As Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer stepped through the door of Room Five Hundred on the Fifth Floor of the Air Ministry their first impression was that they were stepping into a concert hall, and that the place was almost filled up. The room was huge, tremendous in size, and at least thirty or forty men in R.A.F. uniform were seated in chairs. At the far end Air Marshal Manners, the R.A.F. hero of Dunkirk, sat at a table on a small raised platform.

"Name, rank, and papers, please!"

Dave stopped short and jerked his head around to stare into the inquiring eyes of a Staff Sergeant. The non-com held a sheet of paper in one hand, and a pencil in the other.

"Must make sure you're supposed to be here, you know," he said as Dave continued to stare.

"Oh sure, sorry," Dave grinned, snapping out of his trance. "Flying Officer Dawson, Former Flight Squadron Two-ten. Here's my pass and papers."

The Staff Sergeant checked the papers with what was on the sheet he held in his hand. Then he gave Dave a searching look and nodded.

"Check, sir," he said. "Take any seat."

Dave put his papers back in his pocket, and waited for Freddy to pass examination. Then they walked farther into the room and found a couple of vacant chairs. For some ten or fifteen minutes they just sat there looking around and wondering what was up. They were not alone in wondering either. They could tell that all of the others were as much in the dark as they were. One thing struck an important and intriguing note, however. Both of them saw many faces they had seen during the last month flying off at least fifty different airdromes about England in as many different types of planes. It wasn't until then that it dawned on them that they had not been the only ones to take that unusual and mysterious advanced flying course.

And then when general curiosity was just about ready to burst wide open like an exploding bomb, Air Marshal Manners stood up, rapped on the table and grinned down into the sea of faces.

"All right, chaps," he said. "I guess we can get on with it. Relax, all of you. Smoke if you wish. I know this must look like some blasted school room, but it isn't. I decided this was the best place to get you all together, so that was that."

The Air Marshal paused, cleared his throat, and took a perch on a corner of the table. Then for a moment or two he let his wide set steel blue eyes roam from face to face. As Dave locked looks with the famous ace he had the sudden impression that Manners was looking straight into his brain and reading all that was there.

"In case you don't know," the Air Marshal spoke again, "I hate blasted speech making. So don't expect anything polished from me. And if what I say doesn't make sense, don't hesitate to interrupt me with questions. First, though, I've got to ask you a question. And, lads, don't try to be heroes. Everybody is a hero in this confounded mess. It doesn't mean a thing. Find the answer to what I ask deep down inside of you. Be honest with yourself, and with me. Now, here's the question. Is there any one here who would rather return to his squadron for regular service in place of accepting assignments that may call for service and performance far beyond the ordinary call of duty? Think it over, chaps, and if you would prefer to return to your squadron and your pals it will be perfectly all right. It will mean nothing to me one way or the other. And I will give you my word on that."

The Air Marshal stopped talking and a pin dropping silence settled over the room. If anybody actually debated whether to return to his squadron, or remain, nobody else realized it. Every pair of eyes was fixed steadfastly on Air Marshal Manners' face. And every pair of lips remained still for two long minutes. It was the Air Ministry high ranker who finally broke the silence. He grinned and made a little gesture with one hand.

"Knew perfectly well it would be a waste of breath to ask it," he said. "Okay, right you are, then. We're all in it together, come what may. Now, you don't have to tell me you've been close to blowing your top with curiosity these last few weeks. I can see it in your faces right now. Well, I'll put an end to the mystery. A few weeks ago I was put in charge of what is to be known as the Emergency Command. In simple language the Emergency Command is to be made up of proven pilots who can fly anything, at any time, and at any place. That's why you chaps have been buzzing from drome to drome these last few weeks. I made a list of a hundred pilots I'd like to have in my Command. Those pilots were sent through the special training courses. And you thirty-five lads qualified for service in the Emergency Command. And by the way, congratulations to each and every one of you. You all proved you have the kind of stuff I'm going to need."

The Air Marshal paused for breath and to grin at the sea of eager faces before him. The pilots grinned back, and in the breast of each was the tingling warmth that comes with the knowledge of having accomplished something above the ordinary.

"And now to get down to serious business," the famous ace of Dunkirk said in a grave tone. "The jobs you'll get will be tough ones. All of them. I fancy that no two jobs will be the same. You'll be flying one type of ship one day, and another type the next. Maybe one day you'll go on a special Berlin bomb raid. And perhaps when you return ... if you do ... you'll be assigned the task of ferrying War Office officials to Canada, or goodness knows where. In case you're wondering just why such a Command should be formed, just give a thought or two to the name. That's the whole explanation. An Emergency Command. Pilots ready to do any kind of a job at a moment's notice. A suicide command, if you like. The point is, though, you will not act as a unit. You'll be assigned to a number of established squadrons, but your job there will be special, and you will follow my orders as given you through the O.C. of the squadron to which you happen to be assigned at the time. All clear up to now?"

Air Marshal Manners paused again and ran his eyes over the group. Heads nodded and the murmur of assent passed from lip to lip. He grinned and heaved a sigh of mock relief.

"Well, so much for that, then," he said. "Now, something else. The Emergency Command is to be something that is very hush-hush, and for very good reason, I think. Because of your work you will soon learn many, many important secrets about R.A.F. operation. Adolf's little Intelligence and Gestapo boys would love to find out some of those things themselves. So to check any attempt on their part to find out, the identity of you chaps is going to remain a secret. By that, I mean that on the records you will join a squadron as a replacement, and only the O.C. of that squadron will know that you are there for a certain purpose. And when you leave it will go in the records as a routine transfer or some other suitable explanation. So naturally you lads have got to live up to it all the time. Act the part of a replacement, and don't say a thing to anybody.

"And now, thank heavens, I come to the last part of this speech making. Here on this table are thirty-five sealed envelopes. In each envelop is the number of an R.A.F. squadron, the name of its O.C., and its present location. As all of you have qualified for any kind of a job there is no sense in my designating a certain job for a certain chap. In short, you'll pick your first assignment blind. Some assignments are solo, meaning that you'll go alone. And some will be for two of three of you chaps. It all depends. So step up here and each of you take an envelop. However, don't open it at once. I've got a few more words to say first. Right-o. Step up, all of you."

The Air Marshal finished the sentence with a gesture of his hand-toward the table. There was a shuffling of feet as the pilots stood up and walked towards the table on the raised platform. Dave turned his head to look at Freddy, and in his pal's eyes he read the same thought that was in his own brain. Was this night to see them split up? To see them sent to opposite ends of the British Isles? Perhaps to opposite ends of the earth? It was a thought that cut deep, and though each forced a cheery grin to his lips there was the beginning of a dull ache of dread and fear in his heart.

"I've got my fingers crossed, if you know what I mean," Dave whispered out the corner of his mouth.

"I've had mine crossed since we came in," Freddy replied. "Had a feeling that something like this might pop up. Luck, Dave, old boy!"

"Luck to us both!" Dave breathed fervently and took his place in the line that was forming.

Some ten minutes later each pilot held a sealed envelop in his hands, and he held it as gingerly as though it were a delayed action bomb that might go off any second. Air Marshal Manners crushed out the cigarette he was smoking and faced them again.

"More rubbish talk, chaps," he said, "but I owe it to you and to myself to give you all a fair chance. Don't take what I say lightly. This is serious business. Mighty serious. Maybe half of you will be dead by this time tomorrow night. There is no telling. When you open your envelopes you'll jolly well be thumbing your nose at death. The odds will be all against you. That's why I had to pick the best I could find. Pilots with all around ability, courage, and fighting spirit. The Emergency Command, and just that. Pilots who have the choice of two things. Doing the well nigh impossible, or getting a wooden cross. And so, if any of you want to change your minds now, go ahead. It will still be perfectly all right with me."

As Air Marshal Manners spoke the last he looked at each man in turn, and his eyes repeated sincerely what his lips had just said. Nobody made a single move. Not a pilot so much as licked his lips as though to say something. Thirty-five steel clawed birdmen of the R.A.F. stared him right back in the eye, and waited.

"God bless you all," the famous ace said softly. "Right-o. Open your sealed assignments. Orders as to what you are to do will be awaiting you at the Squadron you join."

Almost before the Air Marshal had finished the room was filled with the crackling sound of sealed envelopes being ripped open. However, neither Freddy nor Dave opened theirs at once. Invisible hands seemed to stay them, and they looked once more at each other. For some crazy reason Dave's throat choked up, and for a moment Freddy's face became a sort of a blur. It was clear again in his vision almost instantly, however. He grinned and shrugged.

"Well, it's got to be done, and so here goes," he said.

With that he ripped open his envelop, and drew out the card inside. The few words were printed by typewriter, and read:

Squadron No. 74,
Coastal Command,
Squadron Leader Hays,
Plymouth, England.

Dave stared at the printed words, and was almost afraid to raise his eyes and look at Freddy. He heard the ripping sound that the English youth made. And then there was a moment of silence as Freddy read of his own assignment. Then suddenly both acted as though by silent and mutual agreement. They stepped close and placed their cards side by side. The whole world seemed to stand still as they stared at each other's cards. A moment later unconfined joy filled their hearts, for the printing on the cards was identical.

"Boy, do I feel ninety years younger!" Dave finally breathed.

"That's putting it mildly," Freddy echoed in a voice choked with emotion. "Phew! I feel like I had just died a thousand times, and come to life again. Wonder if any other chaps are going to Coastal Command?"

A few minutes later they found that they were the only two assigned to the Coastal Command Squadron stationed at Plymouth. And just before they left to head for their new station Air Marshal Manners drew them to one side.

"You're either lucky, or mighty unlucky, lads," he said. "I wondered what two would get that assignment. The toughest of the lot, in my opinion. Means everything to England. Everything. But that's all I've got to say, now. Good luck, you two. And happy landings!"

The famous ace of Dunkirk gripped them both hard by the hand, then abruptly turned on his heel and walked away. Dave and Freddy looked at each other, but neither spoke. There was no need to speak. Each knew what the other was thinking, for he was thinking the same thing. High adventure and furious action awaited them just ahead. And perhaps death, too. But what they did about it would mean everything to England. Air Marshal Manners had said so. And knowing the man and his reputation for abrupt frankness they realized that he had not purposely painted the picture black. He had told them straight from the shoulder, and he had meant every word he said. England was counting on them, and there could be no such thing as failure. Not even in death.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Dave finally grunted. "Let's go!"