was hard to
move, and that darn gray veil made things hard to see. But he'd get
through just the same. Casablanca, here we come! Here we--

The wheels of the bullet-riddled Messerschmitt 110 touching hard ground
seemed to snap something inside Dawson's head, and drag him back from
another world. In a daze he looked about and saw that he was rolling
along the Casablanca field. Above him, the air was filled with Allied
aircraft. A sharp stab of fear passed through his heart when he realized
that this Nazi plane had been in the air with those other aircraft. He
vaguely remembered they had spotted him way out from Casablanca, closed
in, and then dropped into escort position.

And now _he_ was down on Casablanca base! He'd made it, but he hadn't
realized it until just now! Could a pilot fly a course while
semi-conscious? Maybe he could, because Dave had very little
recollection of this flight except for the very start. And--Wait!
_Freddy Farmer!_

As the thought flashed through his brain, he lurched upward out of the
seat and looked back. Fresh fear and terror gripped him. Freddy was
still slumped lifelessly against the side of the pit. His face seemed
even paler, and it was covered with more dots of blood. Dawson started
to call out, when he heard the pounding of many running feet. He turned
his head in that direction and saw a large group of figures, led by
Colonel Welsh, racing toward the plane. He waved frantically with one
hand and called out.

"Ambulance!" he shouted. "Get the ambulance at--"

At that exact moment a dark cloud swooped down on top of him. A great
roaring started up inside his head. He knew that he was tumbling
headlong out of the pit and down onto the wing, but he was absolutely
helpless to do anything about it. Something, probably the wing stub, hit
him one last and final smash on the head, and there was nothing but
darkness, and utter silence.

Dave Dawson found himself suspended in a world of clear, fresh-smelling
and soothing white when he again opened his eyes. It did not puzzle him
that all should be white, because his brain was too contented to bother
figuring it out. His whole body felt contented, too. A lulling warmth
enveloped him, and he did not care whether anything ever changed again.
This lulling warmth and this soothing contentment were all that he could
desire.

However, that perfect spell of both mind and body was not long-lasting.
As complete consciousness finally returned, t