here to us, you know. You can do it in pukka style. We both know that."
Dave shook himself out of his trance, got his wheels back up into the
wings, and then headed for a point half a mile ahead of the Victory. As
he winged past the carrier, he saw one of the crash boats being lowered
over the side. Then all that was behind him and there was just the
expanse of the Mediterranean ahead. At the right moment he hauled the
throttle back, and tilted the nose downward. Every muscle and nerve in
him was drawn bow string tight as the blue water rose up toward him.
It was not the first time he had put a land plane down in the water,
but on those other occasions it had not mattered if he cracked up the
plane a bit. This time was different. The Victory needed this Blackburn
Skua. The Fleet Air Arm in the Mediterranean had too few planes as it
was. Every ship it could salvage was as good as two brand-new planes on
the long way out from the factory in Britain. He had to make this the
best landing of his flying career. He owed it to Freddy, he owed it to
the rest of the boys aboard the Victory--and he owed it to himself.
One second ticked past. Two seconds--three. And then the blue water
was right underneath him. He whipped out his free hand and cut the
ignition. With his other hand he eased back the stick and brought the
nose up a few inches. Flying speed fell off instantly. The plane seemed
to hang motionless just off the surface of the water. The round crest
of a gentle blue swell rolled by and whispered up against the belly
of the plane. As though a thousand glue-covered fingers had touched
the bottom of the plane, the Skua stuck to the water. It lurched just
slightly and plowed up a faint spray. Then it settled a bit by the
nose, steadied, and floated as nicely as a duck on a millpond.
Dave let the clamped air out of his lungs in a rush of sound. It was
not until then he realized that his face was dripping with sweat. He
gulped and turned around to look at Freddy. The blood was coming back
into the English youth's face. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright
with something that was far more than just friendly affection. Then he
seemed to catch himself showing his inner emotions. He gave a little
nod of his head and broadened his grin.
"Well done, my lad!" he shouted. "My sincerest congratulations. It was
so beautiful, that for a minute I thought--Oh, let it go."
"You thought what?" Dave demanded, and tried to get his heart to ease
up from thumping so hard against his ribs.
Freddy arched his eyebrows and gestured with one hand.
"Why, it was so perfect," he said, "that for a moment I thought I was
flying the blasted thing."
The crazy remark snapped the tension in Dave. He relaxed completely,
and laughed and made a pass at Freddy. They were still kidding and
horsing around when the crash boat slid up alongside, took them aboard,
and began towing the floating plane back to the hoisting crane aboard
the Victory. When they reached the carrier, the cheer that came down to
Dave's ears sounded like the sweetest music he had ever heard in his
life.
CHAPTER FOUR
_Pilot's Luck_
For the second time that day the fighter pilots of the Carrier Victory
filed into the Ready Room and found seats. Group Captain Spencer
grinned and nodded to each youth as he entered. To Dave Dawson he gave
a broad grin and a wink that made the Yank R.A.F. pilot feel as good
as though the Distinguished Flying Cross Medal had been pinned on his
tunic. Finally all were seated and every eye was fixed on the group
captain standing on the little platform.
"Sorry about that little interruption," he presently said with a
chuckle. "I give you my word, it wasn't something I arranged just to
see if you lads were up on your toes. I knew that all the time. And I
fancy the Jerries know it _now_, too. A good job, and I'm jolly well
proud of you. Well, on with the unfinished business."
The senior officer picked up the service cap filled with folded slips
of paper and stepped forward to the edge of the platform.
"Right-o, line up again," he said. Then, with a grin, "If there's
another blasted raid alarm, we'll just pretend that we didn't hear it.
Mustn't keep you fire eaters in suspense forever, you know. Right-o!
Line forms on the left."
The pilots formed a line again. By mutual consent they gave Pilot
Officer Parks the number one position, but they didn't bother figuring
out who else had had what position in line the first time. They just
all sifted into places in back of Parks, and let it go at that. As a
matter of fact, Dave found that he was four men in front of Freddy. The
pair had become separated during the shuffling into line.
Eventually everything was set. A hushed stillness settled over the
Ready Room as Parks dipped his hand into the cap and pulled out a
folded slip. He took a step to the side and opened it with trembling
fingers. Every other pilot watched his face, and waited expectantly.
They saw hope fade into bitter disappointment. The pilot crumbled the
slip into a little ball and threw it disgustedly on the deck.
"That's Parks luck for you!" he growled. "A blasted blank!"
"Chin up, old fellow," Group Captain Spencer smiled at him. "Maybe your
best pal will draw it. Right you are. Next chap!"
One by one the pilots drew slips from the cap and examined them, full
of hope and eagerness. And one by one they were laughed at by Lady Luck
just as she had laughed at Pilot Officer Parks. Finally it was Dave
Dawson's turn. He reached up his hand, then hesitated and looked down
at his other hand to make sure that his fingers were crossed. Group
Captain Spencer followed his look, and chuckled softly.
"Did doing that help you in that close shave upstairs, Dawson?" he
asked. "If so, I must do it myself from now on. Blessed if I didn't see
one of those Jerries stick his machine gun right square in your face,
and still he missed you. Oh well, go ahead and draw."
Dave dipped his fingers into the cap, fingered a couple of the folded
slips, and then drew one out. His head was singing faintly, and the
blood was surging, through his veins as he stepped to the side and
unfolded the slip. What he saw, gave him the sensation of a bucket of
ice water spilling down over him. The slip was blank on both sides!
He grinned weakly, wadded up the slip of paper and flipped it away in
disappointed disgust just as the others had done. Then he walked over
to a chair and sat down to watch the rest of the drawing.
He stopped watching, and so did everybody else, when Freddy Farmer
unfolded the slip he had drawn. The English youth's eager face suddenly
lighted up like a Christmas tree, and his hands trembled so much with
excitement that the slip fluttered down onto the deck.
"Got it!" he shouted, and bent down to retrieve the slip. "I really
have. See?"
He jumped around on first one foot and then the other and wildly waved
the little slip about over his head.
"I say, land, will you, Farmer?" Group Captain Spencer shouted at him
good-naturedly. "I'm sure you're not pulling our leg, but let's have a
look at the thing, anyway."
Freddy stopped jumping around and held out the slip so that all could
see the X marked on one side.
"That's it, right enough," Group Captain Spencer said, and tossed
the cap with the remaining folded slips back on the table. "Well,
congratulations, Farmer. And I guess we don't have to guess whom you
want to take along with you, eh?"
Dave's disappointment at not having drawn the slip blew away into
nothing when he saw the X on Freddy's slip. He looked at his pal and
grinned, and waited to hear Freddy ask him to go along on the dangerous
venture. A couple of moments later, though, a cold wave seemed to
spread through him, and his heart became a hard lump in his chest.
Freddy had passed his eyes right over him and was studying the faces of
the other pilots. Could it be that Freddy--? Was Freddy going to choose
somebody--?
"I don't know, sir," he heard Freddy say through a dull rumbling in
his ears. "It's a very important job, and a chap must be sure of the
fellow he takes along with him. Yes, sir. Must give it a bit of serious
thought, you know. Now--let me see. Blessed if it isn't a hard job to
choose the right man."
Dave could hardly believe his ears as he heard the words that fell from
Freddy Farmer's lips. And he could hardly believe his eyes as he saw
the English youth almost deliberately turn his back on him and look at
the other pilots. He was conscious, too, of the general air of stunned
amazement that pervaded the Ready Room. It was obvious that everybody
else had expected Freddy to ask Dave at once.
"As difficult as that, Farmer?" Group Captain Spencer presently asked
with a puzzled frown on his face.
"Oh yes, sir, quite difficult," Freddy said, turning to him. Then, with
a wink at the group captain that everybody saw, he turned to look at
Dave, and asked, "Would you like to go along, my little man?"
Dave blinked, gulped, and then realized in a flash that Freddy hadn't
actually given a single thought to anybody else. He had simply been
paying him back for those wise-cracks while on advance scout patrol,
just as he had promised; paying him back by keeping him hanging on
tenterhooks. Dave's first impulse was to leap forward and turn Freddy
over his knee. He beat back the urge, however. Instead he let loose a
loud sigh of relief that snapped the tension in the room and caused
everybody to burst out laughing. He looked at the impish I-told-you-so
expression on Freddy's face and nodded gravely.
"I accept, Pilot Officer Farmer," he said in solemn tones. "However, on
one condition."
"Condition?" Freddy echoed, and his grin faded.
"Yes," Dave said with a very straight face. "On Group Captain Spencer's
guarantee."
"_My_ guarantee?" gasped the group captain. "What in thunder do you
mean, Dawson?"
Dave hesitated and acted as though he were reluctant to speak.
"You're sure it would be safe, sir?" he asked gravely. "I mean, with
this officer along? He wouldn't get in my way, or anything?"
There was pin-dropping silence for a second, and then the Ready Room
rocked with the roar of laughter that went up. Freddy went beet red to
the roots of his hair and glared at Dave.
"Safe?" he shouted. "_I'm_ jolly well the one who has to worry about
being safe. Oh well, I've made my choice. I'll act the gentleman and
stick by it."
"All right, all right, you two!" Group Captain Spencer called out as
Dave opened his mouth to reply to that one. "Do the rest of your leg
pulling in the plane. Man, how I pity the Jerry who takes you two
prisoners. You'd drive the poor devil clean off his topper with your
crazy talk. Well, anyway, that's that. You two, of course, are relieved
of all other duties beginning with now. Meet me in my quarters right
after evening mess. We'll do a little bit of plotting and planning, in
case it should come in handy. Right-o, chaps, that's all. Dismissed!"
Three hours later Dave and Freddy were stretching their legs up on the
flight deck. They had had mess and in a short time they would report
to Group Captain Spencer in his quarters. First, though they felt they
would like a stroll and a few words together. Since the drawing, they
had not had much of a chance to be alone. Though they had been relieved
of all duties, they had not merely sat back and taken things easy.
They were real pilots, right to the core, and as soon as Group Captain
Spencer had dismissed them they had gone below decks to the repair
station to have a look at the Skua that had been hoisted aboard. An
inspection of the plane, as the Victory's mechanics worked on it, had
brought to light the true reason for the retractable landing gear's
failure to function. As Freddy had guessed, bullets had parted one of
the cables, and a free end of the cable had been whipped up by the
propeller wash to catch in the retracting gear and jam it so that the
right wheel couldn't go more than a quarter of the way down.
That, however, was not the most important thing they found out.
Inspection also showed that both of them had come within three inches
or less of becoming dead pilots. Bullet holes in the fuselage and
cockpit cowling (or hood) showed clearly how narrow had been the margin
by which death had passed them by. Two or three inches one way or the
other and they would most certainly have joined their Junkers and
Heinkel victims down in the gentle blue swells of the Mediterranean.
And now they were walking down their dinner along the long narrow
flight deck of the Victory.
"In case you didn't get the idea," Dave said, breaking a moment's
silence, "you sure gave me a sweet case of heart failure in the Ready
Room this afternoon. No fooling, I thought sure you were honestly
giving me the cold shoulder. Gosh! I didn't know what to think."
"Let it be a lesson to you," Freddy replied with a grin. Then, in a
serious tone, "But I should be sore at you for even thinking I'd pick
anybody else but you. After that landing you made? I should say not."
"Thanks," Dave said. "But I was scared stiff bringing that ship down.
And between you, me, and the stern of this deck, there was an awful lot
of luck mixed up in that landing. A couple of times I thought she was
getting away from me. I'd sure hate to have to do it every day."
"Well, it was perfect," Freddy said. "A hundred times better than a
landing I recall you once made in the English Channel."[A]
[Footnote A: _Dave Dawson With the R.A.F._]
"_You_ recall?" Dave scoffed at him. "How could you? You were out cold
that time, and you know it. And, boy, when I turned around and saw
you--!"
Dave left the sentence hanging in midair and shook his head as though
to drive away the heart-chilling memory.
"Gee, it sure is different down here, isn't it?" he said, changing the
subject.
"Meaning what?" Freddy asked.
Dave pointed a finger toward the east.
"The way day becomes night," he said. "Up north you have a couple of
hours of twilight. But down this way you have only a couple of minutes
of it. The sun goes down and then, bang, it's dark in nothing flat. I
never realized that before about this section of the world."
"Well, it's a good thing when a pack of Jerries are on your tail, I
fancy," Freddy grunted. "You can dive and lose them in the dark. And
speaking of the dark, watch your take-off just before dawn tomorrow.
Wouldn't be nice to crack us up before we get started, you know."
Dave turned his head and stared in amazement.
"_Me_ watch the take-off?" he ejaculated. "Where do you get that stuff?
You drew the marked slip. That makes you the pilot of the plane. Me,
I'm the back seat driver."
"Oh, no, you're not!" Freddy argued. "I'm a very bright lad, I'll have
you know. I know a pukka pilot when I see one. And I'm looking at you,
see? Besides, I guess I never told you, but I'm a regular camera fiend.
And the passenger works the camera. No, Dave, you do the flying. I'll
take the pictures and try to bother you with back seat talk as much as
I can."
"You really mean that, Freddy?" Dave asked. "You want me to take the
controls?"
"That's right," the English youth nodded. Then, with a quick frown,
"But don't take it as a compliment, my lad. I'm simply the lazy type,
that's all. I like to have other people work for me."
"Aw, nuts!" Dave breathed in mock disappointment. "Just when I thought
the guy was admitting I was good."
CHAPTER FIVE
_Enemy Maneuvers_
Night had dropped down over the Mediterranean, and the H.M. Aircraft
Carrier Victory was running without lights in a southwesterly
direction. There was plenty of light below decks, however, but whenever
an outside door was opened the bright lights immediately winked out
and the pale blue "battle lights" glowed. Thus it was impossible for
any telltale glow of light to reveal the Victory's presence to any
nearby enemy craft of the sea, or to any enemy aircraft that might be
patrolling the air above. True, the pale glow of the battle lights
escaped into the night, but it was so dim as not to be noticed even at
close range.
In Group Captain Spencer's quarters, Dave and Freddy bent over a huge
map spread out on the desk, and listened closely to their senior
officer's words.
"Here we are, now," the group captain said, touching the map with the
point of his finger. "We have changed course for the last time, and
it's pretty certain that the enemy has no idea what we're up to. It was
lucky we were still steaming along at the rear of the main fleet unit
when those Jerries showed up this afternoon. Had we been in the act
of cutting away then, those lads who did get back to their base would
certainly have reported us up to something. As it is, though, they
probably think we're still tagging along with the fleet."
"And probably hoping we hit a couple of mines," Dave added with a
chuckle.
"Probably," Group Captain Spencer agreed with a grin. "I don't believe
those lads feel very kindly toward the Victory right now. We certainly
gave them something to think about this afternoon. But, as I was
saying, here we are right at this moment. In six hours, that'll be two
o'clock tomorrow morning, we will be about fifty miles off the Libyan
coastal town of Misurata. That is, of course, unless a couple of our
destroyers that are way out in front of us sight something to make us
change our plans."
"I sure hope not," Freddy said with a frown. "I'm all for this scouting
show, and want to get on with it."
"Me, too!" Dave chimed in. "I've got a hunch I'm going to get a big
kick out of it."
"I hope that's all you get out of it, except the much needed
information," Group Captain Spencer said softly. "I don't want to sound
like a phonograph record, but this is a mighty dangerous mission. You
see, we haven't the faintest idea what you may or may not run into.
Before you've hardly flown in from the coast you may run slap bang into
a swarm of Axis planes on patrol. Then, too, much of your flying will
have to be done blind. I mean, Libya isn't like England or France where
there are towns, and rivers, and lakes, and all that sort of thing to
serve as landmarks. It's a blasted expanse of sand, once you get in a
way from the coast. And your only landmarks to fly by will be a tiny
oasis village here and there that you can miss very easily because they
blend in so perfectly with the cursed sand. I've done quite a bit of
flying out that way, and I can tell you that it certainly isn't any
pleasure hop."
"We'll jolly well be praying that the engine keeps ticking over,"
Freddy murmured.
"Right you are, and pray hard," Group Captain Spencer said with an
abrupt nod of his head. "That's another of the several dangers attached
to this show--a forced landing. Behind our own lines, a forced landing
in the blasted desert is bad enough. But a forced landing behind the
Axis outposts will be doubly unpleasant. And that brings up something
I might just as well mention now as later. I said that this show is to
be a secret. I meant it! It's to be just that. There will be no Fleet
Air Arm markings on your plane. And you will not wear anything or even
carry anything that would connect you in any way with the Fleet Air
Arm, or the Victory. You'll not even take along your Mae West life
jackets. And in case you are forced down in the desert, you will set
fire to your ship at once. You understand that perfectly?"
The two boys nodded together.
"And if you are forced down, don't expect planes to be sent out to look
for you," Group Captain Spencer continued grimly. "You will be strictly
on your own. You can't expect any rescue help from us. That sounds
pretty grim, and it is. But we've got to work it out that way. To let
the enemy even suspect that the Victory had slipped in close to shore,
and that the Fleet Air Arm was taking an active hand in the Libya
problem, might result in no end of trouble. For one thing, it would
have every German and Italian plane within range out hunting for the
Victory. And that would put us in a pretty bad spot, if we were caught
so far away from the main body of the fleet. And--By the way, what
I've just said doesn't change your desire to tackle the job, does it?"
Neither of the boys said anything. They just sat there looking at him
quietly. The group captain flushed faintly and smiled.
"Sorry, lads," he said. "Just thought it was up to me to ask, you know.
But, back to the job. The minute you leave the flight deck you will be
on your own. You will have extra tanks that should last you about eight
hours. You will have your guns, and such, in case you do bump into
Axis winged trouble. You will have a camera and plenty of plates. You
won't have a radio, though, because to use it might give your position
away, and the Victory's, too. There must be no radio contact between
you chaps and the Victory. Another part of your equipment consists of
items I hope you will not be called upon to use. Briefly, they are
water flasks, emergency rations, pocket compass, sun helmets, service
automatics, and one or two other things."
"Say, could I make a suggestion, sir?" Dave suddenly spoke up as the
senior officer paused. "It might help in case we did run into trouble
and went down."
"Certainly you may make suggestions," Group Captain Spencer said with a
broad smile. "My word, you chaps are doing the show, you know. What is
it, Dawson?"
"The clothes we wear, sir," Dave said. "Why not go all the way in
fooling them about a connection with the Fleet Air Arm and the Victory?
Why couldn't Freddy and I wear regulation desert infantry or machine
gun company uniforms? Say, British, or Australian, or New Zealand?
Uniforms from one of General Wavell's outfits?"
Group Captain Spencer looked impressed, but Freddy frowned slightly.
"But what about the plane, Dave?" he objected.
"Well, what about it?" Dave wanted to know. "If we can't set it afire
in the air before we bail out--if we have to--we'll certainly destroy
it as soon as we're on the ground. Later, if we are picked up, we're
just a couple of infantrymen who got lost from a desert scouting
patrol. See what I mean? What plane? Sure we saw a plane land and burn
up, but it looked to us as if the poor devils in it burned up, too. See
what I mean, Freddy?"
The English youth's face suddenly lighted up and he became all smiles.
"Sure, of course!" he cried. "Am I stupid! Not a chance in the world
of them connecting us up with the plane and perhaps trying to force a
story out of us."
"Right!" Dave echoed. "And as a couple of captured infantrymen, we
won't be so important to them as a couple of captured airmen. They
might not watch us so closely, and if we should get a break, why--Well,
figure it from there."
"I say, hold it up a bit!" Group Captain Spencer cried. "I've half a
mind not to let you tackle the show. My word, you've practically failed
and got yourselves taken prisoners already. However, that's a good
suggestion of yours, Dawson. I'll see Ship's Stores after we finish
talking and have them fix up a couple of infantry uniforms for you.
Now, get your eyes on this map again."
All three of them bent closer to the map, and the group captain
continued speaking.
"Here's Wavell's most advanced outpost," he said, and pointed his
finger, "here at El Aghelia, in the curve of the Gulf of Sidra. Eight
hours after you take off the Victory will be at this point off the
Libyan coast. See, I've written down the exact latitude and longitude.
Take a good look, both of you, and get that location reading stamped in
your brain."
Dave and Freddy repeated the figures several times to themselves until
they were sure they would not possibly forget them. Then Dave looked
at Group Captain Spencer.
"That point's only some thirty miles off Bengazi," he said, "and some
three hundred miles east of the point where we'll take off. The Victory
will have to do a lot of steaming to get there in eight hours."
"Yes," the group captain nodded. "But she can do it, with a bit to
spare. I know what's in your mind, though. You're wondering why the
Victory doesn't just put out to sea a bit, and then come in again to
take you aboard?"
"I was wondering about that, sir," Dave admitted.