A Yankee Flier in Italy

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The party was about to break up. It had not been very successful. Lieutenant O’Malley had devoured only one blueberry pie. This meant he was feeling far from par. He sat sprawled in a big chair that once had belonged to a Moslem prince, his skinny legs elevated to the top of the mess table.

“Sure, an’ you fellows are skunks, beatin’ it off to do a soft stretch in Alexandria,” he growled.

Lieutenant Stan Wilson, United States Army Air Corps, grinned at his Irish pal.

“They need brains in Alexandria to tell them what to do.” Stan sipped his coffee and continued to grin.

March Allison leaned across the table. Allison was British, slight and neatly dressed. There was always a mocking smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

“I say, old fellow, you should be crowing. You are now a flight commander and I understand you are to rate nothing less than a major.”

“’Tis not the stripes I want,” O’Malley muttered. “Sure, an’ I’m told this Colonel Benson who is to be in command is a spalpeen of the worst sort. Niver did I care fer brass hats an’ now I am to be near one all the time.”

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