“We’ll have that hole filled before midnight, Dora,” he said wearily. “It will have to be Glenn Crayle’s grave. When the earth is smoothed down and the burned plane is hauled aside, there should be enough runway for the bomber. We’ll take off at dawn, and be over Port Darwin in two hours—if we’re not intercepted.” At breakfast time the next morning an excited radio officer telephoned the O.C. at Port Darwin airfield. “Message just received for you, sir,” he reported. “It purports to be sent by Lieutenant Barry Blake of the United States Army Air Forces, who’s been missing since the raid on Amboina. He says he is flying a _Mitsubishi_ bomber with his B-26 crew and seven refugees aboard and asks permission to come in.” “Barry Blake!” exclaimed the Australian colonel. “I should know that name. There’s a Yankee captain having breakfast with me, who’s been talking of little else. He came here with a fantastic notion that Blake would pop up sooner or later. We’ll jog down to the radio room and let Captain Tex O’Grady identify your mysterious pilot.” Not a trace of fog obscured the Australian coast as Barry Blake picked out the rugged mass of Melville Island. The _Mitsu’s_ patched wings glinted like silver in the early sunlight. Landing should be easy, but before giving permission, the O.C. had insisted on identifying the bomber’s crew by their voices. The Jap radio was tuned on the port’s wave length. Without warning Tex O’Grady’s voice rang in the crew’s earphones. “Dawg-gone you, Barry,” it said. “Where did you Fortress men get the idea that you could desert _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_ and go gallivanting off with a silly little B-26? No wonder you-all had to come home in a Jap crate! What happened, anyway?” “_Skipper!_” Barry shouted joyfully. “Where are you—at Port Darwin? What brought you here—” “It’s the Old Man himself!” gasped Curly Levitt. “Captain!” yelped Fred Marmon. “How are you, sir? And what’s the good news?” “Reef back, boys!” Tex O’Grady’s humorous drawl answered them. “I’m not answering questions until you come in and we have a chance to talk. But the news is this: Your part in finding and helping to smash the big Jap flotilla off New Guinea has won Barry a captain’s bars and the rest some decorations. And here’s the best little item of all, I reckon....” He paused briefly, as if trying to control a new huskiness in his speech. “You boys,” he continued, “have drawn a thirty-day furlough, and we’re all going—going home to the States in _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_, as soon as she’s patched up enough to make the trip. Here’s Colonel Raymond with a word you’ve been waiting for.” Barry’s head felt queerly light, and the mention of “home” had brought a lump to his throat that would not go down. As if from a great distance he heard a strange voice speaking. “Permission to land is herewith granted,” the Australian O.C. said. “And may all your future landings be as happy as this one, _Captain_ Barry Blake of the Flying Fortress!”