before one of the blighters had put a bullet through my port engine's
oil line. All I could do was force land. I saw your parachute open, and
saw your silk foul in a tree near here. I tried to land as close as I
could, but messed things up something terribly. A blasted awful landing.
I was lucky not to have broken my confounded neck. I think I was knocked
out for a spell. Fact is, I'm sure of it, because it was late afternoon
when I collected my senses. I could see this bit of a hill where we are
now, so I started out for here. Good grief, what country! The Alps are
easier to cross than this bit of ground. When it got dark, it was just
three times as bad. But--Well, thank the Lord I finally reached you!"
Dawson said nothing. He simply groped for Freddy Farmer's hand, found
it, and pressed it hard.
"That was rotten luck for you, and just plain dumbness on my part," he
finally got out in a groan. "Those are the two reasons for our failure.
Gosh! If I had a knife, I think I'd be tempted to cut my throat. When I
think how close we came to preventing those bombers from raiding
Casablanca, I--"
"But they haven't taken off yet, Dave!" Freddy cried excitedly. "It's
still not too late, if that's what you're thinking!"
Young Farmer's words seemed to make Dawson's heart swell up and explode
in his chest.
"What?" he gasped. "Haven't left yet? But it's well over the time limit,
Freddy! According to schedule, the President's party should have arrived
at Casablanca early this evening, and--"
"Maybe it did, but the bombers haven't taken off!" young Farmer
interrupted. "While making my way here, I saw their hidden field from
some high ground. That was about an hour ago. They had a few oil pot
flares burning, and I could see the planes. All props were dead. They
haven't left yet, Dave. My guess is that the President's party has been
delayed a bit, and _they_ know it! And, Dave! There are more than just
Junkers there, too. At least half a dozen Messerschmitt single-seaters,
not counting the ones we got, and a two-seater Messerschmitt 110."
"No kidding?" Dawson breathed, and swallowed hard. "Then that checks
with the thought I had. I mean, those bombers have a fighter escort to
protect their secret base in case a stray plane or two found it--like
what happened to us. But I think the big idea of their being here is to
sail out to give the bombers a better chance to get through when the big
moment comes. They must be 'Number Two Suicide Squad' because they'd
never get back here on the gas they carry!"
"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer replied at once. "No doubt of it. When the
bombers were sure of their target, they'd radio the Messerschmitts to
come on the jump and lend a hand. Dave, old thing, we're not all washed
up yet! Don't you understand?"
"And how! I understand!" the Yank air ace said grimly, and got up onto
his feet. "Do you know the way to that secret field from here, Freddy?"
"Yes," the other replied. "But it's about two hours of blasted hard
going. We've got to be very careful. I think the blighters have patrols
out hunting for us. I heard a few Jerry voices while I was making my way
here. By the way, that glow over there is your aircraft still burning.
Never knew a plane to burn so long."
"So that's what it is, huh?" Dawson remarked absently. Then, reaching
out, he gripped Freddy Farmer's hand. "Let's go, pal," he said quietly.
"Don't ask me if I have any plans, because I haven't a one, yet. But
let's get to that field and decide when we get there. One thing is in
our favor, anyway. We're both still alive and kicking. If you ask me,
that's plenty for a starter!"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed, tight-lipped. "We're both still alive, so
we're jolly well not licked yet!"
"Check, and triple check!" Dawson grunted. "Let's go!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
_Vultures' Nest_
Dawn was a faint gray line marking the point where the North African sky
met the North African Continent in the east. Just a faint gray line
heralding the coming of a new day, though the world was still shrouded
in the darkness of night. A new day. A new day of war. A new day--of
victory, or utter failure?
The question was like a pin-point white hot flame burning in Dave
Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer hugged the hard-packed ground
behind a clump of withered desert brush. Just seventy yards beyond the
desert brush was a long level strip of desert, flanked on both sides by
scrub-covered hills. Hills? They were little more than mounds of rock
and sand. As though Nature throughout the ages had thrust them up from
the bowels of the earth and covered them with scrub growth for a crazy
prank. They looked just about as natural in the middle of the Sahara as
a part of the Sahara would have looked in the middle of New York City.
Nevertheless, there they were. Another bit of the mysterious Sahara's
phenomena for man to study and wonder about. A desert oasis completely
surrounded by hills! Yet there it was for mortal eyes to view.
However, the strange freak of Nature's handiwork held no interest
whatsoever for Dave Dawson or Freddy Farmer. What interested them
completely were the man-made things on that strip of desert valley. The
fifteen Junkers Ju-88's, the six Messerschmitt 109's and the single
two-seater Messerschmitt 110, that were pulled way back under perfect
camouflage covering on either side of the desert strip--the planes, and
the groups of shadowy figures that were walking about among them.
For fifteen minutes the two youths had hugged the ground behind the
scrub bush and peered out at the weird yet deadly-looking scene in
silence. For one thing there was nothing to say. However, the main
reason for silence was that each was close to the point of complete
exhaustion and collapse. Not two, but three hours ago they had started
toward the spot where they now were. Those three hours had been the most
torturing and grueling of their entire lives. Three hours used to cover
a distance of but a little over a mile! Simple enough to think about,
but how far different the actual execution of that night-shrouded
journey. Cuts and bruises on their bodies were countless. Their uniforms
were in shreds and tatters, and there was an utter weariness within them
such as few men have ever experienced. A hundred times all that kept
them going over the rock-studded ground, with thorn-bush barriers every
other foot of the way, were their fighting hearts and savage
determination to win through in spite of all odds.
And they _had_ won through, but were now forced to stretch out on the
ground and fight another battle--the battle for new strength and new
energy that would carry them forward to the most terrific struggle of
all. Yes, carry them forward to the struggle--and the successful
completion of an almost impossible task.
"Freddy, I'm wondering," Dawson suddenly whispered, and touched the
English youth's prone body with his hand.
"Yes, Dave?" came back the equally faint whisper. "Wondering about
what?"
"If--" Dave began, and paused. "I mean, maybe we're all wet about this
business. There's not an engine out there ticking over, and it's darn
close to dawn. You'd think they'd be warming them up now, if they
expected to go out at a moment's notice. In other words, I'm wondering
_if_ Major General Hawker was right. If this bunch _really does_ have
any connection with the President's trip to Casablanca?"
"I'm sure it must have, Dave," Freddy Farmer replied after a few seconds
of silence. "Everything absolutely adds up to that. In my mind, there's
no doubt about it. As for warming up the engines, the blighters are up
and about. No doubt they'll start them up any minute now. May be waiting
for a bit more light, you know. The point is, what are we--"
The English-born air ace never finished that question. He didn't because
at that moment a figure garbed in the uniform of the Nazi _Luftwaffe_
rushed out of a little camouflaged hut on the left side of the desert
strip and shouted orders at the top of his voice. He spoke in German,
of course, but both Dawson and Farmer knew the language, and so--and so
absolute confirmation of the truth was given them.
"All pilots and crews report to _Herr Kommandant_ at once!" the voice
bellowed in a note of wild, frenzied excitement. "_Der Tag_ has come!
The signal has just been received from Casablanca. Your targets are
approaching there now. The American _Schweinehunds_, and the English
ones, too. _Der Tag_ has come! _Heil_ Hitler!"
A brief moment of silence settled over everything. And then a
silence-shattering roar came from many throats.
"_Heil_ Hitler!"
Bombs were exploding in Dave Dawson's brain, and his heart was pumping
madly in his chest as he pushed up onto his hands and knees.
"Freddy!" he got out in a choking gasp. "This is it! You hear what that
bird said? They've received word from some rat in Casablanca, just as
Major General Hawker thought they would. Freddy! It's up to us now, or
else! Those confounded bombers just _can't_ take off! And that's got to
be _that_!"
"Absolutely!" the English youth echoed in a hoarse whisper. "And just
look at the blighters! Like blasted ants crawling all over those
planes, and--Dave! Do you see--"
"Right!" Dawson cut in, and gripped his arm. "That Messerschmitt 110.
They're not touching it yet. Must be the _Kommandant's_ plane. Probably
going to tag along and watch the slaughter, but keep out of the way."
"Yes, yes!" Freddy said excitedly. "But we--"
"My idea all along, pal!" Dawson breathed fiercely. "That's not the rat
_Kommandant's_ baby, that's _ours_, Freddy! If we can only get it off
before they get us, we can pin the rest of those crates on the ground
like nobody's business. But, Freddy!"
"Yes, Dave, yes?" the English youth asked impatiently. "What now?"
"Just a thought," Dawson said in a quiet, steady voice that surprised
himself. "We'll get that baby off, and we'll raise merry heck with these
birds, even if it's the last thing we do. That's the idea! Maybe it
_will_ be the last. I have a funny feeling that we've had more than our
share of luck already. So--Well, if you'd rather we tried to swipe a
single-seater Messerschmitt apiece, so that--"
"Rot!" young Farmer snapped angrily. "So that one of us might get away?
Meaning me? Not a bit of it, Dave! We started the balmy business
together, and by the Lord Harry we'll _finish_ it together, one way or
the other. So stop your silly talk, and let's get on with things. You
have your gun, of course?"
"Right in my hand, kid," Dawson assured him. "And you're a pretty nice
guy, Freddy, if I haven't ever mentioned it before. Okay, together it
is. Keep low, and run like the dickens. If somebody gets in our
way--well, it will be just too bad for him. They're going half nuts out
there, now, so maybe we'll get the breaks and not be seen. Set, Freddy?"
"Set, old thing," the English youth replied, and pressed Dawson's arm.
"Luck to us both!"
"We don't count," Dawson said, and pressed young Farmer's arm in return.
"Luck to the Casablanca war conference, please God! Right! Here we go!"
Dawson pressed Freddy Farmer's arm once more, then wheeled around, bent
way over almost double, circled the scrub bush, and went streaking out
onto the desert strip at top speed toward the Messerschmitt 110 parked a
good eighty yards away. Farmer bolted right after him.
Perhaps it was Dawson's spinning imagination, or perhaps it was an
actual fact, but it seemed that no sooner was he out from behind the
scrub bush than the amount of light thrown forward by the swiftly
approaching day was tripled in intensity. He had the sensation that he
and Farmer stood out as clear and as huge as a couple of runaway horses,
and that every German eye was fixed upon them. In fact, had a hundred
machine guns suddenly opened up on them, he would not have been the
least bit surprised. With every racing stride he took, with every split
second that skipped by, he expected just that.
However, there were no screams of alarm, and there were no blasts of
yammering machine-gun fire as the two youths covered forty yards in
their headlong dash and reached the first of the parked bombers. At that
point, Dawson swerved sharply to the left in order to avoid all notice
if possible. Then he swerved back to the right again without checking
his speed for a single instant. They had to pass four more bombers with
mechanics and pilots swarming all over before they reached the
Messerschmitt 110. They accomplished it in a matter of split seconds,
but to Dawson's high-pitched nerves and whirling brain, it seemed a
thousand years. It seemed as though he was only crawling over the
ground, and in slow motion at that.
But the crazy thoughts he had were far from the truth. He was traveling
so fast that he virtually ran into the side of the Messerschmitt and was
bounced back, to bump up against Freddy Farmer's plunging body. They
caught hold of each other in an effort to maintain their balance. They
succeeded, but no sooner had they regained their balance and were
turning to scramble up into the plane than two uniformed Nazis came
running around the tail of the aircraft.
The two Nazis saw Dawson and Farmer. Their jaws dropped, and they
skidded to a halt and reached for their holstered Lugers. But they might
just as well have tried to jump over the stars and drop straight down on
the two air aces. Dawson's gun barked once, so did Freddy Farmer's, and
there were two less Germans in the world.
Before either of the dead Germans had hit the ground the two air aces
had whirled and had thrown themselves into the Messerschmitt's cockpit.
Though nothing had been decided between them, Dawson impulsively leaped
into the pilot's pit, and Freddy Farmer piled into the gunner's pit
aft. It was one of those unspoken agreements, and as Dawson landed in
the seat, his hands shot out for the engine switches, throttles, and
starter buttons. Two seconds later, the grinding of the starter gears
sounded like the loudest noise in all the world, and Dave's heart
pounded in wild fear that their two shots were bringing a horde of other
Nazis on the run. However, he didn't waste time looking about. He
hunched forward in the pit and concentrated every bit of his attention
and all his prayers on getting the two Daimler-Benz engines started.
One second, one minute, one hour, or maybe a thousand years dragged by
before the two engines "caught" and roared in a mighty earth-shaking
duet of power. Dawson's heart leaped with wild joy, and for five
precious seconds he forced himself to let the engines run to warm up a
little before the take-off. At the end of five seconds, he eased off the
throttles, kicked off the wheel brakes, and let the Messerschmitt
trundle forward out of line with the other aircraft. No sooner was he in
the open and swerving left toward the long way of the field, than the
chattering yammer of a machine gun rose above the general roar, and he
heard the deathly whine of bullets passing overhead. He also heard a
wild yell from Freddy Farmer's lips, but he didn't dare twist around in
the seat and look back. He didn't because he was pointing the long way
of the desert strip now, and was ready to ram his throttles wide open.
In front of him was a milling mass of Germans. He was that a furious
attempt was being made by a Messerschmitt 109 pilot to trundle his
single-seater out of line and onto the desert strip to block the way!
Stark terror gripped Dave's heart as he saw the nose of that
single-seater moving out toward the line of his take-off. He had
impulsively rammed both of his throttles wide open, and his aircraft was
leaping forward like a shell leaving the mouth of a cannon. Whether or
not he would pass that moving 109 in time was something that was in the
lap of the gods.
Touch and go, and it was instinct more than sane thought that gave him a
new lease on life. As the Messerschmitt 110 rocketed forward toward the
milling mass of Nazis and the Messerschmitt 109 rolled out into his path
beyond, Dawson jabbed the electric trigger button of the ME's guns and
punched the air-cannon firing knob. Instantly the plane bucked and
jumped madly as the guns yammered and pounded, and it was all Dawson
could do to hold it on its straight take-off line.
"Gangway, bums, or take it!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Leap
for your lives, or else!"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_Eagles Come Through_
Words, crazy, insane words poured from Dave Dawson's lips as he held the
Messerschmitt 110 as steady as a rock and guided it forward at full
throttle. Perhaps his actions were as crazy and insane as his words. For
every German his guns sent spinning to the ground, two more seemed to
come bounding out of nowhere with blazing sub-machine guns in their
hands. The Messerschmitt 109 that was being rolled out to block his path
loomed up larger and larger with every split second until it seemed to
fill the entire desert valley almost directly in front of his prop.
Yes, perhaps crazy, perhaps insane, and perhaps totally and hopelessly
mad. Dawson didn't have time to wonder about that, or to give it a
single thought. The only thought he held in his swirling brain was that
he had to get the Messerschmitt off and into clear air. If he didn't,
all was doomed. And the point was that getting the aircraft into the air
was but the beginning of things!
"Up, up with you! Come on! Get off, _get off_!"
Shouting the commands at the plane, he hauled back on the controls, held
his breath, and shut his eyes, as though that would help a little. An
eternity of suspense dragged by. At the speed he was traveling now,
there wasn't a hope in the world that Freddy or he would survive a crash
with that other German plane. It was now, or never. All, or nothing but
instant death. With the fate of the entire civilized world hanging in
the balance, was it life, or was it--
A mighty upward surge of the Messerschmitt caused Dawson's heart to
swell with joy. He opened his eyes and instinctively ducked because his
left wing and the nose of the Messerschmitt 109 seemed to be touching
one another. But not quite, thank God, and the 110 went prop-clawing up
close to the vertical. Prop-clawing upward as the withering fire of
enraged vultures below spewed up after it.
"Made it, made it!" Dawson choked out, and instantly kicked the
Messerschmitt over on wingtip and pulled it around in a screaming turn.
"Freddy, we--"
He cut short his words as sudden memory of Freddy Farmer's wild yell
came back to mind. It seemed as though he lived and died a hundred
deaths in the time it took to turn his head and glance back at the rear
cockpit. What he saw sent a flood of joy into his pounding heart. Freddy
Farmer was still alive and kicking. And very much so, too. He had his
rear guns swung around and down and was blazing away at the ground. One
of his bursts of bullets had already nailed one of the Junkers 88's, and
livid red flame was shooting upward from the giant aircraft.
"First blood for you, Freddy!" Dawson screamed into the thunder of his
twin Daimler-Benz engines. "First blood for you, and how! Let's go, kid!
They think they've got a date at Casablanca. The heck they have, I'll
say! Here, you, a kiss from Casablanca!"
As Dawson roared out the last, he dropped the nose of the Messerschmitt
like a rock and went piling down toward the row of parked planes. He saw
two Messerschmitt 109's taking off, but they were past his line of fire,
so he couldn't do anything about them. Nor could he do anything about
the ocean of ground fire that swept up toward him. Maybe their 110 would
be "drowned" in that ocean of machine-gun and rifle fire, but not before
Freddy and he had made that secret desert airdrome a shambles of burning
aircraft that would block off all other attempts to take off.
With every cubic inch of air seemingly filled with death-whining bullets
from the ground guns, Dave rocketed the 110 recklessly downward and let
go with all his guns and air cannon. One, two, three huge Junkers 88's
seemed to crab sideways and then break out into flame before he was
forced to pull up out of his mad dive, or go roaring in to his doom. His
heart was smashing against his ribs, and his face was bathed in hot
sweat as he pitted every ounce of his strength against the downward
momentum of the Messerschmitt. Then, with but half a second to spare, he
got the nose up and went engine-howling for the dawn gray sky.
"Dave! They are--"
Whatever Freddy Farmer had to say was drowned out in a tremendous
thunder of sound. Sound that billowed up from the ground directly under
the power zooming plane. Sound that seemed to envelop the Messerschmitt,
to grab it with many hands and fling it cartwheeling end over end out
across the North African dawn. All the fireworks in the world popped and
crackled in Dawson's head. A thousand steel fists hit against his body
from every conceivable angle. The nose of the Messerschmitt and the
instrument panel started spinning until all he could see was a whirling
blurr. The air that he sucked into his lungs was as liquid fire, and it
seemed to dry up every drop of blood in his body. In a crazy, abstract
sort of way he knew that some of the Junkers bombs had let go before he
had been able to zoom out of range, and concussion had caught the
Messerschmitt to make it as helpless as a dried leaf in a cyclone.
"Dave! Man your guns! Two planes got off! There they come down. From in
front--_from in front_!"
Freddy Farmer's screaming voice seemed to tear away the blurred veil
that covered Dawson's eyes. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see
the two Messerschmitt 109's streaking down at him from in front. Freddy
Farmer's guns were already blazing away, but the angle was bad, and the
tracers were smoking well above the diving planes.
Even as Dawson looked up and spotted the two planes, he was pulling up
the nose and fumbling for the electric trigger button on his control
stick. He found it, only to have his fingers slide off. When he looked
down, he saw that his hand was red and glistening from his own blood.
The sight stunned him for a second because he felt no pain. That is, no
acute pain. From head to foot his entire body felt numb and weak, but
there was no sense of pain whatsoever. He was even more astonished when
he saw that the front of his ripped and torn tunic was stained with
blood, too.
One glance, however, was all he could take--one glance to see, realize
the truth, and be dumbfounded. Then he snapped his eyes upward, tapped
right rudder just a little to bring one of the diving planes into his
sights--and fired!
The result? He saw what happened with his two eyes, but he did not know
whether his bullets and air cannon shells, or Nazi panic, caused it. It
seemed that he had hardly jabbed the electric trigger button when the
plane in his sights swerved violently off to the right. Maybe his burst
hit it and kicked it that way, or perhaps the unthinking Nazi pilot
swerved purposely to throw Dawson off his aim. But whether no or yes,
the 109 swerved violently to its right, and went side-slashing into the
other diving 109. One second there were two planes hurtling downward,
and the next they had locked wings, crumpled about each other like wet
paper, and then completely disappeared in an exploding ball of flame and
oily black smoke.
"Good gosh, no!" Dawson gasped, and hurled the no over and around to
avoid the flaming inferno as it went plunging past. "Did I get him, or
did the guy go haywire? Hey, Freddy! Did you see that?"
Silence greeted his question, and terror was his again as he twisted
around in the seat. What he saw brought no yell of joy to his lips. On
the contrary, it brought a sob of alarm, because Freddy Farmer was
slumped over like a sack of wet meal against the side of the cockpit.
One upstretched hand still clung to the trigger guard of the rear guns,
but the English youth's face was deathly pale, save where it was
spattered with drops of blood. His eyes were closed.
"Freddy!" Dawson shrieked. "Freddy! Speak to me, pal! Oh, dear God,
_no_! Please, oh, please! Freddy! Freddy, boy!"
Dawson's voice faltered, and the only sounds he made were dry sobs that
struggled up out of his throat. He turned front, and hot, stinging tears
fell from his eyes. On the ground was a sight that should have brought
shouts of joy to his lips and filled him with wild, surging happiness.
The secret desert-oasis field was now completely covered by clouds of
dirty black smoke that were slashed every few seconds by the bright red
and orange flames of newly exploding bombs. Each time a flash of flame
slashed its way up through the clouds of dirty smoke, bits of plane
wreckage came hurtling up after it.