abreast of the major, Dave opened up the throttle wide and tapped the left wheel brake just enough to swing the tail over to the right. Then he banged the throttle the rest of the way open and took off in a hurry. As he cleared the ground, he looked back and hooted. The major was flat on his back in a cloud of dust, with his feet straight up in the air. And his officer's cap was spinning along the edge of the field like a runaway spare wheel.

"Oops, so sorry, Big Shot!" Dawson shouted. "Darned if I didn't forget you were there. Better go wash your neck. The Army must always look clean and tidy, you know, Major. So long, chump!"

"And the Military Police will probably be waiting for you, old thing, at Sydney!" Freddy Farmer sang out between spells of laughter. "There's such a thing as radio, you know."

"And that'll be okay, too!" Dave chuckled. "They can bring me back here, so's I can do it all over again. Make cracks about my wings, huh? Too had he wasn't a captain, or I wasn't a major, too. I think I would enjoy very much pasting that make-believe in the nose. Well, here we go again. On again, off again—as usual!"

CHAPTER THREE

Flight To Nowhere

The sun was sliding down over the western lip of the world in a hurry when Dawson sat the Vultee down on the Sydney field after a trans-Australia flight from Broome. As soon as they taxied into the line and mechanics took over, a sergeant of the Military Police came hurrying over to them. For just a brief moment Dave's heart floated up to the region of his throat. It was just a wasted sensation, however. The M.P. was simply doing his duty of informing all pilots landing from other bases to report first to the operations office.

Dave and Freddy legged out, collected their stuff, and went over to operations. They were obviously expected, for the officer on duty greeted them with a grin and a nod, and jerked a thumb at the motor transport building next door.

"A car and driver are waiting, Captains," he said pleasantly. "Over there in front. He'll take you to Headquarters at once. Have a nice trip out?"

"It wasn't too bad," Dave replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "I suppose I'd be shot if I asked questions?"

The operations officer chuckled and shook his head.

"No," he said, "you wouldn't be shot. But you wouldn't get any answers, either. Because I don't know any. I can tell you this much, though, if it will help any. You two are the umpty-umph pilots since yesterday morning who have checked through here in a hurry to get to Headquarters. Looks like something big is in the wind, but I wouldn't know. Nobody tells us guys anything, anyway. Good luck, just the same, and—Well, for the love of Mike, Dawson! Did some sweet young thing in China try to steal your wings with her teeth? Man, those are chewed up, what I mean!"

"No, Zero teeth, if you get what I mean," Dave grinned. "I'm a lucky guy, I guess."

The operation officer's eyes widened, and he let out air slowly.

"Did, huh?" he breathed. "Luck, and how, what I mean! Man, what I wouldn't give for a war souvenir like that! You're the second chap I've met whose life was saved by a bullet ricocheting off his wings. I know one fellow, too, who got saved by his cigarette case. No fooling, Dawson, you've really got something there. Well, anyway, scram along, kids, and a million in luck!"

"Same to you, and in bunches, soldier," Dave grinned, and went outside with Farmer.

"See what I mean, Freddy?" he said as they walked toward the motor transport building. "There's nice guys, and otherwise, in every man's army. You never can tell a fellow by the rank insignia on his shoulders."

"Quite, oh quite," the English-born air ace murmured absently. "But I'm wondering why so many pilots have been ordered to Headquarters. I wonder."

Dawson shrugged and headed toward a war-painted staff car with a corporal driver lounging against a front fender.

"Search me," he said. "Could be that they have decided to wash out the Army Air Forces, and make ditch diggers of us all. Not a bad idea, after the flying I've seen some guys do."

"Yes, definitely," Freddy Farmer replied instantly. "But how the deuce do you manage it, Dave? I should think the whirling prop tips would smash it."

"Huh?" Dawson ejaculated. "Come again, Freddy? How do I manage what?"

"To hold a mirror out in front of you, so you can see yourself flying around!" the English youth shot at him. "Quite a trick, isn't it?"

"Bingo, and out!" Dawson laughed. "Okay, wise guy! That puts you one up for the day. But the sun hasn't set yet. So keep right up there on your toes, my lad. Well, this must be ours."

As Dave spoke the last he returned the salute of the corporal driver, who had straightened to attention.

"This the H.Q. taxi, Corporal?" he asked.

"I guess you could call it that, sir," the non-com said with a chuckle. "Step right in and it will take you there itself. It sure has made enough trips these last couple of days to be able to do it on its own."

"Really?" Freddy Farmer murmured. "All Air Forces officers, Corporal?"

"No, not all, sir," the non-com replied. "About fifty-fifty Army and Navy, sir, I'd say. Quite a bunch of them, too. I guess maybe something's being cooked up for Tojo and his boys. High time, I'm thinking, too. We're quite a few runs behind them tramps."

"But we'll catch up, don't worry," Dawson assured him. "They took first swings, you know, so our team will get last swings. And I do mean last swings, too."

The non-com driver nodded and grinned broadly. Then as he held the car door open for the pair to climb in, he let his eyes rest on their decoration ribbons.

"Yeah, Captain," he grunted, "we get last swings. But I can see that you two officers ain't been exactly hitting loud fouls every time you came up. Nailed plenty of them slant eyes, huh?"

"A couple, I guess," Dave grinned. "But they were probably fledglings on their first time out."

"Yeah, I bet, I bet!" the corporal snorted, and slid in behind the wheel. "Well, here goes for trip nine thousand and something!"

Regardless of what number trip it was for that corporal, it was certainly the fastest, wildest ride that either Dawson or Freddy Farmer had ever had in a car. When they finally pulled up in front of the building that served as USAFFE Headquarters (United States Armed Forces in the Far East) they were both quite certain that they had left ten years of their lives somewhere along the road. As he climbed out, Dave took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and offered it to the driver. But the non-com shook his head.

"That's okay, sir, and thanks just the same," he said. "I used to drive a hack in New York before the draft nailed me. So I know right guys when I see them. I don't want no tip, sir."

"It isn't a tip," Dave grinned, and dropped the bill in the driver's lap. "Just a little something to buy stuff from the hospital canteen with while you're convalescing. Go on; keep it."

The non-com blinked stupidly for a moment; then his flat, freckled face cracked in a broad grin.

"I get it, Skipper," he said with a chuckle. "I won't spend this in no hospital. I can drive this baby with my eyes closed."

"And I think you did!" Dave laughed at him. "And good luck."

"And good hunting for both of you, sir!" the driver called out as Dave and Freddy went up Headquarters front steps.

Just inside the big front doors,