O’Malley stared gloomily up into the sky. Stan nudged him. “How about some breakfast?” he asked.

O’Malley brightened a bit. “I ordered a pie for breakfast,” he said. “If that cook forgot my pie, he’ll be no more than a grease spot when I get through with him.”

O’Malley got his pie, a thick apple pie dripping with juice. He cut it into quarters, slid one slab out on his fist and began munching, paying no attention to the dripping juice. Stan stared into his coffee cup. He was thinking.

O’Malley finished his second quarter of pie. He looked at Stan.

“What you dreamin’ up now?” he asked.

Stan smiled faintly. “You know, I have a hunch we might fool those Jerries. They have this all down to a science. A flight is reported to their head man and he figures out just how far we can fly. If we could do say a hundred miles more, we’d have some fun.”

“So you’re goin’ to order planes with a hundred more miles gas supply.” O’Malley grunted and attacked his third piece of pie.

“We could take along emergency tanks and drop them,” Stan said.

O’Malley halted the movement of his hand. His mouth was open like a cavern. He closed it.

“Sure, an’ ’tis a brilliant idea. We’ll see the general about it as soon as I’ve finished me pie.”

“No, we’ll see Holt. He’s our superior officer. Let him have the credit.” Stan leaned back.

“If we tell a lot o’ brass hats, the Jerries will sure hear about it,” O’Malley said sourly.

“I think not. We have to get permission to install the tanks, you know. This isn’t the South Pacific where you just go to your ground crew and ask them to rig up something for you.” Stan laughed as O’Malley screwed his face into a frown.

“I’ll say it’s not the South Pacific,” he agreed. “We got so many rules here a fellow gets tangled up before he takes off.”

“We have lots of time on our hands. We’ll barge over and have Allison tell us what happened. He’ll be back after a bit.”