or to any other place, for that matter. But that wonderful, thrilling
realization left Dawson untouched. Somehow, he was beyond all feeling.
His brain was numbed, his heart was dead, and there was hardly the
strength in him to go on living. His tattered tunic was now drenched
with blood. Drops of blood fell from his fingers curled about the
Messerschmitt's controls. A gray curtain seemed to hover before his
eyes, and it took every ounce of effort that he possessed to peer
through it and make out the instrument panel.
"Can't be done, can't be done!" He heard his own mumbled voice as though
from miles and miles away. "We plastered them for keeps. But--but they
got old Freddy. And maybe they got me, too. Oh, dear God, I'm so tired,
so darn tired. I--I can't fly this thing back to Casablanca. I just--I
just want to quit now, and go to sleep. What does it matter, anyway?
Freddy's gone. And without old Freddy, I--"
His mumbling voice trailed off, and there was nothing but the continued
thunder of the Daimler-Benz engines in his ears. Suddenly he heard
another voice. A voice? Or was it something inside of him speaking?
"Quitting, huh? Just like that! You get a couple of scratches, and you
want to let down and quit. Isn't that just dandy? So Freddy's gone, huh?
How do _you_ know? You can't tell from here! But, no, you don't even
want to _try_ to get back to Casablanca, where maybe he could be saved
_if_ he's still alive. No! You just want to quit and make _sure_ that he
dies. Okay, quitter! There's hard earth down there. Dive in _and make
sure of death_!"
The little voice kindled a spark of anger within him, and it flared up
into a bright hot flame. Quitter, huh? The heck he was! Maybe Freddy
wasn't dead! Please, God, let that be true! He'd get Freddy back. Honest
he would. He'd get Freddy back, no matter what. This wasn't the end for
either of them. Remember how they had once kidded that the Nazi was not
yet born who could polish off either of them? Well, that was true. Yes,
doggone it, that was _true_! Casablanca? Okay! You bet! It was hard to
move, and that darn gray veil made things hard to see. But he'd get
through just the same. Casablanca, here we come! Here we--
The wheels of the bullet-riddled Messerschmitt 110 touching hard ground
seemed to snap something inside Dawson's head, and drag him back from
another world. In a daze he looked about and saw that he was rolling
along the Casablanca field. Above him, the air was filled with Allied
aircraft. A sharp stab of fear passed through his heart when he realized
that this Nazi plane had been in the air with those other aircraft. He
vaguely remembered they had spotted him way out from Casablanca, closed
in, and then dropped into escort position.
And now _he_ was down on Casablanca base! He'd made it, but he hadn't
realized it until just now! Could a pilot fly a course while
semi-conscious? Maybe he could, because Dave had very little
recollection of this flight except for the very start. And--Wait!
_Freddy Farmer!_
As the thought flashed through his brain, he lurched upward out of the
seat and looked back. Fresh fear and terror gripped him. Freddy was
still slumped lifelessly against the side of the pit. His face seemed
even paler, and it was covered with more dots of blood. Dawson started
to call out, when he heard the pounding of many running feet. He turned
his head in that direction and saw a large group of figures, led by
Colonel Welsh, racing toward the plane. He waved frantically with one
hand and called out.
"Ambulance!" he shouted. "Get the ambulance at--"
At that exact moment a dark cloud swooped down on top of him. A great
roaring started up inside his head. He knew that he was tumbling
headlong out of the pit and down onto the wing, but he was absolutely
helpless to do anything about it. Something, probably the wing stub, hit
him one last and final smash on the head, and there was nothing but
darkness, and utter silence.
Dave Dawson found himself suspended in a world of clear, fresh-smelling
and soothing white when he again opened his eyes. It did not puzzle him
that all should be white, because his brain was too contented to bother
figuring it out. His whole body felt contented, too. A lulling warmth
enveloped him, and he did not care whether anything ever changed again.
This lulling warmth and this soothing contentment were all that he could
desire.
However, that perfect spell of both mind and body was not long-lasting.
As complete consciousness finally returned, the aches and pains took
charge of his body, and his brain awakened fully with a terrible memory.
"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!"
Hardly realizing that his lips had gasped out his pal's name, he
struggled to push himself up. But even as he started the effort, other
hands were placed upon him and he was gently pressed down to his
original position. A position that he then realized was flat on his back
in a hospital bed. And then the face of the owner of those gently
pressing hands came into his vision, and he recognized Colonel Welsh.
"Don't, son," the Intelligence Chief said softly. "Just let yourself go,
boy, and relax completely. Farmer is all right. Shot up a little, just
as you were, but he'll pull through with flying colors."
"You're sure, sir?" Dawson choked out. "You mean it? You wouldn't kid
a--"
"My word of honor," Colonel Welsh stopped him. "He's weak, yes, from the
loss of blood, just as you are. But he'll be all right, just as you'll
be all right after a period of mending and resting. And if you'll
promise to get another good sleep, I'll have you moved into Farmer's
room so that you can be together. And, son--"
"Hey!" Dawson blurted out, as the thought suddenly came to him. "The
President's party, and--"
He would have said more, but Colonel Welsh put a hand to his lips.
"Don't waste strength talking, son," he admonished with a smile.
"Believe me, everything is perfect. The war conference is under way
right now. And never mind giving me a report, either. Both you and
Farmer have babbled it all in the two days since you've been here. I
don't know what to say, Dawson. Wonderful isn't half the word that's
needed. I can only say that it is another great debt that civilized man
owes to you two. But for what you did, just you two alone, there's no
telling what terrible changes there might have been in this war. We
caught the Nazi agent here who sent the signal of the President's coming
to that secret base. He was one of von Steuben's men my agents had been
watching, hoping he would lead them to bigger fish. But it turned out
_he_ was the big fish here at Casablanca. We caught him at his hidden
radio, but the message had already gone through. He admitted it, even
boasted about it, saying that it was too late for us to do anything. No
matter how many planes we put in the air, some of those Junkers would
get through in time. That was no lie. Some of them, and maybe all of
them would have gotten through, because _we_ had no idea from which
direction they would come to deliver their attack. Or when, so that we
would be ready. But you and Farmer--"
Colonel Welsh stopped talking, blinked his eyes, swallowed hard, and
smiled.
"All I can say," he finally got out, "is that I thank God from the
bottom of my heart that you two are fighting on our side. And, son--"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence was about to add that the President of
the United States had said that he wished to see Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer before he left Casablanca and personally decorate them for their
brave and gallant service above and beyond the call of duty. But Colonel
Welsh decided to wait until another time, because what use is it to tell
a fellow anything when he is fast asleep with a happy and thoroughly
contented smile on his face?
---- THE END ----
_A Page from_
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE
After carefully checking the readings of his "black light" instrument
dials, Dawson raised his eyes and scowled out at the ocean of inky
darkness that seemed to sweep in on him from all sides.
"Right on course, unless those instruments are haywire, which of course
they're not," he murmured. "But just the same, I'd sure like to get out
of these clouds. The darn stuff must stretch all the way to China!"
As he spoke the words he absently fingered the switch button of his
radio, but when he suddenly realized what he was doing he snatched his
hand away as though the thing were red hot.
"Radio silence at all cost, chump!" he growled at himself. "And stop
worrying about Freddy. He's somewhere right back there behind you. You
saw his ship as clear as could be only thirty minutes ago! So take it
easy."
Yes, only thirty minutes ago Freddy Farmer had been right there at his
right rear in the other plane. Sure! But kingdoms have fallen,
Transcriber's Notes:
Page 92: Changed givin to giving
Page 127: Changed thanks to tanks
Page 144: Changed Washingtan to Washington
Page 146: Changed blust to blurt
Page 161: Changed tto to to
Page 180: Changed Georing's to Goering's
End of Project Gutenberg's Dave Dawson at Casablanca, by Robert Sydney Bowen