DAVE DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS
_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"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS"
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO 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
CHAPTER PAGE
I STRANGE ORDERS 11
II NIGHT ATTACK 22
III EASTWARD TO WAR 34
IV NEXT STOP, ENGLAND! 46
V DEAD MAN'S WINGS 57
VI NAZI WRATH 71
VII MORE ORDERS 80
VIII SUDDEN CHAOS 90
IX ORDERS FOR EAGLES 106
X VICTORY WINGS 119
XI SILENT WINGS 131
XII INVISIBLE DEATH 144
XIII FALLING DOOM 156
XIV SATAN'S CALLING CARD 168
XV VULTURE NEST 181
XVI EAGLES' COURAGE 195
XVII STEEL NERVES 209
XVIII THE GODS LAUGH 223
XIX COMMANDOS NEVER QUIT! 233
CHAPTER ONE
_Strange Orders_
The waiter came over to the table and smiled politely.
"Is there anything else I can get you two gentlemen?" he asked.
Dave Dawson looked up from his empty plate and shook his head
emphatically.
"No thanks," he said. "I'm close to the bursting point right now.
Anything more and I'd need a second stomach to hold it. You can bring
the check, please."
"Very good, sir," the waiter said, and started over to the cashier's
nook.
"I say, just a minute!" Freddy Farmer stopped him. "I'm not quite filled
yet. I'll have another piece of that pie, please. And you might bring me
another pot of tea. With cream."
The waiter blinked and stared, but caught himself quickly.
"Yes, sir, at once," he said, and hurried away.
Dave groaned and made a little gesture with his hand.
"There's a name for guys like you, pal," he said. "But it isn't polite
to say it in public. For the love of mike, Freddy! What have you been
doing, tossing it under the table when I wasn't looking? Man! You've
packed away enough chow to feed a regiment."
"I was as hungry as a regiment when we came in," the English-born air
ace said placidly. "You've no objections, have you?"
"Not a one," Dawson grinned. "Go ahead and kill yourself. But when you
feel the explosion coming on, let me know. I'll want to be leaving in a
hurry."
"Have no fear," Freddy Farmer assured him. "There will be no explosion.
Good grief! Can't a hungry chap eat without you staring constantly?
After these last five weeks I feel as though I'll never get enough food
into me. You Americans certainly do a thing for fair, when you have a go
at it."
"Meaning what?" Dave echoed absently as he stared across the hotel
dining room at two rather tough-looking, yet well dressed civilians
seated at a table. "What are you talking about this time?"
"Why, about what I said," Freddy replied. "These last five weeks! Or
have you forgotten already? If so, I'll refresh your memory. For the
last five weeks we have been attending one of your Commando training
schools, or rather, I should say, Ranger training schools. We completed
the course only yesterday, and here we are on leave awaiting orders. We
both took English Commando training last year in England. But it was
certainly nothing like the training we've just completed here in the
States. You Americans really--I say! Are you listening to me?"
"Huh?" Dave grunted, and looked at him. "Were you saying something,
pal?"
Freddy pressed his lips tight and blew air through his nose.
"How you ever became a commissioned officer, with such manners, I'll
never understand!" he snorted. "Of course I was saying something! But
don't let me bore you further. I can see something frightfully important
is on your mind. You do have a mind, don't you? Well, what is it? I'll
be patient, and listen."
"Oh, skip it," Dave grinned. "Sorry from the bottom of my heart,
sweetheart. Go ahead. Put the record on again."
"Like Shakespeare, I never chew my cabbage twice!" Freddy snapped. "No,
never mind. I insist upon knowing the reason for that puzzled look on
that homely face of yours. Out with it, my lad."
"Just a couple of fellows eating on the other side of the room," Dave
said. "I've caught them eying us quite a bit. Came in just after we did.
No! Don't look right now, dope! It's not polite."
Freddy checked his turning head and flushed slightly.
"Rubbish!" he mumbled. "But what's wrong with two people looking at us?
Frankly, I think we look rather pukka in our U. S. Army Air Force
uniforms, and wings, and all that sort of thing. Or perhaps I present an
interesting contrast to your sloppy appearance."
"Boy! You must have strained a brain cell on that!" Dave growled. "Okay!
So people look at us. But there are about twenty other officers in this
dining room. And these two guys--Well, if I were going to rob a bank, or
maybe kidnap somebody, I think I might be tempted to make a deal with
those two. Okay! Take a sneak look now."
Freddy twisted around and made as though to brush something off his left
shoulder with his right hand. He took a quick look across the dining
room and then turned back to Dave.
"Phew! They are a nasty-looking pair, aren't they!" he breathed. "But
maybe they're house detectives, or something. I've always read in your
American detective books that hotel detectives are generally
horrible-looking creatures."
"Say, maybe you've got something there, pal!" Dave said with a laugh.
"_That's_ what they've been doing!"
"Eh?" the English youth echoed. "What have they been doing?"
"Counting the knives and forks and spoons, as the waiter put them in
front of you!" Dave shot at him. "I bet you a buck they search you
before you leave."
"Well, they'd certainly--!" Freddy gasped before he caught himself.
"Blast your ears, Dave! You made me fall right into that one. Right you
are! My turn will come, my good fellow. Seriously speaking, though, have
they really been giving us more than usual notice?"
"I'd call it that," Dave said with a shrug. "But maybe my imagination's
going a little bit haywire tonight. No, not that, exactly. I mean,
waiting for orders makes me think all kinds of things. Darn it all, the
picture just isn't complete, if you get what I mean."
Freddy Farmer shook his head and looked very grave.
"I'm afraid I don't, old chap," he said. "Something bothering you that
I don't know anything about?"
"Nope," Dawson said. "Nothing that you don't know about. It's the set-up
we're in now. Five weeks ago we volunteered to take the Commando
training course. Colonel Welsh, Chief of all U. S. Intelligence, thought
it would be a good idea if we took it. So we did. So we completed
training yesterday. So we came down here to New York on leave until
orders should arrive. But we had to say where we'd be stopping. Okay. So
far, so good. But how long do we stay here? What happens next? What
orders are we going to receive? And when? And how will they come to us?
See what I mean? It's all hanging in the air. Nothing definite. Heck! We
might be at a movie when a phone call came through from Colonel Welsh or
somebody, and we wouldn't be here. I mean, it strikes me that we should
have been told to report to somebody every day to see if our orders were
ready. But--"
Dave let the rest slide, and gestured helplessly. Freddy nodded slowly,
and pursed his lips.
"You're quite right, Dave," he murmured, and frowned. "It does seem a
bit queer, when you come to think of it. I--Good grief! Do you suppose,
Dave?"
Dawson looked at him with one eyebrow cocked.
"Do I suppose what?" he asked.
At that moment the waiter arrived with Freddy's second slice of pie and
his pot of tea. The English youth waited until he had made his retreat.
"Do you suppose we failed horribly at the Commando school," he said,
"and--and this is just a gentle way of letting us down? I mean, sort of
give us a bit of leave here in New York to buck up our spirits, and then
post us back to some air squadron?"
Dave didn't say anything for a moment. He thought back over the last
five weeks of vigorous training that either made or broke a man.
"I don't mean to boast," he said slowly, "but if we didn't pass out of
that training school with pretty fair marks, then there can't be more
than a dozen or so who did. But now you've hit upon the thought that's
been bothering me."
"Make that a bit clearer," Freddy said. "I don't quite follow you. What
thought?"
"The Commando business," Dave replied with a little gesture. "We took
the training because Colonel Welsh thought it would be a good idea. Does
that mean we're Commandos from now on? _Are_ we waiting for Commando
orders? Or are we waiting for further orders from Colonel Welsh?"
"Good grief, yes!" the English youth gasped, and smiled faintly. "Fact
is, though, I've been so jammed full of Commando tactics these last five
weeks, that it didn't even occur to me that we might not continue along
that line. Quite, Dave! Ten to one the Commando business is all behind
us, and we're simply waiting for Colonel Welsh to dig us up another Air
Intelligence assignment. But somehow--"
Freddy Farmer let the rest hang in mid-air, and gave a little half shake
of his head.
"Somehow you hope not, Freddy?" Dave asked softly. "That what you mean,
pal?"
Freddy grinned and nodded slightly.
"Frankly, yes," he said. "I enjoyed every minute of that Commando
school. I fancy I'd like the chance to put into actual practice a bit of
what I learned. Quite! It would be a bit satisfying to take a knife away
from some Nazi blighter and toss him over my shoulder, the way they
taught us."
"You can say that again!" Dave chuckled. "I received a lot of lumps
learning that bit of self-defense. I sure would like to try it out on a
Nazi tramp. And no rubber knife, either, like the instructor used. But,
heck! I guess we're just hollering down the rain barrel, pal. Commando
and Yank Ranger units are being formed in England, not here. That's
where the finishing touches are put on. After all, we're a couple of
pilots, not infantrymen. No, I guess Colonel Welsh figured it might be a
good idea to round out our combat education a bit. So he suggested that
we take the course."
"Probably," Freddy agreed with an unhappy sigh. "Just a bit of schooling
to keep us out of trouble while he decided what job to set us at next.
Oh well, I enjoyed the schooling--thoroughly!"
"It was fun, and how," Dave grunted. "But I sure hate to have all these
tough muscles I built up go to waste. Doggone you, Freddy! Seeing you
shovel that extra slab of pie into your face has made me hungry again! I
guess I'll join you, at that. But without the tea!"
Dave turned to signal the waiter, and it was then that he saw the man in
person heading his way. The waiter carried a white envelope in one hand,
and he was taking the shortest route across the dining room. In his
other hand he carried the dinner check. In true waiter style, he
presented the check first. Dave glanced at the score and whistled under
his breath. The hotel they had picked slip-out-of-the-hat style was not
exactly favorable to a Captain's pay. However, he felt a little better
when he realized that three fourths of the check was Freddy Farmer's
obligation.
"Pardon," murmured the waiter. "Are you Captains Dawson and Farmer?"
"That's right," Dave told him. "I'm Captain Dawson. So that makes him
Captain Farmer."
"A gentleman just gave this to the head waiter, sir," the man said, and
held out the envelope. "He said it was to be given to either Captain
Dawson or Captain Farmer."
"Thanks," Dave said, and took the envelope.
It was plain white and contained Freddy's name and rank, and his own, on
the outside. There was nothing else written on the front side. He
glanced at Freddy and then turned it over to pry up the gummed flap. He
saw that two ink lines had been drawn across the sealed portion. In that
way it was possible to tell if the letter had been opened. He peered at
the two ink lines and knew that the letter had not been unsealed.
"What do you suppose?" Freddy murmured.
"Could be from the management asking us to leave because you eat too
much," Dave grunted, and wedged a finger under the corner of the flap.
"But my guess is that it's what we've been waiting for: word from
Colonel Welsh. He has a habit of doing things this way, you know. But
pardon me! It's addressed to us both. Do you want to open it, my little
man?"
"Stop your silly chatter, and open the blasted thing!" the English youth
snapped. "I'm on pins and needles."
"Give me time!" Dave growled, and struggled with the flap. "The darn
thing seems nailed down as well as gummed. Okay. Here goes for the
news."
He got the flap torn open and pulled out what was inside. It was a
single sheet of fool's cap paper, and the words on it were neatly typed.
He read the two paragraphs that made up the letter, and his scowl
deepened with each new word. Freddy, watching him, twisted and squirmed
in his chair with suspense. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer.
"Here!" he snapped. "Pass it over, if you don't know how to read!"
"Take a read," Dave said softly, as his scowl remained. "Take a _good_
read, and then _you_ tell me, pal!"
CHAPTER TWO
_Night Attack_
It was all Freddy Farmer could do not to snatch the letter from Dave's
extended hand. He took it, settled back in his chair, and bent his eyes
on the typed words. Stunned amazement spread all over his wind- and
sun-bronzed face as he read the two paragraphs.
"Upon receiving this you will leave your hotel and proceed to Six
Hundred and Ninety-Seven (697) River Street.
"The route you will follow to this address is as follows. Walk from
your hotel south to Cort Street. Go west along Cort Street to Tenth
Avenue. Then south to River Street, and east to Number 697. There
ring the bell under the name, Brown. Be sure to follow these route
directions exactly.
"X-Fifteen"
Freddy read it through twice, and then raised his eyes to meet Dave's.
"X-Fifteen?" he murmured softly. "That's one of the code identifications
that Colonel Welsh uses! So he must be here in New York, and not in
Washington."
"Could be," Dave grunted, and started to push back his chair. "The
Colonel gets around a lot, you know. Well, I guess that's us, pal.
Certainly screwy orders. That's quite a walk from here. But maybe after
you've had Commando training you're a sissy if you take a cab. So--Well,
what do you know?"
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer ejaculated. "What do I know?"
Dave stood up and half nodded his head at the other side of the dining
room.
"Our rough tough-looking friends have vanished in thin air," he said.
"They aren't around any more. Must have got sick of giving us the eye,
and pulled out."
"Their perfect right!" Freddy snorted, and got up also. "You were
probably imagining things, anyway. Right you are. Let's get on with it.
We--Half a minute, my fair weather friend! You haven't left enough money
for your share of the dinner."
"One fourth of the bill, plus tip," Dave grunted scornfully. "Read it
and weep. Three fourths of that went inside you, sweetheart. I love you
like a brother, but I refuse to foot your food bills. Nix! And double
nix!"
"Phew, so I did!" Freddy gasped as he ran his eye down the list of
things served them. "And the trouble is, I'm still hungry. Oh, very
well. Share and share alike, with a tightwad like you. Even figured it
out to the penny, too! Now, if you were with me in England--"
"I'd be pleading with the cops not to have you shot for stomach
hoarding!" Dave snapped. "Pay up, and shut up. Or pay it off washing
dishes. You'd look cute in an apron, Freddy. I could meet you later and
let you know what Colonel Welsh has to say. I--"
He stopped and grinned wickedly as Freddy threw him a rapier glare. The
English youth paid his share and then joined him as Dave walked out of
the dining room. They got their hats from the check girl, and went on
out through the hotel lobby to the street. The dim-out had come to New
York City, and it made both of them think of London, and other
war-scarred cities they had seen.
For several blocks they were too contented with their own thoughts to
speak. But when they were almost halfway to their destination, Freddy
Farmer broke the silence.
"You know, Dave," he said, "this makes a chap feel rather silly. It's
like a game you'd play in school, or something. I mean, why in the world
have us follow this particular route? You'd think we had valuable
information, and were taking this route to some secret headquarters to
throw off possible pursuit. Blasted queer, I call it!"
"You tell me something about war that isn't screwy at first glance,"
Dave grunted as they turned the corner into Cort Street. "But Colonel
Welsh knows his business, and if he wants us to walk all over town to
report to him, then we walk all over town. But he sure did pick the
darker streets. This one right here makes me think of a coal mine. Watch
your step, Freddy, or you may spill into an ash can or something. In
this section of town they don't always put them right on the curb.
And--"
Dave stopped talking abruptly, and he also pulled up to a quick halt.
Freddy went on a pace or two, then stopped and waited.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Think you were running into one of them?
An ash can, I mean?"
"No," Dawson grunted, and moved forward again. "Thought I saw something
moving up ahead--somebody ducking into a doorway. Doggone it! I must be
getting the jimjams. You'd think I were trying to steal across Berlin
and give the Gestapo the go-by. Good gosh! This is New York, for cat's
sake! And--_Freddy!_"
Dave had only time to bark out his pal's name as two shadows came
charging out of a night-darkened doorway. He sensed them, rather than
saw or heard them. It was more that sixth sense, that science calls
premonition, that put him on the alert and made him drop halfway to one
knee and shoot his hands up and out in front of him.
One of the shadows came at him like a streak of black lightning. He
wasn't sure, but in the split second he was allowed to set himself he
thought he saw the dull gleam of a knife in an upraised hand. Maybe so;
maybe not. He didn't bother to make sure. The silent attacker was coming
upon him too fast. There was no time for thought. There was only time
for action--furious, split second action for which he had been training
these last five weeks.
And so action it was! He dropped like a flash, ducked his head, and then
stiffened his legs and shot his body upward, half turning it at the same
time. He felt the top of his head crash into a broad chest, and he felt
his hands lock about the wrist of the hand that held the knife. A quick
pivot on the balls of his feet, and a bend downward that brought the
attacker's arm down across his shoulder. He heard the gasp of pain,
heard the clatter of a knife hitting the pavement, and then he was
arching his back and twisting viciously. The result was that his
helpless attacker flew over him like a sack of wet wheat, and slammed
down on the pavement on his side. Dave clung to the wrist, but the
attacker's greater weight pulled it free, and the man went rolling over
and over toward the gutter.
In a flash, Dave dived after him, but the attacker seemed full of coiled
steel springs. He was up on his feet in a flash and speeding down the
badly lighted street. Impulsively Dave streaked his hand to where his
holstered service gun should have been. Only it wasn't there. It was
back in the bureau drawer in his hotel room! He took a couple of leaping
steps after the fleeing shadow, but checked himself and swerved sharply
as a second shadow virtually flew past him. He shot out his hands, got
hold of jacketcloth, but all the good that did him was that he ripped
off a piece of a jacket as the second shadow went by him and down the
street.
"Dave! You all right?"
He turned to see Freddy Farmer at his elbow. The English youth was
breathing hard, and fingering the right side of his jaw.
"I'm okay, but boiling!" Dave grated. "I had my bird cold, so I thought.
But he must be made of rubber. I couldn't stay with him. What's the
matter with your jaw?"
"The blighter's head!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "We connected violently.
Say, Dave! Those beggars had knives. There's one! And there's the other.
Phew! Wicked-looking things, aren't they?"
The English youth had stooped down and retrieved two knives out of the
gutter. In the bad light Dave and Freddy saw that they were mates. Each
was about seven inches long, razor sharp, and with a needle point. Dave
squinted at them and whistled softly.
"You see what I see, Freddy?" he breathed. "They had knives exactly like
those at the Commando school! Looks like a couple of thugs stole a
couple."
"But as you said, Dave," Freddy cried, "this is New York! I know your
underworld characters use machine guns, and such. But do they also go
about the streets knifing people to steal their purses?"
Dave didn't reply at once. He stood scowling down at the pair of knives,
as cold, clammy chills started rippling up and down his spine. He knew
full well that anything can happen in New York City, and usually does in
time. But to be knifed for the few dollars he carried, instead of being
blackjacked, or held up at the point of a gun, was something that just
didn't jell right in his brain. He also was hit by another equally
disturbing thought. The light had been so bad, and the action so swift
and short lived, he hadn't got so much as a flash glimpse at either of
the attackers. But for general build--well, he couldn't help but think
of the two hard-faced men back in the hotel dining room.
"I'm nuts, completely nuts!" he chided himself aloud. "It just couldn't
have been!"
"What couldn't have been?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know.
"Those two, just now," Dave replied. "I had the flash thought that they
might have been that hard-faced pair in the dining room. But they didn't
come at us from behind. They were ahead of us. Besides, they left before
we did. Well, which of these do you want for a souvenir?"
"Neither," Freddy replied. "I suggest we turn them over to Colonel
Welsh. Those are Commando knives, right enough. He might be interested
to know that some of your American underworld chaps also carry them."
"Or--" Dave started to say, and then stopped himself with a snort of
disgust. "Doggone, but my imagination is going haywire tonight! Must be
something I ate."
"You don't think they were underworld beggars?" the English youth
demanded. "Good grief! You're not thinking of Nazi agents, are you?"
"Well, I did give it a whirl for a second or two," Dawson confessed with
a shrug. "But that's plain silly. No Nazi agents should have any
interest in us, right now."
"I don't know about that," Freddy grunted as they started along the
street again. "The Gestapo beggars are quite keen about revenge
killings, you know. And we've been lucky enough to send a few of them to
where they belong in days gone by."
"Okay, Nazi agents!" Dave snorted. "They read those route instructions
before we did, and were waiting for us in the dark doorway! See? It
doesn't make sense, Freddy. It's all cockeyed to drag Nazi agents into
this thing."
"You're right, of course," the English youth murmured. "But all I can
say is, praise the good Lord for our Commando training. I'm still
shuddering, thinking of one of those things slicing into my hide. And
my beggar almost got me, I'll frankly confess."
"Well, mine didn't exactly send me a letter," Dave echoed. "I'm sore we
didn't stop them, though. After that scare it would have done me a world
of good to go to work on his mug. Well, one thing, and that's final.
From now on I'm not going to leave my gun parked in a bureau drawer. Let
the public laugh and snicker. If I'd had it, I could have clipped that
bird in the leg and brought him down. But, boy! What a pair of broken
field runners they were!"
"Let's try and forget about them, if you don't mind," Freddy said with a
little shudder. "And let's put on a bit of speed. My nerves never were
of the best, you know."
The remark brought a laugh from Dave.
"Listen to him lie, will you!" he cried. "Pal, if your nerves aren't the
best I ever came across, then I'm Uncle Bay-Window Goering. But I was
just about to suggest, myself, that we get over on Tenth Avenue where
there's more light and fewer darkened doorways. Not too fast, though.
I've still got some jelly in my knee joints."
The rest of the trip, though, was made without incident or accident. And
in due time they were standing in front of a five storied brick
building that was Number 697 River Street. The street was dimmed out
like all the rest, but it wasn't half so dark as had been Cort Street.
Also, there were plenty of people passing by on the sidewalks. They
stared up at the building front in silence for a moment. It showed only
one lighted room, and that was on the third floor.
"Well let's go up the steps and push Mr. Brown's bell button," Dave
eventually grunted. "There's an entryway light there, so we should be
able to find it. Let's go."
They went up the stone steps to the small outer foyer that contained a
double row of bell buttons. They found the one that had "Brown" printed
on the plate card, and Dave stabbed it with his thumb. They didn't hear
the ring inside, and for a couple of minutes they stood there just
waiting.
"Give it another go, Dave," Freddy suggested.
Dawson lifted his hand, but froze it in mid-air as the shadow of a
figure appeared on the other side of the door. There was the sound of a
locking bolt being shot, and a key being turned. Then the door was
pulled inward to reveal the figure on the other side. Both Dave and
Freddy gulped and stared. Standing in the lighted doorway was a
Sergeant of infantry, complete with side-arms. The Sergeant flashed them
both a searching look, then stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Come in, sirs," he said. "And follow me, please."
CHAPTER THREE
_Eastward To War_
For a long minute Dave and Freddy just stood there and stared at the
infantry Sergeant as though he were something escaped from a museum.
Then they snapped out of their collective trance and stepped in through
the door. It was then that Freddy let the question pop off his lips
before he could stop it.
"Is Colonel Welsh here, Sergeant?" he asked.
The non-commissioned officer looked at him with a faint puzzled frown.
"Colonel Welsh, sir?" he echoed. Then, shaking his head, "No, sir.
There's no Colonel Welsh here. My orders are to take you to Major
Barber. Follow me, please."
The two flying aces exchanged looks, shrugged, and then followed the
Sergeant up the stairs. On the landing of the third floor the Sergeant
turned right along a hallway and finally came to a stop in front of the
fifth door down on the right. He motioned politely for Dave and Freddy
to wait, then knocked and went inside.
"I don't think I like this, Dave!" Freddy whispered when they were left
alone. "You heard him say that Colonel Welsh wasn't here. What the devil
do you suppose is up?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Dawson replied with a scowl. "I'm
beginning to suspect, though, that it's something very hush-hush. I
still wish I hadn't left my service gun in the hotel. Here, Freddy. I'm
probably acting silly, but you never can tell."
As Dave spoke the last he fished out one of the Commando knives and
slipped it into Freddy Farmer's hand. The English youth took it without
a word and let it slide into his pocket out of sight.
"Think we're foolish to wait here, Dave?" he breathed a moment later.
"After what's happened tonight, we may be simply asking for more
trouble. It's certainly a mixed up mess."
"Plenty screwy," Dave grunted with a nod. "But I'm a curious cuss. And
I'm just sore enough to follow this whole cockeyed business through to
the end. But keep on guard, Freddy. Back to back, pal, and so forth."
"Quite!" Freddy grated, and hunched his shoulders as though to get
himself set to spring at a split second's notice.
Another minute, and the door opened and the Sergeant reappeared. He
pulled the door wide, stood to one side and motioned for the two air
aces to enter. They stepped through into a plainly furnished outer
office. The Sergeant closed the door, walked past them and opened a door
on the right.
"In there, sirs," he said. "Major Barber is waiting."
"And just who is Major Barber?" Freddy Farmer demanded, and didn't move.
The Sergeant started to grin but cut it off instantly.
"He'll tell you, sir," he said. "Go in, please."
The two youths hesitated a fraction of a second longer; then by mutual
accord they stepped through the second door and into a smaller office.
It contained a desk, a few chairs, a filing cabinet or two, and a lone
picture of President Roosevelt on the wall. Seated at the desk was an
iron gray-haired Major in the uniform of infantry staff. He smiled and
rose from his chair as they entered.
"Evening, Captains Dawson and Farmer," he said, and extended his hand.
"Glad to see you here. Sit down, both of you."
The two youths shook hands with him, and then settled themselves in
chairs. The Major reseated himself and rearranged a few papers on his
desk. Dave watched him closely, and spun his brain in an effort to try
and figure out just what the picture was this time. Presently the Major
looked up and gave them both a quizzical smile.
"Of course you're not wondering anything, are you?" he asked with a
faint chuckle. "Any trouble on the way down here?"
Dave stiffened slightly. Things began to click a little in his head. He
gave the senior officer a long searching look.
"No, not a thing, Major," he lied quietly. Then with a little gesture of
one hand, "Should something have happened?"
That seemed to please the Major, for he grinned broadly. A moment later
he took a card from his pocket and passed it across the desk.
"Time to unmask, I guess," he said. "There's my identification. You can
both relax. Sorry things had to be so mysterious, but that's the way we
have to work sometimes."
Dave took the card and held it so Freddy Farmer could see it also. He
took one look, gulped, and shot a quick glance at the grinning man in
infantry staff uniform. The card, which contained a small picture, plus
a left thumb print, stated that the holder was one Major E. J. Barber,
officer in charge of all Commando units in training in the United
States. It was signed by General Marshall, and also by Colonel Welsh.
The name was suddenly very familiar to Dave, but he couldn't place it
exactly for a moment. Freddy Farmer beat him to it.
"I say!" he gasped. "Major Barber! Of course! You served originally with
the British, sir. You helped build the original British Commando force.
You won the Military Cross, and the Distinguished Service Order for
those first Commando raids on Occupied Norway. And now--?"
Freddy stopped as though embarrassed at blurting out so much. The senior
officer widened his grin and nodded.
"You've unmasked me, Farmer," he said. "That's right. And now that Uncle
Sam is in it, I'm fighting under my own country's flag. But that's just
the same as fighting under England's flag. From now on the two countries
are going to become more and more like one big country, I think. Well,
satisfied with my identity now, eh?"
Dave gravely handed back the card, and looked at the man.
"So it was a test?" he murmured, and placed the captured Commando knife
on the desk with his other hand. "Do I feel a sap! That idea never even
occurred to me. But they were as near the real thing as I ever hope to
see. Thank goodness I wasn't carrying side-arms!"
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer ejaculated, pop-eyed. "A test...? Good grief! You
mean those two chaps who had a go at us tonight? But I say--!"
The English-born air ace couldn't go on. He stopped abruptly and shook
his head in stunned bewilderment. And as though his brain didn't realize
what his hand was doing, he took out his own Commando knife and placed
it on the table beside Dave's. Major Barber picked them both up and
gently tapped the needle points against a fingernail as he looked
admiringly at the two youths.
"Check and double check," he finally said. "That's just what happened.
And I might add, you almost caused two of my best men to resign from the
Commando service, or the Rangers, as it will become known as time goes
on. Tonight was the first time that either of them had lost their
knives. They were on the phone just a few minutes before you arrived.
They declared that if there were any more like you two I wanted tested,
I'd have to get somebody else. In fact, they begged me for a couple of
days' leave to rest up from the rough going over you gave them. My
congratulations!"
"Thanks, sir," Dave mumbled as he suddenly had a funny feeling in the
stomach. "Holy smoke! If I'd been able to keep my grip on my man, I'm
afraid I'd have broken his arm right off, and probably his neck. But a
test! Why? I mean--that is--well, you do this sort of thing often, sir?
I mean--"
Dave stopped and floundered about for suitable words. The Major tossed
the two knives on the desk and leaned forward.
"Not every day, Dawson," he said quietly. "But often enough. Let me
explain. As yet our Commando units are not organized or completely
whipped into shape for action as all-American units. Some, however, who
have gone through the training have shown that they are as good as
they'll ever be, short of actual experience against the enemy. Those men
we pick out and send across to get that actual service with operating
British Commando units. With that action experience under their belts,
they make fine instructors for the units we are sending over to England
for final polishing up."
The Major paused to catch his breath and clear his throat.
"Each man selected for immediate active service is ordered to report to
me here," he continued presently. "He does not know that he is reporting
for Commando duty, so the last thing he's thinking of is an attack upon
his person here in New York City. That way I can tell for sure if he is
the man that I want to send across in advance of the regular Commando
forces. My two men, both of whom have seen actual Commando service with
me, carry out the test and report to me. Up until tonight they rather
enjoyed their work. They're tough, and they can take a lot of
punishment. But it seems you two gave them a little extra to take
tonight."
As the senior officer paused, both Dave and Freddy continued to sit
silent and motionless. To tell the truth, their brains were spinning
just a little too much to make comment possible. But in a few seconds
Freddy managed to unhinge his tongue.
"So--so we're going across for Commando duty, sir?" he blurted out. "But
I thought this Commando training was just a--well, a stopover between
jobs Colonel Welsh had for us. I--"
"Hold everything, Farmer!" Major Barber laughed, and held up a hand. "I
know you two are airmen, and it's the air where you shine the best.
But--well, this is a bit different from my regular procedure. You're not
going across as strictly Commando material. No, that's not right,
either. You'll be all Commando. Don't worry about that. But in addition,
there'll be an extra little assignment for you two to carry out."
"Sounds interesting, sir," Dave said eagerly, as the other paused.
"What's the extra little assignment?"
The smile faded from Major Barber's face, and he shook his head
vigorously.
"No soap, Dawson," he said. "You're not going to find that out right
now. In fact, not until after you have arrived in England. And
incidentally, you're leaving for England tonight."
Coming right on top of everything else that had happened, the Major's
last statement brought both boys up straight in their chairs. They
exchanged wide-eyed glances, and then focussed their gaze on the senior
officer again.
"Leaving for England tonight?" Freddy Farmer echoed breathlessly. "I
say! That's wonderful! Positively marvelous!"
"Figured it might please you, Farmer," Major Barber said with a smile.
"Yes, all _three_ of us are leaving for England tonight. You'll have me
for company, if you can stand it, as far as Botwood, in Newfoundland.
An Army bomber is waiting at Mitchel Field for us right now. At Botwood,
though, we'll part company. At Botwood you two will get further orders."
The Commando chief paused for a moment and stared thoughtfully down at
the desk top. Eventually he raised his eyes and gave a little half
shrug.
"I don't want you two to be too much in the dark," he said slowly, "so
I'll tell you that this show, if carried out successfully, will have a
marked bearing on whether or not the United Nations open up that second
front that everybody is yelling their heads off about. And--take it as a
sincere compliment, if you wish--a good chunk of that success is going
to rest on your youthful shoulders."
"Well, that clears up everything, sir," Dave said with a grin. "Now we
know what this is _all_ about."
"Stop fishing, Dawson," Major Barber chuckled at him. "It won't do you
the least bit of good. Not that I don't trust you two as much as I'd
trust my own father and mother. But that's not the point. As we all
know, the fewer who know about a surprise, the more of a surprise it is.
And I definitely want this little business to _be_ a surprise to Hitler
and his bunch of cutthroats. So until the time is ripe, nobody is being
told a thing about anything."
Grave and serious as the conversation was, Dave couldn't stop the smile
that tugged at his lips. The Major spotted it and cocked an eyebrow.
"Something strike you funny, Dawson?" he asked.
"No, not funny, sir," Dave replied instantly. Then with a flash side
glance at Freddy's intent and grave face, he went on, "I agree with you
that it's best to wait until the time is right for final instructions.
Besides snoring something terrible, Farmer, here, often talks in his
sleep."
It was just the thing needed to ease the mounting tension. Major Barber
burst into gales of laughter, and Freddy Farmer practically shot
straight up out of his seat, and turned all the colors of the rainbow.
Dave put out a protective hand.
"Take it easy, pal!" he cried. "I've got a witness to anything you do.
Better wait until we're alone."
The red remained in Freddy's cheeks, but he made no move toward Dave. He
simply regarded him with scorn, rather like something the cat had
dragged in. Then he looked at Major Barber.
"Your two test men gave you a complete report on tonight's little
affair, sir?" he asked. "They told you everything?"
The senior officer blinked, and stared at Freddy as though trying to
find out what was behind the words.
"Why, yes, I believe so," he said. "But was there something they left
out?"
Freddy looked at Dave with friendly pity in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Dave," he said quietly. "I know I promised, but--well, that
last remark from you deserves the punishment of the truth. Sorry, and
all that. But you asked for it, old man."
"Say, what is this?" Major Barber demanded, leaning forward. "What truth
about Dawson?"
"Then they didn't tell you that part, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured.
"That it was Dawson who threw himself flat to the sidewalk and screamed
for the police while I battled those two chaps?"
"Ouch!" Dave cried, and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Will I never
learn to keep my big mouth shut!"
CHAPTER FOUR
_Next Stop, England!_
Grey skies covered the world from north to south, and from east to west.
Standing on the tarmac of the now world famous Botwood field, from which
countless planes had been flown by unsung air heroes to eagerly awaiting
pilots on the other side of the Atlantic, Dave and Freddy tugged their
flying suit collars a bit tighter and looked at each other, bright-eyed.
"Some sight, hey, pal?" Dave grunted, and swept a hand toward the array
of war planes of all descriptions that lined all four sides of the
field. "It would kind of make Adolf feel sick, if he could get a look at
that bunch."
"He'll hear them, if not see them, soon enough!" Freddy replied with
emphasis. "And I hope I'll be in one of them that's right over his head.
I say! What beastly weather, though!"
"This?" Dave echoed, and looked at him in surprise. "Why, I should think
it would make you feel homesick. I've seen plenty of weather just like
this on your tea-drinking island. Holy smoke! Every time the sun comes
out in England, you birds don't know what it is that's happened for the
first couple of minutes. What's the matter, pal? Down in the dumps
because you've been hooked for a bit of possible action?"
"No, not a bit of it," Freddy sighed. "Just the usual unhappy feeling.
Man! How I'd love to be given a war assignment without having to worry
about you being along to probably mess up the whole business! But I
suppose that's the cross I must bear."
"You'll bear a punch in the nose, if you don't look out!" Dave growled.
"But, kidding aside, I wonder what comes next? Major Barber dropped us
like hotcakes the minute we arrived in that Army bomber. Told us to go
get breakfast, and have a look around. Well, we've been doing that for a
couple of hours now. Me, I could do with those further orders he was
talking about."
"Me, too," Freddy said with a nod. "But I fancy he'll get around to it
when he's good and ready. This isn't the first time we've been kept in
the dark as to what things were all about."
"Nor will it be the last!" Dave grunted. "But I don't blame the Major a
bit. In this war you can tell a secret to the Sphinx, and first thing
you know it's all over town. But that Major Barber is a good guy. And
plenty! Me for him, any day in the week. I'll wait, if he says so."
"Nice of you," Freddy chuckled. "You blasted well will, and jolly well
like it, too, my fine friend."
"Okay, okay!" Dave growled. "I was only pointing out--Oh, skip it! What
type bomber would you like to go across in, Freddy? There're all makes
here."
"Any one of them, it doesn't matter," Freddy replied, "just so long as
it gets me to England, and soon. I say! Have a look at those two
transports coming in to land! They don't plan to ferry those big things
across empty, do they? I don't see any stores of equipment laying around
here waiting for transportation across."
Dave didn't reply for a moment. He stared at the two huge Curtiss-built
troop transports that were circling the field and coming around into the
landing wind.
"Those aren't new jobs waiting to be ferried places," he grunted after a
moment or two. "They've seen service. They're not right off the factory
assembly line. They're--Well, what do you know!"
Dave breathed the last as one of the two planes touched ground and
braked to a gentle stop. The fuselage doors opened and U. S.
Commando-garbed troops started pouring out. The second transport landed
and started unloading its cargo of fighting Commandos. There were
forty-five in each plane, complete with equipment, and looking as though
they were ready to land on the French side of the English Channel any
time the whistle was blown.
"Which means we're going to have company on the ride across, I guess,"
Dave spoke again. "Some of the boys who also passed Major Barber's
little check test with flying colors. Let's go over and see if any of
them were in training with us. I think I recognize a couple of them from
here."
"Right you are," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Let's go over and see."
They hadn't taken more than a dozen steps apiece, however, before a
headquarters orderly came running up to them.
"The Field Commandant wants you to report to his office at once,
Captains," the orderly informed them. "It's over there at that corner of
the field."
"I see it, and thanks," Dave answered for both of them. "On the way,
now."
Inside the field office, they found Major Barber seated with Colonel
Stickney, Commandant of the field. He smiled at them and pointed at a
couple of empty chairs.
"Were you beginning to think I had forgotten about you two?" the Major
asked. "Have a chair, and relax. Colonel Stickney, here, will give you
your further orders."
The two youths seated themselves and looked respectfully at the Field
Commandant. Colonel Stickney was the kind of a man who brushed
formalities aside and got right down to brass tacks. Maybe that's one
reason why he was one of the most able officers in the U. S. Army Air
forces.
"You two are taking off at ten o'clock tonight," he said. "You're not
going across with the ferry bombers or troop transports, however. I've
got two Lockheed P-Thirty-Eights that are waiting to be delivered in
England. You'll each take one of them. For the crossing extra gas tanks
have been fitted. As you both probably know, we've been ferrying
pursuits across, as well as bombers, for several weeks now. They fly
without guns, or ammo, and have extra tanks fitted. You drop the extra
tanks into the sea when you've used up their fuel. Naturally, you switch
them in first so's to be carrying less weight on the last half of your
trip."
The Colonel paused and stared down at his fingers for a moment or two.
"You saw those two Commando transports that just sat down?" he asked.
Then, without waiting for an answer, "Well, those troops are being
carried across in the ferry bomber flight that'll take off before you
do. Your P-Thirty-Eights make faster time, of course, so the take-off
times will be set so that you'll catch up with the flight of ferry
bombers a hundred miles or so this side of Ireland. Obviously, it will
be part of your job to escort them along the final lap to Land's End,
England."
The Colonel paused again and caught the look the two youths quickly
exchanged. He grinned faintly.
"No, it's not going to be like that in your case," he said bluntly.
"Your P-Thirty-Eights will be armed to the hilt. I hope you won't have
to use your guns, though!"
Dave looked at him and leaned forward a bit.
"You have reason to believe that we might, sir?" he asked quietly.
The senior officer shrugged and plucked at his lower lip.
"No, I haven't," he said after a long pause. "Anything can happen in
this cockeyed war, however. As I said, those Commando troops you just
now saw climb from those transports are going across to the other side
by air. It will be the first time that ferry bombers have taken troops
across in any numbers. Tonight's trip may prove to be the beginning of
transporting troops to Europe by air. To date, and contrary to general
belief, not one single plane that's been ferried from here to the other
side has been lost due to enemy air action. However, as in all things,
there has to be a beginning sometime."
Colonel Stickney stopped talking and nodded his head for emphasis.
"The taking of those Commando troops out there to England has been kept
as much of a secret as is humanly possible to keep a secret," he said at
length. "Right now, not one of them knows that he's going across by
bomber tonight. That doesn't mean a thing, though. The Nazis may be
women and children killers, but they are no fools. They're every bit as
smart as we are, and don't let anybody kid you they aren't. For that
reason there is _no_ reason to believe that they haven't found out about
this little thing we're trying tonight. Fact is, I'm assuming that they
have found out. That's why you two are acting as escort for the ferry
ships. In short, in case some Occupied France-based Nazi planes come
out to smash up our aerial convoy. If any do, then it will be up to you
to see they don't get to first base. You understand?"
Dave nodded, but Freddy Farmer looked puzzled.
"Get to first base, sir?" he echoed. "Where's that base located?"
The other three suppressed their laughter, but they couldn't help
smiling at Freddy's innocent inquiry.
"An American baseball expression, Farmer," Colonel Stickney explained.
"I mean, it's up to you two to see that any Nazi raiding planes don't
even get a chance to get close enough for action. Get it, now?"
"Oh, quite, and sorry, sir," Freddy said, and blushed.
"Think nothing of it, Farmer," the other said kindly. "Yank slang is a
language all its own. Takes time to learn it. And when you have, the
next generation below you is talking an even different jargon. But
that's the American kid for you. Well, if you've got it all straight,
and there are no questions, I guess that's all I have to say. Are there
any questions? You'll be given flight charts and flight signals to use
en route later, of course."
"All clear to me, sir," Dave spoke up.
"Quite, sir," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Can't say I hope you get your
wish, though, sir."
"Huh? What's that?" the Field Commandant demanded.
"I mean, that we won't have to use our guns," Freddy replied with a
smile. "A bit of Nazi action at the end of the trip would suit me fine.
Successful action from our point of view, of course."
"Check, and how!" Dave breathed before he could stop his tongue.
Colonel Stickney tried to give them the hard eye and stern face, but
found it too difficult.