And now he was down on Casablanca base! He'd made it, but he hadn't realized it until just now! Could a pilot fly a course while semi-conscious? Maybe he could, because Dave had very little recollection of this flight except for the very start. And—Wait! Freddy Farmer!
As the thought flashed through his brain, he lurched upward out of the seat and looked back. Fresh fear and terror gripped him. Freddy was still slumped lifelessly against the side of the pit. His face seemed even paler, and it was covered with more dots of blood. Dawson started to call out, when he heard the pounding of many running feet. He turned his head in that direction and saw a large group of figures, led by Colonel Welsh, racing toward the plane. He waved frantically with one hand and called out.
"Ambulance!" he shouted. "Get the ambulance at—"
At that exact moment a dark cloud swooped down on top of him. A great roaring started up inside his head. He knew that he was tumbling headlong out of the pit and down onto the wing, but he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Something, probably the wing stub, hit him one last and final smash on the head, and there was nothing but darkness, and utter silence.
Dave Dawson found himself suspended in a world of clear, fresh-smelling and soothing white when he again opened his eyes. It did not puzzle him that all should be white, because his brain was too contented to bother figuring it out. His whole body felt contented, too. A lulling warmth enveloped him, and he did not care whether anything ever changed again. This lulling warmth and this soothing contentment were all that he could desire.
However, that perfect spell of both mind and body was not long-lasting. As complete consciousness finally returned, the aches and pains took charge of his body, and his brain awakened fully with a terrible memory.
"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!"
Hardly realizing that his lips had gasped out his pal's name, he struggled to push himself up. But even as he started the effort, other hands were placed upon him and he was gently pressed down to his original position. A position that he then realized was flat on his back in a hospital bed. And then the face of the owner of those gently pressing hands came into his vision, and he recognized Colonel Welsh.
"Don't, son," the Intelligence Chief said softly. "Just let yourself go, boy, and relax completely. Farmer is all right. Shot up a little, just as you were, but he'll pull through with flying colors."
"You're sure, sir?" Dawson choked out. "You mean it? You wouldn't kid a—"