It was true. Whatever had jammed the two down wheels was no longer jamming them. They were up in their recesses, and staying put. Dawson caught a movement at his elbow and turned his head to see Major Starke dash out of the Operations Office. The C.O. looked up at the plane, and seemed to sigh heavily. "Certainly hates to lose an airplane, bless him!" he grunted. And then he spun on one foot and dashed back into Operations to speak over the R.T. "Okay, Farmer, have it your way!" he called out. "Come in on your belly, but come in on the north side of the field. It's softer there. Keep clear of the runway, by all means. The metal skin of your ship might strike sparks and touch off your gas. Come in easy, and--But I don't need to tell you how to do it. Good luck, Farmer." "Thanks, sir," Freddy called from the air as he circled his plane around and into position for his landing run. "Be down there right away, sir." "Save your breath, Freddy, and pay attention to your flying!" Dave Dawson breathed fiercely as he walked toward the north side of the field. "Just cut the chatter and get that thing down, boy!" As the crash and fire truck went streaking by him he swallowed hard and unconsciously clenched both hands tight. It wasn't that he was really afraid that Freddy Farmer wouldn't make it. He'd seen his English-born pal in too many tight spots, and seen him get out of them slick as a whistle. And of course the crash and fire truck was simply routine precaution. Just in case, so to speak. Still, as he hurried his steps and watched Freddy come sliding down, a clammy chill seemed to take hold of his heart, and his mouth and throat went strangely dry. Was their assignment to the Fighter Command of the Eighth Air Force a jinx move? Two weeks ago they had completed a very important mission in North Africa, and they had put in the request for assignment to the Eighth Air Force based in England. True, it had been mostly Freddy Farmer's doing. Dawson hadn't cared much where he was sent just so long as he could keep swinging at either the Japs or the Nazis. But Freddy longed for a look at his native country again, and so Dawson had agreed that that was okay by him. But then trouble seemed to begin to dog them. For four days the worst spell of weather ever to hit Casablanca kept their Air Forces transport plane grounded. They had finally taken off on the fifth day, only to have engine trouble force the pilot of the transport to turn back when he was only two hundred miles out. It took thirty-six hours to fix the plane. Then they had taken off again and finally reached England in a pea soup fog that was forcing even the birds to walk. Luck, plus sweet beam and instrument flying by the pilot, saved them from hitting the deck and being washed out of the world and the war right then and there.