“Message just received for you, sir,” he reported. “It purports to be sent by Lieutenant Barry Blake of the United States Army Air Forces, who’s been missing since the raid on Amboina. He says he is flying a Mitsubishi bomber with his B-26 crew and seven refugees aboard and asks permission to come in.”
“Barry Blake!” exclaimed the Australian colonel. “I should know that name. There’s a Yankee captain having breakfast with me, who’s been talking of little else. He came here with a fantastic notion that Blake would pop up sooner or later. We’ll jog down to the radio room and let Captain Tex O’Grady identify your mysterious pilot.”
Not a trace of fog obscured the Australian coast as Barry Blake picked out the rugged mass of Melville Island. The Mitsu’s patched wings glinted like silver in the early sunlight. Landing should be easy, but before giving permission, the O.C. had insisted on identifying the bomber’s crew by their voices. The Jap radio was tuned on the port’s wave length.
Without warning Tex O’Grady’s voice rang in the crew’s earphones.
“Dawg-gone you, Barry,” it said. “Where did you Fortress men get the idea that you could desert Sweet Rosy O’Grady and go gallivanting off with a silly little B-26? No wonder you-all had to come home in a Jap crate! What happened, anyway?”
“Skipper!” Barry shouted joyfully. “Where are you—at Port Darwin? What brought you here—”
“It’s the Old Man himself!” gasped Curly Levitt.
“Captain!” yelped Fred Marmon. “How are you, sir? And what’s the good news?”
“Reef back, boys!” Tex O’Grady’s humorous drawl answered them. “I’m not answering questions until you come in and we have a chance to talk. But the news is this: Your part in finding and helping to smash the big Jap flotilla off New Guinea has won Barry a captain’s bars and the rest some decorations. And here’s the best little item of all, I reckon....”
He paused briefly, as if trying to control a new huskiness in his speech.