The air squadron mess of the Royal Air Force, Near East Command, was hot and close. Outside, white sunlight glared down on the steaming pavement and on the rank vegetation growing against a rock wall. Beyond that rock wall rose the marble and stone buildings of the city of Singapore.

Lieutenant O’Malley of the Royal Air Force elevated his feet to the top of a chair and lay back against a damp cushion. He craned his long neck and looked out upon the sweltering scene. Little rivers of sweat trickled down his neck and spread out under his shirt. Sadly, O’Malley contemplated the large slab of berry pie he held in his hand.

“’Tis a terrible thing to consider,” he muttered.

2 Lieutenant March Allison, who was sitting near him, opened his eyes and blinked.

“What,” he asked listlessly, “is so terrible?”

“I niver thought Mrs. O’Malley’s boy would iver be so hot he couldn’t eat a slab o’ pie.” O’Malley set the pie on the window ledge and pulled out a huge handkerchief. “This is as close to Hades as I iver plan to get.”

Leaning back, he elevated his feet a bit higher. Bill O’Malley was a lank Irishman with a skinny neck and a big Adam’s apple. His uniform hung on his bony frame in a most unmilitary manner. O’Malley’s most striking feature was his flaming red hair seldom disturbed by a comb. He was not a person to inspire fear or confidence.

“Oh, now, I say, old chap,” Allison drawled, “this is not such a bad spot. His Majesty’s Army has been downright thoughtful, sending us out here to the glamorous East for a rest cure.”

Allison eased himself upward in his chair. He was a slender young man. His uniform fitted him neatly. His blond hair was close-clipped.3 There was a hint of insolent mockery in his cool, gray eyes. Allison was an ace who had made a name for himself in the wild days of the Battle for Britain. He smiled at O’Malley as he went on talking.

“O’Malley, you have not made good use of your time here in Singapore. You have not seen any of the sights.” There was more than a hint of mockery in Allison’s voice. He himself had not set foot outside quarters.

O’Malley turned and squinted at Allison. “Sure, an’ I know all about Singapore. Singapore, the Lion City, crossroads o’ the East!” O’Malley’s voice dropped to a drawl. “Ivery time you open a tin can or have a blowout you make business for Singapore, for it boasts the biggest tin smelters in the world and half o’ the rubber in the world comes through its gates.” He grinned widely. “And it stinks and it’s hot and it’s dead as a graveyard. Ivery one of us might as well be buried in County Kerry, Ireland.”

“We’ll get some patrol duty after a while. The Japs want Singapore and will make a grab for it,” Allison predicted. His mood matched that of O’Malley but he refused to4 admit it. They were stuck in the Far East, thousands of miles from the battle lines. To his way of thinking, they might well remain there for the rest of the war, making routine flights over a smelly jungle infested with crocodiles, tigers and leeches.

“Mrs. O’Malley’s boy joined up to fight, not to melt,” O’Malley growled. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll hire meself out as a deck hand an’ beat me way back home. I can enlist under another name.”

“You won’t do that,” Allison snapped.

“Why not? I’m doin’ no good here,” O’Malley retorted.

“You won’t desert. I’d turn you in, you redheaded Irisher. As your superior officer I’d break your neck.” Allison’s gray eyes had lost their insolent flicker and were cold and hard.

O’Malley grinned broadly and reached for the slab of pie which was dripping berry juice down the wall. “You mean you’d be after tryin’,” he said as he opened his big mouth and shoved half of the piece of pie into it.

“How can you eat a whole pie before dinner?5 Here it is one hundred twenty in the shade and you eat pie.” Allison shuddered.

“Just a snack,” O’Malley assured him. “I’m really off me feed on account o’ the heat.”

He had just finished the pie when another flier entered. He was tall and well-built, typically Yank. Allison waved a hand lazily. O’Malley just grunted.

Stan Wilson crossed the room and seated himself at the open window, being careful to avoid the berry stains. Back in the United States Stan Wilson had been a test pilot, then he had joined the Royal Air Force and spent savage months battling for Britain.

O’Malley let his feet slide to the floor with a thud. “I’ve been tellin’ Allison what a rotten hole this is. We’ll be seein’ no action out here.”

“I aim to, and right away,” Stan Wilson announced excitedly. “Of course you two bums will want to rest and enjoy the charming atmosphere of Singapore. But I’m on my way to a war.”

“See here, old fellow,” Allison began,6 “just because you’re a Yank and can get a release, you don’t have to sneak off and leave us to dehydrate. You have to stick around until we all get called back to London.”

“You’ll get action when the Japs cut loose, plenty of it. I think they’re about ready to grab Singapore while it’s still asleep. But I don’t want to wait that long,” Stan said.

“Wherever you’re goin’ I’m comin’ along,” O’Malley said. He had lost all of his laziness.

Stan grinned widely. “It might be arranged.”

“Now see here, let me in on this plot,” Allison cut in.

“It seems the United States is lending fliers to China. A hundred or so pilots, ships and ground men. Their job is to protect the Burma Road and help the Chinese build up an air force of their own.” His grin widened. “Of course there will be a few odds in favor of the Japs, probably twenty to one or something like that.”

“They’d never release O’Malley and me,” Allison said sourly.

7 “I did a bit of snooping and wire-pulling. The Wing Commander is a mighty reasonable man. He feels that the Chinese should be encouraged a bit.” Stan got to his feet.

O’Malley and Allison were at his side at once. “When do we pull out?” O’Malley asked eagerly.

“You boys have to get your releases and then you have to sign up with the Chinese. Me, I’m one of Chiang Kai-shek’s majors.”

“You spalpeen! Salute one of Chiang’s generals!” O’Malley pulled himself up as straight as he could. “I’ll most certainly get a generalship.”

“The pay is all the same,” Stan said with a smile.

“Whom do we have to see?” Allison asked.

“You see Wing Commander Beakin for your release. He’ll put you on the right track,” Stan said.

“I said, when do we leave?” O’Malley demanded.

“Right away. We are to ferry a Hudson bomber up to Rangoon.” Stan laughed at8 the impatient O’Malley. “I have already listed you two as probable members of the crew. Majors O’Malley and Wilson; Major Allison commanding,” Stan explained.

“I say, old fellow,” Allison protested, “you rate the commander’s stripes.”

“Nothing doing. This is still Red Flight of the old Channel days. There won’t be any changes in personnel, except that we have to take along another flier, a fellow by the name of Nick Munson.”

“Is he Royal Air Force?” Allison asked.

Stan shook his head. “No combat training, I guess. He’s an American and is supposed to have flown test jobs over in the States. He’s signed up and we’ll take him along.”

“What are we waitin’ for?” O’Malley cut in impatiently.

“One other thing I ought to tell you,” Stan said. “The Japs will consider us outlaws and spies. If they catch us, they’ll shoot us. This won’t be the Royal Air Force, this is wildcat work and mighty tough.”

“The Chinese Air Force needs a helping9 hand,” Allison drawled in his most ironical manner.

Stan grinned. He had known all along that his pals would go with him. “We may as well step across into the gardens and meet Nick Munson,” he said.

The three fliers stepped out of the mess and walked across a broad plaza. Outside the iron fence crowds hurried along a narrow street. There was a babel of races and colors and castes which the wealth of rubber and tin had drawn to Singapore from every part of the teeming East. People hurried past, some of them half-naked, jinrikisha coolies trotted along, their bodies gleaming with moisture, pulling carts in which perspiring passengers sat fanning themselves.

“’Tis no white man’s country,” O’Malley muttered as they crossed the street and shoved their way through the throng.

They entered a palm garden and Stan led the way across a lush lawn to where a heavy-set man stood talking to a laughing group of native girls. The girls seemed to be enjoying the white man’s jokes and well able10 to understand him. Allison scowled but O’Malley grinned.

“Nick, meet your future buddies,” Stan greeted the stranger.

Nick Munson turned around and looked at O’Malley and Allison. He was a dark-faced man with close-set eyes and a tightly cropped mustache. His eyes darted over the slacks and white shirts of the fliers. Stan made the introduction brief.

“This is Bill O’Malley and March Allison; Nick Munson.”

“Out here for the rest cure?” Nick’s lips curled just a trifle. “Jerries got a bit too hot, eh?”

O’Malley’s grin faded and his chin stuck out. “’Tis not so good I am at hearin’,” he said. “Would you be after repeatin’ that remark?”

“No offense meant,” Nick Munson answered quickly. “I hear you are both aces.”

“We have been lucky at times,” Allison said, his voice very soft.

“They are two of the best,” Stan cut in. “You can learn a lot from them.”

“I might and I might be able to teach them11 something. I’m signed up as an instructor to show the boys some of the new wrinkles we have developed over in the States.” Nick Munson smiled a little patronizingly.

Stan looked at him thoughtfully. “I have had a bit of experience in the United States,” he said.

Nick Munson did not meet Stan’s steady gaze. “That must have been a while back,” he said.

“Not so long ago,” Stan answered, then added, “but we must be toddling along. I just wanted you to meet the men you’ll be working with. See you later.”

They turned away, leaving Nick to amuse the native girls. When they had crossed the street, O’Malley growled:

“That spalpeen better not try teachin’ me any new tricks.”

“He’ll bear watching,” Allison remarked.

“If he makes any more wisecracks I’ll sock him,” O’Malley threatened. “He made me mad first, so I get first whack.”

Allison laughed. “Don’t be a nut, Irish. He’ll make a good man once he’s been up the glory trail and has had some hot lead12 smacked through his ship. He may even learn a few new wrinkles the Americans have not worked out.” He gave Stan a knowing leer. “Yanks are all a bit cocky at first.”

“Nick isn’t a fair sample,” Stan said quickly. “Before you get out of China, you’ll meet a lot of fellows who are right good men.”

They walked across the grounds to headquarters and turned in. Wing Commander Beakin was seated at his desk. In spite of the heat, he was dressed in full uniform. He frowned heavily as he looked at them.

“Deserters?” he asked in clipped tones.

“No, sir, just recruits,” Allison answered.

“China, eh?” The commander did not wait for an answer. “Well, boys, you can serve up there better than down here right now. We all know trouble is on the way. Japan is about ready to strike. The stronger China is, the safer we are down here. We have to keep supplies moving in over the Burma Road just as long as it can be kept open.”

“Yes, sor,” O’Malley broke in. “That’s13 just the way we had it figured out. Once we get up there that road will be safe.”

Commander Beakin’s leathery face cracked into a smile. “Aren’t you the pilot who brought in a new model German gun and laid it on the desk of my friend, Wing Commander Farrell?”

O’Malley squirmed uncomfortably. Allison spoke up. “The same man, sir. He herded a Jerry right down on our landing field.”

Stan laughed. “We shall try to uphold the traditions of the service, sir,” he said.

Commander Beakin cleared his throat. He pulled a sheaf of papers toward him and glanced at them. Then he shoved them across the desk.

“Lieutenant Wilson can take you to the Chinese general who will give you your credentials. These papers will release you and they will entitle you to return to this service without prejudice. I understand you are to report at once.” His face had returned to its flinty hardness, but his eyes showed the pride he had in his men.

The three fliers gathered up their papers14 and about-faced. O’Malley seemed to have forgotten the heat. He set a brisk pace. Allison slowed him down.

“What’s your rush? China will be still there when we get to Rangoon,” he drawled.

They walked across town to the waterfront where the harbor was crowded with craft from every nation of the world. A mass of frail vessels marked the Chinese boat colony where several thousand Chinese, some of whom had never set foot on land, used boats for homes and as a means of livelihood. The waterfront was swarming with a motley crowd of races and colors, all jabbering and shouting and talking. Few white men were to be seen.

“Our man lives in a little shack down a few blocks,” Stan explained. “He has his office in one half of a single room and he lives in the other half. But he has plenty of authority and Uncle Sam is backing him.”

They hurried on through the colorful throng, hardly paying any attention to what went on around them. They were eager to be on their way to China and the skies over the Burma Road.