"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed.
The Group Captain chuckled and made a little gesture with both hands.
"That's quite all right, chaps," he said. "All is forgiven, I assure you. Frankly, next time—if there is one—I hope you get double the number of blighters. Well, goodbye. Thumbs up, and all that sort of thing. I certainly envy you."
Dave shot him a sharp questioning look, but the Group Captain shook his head firmly.
"No, I really don't know a thing, Dawson," he said. "On my word, I don't. I'm just imagining, that's all. And there's blessed little else a Group Captain can do in this crazy war. Well, on with it, you chaps. And luck, again."
Dave and Freddy thanked him for his good wishes, shook hands, and then legged up into the pits of their Spitfires. They taxied out to the far end of the main runway, and waited there with props idling over for the signal from the Operations Tower. It came, and they gunned their engines together and went rocketing forward.
"Well, here goes for the next stop," Dave grunted as he lifted his Spitfire clear, and nosed up and around toward the overcast sky. "And I sure would like to know what is the next move in this cockeyed arrangement of things?"
He spoke the question aloud, but the gods of war in their high places refused to answer. They simply nudged each other, grinned, and winked.