to quarters. Wilks and Liske dashed off to put in for an immediate transfer to more active duty. O’Malley hoped they got the transfer. He knew there was not much chance of him getting shifted, not as long as Colonel Benson was in command.