“Get those wounds dressed at once,” he ordered the eight bloodstained ragamuffins who faced him near _Rosy’s_ shell-torn fuselage. “Then report to the mess shack. Fill your stomachs and hit the hay. If you’re all fit for duty tomorrow morning I’ll let you fly. And—er—congratulations on spotting that Jap task force, Blake! You’ve probably saved us a lot of ships and fighting men.”