It was dark. Gradually a light gleamed far away... and came on with the speed of a falling star. Big George Dorman blinked his eyes to clear the mists and made out faces. One of them was Chick Lancaster’s. He dimly remembered the other one...
He tried to move his legs, but they felt funny. His head ached. His mouth was dry.
“Easy,” said Lancaster. He moved closer. “You had a hell of a spill.”
Dorman smiled.
Another face came close. He fought with his brain to tear away the obscurity... and then atop the head that was close to him he saw a silver star gleaming from the little cap.
Then he knew.
That was General Mitchell.
“How do you feel, Dorman?” he asked.
George Dorman licked his lips.
“Okay, sir. I’m okay. What happened?”
The General grinned.
“The Gotha crashed and its bombs exploded. You were a full fifty feet above and got the repercussion.”
“Oh,” Dorman said. He moved his head. “Feels like I been here ten years. Is the war over yet?”
He looked at General Mitchell queerly.
“Not yet,” the General said. “I think it’ll last long enough for you to get in. As soon as you’re in shape you’re coming back to the group. I’ll hold a place for you.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Those Gothas,” Mitchell went on, “had bombs for the General.” He leaned over and whispered. “I’m recommending you for the D.S.C.” He smiled and bit his lip and went out.
Lancaster sat down on the edge of the bed.
“By God,” he said, “you must have been born with a horseshoe in your mouth.”
Big George Dorman grinned and thumbed his nose at him.