over the sand, and then let the plane sink down to one of the finest
landings he had ever made in his flying career. When he had braked the
plane to a stop, he sank back in in the seat and sighed heavily.
"And I'd go and waste a nice landing like that way out here!" he
grunted. "Well, I guess--Hey! _Hey, Freddy!_ Look over there! That
cloud of sand. What in thunder is it?"
To the right and far ahead, a cloud of swirling sand was moving swiftly
toward them. Both boys stared wide-eyed as the approaching cloud seemed
to grow bigger and bigger and spread up to the sides. Then suddenly
they saw dull colored objects under the cloud and moving over the sand.
Freddy found his tongue first.
"Tanks or armored cars heading for us!" he cried. "Blast them, I'm
jolly well going to make them pay for taking us prisoners. I won't just
walk into their waiting arms this time!"
As the English youth shouted the words, he stood up in the pit and
swung his mounted guns around to bear on the rapidly approaching cloud
of sand. Dave reached back and grabbed him by the arm.
"Hold it, Freddy!" he cried. "That would be just plain dumb. We've got
more than just ourselves to think about. It would be just plain foolish
to fight it out. They can blow us right out of the desert without half
trying. Then where'd we be? Keep your shirt on, and just keep thinking
of the maps and papers you've got stuffed under it."
The English youth's eyes blazed with anger, and he hesitated a moment
before he slowly dropped his hands away from the guns.
"Yes, of course you're right," he mumbled. "Getting ourselves killed
would simply spoil everything. But, good grief, what I wouldn't give
to--"
"Freddy, shut up, and look!" Dave interrupted in a wild voice. "They're
armored cars, but they're not German! Take a look! See? See the type?
Those are from a British unit. They're English! For cat's sake start
waving your arm before they start pegging bullets at us. This is a
Nazi plane, you know. And maybe those guys don't feel like taking
prisoners today!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath agreeing. He had seen for
himself. He popped up onto his feet, as did Dave also. And together
they started waving their arms at the most comforting sight they had
seen for many long hours--British made and British manned armored cars
of the desert!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
_Desert Wrath_
The British desert patrol consisted of four cars led by a small scout
car that flew a Staff pennant from one of the front fenders. The scout
car came straight at the landed Messerschmitt, while the patrol cars
circled around to the right and the left and came to a halt in a ring
about the plane. Two officers were riding in the scout car--a major,
and a lieutenant who sat at the wheel. When the car stopped, the major
jumped out and ran toward the plane, one hand on his holstered service
automatic. He was tall and broad-shouldered and was tanned a deep
mahogany from many weeks and months under the blazing desert sun. The
decoration and campaign ribbons on his tunic showed that he had served
his King in the last war as well as in this one.
"Don't shoot, sir, we're English!" Freddy shouted, and scrambled down
from the plane.
The major stopped dead and stared at them, wide-eyed. Then he took a
cautious step forward, his right hand still resting on the butt of his
gun.
"What the devil?" he gasped. "Infantry officers flying a plane? What's
this all about?"
"Pilot Officers Dawson and Farmer from the Aircraft Carrier Victory,
sir," Freddy said. "We've just escaped from the Nazis far to the south,
and were on our way to G.H.Q. when we were attacked by a trio of Nazi
pilots. We got two of them, but the third beggar got our engine and we
were forced to come down. Thank God you saw us, sir."
"Thank God we didn't open fire on you," the major grunted. "We don't
care much for Nazi planes. But what's this about escaping? Nazis far to
the south? That's rot! The desert's bare as can be."
"That's what you think!" Dave cried before he could check his tongue.
Then, blushing, "Sorry, sir. I mean, it looks that way, but the desert
is practically alive with them. Freddy, let's show the major our stuff,
and tell him the whole story. You tell him."
Just about six minutes later the major, who said he was Major Alden,
of the 41st Armored Division, was probably the most amazed and
dumbfounded person in all Libya, and Egypt as well. He could hardly
take his eyes off the maps and papers the boys pulled out from under
their shirts and spread out on one wing of the Messerschmitt One-Ten.
The other officer in the scout car, a Lieutenant Baxby, joined them,
and he too was struck speechless.
"Bless my hat, bless my hat!" Major Alden kept mumbling. "The
whole blasted plan of attack. Units, numbers, gun strength, air,
navy--everything. Great guns! I'll never be able to believe it!"
"But it's true, sir," Dave spoke up. "That Nazi colonel actually told
us what he planned. He was shooting off his--I mean, he was boasting.
Like Nazis do, because he thought he had us for keeps. Can you give us
a lift to the nearest radio post, sir? The sooner we notify G.H.Q. the
better it will be, I think."
"Eh, give you a lift?" the major echoed looking up from the maps and
military papers. "I'll jolly well drive you there myself, straight to
General Maitland at Tobruk H.Q. We can make it by just before sundown
if we hop along now. Great guns! The blighters would have wiped out the
lot of us in no time at all. God bless the R.A.F., I say!"
The major gathered up the stuff on the wing and spun around to his
junior officer.
"Take over the patrol, Baxby," he ordered. "Ride in Sergeant Tucker's
car. Head back to the post at once, and have all other patrols called
in immediately. Then move back to Tobruk to await orders. Got it?"
"Right you are, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Then off with you," the major ordered. "Come along, you two R.A.F.
lads. Blast it, if this isn't like a cinema thriller!"
Motioning the two boys to climb in back, the major slid in behind the
wheel, shifted gears and sent the light, fast scout car careening
around and toward the north. The violent movement pitched Freddy and
Dave down onto the floor, and by the time they had scrambled up onto
the little stools again and were clutching the two mounted machine
guns for support, the car was like a brown streak of lightning ripping
across the surface of the sand and leaving a swirling trail behind.
"Gosh!" Dave shouted above the roar of the engine. "If we had wings
this darned thing would take off!"
"Dashed if I don't think we already have!" Freddy called back. "Look
over there to the right, Dave! Look at the color of the sky."
To the east the sky was filled with a dull copperish haze. It spread
out to the side for miles and towered high into the heavens. It was as
though a huge expanse of copper screen mesh had been spread across the
blue of the Libyan sky. At its highest point the sun was perched like a
brass ball on the top of a flag pole.
"Maybe it's going to rain," Dave suggested. "Maybe rain clouds are that
color in this neck of the woods."
"Rain in March?" Freddy snorted. "The rainy season's long over before
then. That's some kind of a desert storm, I think."
Freddy let go of the machine gun mounting long enough to lean forward
toward the front seat.
"What's that sky mean off to the right, sir?" He shouted the question.
The major took his eyes off the desert ahead just long enough to flash
a snap glance toward the copperish-colored sky to the east. As he saw
it, he started slightly, and his sandy-colored brows came together in a
frown.
"Sand storm!" he called back over his shoulder. "And if it catches up
with us it'll be very nasty indeed. That's a good one, too. Getting
close to the time of year when they kick up quite a bit. If we can't
outrace it, duck low and stay there. The stuff's like powdered glass.
Dash it all! Even the weather's fighting for the Nazi. I--"
The dreaded snarl of aerial machine gun fire cut off the rest of the
major's statement. Dave whirled around and stared upward and to the
rear. He saw the diving plane at once. It was a Messerschmitt One-Nine.
As a matter of fact, he was positive it was the same One-Nine that
had quit that last air battle and gone racing off home. Obviously,
though, the pilot had come back, sighted the One-Ten on the ground, and
the scout car speeding across the desert to the north. He had added
things up to get the right answer, and was now making a final effort to
prevent valuable information from reaching British headquarters.
"The bum has come back, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and swung one of the
machine guns around on its swivel mounting. "He wants some more, so
let's give it to him!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath replying. He simply nodded,
swung the other gun around and lined up the diving plane in his sights.
A split second later both boys were sending savage bursts of bullets
up at the diving plane. The Messerschmitt did not swerve off, however,
even though Dave could see their tracers slapping right into the plane.
The German pilot was determined to do his worst while he lived. He
came right on downward, engine howling a song of mighty power, and all
of his guns spewing out streaks of nickel-jacketed lead bullets.
"That guy sure can take it!" Dave shouted as he continued to pump
bullets up at the plane. "Maybe he's gone nuts and plans to dive right
down into us."
"Let him!" Freddy shouted back without taking his eyes off the plane.
"It will be the last dive that beggar makes, anyway!"
"And a lot of good that will do _us_!" Dave cried. "We'll--_Hey!_"
The speeding scout car had suddenly careened around crazily to the
left. The violent movement tore Dave's hands from his machine gun and
flung him heavily up against Freddy. He regained his balance as soon as
possible, shot a questioning look toward the major at the wheel, let
out a bellow of alarm and dived forward.
"Keep at that plane, Freddy!" he shouted, "The major's been hit--and
bad!"
It was even worse than that. The major had received a burst of bullets
straight through the back of his head. He was stone dead and slumped
over the wheel of the car. Bracing himself as best he could, Dave
hauled the limp body to the side with one hand and clutched wildly for
the wheel with the other, and somehow managed to straighten out the car
before the terrific turning motion sent it off balance and spinning
over and over across the surface of the sand.
The instant he had the car straightened out, he pushed and shoved the
dead major out of the seat and scrambled in behind the wheel himself.
In his ears was the continuous yammer of the Messerschmitt's guns,
and the retaliating chatter of Freddy Farmer's single gun in back. He
didn't dare turn his head for a look, however. He kept his eyes front
and made the car zigzag as much as he could to throw off the diving
pilot's aim.
Suddenly there came a wild shout of triumph from Freddy Farmer's lips.
"That will teach you, you blasted blighter!" Freddy roared. "Now you
can't go back home!"
Hardly had the last reached Dave's ears before he heard the sickening
sound that a plane makes when it dives engine full out into the
ground--a sickening sound no words can describe. An instant later there
was the roar of the gas tanks exploding, and as Dave jerked his head
around to risk a quick look, he saw a fountain of flame and smoke that
shot upward. Impulsively he eased off the scout car's speed a bit, and
took a deep breath.
"Thanks, Freddy!" he called back over his shoulder. "I knew you could
do it. Poor Major Alden! What a tough break for him. Gosh! I almost
wish he hadn't spotted us. Then this wouldn't have happened to him.
Can you lift him in back, Freddy, and then come up front here with me?
We'll have to use your pocket compass for a course. I've lost mine, and
the burst that got the major raised heck with his dash compass. Can you
lift him back, or do you want me to stop and give you a hand?"
"Stop nothing!" Freddy cried in wild alarm. "Drive like blazes, Dave!
Look at that sand storm! It's almost on top of us. You keep driving.
I'll get him back here all right!"
As Dave turned his head and looked to the east, his heart zoomed up
into his throat. The coppery sky had changed to dull black, streaked
with shafts of swirling yellowish white. In that instant the whole
world seemed to stand still. All sound ceased, save the roar of the
scout car's engine. And its sound was twice as loud because of the
sudden silencing of everything else.
"Gosh!" Dave whispered in awe as his eyes stayed glued to the hovering
menace aloft that seemed ready to spring upon them in the next split
second. "Holy smoke! Like the end of the world, or something. It's--
Hey, Freddy, what's the humming sound? No, more like a whine, I guess."
Freddy didn't have time to offer his guess. A low hum that seemed to be
sweeping across the desert suddenly rose up to a blood-curdling scream
that blasted the surrounding silence to the four corners of the earth.
The lull and the silence were no more. In the bat of an eyelid the fury
of a Libyan desert storm swept down upon the boys in full force. The
car shuddered, and rocked, and threatened to roll over on its side from
the terrific impact of the wind driven sand clouds slashing against it.
Dave bent low and clung to the bucking wheel with every inch of his
strength.
Daylight was no more. All about him was a swirling, twisting, screaming
inferno of shadowy darkness. Billions and billions of tiny pin points
of pain slashed at his face and hands. They even seemed to dart through
his uniform and practically scrape the skin from his body. It was
impossible to keep his eyes open to see where he was driving. If he
did, he would be blinded in the flash of a split second. All he could
do was keep his head bent low, his face shielded from the furious
onslaught of the desert storm, and hold the wheel as steady as he could
and pray that he was steering a northerly course.
As the fury of the storm increased, and the high, shrill scream of the
wind seemed like daggers of fire in his ears, he was tempted to swing
the car around and race with the storm in the hope of outdistancing it.
He checked the urge, however, because of the possible consequences. If
they once lost direction in this storm, it would be all over for them.
True, they had Freddy's compass and they could always find north. But
from where? That was the point. If he tried to run with the storm,
he might get so twisted up that he'd be racing back to the south.
Then when the storm passed they would be farther than ever from their
destination.
No, it was best to hold a general northerly course now, and pray they
could live out the storm. At least the swirling sand would not choke up
the engine and put it out of commission. That was their greatest fear,
and as Dave strained his ears to catch the roar of the engine, and to
feel it by the vibration of the wheel, his heart stood still, and the
blood was so much sluggish ice water in his veins.
The car's engine, however, had been adequately protected for just such
a situation as it now faced. And it kept roaring out its song of power
that spun the wheels and sent the car rocketing forward slam bang into
the teeth of the storm. Seconds totaled up to minutes, and the minutes
mounted up one on top of the other until Dave felt as though he had
been plowing through the raging desert inferno since the very day he
was born. Wave after wave of stinging pain swept over his body. Every
muscle and bone ached. His head felt three times its size and throbbed
unmercifully. It was like racing down a long black tunnel filled with
roaring thunder, for he dared not open his eyes. He wondered how
Freddy was making out. He didn't dare take his hands from the wheel.
Nor did he dare open his mouth to call out. His words would not only
go unheard, but he would also instantly get a mouthful of stinging
wind-swirled sand.
There was just one thing, and one thing alone to do: hang on hard to
the wheel to keep the car traveling a straight course to the north.
Swirling sand, screaming wind, and a hundred new aches and pains
attacking his body every minute. Dave's mind became a spinning blurr, a
blank. Fighting instinct kept him clutching the wheel and guiding the
scout car ever northward. Fighting instinct and a will-power of iron
refused to permit him to brake the car to a halt and sink exhausted
down onto the floor of the car out of the swirling sand and the
cutting wind. He lost all track of time. Time even ceased to exist. It
was as though the howling, screaming sand storm had always been about
him, and always would be. There was no end. Everything would be like
this forever and ever.
"Dave! Dave, come out of it! Dave, wake up. The storm's over. It's
gone. Dave, look at me. Look at me!"
From a thousand miles away he heard Freddy Farmer's voice droning in
his ears. His pal was punching his shoulder, grabbing hold of him and
shaking him violently. Through sand-burned eyelids he stared fixedly at
a limitless expanse of desert stretching out ahead of him. Suddenly,
something seemed to let go of his brain and he realized what it all
meant.
The car wasn't moving. The engine had stopped. The desert storm had
passed on and was now blotting out the sun in the western sky. The
desert was the desert again. He turned his head slowly and stared at
Freddy. It was like looking at a ghost. The English youth was covered
with fine white sand dust from head to toe. It was caked in his hair,
caked on his face, and was sticking like a layer of white glue to his
tattered uniform.
"Dave, are you all right?" Freddy gasped, and shook him again. "You've
been driving for fifteen minutes as though you were hypnotized, just
clinging to that wheel for dead life and staring straight ahead. I had
to switch off the ignition to stop the car. You were absolutely deaf to
every word I said. Are you all right?"
"Sure, I'm okay," Dave heard his own voice say. "Gosh! Driving with
my eyes open? Holy smoke! The last thing I remember was driving blind
with my eyes shut and my head ducked down. And, hey, it must be late
afternoon. That storm lasted for hours. Wonder where we are?"
"I don't know," Freddy said. "But we're headed north, anyway. The sun's
over there on our left, so we must be headed north. Phew! How you were
able to keep on driving through that inferno I don't know. I ducked
down on the floor, and just didn't have the strength to get up and give
you a hand. You must be made of steel, Dave!"
"I sure don't feel as if I were right now," Dave said, and grinned,
stiff-lipped. "But let's get going again. The ground seems to rise up
quite a bit just ahead there. Maybe we'll see something on the other
side. Boy, oh boy, do I hope it's something besides desert."
"If it isn't, I swear I'll go stark raving mad," Freddy muttered. "If
I never see a desert again that'll be much too soon."
"You and me both," Dave grunted and started the engine again. "So cross
your fingers, Freddy, and pray hard. Here we go for the top of that
rise!"
It took ten minutes to reach the top of the high point of desert, but
every second of those ten minutes was a lifetime of torturing suspense
to Dave and Freddy. Neither of them spoke a word, but the same question
stood out in letters of fire in their brains. What was beyond the rise
of ground? For the last fifty yards Dave fed every ounce of gas to the
pounding engine that it would take, and the car fairly streaked over
the sand. Then finally they roared up and onto the crest. Dave slammed
on the brakes, and sat motionless, unable to utter a word. Emotion ran
riot within him, and the hot tears of inexpressible joy stung the backs
of his eyes. Freddy threw both arms about him and hugged him like a
long lost brother.
"There it is, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "The good old
Union Jack flying from the pole. The British flag. That's Tobruk, Dave.
I recognize it from pictures. Tobruk. You hit it on the nose, Dave.
Right on the nose!"
"Tobruk!" Dave whispered softly. "Tobruk, and--and I'll never forget
how good you look as long as I live. Never!"
"The end of the trail, and in time!" Freddy breathed, and unashamed
tears of joy streaked the caked sand on his cheeks.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
_Claws of the British Lion_
A continuous roaring thunder that seemed to shake the entire world
greeted the new Libyan dawn. The roaring thunder of war on the land,
in the air, and on the sea. Thanks to Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer,
the British Middle East High Command had been warned in time to call
in its outpost forces and concentrate them into a swift mobile force
that streaked out to smash hard at the enemy forces stealing in for a
surprise attack that never took place.
On land the British forces struck the middle and both flanks of
the enemy desert forces and sent them reeling back into the desert
scattered and completely disorganized, and suffering terrific
casualties. To the west at El Aghelia, and Bengazi, other Nazi-Italian
units found nothing but small British rear guard units that made them
pay far more for every foot of ground they captured than that foot of
ground was worth. It was the same at many other points, too. Instead
of being surprised, it was General Wavell's armies that surprised the
Axis units. They weren't where the Nazi and Italians had fully expected
them to be. They were like ghost armies that faded out of sight, and
then suddenly materialized on a Nazi flank to crush a tank company
as though they were so many toys, and to spread terror and complete
befuddlement in the enemy ranks.
In the air every available R.A.F. plane had been hurled into the
battle. Carefully guarded Nazi fuel supply truck units and ammunition
trains and armored car columns were blasted into eternity by the rain
of bombs and bullets showered down from R.A.F. wings. Nazi and Italian
planes were shot down like flies. Numbers made no more difference to
the R.A.F. boys on the wing than numbers meant to the brave-hearted,
two-fisted fighting British, and Australian, and New Zealand and South
African soldiers on the ground. They gave ground, yes, but they left
nothing worth the holding. And the Axis forces paid one of the highest
prices in history for stretches of useless hot desert land.
On the sea, units of the Mediterranean fleet were doing their share,
too. Italian navy ships sent to take part in the surprise Axis attack
were caught cold by John Bull's sailors, and were scattered about the
blue waters of the Mediterranean like helpless chunks of steel. Not
a single Italian naval shell was fired ashore into the ranks of the
British troops. The Italians didn't have the chance to fire a single
shell. The British sailors caught them in a perfect trap and plastered
them from bow to stern with screaming shells. In a couple of hours
there wasn't a single Italian ship in sight off the Libyan coast. Those
that had not gone down under the waves were scurrying like terrified
ducks for the safety of their bases in Naples and in Taranto, leaving
behind the British navy in supreme command of Libyan waters.
In one of the R.A.F. planes that roared above the raging war inferno
that stretched from El Aghelia in the west to Bardia and Sollum in the
east, were Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. They were still caked with
sand, and they still wore their tattered uniforms. And they were dead
tired and practically all in. But not for all the gold in the world,
or all the discipline in the world, would they have remained on the
ground inactive during this great conflict in the middle East. The
high ranking officers of British G.H.Q. had suggested, begged, and
practically demanded that they go to a hospital in Tobruk, and place
themselves under a doctor's care at once. But arguments, threats, and
demands had simply fallen on deaf ears. In the end, and with frank
admiration glowing in his eyes, General Maitland had granted permission
for them to take a plane from one of the nearby R.A.F. bases and go
aloft for an hour or so to watch the gigantic battle. At the end of
an hour, however, they were to fly out to sea to the Victory, whose
position had been given to them.
"Five minutes more, Dave!" Freddy shouted above the roar of their
engine. "Think we can get just one more Heinkel bomber before we head
for the Victory?"
Dave turned in the cockpit, grinned at him, and shook his head.