"But he must have a number, or a code name, sir," Dawson spoke up quietly. "And how can we let him know—if we do contact him—that we're okay? After all, you know the uniform we're wearing under our flying suits."
"Don't worry about that," Major Crandall said. "His code name is Dartmouth. Where he went to college. And he will know that you are to be trusted when he hears you speak the words: 'Harvard Nothing.' A few years ago he captained a Dartmouth football team that blanked Harvard in a top-heavy game, so that explains the Harvard Nothing touch. Well, that's all. I'm going to get out of here right away so that your flying mates won't suspect anything strange going on. A million in luck, as I said before. But just one last word of caution."
Major Crandall paused and grinned at both of them.
"If things get hot when the raiding planes reach their target," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "don't forget that you're to fake getting shot down, and bail out. By that I mean, don't get so tied up slapping German fighters down that it will be so light by the time you jump that ground observers will see that you bailed out of Yank planes, and not Nazi ones."
"We'll keep that in mind, sir," Dawson grinned at him. "But if a Jerry should happen to slide into our sights I've got a hunch that we won't just blow a kiss and let him go his way."
"I know darn well you won't!" Major Crandall chuckled. "But just don't waste too much time blowing kisses. Well, God bless you both!"
The major fairly blurted out the words, saluted them smartly, and then ducked out of the commandant's office.
"A nice guy," Dawson murmured. "We can't let him down, Freddy. Or the colonel, either."
"Then why let the thought even enter your brain?" Farmer snapped. "Come on. Let's get out of here. I want to take another check look at my plane."
"Me, too," Dawson grunted, and followed him toward the door. "I wonder if they've got any sponges or towels around here. By now my poor crate must be drenched to the skin. And through it, what I mean!"