"Okay, okay!" Dave laughed and threw up his hands. "I guess you've read books. Spare me the rest of the details. I read a book once, myself."
"Right-o," Freddy Farmer said. "Now it's my turn to ask questions. No, not about Singapore. Here's a question that oddly enough not one man in fifty could answer correctly."
"Then shoot!" Dawson said with a chuckle. "Me, I'm that one man."
"Here goes then," the English born R.A.F. ace said. "Is there a type of Nazi dive bomber called the Stuka?"
Dave Dawson sat up a little straighter in the cockpit seat and gave his friend a keen look.
"What was that last one?" he demanded. "You wouldn't be kidding a pal, would you, pal?"
"Certainly not!" Freddy retorted. "And you stop crawling. Answer the question. Is there a type of Nazi dive bomber called the Stuka?"
"I hope to kiss a Messerschmitt there is!" Dave replied. "And I wish I had a dime for every time one of them has come piling down in my direction. What is this, anyway? You didn't drop your brains over the side, did you?"
"No, but you must have!" the English youth snapped back. "My poor misinformed little friend, Stuka is a name for all kinds of dive bombers. Not just one type, as is commonly believed. It comes from the German word Sturzkampfflugzeug. And that word means, plunge-battle-fight-apparatus. And so, I would suggest that you go back and make your solo flight all over again."
"My, my!" Dave breathed and gave a shake of his head in mock admiration. "After all this time and I didn't once dream that you had that big word inside of you. I must really get to know you one of these days. You'd be quite something to have along at one of those radio quiz programs. I just bet you got sore fingers from tearing off box tops, and sending into the corner drugstore. But hold it! You don't have advertising on your English radio programs, do you?"