“You got one of them, sister,” said a voice behind her. “You sure got one.”
Scarcely had the voice died away when there came a second terrific roar. This time it was much closer.
“Two of ’em,” the voice exclaimed. “Say! Night fighting, at that! You’re really good!”
“I wanted three,” was Gale’s instant reply. “Come on, Mac, let’s get out and down one more!”
“Something tells me you have nothing left but your hands to fight with,” said the voice.
“Noth—nothing left?” she stammered.
“I’ll bet you a coke that your outfit is blown to bits,” said the voice. “I’ve seen a lot of bombing, some of it close. Too close. But none as close as that. That bomb came very near sending us all to Glory.”
“That’s right,” Mac agreed. “Uncle Sam’ll love to fix me up with a new gun. I don’t mind that. A change is always welcome.”
“But I had everything fixed just the way I wanted it,” Gale all but wailed.
“Sure,” said the voice. “That’s the way it is in war, and all of life, I guess. Perhaps that’s what war is all about. I wouldn’t know. People get things fixed up just the way they want them—a home—a good job—a fine club—a golf course to play on—lots of friends, and—”