know blasted well that you can't do a thing about them!"

"Well, maybe you've got something there, pal," Dawson murmured, and stared at the rain-swept windows. "When I'm posted to some job I don't go for at all, I sound off just as a matter of habit. I really don't kid myself that my objections are going to change anything. You and I have been in this cockeyed war too long to think that everything is all cut and dried. It isn't. And it never will be. In war anything can happen, and you can bet your last dime that it will, eventually. So I just get the steam off my chest, then say, oh, what the heck, and let it go like that."

"I see what you mean," young Farmer grunted. "And I'll admit that I feel much the same way. Only I keep my thoughts to myself. Commanding officers have big ears, you know. And it would just be the Farmer luck to have my words reach one of those big ears. But this blasted rain!"

"A buck says that there won't be a cloud in the sky at the end of a couple of hours," Dawson said. "California's like that. But now that we're letting down our hair, I gather that you're not so hot for this instructing job, either, huh?"

"Definitely not!" Freddy groaned. Then he added quickly, "Not that I don't think these Navy chaps are top-hole, and all that. A very keen bunch of beggars, and they'll make good pilots, all of them. And you and I have flown enough with the Navy in the past to like it as much as flying with the Army. It's not that, either. It's ... well, frankly, it's because I'm so blasted selfish, I'm afraid."

"Yes, you sure are, when it comes to snagging the odd piece of pie," Dawson said with a grin. "That, though, is the fault of that bottomless stomach of yours, and you can't help yourself. Just what do you mean by that last remark?"

"Just what I said, that I'm selfish," young Farmer replied. "Let some other chap have this instructing grind. I want to be on one of the fronts where there's action, and lots of it."

"Freddy, the old fire eater," Dawson chuckled. "But you've also got something there, too. So would I, and how! However ..."

He let the rest slide and emphasized it with a shrug. Freddy Farmer frowned at him in a puzzled manner.

"See?" he eventually cried. "That's what I mean. The way you are now. Completely licked, you seem like. Blessed if it's like you, Dave. Have you gone sour on something?"

"Heck, no!" Dawson cried, and sat up straight. "And don't get any dopey ideas that I feel licked about anything. I'm just biding my time, that's all. I mean, that something's bound to pop. It always has. It's just that I'm finally getting around to realizing that you can't push things along. You've just got to keep your shirt on when things get slow, and realize that there'll be plenty of fireworks sooner or later."

"Well, well, the chap must be growing up, after all," Freddy Farmer murmured. Then, before Dawson could open his mouth to make a retort, he said, "There must have been at least a hundred of us that came back to the States by Army Air Transport planes, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, more or less," Dawson grunted with a nod. "So what?"

"So what?" young Farmer echoed sharply. "So why?"

"Ye gods, right back where we started!" Dawson groaned. "The old rotation idea, that's why. A bit of front line service, and then a bit of back home service, passing out your knowledge to those who have yet to see action. For Pete's sake, Freddy! What's so mysterious about that? Maybe it is a bit odd that we were stationed at a Naval Aviation base. However, perhaps the idea is to get Army and Navy pilots to know one another better. Too much rivalry between services is just as bad as none at all, you know."

"Well, I do, now that you've explained, sir!" Freddy barked at him. "But you still haven't answered my question. I mean, with the invasion of Hitler's Europe bound to pop any day now, why in the world send a hundred or more seasoned pilots away from England? Answer me that."

The corners of Dawson's mouth twitched in a grin, but Freddy didn't see it.

"I don't know that I've a right to tell you, Freddy," he finally said, and tugged at his chin with a thumb and forefinger.

"A right to tell me what?" young Farmer demanded. "Come off it, Dave! Stop being so blasted mysterious. You and I've always shared everything, haven't we?"

"Everything, except food," Dawson ribbed him. "You never were anybody's pal when you had the feed bag on. But I guess it's all right to tell you. It's because of what General Eisenhower said."

"To who?" Freddy asked.

"To whom, is what you mean, little man," Dawson said with a straight face. "What he said to me when he called me down to London High Command H.Q."

Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to speak, but a wrathful snort came out of it instead.

"I might have known!" he growled. "General Eisenhower call you to his headquarters? Rot! Pure rot!"

"Okay, then, have it your way," Dawson sighed, and returned his attention to his book.

Freddy glared at him for a few seconds, then gave a little resigned shake of his head, and took a deep breath.

"Very well," he said, "I might as well let you get it all off your chest. And what did General Eisenhower say to you, my good man?"

"For two cents I wouldn't tell you!" Dawson grunted. "But I don't really need the money, so I will. The general told me that we were all being sent back here for a home stay because the invasion of Hitler's Europe is not bound to pop 'most any day, as you have just so glibly remarked."

"Really, Dave?" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Honest? You mean...? Oh, blast you, stop pulling my leg! I know perfectly well that General Eisenhower didn't say a word to you. You didn't even see him!"

Dawson grinned, and opened his mouth. But he closed it when he saw the look on young Farmer's face. Instead, he shook his head gravely.

"No, Freddy," he said. "The general didn't say a thing to me. It's dollars to doughnuts that he doesn't even know I exist. But I put it that way so's you'd catch on."

"Catch on to what?" Freddy wanted to know.

Dawson threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Sweet tripe, Freddy!" he cried. "It's past noon! Aren't you awake yet? It's obvious, pal, isn't it? Obvious that the invasion isn't going to pop right away. The High Command is marking time while the bomber boys give Germany a good going-over. So the experienced pilots that aren't needed in England have been sent back here to help with the training program. Don't worry, when the big show starts we'll be yanked back there, but fast. That's why I'm not tearing out my hair because I've been stuck on this instructing job. Because I know that when it's time for the balloon to go up I'll be sent there. And so will you. And so will all the others that flew back from England with us. Now do I make sense to you?"

Freddy Farmer nodded, but he didn't say anything for a moment.

"Yes, you're quite right, I fancy," he murmured presently. "I must be slipping way off the beam not to have figured that out for myself. But I wonder how long?"

"When the Allied High Command is darned good and ready, and not a minute before," Dawson replied. "Meanwhile we stick here ... and like it!"

"Maybe you can like it, but I don't," young Farmer growled, and glared at the window glass. "This blasted rain!"

Dave snapped his book closed, and tossed it on a nearby table.

"Check!" he grunted. "It seems to be letting up a little, though, so let's do something about it. A little of it may do us some good. Let's take a walk out by those orange groves. They looked pretty interesting from the air. How about it, huh?"

"Right-o," Freddy Farmer sighed, and got to his feet. "Anything's better than just sitting here listening to it!"

CHAPTER TWO

Strange Business

With an angry gesture Freddy Farmer changed his rain slicker to his other