Regardless of what number trip it was for that corporal, it was certainly the fastest, wildest ride that either Dawson or Freddy Farmer had ever had in a car. When they finally pulled up in front of the building that served as USAFFE Headquarters (United States Armed Forces in the Far East) they were both quite certain that they had left ten years of their lives somewhere along the road. As he climbed out, Dave took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and offered it to the driver. But the non-com shook his head.
"That's okay, sir, and thanks just the same," he said. "I used to drive a hack in New York before the draft nailed me. So I know right guys when I see them. I don't want no tip, sir."
"It isn't a tip," Dave grinned, and dropped the bill in the driver's lap. "Just a little something to buy stuff from the hospital canteen with while you're convalescing. Go on; keep it."
The non-com blinked stupidly for a moment; then his flat, freckled face cracked in a broad grin.
"I get it, Skipper," he said with a chuckle. "I won't spend this in no hospital. I can drive this baby with my eyes closed."
"And I think you did!" Dave laughed at him. "And good luck."
"And good hunting for both of you, sir!" the driver called out as Dave and Freddy went up Headquarters front steps.
Just inside the big front doors, they were buttonholed by an officer seated at a desk who wanted to know their business there. They couldn't tell him that, but they gave the officer their names, and that was good enough. In fact, it seemed to please him, for he let out a long sigh.
"Well, thank Heaven, you're the last of the lot!" he breathed. "I've been seeing nothing but Army and Navy pilots—even in my dreams. Report to Room Twelve Fifty for further orders. Good luck."
Dave asked where he'd find Room Twelve Fifty, received the information, and started off with Freddy.