"And that's definitely true, old thing!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good grief, Dave, why didn't you tell me you had been hit? And to think that all during that terrible night flight I didn't know a thing about it. You must have suffered something awful!"
"Well, it wasn't very pleasant," Dawson replied in a voice so weak that it surprised him. "I knew that I had caught a good one, but it wouldn't have helped any to tell you, Freddy. There weren't any controls in your pit. And we couldn't have changed seats in that crate. So the only thing I could do was to stick it out. But, boy! I was sure glad to sit down on that carrier. But, hey! How come we bumped into the task force, Colonel? We were trying to get south to Port Moresby, and—"
"And you were headed in the right direction, Dawson," the colonel interrupted with a nod. "In another twenty minutes you would have sighted land. But you ran across us because we had given up the hunt for the Jap force and had steamed full knots for the Solomons to slug it out as best we could if the Jap force did show up. It—well, maybe we can call it an act of God that you sighted us, and gave us the information that we so desperately needed. And—What's the matter, Dawson?"
Colonel Welsh cut himself off short, and anxiously asked the last as Dawson groaned, and made a face.
"Matter?" Dawson echoed. "Plenty! One of the best sea and air scraps there's been in the Southwest Pacific, and I—and I slept through the whole thing! Why, doggone it, I—"
"And that'll be just about enough out of you!" Colonel Welsh said with more sternness in his voice than there was in his eyes. "You and Farmer had done your job, and a magnificent job you did, too, thank God! It was somebody else's turn to take a crack at the Japs. And, of course, I mean Admiral Jackson's pilots. So stop feeling that you were cheated, you young fire eater. Farmer, here, didn't take part in the scrap, either, so you've no complaints. In fact, Dawson, you can give thanks for a miracle every night for the rest of your life. Give thanks for this!"
The colonel paused, slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and took out a gleaming chunk of metal. And that's just about all it was: a gleaming chunk of metal.
"What's that, sir?" Dawson asked.
"All that's left of your pilot's wings," the colonel replied, and twisted the chunk of gleaming metal between his fingers. "It was driven by a Zero bullet right into your chest to within a fraction of an inch of puncturing your left lung."
"Huh, huh, sir?" Dawson gasped out. "You mean—? Holy smokes! A second time?"