Maybe Tojo wasn't obliging the Flying Fortress' commander, but six Jap Zero pilots most certainly were. As Dawson leaped to a pair of waist guns and peered to port, he saw the six Zeros prop-piling down like six bullet-spitting maniacs. Steadying himself, he trained his guns on the leading plane and fired. His tracers streaked out and seemed to be cutting the Zero's left wing in two, but the Jap craft continued to come boiling in at the big four-engined bomber. Lumps of lead began to bounce and jounce around in Dawson's stomach. The pilot of that leading Zero seemed to be bullet-proof. He also seemed to have but one thought in his head: to keep right on thundering down and ram the Flying Fortress in midair.
But cold fear was Dawson's for only a brief instant. He corrected his aim and let fly again with his guns. This time the Zero was out of luck. It took the full fury of Dawson's fire, seemed to stagger in the air for a moment before it blew up in a cloud of orange flame and smoke, and went showering down out of sight.
"One for our side!" Dawson shouted happily. "Now—!"
The chattering yammer of Freddy Farmer's guns in the slot above him cut off the rest of Dawson's words. And in practically the same instant a second Zero spouted black smoke, and then nosed over to go hurtling straight downward, tracing its path of doom straight to the surface of the Indian Ocean.
"My error!" Dawson bellowed. "I meant, two for our side. Nice going, Freddy!"
Of course the English-born air ace didn't hear him, because all of the Fortress's guns were hammering death and destruction into the four remaining Zeros. In less time than it takes to tell about it, there were only two Zeros left. Then only one. And then, as Dawson got off a perfect deflection burst, there weren't any Zeros left in that section of the sky.
"And that's that!" Dave panted as he searched the sun-tinted air. "Six for six. Not bad. It was almost fun while it lasted. It—well, strike me pink, as Freddy would say!"
He had happened to glance down at his shirt to see that his silver Air Forces pilot's wings were not pinned in place above the left pocket flap. His decoration ribbons were there, but no wings. Where they had been was a nice clean tear in the material. Pop-eyed, he stared at the tear, and then impulsively looked down at the compartment floor boards. And there they were. His wings. But not as he'd ever seen them before. In a few words, they looked as if they had been run over by an express train. Or better still, as if they'd been accidentally dropped into a meat grinder. They were twisted all out of shape, and there was a deep smooth groove right across the middle from one wingtip to the other wingtip. And as Dave stared at them, and leaned over to pick them up, a twitch of pain passed across his upper left chest.
"And I didn't even feel that Jap bullet!" he gulped, and fingered the bullet-creased wings. "But, boy, that—that was too darn close!"
"What was too close, Dave?" Freddy Farmer's voice spoke at his elbow.