"Did, huh?" he breathed. "Luck, and how, what I mean! Man, what I wouldn't give for a war souvenir like that! You're the second chap I've met whose life was saved by a bullet ricocheting off his wings. I know one fellow, too, who got saved by his cigarette case. No fooling, Dawson, you've really got something there. Well, anyway, scram along, kids, and a million in luck!"
"Same to you, and in bunches, soldier," Dave grinned, and went outside with Farmer.
"See what I mean, Freddy?" he said as they walked toward the motor transport building. "There's nice guys, and otherwise, in every man's army. You never can tell a fellow by the rank insignia on his shoulders."
"Quite, oh quite," the English-born air ace murmured absently. "But I'm wondering why so many pilots have been ordered to Headquarters. I wonder."
Dawson shrugged and headed toward a war-painted staff car with a corporal driver lounging against a front fender.
"Search me," he said. "Could be that they have decided to wash out the Army Air Forces, and make ditch diggers of us all. Not a bad idea, after the flying I've seen some guys do."
"Yes, definitely," Freddy Farmer replied instantly. "But how the deuce do you manage it, Dave? I should think the whirling prop tips would smash it."
"Huh?" Dawson ejaculated. "Come again, Freddy? How do I manage what?"
"To hold a mirror out in front of you, so you can see yourself flying around!" the English youth shot at him. "Quite a trick, isn't it?"
"Bingo, and out!" Dawson laughed. "Okay, wise guy! That puts you one up for the day. But the sun hasn't set yet. So keep right up there on your toes, my lad. Well, this must be ours."