DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL
By R. SIDNEY BOWEN
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not
uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I SECRET ORDERS 11
II DAREDEVIL WINGS 22
III SATAN'S AGENT 34
IV ATLANTIC FURY 47
V MYSTERY WINGS 57
VI THE DEAD DON'T FLY 75
VII MISSING WINGS 86
VIII PILOT'S LUCK 99
IX VULTURE EYES 116
X ENGLAND'S PRAYER 129
XI DEATH IN THE DARK 144
XII THE MIDNIGHT PHANTOM 158
XIII SATAN FLIES WEST 172
XIV SKY DOOM 188
XV HIGH ADVENTURE 205
XVI ATLANTIC MADNESS 218
XVII WINGS OF VICTORY 229
CHAPTER ONE
_Secret Orders_
The savage fury of the Nazi Luftwaffe was once again raining down
upon the brave and stubborn city of London. Wave after wave of German
bombers roared in over the city from every possible direction, dumped
their tons of life blasting missiles, and then went streaking away
toward safety with British searchlights, anti-aircraft shells, and
night flying Spitfires and Hurricanes of the R.A.F. hot on their tails.
Some made it, but some others were caught by the two fisted hard
fighting boys of the R.A.F., and once caught the Nazis didn't stand a
chance against such flying skill, daring, and perfect marksmanship.
One after another the German planes burst into flame and went hurtling
downward to complete destruction.
Down on the ground in the city, London's millions squared their
shoulders and grimly took the terrific blasting from the night skies.
Air raid wardens went about their jobs with a look on their haggard
faces that told the whole world that a thousand such raids as this one
would not even begin to crack England apart. The gallant fire fighters
went about their dangerous tasks with the same expression on their
faces, and the same confident belief in their hearts that England would
forever survive. In the air raid shelters it was the same. In hotels,
too, and apartment buildings, and restaurants, and theatres. All London
was one huge fortress that nothing made by man or devil could destroy.
And in that fortress the men, the women, and the children stood ready
and waiting to take the worst unflinching.
In the basement restaurant of the Savoy Hotel were two youths who ate
their meal outwardly calm, but seethed inwardly as the faint dull boom
of each exploding bomb echoed through the thick walls and ceiling.
Both wore the uniform of the Royal Air Force, and both held the rank
of Flying Officer which is equal to the rank of First Lieutenant in
the U.S. Army Air Corps. One was Dave Dawson, American born, but now
offering his life and his all in serving England's cause. The other
youth, a year younger, was Freddy Farmer, Dave's dearest friend and
squadron pal, and true British from the soles of his shoes all the way
up to the top of his head.
For several moments they had been eating in silence, each contentedly
occupied with his own thoughts. But as a louder roar seeped down into
the room, Dave put down his fork and clenched both fists in a gesture
of raging helplessness.
"I can't eat any more," he said. "Every bite chokes in my throat, I
feel such a heel."
Freddy Farmer put down his own fork and gave a slight lift of his head
to indicate altitude.
"Because of the business up there, you mean?" he grunted.
"Yes," Dave replied through clenched teeth. "I feel that I should be up
there helping the boys dust off the baby killing rats, instead of being
down here shoveling food into my mouth."
"Feel exactly the same way," Freddy agreed. "But, after all, there's no
sense wasting good food, you know. Blessed little of it around these
days. Besides, orders are orders. We have to stick right here. So I say
eat while the eating is good."
Dave grinned and heaved a long sigh.
"You and that stomach of yours!" he exclaimed. "It's a darn good thing
they've got the ration card system here. Let you loose and you'd have
the rest of the country starving in a week. And when you're not eating
you're sleeping. What a man, what a man!"
The young English youth forced a stern look to his face. He pointed a
finger at the blue and white Distinguished Flying Cross ribbon under
the wings on Dawson's tunic.
"Watch your tongue, my good fellow!" he said. "One more crack like that
last one and I'll go straight to the Air Ministry and tell them the
truth. Quite right! I'll tell them you didn't do a blessed thing to win
that ribbon. That I did all the work, but simply said that you helped a
little so's you could get a medal, too. And frankly, that's really the
way it was, you know."
Dave grinned then put up his hands in mock terror.
"Please don't!" he pleaded. "Now that I've got it I want to keep the
medal. So help me, you spill a word and I'll tell them how you were
always falling on your face in the sand, and that I had to carry you
halfway across the Libyan Desert on my back."[1]
[Footnote 1: _Dave Dawson in Libya._]
"Oh is that so!" Freddy cried. "Well, you didn't carry me a single
yard, and you know it. In fact, I...."
The thunder of a Nazi "egg" striking much much too close for comfort
cut off the rest of Freddy's words. They both stiffened slightly, and
sat perfectly motionless half expecting to see the ceiling split open
and spill plaster and brick down upon them. However, the ceiling was
thick and well constructed, and after a brief moment or so the building
stopped shaking and trembling. The two youths instantly relaxed but
there was hot anger in their eyes.
"Bang away, Adolf!" Dave grated softly. "For every one you drop we'll
be dropping two on your neck of the woods soon. And that'll be only the
beginning."
"Check!" Freddy breathed fiercely. "And when that time comes I think
I'll ask for a transfer from fighters to bombers. I'd love to dump
bombs on Berlin."
"Me, too," Dave agreed absently. Then as a frown creased his brows,
"What do you make of it, Freddy? You got any ideas? Boy, if anybody can
send a fellow's curiosity sky high it's those Brass Hats who run the
Air Ministry!"
"Meaning what?" Freddy asked with a blank look on his face. "Have I got
any ideas about what?"
"For you I should draw pictures on paper!" Dave groaned. "What do you
think I mean? Why were we suddenly recalled from service with the Fleet
Air Arm in the Mediterranean back here to England? Why have we been
skipping all over England flying everything from kites to four engined
transports? And why when we're only back with our old Fighter Squadron
for a day do we suddenly receive mysterious orders to come here to
London, and take rooms in this hotel, and stick here day and night
until we receive further orders? Answer me those, my pal!"
"Simple," Freddy said with a straight face. "Air Ministry just can't
believe that a chap like you can actually fly an airplane. But before
kicking you out they decided to give you one last chance to prove it.
Right now you are waiting for them to decide whether to keep you on, or
kick you back to Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A. But don't lose heart, my
little man, you may...."
"Nuts!" Dave snorted. "You were with me, pal, and...."
"And I was simply along to check and make a personal report on your
flying ability," the English youth interrupted in an easy voice. "And
if you must know, I said that you weren't too bad. A little ragged on
the turns, but that you usually do manage to get into a field after
shooting for it five or six times."
"Then everything will be jake!" Dave breathed in mock relief. "But now
that you've got that side splitting humor off your chest, get over on
the sane and intelligent side for a change. What do you think it's all
about anyway?"
Freddy Farmer didn't say anything for a minute or so. He stared
thoughtfully down at the last piece of meat. He nudged it a couple of
times with his fork, then presently speared it and put it into his
mouth.
"Next week'll be okay!" Dave growled. "There's no hurry."
"We English never talk with food in our mouths," Freddy said after he
had swallowed. "But what do I think? Frankly, nothing, Dave."
"Well, that's acting natural, for you," the Yank born R.A.F. ace said
with a grin. "But I had hoped that a bright idea or two had wormed
into that thick skull of yours. At least, that you might have heard
a hint dropped here and there. After all, Freddy, it all seems so
screwy. Look, a little over five weeks ago we were doing daily patrols
off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Since then we've flown
everything they've got over here on this island, but not once have we
had the chance to take a crack at a German ship. Holy smoke! What are
they trying to make out of us? Test pilots, or something? I asked a
million questions, but I always got a sweet little blank for an answer.
And between you, me, and that dab of mashed potato on your chin, I
don't think the birds I asked knew the answers either."
"Now that you've confessed," Freddy said and automatically wiped
his chin with his napkin, "I might as well admit that I asked a few
questions, myself. And like you, got nothing for an answer. No, Dave,
I'm afraid I can't help you at all. I'm practically passing out with
curiosity, myself. It's been a queer business these last five weeks,
and no doubt about it. All that I can even guess at is that Adastral
House has something up its sleeve. And we'll not find out until they're
darn good and ready to tell us."
"It's always like that," Dave grumbled. "Gee, sitting here is driving
me bats. For two cents I'd go out and take a walk, and the heck with
the bombs. But I...."
Dave cut himself off short as he suddenly became conscious of the
waiter standing at his elbow. He looked up.
"Yes?" he grunted.
"Beg pardon, sir," the waiter said, "but would you two gentlemen be
Flying Officers Dawson and Farmer?"
"Right," Dave said with a nod. "I'm Dawson."
The waiter held out a folded slip of paper.
"A phone call just received, sir," he said. "The party at the other end
said that either of you two gentlemen was to call this number at once.
It took a moment or two to find you. The manager thought you might be
in your rooms. He tried there first."
As the waiter spoke the last he gave the pair a look that seemed to
say that men in uniform shouldn't scurry down to the basement just on
account of a mere bomb raid.
"We would be, but we're hungry," Freddy Farmer said quietly.
"Yes, of course, sir," the waiter said as his face got beet red. Then
he hastily shoved the paper into Dave Dawson's hand and hurried away.
Dave unfolded the paper and looked at the phone number. It was a London
exchange but the number was completely unfamiliar. He handed the paper
to Freddy.
"Any of your girl friends know you're here?" he asked.
Freddy glanced at the number, himself, and shook his head.
"Clear as mud to me," he said. "I haven't the faintest idea. But we'd
better call it before a Jerry bomb flattens the telephone company.
There's a booth over there. You want to call it?"
"And maybe get one of your girls?" Dave chuckled and shook his head.
"And you tell her it was your valet? Nix, pal. You go call her. I'll
stand outside and make faces. Boy! Love in an air raid. Now ain't that
something!"
Freddy blushed slightly but made no return comment. They got up and
crossed the dining room to the phone booth built into the wall. The
young Englishman stepped inside, closed the door, and put through the
call. Dave watching him say his eyes pop, and his jaw drop, and the
light of eager excitement leap into his eyes. In less than a minute
Freddy was out of the booth and as breathless as though he had just run
a couple of miles at top speed.
"Guess what?" he gasped.
"You just tell me instead," Dave said. "What's up? An armistice been
signed?"
"That was an Air Ministry number, Dave!" Freddy breathed. "As soon as
the All-Clear sounds you and I are to report to Room Five Hundred,
Fifth Floor, Air Ministry!"
"No kidding?" Dave echoed as the familiar tingling sensation came to
the back of his neck. An eerie tingling that had always proved in the
past to be an advance warning of action and danger just ahead. "Who has
Room Five Hundred?"
"The chap who talked to me on the phone just now," Freddy said. "None
other than Air Marshal Manners!"
"Manners?" Dave gasped. "The man who led the R.A.F. at Dunkirk? Hey,
wait a minute! Before we went out for service with the Fleet Air Arm in
the Middle East I heard some kind of a rumor that he was going to be
put in charge of something very big, and very hush-hush. Boy, oh boy!
Do you think, Freddy?"
"I'm not thinking," Freddy said and fished in his pocket for money to
pay for his meal. "I'm heading for Adastral House right now."
"You mean you're following me!" Dave cried and bolted from the dining
room.
CHAPTER TWO
_Daredevil Wings_
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 _un_lucky, 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!"
CHAPTER THREE
_Satan's Agent_
All Nazi bombing aircraft had gone scurrying back across the Channel to
their funk holes in Occupied France, and a new dawn was sliding up out
of the east as the train bearing Dave and Freddy raced along the track
toward the great British naval base at Plymouth on the south coast.
By a bit of luck they had managed to get an apartment to themselves.
And as soon as the train had pulled out of the London station they had
stretched out on the seats with the idea of getting in as much sleep as
possible before tearing into the mysterious task that lay ahead of them.
Their intentions and their efforts were fine, but that's about as far
as things went. Sleep completely ignored and abandoned them. There was
too much in their brains, and in their hearts to permit sleep a single
chance to take charge. And so after an hour they both gave it up, sat
up, and switched on the dome light in the car ceiling.
"Boy, that did me a world of good!" Dave breathed and rubbed knuckles
in his eyes. "Feel like a new man, and rarin' to go."
"Liar, you didn't sleep a wink," Freddy said scornfully.
"Yeah?" Dave shot at him. "Who says so?"
"I do!" Freddy shot back. "I was awake every second of the time, and I
didn't hear a thing."
"Hear a thing?" Dave questioned without thinking. "What do you mean?"
"You," Freddy said. "When you sleep you snore loud enough to shatter
windows. And there was hardly a murmur out of you."
"Ouch!" Dave yelped. "Strike three on me! I sure walked right into that
one. Okay, I was kidding. I didn't get in a wink, either. Boy, if you
must know, this suspense is wearing me down."
"Practically exhausted, I am," Freddy murmured. "Coastal Command, eh? I
guess that means those Yank built Consolidated "Catalina" flyingboats."
"Or maybe those big four engined British Short "Sunderland" flying
boats," Dave added in a speculative manner. "Well, either one suits me.
Both are tip-top crates. But that means patrolling over coastal waters
hunting for submarines. Heck, unless the bus falls apart and you drop
into the drink I can't see much danger in that kind of work."
"Neither can I," Freddy said. Then thoughtfully rubbing the palms of
his hands together, "Somehow, though, I have the hunch that it's going
to be a bit more than tootling a flyingboat around from here to there
and back again. The way Manners said happy landings to us makes....
Well, the way he said it made me sort of feel my stomach was suddenly
filled with cracked ice. You know, sort of cold and shivery?"
"Right on the nose!" Dave said and nodded vigorously. "And there was a
look in his eye, too. Gave me the feeling he knew darn well he'd never
see us again."
"What a pleasant thought!" Freddy groaned. "I say, let's talk about
something else. Any more of this and I swear I'll leap off the train
and walk back."
"That will be the day, when Freddy Farmer back-tracks on anything!"
Dave said with a chuckle. "But maybe it's best to talk of other
things. After all, in this game talking about the unknown doesn't help
at all. Like other jobs we've had, we've just simply got to take this
one in stride as it comes along. And let it go like that."
"Oh quite," Freddy murmured. Then wistfully, "But I'd still jolly well
like to know what we're going up against."
"You'll find out, and soon!" Dave said. "Right now, skip it. Tell me.
What do you think of the Dodgers' chances to cop the flag this year?"
Freddy Farmer sat up a bit, blinked, and looked blank.
"Eh?" he echoed. "Dodgers? What country is that, and who are they
fighting? I don't believe I ever heard...."
The English youth cut himself off short as Dave rolled over on the seat
and collapsed with laughter. Then before Freddy could draw in breath to
demand an explanation, the compartment door was rolled aside and a tall
moon faced youth in the uniform of an R.A.F. flying officer stood in
the doorway. Dave cut short his laughter, and both looked up into the
grinning face of the man in the doorway.
"Am I interrupting something, chaps?" he asked in a north of England
accent. "Just passing as I heard the outburst of humor, and saw
you were R.A.F., too. Name's Steffins. Heading for Coastal Command,
Plymouth."
"Come in, come in, Steffins," Dave said and moved over to make a place.
"I'm Dawson, and my son, here, is named Freddy Farmer. Don't pay any
attention to those wings and D.F.C. ribbon on his tunic. He stole them."
"All lies, Steffins," Freddy said, extending his hand. "The truth is,
Dawson's really wearing my extra tunic. Likes to put on a show, you
know. Look, Dave, have you cleaned those field boots of mine, yet? And
don't forget to change back into your corporal's uniform before we
reach Plymouth."
"Oh, you chaps going to Plymouth, too?" Steffins asked in a delighted
tone. "By any chance is it Seventy-Four, Coastal Command? That's where
I'm headed. Been up north on Lockheed Hudsons for the last two months.
Got dropped in the water twice."
"Yeah, we're heading for Seventy-Four, too," Dave said. "We were
in Sixty-Two on the west coast. Catalinas. What do they fly in
Seventy-Four, anyway? Do you know?"
Dave wasn't sure but he got the impression that Steffins flashed him a
searching, puzzled look. It was gone in an instant, however.
"Most everything, so I've been told," he said, "I say, you're a Yank,
aren't you?"
"R.A.F. for the duration, anyway," Dave replied with a nod. "What was
your Lockheed squadron? I know some chaps on Lockheeds up North."
Steffins seemed to hesitate, but perhaps it was only to draw air into
his lungs.
"Squadron One Hundred and Twenty," he said. "A fairly new outfit.
Squadron Leader Clancy was O.C. But I'm keen to get to Plymouth. Never
been there before. And I'm blasted sick of the North Sea, I can tell
you. Funny thing, though, about leaving my old squadron. Thought I was
set there for good. Then suddenly yesterday the O.C. told me I had been
assigned to Seventy-Four at Plymouth. Seemed to hint it was special
duty, or something. Wouldn't say a thing, though. Just gave me my
traveling papers, and such, and sent me off."
A suddenly liking for Steffins shot through Dave Dawson. Perhaps the
lad was on the same kind of a mission as he and Freddy. He started
to open his mouth to speak, but at that instant he happened to catch
Freddy's eye. The English youth gave a hair width shake of his head,
and said the rest in a look. Dave closed his mouth and started again.
"It wasn't like that with us," he lied. "Freddy and I asked for a
transfer. Change of scenery, and all that kind of stuff. I guess
there's more action off the south coast anyway. For the last two weeks
we didn't do anything but use up gas and oil. I hope...."
At that moment all three of them heard the ungodly wail of a plane
coming down in an all out power dive. It was not the wail but the sound
of the plane's engine that brought them to their feet and diving for
the compartment windows. It was not the steady beat of a British or an
American engine. It was the throbbing pulsating roar of a German made
engine. In fact, the unsynchronized throb of two engines. Even as they
reached the window and stared up into the dawn sky they saw that the
plane was a long range Nazi Focke-Wulf 187 destroyer plane. The craft
was low down and racing in toward the moving train. An instant later
the savage yammer of machine gun fire sounded above the beat of the
engines.
"Strafing us!" Dave shouted unconsciously. "Why, that tramp! Do I wish
I was in a Spitfire or a Hurricane! I'd soon...."
Dave stopped short, half turned and saw Steffins striving frantically
to crawl under one of the seats. The man's face was paper white and he
was biting into his lower lip hard. Another yammering burst from the
strafing plane and jerked Dave's eyes back to the window. He started
to duck himself but checked it as he saw that the pilot of the plane
seemed to be concentrating on the rear car of the train. He looked at
Freddy and saw the veiled contempt in the English youth's eyes. Freddy
half jerked a thumb at Steffins still trying to crawl under the seat,
and shrugged.
Dave laughed, and called out to Steffins.
"Give it up, Steffins! Those things are bolted to the floor. Besides,
the lug isn't shooting our way."
"And also he has gone on his merry way!" Freddy said, turning away from
the window. "The blighter just thought he'd have a bit of murdering
sport on the way home. If I was in my old Hurricane he'd jolly well get
a bellyful of his kind of sport."
Very red of face and twice as sheepish looking, Steffins stopped trying
to crawl through bolted wood, and got up onto his feet. He gave Freddy
a hard stare, then smiled slowly.
"Sorry I made such a fool of myself," he said with an effort. "Truth
is, though, I got peppered a bit by one of those lads back in the
September show. Turns my blood cold every time I hear one of the
beggars come down. Well, I guess I'd better buzz back to my compartment
and get my stuff together. Must be getting near there, now. Nice to
meet you two. Hope we see a lot of each other."
"Sure, I guess we will, Steffins," Dave said pleasantly.
"Right you are," Freddy murmured as the pilot slid through the door and
closed it shut.
"A nice guy to have around in the clutch," Dave grunted when he and
Freddy were alone. "Ask me and I'll tell you the guy is yellow. Hey,
why the heavy scowl, pal? What's suddenly on that thing you call a
mind?"
"Your nice little friend," Freddy said with a jerk of his head toward
the door. "It doesn't quite check. The lad is a bit queer, I'd say."
The opening was too perfect for Dave to let it slip by unnoticed.
"What Englishman isn't?" he cracked.
"I'll remember that one," Freddy growled. Then grave of face, "No,
serious, Dave. I wish the devil the lad hadn't come in here. I'd
feel better right now. I think I've seen him someplace before, but
blessed if I can remember where. And the beggar lied to us, unless I'm
completely wrong on my R.A.F. squadrons."
Dave started another smart remark but cut it off at the look on
Freddy's face. He hitched forward a bit on the edge of the seat.
"How come?" he asked. "What are you driving at? I didn't notice
anything unusual, but I really wasn't listening very hard. What do you
mean?"
"A friend of mine _used_ to be in One-Twenty Lockheed Hudsons," Freddy
said with meaningful emphasis. "I ran into him a couple of weeks ago,
when you and I were at Hull for that spell. He told me then that
One-Twenty was _washed out three months ago_. Rather it was hooked up
with One-Thirty-Six and they were doing coastal patrol around the Dover
area."
"No kidding?" Dave exclaimed. Then with a puzzled frown, "But what was
the point in the guy lying to us? He.... Say, I had a hunch at first
when he came in. Maybe he's on some hush-hush thing like we are."
"I doubt it, and a lot!" Freddy said tight lipped. "I'm sure the chap
was trying to pump us for all he was worth. Remember that time I shook
my head at you? Well, he was fairly falling over on his face waiting
for you to speak. And the way he tried to crawl under the seat! No,
the lad has something very queer about him. Blast it! I wish I could
remember where I've seen him before. I.... Wait! Let me think. I
almost had it that time!"
Freddy scowled hard and pressed both palms against his forehead as
though that would help memory to come back. As Dave watched him the
tingling sensation came to the back of his neck once again. He sat as a
man turned to stone, hardly daring to breathe.
"Well?" he finally got out after several tormenting minutes dragged by.
Freddy shook his head, started to gesture for silence with one hand,
and then gasped and sat up straight.
"Got it, of course!" he cried. "Unless I'm completely balmy."
"Could be," Dave grunted. "But spill it anyway."
"Earlier tonight just as we were leaving Adastral House," Freddy said
in a strained voice. "You were ahead of me yelling for that cabby, so
you didn't see. In the blasted blackout I flew full tilt into a chap.
We both went flat. I used my flash to help us both get up. And I got a
look at the other chap's face. Dave, I swear to you that the chap was
this Steffins. I can see his face now as clear as day!"
"So what?" Dave grunted as a sense of disappointment rippled through
him. "The guy was in London to catch this train, and you just happened
to collide with him in the blackout. Maybe he didn't get a look at your
mug, so didn't recognize you just now."
"Let me finish!" Freddy snapped angrily. "When I bumped into him
outside Air Ministry _he was wearing the uniform of a captain in the
Fifth Londonshire Infantry_!"
"Sweet jumping tripe!" Dave breathed softly. "And he pops up again on
this train wearing an R.A.F. uniform? Heck, Freddy, you must have made
a mistake. It doesn't add up to make sense!"
"Perhaps it doesn't," Freddy said with a shrug. "But I still don't like
that chap. And what's more, when we get to Plymouth I'm going to make
it my job to find out more about him."
Dave made no reply. He turned his head and stared absently out the car
window. For reasons he couldn't possibly explain to himself at the
time he suddenly had the feeling that Freddy Farmer had spoken words
of truth. That the English youth had looked into the future, seen what
the war gods were brewing, and spoken an advance warning for them both.
Dave shivered slightly and turned from the window.
"I wonder what it will be like when peace comes to this cockeyed world
again," he grunted.
"I wonder how many of us will be around to find out," Freddy murmured
as though talking to himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
_Atlantic Fury_
With her twin engines thundering out their duet of mighty power, the
American built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat patrolled back and
forth over the convoy of fifteen merchant ships plowing through the
Atlantic swells toward the southwest coast of England. At the controls
sat Dave Dawson, and at his side in the co-pilot and navigator's seat
was Freddy Farmer. Aft at their respective stations were the three
other members of the plane's crew. For seven long hours the flying
boat had been escorting the convoy through dangerous waters. And every
instant of that time five pairs of R.A.F. eyes had been searching the
waters below for signs of a lurking group of Nazi "steel fish," and
scanning the heavens for the first glimpse of a Nazi air raider winging
out from its base in occupied France.
Nine solid hours of being constantly on the alert, and not so much as
a single floating hunk of wood sighted. It was as though the Germans
had no idea that valuable cargoes of war material were headed for
England. Or else the presence of the Catalina flying boat and the small
but heavily armed "Corvette" escort freighter leading the convoy made
them decide to leave it alone. At any rate the merchant ships had not
received a single scare, and soon they would be through the danger zone
and unloading their war stuffs at England's docks.
Taking one hand from the controls, Dave dug knuckles into his tired
eyes and sighed heavily.
"If this is the British idea of a joke," he growled, "all that I can
say is that it smells out loud."
"Meaning what?" Freddy asked and made a few final marks on his
navigation charts. "Mad because all those ships down there are going to
get through safely?"
"Nuts, of course not!" Dave snapped and gave him a scornful side
glance. "And you know darn well what I mean."
"That's true, I do," Freddy said and scowled out over the nose of the
flying boat's hull. "Certainly is funny. Do you think by chance that
something's gone haywire?"
"All I know is that _I'm_ getting close to going haywire!" Dave replied
savagely. "For two days now, we've been attached to Seventy-Four
Squadron of the Coastal Command, and what have we done? Nothing but
toot these big babies out over the Atlantic, pick up a merchant convoy,
and toot back with them. Not a sign of a U-boat, not a sign of a Nazi
plane, and.... Heck! Not a sign of anything. And we were two chaps who
were to tackle a do-or-die mission and receive secret orders from our
new O.C. You know, Freddy, I'm beginning to think, it's all a lot of
hog wash. But why Air Marshal Manners should hand out all that fancy
stuff sure beats me."
"I'm just as much in the dark myself," Freddy grunted. "But somehow
I don't think that it was supposed to be this way. I think that
something went wrong some place, and Manners had to hold up our special
orders. Or perhaps he wanted us to get well acquainted with things.
I mean, make it definitely look as though we were just a couple of
replacements."
"Maybe so," Dave sighed and stared at the flock of British destroyers
steaming out to take over and lead the convoy into port. "Maybe so,
but I still don't like it. So help me, I doubt I'd be able to recognize
a Nazi plane now if one should fall into my lap. Well, there're the
destroyers, so this trick is over. Send the code signal to Plymouth
Base that we've made contact and are coming in. And tell Sergeant Black
aft that I'll have another slub of that coffee before we go in. And
tell him I mean coffee, _not_ tea!"
"A regular barbarian, drinking that horrible stuff!" Freddy groaned and
adjusted his radio mike. "I swear, we'll never be able to make you a
real Englishman!"
"It's still coffee!" Dave said with a grin. "And hurry it along, my
little man."
A few minutes later the Catalina flyingboat had left the convoy far
behind and safely in the charge of the destroyers. A cup of warm coffee
was in Dave's stomach, and he was almost becoming slightly satisfied
with the world again. Now, if only about forty-'leven Nazi planes would
show up and give them a little action everything would be all to the
merry. No hope of that, though, he reflected gloomily. They were too
near to Base, and any Jerry lad who showed his nose around Plymouth
Base just naturally didn't get back to Germany. The Jerries knew that
and so they stayed well clear of that little bit of England.
"And what about the great mystery, Dave?" Freddy suddenly spoke up to
break his train of thought. "Do you think we should go to Squadron
Leader Hays and tell him our story?"
"Meaning your boy friend, Flying Officer Steffins?" Dave echoed with a
frown.
"None other," the English youth replied. "I told you there was
something queer about that chap. I really think we should speak to
Squadron Leader Hays about him."
Dave made no comment for a few moments. During these two days at
Plymouth Base he had thought a lot of thoughts about the queer acting
R.A.F. pilot they had met on the train coming down. And the most
important thought was the fact that neither he nor Freddy had so much
as set eyes on the man since the moment he had picked himself up off
the compartment floor after the Nazi plane strafe and gone forward
to his own seat. The man had simply vanished into thin air. He most
certainly had not reported at Plymouth Base. Freddy had made sure of
that by asking all around. As a matter of fact, nobody at Plymouth
Base had even heard of the man. And the bulletin board in the mess had
said in so much black type that Dawson and Farmer were the only two
replacements posted to Seventy-Four.
"Sorry to wake you up, Dave," Freddy spoke again. "But what do you
think about the situation?"
"Pipe down, I was thinking," Dave growled. "But I can't even get to
first base. Maybe we should speak to the Squadron Leader, yet that
might make us look like a couple of saps. If there's one thing that
gets a fellow's goat in this war it's the dizzy unfounded spy scares
that pop up every time you turn a corner. And after all, to us he was
just a yellow belly who shot off his face and asked a lot of questions.
Maybe he was just some bird posing as an R.A.F. officer just for the
heck of it. That sort of thing's happened before. You know, some bird
wants to make an impression on his girl and he goes calling all dolled
up as an officer, when he really should be wearing his private's
uniform. No, Freddy, I don't think Squadron Leader Hays would love us
extra much if we went to him with such a crazy story."
"I'm afraid you're right," Freddy grunted. "It is just a little bit
crazy. But I still swear he's the same chap I bumped into in front of
Adastral House."
"Well, maybe that time he was calling on a girl who likes the Army
best," Dave chuckled. "Anyway, let's skip it for the time being.
There's Base, and here we go down to a stack of warm food, and a little
shut eye."
Dave's statement was half truth and half falsehood. They did put away
a stack of food, but there was to be no shut-eye for either of them.
They had hardly finished their meal when an orderly appeared with word
that they were to report at once to Squadron Leader Hays' office. They
exchanged looks, grinned happily, and instantly lost all desire for
sleep.
"Hot dog!" Dave breathed and pushed back from the table. "Maybe this is
it!"
"I'm saying nothing until I'm dead sure," Freddy grunted and got up,
too. "The way things are going perhaps we're to be favored with the
special honor of washing dishes."
"Boy, can you make a guy feel good!" Dave growled and gave his best pal
a playful poke in the ribs.
When they reached the Squadron Leader's their hopes dropped a little
for the simple reason that they were not the only two summoned. There
were ten other pilots there as well. Squadron Leader Hays waited until
Dave and Freddy had settled themselves in chairs and then started to
speak.
"Special job for you fellows," he said. "Coastal Command is testing
out a new type of plane to be used on short range work. It's the new
Fairey "Fulmar" fighter. It's powered with a Bristol Pegasus engine
that's been jacked up a bit to give a couple of hundred more horsepower
than the ordinary Pegasus. It's a land job, of course, but it's been
fitted with extra tanks, and sections of the wings are sealed so that
you'll float for quite a bit of time in case you fall down into the
drink. Whether these Fulmars will give us the service Coastal Command
demands remains to be seen. Anyway, six of them arrived last night, and
I've selected you chaps to give them a good testing. If you can find
any off-shore Nazi planes then so much the better. However, don't go
too far out, and don't get too close to the French coast. You can be
sure that the Jerries are just aching to shoot down a Fulmar and get a
good look at it. Well, that's all. They're out on the line now, and the
mechanics are waiting. You can take off any time you want."
The Squadron Leader made a little gesture with his hand that dismissed
the group. Disappointment tugging at their hearts, Dave and Freddy
started toward the Squadron Office door, but pulled up short as the
Commanding Officer spoke again.
"Oh, Dawson and Farmer!" he called out. "Wait a moment, will you?"
Both youths wheeled around with hope soaring up anew. The Squadron
Leader waited until all the others had left, then grimaced and sighed
unhappily.
"Darnedest war I ever fought in!" he growled and motioned to the boys
to step closer. "There's enough blasted hush-hush stuff to smother the
whole Empire. Of course what I told the others was plain rot. We've got
Fulmars here, and they are to stay for keeps. This testing idea is all
bosh. But orders are orders. So there's nothing I can do about it."