"There you go!" Dave groaned. "Always taking the joy out of life. Me, I've almost talked myself into getting in touch with Major Barber and finding out what's what."
"I wouldn't," Freddy cautioned. "Doubtless you'd be told off quite properly. The Major struck me as that sort of a chap. If and when he wants us, we'll be sure to hear about it, I fancy."
Dave groaned again and sat up straight. A strong feeling of having been cheated out of something was gnawing at him. He knew that he shouldn't feel that way. As a member of an R.A.F. fighter squadron it was his job to concentrate solely on his work, and let all other things go hang. A soldier must be all soldier no matter what his duty, or where he had to perform it.
Yes, sure. That was all very well. But too many intangible things had happened to let his mind stay at rest, and his attention to stick to the daily sweeps across the Channel to Occupied France that he took part in. There had been something big, very big, in the wind. Was it still so? Or had that sleepy Freddy Farmer spoken the truth about the whole business having been called off? It was a tantalizing thought, like a termite in his brain. And the galling part of it all was that there really wasn't a single thing that he could do about it, or should do about it, if he had any sense. Start fishing around Major Barber and he might end up by getting bounced back to the States. It was for him simply to—
The rest was cut off short as the raid alarm rang in the Operations Hut. He and Freddy sprang to their feet as one man, and went tearing over. The rest of the pilots on "stand to alert" reached there at the same time. Squadron Leader Parkinson stuck his head out the door, and barked the orders.
"Five Heinkels sighted coming across! Twenty thousand. Course, north-northwest. Get after the beggars!"
Dave and Freddy wheeled with the others to dash for their planes, but stopped short as the Squadron Leader called them both back.
"Not you two chaps, this time," he told them. "Just received other orders for you. Buzz over to Horsham Commando H.Q. Take one of the squadron cars. You're to report to a Yank Major. Barber is the name. Better hop along at once. He sounded urgent over the phone. Glad to have had you with us for the short spell. Luck, chaps!"
The Squadron Leader ducked back inside to continue with his raid alarm duties. Dave and Freddy just looked at each other, then spun around and tore over to the motor park. They were expected, for the Corporal in charge pointed out a fast R.A.F. Daimler, and swung open the gates for them. Dave dived in beside the wheel, waited just long enough for Freddy to light beside him, and then kicked the engine into life and slipped it into gear. Three minutes later they were on the winding dirt road that eventually finished up in the Southeast English town of Horsham.
"Hot dog!" Dave cried happily, and boosted the speed up another ten miles. "I guess this is really it, this time, pal!"