"Tighten it up, gentlemen." He frowned as he watched the black blossoms of flak darken the view below. It was always bad, but today, it looked even thicker than usual. No choice for it, though, there wasn't enough fuel on board to go around it, hit the target and still make it home again. He felt his plane shudder from a hit and clenched his jaw as he adjusted stick and rudder to compensate for the buffeting from the blow. "Pilot to bombardier, coming up on the IP."

There was no answer.

"Jones?"

Still no answer.

"Pilot to navigator, check on Jones, will you?"

Just then, another round of flak struck the underbelly of the plane and the pilot gasped and stiffened in his seat.

"You okay, General?" his copilot asked anxiously.

"Yeah, got a piece of flak in my butt, is all." His voice was strained.

Captain Jacobs looked over, worriedly. "Sir?"

"It hurts, Dan, but I can still fly. Navigator, what's Jonesy's condition?"

"Sorry, sir, but he took a blast right in the throat. I've got the bombsight, sir."

"Your airplane." He released the yoke and allowed the navigator to control the plane through their bomb run.

"Bombs away."

He took back control of his plane and began to lead his flight in a tight circle to head back for home. "How's it look, Dan?"

His copilot looked down and then back, counting planes as they turned and regrouped into formation.

"Everyone's here, sir."

"Good. Let's go home."

His left leg felt numb, and he could feel the blood soaking his seat and trickling down his left leg. His butt ached, but he could still manage the rudder, so he didn't think it was too bad, though he did worry about losing too much blood. He glanced over at his copilot. The lieutenant was new and very young. He seemed pretty steady, however, despite this being his first sortie.

"You doing all right over there, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." The twenty-one-year-old lieutenant replied, glancing over at him in concern. "How are you doing, sir?"

"All right, so far." He chuckled dryly, "I guess everyone's going to get a laugh out of my getting a chunk of flak in my butt, though."

Jacobs couldn't help the slight smile that pulled at the corners of his lips. "I guess so, sir."

"Most likely, it'll be things like `he finally knows what a pain in the butt feels like.'"

Jacobs blushed. He'd heard all the stories about the general, and when he discovered that he was to fly with him, he'd been as nervous as a cat in a dog kennel. But he'd discovered that the general was all business in the air; yet he also found things to joke about, as well. Despite the seriousness of their mission, he'd enjoyed flying with the general.

As they approached the channel, the sky was suddenly filled with enemy fighters and any levity or relaxation vanished. The bombers closed ranks to make it harder for the Germans to get at them as their own gunners did their level best to blast the enemy out of the sky.

Dan Jacobs turned to look worriedly at the general when he heard him grunt in pain, just as the side window next to the pilot exploded at the impact of a German bullet.

"Sir?"

"This is not my day, Captain. It's all right, just a scratch." He was still able to fly, although his left hip felt like it was burning. He was too stubborn to give up control unless he absolutely had to. He knew he was losing blood, but doggedly held on.

The landing was rough, but they made it. He taxied around to his hard stand and shut down the engines. Then he just sat there, unable to move.

Jacobs gratefully released his seat belt and stood. He frowned when the general didn't move. "Sir?"

"You'd better get the doc for me, Lieutenant. I'm going to need some help getting out of here."

Jacobs swallowed hard as he noticed the pool of blood on the floor. "Yes, sir!" He hurried to the hatch and out, calling for a medic.

Doc Kaiser had made it a habit to be on hand whenever the squadron returned from a mission. There were always wounded, and almost always dead. He was looking at a young man with a bullet in his shoulder when he heard the nearly hysterical call for a medic. He looked up and frowned. "Let's get you in the ambulance, son." He looked at his aide, who was applying pressure to the man's wound and gestured for him to continue while he answered the call for help.

He jogged across to the very young lieutenant who immediately grabbed him by the jacket and practically dragged him over to the Piccadilly Lily.

"It's the general. He can't get up. There's a lot of blood. He said he was all right! But now he can't get out of his seat, and...."

"Take it easy, Lieutenant. Just get out of my way, will you?" He pushed the young man aside and made his way into the plane and up to the cockpit. He frowned at the pool of blood under the general's seat.

"Sir?"

"Hey, Doc. I'm afraid I managed to take one in the butt. I was okay flying and managed to get us on the ground, but now I can't seem to get up." He was pale and perspiring, and Doc was amazed that the man was still conscious.

"All right, let me help you get out of here."

"Thanks." He was starting to feel rather woozy from loss of blood, and was grateful for the assistance. To his surprise, his legs wouldn't hold him, and they practically had to carry him from the plane. The pain didn't really register until they laid him face down on the stretcher and loaded him in the ambulance, with Doc right there beside him, cutting away his trousers to get a look at his wounds. Somehow, he managed to remain conscious all the way to the infirmary.

Doc looked at the size of the gash in the general's left buttock and winced. How he'd managed to not bleed to death, he didn't know. The first thing they'd need to do was start pumping blood into him to replace what he'd lost. Then surgery to remove the shrapnel and see just how much damage there was. He carefully applied pressure and heard and felt something grating as the general groaned, but there was no choice, he had to try and stop the bleeding before it was too late.

Major Kaiser was settling his patient into his bed. He'd decided to keep him sedated for a few days and give his injuries a chance to start healing. The general was face down on his bed, to allow for redressing his wounds. Doc looked up as Major General Crowe entered the room.

"General."

"Doc. How's he doing?"

"I can't figure out why he didn't bleed to death. But he didn't. He lost a lot of blood, though, and the bullet he took on the way home chipped his pelvis. Thankfully it isn't broken. Hopefully, the nerves weren't too badly damaged and he'll recover most of his mobility."

Wiley Crowe frowned down at his friend and protege. "Why do you have him face down?"

Doc glanced at the general and, instead of answering him, pulled the sheet down and showed him.

General Crowe coughed to cover his involuntary laugh. "Oh."

"This is what chipped his hip." He handed the bullet to the general, who frowned down at it. "Seems like a lot of damage from just one little bullet."

"Oh, the bullet just went in and hit the pelvis. The rest of the damage was caused by this." He handed the general a piece of shrapnel that was a good four inches long and had sharp, jagged edges.

"Good God."

"Like I said, I don't know why he didn't bleed to death. He took the shrapnel on the way in, managed to fly the mission, got shot on the way home, and still managed to get back and land. His copilot knew he'd been hit, but had no idea how badly until they were on the ground and the general couldn't get out of his seat."

Wiley shook his head. "He's just too damned stubborn, is all. Will he be all right?"

Doc shrugged. "Hard to say. I've seen a couple of injuries similar to this before, but one of them wound up losing his leg, and the other ended up too crippled to continue to fly. It's a crapshoot, General. We'll simply have to wait and see."

General Crowe nodded. "I was hoping to debrief him, how soon will he wake up?"

"I'm keeping him sedated for a few days."

Crowe scowled. "Why?"

"Because the amount of morphine it would take to dull the pain would either make him dependant, or kill him. This way, he's simply unconscious and unaware. Believe me, he's going to be in a world of hurt when he does wake up, so I'm hoping to give him a chance to start healing before he's got to deal with it."

Crowe nodded, then smiled. "One way to make sure he rests and doesn't try and get back to work too soon?"

Doc Kaiser grinned. "There is that, too."

"Well, keep me apprised of how he's doing and let me know when you're going to let him wake up."

"Yes, sir." He finished tucking his patient in and followed the general from the room.

"How's he doing, Doc?" Major Stovall asked late in the evening of the second day of the general's sedated sleep.

"I'm a little concerned. He's dreaming, but his left leg doesn't move. The foot's warm enough, so the circulation is still good, but I don't know how badly the nerves are damaged. How're things going out there?"

"Bad weather in the daytime is keeping us home. It's supposed to clear tonight, and I heard that the Brits are going out if it does."

Doc nodded. "Well, with the bad weather, at least I don't feel so bad about keeping him sedated. He's doing very well, considering. I just hope that when he does wake up, he's able to use his leg. The muscles were pretty torn up. And it's probably going to ache like mad in the cold, especially as he gets older."

"Wool long johns, for certain. Of course, considering who we're talking about, you'll never hear a whisper of complaint or an admission of pain." Harvey shook his head. "Word's all over the base. That young lieutenant's told everyone who'll listen how he took it in stride, shrugged it off and kept flying. Kid never realized that he was even hurt."

"One more superman story to add to the collection, Harvey." Doc smiled and stood. "Well, I'm going to check on my patient one more time before heading for the sack. He seems to be handling the sedation well, so I'm going to see about keeping him out for a few more days. The IV feeding is keeping his weight steady, and his dreams are keeping his muscles flexing, so I'm willing to take the chance."

"He's not going to be pleased when he finds out how much time he's lost."

Doc sighed. "I know, but maybe knowing that the pain he's in would have been a lot worse for a lot longer will help him forgive me."

"You hope," Harvey replied with a grin.

Doc chuckled. "Yeah, I don't expect it to work, but if the weather stays bad, he just might let me off the hook."

"Well, General Crowe has been asking about him. Wants to talk to him as soon as he wakes up. When shall I tell him to expect a conscious General Savage?"

"Well, let's see how he manages the next day or two and I'll decide then."

"Thanks, Doc. Good night."

"Good night, Harvey."

Whenever there were patients in the infirmary, Doc Kaiser slept in a small room attached to his office. That way, his minimal staff didn't have to work around the clock. It was nearly midnight when something awoke him. He was immediately out of bed and moving to see what was wrong. He found the General in the throes of what appeared to be a nightmare.

"Come on, Johnny, pull up. Pull up! Left rudder, LEFT RUDDER! Good, good. Easy, now, pull her nose up a little more, Johnny, easy....easy, now. That's it. A little more left rudder, that's it. Now, bring up her nose a bit more so you can clear the trees. Good boy. Landing gear down and locked? Do it now. Okay, you've cleared the trees, and now you're about half a mile from the runway. The lights are out, but I'll talk you down. Flaps. Easy, easy."

Doc watched as the general's hands flexed as though gripping the yoke of an airplane and his right foot and leg twitched like he was pushing the rudder pedals, but his left leg remained unmoving. His head moved, and he could see Frank's eyes moving behind his closed lids as he flew his mission in his dreams. Doc wondered who Johnny was?

"Slow and easy, now. Throttle back, ease her down, easy, EASY! Okay, you're about to touch down. THERE! Cut the inboards and hit the brakes. That's it, that's it!" With several undecipherable mumbles and twitches, the general went still and his breathing deepened back to full sleep.

Doc checked his patient's vitals and shook his head. That was some dream the general had had. He was about to turn out the lights and head back to bed when he heard a jeep pull up outside. He opened the door just as two men in British flying suits came in, guiding a third Brit between them. The night tower operator, who was shaking his head in confusion, escorted them.

"What's happened?" Doc asked.

"These guys just landed in the dark, Doc. Prettiest landing I've ever seen. There's a couple of dead - the pilot and a gunner, and the Lancaster they brought in is in pretty sorry shape, but the rest of the crew seems to be okay." The guard was shaking his head in wonder. "Funny thing is, the copilot here? He can't see."

Doc started in surprise and frowned. "Come on, son. Let's take a look at you." He took the pilot's arm and gently guided him to a chair in his examination room, leaving the others to worry in the office while the tower operator returned to his post.

"What's your name, son?"

"Ian. Ian Johnson."

The young captain was nervous, and his head kept moving, but there was so much blood dripping down his face from the gash in his forehead that there was no way for him to be able to see.

"Well, let's get you cleaned up, first." He gathered a basin of warm water, antiseptic, clean cloths, and anything else he thought he might need. "What happened?"

"Took a piece of a Jerry fighter through the windscreen, we did. It killed Tommy, and I think I blacked out for a moment, because when I could think again, I couldn't see, and there was a Yank there."

"An American? In the plane with you?"

"Yes, sir. Told me to pull up, he did. I could tell that we were in a pretty steep dive, and he kept saying `pull up, pull up, pull up' and I pulled back and felt the bird respond. Then he told me to keep pulling up, to keep her nose up, and then he guided me to the landing. Where are we, sir?"

"Archbury. Why did you land here, instead of your own base?"

"Because here is where the Yank brought us, sir. I couldn't see a thing from the blood, sir. And me head hurt so much, sir. It was like the first time I landed, he talked me right through it, kept calling me Johnny, he did. Don't know how he knew what me mates always called me, but he did. Got us down safe and sound, he did, sir. I'd like to know how he got in me plane, none of me crew saw him. Is he here?"

Doc paused and stared at the young man for a moment, then went back to cleaning his wounds. "I don't think so. Captain. Most of the base is asleep and only the guards are up and about. And I doubt any of them could have gotten into your plane."

The young lieutenant frowned in confusion. "Yes, sir. I suppose so. I wonder who he was though?"

"Your guardian angle, maybe?"

Johnson chuckled. "Mayhap, sir." He fell silent as the doctor finished cleaning his wound and gave him injections to help prevent infection and to deaden his forehead while he stitched the gash closed.

"You're lucky that whatever hit you didn't take your head off."

"Yes, sir." He knew that no one believed him about the Yank who'd talked him through the last half hour of their flight, but he knew. Maybe the doctor was right; maybe it was his guardian angel. But why on earth would he have an American guardian angel?

When the doctor insisted he stay the night, he didn't complain. The major promised to call base and report them safe and sound. Still confused, but grateful to be alive and still have his sight, he easily fell asleep.

Major Kaiser arranged billeting for the rest of the crew, who had walked over from the flight line. Then he wrote up his reports and made the call to Bristol to report the visitors. He didn't see any reason to mention the lieutenant's hallucination of an American who talked him down.

In the morning, three other Brits arrived, two to fly the Lancaster back to base, and the third to take the plane's crew back. Doc wished them well and thought no more of them.

He'd just finished changing the general's dressing and was hooking up a bottle of glucose to the IV when his patient became slightly agitated in his sleep. He watched in concern as the dream manifested itself.

"It's all right. Just put the sun at your left shoulder and fly straight. It's all right. You're not really lost, just a bit confused, is all. See? There's the channel, and Dover. Know where you are, now, son? Go on home, now."

And with that, he was still again. Doc shook his head as he finished his tasks and headed for his office to get some more paperwork done. Sometimes, he wondered how wars could ever be fought, what with all the paperwork involved. Who had time?

Rumors were flying, and the staff officers at Pinetree were somewhat concerned. There had been four reports of either an American stowing away on a bomber, or guardian angels with American accents guiding lost fighter pilots home. The reports were all nearly identical. The first one had been an injured co-pilot who insisted a Yank had stowed away on his plane and then proceeded to talk him in to a landing at a darkened airfield. The rest of the crew insisted that there had been no stowaway, American or not, only the miracle of their temporarily blinded copilot safely bringing them in. The second had been a fighter pilot who'd gotten lost and heard an American voice tell him how to find his way back. The next had been another bomber that managed to limp home on half an engine and a voice telling the injured pilot how to get altitude without power, and then glided in for an unlit landing at Archbury with no power at all.

The strangest part of it all was that, except for the one fighter, every one of the flights had been night attacks against the Germans. All the pilots insisted the voice was American, and all but one had landed at Archbury. The Eighth Air Force Command was wondering what was going on?

All they had were questions, not one, single, solitary, answer or even possible explanation.

Too bad they didn't think to ask Major Kaiser.

"I'm going to let him wake up, Harvey. It's been almost a week and he's healing well. He's also getting mighty restless in his sleep. I think he might need to wake up to get some rest!" He said the last only half-jokingly.

"Good. General Crowe has been calling twice a day to check on him. In case he asks, what's the prognosis?"

"Well, let's just say that I'm `cautiously optimistic' about his chances for a full recovery. I think that keeping him sedated for the past six days was the right thing to do. The sutures are closed and there's no drainage from the wounds. No fever, no infection. He'll be on crutches for a couple of weeks while he finishes healing, but I'm hopeful that he'll be back in the air within a month."

"Wonderful! I'm sure he'll be pleased with that bit of news."

Doc chuckled. "If you believe that, I've got this bridge to sell you."

Harvey laughed. "Well, at least General Crowe and the Air Staff should be pleased. Maybe the weather will clear up, too. It's sure been odd, lately. Usually, when it gets bad, it stays bad for a day or two, then clears long enough to get in a sortie or two, then socks back in. But this! Socked in all day and clear at night. Who ever heard of it doing that, I ask you?"

Doc shook his head. "I wish I could tell you, Harvey, but I simply don't know."

The next time General Crowe called, Major Stovall gave him the good news. The general said he had a meeting that afternoon, but that as soon as he could get there, he would.

Doc kept a close watch on his patient, waiting for him to regain consciousness. There was a pretty good chance the general would have one hell of a headache, but if it was quiet enough, he might just sleep through it and wake up feeling halfway human. He hoped.

There were several times during the day when he thought the general was about to awaken, but each time, he settled back into deeper sleep. Doc couldn't help but wonder just how much sleep he'd been getting prior to his injury and sedated rest. Of course, the longer he slept, the less likely he'd have a post-sedation hangover, so maybe he should just count his blessings!

It was just after dark when General Crowe arrived, tired, frustrated, and impatient. Major Stovall greeted him with the news that Frank was still asleep, but not sedated. Grumbling at the delay, he gratefully accepted a cup of Harvey's excellent coffee and sat down for a few minutes to relax before going over to the infirmary. A shot of Major Stovall's bourbon in his cup went a long way to mellowing General Crowe, allowing Harvey to heave a silent sigh of relief.

"Well, how's he doing?"

"Doc's pleased with how well he's healing. He thinks he'll be able to take the stitches out. Said that General Savage is a fast healer, when he gets his rest."

General Crowe grunted. "Rest is in rather short commodity these days, Harvey."

"Yes, sir. That's why Doc's kept him sleeping. Can you imagine how much he'd have been fretting over this strange weather and not being able to do anything? If he'd been awake, he could never have lain still long enough to heal, and we both know that, sir."

Wiley nodded wearily. "Too true, Major. But now they say the weather should be clearing and we need him back to work." He stood, drained his cup, and handed it to the major on his way out. Harvey took the mug and set it on the corner of his desk as he snagged the phone from the hook to call and warn Doc Kaiser of General Crowe's imminent arrival.

"How's he doing, Doctor?"

"Still sleeping. I can wake him, if you want?" His expression told the general that that was not his preferred course of action.

"No, let him wake up on his own. Had any more midnight visitors?"

Doc grinned. "Not since the night before last. It's been pretty strange, three landings on the darkened strip." He shook his head, unwilling to mention that General Savage had just happened to have rather vocal dreams of flying that eerily matched the tales told by the pilots who'd managed to land on the darkened airfield.

"Well, it's been pretty strange all around - every last one of them insists that there was an American who guided them in. You saw that young lieutenant. The first one? Was he really blind?"

"Well, he had so much blood flowing down from the gash in his forehead that he couldn't see, yes. He also had a concussion and was in pretty rough shape."

Wiley nodded, frowning. Then he sighed. "Well, whatever it is, I'd like to know how it's happening."

Major Kaiser focused his attention on the papers on his desk and didn't answer.

A few minutes later, there were sounds from the patient in the next room, and both men went to check.

Frank had turned onto his side and drawn his legs up slightly. As they watched, he turned onto his back and stretched, still sleeping, but showing definite signs of imminent return to consciousness. Just as they expected him to open his eyes, however, he frowned and turned over onto his stomach again. His hands fisted in his pillow and he began to mumble. At first, the words were unclear, but then...

"You've gone too far. You have to turn back. You know I'm right, I can guide you in. Please! If you don't turn back now, you'll either run out of fuel or end up in France. Please turn back. It's not far, if you'll just listen!" His hands tightened their grip on his pillow and his right leg began to twitch. "That's right. Come around slowly... you want a heading of... we're coming up on the field, turn on your lights to land, and have the others follow right on your tail. The strip's big enough that you can pull off to either side safely, so once you're down and brake, you can pull off to the side so that there's plenty of room right down the middle. We can take off three abreast, here. That's it! Easy, now, five hundred feet, three hundred feet, one hundred feet, pull up the nose just a hair and you've got it. Good girl!" Frank's voice was exultant, causing Wiley to look questioningly at Doc.

"He's been having some pretty vocal dreams," was all the major would say.

"Sounds like it."

Frank sighed and turned back over onto his side for a few moments, and then onto his back. He again stretched in his sleep, only this time, his eyes finally opened. He frowned as he saw his audience.

"Wiley?"

"Welcome back, Frank. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, considering." He took mental stock. There was an ache in his left buttock, but then he remembered and thought it odd that it didn't hurt more. He looked past his friend to the doctor and asked, "Why doesn't it hurt more?"

Doc flushed. Leave it to Frank Savage to ask the hard question, first. "Because it's healing very well."

Frank scowled. "How long have I been out?"

"You were injured six days ago, General," Doc admitted, glancing at the clock on the wall. Frank's expression darkened. To forestall the imminent explosion, Doc held out a freshly poured mug of coffee. Close enough to his patient that the smell attracted the general's attention.

"Do you think you can sit up, General?"

With a grunt and a slight wince as he shifted, using his arms on either side and his feet, he lifted his butt up and shifted back, while Wiley, hiding a smile, mounded the pillows behind him. As soon as he was settled, he reached out and accepted the mug of fresh, steaming coffee. He took a sip and his eyes closed as the flavorful hot liquid sluiced down his throat and eased the thirst he hadn't realized he had. A moment later, his eyes opened and the pale blue orbs shot a sharp beam of annoyance at the doctor. "Now, why have I been knocked out for so long?"

"I gave him permission, Frank," Wiley interjected, taking the wind right out of Frank's sails. At the wounded look of betrayal the younger man shot his way, he elaborated. "You haven't missed much of anything except some lousy weather and the boredom."

Frank sighed, "And the chance to catch up on all the paperwork?" He looked at the doctor. "So, how long will I be grounded?"

"Well, you're wounds are healing very well, although there was some fairly extensive muscle damage - with luck, you'll be back up within a month."

Frank didn't look at all happy about that. He was scowling and trying to think of something to say in protest, when the door burst open and Harvey Stovall's agitated voice preceded the entrance of a group of chattering women, all wearing flight suits.

Frank didn't have time to pull the covers up to hide his shirtless body and barely had time to be grateful that his lower body was covered. Upon seeing the stars on Wiley's jacket, the women fell silent and snapped to attention, saluting. Harvey, with the blessed silence, forewent protocol and simply explained.

"It happened again, General Crowe, only this time, there were *five* planes. Replacements coming in via Greenland, sir."

Wiley cast a concerned glance at Doc and Frank, who just looked confused, and then returned the women's salutes. "At ease, ladies. Who's the flight leader?"

One petite brunette stepped forward. "That would be me, sir. Captain Lilly Williams, sir."

"Captain. What happened?"

"Well, sir, we left Greenland about ten hours ago, sir, ferrying over five new seventeens, sir. It was clear and supposed to stay that way, but about an hour and a half ago, sir, the weather went bad on us, and we lost our ability to see the ground, sir. We were flying by instruments, but without markers, we got lost. There was some kind of interference on the radios, as well, sir, and all we could do was talk to each other. Then, it was strange, because the radio wasn't working, but there was a man's voice, sir, telling us we'd gone too far and we were heading for France, sir. He gave us a bearing and we turned back, then he talked us through the fog to the landing, sir."

"On a darkened runway?" General Crowe asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. He told us to turn on our landing lights and to have the others follow close behind, and he talked me down, sir, with the other planes so close behind, we all made it down safely, sir."

"Five new seventeens?" Frank asked. There was an avid, almost covetous look on his face as he contemplated what five new bombers would mean to his group.

"You can have one," Wiley growled.

Frank lifted an eyebrow at him, but before he could reply, Captain Williams startled them by exclaiming, "You! It was you who talked us down!"

The four men gaped, first at the captain, and then at the disheveled and only just awakened Frank.

"That's not possible," General Crowe replied very softly. "General Savage was asleep until about fifteen minutes ago."

"But it was *his* voice, sir!" Captain Williams insisted. She was backed up by the other women nodding - apparently, they had all heard the man's voice telling them how to get safely down.

Harvey stared at Frank and shuddered. He looked at Doc, who was frowning in confusion. "Doc, you mentioned that the general had been having rather vivid dreams, didn't you?"

"Yes, but...." He shook his head and sighed. "I can't say how, but it would seem that somehow, his subconscious went out looking for something to do while his body healed."

"What are you talking about?" Frank asked in total confusion.

"Well, sir, while you were sedated, we've had some rather odd things happen around here. Primarily, it's been lost or injured pilots setting down on the field in the dark and bad weather. The first one was a young British Lieutenant whose pilot had been killed and who had been blinded by the blood running from his own head wound. He insisted that an American was in his cockpit and talked him down. Then there was the lost fighter pilot who was given instructions on how to find his way back, then the bomber that fell back due to engine trouble and got lost in the fog, and the badly damaged bomber that limped its way in. Of course, they were all British - flying night missions, except for the fighter, who was coming back at dawn. Now this."

"But how? I was unconscious."

"It was definitely your voice, sir," Captain Williams insisted, looking puzzled, but adamant.

"Well, whatever it was, it's over, and you're here. Five planes, you said?" General Crowe smiled and turned his back on Frank, focusing on the ten young women pilots.

"I want three of them. They're on my field."

"One."

"Four."

Wiley turned, scowling, to see the intense look on Frank's face, and it gave him pause. However he'd managed to do it, he *had* managed to help bring in five new bombers that would otherwise have been lost. "Two."

"Three."

"Two."

"We have extra parts, as well, General." Captain Williams softly added.

"Ten magnetos," Frank demanded.

"Ten magnetos and two planes," Wiley countered.

"Agreed, plus at least two extra stabilizers, if there are any?"

"Yes, sir. We came fully loaded with spare parts, as well as the planes, sir. Um, we also have fifty bombsites, sir.

"Twenty," Frank insisted.

"Twelve."

"All right." Frank grinned and stuck out his hand. Wiley shook his head and grinned back, taking Frank's hand and shaking it.

Harvey was grinning like a kid at Christmas. Ten magnetos, two new planes, two sets of new stabilizers, and twelve Norden bombsites. He didn't know how Frank had managed it, but whatever it was, it was going to make some very happy ground crews.

Doc was watching Frank and noticed that the strain of sitting up was starting to wear on him, already. "All right, folks, that's enough, for now. If you'll move along on out of here, I have a patient to tend to." He gently shooed them out, all except General Crowe, who simply pulled up a chair and sat down.

Doc ignored General Crowe and focused on his patient. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his face and torso; whether it was from the strain of sitting on his injury, or simply from the stress of having been told that he'd been guiding people to safe landings in his sleep was unknown. "Let's get you back down, Frank."

"Sure, Doc." He reversed the process he'd used to sit up and eased back down, shifting slightly to his right to ease the ache in his left buttock. "How are the jokes going?"

"Not many jokes, General. Young Jacobs has been too busy telling everyone how amazing you are to have been able to fly the plane while losing all that blood."

"Oh? Just how much did I lose?"

"Not enough to kill you, but certainly enough to weaken you. That was another reason I kept you out. The amount of morphine I'd have had to use could have had some pretty adverse reactions. So I just kept you asleep for a few days."

"From what I think I heard, I wasn't exactly `here,' though, was I?"

"Well, that I can't answer. But I had noticed that your dreams had preceded every miraculous landing."

Wiley softly quoted, "'There are more things in heaven and earth than are known of in your philosophy, Horatio,' I think this definitely qualifies as one of them. I can't imagine what the other pilots you talked down would think, Frank. Particularly since you were unconscious at the time."

Frank shook his head and flinched as Doc pulled the tape holding the bandages to his body. "Well?" he asked after a few moments of silence.

"Well, I think I can remove the stitches now, actually. You're not completely healed, of course, but the skin has knit very well, with only a few spots still scabbed over. This may be a bit uncomfortable, but you'll probably feel better in the long run."

"I thought stitches had to stay in for two weeks?" Wiley asked.

"Well, normally, yes. But he was asleep, and his body took advantage of the lack of movement and stress and poured most of his energy into healing." He shrugged. "He's always been a pretty fast healer, anyway."

"You know, I *am* awake and right here," Frank grumbled as they talked about him. It was bad enough to have to lie there with his butt hanging out in public, but to have them talking as though he wasn't there, well, that was just a little bit too much for him.

"Sorry, Frank." Wiley couldn't help grinning, though. "I guess you'll be eating off the mantle for a while, won't you?"

Frank sighed. "Yuk it up, Wiley."

"Sorry, Frank," but his voice betrayed his amusement.

"There you are, General. If you'd like, you can get up and go back to your own quarters. Or you can stay here another night."

"I'd like to take a walk around and see how things are going, if that's all right?"

"That's fine. I suggest you head over to the O club and get something to eat. Your stomach is probably thinking your throat's been cut. I'll get your clothes."

"And I *still* need to debrief you on that last mission, Frank."

Frank glared at him. "I don't remember a thing."

"What?"

Frank shrugged. "Too long ago. Don't remember a thing. Sorry, Wiley."

"Frank," there was a warning in his tone.

Doc got Frank's clothes, handed them to him, and left the room. No need for him to be privy to this little confrontation.

"Frank?"

"Yes?"

"Your last mission."

"We flew over, bombed the IP, and came home. I don't know our casualty count, but all twenty-five birds made it back. I lost Jones, my bombardier, and I took a blast of flak in the butt." He shrugged as he stood up, pulling up his skivvies and trousers at the same time.

Wiley watched his friend and the thought that `he didn't put his pants on one leg at a time' occurred to him. He sighed and shook his head. "What else?"

"The flak was heavier than usual, and the fighters less effective. We kept a tight formation and hit the target. The weather was clear and that's about it."

"All right, Frank. I guess that'll have to do." He shook his head, wondering if maybe Frank really had forgotten? It was over, now, though. Besides, if there had been any problems, the crews would hear about them from Frank, and his interference would not be appreciated or tolerated. He decided to try placating his not so obviously upset friend. "How about I buy you supper?" He remembered that he hadn't had anything to eat since late that morning, himself.

"Sure. What's today?"

"Tuesday."

"Chops or liver and onions." He sighed. "I'm sure Doc would prefer I have the liver." He grinned at his friend. "Just don't tell him that I like it!"

Wiley chuckled. As he recalled, there wasn't much Frank *didn't* like to eat. "Well, if you're ready, let's head on over to the club, then." They looked up as the door opened and Major Kaiser entered, carrying a pair of crutches. Frank took one look and scowled.

"No."

"General, unless you want me to ground you until further notice, you'll take them and use them."

"No." Frank's jaw clenched stubbornly.

"Walk across the room, General."

Frank started across the room. He limped heavily, and broke out in a sweat from the pain and strain. Carefully breathing, he leaned against the wall and hung his head. He held out his left hand and Doc handed him the crutches.

"You can walk, but use the crutches to help support the hip and leg until the muscles finish healing and it doesn't hurt so much. If you behave yourself and follow instructions, you'll be off them within a week or two. You'll need a cane after that, but if you're lucky, you'll even be off of that in a month or so."

"Yes, Doctor." Frank hated not being in perfect health, and chafed at being restrained; but at the same time, he wasn't a fool, and was smart enough to listen to his body - at least when someone else insisted.

Wiley didn't smile or crack wise on their slow, careful trip to the O club. He knew better.

When they entered, the first one to see them was Captain Williams, who snapped to attention and called out "Attention!"

General Crowe smiled, saluted the room at large and said "As you were, ladies and gentlemen," and led the way to a quiet corner table.

Frank was well aware of the eyes that followed him, and the whispers that went with the stares. He sighed heavily, wondering how fast the WAAC's story had spread.

"General Crowe, General Savage, what can I get for you this evening?"

"What's on the menu?" he asked, even though he knew perfectly well what it was.

"Pork chops or liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, with a choice of glazed carrots or spinach; the soup of the day is vegetable beef, and dessert is a choice of apple or mince pie, sir."

"I'll have the pork chops and carrots," Wiley decided. "Frank?"

"Liver and onions, with the spinach."

"Yes, sirs. Do you want the soup?"

"No, thanks," Frank replied, smiling. They'd been through this a dozen times or more, but the young man always asked. They both knew perfectly well that the `soup' was simply a pot of sludge into which any and all leftovers had been dumped. Frank suspected that it was the same pot as when he first arrived, with only the daily additions.

"Yes, sir, General Crowe, sir?"

"No, thank you. But I do want some apple pie. Frank?"

"Yes, please. And a pot of coffee."

"Yes, sir. General Crowe?"

"Scotch, neat."

"Yes, sir." With a smile, the young man turned and limped away. He'd been injured in a bombing raid in 1940, in London, where he'd lost his entire family and he would always bear the physical scars from it, but he was a cheerful young man, simply grateful to be alive. He'd come to Archbury a few months earlier and had worked in the club ever since.

Frank's gaze roamed the room, checking out the people. He ruefully shook his head. The ten young women who had come in with the new bombers were being carefully split up amongst his pilots. He grinned at his friend. "Talk about a morale booster," he softly murmured.

Wiley glanced around the room and grinned. "Do you blame them?"

"No, I don't."

Their drinks arrived and a few moments later, their food. The two men focused on assuaging their hunger and spoke no more until they were sitting back and sipping their respective drinks and smoking their cigarettes.

"Even though I know I've been sleeping for six days, I'm about ready to call it a night," Frank admitted softly.

"Won't the coffee keep you up?"

"Never has before." He had to use his hands on the table in order to get to his feet. He hated weakness, particularly in himself, but he also knew that his body wasn't going to obey him....yet.

"It's too late to bother going back to London, so if it's all right with you, I'll grab a billet in the VOQ."

"Of course. Any word on when the weather is supposed to clear?"

Wiley shook his head. "They've been telling us that it's going to clear for a week, but they've been wrong so far. When it does finally clear, there are a lot of missions just waiting to be to be flown."

"I can imagine." Unfortunately, he could. Endless missions with endless loss of lives. He wondered if Wiley knew that he knew the name of every casualty they'd had since he arrived. Best not tell him, or they might ground him permanently. He sighed. Despite his only having been awake for a little more than two hours, the thought of bed was quite appealing. He grinned at his friend as he grabbed his crutches. "I'll see you in the morning, Wiley."

"All right, Frank. I think I'll have another drink and then I'm going to head out, too. Good night."

"Good night." Carefully maneuvering his crutches to help support his damaged hip, he quietly made his way out of the club and slowly accomplished the thirty or so yards to his office and quarters.

He was in the shower, relishing the nice, hot water sluicing down over his body, the heat easing the ache in his butt, when there was a knock at the door.

"What?"

"Sorry to bother you, General, but there's a slight problem."

Frank scowled. "What's that?"

"Well, sir, the VOQ only accommodates eight, and we have eleven guests. I've put one up in my quarters, and Doc's given up his, and that leaves us in need of one, sir."

The ten women fliers. Frank shook his head. Of course. Couldn't very well put them in with the men, now, could they?

"All right, let me finish here and I'll go back over to the infirmary. How are they getting back?"

"There's a ship leaving in a few days, from Liverpool. They'll be going back with the wounded."

"Very well. I think we can manage that long."

"Thank you, sir."

Frank sighed and finished his shower. Once dry, he wrapped the towel around his hips and proceeded to carefully remove the week's growth of beard with his straight razor. Clean-shaven, he wiped the last bit of leftover foam from his face and went into his bedroom to dress. The hardest part was bending down to get his socks and boots on. With a soft groan, he managed, though he didn't tighten the laces. Fortunately, the infirmary wasn't far. He packed his shaving kit with some extra skivvies. If he needed anything else, it would wait until the next day. Kit in the cargo pocket of his trousers, he got his crutches and made his way back to the infirmary.

Major Kaiser offered the general his private space, but Frank waved him off and returned to the bed he'd awakened in. He couldn't believe how tired he was. He'd been `sleeping' for a week, and was still ready for bed. It seemed strange, but he gratefully fell into bed and was soon sleeping again.

Harvey and Doc worriedly considered how Frank was doing.

"Why'd he tire out so fast, Doc?"

"He's still healing, and I suspect that those `dreams' of his don't help much."

"Pretty peculiar, that, don't you think? I mean, I don't doubt the ladies' word, but I just don't understand how it could have happened."

Doc shrugged. "I have no idea, but it doesn't really matter how it happened, only that an awful lot of lives were saved because of it."

"Amen to that, Doc."

Despite all attempts to keep it quiet, Frank awoke early to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and Doc's whispered admonition not to wake him up. He opened his eyes to see them standing in the doorway. Major Kaiser was blocking the entrance, and he could just see Harvey and Wiley beyond him.

"It's all right, Major. I'm awake." He watched them closely as they entered. From the looks on their faces, he at least hadn't had any more of those dreams they'd told him about. He kept his focus on Wiley, and silently sighed in relief.

"How are you feeling, Frank?"

"Pretty good, Wiley." He waited to see what else they had to say.

"Uh, General, Liz Woodruff called. She seemed rather put out. Something about your not calling her?"

Frank scowled. "And how was I supposed to call her when Doc, here, kept me knocked out for the past week?"

"Yes, sir, but she wasn't listening, I rather suspect that she's on her way here, now."

Wiley chuckled. "Don't worry, Frank. I'll handle her for you."

Frank thought about the rather formidable woman and smirked. "Good luck."

Wiley just grinned.

Frank turned his attention back to Major Kaiser. "Well? Am I free to return to desk duty, at least?"

Doc nodded. "Limited to four hours, General."

Frank glared. "Four hours?"

"Yes, sir. Preferably broken up into one-hour increments with either a lie-down or walk in between. No more than four hours, and if you don't follow instructions, I'll drop it down to two."

"Frank, listen to him. After an hour, you're going to be hurting enough. For that matter, maybe you should just start with the two." Wiley thought about how much it was going to hurt his friend to sit on his injury for any length of time. He wondered if there wasn't something they could pad his chair with?

"Well, I'm willing to leave it up to General Savage's common sense, sir. His body will tell him in no uncertain terms when he's had enough. I would suggest, however, a nice sheepskin pad to sit on." Major Kaiser never even cracked the tiniest smile, much to his credit. Wiley, however, hid his grin behind his hand, barely managing not to laugh out loud at the expression on Frank's face. Harvey just looked concerned.

Frank sighed. "Fine. You're the doctor." Despite his chaffing at the limited time he'd have to work, he also recognized the truth in the doctor's words. He also knew that if he was in too much pain, the doctor was not above re-assigning him back to bed for more than just an hour or two. No, if he wanted to get the paperwork caught up and the planning done, he'd have to follow orders. And if he was good, he'd be able to press for more time working, sooner. He brought his attention back to the major. "So, can I go, now?"

Doc sighed. "Yes, I'd like you to start off with something substantial to eat, but nothing too heavy. I don't want you getting ill. How did your dinner set with you, last night?"

Frank shrugged and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood, reaching for his trousers. "It was fine." He glanced up and smiled. "I didn't have the soup."

Doc chuckled. "There are a few brave souls who actually like that slop. I'm not one of them, and I make them throw it out and start over every week, otherwise, I think it would never be done."

Frank grinned. "That's good to know. What day do they start over? It always looks like the same sludge, to me."

"Sunday. It seems like a good day to start afresh." His gaze was critical as Frank dressed. There was a moment when Frank was putting on his socks that he was worried he might fall, but the general reached out a hand to help him balance as he got his sock on using one hand. Satisfied, he smiled at Wiley and Harvey. "Just remember to use the crutches and take breaks, General, and you'll be back to flying in no time."

"Right. I'll try to remember." Frank got his feet in his boots and straightened up. He wasn't going to bother trying to tighten and tie his laces, for now. He accepted the shirt Harvey held out to him and slipped it on. Unless it was quite cold, he didn't normally wear an undershirt. As he buttoned his shirt, he looked questioningly at Wiley. "So, what brings you by so early, General?"

"Just concerned, Frank. I wanted to talk to you about some upcoming targets we need to hit once the weather finally clears."

Frank's lips twisted into a sardonic grimace. "How *is* the weather?" He looked at Harvey for an answer.

"Raining again, General, and it's still socked in over the continent, as well." He shook his head, "Everyone's remarking on how odd it's been this week, but it'll clear eventually."

Frank sighed in relief. Good, he hadn't missed anything. He'd have hated to wake up and discover that the war had gone on quite well without him. Not that he didn't want it to be over, but he felt the personal responsibility to get his job done as best he could; and that required him to be conscious, aware, and up-to-date on what was going on. He knew that Major Stovall would see to it that he was brought up to speed on everything he'd missed - though it didn't sound as though he'd missed much, except the 'miracles' - and he didn't want to think about his possible part in those.

"Come on, Frank, let's head over to the mess for breakfast." General Crowe winked at Major Kaiser to let him know that his orders of substantial but easy on the stomach would be observed.

Frank sighed. Obviously, he was going to have to contend with not only Doc and Harvey bird-dogging him, but even General Crowe. "Fine." He paused and looked at Doc, "What about coffee?"

"You can drink coffee, but try and keep it to under a pot, will you?"

Cut back on his coffee intake? He sighed again. It was better than nothing. "Wilco," he grumbled as he accepted his crutches from Harvey. They were hovering like three hens with a single chick, the lot of them. Doc held the door for him, and Harvey got his jacket and held it for him while Wiley got his lid, handing it to him before getting the outer door for him. He had to hide his smirk over their behavior.