Freddy jumped a little as though stuck with a pin, and turned to look at him.
"I don't know," he said in a rather vacant tone. "I could be mistaken. This could be just some crazy nightmare."
"It is," Dave grunted, and switched his gaze to Major Barber. "Only the nightmare part hasn't arrived yet. You're—you're not kidding, sir?"
Major Barber grinned and shook his head.
"No, Dawson," he said. "That was straight from the shoulder. But I don't blame you for going into a tail spin. I'll admit it's quite an order to hand out."
"Quite an order, he says!" Dave mumbled, and shook his head. "You wouldn't want us to pick up Adolf Hitler for good measure, would you, Major?"
The senior officer laughed and gestured with his two hands, palms upward.
"That would be nice," he said, "but I doubt that Adolf would ever get that close to possible activity. After all, he has to save himself for the future, you know. If little Yellow Belly, of the trick mustache, should get himself killed, what would become of the world? And he got wounded in the last war, you know. It's in the official German records. A gashed finger opening a can of beans, I think it was. No, we can skip Hitler. I'm not expecting too much of you fellows."
"Thanks," Dave grinned. "For a moment, I thought it was something that was really going to be tough. One question, though. I take it that von Staube and von Gault have agreed? They won't put up any objections when Freddy and I pop into their H.Q. and say, 'Let's go, boys'?"
Major Barber started fishing through his pockets. He finally sighed, stopped, and looked annoyed.