uldn't
have helped any to tell you, Freddy. There weren't any controls in your
pit. And we couldn't have changed seats in that crate. So the only thing
I could do was to stick it out. But, boy! I was sure glad to sit down on
that carrier. But, hey! How come we bumped into the task force, Colonel?
We were trying to get south to Port Moresby, and--"

"And you were headed in the right direction, Dawson," the colonel
interrupted with a nod. "In another twenty minutes you would have
sighted land. But you ran across us because we had given up the hunt for
the Jap force and had steamed full knots for the Solomons to slug it out
as best we could _if_ the Jap force did show up. It--well, maybe we can
call it an act of God that you sighted us, and gave us the information
that we so desperately needed. And--What's the matter, Dawson?"

Colonel Welsh cut himself off short, and anxiously asked the last as
Dawson groaned, and made a face.

"Matter?" Dawson echoed. "Plenty! One of the best sea and air scraps
there's been in the Southwest Pacific, and I--and I slept through the
whole thing! Why, doggone it, I--"

"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