old days back in the States," Dave breathed. "And--"
"Dave, that's exactly the idea!" Freddy suddenly cried, and gripped him
by the arm. "Take a good look, now! I see things moving over there. Am
I right, or are my eyes just going haywire?"
The setting sun was now quite low, and the long shafts of orange gold
light that stretched across the desert made it extremely difficult to
distinguish individual objects, or even movement, at any distance over
a mile. The rays of the setting sun cutting through the shimmering
waves of heat rising up off the hot sand made everything seem to blend
into one huge picture of shadows and various shades of color. After
a few moments of intense scrutiny, however, Dave was ready to agree
with Freddy's belief. Unquestionably things were moving over there.
Many things, in fact, and of all shapes and sizes. He continued to
stare hard, and then suddenly the faint echo of engines coming to life
drifted down the desert wind. He felt, rather than saw, Freddy stiffen
at his side. And a moment later the English youth's excited voice came
to his ears.
"Dave! Dave, do you hear that? Those are tank engines, and armored car
engines! See? They're starting to take off the camouflage coverings.
They're getting ready to move, Dave, just as soon as it gets dark."
"Right!" Dave echoed. "And that means us. We're going to get on the
move, too."
"What do you mean?" Freddy asked without turning his head.
"We're going to get close for a good look," Dave replied, and rose up
onto his hands and knees. "I don't think they'll pull out until it's
actually dark. By then we can sneak up close to them and see what's
what. You know, Freddy, I've a hunch there are the answers to a lot of
questions over there. And if we get up close enough, maybe we can find
out a few of those answers. Anyway, we can't stick here forever."
"No, of course we can't," the English youth agreed, and got up onto his
feet. "Our bad luck seems to have turned into good luck, so we'd better
make the most of it. Come on. Wait, let's see."
Freddy pulled out his compass and held it steady in one hand. He peered
at it intently for a moment.
"Right-o," he said presently. "If we hold a course fourteen points east
of north we'll be traveling a straight line toward that spot. As soon
as we get down off this escarpment we won't be able to see the spot all
the time. But this compass will take care of that. Right-o. Let's get
started."
"Hey, hold everything!" Dave cried, and held Freddy back. "A fine
Indian scout, you are! And have you forgotten everything you learned
about aerial combat, huh?"
Freddy stared at him in wide-eyed amazement.
"What in the world is eating you, Dave?" he gasped. "Aerial combat?"
"Sure," Dave said with a nod. "What's the best way to sneak up on an
enemy ship for a surprise attack?"
"Come down on him with the sun at your back, so it's extra hard for him
to see you," Freddy replied promptly. "So what of it?"
"Plenty," Dave said, and pointed to the west. "The same idea holds good
right here. We'll circle around to the west for a spell, and then creep
up on them with the setting sun at our backs. That way we can get much
closer. Less chance of anybody spotting us. Right?"
Freddy grinned a bit sheepishly and nodded.
"The young man is right," he said. "He's absolutely correct. My
apologies and congratulations, sir."
"Oh, think nothing of it, my dear fellow," Dave said with a magnanimous
gesture. "Think nothing of it at all."
"As Dave Dawson would say," Freddy grunted as they started down the
escarpment, "nuts to you!"
CHAPTER TEN
_Courage Against Fate_
By the time the sun was a ball of flaming color that rested lightly
on the western lip of the world, the two youths had detoured around
to a point less than half a mile from the spot where they had seen
mysterious activity. Now, though, it was no longer a mystery. Lying
side by side on the western side of a rolling sand dune, they peered
over its crest at a scene that caused their hearts to pound in wild
excitement and the blood to surge through their veins.
There, less than half a mile away, were two enemy motorized units
preparing to break camp and continue their obvious march northward
under the cover of the Libyan night. There were at least twenty tanks
of the small, light armored German type. There were also as many troop
truck transports, and four or five armored cars. One good look at those
armored cars confirmed their earlier beliefs. High ranking officers of
the Axis forces were in charge of those attack units, and it was quite
evident that the mobile force served as headquarters for other units
scattered about the desert area.
If either of them held any doubts as to the truth of that, such doubts
were dispelled some ten minutes later. As though by magic, a plane
seemed to rise up out of the camp. It was a German Messerschmitt 109
single seater, and no sooner had it cleared the sand than it wheeled
toward the northwest and streaked away with the speed of a bullet. It
was not the plane itself that confirmed their belief, however. It was
the German Staff markings they saw painted on the fuselage of the fleet
plane as it raced by.
"Boy!" Dave breathed, and grinned at Freddy. "Talk about finding the
old needle in a haystack! Lady Luck sure is giving us the glad smile."
"Sure, whatever that means," Freddy commented with a frown. "You and
your American slang!"
Dave laughed.
"Slang, my eye," he chuckled. "I simply mean that out of all the enemy
units that are probably hiding out here on the desert, we spot the
headquarters unit right off the bat. See? Like finding a needle in a
haystack first time."
"That's headquarters over there, right enough," Freddy murmured. "Ten
to one that Messerschmitt is winging back to Tripoli to inform them of
the new positions they will take up before dawn."
"And ten to one that ship will be back and nicely camouflaged with the
rest of the stuff by dawn, too," Dave grunted. "Much as the Germans and
the Mussies give me a pain in the neck, I have to hand it to them for
being tops when it comes to camouflaging technique. You could fly over
this desert until you were blue in the face and not even spot a thing
that didn't look like just ordinary desert."
"They certainly know how," Freddy admitted grudgingly. "But let's grant
them that and get our heads to working on more important things right
now. In an hour at the most they'll be under way. What shall we do? Tag
along behind them--or what?"
Dave scooped up a handful of sand and let it slowly trickle between his
fingers as he silently considered the question.
"I think that idea's out, Freddy," he said after a while. "For one
thing, tanks and armored cars don't travel at a snail's pace, not on a
flat desert and in the middle of the night. Another thing, even if we
did manage to keep up with them somehow, we'd be dead on our feet by
dawn. And we'd be faced with the possibility of spending all tomorrow
in the sun. There might not be any spot where there was shade."
"I know," Freddy murmured in a worried voice. "And tough as we think we
are, that would be too much for us."
"Check," Dave said. "But supposing we could take it somehow. So what?
So we wouldn't be any better off than we are right now. What we've got
to do is get into that camp and find out things, then get out and get
word to the British High Command what the Germans and Italians are up
to. That's the problem--two problems, they really are."
"And mighty ticklish ones, too," Freddy said with a sudden show of
gloomy depression. "What do you think of the idea of trying to sneak in
there and have a quick look around? We might find out something."
"And we _might_ find a couple of Mauser rifle bullets heading our way,
too!" Dave said with a shake of his head. "If they were camped there
for keeps that might be a worthwhile bet. But they're getting ready to
move, and they'd only need one look at our uniforms to know darned well
we didn't belong. Even the dumbest Italian over there would figure that
out."
"But after it gets dark, couldn't we--" Freddy began, and then stopped
himself with a negative shake of his head. "No, I guess not."
"Nix is right," Dave said. "After it gets dark they'll all be in their
tanks and trucks and armored cars, and on their way. Nope, even pulling
the old hitch-hiking stunt wouldn't get us a thing."
Freddy Farmer started to speak, then seemed to change his mind. He
closed his mouth and scowled unhappily at the fingers of his two hands
digging in the sand. Dave watched him for a moment, then reached over
and touched him on the shoulder.
"There is a way, if you're game, Freddy," he said softly.
"I'm jolly well game for anything!" the English youth came right back.
"You know that, Dave. What's your plan?"
"We could make them take us prisoners," Dave said.
Freddy's jaw dropped in utter amazement, and his eyes bulged out like
marbles on long sticks.
"Make them take us prisoners?" he choked out. "Give up? Are you mad,
Dave?"
"No, just maybe a little screwy," Dave replied. "Pin back your ears for
a couple of seconds, and listen. If we try to sneak up on them, we run
the risk of being shot first, and questioned afterwards. That wouldn't
do either of us any good. If we try to tag along behind them as they
move northward, who knows what kind of trouble we might run into. So
what's left? To go along with them--as their guests. See what I mean?"
"I don't even begin to see," Freddy replied with a befuddled groan.
"Frankly, I don't fancy those chaps over there are in the mood to have
guests. In fact, I doubt very much they would consider us as guests."
"Oh, I just said 'guests' for the heck of it!" Dave snorted. "Look!
Here's exactly what I mean. You and I will be a couple of British
infantry officers hopelessly lost in the desert. And, boy, that's
doggone close to the truth, and how! Anyway, we have been wandering
around for we don't know how long. We've lost track of time, see? Maybe
the sun has got us a bit. We have just a few drops of water left in
one canteen, see? Our uniforms are torn, and all our food has gone. We
simply stumble right into that camp over there while it is still light,
and they can see us and _not take pot shots_. Beginning to catch on?"
The light of hope had come back into Freddy Farmer's eyes, but he was
still a bit befuddled.
"I think so," he said. "You mean, bury our stuff here, and tear our
uniforms, and all that sort of thing?"
"Right on the button!" Dave nodded eagerly. "We happened to see their
camp. When we get close enough we'll start yelling to attract their
attention. We'll--Hold it! I've got an even brighter idea!"
"What is it?" Freddy demanded. "I'm sure it can't be any crazier than
the one you've already told me."
Dave reached over and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.
"It's a pip!" he cried. "We think we've finally found a small
detachment of our own forces, see? We don't realize they're the enemy
until they've captured us. That will start them spinning."
"Spinning?" Freddy echoed.
"Sure!" Dave nodded. "It'll start them playing guessing games with
themselves. They'll start wondering if they really are alone out here,
as they thought they were. They'll wonder just where we came from.
They'll wonder plenty about us stumbling onto their camp, Freddy. And
you and I can fill them with a lot of hooey that will make them wonder
all the more. No fooling, Freddy, it's a perfect set-up."
"_If_ all goes well," Freddy said as the cautious side of him came to
the fore for a moment. "But, after all, this wouldn't be the first time
we'd taken a long chance."
"That's the boy, Freddy!" Dave cried, and patted his shoulder. "That's
the old fighting spirit. Okay, it's a deal, huh?"
"You and your wild ideas!" The English youth sighed, then smiled
faintly. "They'll probably end up putting me in front of a firing squad
one of these days. It might just be crazy enough to work, though, I
guess. Right you are, you mad hatter. It's a go."
"My pal!" Dave breathed, and beamed at him. "Contact, then! Let's peel
off the stuff we don't need, and muss ourselves up to look as though
we've been through the mill."
"If we haven't been through the mill today," Freddy groaned, and
started burying things in the sand, "then I sure don't know what you'd
call it. But just remember, my little friend, if I get shot for this,
I'll come back to haunt you every single night, I promise you that!"
"You won't have to come back," Dave brushed the threat aside, "because
I'll be right there with you."
"I don't doubt it for a minute," Freddy said with a hopeless shrug.
"The lad's just like my shadow. Can't get rid of it. Ah me! If I'd only
had sense and remained in England, I'd probably be an air vice-marshal
about now. Oh well, such is life!"
"Boy, am I glad!" Dave murmured with feeling.
"Glad about what?" the English youth asked unsuspectingly.
"Why, that you didn't stay in England and get promoted to be an air
vice-marshal, of course," Dave said solemnly. "After all the good old
R.A.F. has done, to have it fold up and fall apart because a young
squirt has--I just can't finish. I shudder even at the thought of such
a fate for the R.A.F."
"So?" Freddy grunted, and gave him a stern look. "Very well, then, I
refuse to go through with this as planned. I'm going to tell them the
truth. They may be Germans and rotters, but just the same I can't play
that kind of a dirty trick even on them."
"Refuse to go--" Dave gasped as sudden alarm shot across his face.
"Won't play a dirty trick on them? Hey! What goes on here? What do you
mean, tell the truth?"
The English youth didn't answer at once. With deliberate movements he
carefully smoothed the surface of the sand that covered the equipment
he had buried. Then he nonchalantly brushed sand dust from his hands
and glanced at Dave.
"I'm going to tell them who you are," he said firmly. "I just haven't
the heart to let them think they've really captured somebody, when
it's actually only you. No, I'm going to tell them who you are so they
can kick you back out into the desert, the same way a fisherman throws
back a fish that's too small. And I'm going to teach them that bit of
American slang to say as they do it."
"What's that?" Dave asked as the corners of his mouth twitched.
"It's--" Freddy began, and hesitated. Then his face lighted up. "Oh
yes, I remember now. Ten pennies for twelve. Yes, that's it."
Dave started to bellow with laughter, but clapped his hand over his
mouth just in time. Sound carries like magic across the desert, and
they were not yet ready to make their presence known to the enemy tank
and armored car units. However, it was a couple of minutes before Dave
could choke off his laughter enough to speak.
"Ten pennies for twelve!" he gasped out as tears streamed down his
cheeks. "Boy, oh boy, is that one for the book. You mean, Freddy, a
dime a dozen. But let it go. Anyway, you're one in a million, and
that's no kidding. Well, all set?"
As Dave asked the question, it served as an automatic brake, a full
stop, for kidding and joshing around. In a moment the serious business
would begin--deadly serious business, upon the outcome of which might
hang not only their own lives but the success or failure of Britain's
war efforts in the Middle East. Freddy searched Dave's eyes for a
couple of seconds, and then nodded.
"Right-o," he said quietly. "Let's get on with it. We've buried all our
stuff, and we both certainly look as if we've been wandering around in
this blasted desert for days. Yes, let's get on with it."
"Wait, just one more thing," Dave said as Freddy started to get up and
move over the brow of the sand dune. "It just hit me, and it might
help. You can't tell. Speak nothing but English. Make out that you
don't understand German. That is, of course, if any of those birds
speak English. But let's not let on we speak and understand German
until we have to. They--Well, they might let something slip, you know."
"A darn good idea, Dave!" Freddy said in honest approval. "You're
right. One never can tell."
"Then off we go," Dave said, and got up onto his feet. "Stagger
and reel a little. Pretend you don't hear them the first time they
challenge. Let's even lean a little on each other for support. Boy, if
there's any of the actor in us, this sure is the time for it to come
out. And to think--Gosh!"
"And to think what?" Freddy shot out the corner of his mouth as they
started lurching forward and up over the crest of the sand dune and
into full view of the enemy camp. "What were you going to say?"
"To think the day would come when you and I would walk up to a bunch of
Nazi slobs and say, 'Here we are,'" Dave grunted. "Of course it's all
for a reason, but--well, it sure gives me a funny feeling inside."
"I know just how you feel," Freddy said. "And I could feel a lot
better, myself. But if things work out our way, we should fret."
"Things _will_ work out for us!" Dave said grimly, and gave the English
youth's arm a squeeze. "They've _got_ to!"
Neither of them spoke for the next few minutes. They trudged forward
across the sand, purposely faltering in their steps now and then and
stumbling to their knees. Every second of the time, however, they kept
a watchful eye on the desert camp that was just about ready to move
forward. The sun was down below the rim of the world now, and night was
rushing forward from the east on black wings.
Stumbling step by stumbling step, they drew closer and closer to the
enemy camp. With each step they expected to hear a wild shout go up, a
shout that would mean they had been sighted. With each step, also, a
certain inner and unspoken fear walked with them, the tiny fear that
their little plan might fail horribly almost before it had been put
into action--the kind of failure, very definite and permanent, that the
bark of a rifle and a singing bullet would cause.
No rifles barked, however, and no challenging voices thundered across
the rolling sands. The tank, armored car, and truck motors had been
silenced after a short test run period, and the stillness of the vast
desert had closed down over everything. The boys impulsively held their
breath every now and then as though they and the entire world were
waiting for some sudden all destroying explosion to shatter what seemed
an eternity of silence.
"Are we going to have to bump right into those birds before they see
us?" Dave murmured desperately. "Gosh! We could have come this far on
a couple of motorcycles and saved our feet. The dopes are--"
"Shut up!" Freddy whispered out the corner of his mouth. "Here they
come! For goodness' sake don't keep your hand near your automatic. The
blighters have their rifles trained right on us."
It was true. A squad of Nazi desert troops, led by a corporal, came
dashing across the sand toward them with rifles held up and ready to
shoot.
"Lady Luck, stay with us, please!" Dave whispered softly as he and
Freddy lurched forward a few more steps.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Prisoners by Request_
"_Halt!_"
The order barked in German was akin to the crash of a rifle shot. The
two boys reeled forward one more step and then lifted their heads and
stared in surprise at the German non-commissioned officer who stood
straddle-legged in the sand directly in front of them. There was a
service Luger in his belt holster, but he wasn't using it. Instead he
held a short-barreled, rapid fire Mauser in his hands.
"Put up your hands!" he snarled in German.
Neither of the boys moved. They continued to stare at him in bewildered
dismay. Then Dave gave a little confused shake of his head.
"Germans!" he choked out. "These aren't our chaps, Freddy. We've run
into Germans. We've been captured! Oh, blast our luck!"
As Dave spoke he shot a keen glance at the expression on the corporal's
face. What he saw caused his heart to leap with hope. The man
obviously understood English, for a triumphant light leaped into his
eyes, and he smiled broadly.
"Yes, you have been captured," he said in English that was heavy with
Teutonic accent. "Put your hands up. I will take your automatics.
Careful, now! One move and I will shoot."
"Take them, and get it over with!" Freddy said in a hoarse voice. "All
we want is water and food. Where are we, anyway?"
The corporal took a cautious step or two forward, then snatched their
automatics from them. He looked at Freddy and grinned.
"Where are you?" he sneered. "What does it matter? You are my
prisoners. Now get moving. _Herr_ Colonel is anxious to meet you."
As though he considered that quite a joke, the German laughed loudly
and showed a set of very bad teeth. Then, motioning his squad of
soldiers to form about the two boys, he started back toward the camp.
Still continuing to act exhausted and all in, Freddy and Dave staggered
forward, faltering with every step, and reaching out to one another
for support to stop from pitching down onto the sand. All the time,
though, they shot glances at the desert camp through slitted eyelids.
Dave counted some sixty vehicles in all, and as he looked at them his
admiration for Nazi camouflage technique went up another point. Every
truck, every tank, and every armored car was daubed with paint in such
a way as to make it exactly the shades of the desert. Even two or three
tents that were still standing looked more like the desert than the
desert itself.
To all that, however, Dave gave but a passing look. What caught and
held his attention was the actual equipment. It all was right up to
the minute stuff. None of it was the shabby, slipshod equipment used
by Mussolini's forces in Northern Africa. It was all made-in-Germany
stuff, light, fast, highly mobile, and of high fire power. In short,
it was instantly obvious to Dave that this was a strong and completely
equipped attacking force of the Nazi army in Africa. It was no mere
scouting patrol. And there was one other item that impressed him at
once, too. It was all Nazi. He did not see a single Italian uniform as
the corporal marched them past groups of curious-eyed German soldiers
toward one of the tents on the far side of the camp. It was as plain as
the nose on his face that these Germans were out for business, serious
business. For that reason probably, they had no Italian troops along
with them who might break and flee for their lives at the sound of the
first shot, or the first smell of gunpowder in their noses.
Presently the corporal brought them to a halt in front of a desert
tent. It was the square type with slightly slanting roof and sides. The
front flap was lifted up and fastened to poles stuck in the sand to
serve as a sort of porch. But in the event of a sand storm, it could
be lowered at once and made fast so that those inside were completely
protected. Three portable tables had been placed side by side, and in
back of them sat two German officers. One was a colonel. His head was
the shape and size of a watermelon that was terribly sunburned. His
eyes were little more than slits cut in the flesh on either side of his
lumpy nose. His mouth was thin-lipped and much too wide. And on the
upper lip was a little patch of black that was supposed to be like the
little pen wiper mustache worn by his lord and master, Adolf Hitler.
The other officer was a major, and his appearance was the direct
opposite of his colonel's. He was thin as a rail, and tanned the color
of old leather. From the jaw to the forehead was three times as long as
from ear to ear was wide. His nose made Dave think of a letter opener.
His eyes were like green marbles, and his pointed chin could very well
have served as one end of a pick-axe.
The corporal smacked his heels together and almost threw his arm out of
joint saluting.
"Two English prisoners, _Herr_ Colonel," he said. "We found them
stumbling across the sand. They seem surprised that we were not of
their own forces. I have taken their guns away from them. Here they
are."
The corporal went forward two steps and placed the boys' automatics on
the tables. The German colonel didn't give them so much as a glance.
He kept his slitted eyes on his prisoners and stared at them as though
they had just popped out of some museum. Dave stared back weary-eyed
at him, and tried to read the look in his eyes. Did he see surprise,
chagrin, or angry wonder there? He couldn't tell, because the lids were
drawn so close.
"Where is your unit?"
The colonel suddenly spat out the question in German. The boys were
perfect actors. They looked blank, shook their heads, and shrugged.
"Do you speak English, sir?" Dave presently said. "And could we have
water, and--"