"Good grief, yes, of course!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely as his eyes got as big as dinner plates. "For once, you're absolutely right, Dave. The beggar is in our section. He has to be."
"Doggone right!" Dave echoed, and took hold of Freddy's arm. "Now you come on aft to the sick bay, and get fixed up. I've got to work fast and get the Exec to assign me somebody else to take your place. Perhaps—"
"Somebody to take my place!" Freddy Farmer cried angrily. "Over my dead body! That's rot. I'm making the patrol with you. I—"
"But, Freddy, you got slammed pretty—"
"You can shut your trap, Dave Dawson!" the English youth snapped viciously. "After all this waiting, if you think I'm going to go on waiting while you make this patrol and perhaps get yourself into no end of trouble, then you're completely balmy. Now, let go of my arm, and stand aside, or you'll be the one to get bashed. And I mean it, Dave. I'd still make this patrol even if the blighter had broken both my arms and both my legs."
Dave hesitated a fraction of a second, then shrugged and sighed.
"You always were a hard-headed cuss," he grunted. "So I guess maybe he didn't do so much damage as that. Okay, you old war horse. No sense our breaking up the furniture. Come along. But let's both keep our eyes skinned as we go topside. Look for a show of surprise on anybody's face. Do you suppose he's two guys? The pilot and the rear gunner?"
"I don't care if he's a whole blasted squadron!" Freddy Farmer growled as he pulled his helmet over his wounded head. "All I want is to see the beggar make a slip, and be able to get at him. Nobody can bash my head, and least of all some skunk Axis spy. Let's go."
Keeping step, the pair hurried across the hangar deck and went topside. Six Douglas Devastator torpedo bombers had been rolled into take-off position, and were waiting with props ticking over. There was a pilot and gunner in each of five of the planes, and as Dave and Freddy trotted toward their plane they cast keen glances at the flying members of their section. But it didn't gain them a thing. As a matter of fact, not a helmeted and goggled head was turned as they loped across the flight deck and legged into their Devastator that was parked in number four take-off position.
Two minutes later they were all set and ready to go. A minute after that a flight officer came along the line of planes and handed each pilot a copy of his patrol chart. And five minutes after that the Flight Operations officer on the flight bridge pointed his finger at the Number One plane, and nodded. The engine of that Devastator roared up in full throated song, the deck mechanics stepped back from the wing tips, and the plane rolled forward, picking up speed with every revolution of its propeller. In less than nothing flat it was a moving battle grey streak that finally let go of the deck and went curving upward over the bow of the Indian toward the blue heavens above.