"Not sorry?" he barked. "Who said anything about not being sorry? I demand, however, that you apologize to me, and to my fighter pilots!"

"Apologize?" Dave gasped, as he seemed to lose his grip on things. "For what? For knocking off a couple of Jerry planes, for cat's sake?"

The senior officer looked sterner than ever; then the ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of his mouth.

"Certainly, Captain Dawson," he said without so much bite in his voice.

"This is _our_ hunting ground. And goodness knows too few Jerries come over our way to make us eager to share them with a couple of wild flying mad-men. So you both owe us an apology for poaching on our game grounds.

But we'll take the apologies for granted. Sit down, you two. You deserve a chair at least, I fancy."

Dave came close to missing his chair, he was so surprised and relieved.

He looked at the now grinning Group Captain and let his breath out slowly.

"Gosh, sir," he gulped, "I thought you meant it there for a minute."

"I still do!" the other said with a nod and a chuckle. "It wasn't fair of you, at all. According to Major Barber you had your air sport earlier this morning. Not cricket, you know, to horn in on our doings.

Congratulations, nevertheless. Fact is, those blighters might have done a bit of damage if you hadn't got at them so soon. My chaps must have been taking cat naps. Well, Farmer? Glad to be back in England?"

"Very much so, sir," Freddy replied, and beamed all over his face. "One of the happiest moments of my life."

For a brief instant shadows crossed the Group Captain's face, and he looked grave and filled with concern.

"I hope there will be many more, equally happy, Farmer," he said presently. "No. Never mind the questions. I have no idea what's in store for you two. But I certainly know you were not brought back over here just to have a spot of leave. You'll doubtless learn soon enough, though. Meantime, I'd better get on with my part of the business--that is, give you the instructions Major Barber left with me."

"Left!" Dave gulped. "You mean, sir, the Major has gone?"

"Quite," the other replied with a nod. "While you two were stealing Jerry planes from us. I believe he had intended to remain awhile, but a call for him came through from your American Headquarters in London. I detailed him a plane, and a pilot to fly him up there."

"And he left orders for us, you say, sir?" Freddy Farmer prompted respectfully.

"Quite correct," the senior officer told him. "You are to remain here until you've had a bit of breakfast and some rest. Then I'm to detail you a two-seater plane. It's as if I were running a blasted aerial taxi company, or something. Anyway, sometime today, when it suits your collective fancy, you are to fly to the Lewes Base, on the South Downs, and report to the commanding officer. Squadron Leader Parkinson is his name. He has a Spitfire squadron. A fine bunch of lads, too. You'll like them all, I'm sure. Well, there're your orders as Major Barber left them with me. Now, how about a spot of food, eh?"

Dave didn't move. He acted as though he had not heard the question. He simply sat staring puzzle-eyed at the Group Captain.

"Report to a fighter squadron, sir?" he murmured presently. "You mean we're back in the R.A.F. again?"

"I don't mean anything of the sort," the senior officer replied with a little gesture, "for the reason that I have no idea whatsoever. That's truth, really. I simply know that you are to report to Squadron Leader Parkinson's base. What happens after that, I haven't the faintest idea."

"A bit queer and very hush-hush, for fair," Freddy Farmer grunted, and scowled at the opposite wall.

"That's the blasted war for you," the Group Captain chuckled. "Nothing means very much until after it's happened. However, much as the R.A.F.

would like to have you back in its membership, I do not believe that is to be in your case. As I said, or should have said, neither of you was brought back to England for anything of the usual sort. A blind bloke can see that it's for some very important reason. And certainly most secretive, too."

"You're telling us?" Dave groaned, forgetful for the moment of the other's senior rank. "It's plenty secret, and how! Freddy and I have been guessing our heads off since the start of this business, and neither of us can come up with anything that even seems close!"

"Phew, yes!" Freddy breathed heavily. "We Britishers are very good at the hush-hush business, but the Yanks are certainly going us one better this time. And if I don't get some kind of an inkling soon, I'll be going balmy."

"Well, I wish I could help you out, but I can't," the Group Captain said with a sympathetic laugh. "Sometimes, though, it's best not to know what one's in for--until it happens."

The somber note in the other's voice sent a little icy chill rippling through Dave. True enough, Freddy and he certainly hadn't come over to England just to have a good time. They had come over to take part in some Commando operation. That much Major Barber had admitted. But--and it was a big but--he had said they were to handle an extra, a very special job. What job? What kind of a job? Unfortunately, there just wasn't any answer to that one. The answer would be theirs--in the near future. Perhaps!

"I get what you mean, sir," Dave said to the Group Captain with a faint grin. "And maybe you're right, sir. But--well, just the same I don't go much for this sitting on pins and needles stuff. I think I'd rather know, and get my worrying over with first. As you say, though, that's war."

"Quite," the senior officer grunted, and got up from his chair. "So let's leave it at that, what, and have a bite to eat?"

"Absolutely, sir!" Freddy cried, springing to his feet. "No sense fighting a war on an empty stomach, if you don't have to."

"Just name one time when yours was empty," Dave laughed.

"Right now!" the English youth snapped, and gave him a scornful look.

They followed the Group Captain out and over to the officers' mess.

There they ate their fill, and when the senior officer had taken his departure they went outside and started wandering around the field.

Their legs were still a little stiff from the Atlantic crossing, so a little exercise wouldn't do either of them any harm. At the end of an hour or so they had had enough. They hunted up a hutment orderly, and were shown a couple of bunks where they could catch up on a little much needed sleep and rest.

It was late in the afternoon when the orderly awakened them. He told them that there had been two raid alarms sounded while they had been asleep. However, no Jerry planes had put in an appearance.

"The Commandant told me to find out when you would be taking off, Captains," the orderly added later. "There're two Spitfires just ferried here from the factory, waiting on the tarmac. The Commandant says as how he would like you to deliver them to the squadron you're going to. Shall I have them revved up?"

Dave dug sleep seeds out of his eyes and looked at Freddy. His pal did likewise, and nodded.

"Might as well," he grunted. "There's nothing more to be learned here.

Might just as well get on with it."

"Check," Dave said, and turned to the orderly. "Do that, will you, and thanks."

Half an hour later the two air aces were out on the tarmac, and ready to leave. They were about to climb into their Spitfires when Group Captain Farnsworth came over to them.

"Just wanted to say goodbye," he smiled, "and wish you all kinds of luck."

"Thank you, sir," Dave grinned. "And we're sorry about those two Jerry planes. I promise that next time we won't be so selfish."

"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed.

The Group Captain chuckled and made a little gesture with both hands.

"That's quite all right, chaps," he said. "All is forgiven, I a.s.sure you. Frankly, next time--if there is one--I hope you get double the number of blighters. Well, goodbye. Thumbs up, and all that sort of thing. I certainly envy you."

Dave shot him a sharp questioning look, but the Group Captain shook his head firmly.

"No, I really don't know a thing, Dawson," he said. "On my word, I don't. I'm just imagining, that's all. And there's blessed little else a Group Captain can do in this crazy war. Well, on with it, you chaps. And luck, again."

Dave and Freddy thanked him for his good wishes, shook hands, and then legged up into the pits of their Spitfires. They taxied out to the far end of the main runway, and waited there with props idling over for the signal from the Operations Tower. It came, and they gunned their engines together and went rocketing forward.

"Well, here goes for the next stop," Dave grunted as he lifted his Spitfire clear, and nosed up and around toward the overcast sky. "And I sure would like to know what is the next move in this c.o.c.keyed arrangement of things?"

He spoke the question aloud, but the G.o.ds of war in their high places refused to answer. They simply nudged each other, grinned, and winked.