DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET
_by_ R. SIDNEY BOWEN
_Author of_: "DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A. F."
"DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA"
"DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL"
"DAVE DAWSON, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT"
"DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE"
CROWN PUBLISHERS
New York
COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CONTENTS
I ORDER FOR EAGLES 9
II CENTER OF THE WORLD 21
III SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT 32
IV DEATH IN THE PACIFIC 47
V SILENT WINGS 58
VI MIDNIGHT MENACE 69
VII PILOT'S LUCK 81
VIII NOBODY'S AIRPORT 94
IX RESCUE WINGS 108
X VULTURE'S NEST 121
XI A LITTLE BIT OF ENGLAND! 131
XII WESTWARD TO WAR 149
XIII DEATH STRIKES OFTEN 161
XIV INVISIBLE WALLS 174
XV BATTLE STATIONS 187
XVI WATER RATS 201
XVII EAGLE MADNESS 219
XVIII DEATH HATES TO LOSE 233
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET
CHAPTER ONE
_Order For Eagles_
Very much like a little boy who is seeing his first Christmas tree,
Freddy Farmer stared pop-eyed out the Clipper's lounge window and down
at the man-made magic that was New York City. For a full five minutes
he had been gaping at the sight, not moving a muscle, not making a
sound, and practically holding his breath all of the time. At his side
and with an arm thrown across the English-born R.A.F. ace's shoulders
was Dave Dawson, grinning from ear to ear, and getting the kick of his
life out of the spell that a first look at Gotham had cast upon his
bosom pal, and hard-hitting flying partner.
Finally he couldn't wait any longer to hear what Freddy had to say.
"Well?" he encouraged.
"Well, what?" Freddy murmured in little more than a whisper.
"What do you think of the old town, huh?" Dave asked with a happy
chuckle.
The English youth blinked, swallowed hard, and gave a little uncertain
shake of his head.
"Unbelievable, incredible!" he finally got out. "Are--are those really
buildings down there? The New York skyscrapers I've heard so much
about?"
By way of making his question clear, Freddy pointed at the towering
heaps of stone that formed the Wall Street and midtown sections of the
city. Dave squinted down and grunted.
"Those little shacks?" he echoed. "Why, those are just the little huts
where the poor people live. Wait until you see the real buildings. How
high are we, anyway? Hope the pilot of this thing stays over three
thousand feet. Be tough to smack into a skyscraper, you know."
Freddy Farmer snorted and dug an elbow into Dawson's ribs.
"Oh, come off it, funny lad!" he snapped. "That one wasn't even worth
a quiet smile. Point out some of the buildings, will you? The Empire
State Building. Where is it, anyway?"
Dawson pointed it out to his friend, and then went on to point out many
of the other buildings of Manhattan that were famous the world around.
"But the Empire State tops them all," he said at the end of his little
tourist guide speech. "Funny thing about it, though. The Empire State
is the tallest building in the world, but it's not the highest. Ever
realize that?"
Freddy took his eyes off the view just long enough to give him a
quizzical stare.
"The tallest, but not the highest?" he said. "What kind of rubbish is
that?"
"It's a fact," Dawson said gravely. "Didn't you know you've got
buildings in England higher than the Empire State?"
The English youth sighed and gave a little shrug of his shoulders.
"I always felt there was something funny about America," he grunted.
"But I never knew that seeing your homeland affected you Yanks this
way. We have buildings in England taller than your Empire State? What
utter rubbish!"
"I didn't say taller, I said _higher_!" Dawson chuckled. "Take the city
hall out in Denver, Colorado. Denver's a mile above sea level, but New
York is just about sea level. Catch on? The Denver City Hall is over
four thousand feet _higher_ than the Empire State. Try that on your
friends when you get back to England."
"Blasted likely I will!" Freddy snorted. "They'd have me locked up sure
for a balmy one. But don't talk about getting back to England. Good
grief! I've only just arrived in America. And speaking of coming to
America, I'd certainly like to know--"
"Yeah, me too," Dave cut in, and suddenly leaned closer to the window
glass. "Hello, Sweetheart!" he cried, and threw a kiss. "Have you been
lonesome for me, Sweet? Well, here I am, Precious. And am I tickled
pink to see you!"
As Dawson talked and went through the motions of throwing kisses,
Freddy Farmer paled slightly and glanced anxious-eyed about the
Clipper's lounge to see if any of the other passengers were watching.
They weren't, however. They were all too busy filling their own eyes
with New York. Finally Freddy turned back to Dave.
"Are you all right, Dave?" he asked. "Not air sick, or anything? Then
for pity's sake, stop all this rot! Where in the world do you think you
are? On the stage? And what in heaven's name are you acting out?"
"Acting nothing!" Dawson snapped. "The real thing, pal! I'm just saying
hello to my girl, my sweetheart. I haven't seen her for a couple of
years, you know. There she is down there. See her?"
The English youth looked eagerly out the window again, but his
eagerness disappeared at once, and he groaned softly.
"As though you could see anybody from this height!" he growled. "You've
just gone plain balmy with joy at being back in your own country. But
I'm telling you right now that if you keep it up, I'm going to quit you
and go back to England even if I have to swim it. Frankly, I think I
must have been a little balmy myself to have come over here with you in
the first place. See your girl waiting for you? Rot! Matter of fact, I
recall your telling me that you didn't have any girl."
"I haven't," Dawson said with a grin. "Only this lady is very special.
She's the sweetheart of every returning American. Always waits in the
same place, holding up a torch so you can find your way in. There she
is, down there. See her? Over two million Yanks threw goodbye and hello
kisses at her in the last war. She was born in France, but she's been
Yank ever since the day she came over. Freddy, meet my very special
sweetheart. Isn't she something, though?"
Pulling the English youth closer to the window, Dave Dawson pointed a
finger down at the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Freddy stared
at it long and silently. Then presently he nodded and smiled at Dawson.
"No, I guess you're not so balmy as I thought," he said. "I see what
you mean and I quite agree. She is, indeed, the sweetheart of all you
Yank chaps. She stands for the most cherished thing in all of your
great country: Liberty!"
"Yes," Dave said gravely. "And I hope and pray that before long what
she stands for will extend around the world and to each of the Poles."
"Amen!" Freddy Farmer breathed softly. Then, as his young face grew
hard and grim: "It will come, Dave. Maybe you, and I, and thousands of
chaps like us, may not live to see it. But it will come, just as sure
as there is a sun in the heavens by day, and stars by night. I'm not
one of those heavy-thinking blokes who can spill out wonderful words
by the yard, but ever since this blasted mess started I haven't once
had even the tiniest feeling that Hitler and his murderers would win in
the end. And now that the United States is in it, I simply feel that
victory will be ours just that much sooner."
"Feel the same way," Dave murmured, and stared unseeing out the window.
"But it's going to be a scrap, and a tough one. Those dirty Japs got
the jump on us. And they're in high gear right now, while Uncle Sam is
still shifting into first. But it won't be long before the old guy with
the whiskers gets rolling. And when he does, Mr. Jap, and Adolf, and
Muzzy the Fuzzy, you're going to catch it from all sides--and plenty!
And--Hold everything! I sound like a Congressman dedicating a post
office, or something. Let's change the subject. Gosh, Freddy, but you
look funny in civilian clothes."
"Oh, do I?" the English youth flared up and flushed. "Well, let me tell
you, my little man, you'd never take any prizes at a fashion show for
men. You'd--"
"Get down off your ear, pal!" Dave stopped him with a chuckle. "I
didn't mean that the way you took it. I mean that I've been so used
to seeing you in uniform that it seems sort of cockeyed to see you in
civies. They're a swell fit, and you'll knock the ladies of Broadway
and Fifth Avenue for a loop. So don't get hot under the collar."
"Well, that's a little better!" Freddy growled. Then, with a sheepish
grin: "To tell the truth, I feel just as strange as I must look. It's
really a very nice suit of clothes, but I feel all out of place wearing
it. That is--"
"I know what you mean," Dave chuckled. "Feel that way, too. As if a
Wing Commander, or somebody, were liable to pop up out of nowhere and
bawl the pants off me for not being dressed for a rush take-off and a
scramble. Well, anyway, never a dull moment for us, hey, Freddy?"
The English youth laughed and shook his head, then ran a fingertip
along the bottom of the window and furrowed his brows in a puzzled
scowl.
"No, never a dull moment," he said. "But I wish that some of those
moments could be explained to us now and then. I--well, I don't mean
anything against America, Dave. And I'm certainly willing and anxious
to go wherever I'm ordered. But--well, you've got oodles and oodles of
pukka pilots over here. Why should we be sent over here to instruct?
After the Singapore business, why were we recalled to England and then
sent out here? Why not to some other Front? Russia, or Libya, or right
where we were in the Far East?"[1]
[Footnote 1: _Dave Dawson At Singapore._]
"_Instruct?_" Dave echoed sharply, and gave his pal a keen look. "What
do you mean, instruct? Were you told something I wasn't told? Holy
tripe! If they make a darned instructor out of me, I'll wreck every
ship until they realize I'm no good at that sort of thing. Instruct?
Why, doggone it, I--"
"I say, don't go sailing off your topper!" Freddy cried in alarm.
"Nobody told me anything. I simply said instruct, because I'm blessed
if I can think of any other reason why the Air Ministry should send us
over here."
"Instruct!" Dave groaned and made a face. "Gosh! Have you spoiled my
homecoming by bringing that up. But, heck, Freddy! You must be all
wet on that idea. Why ship us halfway around the world to teach Yank
fledglings how to fly? That doesn't make sense. Why not at least send
us straight to Canada?"
Freddy Farmer pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. But there was a
very impish look in his eyes that Dave missed completely.
"Well, of course you're very famous," Farmer murmured. "You have quite
a record for bringing down Nazi planes. British ones, too. Crashes,
and rotten landings, you know. Come to think of it, perhaps it's
because of those crashes."
"Crashes!" Dawson cried as his eyes flashed. "Listen, you little wing
crumpler! For every crate I've busted up, you've--"
"No doubt Churchill got in touch with your President," the English
youth went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "They often
talk with each other by trans-oceanic phone, I understand. Perhaps
right after Pearl Harbor, Churchill called up and said, 'I say, Mr.
President! That chap, Dave Dawson--he's one of you Yanks, you know.'
And your President said, 'Oh, yes, Dawson. Has that blighter crashed
again, Mr. Prime Minister?' To which Churchill replied, 'Can't say, Mr.
President. Haven't looked over the R.A.F. flight reports for the day
yet. It's quite likely, though. But what I called about, Mr. President:
Now that you're in this war, do you think you could take the little
beggar off our hands? Our aircraft production is on the rise, but--'"
Freddy Farmer cut off the last as he suddenly realized that he was only
talking to the Clipper's window. He swung around on his heel, gulped,
and blushed to the roots of his hair. Dave Dawson and some dozen other
passengers of the Clipper were standing there in a group smiling at him.
"It's the altitude, ladies and gentlemen," Dave said loudly. "On the
ground he's really quite a nice guy. But go on, Freddy. I didn't mean
to interrupt. Sorry."
His whole face on fire, Freddy Farmer took a step forward, fists
bunched. Then he quickly relaxed, and grinned.
"Fancy I asked for it," he said. Then, with a grave bow at the other
passengers, he added, "It's undoubtedly the truth, though. He has
crashed more than any other pilot in the R.A.F. Just look at his face.
Nothing but countless crashes could make it look like that. I ask you!"
"Okay, that evens up!" Dave cried, as everybody joined in the laugh.
"But you sounded as if you were set for hours."
At that moment the steward came into the lounge and requested the
passengers to take their seats while the landing was being made. As
Dave dropped into his seat next to Freddy, a tingle of excitement
quivered through his body, and his heart started whanging around in his
chest like a broken piston rod. Back home! Back home to the good old
U.S.A. He still could hardly believe that it was true. It was more like
living out a dream--a wonderful, joy-filled dream. He was afraid that
almost any second he would wake up and find himself back in his hut at
some Royal Air Force Fighter Squadron in England, or Egypt, or India,
or the Far East.
"But it's not a dream, it's true!" he heard his own voice mutter
softly. "And that's just _why_ it doesn't make sense! Why _should_ it
be true? Why _did_ the Air Ministry send Freddy and me over here?"
CHAPTER TWO
_Center Of The World_
As the giant Pan-American Clipper went sliding down toward the landing
basin off LaGuardia Field, that question sounded again and again in
Dave's brain like a tolling bell. But each time he could think of no
answer that seemed reasonable or logical. And each time he groped for
the answer, he mentally kicked himself for not having taken the bull by
the horns and found out a few things when he had the chance.
That chance had come just a few days ago; two days after he and Freddy
had returned from their special assignment in the Singapore area of
the war. They hadn't been appointed to any squadron upon their arrival
in London. Fact was, they had been given a week's leave to enjoy
themselves in the war-torn but still very much chin-up city. They did
have fun for two days. Then came the order to report to a certain
room at the Air Ministry. It turned out to be the office of Air
Vice-Marshal Stoneham, in charge of Active Service Personnel.
For the first few minutes the high ranking Air Ministry official had
inquired about their health, how they liked being back in London, and a
lot of other things that were of equal "value" in waging a winning war.
Then suddenly he had informed them that they were leaving the next day
for the United States. It was with great difficulty that they kept from
toppling right out of their chairs. And while each struggled to catch
his breath and gain control of his tongue, the Air Vice-Marshal had
gone on to say that they would fly to Lisbon by British Airways, and
from Lisbon to New York by Pan-American Clipper. Upon arriving at New
York they would be met by a member of the British Embassy at Washington
who would escort them to the Nation's Capital.
"So there you are, Flight Lieutenants," the Air Vice-Marshal had
finished up with a smile while they still tried to get their feet back
on the ground. "You can pick up traveling vouchers and what-not on the
way out. Good luck, and happy landings, and all that sort of thing.
Certainly wish I were going along with you. Wonderful country, America.
Of course it isn't England, but it's still quite all right, no end."
Perhaps fifteen seconds after that, Dave and Freddy found themselves
accepting travel vouchers and other papers from a junior officer. And
another couple of minutes after that they found themselves out on
the street and headed back toward their hotel. Gosh, yes! He should
have asked a few questions of that Air Vice-Marshal when he had the
chance. But that had been the trouble. He hadn't had the chance. Things
had happened with such startling suddenness and rapidity that--well,
_bingo_, he and Freddy were on the Clipper flying west.
"I wish I hadn't even said it!"
Dave snapped out of his old thought trance and glanced at Freddy Farmer.
"Wish you hadn't said what?" he demanded.
The English youth sighed, made a face, and gestured with one hand.
"That bit about us coming over here to instruct American fledglings,"
he said. "The more I think of it, the more I'm afraid that it just
might be true. That would be terrible, Dave. Not that I don't want to
do everything possible to help, you understand. But instruct? I'd be
perfectly rotten at that game. I'm sure of it!"
"Me too!" Dawson groaned as his heart started sinking again. "And it
would just be my luck to get some student who didn't know a flat spin
from a three dollar hat. But I'm sure it can't be that. Heck! Let's
look at the bright side. Maybe they've sent us over here to take charge
of American war flying."
"Hardly!" Freddy said with a chuckle. "After all, the United Nations
really are very keen to _win_ the war, you know. And with you--"
"Skip it!" Dave cut in. "I was only trying to make conversation."
"Don't bother," Freddy murmured, and looked out the window. "It's quite
interesting enough to watch one of these big ladies come down and land.
Phew! That LaGuardia Field is certainly a big place, isn't it?"
"Fair, just fair," Dave grunted. "It's really just one of our emergency
fields, you know. Why, we've got airports over here that are so big
that they serve breakfast at the start of the take-off and lunch when
the transport passes over the far end of the field. And--"
"And glide from there to a landing on the next airport, eh?" Freddy
Farmer grunted.
"You're learning too fast," Dave said with a grin. "I wonder who'll
meet us."
"_I_ wonder if he'll be able to tell us anything!" Freddy added. "For
two pennies I'd refuse to budge an inch until I'm told what this is all
about."
"Do that and you'll _be told_!" Dave said with a chuckle. "But not the
way you think, sweetheart. Ah, nice! A sweet landing, that one. These
Clipper captains sure know their onions when it comes to over-water
flying. Well, there's the dock, and customs shed. And I wonder who
in that crowd is our welcoming committee. Gee! I hope we can spend a
little while in New York so I can show you off to the natives."
"Never mind the natives," Freddy said as the huge Clipper was mushed
through the water toward the landing dock. "I'll be perfectly content
to see the sights."
"And I'm just the guy who can show them to you," Dave said. "Right from
the Battery up to the Bronx Zoo. No. Nix on the Bronx Zoo. Can't take
chances."
"Chances on what?" Freddy said as he walked into it with both eyes shut.
"The chances of coming out with the wrong baboon," Dave replied
instantly.
Freddy Farmer swung but missed by a mile. Dave had caught up his
bag and was out of his seat and heading forward. Five minutes later
they had cleared customs and were standing on American soil. They
stood there for a minute wondering if the party who was supposed to
meet them had missed connections, and if they should go on into the
Administration Building waiting room and kill time until he showed up.
However, they had hardly started wondering when a neatly dressed man
approached them with a smile. One look and you practically saw the map
of England stamped on his ruddy face. He wore civilian clothes, but it
was easy to see that he was more accustomed to a uniform.
"Flight Lieutenants Dawson and Farmer, eh?" he said, and extended
his hand. Then, before they could do no more than nod: "I'm Captain
Smith-Standers, attached to the military mission at Washington. The
welcoming committee, and all that sort of thing. Have a nice trip,
what?"
"A swell one, thanks, Captain," Dave said. "Sure seems good to get
back. Of course, Farmer, here, was a little worried coming across. Not
used to flying, you know. But we've got a million questions to ask you,
Captain. And the first is--"
Dave stopped as the British officer shook his head and raised a
restraining hand.
"Don't even bother to ask the first one, you chaps," he said with a
laugh. "I'm blessed if I know what the answer is. I was simply ordered
to pop up here and pop you two back to Washington. But I say, you mean
you don't know why you're here, eh?"
"Quite!" Freddy spoke up. "We haven't the faintest idea. And I can
tell you it's been driving us balmy wondering on the way across. Air
Vice-Marshal Stoneham simply gave us our traveling vouchers and shooed
us out of Air Ministry."
"Well, that's the way they do things these days," the Captain said with
a shrug. "Very hush-hush, you know. But you'll find out everything
presently, I fancy. I say, do you want something to eat before we push
along? We've forty minutes or so before the plane leaves."
"Hey!" Dave yelped. "What do you mean, push along? Farmer, here, isn't
going to have a look at New York?"
"Only from the air," the other said with a smile. "I'm to take you to
Washington on the very next plane. Perhaps some other time, though.
Let's get along, shall we?"
Dave looked at Freddy and shook his head sadly.
"We're either a couple of very important guys," he grunted, "or else
somebody doesn't trust you on Fifth Avenue, even under my watchful eye."
"Or else it's to be a court martial, and I'm here as a witness
_against_ you!" Freddy snapped. "Which I sincerely hope!"
"Well, you two can carry on with that rot aboard the plane," the
Captain said. "Come along. But tell me, how are things in London?
Marvelous place, America, but how I wish I were back there. Feel
just like I'd run away from the home chaps. Have the Jerries really
been letting London alone? The War Office communiques are so blasted
uninforming, you know."
That started the two R.A.F. youths off, and by the time they woke up
to realize they hadn't asked Captain Smith-Standers a single other
question about their status, they had landed at Washington, and
were on their way by car to the British Embassy. There they met the
Ambassador, and even had lunch with him and his subordinates. It was a
very wonderful luncheon, and the conversation was highly interesting
to them both. They were treated almost like returning heroes--rather,
visiting ones. However, not one word was dropped that gave them so much
as an inkling as to why they were in Washington. And although they were
both fairly exploding inside with questions, they had sense enough to
keep their mouths shut, and wait.
They had to wait until late in the afternoon. Then Captain
Smith-Standers escorted them out of the Embassy and into a waiting
car. It whizzed them halfway across Washington to a building that was
perhaps the most unimposing of all the heaps of Government marble and
stone in the whole city. He got out of the car with them, and walked
with them up the flight of stone steps as far as the door. There he
stopped, and extended his hand.
"Well, I fancy we part for good now, chaps," he said, and smiled at
them out of eyes that held just a trace of awe and admiration. "Been
wonderful meeting you, and all that sort of thing. Good luck, and
worlds of it to you both."
"Sure, thanks," Dave gulped. "And the same to you. But look--what's
this place, anyway? And what do we do now? I've seen better jails than
this."
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Did we do something wrong at the
Embassy? I say, can't you tell us anything?"
"Sorry," the British captain said with a smile and a shake of his head.
"Fact is, there isn't anything I could tell you. I've been here before,
though, and it's no jail. Wish the devil I was in your shoes. Well, I
must trot. Go inside. You're expected. And--and good luck!"
Captain Smith-Standers shook hands with them again, saluted, though he
still wore civies, turned on his heel and went down the steps to the
car. Dave and Freddy watched the car drive away, then turned and stared
at each other.
"Have you ever been cockeyed drunk, Freddy?" Dave suddenly blurted out.
"No, never," the English youth replied. "Have you?"
"No," Dave grunted.
"Then why do you ask?" Freddy demanded.
"Just wondering," Dave murmured, and reached for the handle of the
door. "Just wondering if it makes you feel the way I do now. In sixteen
million pieces, and every doggone thing upside down. Well, I suppose
this is our next move, eh?"
"Fancy it is," Freddy replied with a shrug and a frown. "So open the
blasted door, and let's go in."
CHAPTER THREE
_Special Assignment_
The first thing the two R.A.F. aces saw as they opened the door and
stepped inside was a long badly lighted corridor. It was more of a
lobby; the lobby of an office building that hadn't been used for
quite some time. The second thing they saw was the figure of a man in
civilian clothes who seemed to pop out of nowhere and advance toward
them. He was a nice enough looking man, about middle age, and with just
the faintest hint of the military about him. He fixed them both with a
keen searching stare, then seemed to relax a bit, and smiled.
"Dawson and Farmer?" he murmured. And without waiting for either of
them to so much as nod: "Come along with me."
They followed him over to an elevator bank, and into the nearest car.
Without speaking a word, or even so much as looking at them, the man
took them up six floors. Dave studied the man hard, and the result of
his study netted him just one thing. The man wore a shoulder holster,
and there was a gun in it.
At the sixth floor he stopped the car, opened the doors, and stepped
out, crooking his finger. They went down a hall halfway to the rear
wall of the building, and stopped before a door. The man pressed a
button three times, then twice more, and then looked at them as the
latch made a clicking sound.
"Go on in," he said. "They're waiting for you. Good luck!"
"Same to you," Dave grunted. "What is it, a new slogan for the war?
Everybody's been wishing us good luck. But for what, for cat's sake? Do
you--?"
"Inside," the man cut him off, but grinned. "I only work here.
Good--No, make it 'happy landings,' for you two."
For a brief instant Dave had the wild impulse to stand his ground and
get a few explanations before he took another step in this seemingly
screwball journey that had begun outside Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham's
Air Ministry Office. However, he killed the desire even as it was born,
and after a quick side glance at Freddy, twisted the door handle and
stepped inside.
He had no idea what he expected to find inside, and what he did find
had all the effect of a bucket of ice water dumped down over jangling
nerves. In short, inside was just a rather dusty room, a desk, a chair,
and another man in civilian clothes sitting in the chair. Oh yes, there
were some cleaning mops, and a couple of pails in one corner. And on
the left wall was a calendar of the year before, torn off only as far
as the month of April. There was a door on the right, and the man
behind the desk pointed at it.
"Through there, Gentlemen," he said, and immediately returned to a book
he was reading.
Dave hesitated, clenched his fists, and groaned inwardly.
"Am I getting tired of doors!" he grated. "What in thunder gives around
here, anyway?"
The man reading the book looked up and pointed again.
"Through there," he said, and went back to his book.
Dave and Freddy walked over to the door, but when he reached it, Dave
stepped to one side.
"Your turn," he said, and stabbed a thumb at the knob. "Maybe you'll
have better luck."
Freddy shrugged, cast a quick apprehensive look back over his shoulder
at the man reading the book, and then turned the knob and pushed open
the door. And he did have better luck. The room they entered was huge
in size, and it contained so much stuff, and so many things, that it
was impossible for either Dave or Freddy to concentrate on anything
for several seconds. But by that time a tall, thin-faced man in shirt
sleeves had risen from a desk and come over.
"Glad to meet you, Dawson and Farmer," he said in a quiet but warm
voice. "I'm Colonel Welsh. Come in. We've been waiting for you."
If the man had introduced himself as Santa Claus Dave couldn't have
been more dumbfounded. Colonel Welsh was the man who made U. S. Army
and Navy Intelligence click. He was in charge of the intelligence work
of both services, and--in a vastly different way, of course--he had as
much power in the United States as Himmler had in Nazi Germany. Perhaps
no more than a dozen people knew what he was, for he acted as a colonel
of infantry as well. But that job was simply a cover for his real work.
He was seen and known as Colonel Welsh, of infantry, but few people
knew that he was the same mysterious Colonel Welsh who was in charge
of all U. S. Intelligence.
But it wasn't so much meeting the man that caused Dave to gasp and
stare hard as it was the man's looks. His thin face had a nice smile,
but beyond that you somehow didn't expect him even to know the time of
day. The eyes had a dreamy, almost vacant look in their depths, the
lips of the mouth had a dopey downward droop, and the chin was too
pointed, and sort of too country parson looking.
"That's all right," the man suddenly said with a chuckle. "I've had
this face all my life, so I'm used to it. Don't worry, I won't bite
you."
Dave flushed to the roots of his hair and heartily wished there were a
hole in the floor into which he could jump.
"I'm sorry, sir," he managed to stammer. "You see--well, Farmer and
I have been going around in circles ever since we left England.
And--well, it's sort of caught us off balance, if you know what I mean."
"I understand perfectly," the U. S. Intelligence chief said kindly.
"Coming here must make a fellow feel he is acting out one of those
crazy pulp paper thrillers. You know: secret doors, and special
code-words. Well, we're not as bad as that. However, we find it
does help to play just a little on the mysterious side. These are
the offices we use when we have work to do. Those over in the War
Department Building are just for show. Fact is, I personally would go
crazy with all the silly trimmings they have over there. But pardon me.
I want you to meet my comrades in this daffy business."
Colonel Welsh turned and led them over to a desk so big that it could
have easily been cut up into five desks of the usual size. Three men
were seated at the desk, and they pushed up from their chairs as the
Colonel and the two youths approached.
"Captain Lamb," the Colonel said, pointing to a chunky redhead.
"Next to him, Captain Stacey. And that chap who's as thin as I am is
Lieutenant Caldwell, our coding expert. Gentlemen, Flight Lieutenants
Dawson and Farmer."
Dave and Freddy shook hands with the other officers, and then dropped
into chairs the Colonel pulled up. It was not until then that Dave
had an opportunity to take a good look about him, and what he saw set
his blood to tingling through his veins, and his heart to pounding
against his ribs. He had often been inside the inner offices of
British Intelligence, and on each occasion he had been stunned by the
number of gadgets of all sorts, and the vast array of equipment they
were used to operate. But the stuff he stared at now put the British
equipment in the shade. There was every conceivable piece of equipment
from ultra-ray flashlights to giant X-ray machines. One whole wall
was lined with telephones and short wave radios for both sending and
receiving. And along another wall was a row of file cabinets that
operated electrically. One had only to push a file button, and the
correct drawer slid open and the exact file folder shot up out of
its clamps. In truth, Dave believed that Colonel Welsh had at his
fingertips complete information of everyone of importance in the war,
and that within a matter of seconds he could establish contact with any
one of his agents, no matter in what part of the globe he might be.
And those two items were but two of the many, many things that could
be made possible with the equipment in that huge room. It was like the
mechanical wizardry of Scotland Yard and the F.B.I. all set up in the
same room.
"Interesting stuff, isn't it, Dawson?"
Dave turned his head to see Colonel Welsh grinning at him. He blushed
slightly, and nodded.
"It certainly is, sir," he said politely. "A fellow could have some fun
in this place."
"Depends on what you call fun," the Intelligence officer said with a
grimace. "There's been more than one death warrant issued from this
place. However, you're not here to be taught how to handle this stuff.
Matter of fact, though, I suppose you're wondering just why you are
here, eh?"
"Decidedly, sir!" Freddy Farmer fairly exploded the words.
"And how!" Dave echoed. "If I don't find out something, and soon, I'm
going to dive right out a window, and end it all. For three days, sir,
Farmer and I have been living a crazy, cockeyed dream. Maybe it's a
nightmare, I don't know. But if you can possibly give us an inkling
what it's all about, then consider me down on my knees and begging you
to do just that! Honest! I don't know whether I'm coming or going."
The Colonel and the others joined in a loud laugh, and then presently
the senior officer's face grew serious.
"You're here at my request, frankly," he said. "Here because I feel
that you're just the men we need to help us crack a few tough nuts.
Among those who came over with Prime Minister Churchill last December
was General Sir John Gately, chief of all British Intelligence. Perhaps
you know him?"
"Only of him, sir," Dave replied. "I never had the pleasure of meeting
him. A wonderful man, though."
"The very best England has," Freddy Farmer added. "I've never had the
chance to meet him, either."
"Yes, Sir John is just about the best in England," Colonel Welsh said
with a firm nod. "We had several talks together, and he struck me as
being just about the most brilliant man I ever met. He has certainly
made it hot more than once for Herr Himmler's Gestapo boys. Well, to
get to the point, I talked over with him a plan I had in mind. After
a moment's thought he stated that you two were the type of men that
I need. Fact is, he said you were _the_ two I needed. So there's a
mighty fine compliment for you. And let me hasten to add that it's a
compliment well deserved, in my opinion. This is the first time I've
met you, but your accomplishments in England and Libya and in the Far
East are no secrets to this office."
Dave laughed embarrassedly and glanced at Freddy Farmer.
"It was mostly Farmer, sir!" he said. "I usually went along just for
the ride."
"Rot!" Freddy snorted, red-faced. "More often than not it was I who
blundered us right up a tree, and you got us out of the mess. Stop
being modest, my lad. You're in your own country, you know."
"I'm pretty sure it was fifty-fifty," Colonel Welsh settled the
argument with a chuckle. "Anyway, you're the two lads I need, and here
you are. When Sir John and I reached an agreement about you, he simply
started the ball rolling, and without your knowing it you were released
from the R.A.F., and sent over to me. Right now you haven't any rank,
and you don't belong to any branch of service of any country. What do
you think of that?"
Dave gulped and gave a little confused shake of his head.
"What do I think of it?" he echoed. "I--well--well, it sounds as if we
were headed for a firing squad, or something."
"Good grief, yes!" Freddy Farmer said in a hushed tone. "At least
that!"
"Well, you can relax; there's no firing squad," Colonel Welsh chuckled.
Then as his chuckle died, and his face became grim: "At least not a
United Nations firing squad. But let's not think of it as even a remote
possibility. I mean, some Axis crowd putting you against a wall. Now,
here's the reason I had you sent over to me, and the plan I have in
mind."
The chief of all U. S. Intelligence paused, and frowned off into space
for a moment as though deliberately choosing the words he would speak
next. Finally he brought his gaze back to Dave's and Freddy's faces.
"There are over one hundred and thirty million people in this country,"
he began slowly. "Over one hundred and thirty million men, women, and
children, who have the Constitutional right to be regarded as loyal
Americans--until proved otherwise. That for the moment is my biggest,
and toughest task: to find out who in our Army and Navy _isn't_ a loyal
American. In short, to find out who is working for Berlin, and Rome,
and Tokio, instead of for Washington and Uncle Sam."
The Colonel paused, clenched one fist, and a hard agate look came into
his dreamy eyes.
"And we're starting off by not kidding ourselves about a single thing,"
he said. "We know perfectly well that Hitler has some of his spies
planted right in our armed forces. Some are buck privates; some are
seamen, third class; and others hold commissions. It's not been made
known, and I hope it never will be, but only the other day we nailed
a Nazi spy who had actually graduated from West Point. So we're not
starting off on this gigantic spy hunt by kidding ourselves that the
Axis rats are all civilians living near munitions factories, or camps,
and that they only go slinking around corners, and down dark alleys.
No, none of that! We're going after this job just as though some of
them were in the White House, and in the Army and Navy Departments!"
The Colonel paused again for breath and to make a little explanatory
gesture with his hands.
"Don't misunderstand me," he continued presently. "Our idea isn't to
pull any of this Himmler stuff. I mean, fill the service branches with
Gestapo spies ready to cut some poor devil's throat because he gripes
at the way Hitler runs things. That isn't our idea at all. We're simply
going to try and ferret out the rats Hitler put in our Army and our
Navy. Now before you throw a fit wondering how just the two of you
could possibly handle a job that size, let me say that you're only
going to be given part of the job to do, a little at a time. And your
first assignment will be with the Pacific Fleet."
The chief of U. S. Intelligence emphasized the last with a nod, and
then fell silent. Dave looked at the man, chewed his lower lip for a
moment, then started to speak, but thought better of it and closed his
mouth.
"Go ahead, say it, Dawson," the Colonel encouraged. "I'm not through
yet, just pausing for breath. Go ahead. What's on your mind?"
"I guess my mind's sort of spinning, but hard, if you want the truth,"
Dave said. "Things are coming at me sort of in bunches. Naturally,
Farmer and I are eager and willing to take a good crack at any job
handed out to us. But--well, maybe Sir John blew us up to you too much.
I mean, we've done some Intelligence work on the other side, sure. And
we were lucky. But I don't rate us as experts. At least, I certainly
don't rate myself as an expert. I should think you'd have dozens of men
right in your own command who could do that sort of a job a darn sight
better than we could."
"Quite! And definitely so!" Freddy Farmer echoed, and shifted nervously
in his chair.
"Maybe," Colonel Welsh grunted. "Maybe not. The point is, I think not.
Certainly I've got some good men under my command. Mighty fine agents,
as far as that goes. But you two have something that unfortunately they
all lack. That's youth. Then there is another item, and it's probably
the most important item of all: the matter of whether or not Axis
agents _know who they are_. One of the inside stories of Pearl Harbor,
that may come out some day, is that Jap agents and Fifth Columnists
knew several of our Intelligence agents stationed in the Islands.
That's no reflection on our agents. The Japs just knew who they were,
that's all--and walked easy.
"But your youth is important, too. Don't get sore, but looking at
you two, no one would suspect you were connected with Intelligence.
Frankly, you look like a couple of red-blooded kids who skipped away
and joined up before your parents could stop you. Holy smoke! Just
sitting here looking at you for the first time, it's mighty hard to
realize that you two youngsters pulled off all those wonderful stunts
on the other side. No, you can stop right there with that kind of
an argument. You're _just_ the two I need for a job with the Pacific
Fleet. I'm completely convinced, and satisfied."
Dave gave a little laugh and shrug.
"Then I guess that's that," he said. "We're all for it, if you really
want us. What next? What exactly do you want us to do?"
"I could say, the impossible, and I don't think I'd be very far wrong,"
Colonel Welsh said gravely. "However, I'm going to hope for the
best--even believe in miracles, if I have to. And if there ever was a
miracle pulled off, it was that little stunt of yours in Belgium just
after the Dunkirk business."[2]
[Footnote 2: _Dave Dawson With the R.A.F._]
The Intelligence chief paused to nod for emphasis. Then he looked
across the huge desk at Captain Lamb.
"Fish out that X-Four-Six-B case photo, will you?" he said. "I think as
a starter it would be good for Dawson and Farmer to have a good look at
it."
CHAPTER FOUR
_Death In The Pacific_
The redheaded Captain nodded, and got up and walked over to the row of
files. Dave watched him and got a big kick as the officer jabbed one
of a row of buttons and then went back a step. There was a series of
clicks, then the file drawer slid noiselessly open, and a folder inside
popped up to Captain Lamb's outstretched hand. The instant he pulled it
out there were more clicks and the door slid silently shut again.
"Good grief, magic!" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Just as though there were a
bloke inside waiting to hand it to him."
"Just about that, yes," Colonel Welsh chuckled. "Now if we can only
work out some way for the file folders simply to _tell_ us what they
contain, then we'll have something. That would save a lot of time."
"But what would you do with all the time you saved?" Freddy asked
innocently.
Colonel Welsh looked at Dave and winked.
"Figure up something that would save us more time, I guess," he said.
"We Americans are all crazy, you know. Ah, thanks, Lamb."
The Intelligence chief took the folder the redheaded captain handed
him, and thumbed through it for a moment. Then he pulled out a
photograph and placed it face up on the desk between Dave and Freddy.
"Take a good look at it," he said in a grim voice. "That picture was
taken ten days ago."
Dave and Freddy bent forward eagerly, but what they saw sobered them
instantly. It was a picture of the flight hangar aboard an aircraft
carrier. It showed several folded-wing Vought-Sikorsky "Corsair"
fighter planes parked so that they could be trundled onto the elevator
and raised to the flight deck in fast time. Right in front, though,
was a Corsair that was blackened and charred by fire. And on the floor
were the figures of two men in flying gear. They, too, were blackened
by flames, and it didn't take a second look to see that they were dead.
To the left and right was portable fire equipment that had been used to
put out the fire.
"Poor devils," Dave murmured, and looked up at Colonel Welsh.
"How in the world did they get so close to the flames?" Freddy Farmer
murmured as though talking to himself.
"They were murdered!" Colonel Welsh said bluntly. "We didn't know it
when this picture was taken. We found that out later. They had both
been shot through the head. And it's quite definite that the murderer
tried to burn up the plane so that it would look like an accident.
Fortunately the fire squad got to it and put the flames out before
everything was destroyed. Thank God, everything wasn't destroyed. If it
had been, we should never have learned the real truth."
"You mean that the two pilots had been murdered, sir?" Dave asked as
the senior paused.
Colonel Welsh shook his head.
"No," he said. Then, reaching out, he almost reverently touched the
picture of the two dead men with a fingertip. "One of those officers
was Commander Jackson, executive Flight Officer of the Aircraft Carrier
Indian. The other was Lieutenant Commander Pollard, senior Section
Leader, and one of the best air tactical men in Naval Aviation. They
were murdered and then robbed. Had they been burned to a crisp we would
not know the killer had stolen the operation plans of the part the
Carrier Indian is to play in a Navy attack on the Jap-mandated islands
of the Marshall group."
Dave whistled softly, then stared hard at the Intelligence chief.
"But is that such a big loss, sir?" he asked. "Those plans, I mean.
Can't they be changed, so that even if the Japs have them it won't make
any difference?"
Colonel Welsh sighed heavily and shook his head.
"I certainly wish they could be changed," he said presently. "I wish it
were as easy as that. But, unfortunately, it isn't. The Indian's plans
are just part of a huge plan to knock a good big hole in the Jap naval
and air forces in that part of the Southwest Pacific. And an attack on
that scale can't be thought up overnight, and put into execution the
next morning. It's not simply a question of rushing ships and planes to
a certain spot and banging away until you're out of shells and bombs.
There's much, much more than that. Your forces must be split up. Your
operation timetable must be worked out so that the slower ships will
arrive at the same time as the fast ones. Worked out so that certain
groups will have mine sweeping and destroyer protection. Worked out
so that there will be a covering force in case parts of any unit are
forced out of action and must retire. No, Dawson, it's not that simple.
There are a hundred and one things to be worked out, so that you stand
the maximum chance of the entire operation being carried out like
clockwork. So it follows that if one unit is off whack, other units are
bound to suffer. The effectiveness of the striking force is reduced.
For that matter, effectiveness is reduced all down the line. And at the
snap of the fingers you can barge bow-on straight into serious trouble.
No, to change the Indian's plans would mean that we'd have to change
and alter the entire plan as a whole. And there is the chance that in
doing that we would discover that it would be best to give up the whole
project."
"Phew, I never dreamed a navy show was that complicated!" Freddy
Farmer breathed. "But I say, sir! If the blasted Japs know the part
the Indian's unit is to play, what can you do about it _but_ change
everything, or else give it up entirely."
"I didn't say the Japs had the plans for the Indian's unit," the
Intelligence chief said. "Maybe I misled you. I said that the plans
are lost. They were stolen from Commander Jackson and Lieutenant
Commander Pollard. They had the only copies of the plans, as they were
to be in complete charge of the Indian's fighters and bombers in this
action. Those plans they carried on their person at all times. And when
they were last seen they were on their way below to the hangar deck to
check a new gun sight that is to be tried in this coming engagement.
They were seen to reach the hangar deck by the Watch Officer. The next
time they were seen, they were dead and about to be burned beyond
recognition by flaming high test gasoline. But for a machinist's mate
who happened to pass that part of the hangar deck, they would have been
burned beyond recognition. And we would never have known that their
copies of the plans were stolen. True, we would have discovered that
they were murdered, shot, just as we did discover. And we might have
suspected that the killer had stolen the plans. But now we know that
somebody aboard the Indian has those plans."
"Huh?" Dave gulped. "Somebody aboard her? You mean, right now?"
"I mean right now," the chief of U. S. Intelligence said grimly. "The
Indian was at anchor in San Diego Harbor. She's still there. However,
the instant it was realized what had happened, the Indian became an
isolated ship. Not a man, not even her captain, was allowed to go
ashore. I radioed those orders myself. And not a boat of any type was
permitted to come so much as within hailing distance. An order was
issued to shoot anybody who attempted to leave the Indian, and to shoot
anybody who attempted to approach the Indian. That order still stands.
Mighty hard on the chaps who were due shore leave--she hadn't been in
port more than a day. But we're not taking chances."
Colonel Welsh paused for breath, and Dave nodded his head slowly.
"I get it," he said. "So far no darn Jap has got his hands on those
plans. No real Jap, I mean."
"What's that?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "What do you mean, no real Jap?"