"Certainly, Colonel," he said. "My Adjutant's there, but I'll get rid of him. And ... er, what do you want us to do about your brother, Colonel?"
The Intelligence officer squared his shoulders and forced himself to look down at the dead man.
"If you could have him placed in the hospital hut, Markham," he said softly. "I'll arrange transportation elsewhere, later. Yes, if you could have him taken to the hospital hut. And, by the way, I don't want anybody, not even your medico, to touch him. There'll be an ... er, autopsy performed later."
Markham gave him a shrewd look, and then nodded.
"Just as you wish, Colonel," he said. "I'll give Corporal Sharron instructions, now, and then we'll go along to my office."
The O.C. of Eighty-Four called over the waiting non-com, gave him his orders, and then walked away with Colonel Trevor, and Group Captain Ball. Dave watched them until they were out of sight in the Squadron office. Then he turned suddenly to Freddy and started whipping his hand up and down the front of the English youth's tunic. Freddy knocked his hand away and went back a step.
"You're not my valet!" he cried. "Drop it, my lad. What in the world do you think you're doing?"
Dave grinned and reached out to whip the front of Freddy's tunic again.
"A game that was all the rage in the States," Dave said. "It was called, Handy. You make motions with your hands and the others try to guess what it means. This one is in two words, Freddy. Guess. I'll give you a tip. It's American slang."
"Good grief, the chap's gone balmy again!" Freddy groaned and beat off Dave's hand once more. "Stop it, you crazy clown. Rubbish to your insane Yank games. What do you mean, two words? What two words?"