said. "First, because it will be daylight and it would be too much
of a risk to cruise around so far to the west. We might be sighted
by Axis planes crossing over from Sicily. The other reason is for
your protection as well as ours. As you can see by looking at this
map, your return flight will take you from El Aghelia up the eastern
coast of the Gulf of Sidra to Bengazi and then on out to sea to our
rendezvous point. That way you'll have less of an overwater flight to
make to reach us. Also, if you are chased by enemy aircraft and get
into trouble, you'll be in a position to make a run for a safe landing
on British-occupied ground. The Victory will have an advance scouting
plane aloft all the time, and if its pilot sees you in trouble the
Victory will be notified at once so that she can make tracks away from
the rendezvous area."
The group captain paused for breath and to light a cigarette.
"And that is another thing I want to warn you about," he said
presently. "If you are chased by enemy aircraft, make _no attempt to
reach the Victory until you have completely shaken off and lost all
such aircraft_. In short, and to sum it all up very bluntly, you have
about two chances of making the scouting patrol a success as against
ninety-eight chances of failing."
"One chance in forty-nine," Freddy murmured, and then shrugged. "Well,
I fancy that's better than one chance in a hundred."
"Tell us this, sir," Dave said. "Supposing we have to land at Bengazi,
or some other British held point, what then? I mean, how do we make
contact with the Victory?"
"You don't," Group Captain Spencer said bluntly. "Not unless you have
information of vital value to the Fleet Air Arm, or the fleet itself.
Any information, and all pictures you obtain of Axis positions and so
forth, you will turn over to the commandant of the Bengazi post for
immediate transfer to General Wavell's headquarters. If your plane
is in a condition to permit you to fly on to H.Q., then do so. The
main thing, though, is to get the information and pictures to General
Wavell's headquarters the fastest way possible."
"And if we have information of value to the Air Arm or the fleet?"
Freddy prompted.
"In that event," the group captain said with a frown, "we'll have to
take a chance on the Bengazi radio informing us so that we can arrange
for some other point of rendezvous, or some way of your getting the
information to us. But I repeat once again: the Victory is playing a
sort of lone wolf game in this thing, and she cannot run any risk of
being caught and sunk by Axis planes, or even seriously damaged. You
don't build an aircraft carrier in a day, you know. And we all know we
have all too few of them as it is. The loss, or a long lay-up, of the
Victory would be a serious blow to the Air Arm as well as to the fleet.
Naturally, I'm counting on you two--and all other pilots we may have to
send out on this job--not to put the safety of the Victory in jeopardy
at any time, no matter what the cost may be to yourselves. In fact--"
The senior officer paused and made a face.
"In fact, she may even play a dirty trick on you," he continued after
a moment. "I mean, she may find it too dangerous to make a rendezvous
contact with you--and won't be there when you show up. However, there
is a very slim chance of that. If it does happen, you will try to make
land if you possibly can."
Dave nodded, then looked at Freddy and chuckled.
"What's funny about that?" the English youth wanted to know.
"Not a thing," Dave replied, but kept a grin on his face. "It was
just a crazy thought I had. The way this thing stacks up, you'd think
the Victory doesn't want to see us any more. But we'll fool her, eh,
Freddy? She can't toss us out into the cold, cruel world like that, can
she?"
"I should say not!" Freddy said with a short laugh. "I like the Victory
very much. The old girl can't give me the cold shoulder. No, not a bit
of it."
"Now I'm sure of it!" Group Captain Spencer exclaimed with an abrupt
nod.
The two pilots stared at him.
"What's that, sir?" Freddy murmured.
"That you'll jolly well come through this with flying colors," Group
Captain Spencer said. "I've met a lot of chaps who right now would
be worrying themselves sick and biting their nails over the danger
possibilities of this venture. But the way you two--well, to use a bit
of your American slang, Dawson--the way you two take it all in stride,
and fun around, makes me feel sure that you'll come out on top. Chaps
like you two worry about the dangers afterward, not before. You take
care of things as they pop up, and I suppose that's the way it should
be."
"Well, don't worry, sir," Dave said. "Freddy and I'll both be in there
pitching."
"Eh, pitching?" Group Captain Spencer murmured with a frown.
"More American slang, sir," Dave explained. "It means, we'll be
swinging all the time, right from the bell. We'll be right on the old
beam--in the groove, and--Well, you know what I mean, sir."
"Er--er, yes, of course," the senior officer said a bit dubiously. "Oh,
quite! Well, I guess that ends this session, unless either of you chaps
have anything to ask?"
"Not me, sir," Dave said with a shake of his head. "I reckon I've got
it all down pat."
"Me, too, sir," Freddy echoed with a nod.
"Right-o," Group Captain Spencer said, and crushed out his cigarette.
"Go rest up a bit, now, and relax. I'll see about those infantry
uniforms from Ship's Stores. Afterward we'll check over everything
you're taking along. Right now, though, relax and try to get your
thoughts on other things. That's all."
After the two boys had left, the group captain stared silently at the
closed door of his quarters for a long moment. Then presently he smiled
and nodded his head.
"Just youngsters," he murmured softly, "but, by George, they've got the
fighting hearts and courage of a dozen men!"
CHAPTER SIX
_Desert Mystery_
A billion or so stars winked down on the long black shadow that was
the Aircraft Carrier Victory sliding through the even blacker waters
of the Mediterranean. A row of tiny pin points of light stretched the
entire length of the starboard side of the flight deck, and at the
stern end was a lone Blackburn Skua fighter-dive bomber with its prop
slowly ticking over. In the forward pit sat Dave Dawson, and behind him
in the gunner's pit was Freddy Farmer. Off to one side stood a silent,
watchful group of flight deck mechanics. And on the stub step of one
wing, with his head and shoulders inside the partly opened cockpit
hood, stood Group Captain Spencer.
Everything possible that could be done, had been done. The plane,
fitted with extra tanks to add to its cruising range and time in the
air, had been checked and rechecked from propeller boss to rudder
post. Every square inch of wing surface, every wire, every nut, and
every cotter pin, had been carefully examined by expert eyes. The
plan of flight had been gone over two or three times, and last minute
instructions had been delivered. All was ready for the take-off. There
was nothing more to be said or done. The success or failure of the
highly important mission about to be made was strictly in the hands,
the capable hands, of two stout-hearted, fighting Royal Air Force
pilots, attached for special duty to His Majesty's Fleet Air Arm.
"Happy landings, you two," Group Captain Spencer said quietly, though
his voice trembled with deep emotion. "We're all counting on you, and
pulling for you. And--well, good luck."
The group captain quickly squeezed the hand of each and then stepped
down and away from the plane. Dave grinned at him, nodded, and then
turned his gaze to the instrument board. Every instrument received his
intent scrutiny. Then finally he twisted around in the seat and looked
at Freddy.
"Ready, little man?" he grunted.
The English youth snorted and shrugged.
"For what?" he demanded. "For tea to be served? You're certainly
hanging around long enough for us to have some. Stop making the old
girl wait! She wants to be rid of us--well, you, anyway."
Dave grinned, and winked.
"So we both feel the same way, eh?" he grunted.
"What way?" Freddy demanded.
Dave put a hand to the side of his mouth.
"My heart's bumping up against my back teeth, too!" he whispered.
"Aren't you right!" Freddy whispered back. "So hurry up and get us off
this blasted carrier before we change our minds. It's the waiting that
gets me down."
"But it's your old pal who gets you _up_!" Dave cracked, and turned
front.
With a final look and a nod toward Group Captain Spencer standing with
the flight deck mechanics, he kicked off the wheel brakes and slowly
opened the throttle, or the "gate," as the R.A.F. boys call it. The
Bristol Pegasus engine increased the tone of its song and the plane
moved forward, picking up speed with every revolution of the engine.
Dave pushed the stick forward, got the tail up and sent the plane
streaking along the smooth deck on its wheels. A split second later the
"Island" (the bridge and superstructure of an aircraft carrier) flashed
by on his left. Another few seconds and he pulled the plane clear and
the tiny row of pin point take-off guide lights on his right fell away.
He held the ship in a steady climb for a couple of thousand feet or
so. Then he leveled off, banked around to the south, and set his plane
on the first leg of his compass course. That done with, he pulled back
the throttle to cruising speed, shifted to a slightly more comfortable
position in the seat and put his lips to the flap-mike.
"Calling Crimson!" he said. "Plane off. Calling--"
He cut himself off short as Freddy's hand banged down on his shoulder.
Right afterward he heard the English youth's words in his ears.
"A beautiful start of things, I must say!" Freddy shouted. "The lad is
balmy, and talking to himself so soon. I say, Dave, save that until
they put you in a padded cell, eh?"
"What the--?" Dave shouted, and then stopped short. "My gosh!" he then
blurted out. "I'll never live this down with you around. Boy! Am I
bright!"
Dave shook his head in a sheepish gesture and kept his face front so
that Freddy couldn't see its bright color even in the faint pale glow
of the instrument board light. He had started to radio check with
Operations aboard the Victory only to have Freddy's descending hand
and wise-crack wake him up to the fact that the Skua's radio had been
taken out, and that he had actually just been talking into thin air.
The flap-mike was fastened to the lower part of his helmet, but it
wasn't hooked up to anything.
He mentally kicked himself all over the plane for being so stupid, and
finally turned around to grin at Freddy.
"You want to change seats after that one?" he asked.
The English youth grinned, but shook his head.
"No, I think not," he said. "If that's the worst you do before we're
back, everything will come out all right."
"It will come out all right!" Dave echoed in a rush of words. "This job
means a lot, Freddy. We can't let the Fleet Air Arm down."
"We won't," Freddy said, and the look in his eyes said that he meant
just that.
"Atta boy!" Dave chuckled. "That's the old fight. And don't worry, pal,
I won't let you down, either. Gosh! I'd cut my throat if I did."
"Oh no, you wouldn't!" Freddy said firmly.
"No?"
"No, Dave, my lad," Freddy said, "because I'd jolly well cut it for
you, see? Well, there's the first thread of dawn."
As Freddy spoke, he pointed toward the east off the left wing. Dave
looked in that direction and saw the thin grey line low down on the
horizon. It was the very first signal that the sun was on its way up
for a new day. Like night, day comes fast in the Middle East. The first
telltale grey line mounts and brightens, and then while you watch a
blaze of color streams up over the horizon and starts racing after the
shadows of night you can actually see if you turn to the west and look.
It is something like the way thunder clouds look sliding down over the
horizon before the slanting rays of the sun that has finally broken
through--bright and golden to one horizon, and dark and murky to the
other.
Letting the plane more or less fly itself, Dave sat staring toward the
east and watched the dawning of a new day. In an abstract sort of way
he wondered where Freddy and he would be when that sun coming up had
made its journey across the sky and had slid down over the western lip
of the world. Would they be safely back on the Victory? Would they be
at El Aghelia, or Bengazi, or some other British Libyan outpost? Would
they be down on the Libyan sands with nothing but a charred heap of
wreckage for an airplane? Or would they--
He shook his head angrily as though to drive away the thoughts. They
came creeping back to him, however. They sneaked up on his brain when
he wasn't suspecting them. And little by little the dangerous side of
this mission crept in to occupy his mind. Back on the Victory he had
simply accepted as a matter of course that the flight would be fraught
with danger. All flights made in war skies were that way. That's why
wars were wars. So even after Group Captain Spencer's repeated words
about the dangers involved, he had refused to give much thought to that
angle of the venture.
He was giving considerable thought to it now, though, and much against
his will. That there was an eerie trembling at the back of his neck,
and that his heart pounded much too hard, made him furious at himself.
His fury, however, didn't drive away the tantalizing thoughts. There,
just a few miles ahead of him now, was the Libyan coast. Beyond were
miles and miles of hot, blazing desert sands, dotted here and there by
a native village so small you could drop it down into Times Square, New
York, and hardly be able to find it again. And all of those countless
miles of desert were held by the enemy, patrolled by them on the
ground, and in the air.
The truth of the matter was that he and Freddy were heading straight
into a world where neither man nor nature was their friend. The blazing
sun, and the burning sands, were just as much their foes as a Nazi
tank, or a Nazi plane, or a squad of desert troops. Their only friend,
their only ally, was the Blackburn Skua and its 830 hp. Bristol Pegasus
engine. The plane, the engine, and their own will and ability to
survive.
"Hey, what are you shaking your head about? Something wrong?"
He turned at the sound of Freddy's voice and grinned reassuringly.
"Just thinking things over, and adding up the points on our side,"
he said. "You know me! Old Man Cold Feet, once I get started off on
something."
"Stop fishing for compliments!" Freddy laughed at him. "Your feet
aren't half as cold as mine. And--Uh-uh! Get us some altitude, Dave.
Looks like some kind of a coastal patrol plane down there and to the
right. What do you make of it?"
Dave leaned forward and to the side and stared downward in the
direction of Freddy's pointed finger. A few thousand feet below a murky
shadow was moving toward the northwest. Though the light was bad, the
shadow was moving too swiftly for it to be any kind of a surface ship.
It was a plane, no doubt about that. However, Dave didn't waste time
to make sure whether it was British or Axis. He pulled the Skua's nose
upward, and fed a bit more fuel to the smooth singing Pegasus engine.
"Maybe it's just two other guys!" he called back over his shoulder.
"We'll ignore them just the same. Company's something we don't crave.
All set with that camera, Freddy? The sun's coming up fast, and you
never can tell how soon we might spot something."
"All set, and ready to start clicking!" the English youth replied. "You
show me something, and I'll do the rest. I'm a whiz at this sort of
thing, you'll understand."
"Let you know about that after I see some of the results!" Dave
chuckled, and held the Skua in its long climb up over the coastline of
Libya.
An hour later they were deep over the desert and the sun was a brassy
ball that touched the sweeping sands below with fingers of fire. Dave's
eyes ached and smarted from the constant glare, despite the sun lenses
he had slipped on over the glass of his goggles. They had long since
shoved open the cockpit hood, because, though it was uncomfortable in
the steady beat of the sun's rays, it was like flying along inside a
baker's oven when the hood was shut.
An hour's flight over the desert, and nothing but sand, sand, and more
sand. Here and there dark streaks had marked rocky strips that pushed
up through the burning sands. And a few tiny dots from their altitude
were clumps of desert bush, and a dried up oasis or two. But they
didn't sight a single village, though they strained their eyes until
they ached almost unbearably. And as far as troops, tanks, and other
motorized equipment went, they might just as well have been coasting
around over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
There just wasn't anything below them but sand during the first hour of
patrol. And the scene was not one bit changed at the end of the second
hour. As a matter of fact, the scene was so much the same Dave had the
crazy feeling they had been hovering motionless in the same spot of air
for time on end. For the last twenty minutes neither of them had spoken
a word. To talk was an effort and, besides, there was so little to talk
about save the one thought that each kept to himself, the one gnawing
fear within each. It was the mounting realization that failure of the
mission was beginning to hover in the offing.
For two solid hours, during which time they had covered countless
square miles of enemy territory, they hadn't sighted a single thing
worth remembering. No troop depots, no desert outposts, no roving tank
patrols, and not even any enemy aircraft. That last, the fact they had
not sighted a single Italian or Nazi plane in the air, plagued Dave
and caused the fingers of worry to play upon his tightly drawn nerves.
True, they had not flown close to Tripoli, or anywhere near it. Perhaps
Tripoli was overflowing with Axis planes and mechanized desert units.
That wasn't the point. That wasn't the reason Freddy and he had been
sent out on this scouting patrol.
The British High Command knew that troops and equipment had been
assembled at Tripoli. What the High Command didn't know was _if_ any
of those units had moved out into the desert, and where, and in what
numbers. It stood to reason that the Axis High Command in Libya hadn't
kept them bottled up in the Tripoli area for fear of surprise attack by
Wavell's forces. That was foolish, if for no other reason than the fact
that over four hundred miles of desert lay between the most advanced
British outpost and the Tripoli garrison.
It was a dead sure thing that parts of the Axis forces had moved out
into the desert, and had established communication lines with the main
base. Yet--
"Yet there's not a single sign of them!" Dave spoke the thought aloud.
"Not a gosh darn sign--unless we're stone blind, and can't see beyond
our noses!"
"What did you say, Dave?" he heard Freddy ask.
He turned in the seat and shrugged.
"Just talking aloud," he said. "This business is getting me down. Why
haven't we seen anything? Even a village would help. But it's all as
blank as a sheet of paper--yeah, a sheet of sand paper. Look, Freddy,
I'm just about making up my mind to something."
"To go back?" Freddy asked, and a worried look stole into his eyes.
"Back, nothing!" Dave snorted. "We've still got gas. We're not licked
by a darn sight. No, that isn't the idea. Look, we've covered a lot
of ground. If we've passed over Axis forces in any of the areas we've
checked, then they must have tunneled out from Tripoli, by gosh, and
are still underground. That's crazy, of course, so it leaves us one
more thing to try."
"Well?" Freddy grunted as Dave paused. "I'm waiting. Let's have it."
"The Tripoli area," Dave said promptly. "Let's get us some more
altitude and sneak up on Tripoli as closely as we can without being
spotted. If we don't spot anything there, then we can be pretty sure
that the Tripoli rumors are so much hog-wash."
"I doubt that last," Freddy said gravely. "The High Command must be
pretty sure, rather, dead sure, that something's up, else Fleet Air Arm
Command wouldn't have agreed for the Victory to pull out of line and go
steaming off on its own."
"Yes, I guess that's true," Dave nodded, and scowled. "But I'm still in
favor of sneaking up on the Tripoli area if we can. And for a couple of
reasons, too."
"Such as?" the English youth prompted as Dave hesitated.
"Well, first for a look-see at the area," Dave explained presently.
"Second because it will take us back toward the coast. It was still
pretty dark when we flew in over the coast, and--well, it's just a
guess that the Nazis _may_ be sneaking along the coastline. Maybe
they're not circling down toward the south and up to flank Wavell's
advance forces. Get what I mean?"
"Instantly!" Freddy exclaimed, and his tired eyes lighted up. "I'm
tipping my topper to you, my lad. Yes, I believe you're right. They
may be sneaking along the coast, just far enough inland to prevent
observation from the sea. Yes, let's head back that way, by all means.
Good grief, anything would be better than this tooting around over
the blasted desert down there. It's like standing in front of a blast
furnace with the door open!"
"Ten times worse!" Dave muttered, and started banking the Skua around
and up in a climb for altitude. "Boy! I'd sure like to pick the next
spot for Hitler and his big bums to invade. I'd get me a transfer to
duty there so fast it would make your head swim."
"And where would that be?" Freddy asked.
"The North Pole," Dave said. "Gee! Nice cool air spilling into the
cockpit. And a--Hey! _Freddy!_"
Dave bellowed the last and sat up straight in the seat. The English
youth jumped in alarm and banged his head on one of the cowling braces.
"Good grief, what?" he choked out. "What's the matter?"
"Plenty!" Dave snapped back over his shoulder, and at the same time
wheeled the Skua around in a quick turn. "Trouble in six different
packages. To your right and up! Take a look! Busting down out of the
sun. And they aren't sea gulls, either. Buckle your safety strap and
get set, Freddy!"
The English youth did just that as he jerked his head around and
squinted up toward the sun. He was blinded for a second or so by the
brassy glare, but he performed the well known war pilot's trick that
makes it possible to spot planes sliding down out of the sun. You close
one eye and then hold the thumb of your free hand four or five inches
in front of the eye you keep open. The ball of your thumb covers the
sun and permits you to see planes diving down in its glare. You can't
do it for very long because there is still enough glare to get into
your eyes. However, you can stare in the direction of the sun long
enough to spot what you want to see.
Anyway, Freddy pulled that sun "eclipsing" stunt and saw the six planes
streaking down toward the Skua. They were just moving blurs at first,
but in a second or so they took on definite shapes and outlines. He
lowered his thumb and eyes and swung to man his rear guns.
"Three Nazi Henschel reconnaissance jobs!" he shouted at Dave. "And
three Italian Breda Sixty-Fives. How in thunder did they get up there
in the sun?"
"Don't ask me!" Dave called out, and slid the safety catch off his gun
trigger button. "Maybe they've been up there all the time, and just
now spotted us. I don't know. But, brother, I'm not going to bother
about asking them. Hang on, Freddy! I'm first going to try and give
them the slip. Gee! Running away from Muzzy pilots and Jerry pilots.
But there'll come another day."
"That's what you think!" Freddy shouted. "It's already here, my lad!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
_Fate Laughs Last_
Freddy Farmer had not shouted a lie, nor had it been an attempt at a
kidding wise-crack. Even as his words became lost in the roar of the
Pegasus engine, the yammer of _Rheinmettal-Borsigs_, the German aerial
machine gun, and _Breda-Safats_, the Italian aerial machine gun, filled
the desert air. Out of the corner of his eye Dave saw tracer bullet
smoke weave downward well clear of the Skua, and a tight grin of relief
came to his lips.
The attacking planes had had the advantage of surprise, and they had
been able to get in the first shots, but even with those two things in
their favor the enemy pilots has missed badly. That made it instantly
obvious that they were not seasoned air fighters.
"That's a small break for us, anyway," Dave grunted, and hauled the
Skua up and around in a prop clawing climbing turn. "But there's still
six of them, so this isn't going to be any waltz. Okay, Jerry, let this
give you an idea you weren't invited!"