how a fellow felt about his aircraft. Made of metal, and plastics, and
wood, and fabric, to be sure. But to its pilot, it was something human
and full of understanding. Something that couldn't be put into words,
because there are no words in any language that can adequately describe
the feeling a pilot holds in his heart for his plane. Dawson and Farmer
simply nodded gravely, and gave a hand in lifting the wounded man out of
the bomber and putting him in the ambulance.
"A nice guy," Dave murmured as the ambulance pulled away. "I sure am
going to visit him if I get the chance."
"Yes, and me too, if!" Freddy Farmer murmured.
The remark caused Dawson to turn his head and glance sharply at his pal.
"And just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
Young Farmer shrugged and nodded toward the Administration Building.
"That chap headed our way," he said. "I've a bit of a hunch that
something is up."
"Huh?" Dawson gasped. "What--"
He let the rest go as a field orderly came up on the run and saluted
smartly. "Colonel Welsh's compliments, Captains Dawson and Farmer," the
orderly said. "He asks that you report to him in the commanding
general's office in an hour."
"An _hour_?" Dawson choked out, and then caught himself. "Very good,
Sergeant," he said hastily. "We'll be there."
The orderly saluted and retreated toward the Administration Building.
Dawson groaned softly.
"One hour, and off we go again! How much sleep can a fellow catch in an
hour, I'd like to know?"
"About sixty minutes' worth," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Frankly, I prefer
to spend that time eating. Let's go hunt up the Officers' Mess."
Dawson started to speak, thought better of it, and dropped into step
with Freddy. One hour, huh? And then what? But he was much too tired and
hungry to bother guessing up some answers. What would happen, would
happen. And, after all, what was one more hour in this mysterious
business?
What was one more hour? The gods of war on high could have told him.
They could have told him it was just one more hour in which the Grim
Reaper could steal closer and make ready to strike a blow that would
stun the entire civilized world!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Goering's Snoopers_
"Anything else I can get you, sir?"
Dawson glanced up at the mess orderly standing by the table, shook his
head, and smiled.
"No thanks, Corporal," he said. "I've had all I can hold. How about you,
Freddy?"
"I'm finished, too," the English youth said with a contented sigh. "That
hit the spot, Corporal. My compliments."
"Thank you, sir," the mess orderly said, and beamed his pleasure.
"Tell me, where is everybody, Corporal?" Dawson asked, and waved a hand
at the empty mess room. "Out on patrol?"
"Oh, no, sir," the orderly explained. "This is only a stop-over base for
pilots and equipment headed for the front. We don't fly any patrols from
here, sir, though a few of the pilots have been taking a whack at
Goering's Snoopers, whenever they get close enough."
"_Goering's Snoopers?_" Dawson echoed with a puzzled look. "Do you mean
Nazi bombing raids on this place?"
"No, sir," the other replied promptly. "And that's the funny part of it,
too. Not one of them has come within gun range of this place. Fact is,
only once since they started their funny business three days ago, have
we seen them. Then they were so high, they were no more than dots. I
heard one of the pilots say, though, that they were long-range Junkers.
Goering's Snoopers, we call them, because they seem to hang around all
the time, but do nothing. I wish we did have a regular squadron of
fighter planes here, though. Those Junkers get on my nerves. A darn
funny business, if you ask me, sir."
Neither Dawson nor Farmer made any comment for a moment. They simply
exchanged glances, and each knew what the other was thinking. Thinking
of the mysterious flock of Junkers Ju-88's they had seen a hundred
miles or so off the coast.
"Phantom ships, eh, Corporal?" Dawson finally spoke. "Any of the pilots
who went up after them lucky enough to nail one?"
"Yes, I think so, sir," the orderly replied with a nod. "Day before
yesterday they say a P-38 pilot got one of them. It was way inland near
Marrakech. I heard the pilot had just enough gas to get back. It's
pretty bad country in these parts for forced landing, you know, sir."
"But doesn't the C.O. know where the bombers are based?" Freddy Farmer
spoke up. "They're not coming here all the way from Tunisia, are they?"
"I couldn't say, sir," the orderly replied with a shrug. "All I know is
what I hear around the base. There aren't many of us here. The base
isn't in full swing yet. But it won't be long, and then maybe we'll have
a fighter squadron here, in case them Nazis try to really start
something. Funny about them Snoopers starting to show up three days ago.
It doesn't make sense. But what does in this screwy war?"
Neither Dawson nor Farmer had an answer for that one, so they just
shrugged, and pushed back their chairs.
"Well, thanks for the fine meal, Corporal," Dawson said, and tossed a
bill on the table. "Here, have a time for yourself when you get a pass
to town."
"I sure will, and thanks, Captain!" the orderly gulped when he saw the
amount of Dawson's tip. "Thanks a lot, sir. And I hope I'll be here next
time you pass through."
"So do I, Corporal," Dawson smiled as he headed for the door. "And good
luck."
"The same to you, sir!" the other called after him. "The same to you
both!"
Outside the mess, Dawson glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was
just about time to report to Colonel Welsh in the field commandant's
office.
"Let's go, Freddy," he said. "What do you think of Goering's Snoopers? I
guess we spotted some of them, huh?"
"No doubt," the English youth replied, and frowned. "And a very queer
business, if you ask me. Do you suppose, Dave--"
"I wouldn't know," Dawson said as Farmer paused and frowned all the
harder. "But you may be right. I mean that the Nazis have got wind of
something, and Goering's Snoopers are sort of keeping an eye on things.
If so, that's not so good. Do you get what I mean?"
"I do, and I agree with you completely," Freddy replied at once. "But
how in the world--Oh, blast it! I'm tired of trying to figure out
riddles!"
They left it at that and walked in silence to the Administration
Building. A sentry met them just inside the door, learned their names,
and led them at once to the office of Major General Hawker, commanding
officer of the recently established U. S. Air Forces Base. The two
youths were admitted at once, and as Dawson looked at Colonel Welsh
seated to one side of the huge desk, his heart gave a nervous leap and
tried to slide up into his throat. The Intelligence Chief's face looked
like that of a ghost. Rather, it looked like the face of a man worried
sick; worried so sick he was seeing ghosts. However, with a tremendous
effort Colonel Welsh gravely presented the two air aces to Major General
Hawker who welcomed them with a smile and a few well chosen words. His
face, too, showed the nervous strain under which he was suffering.
Dawson, glancing from one to the other, felt the old familiar eerie
tingle at the back of his neck. The old eerie tingling that had never in
the past failed to serve as a warning of danger and death in the
immediate future.
"Be seated, gentlemen, please," the major general was saying, and
gesturing a hand toward a couple of chairs. "I--Well, Colonel, I believe
you'd better begin the talking, anyway. These two officers have been
working with you since the start of things. So go right ahead, sir."
Colonel Welsh nodded his thanks to the general and stared at Dawson and
Farmer with eyes haggard from worry and fear.
"Bad news for us," he said bluntly. "The thing we tried to prevent has
come to pass in spite of our efforts. Where the leak is, I don't know.
Maybe I'll never find out. But that is not important, now. What is
important is the fact that the Nazis have learned of the war conference
to be held in Casablanca. In short, the Nazis know that President
Roosevelt is coming to Casablanca!"
"You're sure, sir?" Dawson blurted out as the colonel paused for breath.
"As sure as it's necessary to be," the Intelligence officer replied,
tight-lipped. Leaning forward, he tapped a map spread out on the top of
the desk. "Take a look at this and tell me what it means to you."
Both Dawson and Farmer left their chairs to study the map. It was a
large-sized navigation map that included the eastern shores of the two
American continents and the western shores of the European and African
continents. The map was creased in many places, and there were many
smears of grease on its surface to indicate it had been used
considerably. What caught and instantly held Dawson's attention, and
Farmer's also, were the many penciled markings and notes on the map. At
first glance, they didn't mean much, but on second glance, their full
meaning was revealed. It was very startling, to say the least.
Dawson jerked up his head and stared in half-stunned amazement at
Colonel Welsh.
"This is an air navigator's chart, sir!" he exclaimed. "With a dozen
different courses plotted out from the States, from South America, and
from England, to here. _To Casablanca!_"
"That's right," the Colonel said soberly. "Every course plotted on that
chart _ends_ at Casablanca! If you look closer, you will see where the
Nazi owner of that chart has penciled in the area off the coast of
Morocco that he patrolled."
"Nazi owner, sir?" Freddy Farmer choked out. "You mean--"
The English-born air ace stumbled over his words, and before he could
start over again, Colonel Welsh answered him.
"That's right, Farmer. That chart was taken from the body of a dead Nazi
pilot, whose bomber was shot down in the Atlas Mountains about two
hundred miles from here."
"One of Goering's Snoopers, eh?" Dawson murmured absently.
Major General Hawker stiffened and glanced at him sharply.
"What's that, Dawson?" the senior officer asked. "Where'd you hear about
Goering's Snoopers?"
"The Officers' Mess orderly was telling us, sir," Dawson explained. "He
said there has been a group of Nazi bombers hanging around this base for
the last three days, but not too close. He said that your pilots had
nicknamed them Goering's Snoopers."
"Oh, I see," the major general said with a nod. "That's right, they
certainly are Snoopers. But they'll be a whole lot _more_ than that--if
they get their chance!"
The senior office emphasized the last by rapping a clenched fist on the
desk.
"Then you know what they're up to, sir?" Dawson asked quickly. "I
suppose the colonel told you that we sighted them off shore? Is their
base near here, sir?"
Dawson would have asked more questions, but the major general raised a
hand for silence and looked at Colonel Welsh.
"Do you want me to do the talking, Colonel?" he asked. "Or would you
rather?"
"No, go right ahead, sir," Colonel Welsh replied with a shake of his
head. "After all, you've been right here where it's all been going on.
Go right ahead, sir."
Major General Hawker grunted and stared down at the desk top for a
moment, as though taking time out to choose his words. Presently he
looked up at Dawson and Farmer. Both youths were a little startled by
the glitter of seething anger in his eyes.
"The North African campaign has progressed so rapidly and so
successfully," he began, "that we're way ahead of ourselves, you might
say. I mean that we've been so busy doing the big things that we've had
to let much detail work slide. For example, this base wasn't to be ready
for another month yet, but it is in operation right now. It has been for
the last three or four weeks. However, it is simply a port through which
equipment and personnel pass on the way to the battle fronts. The
working staff is very small, and we have no squadron, or even a flight
of planes and pilots of our own. I mean, based here for our protection.
That, of course, is because every plane and pilot is needed at the
front. Those of us who are behind the front must shift as best we can,
until there comes a lull in the main battle, and we've the time to start
tucking in the ends."
The major general paused for breath.
"So far, I've only given you a picture of conditions here," he continued
presently. "Well, about ten days ago I was secretly informed through
Colonel's Welsh's office that the President and Mr. Churchill were going
to hold a war conference here at Casablanca. Naturally, I kept that
secret. However, the Nazis must have got hold of that news somehow,
either here or in Washington. We'll probably never know which. Three
days ago those Junkers long-range bombers started putting in an
appearance. At first, I thought they were after convoys, but pilots who
sighted them off shore reported that they either kept at a safe
distance, or raced away to hide in the clouds before our planes could
reach them. In short, they did everything in their power to avoid air
battle. In addition, they went the limit to prevent any of our planes
from _following them back to their base_."
"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" Dawson asked with a puzzled frown.
The major general reached out a hand and tapped a finger on the
navigator's chart on the desk.
"That plane and its crew were deliberately sacrificed so that the others
could get away," he said. "It happened yesterday morning. A Lockheed
Lightning pilot happened to be in the air, and he sighted the Snoopers
off shore. He requested permission by radio to give chase and engage
them. That permission was granted. The Snoopers had a good start on him,
however, and there were a lot of clouds, so the Lockheed pilot was
unable to catch up until the chase had gone a good two hundred miles
inland. When he started to close in, the pilot reported later, one of
the bombers dropped out of formation, turned back, and gave battle. It
put up a good fight, and by the time the Lockheed pilot had downed it,
the others had disappeared completely. Just before turning back to
fight, the German pilot dumped his full load of bombs, and they exploded
in the wilderness below. That didn't help him any. Well, the bomber
crashed, and _no one bailed out_! That struck the Lockheed pilot as
being queer and as there was some smooth ground close by, he landed to
take a look at his victim. He said it was not a pretty sight. _But_
there were only three aboard, whereas a Junkers Ju-88 usually has a crew
of at least six. Not one of those three had made any attempt to leave
the plane as it fell earthward. Do you know why?"
The senior officer paused and seemed to wait.
"No, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up impulsively. "Why, sir?"
"Because there were _no_ parachute packs aboard the plane!" the other
replied at once. "In fact, the plane was stripped bare of everything
that was not absolutely essential to flying and fighting. There were no
identification papers on any of the crew, though the Lockheed pilot
could tell from decoration ribbons that all were veteran airmen. There
was nothing except this navigation chart. The Lockheed pilot said that
one of the men was holding it as though he had been about to destroy it,
but was stopped by the crash. By that I mean, in one hand he clutched
the chart and in the other a cigarette lighter. Anyway, the Lockheed
pilot brought the map back to me, and as soon as I took one look at it
I knew the reason for the constant patrolling of those Nazi bombers. I
know exactly what they are."
"It sounds like a suicide outfit to me," Dawson murmured as the major
general paused. "They must be waiting for the President and his party to
arrive. Then they'll let go with the whole works, to say nothing of
their own lives."
"There's no doubt about it!" Major General Hawker agreed grimly. "I'm as
convinced of that as though they had come and told me so. If they know
_when_ the President and Mr. Churchill will arrive, I don't know.
Perhaps they will receive that signal from somebody right here in
Casablanca. The way they have let convoys alone and have avoided air
battle, at the deliberate sacrifice of one of their own, is proof
positive that they are waiting for the one big opportunity. And even
though the President's life, and Mr. Churchill's life, were spared, the
loss of other lives would be almost as disastrous to the Allied cause.
In short, so long as that German suicide squadron remains in existence,
a terrible danger hangs over the entire civilized world. No matter how
many planes we have protecting the President and his party, some of
those bombers would be bound to get through."
"But their base, sir, wherever it is?" Dawson spoke up as the other
paused. "If you could only find it, and--"
"Exactly the point!" the major general interrupted. "If we could only
_find it_! The only thing I've got here that could out-fly the Junkers
Ju-88 is a Lightning. But the main difficulty is that I have no pilots I
can order out on such a mission. I mean, should they find the base and
radio its position, they wouldn't have fuel enough left to return.
They'd force land in the mountain wilderness and eventually die of
starvation or the heat. We've _got_ to destroy those planes--and _within
the next thirty-six hours!_"
"Thirty-six hours, sir?" Dawson echoed, as his heart started to pound
against his ribs.
The major general looked at him gravely, and nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Just ten minutes before your plane landed I received
code word from Washington that the President and his party are _already
on the way to Casablanca!_"
"Good gosh!" Dawson gasped before he could check himself. "Only
thirty-six hours and then Goering's snooping suicides can do their
stuff? Or try to do it? But--"
Dawson suddenly checked himself and looked at Freddy Farmer. For a long
moment their eyes met, and then they nodded impulsively. Dawson turned
to Major General Hawker.
"With your permission, sir," he said quietly, "Farmer and I would like
to locate that base and radio its position so that our bombers could go
over and wipe it out."
As Dawson finished speaking, silence settled over the room. Colonel
Welsh broke it as he addressed his words to Major General Hawker.
"Just what I told you, sir," he said. "And by God, they'll find it,
too--Bless them both!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Death Takes Wing_
For the tenth time, Dave Dawson checked his position and made absolutely
sure that he was where he was supposed to be. For the tenth time,
countless fears shot through his brain to taunt and jeer at him. He
wasn't at the agreed rendezvous point. His navigation was all cockeyed.
He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south
of it. He was--
"Cut it out, fellow!" he ordered himself. "This is a fine time for you
to go haywire! You're simply here ahead of time. Your watch tells you
that. Freddy was held up a bit, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of
weather, or something. Maybe--"
Or something? But what? That was the question! Freddy Farmer could fly
through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of pilot. It was
crazy to think that weather would hold up Freddy. But where was he? Why
wasn't he here?
These tantalizing questions pounded in Dawson's brain like the booming
of big guns. He clenched his teeth and gripped the controls of the
Lockheed Lightning so tightly that the knuckles of his hands showed
white through the skin. That this was perhaps the last flight he might
ever make didn't bother him much. What did was the fear that Freddy and
he might fail in the successful completion of this vitally important
mission. And that fear was doubled when he realized that the odds were
all against them. Yesterday when they had volunteered for the job Major
General Hawker had told them in no uncertain terms that their chances of
finding the secret Nazi bomber base were about one in a thousand, and
their chances of coming back alive were about one in a million.
Yes, the odds were all against them, but that didn't matter. They'd had
the odds against them before and had won out. So right after leaving
Major General Hawker's office they had selected two Lockheed Lightnings
on the field and flight tested them thoroughly. By then darkness had
settled, so they had gone to one of the field hutments and tumbled into
bed with their clothes on, so that there would be no waste of time in
case they had to make a night take-off in a hurry.
Good fortune was theirs, however. They each had twelve solid hours of
sleep before word came that Nazi bombers were sighted off the coast.
Five minutes later they were both in the air, but instead of flying out
to sea, they carried out a prearranged flight plan. Dawson had flown
northward to circle around to the east and then southward to a point
over the middle of the Atlas Mountains. And Farmer had flown south with
the idea of circling eastward, and then up north to rendezvous with
Dawson. One of them would be sure to cross the path of the Nazis winging
back to their secret base. The instant one of them spotted the Nazis he
would code call the other over his radio and give his position and
course. The other would head that way at once, join up, and together
they would trail the Nazis to their base, and then code call Casablanca
where a hastily assembled squadron of American bombers was waiting.
Yes, a very carefully thought out plan of action, except for one flaw.
And that one flaw was making itself known right now as Dawson coasted
the Lockheed about in the North African sky over the prearranged
rendezvous point. In short, he had not seen the Nazi bombers, and he had
not heard so much as a whisper over the radio, though he had called
Freddy Farmer several times for a check. No bombers! Radio silence since
Casablanca! So--
"So," Dave said to himself as he tried to still the fearful pounding of
his heart, "So something has happened to Freddy! He's bumped into
trouble, and his radio went haywire on him. Or he's lost and has missed
the Nazis completely. Or--or he's dead!"
Dawson hardly realized that he had spoken the words until they were out.
Their echo in his ears caused his mouth and throat to go dry, and
fingers of ice to curl about his heart. He shook his head savagely and
pounded one clenched fist on his knee.
"Stop it!" he ranted at himself. "Don't even let yourself think of it,
you dope! Freddy will show up, or call you. He's just got to. He's--"
He cut the rest off short and stiffened in his seat as he caught sight
of a plane ripping through the air toward him. As he opened his mouth to
let out a shout of joy at meeting up again with Freddy Farmer, his
breath stuck in his throat.
"But that can't be Freddy!" he mumbled as he squinted his eyes at the
oncoming plane. "That plane is coming from the east, and Freddy would be
coming up from the south. And--Hey! My gosh! That--that plane is
_German_! It's a Messerschmitt 109, a Nazi fighter plane, and heading
right my way!"
He cut off the last with a vigorous shake of his head, as though to
clear his vision. However, when he took another look, the plane was
still a Nazi Messerschmitt 109, and it was still racing straight toward
him from out of the east. A moment later, though, just as Dawson
instinctively slid the guard off the electric trigger button of his
guns, the on-streaking Messerschmitt swerved southward, and its nose
went slanting up in a climb.
"What the heck?" Dawson cried, as a faint sensation of disappointment
rippled through him. "Is he getting cold feet so soon? Or didn't he see
me?"
A couple of moments later, his last thought seemed to be proven true.
The Messerschmitt pilot leveled off after he had climbed a couple of
thousand feet, and Dawson could tell by the decrease in the plane's
speed that the pilot has eased back to cruising throttle. No more than a
couple of miles separated the two aircraft now, and though the
Messerschmitt was perhaps three thousand feet higher than the Lockheed,
Dawson knew that he could close in on the Nazi in no time, if he wished
to.