direction whence they had come. It was then he realized the truth
of the English youth's words. Instead of standing on a flat, almost
shapeless desert, they were actually standing near the crest of a long
sloping hill. True, the slope was marked by countless sand dunes kicked
up by the desert winds, but it was still easy to see that they were
a good couple of hundred feet higher than they had been when they'd
started out. To make sure it all wasn't just a trick his eyes and the
desert sun were playing on him, he turned front again and looked at
the brownish slash that marked the split in the plateau and formed the
escarpment. The brownish slash in the desert was the highest piece of
ground before his eyes. Beyond, he could see only Libyan sky and the
brassy glare of the sun. That was so because he was actually looking
uphill.
"Well, what do you know!" he exclaimed, and grinned at Freddy. "No
wonder my legs feel ready to drop off. We've been plowing uphill and
didn't know it."
"The desert is full of tricks," the English youth said with a shrug.
"And all of them mean ones, too. Well, let's get on with it. Won't be
long now."
It turned out to be longer than that, however. Another twenty minutes
passed by into time history before they reached the top of the
escarpment and stood looking down its side. The canyon was about
seventy-five yards long, perhaps thirty-five feet deep, and a hundred
feet wide at the top. The two sides were formed of jagged rock with
treacherous spots of crumpling sand-stone here and there. There was
plenty of brush and shrubbery about, however, and it was thick enough
to cast patches of shade regardless of the burning rays of the sun. One
point struck them at once as being an ideal spot where they could relax
and rest until the sun was deep in the west, and the cooling winds of
night were beginning to steal across the desert. It was to their left
and about halfway down. A shelf of rock jutted outward a bit. As a
matter of fact, it was really two shelves of rock that jutted out. The
bottom one served as a platform upon which to rest. And the top shelf,
rimmed with thick desert bush, served as a roof, a sort of canopy for
the shelf lower down. Fortunately the side of the escarpment was not
too steep to make it impossible for them to reach the lower shelf.
"That's us, Freddy!" Dave exclaimed, and pointed to it. "We'll get down
there and be cliff dwellers until it's cool enough to start getting
underway again. I vote that we get down there pronto, and have a bit to
eat and a little water. That's our biggest danger--water. We must save
every drop we can. Who knows when--"
Dave stopped short, and a horrified look leaped into his eyes. He
pointed his finger at Freddy and worked his mouth, but no words came
from his lips. The English youth stared at him and impulsively
recoiled a step in surprise and amazement.
"Dave, what's the matter?" he gasped out. "Dave! Come out of it! What
in the world?"
Dave gulped and shook his head as though to snap himself out of his
stunned trance.
"Your water bottle, Freddy!" he blurted out. "Look! It's leaking! The
canvas cover is dripping wet at the bottom. When did you do that?"
The English youth didn't bother to reply. He reached down and took hold
of the canvas-covered water canteen slung at his belt. The bottom half
was dripping wet, though the burning rays of the sun were doing their
best to drink up every drop of moisture. As Freddy tilted it bottom
side up, both boys saw the tiny slash in the canvas covering and the
even smaller crack in the metal underneath.
"I can tell by the weight," Freddy said in a tight, strained voice.
"There's no more than a cupful left. Talk about luck! Blast it!"
Dave nodded and said nothing. There was no mystery as to how the canvas
had been slashed and the metal canteen split so that the precious water
had seeped out a drop at a time as Freddy plodded across the sands. It
was obvious that a made-in-Germany bullet, or a made-in-Italy bullet
had done the work. A stray bullet, a bullet in a thousand during that
air scrap had cut through into the Skua's cockpit and nicked the bottom
of Freddy's water canteen. It had creased the metal, but not enough to
leave an opening through which the water could escape. No, it hadn't
cut all the way through, but later the bumping of the canteen against
Freddy's leg as he trudged across the sand had caused the paper thin
layer of metal left to part and crack and allow the water to seep
through.
"Blast the Jerry or Muzzy gunner who did that!" Freddy grated through
clenched teeth.
"I'm hoping it was one of them we got!" Dave grunted. "Well, my water
canteen's still okay. We'll just have to go extra easy with the
drinking. It's not your fault, anyway. Let's forget it and get down
there. I'm beginning to feel more like a grease spot every second.
We'll split what's in your canteen for our first drink, and then take
turns at mine, later. Come on. And hold that canteen bottom side up as
you climb down."
"Have no fear of that!" the English youth said grimly. "It would have
to be my _water canteen_, wouldn't it! It couldn't be my leg, or an
arm, or maybe my neck."
Dave laughed and slapped him on the back.
"Chin and thumbs up, pal!" he cried. "Forget it! We'll just make
believe we're a couple of camels. They go for days without water, you
know."
"Oh, quite!" Freddy grunted. "But who wants to be a blinking camel?
However, right you are. Let's get out of this sun, anyway."
Ten minutes later the two boys had safely reached the shelter of the
lower ledge of rock. It wasn't cool and comfortable, by any manner of
means. As a matter of fact, it was something like squatting down on
the top of a stove that hasn't been out for very long. Regardless of
that, however, it was like an icebox compared to the direct rays of the
blistering sun above, and the blistering heat of the shifting sands
beneath their feet.
"Boy, oh boy!" Dave sighed wearily. "The first thing I'm going to do is
get off these shoes. What I wouldn't give for the Kind Fairy to wave
her magic wand and create a nice, cool babbling brook to dip these dogs
in. Gosh! I--"
"Hold still, Dave!" Freddy suddenly cried. "Hold still! Don't move a
muscle!"
Dave, in the act of putting his hands in back of him to serve as a
brace while he arched his body backwards, froze motionless and look
wild-eyed at Freddy.
"What's the matter?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Freddy didn't reply. He simply shook his head, and picked up one of
his shoes he had taken off. He gripped it by the toe and leaned slowly
around in back of Dave. Then in a sudden movement he cracked the heel
of the shoe down on the rock with a resounding smack.
"There!" he breathed, straightening up. "That takes care of that little
beggar."
"Hey, what gives, anyway?" Dave gulped and frowned. "You playing games
or something?"
"Hardly!" Freddy said dryly. "I was simply saving you a lot of pain,
and perhaps something worse than that. Take a look."
Dave twisted around, half expecting to see a squad of Nazi soldiers
crouching behind him. What he really saw was the mashed body of a
three-inch long lizzard-like creature. It looked like a cross between
a lizzard and a grasshopper, and there was a suggestion of a lobster
about it, too. The body was long and tapering, like that of a lizzard.
At the head two tiny horns with lobster-like claws at the end stuck out
in front. And there were four long legs on either side of the body.
"Gosh, what's that?" he asked. "Some kind of a desert bug?"
"The worst you can meet in the desert," Freddy replied. "It's a
scorpion. See that barbed point that forms the end of his tail? That's
his stinger. You can see it's sort of hook shaped. Well, he strikes
with it by whipping it up over his back. Five minutes after a scorpion
stings you, you're in horrible pain, and your whole body begins to
swell up. It can easily be fatal unless you get medical attention at
once. You were about to put your hand right down on top of it, my
friend."
Dave's face paled, and he shuddered violently.
"Gee!" he breathed in an awed tone. "Gee whiz! Remind me to remember
you in my will, Freddy. Gosh! The enemy is just a small part of what
you have to fight in desert warfare, I'll say. Boy, oh boy, Freddy,
you're my pal for life, and no fooling. Wow."
"I was just lucky enough to spot it in time," Freddy said. Then,
getting to his feet, "I think, though, we'd better search this place to
see if it has any brothers or sister hanging around. In case I do fall
asleep, I'd hate to wake up with one of the beggars sitting on my nose."
"Sleep?" echoed Dave, as they started searching the shelf of rock, and
gripped a shoe ready for action. "I won't do any sleeping. After that
close call I'll have the jitters for a week."
Freddy just grinned and said nothing. The search took about fifteen
minutes, but no brother or sister scorpions were found lurking about
ready to avenge a death in the family. So presently they relaxed again,
ate some of their emergency rations, and each drank half of the water
left in Freddy's bullet-creased canteen.
"Well, that sure helped," Dave said, leaning back against the shelf
wall. "I'm beginning to feel like a new man already. Now, if that sun
will only slide into high gear and get across that sky, everything will
be jake."
"Don't hurry the sun," Freddy murmured, and stretched out. "I'm
perfectly comfortable right here. It can take as long as it likes. But
it's a bit of a mess, isn't it, Dave? We sure let the Victory down."
"Yeah," Dave grunted, and felt his eyelids growing strangely heavy. "We
sure turned out to be just a couple of foul balls. But we're not licked
yet. We've got our strength, something to eat, and some water. Maybe
when it gets a bit--gets a bit--a bit cooler--"
CHAPTER NINE
_Wings From Tripoli_
A faint buzzing sound penetrating Dave's ears pried his eyelids open.
For a second or two he stared bewildered at Freddy Farmer's motionless
body a couple of feet from him, at the shelf of rock upon which he
found himself, and out across a short rocky valley to a wall of jagged
rock studded with sun-scorched brush on the other side. Then, like a
door in his brain being opened, memory rushed back. Sure, of course!
He had dropped off to sleep in spite of his jitters from the deadly
scorpion episode. And a funny buzzing sound had awakened him.
He remained perfectly still for another moment, his ears strained and
listening intently to the buzzing sound. At the end of that moment he
realized what it was. Not a bee, or a hornet, or anything like that.
The sound came from the engine of an airplane high overhead. He got to
his feet and walked over to the edge of the rock shelf where he could
stare up into the sky. It was then he realized that he hadn't had any
cat-nap. The sun was well down toward the western lip of the desert and
the sky was slowly being painted with streaks of gold, and red, and
purple blue. An impulsive glance at his watch showed that his little
refresher nap had lasted a good six hours and some odd minutes.
Because of the altitude of the plane, and the countless ever changing
streaks of color in the sky, it was some time before he could pick it
out. When he did, there was no way of telling whether it was friend or
foe up there. The plane was just a dot moving swiftly toward the west.
One thing was certain. It wasn't a Nazi plane. He could tell that from
the steady unthrobbing note of the engine. It was either Italian or
British. The direction of the plane's flight, the fact that he could
tell it was a small single-engined job, and the fact that night was not
very far away, gave him the belief that it must be Italian. A moment
later the engine's note died off a little, and he saw the dot start
sliding downward.
"What's that, Dave? Company?"
Dave looked around at the sound of Freddy's voice. The English youth
was digging groggy sleep out of his eyes and getting slowly to his
feet. He came over to the edge of the rock shelf, shielded his eyes
with his hands and squinted up into the sky.
"An Italian, or one of ours," he said after a moment's study. "I doubt
it's one of ours, though. I say, look! The beggar is banking around and
coming back this way. Good grief, do you suppose he's spotted us?"
"From that altitude?" Dave grunted, and watched the dot swing down
lower and curve around in their direction. "Not a chance. But he's
heading back here, sure enough. There! He's flattened out of his glide.
And there's his engine hitting on all six again."
It was true. Even as the two boys watched, the still very indistinct
plane seemed to level off, and the sound of its engine increased.
Impulsively they both backed up a couple of steps and stood there
silently watching the plane come closer and closer. Presently it was
close enough to take on definite shape and outline. It was an Italian
Fiat C.R. 42 fighter plane powered by a Fiat radial engine; a biplane
type that had been used extensively by Mussolini's air force since the
very start of the African campaign. They had proved no match, however,
for even the slowest planes General Wavell used, and little by little
it had become harder and harder to find one in the air. Their pilots
had no stomach to stray close to R.A.F. controlled air.
The two boys had been acquainted with the facts about the Fiat C.R. 42,
and so their interest and wonder increased as soon as they noted its
type.
"Now what would that lad be doing way out here?" Freddy murmured aloud.
"Of course he isn't near where our flying chaps might possibly be, but
the fact the blighter's actually alone certainly looks queer."
"Yeah, if what they told us about those jobs is true," Dave grunted,
and scowled at the oncoming plane. "Hey, I wonder! Could that bird be
on reconnaissance patrol, or even contact patrol? Look at the way he's
zigzagging. He's even losing some altitude. Freddy, that guy's looking
for something as sure as you're a foot high!"
"Maybe the crashes of the four planes we shot down," Freddy suggested.
"Perhaps that ship was sent out to confirm the results of the scrap, to
drop food and water to any of those Nazi or Italian lads who may have
survived the crashes."
"Could be," Dave nodded, and continued to scowl at the plane. "But they
sure gave him the wrong location bearings. He's 'way too far north.
No, I think that idea is out, Freddy. That bird's on the look-see for
something else. He's--Hey! See there? He's found what he was hunting
for. Look! He's veered to the north a bit and he's going down in a long
power dive."
Dave gave a final look at the plane, then looked across the desert
canyon toward the other side. The opposite wall was too high for him to
see over it and the stretch of desert beyond. From the glide angle and
direction of the Italian plane, he knew that it was going to pass low
over some point well beyond the northern slope of the desert plateau.
He half turned and touched Freddy on the arm.
"He's got business some place over there where we can't see," he said.
"Get on your shoes, and collect your stuff. We're going to the other
side of this plateau crack and see what the heck is what."
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Freddy said, and started
putting on his shoes.
Going down that side of the escarpment, crossing the valley floor and
scrambling up the other side was no easy task. Bush thorns caught at
their uniforms, and jagged points of rock inflicted more than a couple
of bruises on their bodies. They sacrificed body safety for speed,
however, and presently they were flat on their stomachs on the top of
the other escarpment and peering ahead at the dune-humped stretches of
sun-painted sand.
The Italian plane was now down very low. It wasn't more than three or
four hundred feet above the surface of the sand. It was a good five
miles away from them, however--much, much too far for them to make out
the pilot seated in the pit. Breathlessly they watched the plane nose
down even lower. Then suddenly Dave let out a startled cry and nudged
Freddy with his elbow.
"Look!" he cried. "He's dumped something over the side. Looked like
some kind of a box to me. Did you see it?"
"I saw it," Freddy replied in a voice reverberating with excitement.
"And I see something else, too, to the left of where that box-shaped
thing appeared to hit the ground. Look hard, Dave. See those--those
little humps? They look like little sand dunes, but I'll bet anything
they're not."
"No bet!" Dave breathed after a long moment of silence. "Freddy,
there's something very screwy going on. Those humps are little shacks,
or huts. So help me, that's a village over there. Yet darned if I can
spot a single palm tree."
"And there's somebody there!" Freddy whispered tensely. "There must
be, or that plane's pilot wouldn't be dumping anything over the side.
Look! He's climbing now, and heading back where he came from. Dave,
we're the luckiest two chaps in all Libya right now."
"Maybe," Dave admitted grudgingly. Then, giving him a keen look, "What
makes you say it?"
Freddy didn't answer at once. He chewed on his lower lip and kept his
eyes fixed on the distant scene.
"Do you think you could spot those humps from say five or ten thousand
feet in the air?" he suddenly asked.
"Five or ten thousand?" Dave echoed with a laugh. "Unless I knew they
were there, like that Italian bird must have known, I would probably
sail right over them at five hundred feet, and not know the difference."
"Right!" Freddy replied instantly. "Now, answer me this one. Why would
an Italian pilot be dumping something overboard on a spot you could
miss at even five hundred feet, eh?"
"I give up," Dave said after a moment's thought. "What is this, anyway?
Some kind of a game you've just thought up?"
"Use that stuff in your noggin you call brains!" Freddy said sharply.
"Use it, Dave! Think hard. I may be completely off my base, but I think
I now know why we didn't spot anything of interest during our patrol.
Certain parties took care so that neither we nor anybody else should
spot anything. Now, does that give you a little idea?"
"For cat's sake, you're talking in riddles!" Dave growled. "How do you
know why we didn't--"
Dave suddenly cut himself short and clapped a hand to his forehead.
"Well, fry me for an oyster!" he breathed fiercely. "Yeah, I think I
begin to see the light. That, Freddy, is an enemy desert outpost, and
so perfectly camouflaged that you'd never spot it from the air, unless
you knew exactly where it was located."
"Absolutely correct," Freddy said. "You may go to the head of the
class, my little man. But wait a minute. One more question."
"Boy, how you wear a guy down!" Dave said, and sighed. "Okay, dear
teacher, shoot."
Freddy nodded his head toward the odd-looking cluster of humps in the
desert.
"Why do you suppose that plane didn't land?" he asked.
Dave gave him a startled glance and shook his head at the same time.
"I give up," he said. "I haven't the faintest idea. But you always were
the military expert on this team, so tell me. Why?"
"It's just a guess, of course," the English youth said, after a long
pause. "Maybe a crazy one, too. Somehow, though, I have the feeling
that the Nazis or the Italians over there are taking no chances on
being spotted by any possible British plane out on long distance
reconnaissance. Now, if one of our ships were way up there in the sky
somewhere, he wouldn't give a thought to seeing an Italian plane swoop
down low like that chap we just saw. However, he would prick up his
ears if he saw the plane land. He'd at least get curious enough to
slide down himself to see if it was only a forced landing. Therefore I
think that Italian pilot had orders not to land; to drop whatever he
had to deliver, and not deliver it by hand. Are you getting a little
bit of what I mean, now?"
Dave nodded and stared intently at his English pal. Count on good old
Freddy Farmer to dig down and ferret around for the true meaning of
everything that appeared strange and mysterious. He had a mind like a
steel trap, and more than once his mental ferreting around ahead of
time had helped them out of a tight corner later.
"Yes, I'm beginning to catch on," Dave said presently. "In fact, I'm
getting a couple of ideas of my own. I don't know what that Italian
pilot dropped, but it certainly wasn't food, and it wasn't ammunition.
The box, or whatever it was, wasn't big enough."
"And so?" Freddy echoed as Dave hesitated and scowled off into space.
"And so maybe that's no ordinary desert outpost," Dave finally said.
"Maybe there are important people there--I mean, important military
people. Do you know something, Freddy?"
"'Way ahead of you, Dave, as you would say," Freddy interrupted with a
grin. "Important military people means staff headquarters. Yes, we're
probably crazy, Dave. Both of us may be completely out of our heads,
but I'll bet you the Bank of England against your oldest pair of flying
boots that that spot over there is some kind of field headquarters for
enemy troops in this area of the desert."
"Enemy troops in this area?" Dave echoed, and gave a wave of his hand
that included the surrounding desert. "Troops where? You mean the force
that's right over there where we're looking, don't you?"
Freddy shook his head and gave a stubborn tilt to his chin.
"No, I don't," he said. "I mean that that's the headquarters base for
a _lot_ of spots in this section just like it, only we haven't seen
them. And, by good luck, we didn't stumble into them since leaving our
burned up Skua."
Dave started to nod, then checked himself and gave Freddy a perplexed
look.
"Don't look right now," he said, "but you're getting me all balled up,
my friend. Just what are you driving at, anyway? Come clean with the
works; then maybe I'll argue with you."
"It's quite simple," the English youth said with a faint smile. "You
just mix a little imagination with what facts you know, and there you
are."
"Maybe you are, but I'm not!" Dave grunted. "Skip the imagination part
and just give me the facts."
"Right you are," Freddy said, and started counting off the fingers of
one hand. "First, British Middle East High Command knows that troops,
planes, and supplies, and so forth, have been transported across the
Mediterranean to Tripoli by air and water. Two, High Command knows
that it is mostly Nazi stuff. Three, it is obvious that preparations
are being made for a drive to beat back Wavell's forces. Four, it is
equally obvious that the enemy knows that Wavell's forces are not very
strong. As Group Captain Spencer said, everything that could be spared
was yanked away and sent down south to hand the Italians a quick mop-up
knockout blow in Ethiopia. Five, the one important thing in desert
warfare is surprise--surprise attack. Six, if the Axis forces simply
started along the main coast road from Tripoli and around the southern
end of the Gulf of Sidra, Wavell's outposts, to say nothing of his
planes, would spot them long before they were within attacking range,
and there would be no surprise at all. You want me to continue?"
"Sure, stay in there and pitch," Dave nodded with a grin. "I know
you've got something, kid, and I want to hear it all. I really mean
that."
"Very well, then," Freddy said, and started counting his fingers over
again. "Seven, to move a huge attacking army down toward the south and
back up toward the north would be much too exhausting for the troops,
and such an army would be spotted by Wavell's pilots days ahead of
time. R.A.F. bombers would then sail out and bomb the stuffing out of
the advancing armies."
"Just a minute," Dave cut in. "They wouldn't be dumb enough not to have
air protection of their own."
"Correct," Freddy said, and made a little gesture with one hand.
"But where would that air protection base itself in this part of the
desert? Certainly not with the armies as they moved forward a few
miles each day. At Tripoli? And keep flying way out here to guard
troops and tanks and other motorized equipment on the move? Not a bit
of it, Dave. They might just as well send General Wavell a letter
telling him they were creeping up for a surprise attack! They'd--"
"Hold it, hold it!" Dave suddenly broke in excitedly. "You gave me the
tip just now. Creeping up. That's it! Creeping up in _small units_
until they get close enough to strike at some point in Wavell's
defenses in a main body. Sure, sure, my imagination's beginning to work
too! Small units that can camouflage themselves perfectly so as not
to be seen by any of our planes that might pass over. And then when
they're all close enough, and all set, the bombers and stuff can wing
along the coast from Tripoli and take their part in the attack. Gosh,
Freddy, I'll bet that you've hit the old nail right smack on the head.
We've stumbled onto the hottest thing in Libya. And I don't mean the
sun or the sand, either!"
"I'm sure of it!" Freddy said, and beamed happily. "And here's
something else. The small units move only _during the night_. And
before dawn they dig in and camouflage themselves so they won't be
seen during the day."