"Boy, can you make a guy feel good!" Dave growled and gave his best pal a playful poke in the ribs.
When they reached the Squadron Leader's their hopes dropped a little for the simple reason that they were not the only two summoned. There were ten other pilots there as well. Squadron Leader Hays waited until Dave and Freddy had settled themselves in chairs and then started to speak.
"Special job for you fellows," he said. "Coastal Command is testing out a new type of plane to be used on short range work. It's the new Fairey "Fulmar" fighter. It's powered with a Bristol Pegasus engine that's been jacked up a bit to give a couple of hundred more horsepower than the ordinary Pegasus. It's a land job, of course, but it's been fitted with extra tanks, and sections of the wings are sealed so that you'll float for quite a bit of time in case you fall down into the drink. Whether these Fulmars will give us the service Coastal Command demands remains to be seen. Anyway, six of them arrived last night, and I've selected you chaps to give them a good testing. If you can find any off-shore Nazi planes then so much the better. However, don't go too far out, and don't get too close to the French coast. You can be sure that the Jerries are just aching to shoot down a Fulmar and get a good look at it. Well, that's all. They're out on the line now, and the mechanics are waiting. You can take off any time you want."
The Squadron Leader made a little gesture with his hand that dismissed the group. Disappointment tugging at their hearts, Dave and Freddy started toward the Squadron Office door, but pulled up short as the Commanding Officer spoke again.
"Oh, Dawson and Farmer!" he called out. "Wait a moment, will you?"
Both youths wheeled around with hope soaring up anew. The Squadron Leader waited until all the others had left, then grimaced and sighed unhappily.
"Darnedest war I ever fought in!" he growled and motioned to the boys to step closer. "There's enough blasted hush-hush stuff to smother the whole Empire. Of course what I told the others was plain rot. We've got Fulmars here, and they are to stay for keeps. This testing idea is all bosh. But orders are orders. So there's nothing I can do about it."
The Squadron Leader made another face and took a sealed envelop from out of his inside tunic pocket. He handed it to Dave.
"Your orders for something or other," he said. "Don't read them until you're in the air. And don't bother asking me questions. I don't know a blessed thing about them. What's more, I don't want to know. This arrived from Air Marshal Manners an hour ago. Here, take it, and get on with your job. Stuff it in your tunic pocket and keep it there until you're in the air. And.... Well, naturally, good luck and all that sort of thing. Now, buzz off, both of you."
Dave and Freddy saluted, executed a snappy about face and walked on air out of the squadron office and over toward the south side of the field where Six Fairey Fulmar fighter planes were lined up with engines ticking over. From the depths of dread and despair they had soared up to a new high. The long awaited event had come to pass at last. The sealed orders in Dave's pocket seemed to turn into a white hot coal that burned right through his clothing to his skin. He couldn't speak because excitement and eager expectation was like a hand of steel clutching at his throat. Sealed orders. For what? For life, or for death? Right now neither of them cared very much. One thing was certain. Those sealed orders meant action, and action was all that mattered to those two fisted, stout hearted, steel clawed birdmen of the Royal Air Force.