"And that'll be just about enough out of you!" Colonel Welsh said with more sternness in his voice than there was in his eyes. "You and Farmer had done your job, and a magnificent job you did, too, thank God! It was somebody else's turn to take a crack at the Japs. And, of course, I mean Admiral Jackson's pilots. So stop feeling that you were cheated, you young fire eater. Farmer, here, didn't take part in the scrap, either, so you've no complaints. In fact, Dawson, you can give thanks for a miracle every night for the rest of your life. Give thanks for this!" The colonel paused, slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and took out a gleaming chunk of metal. And that's just about all it was: a gleaming chunk of metal. "What's that, sir?" Dawson asked. "All that's left of your pilot's wings," the colonel replied, and twisted the chunk of gleaming metal between his fingers. "It was driven by a Zero bullet right into your chest to within a fraction of an inch of puncturing your left lung." "Huh, huh, sir?" Dawson gasped out. "You mean--? Holy smokes! A _second_ time?" "The second time, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said gravely, and placed the twice bullet-battered pilot's wings into their owner's hands. "For the second time they saved your life. Frankly, I'll never tell this story to anybody else because nobody else would believe it. But it's true. And there you are. A war souvenir you couldn't duplicate, not even if you lived to be a billion." The colonel said some more words, but Dawson was only half listening. He was staring at his bullet-battered wings, and living over in memory all those terrible hours when his chest had been filled with searing flame. Then presently his vision blurred, and without realizing it he slipped off into blissful, contented sleep. And Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh smiled down at his peaceful face, and slipped silently out of the cruiser's sick-bay. ---- THE END ---- _A Page from_ DAVE DAWSON AT CASABLANCA For the umpty-umph time Dawson checked his position and made absolutely sure that he was where he was supposed to be. And for the umpty-umph time countless fears shot through his brain to taunt him and jeer at him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous. His navigation was all cockeyed. He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south. He was-- "Cut it out, fellow, cut it out!" he rasped aloud at himself. "This is a fine time for you to go haywire! You simply got here ahead of time. Your watch tells you that, sap. Freddy was held up, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe--" Or something? But just exactly _what_? That was the question. Freddy Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of a pilot. It was crazy to say that weather had held up Freddy. No. It was something else, not weather. But what? _But what?_ Why wasn't Freddy Farmer here?