more. We more or less promised the general we wouldn't get too close to
the scrapping--just take a look-see around. Instead we tore in and got
us a Nazi apiece. But two's enough. I haven't got half a dozen bullets
left. Besides, this isn't our show, really. The other fellows deserve
their innings. Also, I've suddenly got a yen for the flight deck of the
Victory. What say? Shall we let these guys have their fun without us
butting in, and buzz home to the Victory?"
Freddy cast a sad glance about the sky swarming with British and Axis
planes, then sighed heavily and nodded.
"Right you are," he said. "Guess we've been selfish long enough. Yes,
the flight deck of the Victory would be fine. Hurry it up, though. I've
got something very important to do. Matter of life or death, you know."
"What?" Dave cried in alarm. "You--?"
"Never mind the questions!" Freddy cut him off. "Just get me to the
flight deck of the Victory as fast as you can."
Forty minutes later Dave sighted the aircraft carrier, and ten minutes
after that he received word from the operations officer to come aboard.
The huge ship looked strangely bare and alone as it steamed into the
wind. There wasn't a single plane on deck. All available ships were
in the air, either scouting for fragments of the Italian fleet or
lending their aid in the battle ashore. Just the same, the long smooth
deck looked like home sweet home to Dave as he guided his borrowed
two-seater fighting plane downward.
He came in clean as a whistle, and no sooner had the secret arresting
gear brought the plane to a halt than Group Captain Spencer seemed to
pop right out of thin air and come racing across the deck to greet
them.
"The happiest day of my life!" he cried, and reached up a helping hand.
"Climb down out of there, you two. Blessed if I don't want to hug and
kiss you. Fancy that!"
"First tell us about the others, sir," Dave said as he climbed down
onto the deck. "I mean, the other patrols that went out when we didn't
return. Did they get back okay?"
"Fit as fiddles, and without a speck of information!" the group captain
cried, "But we all know why, now. By George! Is it good to see you two!
I suppose you know you helped a little, eh?"
"Well," Dave said with a grin, "I hope we helped at least a little."
"Oh, it was a bit more than that," Group Captain Spencer said with a
mocking shrug. "All you did was save half the British army in Libya
from walking into a death trap. That, plus making it possible for us
to give the Nazis a licking that will slow them up long before they
reach Egypt. And when they do reach Egypt, we'll be able to hold them
until General Wavell's ready to run them all the way back where they
came from. Yes, you two helped some, I guess. And as soon as you're
rested up I want the whole story in detail. Don't leave out a thing. I
insist.... By George! Farmer, what's the matter?"
Freddy had squatted down on the deck and was tearing off his boots as
though his feet were on fire.
"Must get rid of them at once!" he panted, and struggled with his
boots. "Die if it touches me any longer. Most terrible stuff in the
world. Deadly poison. Absolutely fatal."
Dave's heart looped over as he remembered a squashed scorpion on a
Libyan desert rock.
"Freddy, what is it?" he cried, bending over. "What's in your shoes?
That stuff you talked about life and death in the plane? Freddy, speak
to me! _What's in your shoes?_"
The English youth got to his feet, picked up his two shoes and hurled
them far out over the side of the carrier. When they had hit the water
and sunk from sight, he shuddered and heaved a long grateful sigh.
"Sand," he said hoarsely. "Blasted desert sand!"
THE END
* * * * *
_A Page from_
DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL
Golden sunshine was streaming down on the broad wings of the American
built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat, but ominous coal black
clouds were beginning to pile up high in the western sky. Even as Dave
Dawson stared at them, they seemed to fling a dark shadow far out over
the rolling grey swells of the North Atlantic. He gave a little angry
shake of his head and impulsively took a tighter grip on the controls
of the flying boat.
"That storm looks plenty bad, Freddy," he said out of the corner of his
mouth. "What do you think?"
Freddy Farmer, seated in the co-pilot's seat, nodded grimly and glanced
at the altimeter. It showed exactly nine thousand feet.
"We'll just have to hit it on the nose, and pray," he said after a
moment. "If we climb above it we might just as well go back to port.
End of Project Gutenberg's Dave Dawson in Libya, by Robert Sydney Bowen