forward, pushed the nose down to almost the vertical, and sent the
Lockheed Hudson wing screaming for the clouds. It was not more than
the matter of a few split seconds before they were plunging through
the billowing mist, but even then he heard the savage snarl of the
Messerschmitt's aerial machine guns, and the heavier, louder note of
its twin 20-mm. cannon. And a split second after that he heard the
yammering reply from Freddy Farmer's guns in the tail turret of the
Lockheed.
As soon as the Lockheed was completely hidden in the depths of the
cloud layer he pulled out of the dive, leveled off and banked due west.
For some ten or fifteen minutes he flew on the instruments, twisting
this way and that, but always in the general direction of London. And
during all that time Air Marshal Manners didn't say a word. He sat like
a statue of stone in the co-pilot's seat staring out forward as though
his steady gaze might pierce right through the bank after bank of cloud
mist that rushed toward them and was sliced and churned by the whirling
propellers.
Then suddenly, perhaps a second or two before Dave would have climbed
up on top for a quick look-see around, a blurred shadow came racing in
from the right. It was no more than a shadow tearing in, and Dave only
caught sight of it out the corner of his eye, but his sixth sense told
him at once that it might be the Messerschmitt One-Ten.
"Dawson! Look out! There's...."
Air Marshal Manners' wild cry was just a waste of breath. Dave had
already slammed the Lockheed over and around on wingtip in a wing
shaking vertical bank. The terrific force of the turn cut off the rest
of the Air Marshal's cry and pinned him up against the side of the
compartment as though he were nailed there. Every muscle of his body
braced, and his mouth open to prevent possible blacking-out from the
turn, Dave hung grimly to the controls and prayed in his thoughts as he
had never prayed before.
A lifetime of agony was his. He lived and died a thousand deaths. Then
suddenly he felt the right wingtip shudder as something ticked it.
His heart stood still and his whole body became bathed in cold sweat.
Nothing happened, though. The wing stayed on and the Lockheed kept on
whanging around.
"Just brushed us lightly!" Dave heard his own choking voice cry out.
"Another inch and it would have been a sweet mess!"
"Great guns, they can't come any closer!" Air Marshal Manners gasped.
"Blast him, anyway! I might have expected as much. Look, Dawson, get
off the London course. Head east or west, but not toward London!"
Dave cut out of the turn, went into a shallow dive that took the plane
down deeper into the cloud layer, then leveled off and banked due
south. Once he was heading south he turned his head and gave the Air
Marshal a questioning look.
"You expected something like this, sir?" he asked.
Manners shook his head.
"No," he said. "I meant that I _should_ have. No way for us to find
out, and we're not going to try, but I'm pretty sure Baron von Khole
was in that Messerschmitt One-Ten."
At that moment Freddy appeared at the compartment door, and in time to
hear the Air Marshal's words.
"Von Khole?" he echoed excitedly. "Good grief, sir, what makes you
think so?"
"For one reason," Manners replied grimly, "because you can expect that
blighter to turn up anywhere. For another reason, because I sighted
that same One-Ten on the way down to Plymouth this noon. Spotted him
soon enough to lose him before he could get close and give any kind
of a chase. And for another reason, because now I happen to be the one
man in all the world von Khole desires most to remove from it. Remember
my saying Intelligence found code books and things at the flat of that
poor devil, Sergeant Kinney?"
"Yes, sure!" Dave said excitedly. "And by the way, was the real
Sergeant Kinney's body found? I mean, you're sure von Khole actually
did murder him, and he isn't the real Sergeant Kinney, himself?"
"Whether von Khole murdered Kinney, or one of his bunch did it, we
don't know," Manners replied. "But the real Sergeant Kinney was no
dirty Nazi spy. Early this morning some of my men dug up the cellar of
the place. They found a body nobody could recognize, but the old World
War identification tag they found on the wrist belonged to Kinney. No,
there've definitely been two Kinneys serving in the R.A.F. One, the
real chap. The other, Baron von Khole."
"And you learned something from the code books and stuff you found, eh,
sir?" Freddy questioned eagerly.
"Enough to worry the Nazis sick!" Manners replied with a curt nod.
"The code books alone are the greatest prize of the war, as far as
I'm concerned. I now know the code signal for every U-boat and surface
raider the Nazis have in the North Atlantic."
"Hot dog!" Dave cried in a burst of exuberant enthusiasm. "It's
practically in the bag! We can knock them off like clay pigeons, and
make the Atlantic clear sailing for British convoys."
"No, it isn't going to be as easy as that," Air Marshal Manners said
with a shake of his head. "They'll change those codes as soon as they
can. But with so many of their craft at sea it will take a certain
amount of time. A couple of days, at least. Having failed to trap that
devilish raider and her wolf pack of U-boats this morning, our only
hope is to trap her through the code signals before she can receive a
new set."
"But couldn't that be done in the matter of a few hours?" Freddy
objected. "A Nazi plane fly out to her with the new code?"
"No," Manners said bluntly. "A new code that can't be broken down by
the enemy in short order isn't something that you think up over night.
True, every country has emergency codes, but even they need constant
rearranging in order to fool the enemy. And the point is, I feel
pretty sure that I've got hold of the Nazi's emergency code as well as
all of their regular codes. As head of Nazi Intelligence in England
it's only natural that von Khole would have a copy of every existing
code."
"And leave them around for somebody to pick up?" Dave gasped. "Boy,
that's just about tops for being dumb, I'd say!"
"It is," Air Marshal Manners agreed. "Incredibly stupid, but that
kind of stupidity is a part of the German make-up that amazes one.
Especially when you consider how thorough and clever they are about
so many other things. You two lads are too young to have been in
this world at the time, but it is a matter of confirmed history that
before the entry of America into the last war, von Papen, the German
ambassador to Washington, left a briefcase on a New York subway train
containing a world of information regarding German sabotage and
espionage activities in the United States!"
"Yes, my Dad once told me about that boner," Dave said. "Gosh, it's
something like you'd read in a fairy story book!"
"The Germans are a strange race, for fair," Manners said dryly. "They
lead the world in so many things, and trail it in so many others. Well,
I think we've lost that beggar for good, now, don't you think so,
Dawson?"
"Unless he's got cat's eyes, or some trick airplane engine detector on
his ship," Dave replied. "Want me to go up on top? We've been heading
south by east for a spell, now. Unless I'm all wet we should be just a
bit off shore from Southampton. We can go up on top and find a hole and
check."
"Then go on up," Air Marshal Manners ordered. "And if you're right,
then so much the better. Find a hole and locate us, and then I'll give
you further orders. But make it fast. Time is the most precious thing
in the world to us, right now."
"Up she goes!" Dave cried and pulled the Lockheed's nose toward Heaven.
CHAPTER TEN
_England's Prayer_
No sooner had Dave stuck the Lockheed's nose up through the top of the
cloud layer than he leveled off so that the belly was still in the
stuff. At that same instant also he and Manners started searching the
sun flooded skies ahead and to the left and right. Having scrambled
back aft to his tail turret Freddy Farmer searched the heavens to the
rear. There was no cause for sudden action, however, for there wasn't
a single sign of a Nazi plane in the air. The Messerschmitt One-Ten
had been given the slip, and given it as only a pilot of Dave Dawson's
ability can perform such a feat.
"Good work!" Manners grunted and relaxed a bit in his seat. "Now find a
hole if you can and spot exactly where we are."
Dave nodded, climbed up another thousand feet, and in a minute or so
found a hole in the clouds. He peered down through and grinned happily.
"Not so far wrong at that, sir," he said and pointed. "There's
Southampton. And we're about a mile off-shore."
The Air Ministry official took a look and nodded his approval.
"Top hole blind flying, Dawson," he grunted. "Right-o. Bear west and
take us to Lands End. Sit down in the field just north of the flying
boat basin."
Dave's heart sang a song of joy and the blood began to dance through
his veins. At Lands End was the main base of the Catalina flying boats
that escorted so many merchant convoys in from their danger filled
trips across the broad Atlantic. At Lands End were some of the greatest
heroes in the R.A.F. Youngsters no more than a couple of years older
than himself who fought weather, Nazis, and everything else day and
night that England's bottoms might come safely into port. Twenty or
twenty-five hours in the air at a stretch was routine stuff for those
lads. And for a single Cat-Boat, escorting a dozen merchant ships
and Corvette, to battle ten or a dozen Nazi bombers single handed
and drive them off, was something you didn't even mention except in
your official flight report. Heroes and aces, every one of them,
commissioned and non-commissioned officers alike. High adventure,
unbelievable heroism, and death. Those lads at the Lands End Base took
all three in stride, and without batting an eye.
"That's an outfit Farmer and I will be mighty glad to serve in, sir!"
Dave suddenly blurted out.
"You're not going to serve in it," Air Marshal Manners said bluntly.
Then as he stared unwinking ahead, "Fact is, by this time tomorrow, or
sooner, every lad at that Base will be hunting for you, and very eager
to shoot you down. And their squadron will not be the only one out
hunting for your hide. No, you're not going to like your visit to the
Lands End Base!"
Dave gulped, and couldn't speak for a moment. On sudden impulse he
turned his head and saw Freddy Farmer standing in the compartment
doorway. The English youth's eyes were popping out like marbles on
sticks and he was swallowing rapidly. Dave looked back at Manners.
"I don't think I get you, sir," he said with an effort.
"You will soon enough," the senior officer grunted. "You're in for a
venture that will make this morning's doings seem like a solo flight in
a training plane during peace time. But don't get all twisted up, now.
The prayers of England will be flying with you, though the pilots of
the R.A.F. will be hunting you down. It will be an important part of
your job to see that they _don't find you_!"
"And how, if they're coming a-gunning!" Dave gulped. "But, sir,
what...?"
"Later, at Lands End," Air Marshal Manners stopped him. "I'll.... By
George, I must be getting weak in the head, I'm forgetting things so.
I'll take over the controls, Dawson. You and Farmer go aft and get out
of those uniforms. In the flare box you'll find some civilian clothes.
They'll fit. Put them on. Then stuff your uniforms back in the flare
box. Stuff them down deep and cover them up with flare cartridges.
Beginning with now, Dawson, you're Charles Lanier. And you, Farmer,
you're Henry Devoe. You're a couple of aeronautical engineers recently
escaped from occupied France. You don't know a dozen words of English,
so look blank if anybody speaks to you. Got all that?"
"Yes, sir," Dave managed to get out as a befuddled haze swirled around
in his brain.
"Oh, quite, sir," Freddy echoed weakly.
"Good," Manners said and motioned Dave out of the pilot's seat. "Just
act dumb French and take your leads from me. I'd tell you my plan, now,
but you might possibly give it away by an unconscious action. Now,
don't misunderstand, lads. I have absolute faith in you both. However,
as they say in your country, Dawson, I'm going to play this one close
to the chest. What you don't know now won't hurt anybody. Fact is,
it'll probably make it easier for me to play my part in the game. And
by the way, if I act just a bit rude to you, don't pay any attention.
This is an inspection flight on order of a ranking member in the
Government with whom you have connections. I'm supposedly against such
a waste of time, but am only obeying the orders of my superior. You
understand?"
Though their heads were spinning the two R.A.F. youths nodded instantly.
"Right-o, then," Manners said and gave them a smile. "Get aft and into
those civilian clothes. And don't go exploding with curiosity. You'll
know all the details in due time. Goodness knows you'll have to be
acquainted with them! Now chase."
Dave and Freddy scrambled aft to the flare box amidships and pulled
out the assortment of civilian clothing inside. In less than five
minutes they were a couple of French civilians, and their much loved
and honored uniforms had been stuffed down out of sight. Dave looked at
Freddy and grinned broadly.
"Well, your clothes look Frenchie," he said, "but I can't figure the
nationality of that face you're wearing."
"Is that so?" Freddy snorted and wrinkled his nose in disgust as he
looked Dave up and down. "Fact is I can't place either your clothes or
your face. The nearest I can come is a touch of Japanese with just a
slight Eskimo resemblance. And, frankly, that's said with apologies to
both races. But, seriously, Dave, what in the world do you think we're
stepping into this time?"
Dave looked toward the pilot's compartment and slowly shook his head
from side to side.
"I just tossed my brain overboard," he said. "I gave up trying to
figure out this puzzle. So help me, if anybody had told me I was going
to run into this many blank walls since dawn I'd have told them they
were nuts. Sweet tripe! Spies, stolen planes, secret orders, a swim in
the Atlantic, bullets coming too darn close, mystery planes, French
clothing, no speak the English, the R.A.F. after my hide, and.... Pal,
that's a mess of fish right there. You cook it. I can't!"
"Well, I gather we're in for some flying," Freddy said with a puzzled
sigh. "And that's something."
"Yeah," Dave grunted, and jerked a thumb forward, "unless he comes up
with some more cockeyed unfinished business that sends us both to the
bug-house for keeps. Oops! We're heading down. Guess we must be getting
close. Luck, pal!"
"I'll jolly well double that wish," Freddy breathed and led the way
forward along the cat-walk.
Air Marshal Manners had nosed the plane down and as the two youths
reached his side and looked down over the nose they saw the southwest
tip of England pointed like a crooked finger at the little cluster
of Scilly Island and the broad rolling expanse of the North Atlantic
beyond. Dave looked at the mooring basin with a dozen or more battle
tried Consolidated Catalina flying boats at anchor. There were also
two or three Short Sunderland flyingboats. Huge battle wagons of the
air that in peace time serve England's Atlantic air lanes just as the
mighty Clipper flyingboats serve American ocean travel by air. Just
north of the basin was the airfield for land planes and amphibians.
The hangar side was lined with twenty or more different types. And as
Dave peered intently he saw several planes of American design. Bombers
probably ferried from Nova Scotia last night. Right now they were
receiving a check inspection before being flown on to England's active
service fields for final installations and assignment to the ever
growing armada of wings that went hurtling across the Channel day and
night to dump thousands upon thousands of tons of bombs down on Adolf's
head and his bandit hordes striving to wipe humanity and civilization
from the face of the earth.
Lands End Base! The jumping off point for their greatest aerial
adventure. The jumping off point for glory, and for perhaps death, too!
"Well, I've seen better dressed Frenchmen, but I guess you look the
part."
Air Marshal Manners' outspoken comment brushed the rambling thoughts
away inside Dave's head. He glanced at his superior officer and
gestured in a polite but blank sort of way.
"Pardon, mon Capitaine?" he murmured. "Ze Eengleesh, I speak no, yes?"
The Air Ministry official threw back his head and laughed.
"Fine!" he exclaimed. "Couldn't be better. Be sure and carry it through
no matter what anybody says to you. But I'll take care that nobody says
very much. Well, hang on. Here we go down for the next to the last
landing on this job, please God!"
Dave and Freddy exchanged muddled glances and steadied themselves as
Manners flew the Lockheed across the field and then circled around
into the wind and slid down the last couple of hundred feet to a
feather-on-velvet landing.
"Do _I_ hope to be able to fly like _that_ some day!" Dave breathed
without thinking.
"Shut up, you _Frenchman_!" Manners growled. "But thanks for the
compliment just the same. On guard, now. Here they come."
At the sight of a Staff plane with Air Ministry markings landing, the
commanding officer of the field and one or two of his junior officers
hurried out to greet the new arrivals. The C.O. was a Wing Commander,
and the row of ribbons under his R.A.F. wings was proof positive that
he had not earned his rank by sitting in an office chair with his feet
on the desk. He recognized Air Marshal Manners at once, and with his
juniors saluted smartly.
"Well, welcome to Lands End Base, sir!" he said in pleasant surprise.
"Had no idea you'd be popping down this way for a bit of a visit."
"Had no idea myself, Otis," Manners said and shook hands. "Not until
this noon, anyway. These two with me are the reason. Couple of French
aeronautical engineers who got out of France somehow. Seems they were
able to pull a few right strings in the Government. Anyway, I was
picked to tootle them about the country for a courtesy inspection trip.
As if I didn't have a thousand more important things to do! Oh, well,
you can't have a war without blasted politics, I suppose."
"Aren't you right!" Wing Commander Otis sighed and gave Dave and Freddy
a polite but cold nod. "I take it they don't speak English, eh?"
"Not half a dozen words," Manners replied in a disgusted voice. "And I
rue the day I learned to speak French. However, we'll be off your hands
by morning. Meantime, you carry on with your work, Otis. I'll herd
these two here and there and try to show them as little as possible.
Any hush-hush stuff here you think I should steer clear of?"
"There's an experimental job in a flight hangar," Otis replied.
"But.... Well, I mean.... That is...."
"That I wouldn't trust them out of my sight," Manners said as the other
floundered for words. "You're right. Ten to one they're the real true
French, but I'm a bit leery of anything that comes across the Channel
these days. You never can tell, you know. Frankly, I raised merry Ned
about taking them on this inspection tour, but the word came down from
high up, and.... Well, that was that, blast it!"
"A bloody shame!" Wing Commander Otis growled and gave Dave and Freddy
a look that wasn't even polite. "I'm free for a short spell, and I'll
be glad to lead the parade, if you like. Matter of fact, I wouldn't
mind brushing up on my French. I mean, what there is of it."
"Fine, splendid!" Manners cried. "That'll make two pairs of eyes we can
keep on them. But first, I guess I'd better make introductions."
Manners half turned to smile at Dave and Freddy, and then went through
all the flowery business of presenting them to Otis, and presenting the
Wing Commander to them. The two youths bowed and beamed and spouted
perfect French at a mile a minute clip. Otis returned the wishy-washy
compliments in bad French, and with a pained look in his eye.
And then began two of the most cockeyed hours Dave and Freddy had ever
spent in their young but adventure-crammed lives. With Wing Commander
Otis leading the way they were taken on a round of inspection of the
field and hangars, and then over to the flying boat basin. At every
stop interesting details were explained to them in French by either
Manners or Otis. And in turn they played up to their part by jabbering
out excited comments and compliments. But it was a hard act to play
because Manners and Otis exchanged helpless glances every so often.
And little by little it was plain to see that Otis wished with all his
heart that "these two young Frenchies who talked like lightning had
never got out of France." In other words, Dave and Freddy had to almost
gag themselves to kill a smile or an outburst of laughter in the wrong
place.
Just before they moved on and away from the flying boat basin Manners
pointed to a battle grey Catalina flying boat some one hundred yards
from shore.
"You see that craft, Gentlemen?" he said in French. "That is the
fastest flying boat in the entire Coastal Command. And it has a record
of which the entire Air Force is proud. The pilots and crew of that
craft have twelve Nazi planes and a U-boat to their credit. It is of
American design as you doubtless have noticed. I wish we had ten
thousand like her. I've flown her myself, and she is a beautiful craft.
Is that not so, Wing Commander Otis?"
"Quite right, sir," Otis replied. "That Catalina is our pride and joy.
There isn't a ship here that can touch her for speed, or for standing
up in bad weather. And now, perhaps you'd like to see the repair shops?"
Dave and Freddy nodded eagerly, but it was Air Marshal Manners who
spoke first.
"You've done your job, Otis, old fellow," he said switching back to
English. "Don't you bother with these two any more. I'll carry on with
them. You get on back to your office. We'll walk a ways with you, and
then see you later at mess. I'll explain to them that duty calls, and
all that. They won't mind just so long as there's one of us to lead
them around and let them stick their noses in here and in there."
"Sure you don't mind, sir?" Otis murmured. "Matter of fact I am a
little behind on my patrol reports."
"Then by all means get on with it, man!" Manners said. Then turning to
Dave and Freddy, he explained to them in French.
They let understanding light up their forced blank faces, and then went
into a verbal song and dance telling Otis that it was quite all right,
and ten million thanks for showing them so much. Otis mumbled some
polite words in return, and then the trio walked part way back to the
Base office. Finally Otis left them, and hurried away as though scared
to death that he might be called back.
"By George, you two should be on the stage!" Manners chuckled when Wing
Commander Otis was well out of hearing. "A dirty trick we played on
real Frenchmen, because right now I think Otis is one man who hopes the
Nazis keep France! He never was very strong for the Tri-Color anyway,
but you two certainly finished him for good. The thing to do, though.
The word will get around what pests you are, and I don't think you'll
be bothered much later on. And that's exactly what I want."
"Why, sir?" Dave asked bluntly, but made gestures with his hands like
a Frenchman in case Otis or somebody else might be watching from a
distance.
Air Marshal Manners didn't reply at once. He half turned and glanced
at the sun that was dropping down over the horizon like a giant ball
of livid red flame. Then he glanced at his watch, and then at Dave and
Freddy.
"Right-o," he said. "You two have certainly earned the whole story
these last two hours. But walk up the shore with me just to make sure
we won't be overheard. Take a good look at that sun, though, and let's
the three of us pray that by the time it sets again tomorrow you two
will have safely accomplished what in my opinion will be the most
daring and dangerous feat of the entire war to date and probably in the
future, too!"