out of his inside tunic pocket. He handed it to Dave.
"Your orders for something or other," he said. "Don't read them until
you're in the air. And don't bother asking me questions. I don't know
a blessed thing about them. What's more, I don't want to know. This
arrived from Air Marshal Manners an hour ago. Here, take it, and get on
with your job. Stuff it in your tunic pocket and keep it there until
you're in the air. And.... Well, naturally, good luck and all that sort
of thing. Now, buzz off, both of you."
Dave and Freddy saluted, executed a snappy about face and walked on
air out of the squadron office and over toward the south side of the
field where Six Fairey Fulmar fighter planes were lined up with engines
ticking over. From the depths of dread and despair they had soared
up to a new high. The long awaited event had come to pass at last.
The sealed orders in Dave's pocket seemed to turn into a white hot
coal that burned right through his clothing to his skin. He couldn't
speak because excitement and eager expectation was like a hand of
steel clutching at his throat. Sealed orders. For what? For life, or
for death? Right now neither of them cared very much. One thing was
certain. Those sealed orders meant action, and action was all that
mattered to those two fisted, stout hearted, steel clawed birdmen of
the Royal Air Force.
CHAPTER FIVE
_Mystery Wings_
It took every ounce of his will-power, but Dave Dawson forced himself
to wait until he and Freddy had the Fulmar clear and well out of sight
of the Plymouth Base before he took the sealed orders out of his
pocket. He turned in the seat so that Freddy could read them at the
same time, but he didn't rip open the envelop at once. He held it up
and looked at Freddy.
"Let's fool Manners," he said with a straight face. "Let's just toss
this over the side and go on down back and land. There's probably
nothing in it anyway. What say, huh?"
Freddy's jaw dropped, his eyes popped, and his face turned white as a
sheet.
"Good grief, Dave, have you gone mad?" he gasped and grabbed for the
envelop. "Don't you dare...!"
The English youth cut himself off short and turned beet red as he saw
the grin on Dave's lips. He swallowed hard and balled one hand into a
hard fist.
"Some day you'll pull one of your bad jokes just once too often!" he
growled. "Open that letter before I throw you out bag and baggage.
Phew! What years you took off my life, you ... you...!"
"Naughty, naughty, don't say it!" Dave said with a laugh as Freddy
floundered around for a suitable word. "Mama wash your mouth out with
soap! Okay, pal. Sorry you almost had heart failure. Guess it is a bum
time to pull one like that."
"Shut up and open that letter!" Freddy shouted in a fuming voice.
Dave nodded and tore open the envelop and pulled out two typewritten
sheets of paper. He smoothed them out, let the ship fly itself, and
then started reading the orders. They read:
Flying Officers Dawson And Farmer
You are to first make sure that no aircraft either British or Nazi
are in sight. Then you are to set a course for the area off the
French coast as indicated on the second sheet of these orders. En
route you will tune your radio to wave length reading 429-6B and
_leave it at that reading regardless of what happens_. For your
information when your radio is set at that reading it will be in
constant contact with special directional finder apparatus aboard
certain British naval craft in surrounding waters. They will know
your exact location every second of the time, but your signal will
not be heard by any enemy aircraft or surface vessels.
When you reach the area marked on the second sheet you will cruise
about and _maintain a constant look-out_ for a single funneled Nazi
surface sea raider of some seven thousand tons. The craft will
probably be painted a dull grey, and may be flying the flag of
almost any country. The craft has flat decks from bow to stern and
sets low in the water. Even from close range she looks like an
ordinary tramp. She is, however, heavily armed and is fitted with
hidden guns that can be hoisted above decks at an instant's notice.
Most important of all she is the fuel ship for a wolf pack of some
ten to fifteen Nazi U-boats. They will be close to the ship but
will submerge the instant your plane is sighted. You probably will
not even see them. So concentrate only on the surface raider.
_Make no attempt to attack the raider! Do not touch your radio!_
The raider's set will be open and although it will not be able to
hear your directional finder signal it will pick up anything else.
Even though you are attacked by enemy aircraft do not give battle!
You are to act as though you are lost. As though you are having
engine trouble, or are out of fuel. When you sight the raider start
down and keep on going down. You are to make a crash landing in
the water.
As soon as you have crash landed your signal will stop going out
over the air. British naval craft in that area will then head
under full draft for the spot. And Fleet Air Arm craft will be
launched with torpedoes and bombs. The two units will attempt to
trap the raider and her U-boats and blow them out of the water.
When you have landed your job is done, and you are to save your own
lives as best you can. This area is believed to be the rendezvous
point of the most dangerous raiding pack England has yet battled.
It is absolutely essential that this pack be destroyed. And it is
hoped ... and expected ... that you will fulfill your orders to
the letter. The success of the entire venture depends upon your
causing the raider no alarm, keeping your directional finder signal
going out over the air all the time ... and creating the impression
that you are lost and making a forced landing in the water without
being able to send out your position.
Good luck, and God bless you!
Manners
Emergency Command
Dave waited until Freddy nodded to indicate that he was through
reading, and then took a look at the second sheet. It contained a
complete navigation course that led to an area of the Atlantic about
seventy-five miles west-south-west of Brest on the coast of occupied
France. One glance was enough to tell them both that surface and
under-sea raiders working out of that rendezvous area could fan through
England's trade lanes with Canada and the United States in the matter
of a few hours and then go scooting back to any one of a number of
bases on the French coast.
"Well, Manners certainly wasn't kidding when he gave us that little
pep talk," Dave finally broke the silence. "Boy, he sure did hand us
something sweet, didn't he?"
Freddy didn't reply at once. He swallowed a couple of times and ran a
finger around the strap of his helmet as though it had suddenly become
a little bit too tight.
"And not a chance to fire a shot!" he groaned. "Blasted clay pigeons,
that's what we've got to be."
"Dead ducks, and how!" Dave breathed. "Nope, I don't think it's going
to be nice at all sitting in the water with the British navy and Fleet
Air Arm lads heaving everything at the raider and her subs. Of course,
though, I can still pitch this thing overboard, and we can swear Hays
didn't give us a thing."
"Never mind that!" Freddy growled. "As you would say, we stuck our
chins out, and we've got to keep them out. Set the course, my little
man, and tune in on that wave length. No, wait, I'll do that little
thing. Who knows but what you might get Manners on the thing and start
offering brighter suggestions. Blast it, though, I hate swimming.
Specially in mid Atlantic this time of year."
"Cheer up, pal!" Dave laughed. "I'll save you, my boy!"
"In that case I'm doomed for sure!" the English youth groaned and
turned his attention to the radio.
For the next several minutes neither lad spoke. Each was busy with his
own thoughts. And be it said they were not pleasant ones. However,
they were not unpleasant thoughts simply because almost certain death
awaited them out over the Atlantic. That their chances of surviving
this assignment were almost nil didn't bother them a bit. What rankled
was that they had to go down to whatever kind of doom awaited them
without so much as starting to put up a show of resistance. Aerial
decoys, that's what they were. Just a couple of lads sent out to act
as helpless enemy bait, and when they had done their job probably get
blown to atoms forty ways from Sunday. It wasn't right, and it wasn't
fair. But it was orders, and that was that!
"A penny for your thoughts, Freddy!" Dave suddenly called out. "If
they're the same as mine they're not worth that much."
"Matter of fact, I was thinking about that directional finder gadget,"
the English youth replied as he stared at the radio. "It sure must be
something pretty neat. Just think, British war craft know where we are
right now. The chaps at the other end can put a dot on their navigation
charts marking the spot of water we're over now. What will this war
bring out next?"
"Don't ask," Dave grunted and fixed his eyes on the distant horizon.
"One thing I hope, though. When we crash land and our signal
automatically stops, I hope those boys will get to the spot in a hurry.
The Jerries are no dopes. They may smell something fishy. And they
sure will once they spot naval craft smoke on the horizon."
"The bombers will be on top of them long before that," Freddy said.
"Besides, though Manners didn't say so, it's up to us to delay the
raider as long as we can. Ten to one she'll hove to to pick us up.
Particularly the plane. This Fulmar is a new job, you know, and it
would be a feather in the raider captain's cap to take one back to
port."
"Sure, that's true," Dave nodded. Then with a frown, "But the set-up
doesn't appeal to me so much. No, I don't mean about our necks. I mean,
Manners' hope that the navy and Fleet Air Arm will wipe out the raider
and her tin fish children. Seems too much to hope for, the way I figure
it. Frankly, I wish we could have talked with Manners instead of only
being able to read what he wrote. I've got ideas that...."
"Don't I know it!" Freddy cut in. "But forget them, my friend. You'd
have Manners tearing out his hair in two minutes. Don't worry, he's
considered this thing from every angle, and picked the best way to do
the job."
"Maybe," Dave grumbled reluctantly. "But I still would like to have
been able to talk to the guy."
"And that's a break Manners will never know about," Freddy chuckled.
"Anyway it's no good now. The area's just ahead, and who knows what
else. And by the way, Dave, did I ever tell you that it's been nice
knowing you? I'm afraid I'll have to admit it's true."
As the English youth's quiet voice came to Dave's ears a hard lump
formed in his throat and for a brief instant the horizon ahead became
just a little bit blurred.
"Well, I guess I've got to admit that you're aces, too, Freddy," Dave
said, a moment later and reached back a hand.
Freddy took the hand in his own and gripped it hard. Neither spoke a
word. They didn't have to. All the words in the world meant nothing
compared to the real meaning and significance of that handclasp. It was
Freddy who finally broke the silence.
"What am I?" he said gruffly. "Your precious little girl friend, or
something? Let go, and get to work."
"Now isn't that just like the guy?" Dave sighed and kept his eyes on
the sea and horizon ahead. "I hold his hand to help stop him shaking
and trembling with fright, and he bawls me out. Yes, the English are a
screwy race, no fooling. I...."
"Shut up, Dave!" Freddy cut in sharply. "Take a look to the left! What
in the world do you make of that?"
"Huh?" Dave echoed and bent forward slightly to stare down over the
left wing of the plane at the rolling grey green swells of the North
Atlantic. "What do you mean, look? I don't see a thing but water."
Freddy reached forward and rapped him sharply on the shoulder.
"Not down, _up_!" he shouted. "Off to the left about three miles, and a
couple of thousand feet above us. It's a plane!"
Dave jerked his head up and stared hard in the direction indicated.
For a couple of seconds he saw nothing but sun bathed blue sky and
scattered patches of clouds. Then suddenly he saw the flash of sunlight
on wings. He took a good second look and gave an angry shake of his
head.
"Now what?" he grated. "Aren't we ever going to get started on
anything? That's a British plane. From here it looks like a Fairey
'Swordfish' torpedo plane of the Fleet Air Arm. It's a biplane, and not
a low wing monoplane job like this one we're in."
"It is a Swordfish torpedo plane!" Freddy cried excitedly. "And look,
Dave. There! See? See its markings? What in the world?"
"Boy, what eyes you've got, pal!" Dave grunted and squinted hard at
the distant plane. "I can't see a thing. That darn sun is.... Hey!
Holy smoke, Freddy! That ship is carrying the markings of Seventy-Four
Squadron! Our own outfit!"
"Exactly!" Freddy echoed. "It means that somebody was sent out to
signal us that the show was all off. Or else some lad has been trailing
us just to find out what we're up to."
"Well, it can't be the first," Dave said as a tiny tingle of worry
rippled through him. "Our orders were sealed, you know. Nobody at the
Plymouth Base knows where we are."
"Well, one chap does," Freddy said and pointed. "That chap up there."
Dave made no comment to that. He turned his head front and searched
the rolling swells all the way south to the horizon line. And to the
east and to the west as well. But that was all he saw. Just miles and
miles of rolling grey green swells. There wasn't the sign of a single
thing on the surface, nor the faint shadow of a U-boat lurking under
the surface. In fact, there wasn't so much as a single puff of smoke to
denote the presence of surface craft.
"Somebody's either taking us for a sweet sleigh ride," he grunted to
himself. "Or else we just naturally read those orders wrong. My guess
is that...."
Dave never stated what his guess was. At that moment the savage yammer
of aerial machine gun fire crackled against his ear drums above the
roar of the Bristol engine. He jerked his head around just in time
to see Freddy Farmer clutch at his left cheek and slump over against
the side of the cockpit. The English youth straightened up almost
immediately and took his hand away from his cheek. Dave's heart started
beating again when he saw the thin narrow red line that cut down from
the lobe of the ear toward the point of the jaw. Freddy had been
slightly creased by a bullet. An inch or so more to the right, however,
and the English R.A.F. ace would have been stone dead.
In practically the same instant that Dave looked at Freddy he jerked
his gaze skyward. The strange plane from Seventy-Four Squadron was
racing down at them with all guns blazing. The thick glass hood over
the Fulmar's two place cockpit was being turned into a mass of millions
and millions of tiny cracks as the bullets from the Fairey Swordfish's
guns slammed against it. Hardly realizing that he was doing so, Dave
jumped hard on the controls and whipped the Fulmar up over and down in
a wing screaming half roll. The maneuver took them clear of the other
plane's gun for a moment or so. But no longer. The biplane followed
through in a similar maneuver and came tearing down in again.
"You dirty rat, what gives?" Dave bellowed angrily and slid off the
safety catch of his gun triggers. "If you're asking for trouble you're
getting it now ... and plenty!"
Even as the words raced off his lips he kicked the Fulmar through a
vicious half roll and then hung it on its prop. The Swordfish's pilot
was caught cold and a ten year old kid could have picked him off at
that distance. It so happened, though, that Dave didn't have the chance
to fire a single shot. Quick as a flash Freddy leaned forward and
knocked his thumb off the trigger button.
"Don't, Dave!" Freddy screamed. "Are you crazy? Our orders were not to
shoot even if we were attacked!"
"But this is different!" Dave roared. "That bird...."
"No!" Freddy cried insistently and hung onto Dave's hand. "We've got to
follow orders. Fake that you've been hit, and try to get away from him.
Gosh, Dave, we haven't even sighted the raider yet. Get away from this
chap. A Fulmar can fly rings around a Swordfish. Get away from him and
let's continue with the patrol."
Whether it was Freddy's convincing argument, or whether it was the fact
that the Swordfish was no longer a perfect target, Dave didn't really
know. Anyway, he kicked the Fulmar off its stall and went sliding off
and down to the right. However, the stall had cut the Fulmar's speed
to practically nothing. Also there was more than just an average run
of the mill pilot flying the strange plane with Seventy-Four Squadron
markings. Before Dave could pick up sufficient speed to do any fast
maneuvering the Swordfish came ripping in again with its guns spewing
out jetting streams of flame.
Dave felt the plane tremble as it was hit in a hundred different
places. Then suddenly the Bristol in the nose began to cough and
sputter, and the controls went wishy-washy in his grasp. A cold lump of
ice took the place of his heart, and a load of buckshot began to bounce
around in his stomach. For a moment he couldn't move a single muscle.
He simply sat there like a man of stone waiting for the next burst from
the Swordfish's guns to rip and tear into his body. Instinct, however,
took charge where his brain failed. The next thing he realized he had
put the plane into a tight spiral and was working down toward the
surface of the water as fast as he dared.
It was not enough, though, for the mysterious Swordfish pilot to know
that the Fulmar was crippled and going down. The plane tore in for
three more bursts before it zoomed up for altitude and went thundering
away at full throttle toward the east. Luckily the parting burst did no
further damage to the Fulmar. The plane was finished for good, however.
The engine made one last gasping sound and then died completely. Dave
gingerly worked the wabbly controls and eased the craft out of its
tight spiral and put it into a long flat glide. Then he turned around
and glared at Freddy.
"Right or wrong, we should have plugged that tramp!" he growled. "I had
him pinned to a cloud when you knocked my hand away from the trigger
button. But skip it, pal. Orders are orders, I guess. How's the face
feel?"
"Can't feel a thing!" Freddy called out and impulsively touched the
bleeding bullet crease on his cheek. "What do we do now, Dave?"
Dave laughed harshly and pointed down.
"Three guesses!" he said. "And all of them correct. We go down and play
we're in the Navy. And I.... Oh my gosh, Freddy! Look! That rotten bum
plastered our radio and knocked it haywire. That means our signal's
stopped going out over the air. And that means that the navy ships and
planes will come a-running, and there's not a raider or a U-boat within
miles of here, I bet."
Freddy looked blank for a moment. Then he threw back his head and
roared with laughter.
"What a lad, what a lad!" he finally cried. "Yes sir, one in a million.
Sure the planes and ships will come a-running. But won't it make _you_
feel good to be picked up instead of floating around until you sink?"
Dave grinned and gave a little shake of his head.
"Yes, I guess it will at that," he said. "But, heck, once we crashed
the signal would have stopped, and they'd have come anyway. But darn
it, I don't like this, Freddy. Not even a little bit. I've got a funny
feeling that Manners didn't think of _this_ possibility at all."
"What do you mean by that crack?" Freddy exclaimed as he saw the look
on Dave's face.
The Yank R.A.F. ace slowly raised a hand and pointed ahead and toward
the east. Freddy looked in that direction, gulped, but said nothing.
About a mile away and just beneath the surface of the water was the
tell-tale shadow of a submarine. It was slowly coming to the surface,
and as the boys watched it they saw that it was a Nazi U-boat. Just a
lone Nazi U-boat in an area where they had been expected to sight ten
or fifteen in the company of a powerful surface raider.
Dave slowly turned and looked Freddy in the eye.
"And on second thought I like it even worse," he said. "That U-boat
knew that we were coming here. It also knew that a Fairey Swordfish was
going to shoot us down. Catch on to what I mean?"
"No, I don't quite follow you," Freddy said with a worried shake of his
head.
"The old double cross, or whatever you want to call it," Dave said
and flattened the glide of the plane even more. "We were going to set
a nice little trap for the Nazis, but they've crossed us up. It's my
guess they have set a nice little trap for the naval ships that are
right now racing to our rescue!"
Freddy Farmer's face paled as he looked at the damaged radio.
"And there isn't a thing we can do about warning them," he said in a
hoarse voice.
"Not a thing," Dave said as he stared at the submarine again. "But
there's something we can _do_, Freddy. Hang onto your hat, pal! You
and I are going to crash right on top of that baby! By the time he
gets clear of our wreckage it'll be too late for him to crash dive and
let go with his torpedoes at our navy ships. Hang on, pal!"
"Right you are!" Freddy sang out. "Give it to the beggar! At least we
can do one more thing to help. Let her rip, Dave, and the heck with our
necks!"
CHAPTER SIX
_The Dead Don't Fly_
Hunching over the controls, Dave veered the Fulmar around until it was
heading in the direction of the U-boat, and then steepened his dive
to gain extra speed. Unconsciously he felt for the straps of his life
jacket, or Mae West as they call them in the Royal Air Force. Even as
he touched them, however, he grinned and gave a little shake of his
head. If they smacked that surfacing U-boat as they planned, their life
jackets wouldn't be of any use to them. When you're smashed to pulp in
a crash a life jacket is just a souvenir for somebody else to take home.
"And smack him we're going to!" Dave grated to himself. "Good old
Freddy. I simply told him what I was going to do, and there wasn't a
single yip of complaint out of him. Dear God, if one of us can come
through this thing please make it Freddy Farmer. England needs him, and
alive!"
As the simple but straight from the heart prayer slid off Dave's lips
he steepened his dive even more. The U-boat had suddenly started acting
strangely. It was half awash and seemed to be hanging half in and half
out of the water. Then as the bow started to go under again the truth
dawned on Dave. The U-boat's commander had sighted them, guessed their
intentions, and was not taking any chances. Instead he had slammed shut
the conning tower hatch and was crash diving as fast as his diving fins
and propellers could take him down.
"Faster, Dave, faster!" Freddy's voice screamed. "The beggar is trying
to cheat us. He's going to pop down where we can't hit him. Get the
blasted rotter, Dave. Get him, please!"
"What do you think this is, slow motion?" Dave shouted back over his
shoulder. "Our engine's dead, pal, you know. All we've got is gliding
speed. And it isn't going to be enough, I don't think."
"It's got to be!" Freddy howled and unconsciously thumped Dave on the
back. "We can't let him cheat us. We just can't!"
Dave didn't bother to make any further comment. The Fulmar was
streaking down like a comet straight from Heaven, but the U-boat wasn't
losing any time in crash diving. In the last couple of seconds Dave
knew that they had lost. If he dived straight in they would only hit
hard water, and not even touch the U-boat that was now completely
submerged. And so in the last split instant of time Dave hauled up the
nose of the Fulmar in order to save Freddy and himself from certain
instant death.
The diving speed of the plane was too great, however, to permit him to
pull it completely up onto level keel. The belly of the plane struck
the water with terrific force. The mighty hands of invisible giants
seemed to reach down and jerk the plane up toward the sun flooded sky.
Then suddenly they sent it crashing down again. Twice more the plane
bounced before it finally stayed down. And during that time Dave and
Freddy were tossed about in their double cockpit like a couple of dried
peas in a tin can. A thousand and one fire crackers went off in Dave's
head. Hundreds of bombs exploded, and countless balls of colored light
wheeled and spun around before his eyes. Then as though somebody had
slammed shut a sound proof door, there was nothing but silence all
about him.