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DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA
BOOKS BY R. SIDNEY BOWEN
DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A. F.
DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA
DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL
DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS
DAVE DAWSON ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT
DAVE DAWSON FLIGHT LIEUTENANT
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE FLYING TIGERS
DAVE DAWSON ON GUADALCANAL
DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA
_by_
R. SIDNEY BOWEN
THE WAR ADVENTURE SERIES
CROWN PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1943, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FOR DICK BOWEN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I CANCELED ORDERS 13
II ACES DON'T MISS 22
III FLIGHT TO NOWHERE 36
IV ACTION BOUND 47
V INSTRUCTIONS FOR EAGLES 59
VI BLIND EYES 71
VII DISCOVERED? 83
VIII EAGLE'S EYES 95
IX FATE IS FICKLE 103
X STEEL SHARKS 115
XI GIVE AND TAKE 128
XII HELPLESS HEROES 141
XIII HAYWIRE NERVES 155
XIV DEVIL EYES 167
XV MISSING IN ACTION 181
XVI LUCK OF THE DOOMED 190
XVII SATAN LAUGHS 200
XVIII DEAD WINGS 213
XIX FLIGHT'S END 229
CHAPTER ONE
_Canceled Orders_
Stretching out as comfortably as the gear-packed bomb compartment of the
Flying Fortress would permit, Dave Dawson lazily unwrapped a bar of
semi-sweet chocolate, and bit off a man-sized hunk.
"Ub glub dish blub ice," he grunted, and winked at Freddy Farmer, who
was sitting on a packing case of spare parts a few feet from him.
"Deferenally jice!"
The English-born air ace gave him a cold stare and a scowl.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, little boy!" he said. "In fact, don't
talk at all."
"And that from a guy I've often seen eat peas off a knife," Dawson
chuckled after he had swallowed. "But, as I was saying, this is my idea
of something nice. Definitely nice."
"You think so?" Freddy snorted, and glanced out the port at the broad
expanse of sun-flooded Indian Ocean beneath the wings of the B-17.
"What's nice about it, I'd like to know? Nothing but water down there.
And more water!"
"So what are you kicking about, Pal?" Dave shot at him. "You're only
seeing the top of it, you know. But I meant it's nice to be air
chauffeured around once in a while. Just sit back and relax and enjoy
yourself, while some other guy does all the work."
"I always suspected that you were born lazy," Freddy said. "And every
day in every way I'm becoming more and more convinced. I wouldn't relax
too much, old thing, if I were you. In case you don't remember, there is
still a world war going on. And particularly in this part of the world.
Just over there a couple of hundred miles or so are some islands called
the Dutch East Indies. Right now a mess of slant-eyed devils are in
control. And they have quite a few airplanes, too, for another thing."
"Meaning?" Dawson grunted and frowned.
"Meaning that we're expected to do something in return for this hitch
hike hop from India to Australia," the English youth explained. "In
other words, we are expected, like everybody else aboard, to keep an
eye out for possible approaching enemy planes."
"Do tell, do tell!" Dawson murmured, and pushed himself up to a half
sitting position.
Turning his head slightly, he took a long look out the port nearest him.
Then presently he shook his head, relaxed and slumped back to his
original position.
"Nope," he grinned at Freddy. "No enemy planes approaching, sir. Now
what?"
Freddy made sounds in his throat and stabbed a finger at the bomb bay
doors.
"You could step down through there, and neglect to take your parachute
along!" he snapped. "You know something, Dave? I'm just a little worried
about you."
"Good!" Dawson chuckled, and bit off another hunk of chocolate.
"Worrying about me will keep you out of trouble, and that will be fine.
But, seriously, what's on your mind, my good fellow? You do have a mind,
don't you?"
"I have a _mind_ to toss you overboard, and not even mention it to the
others!" Freddy came right back. "But seriously speaking, too, I really
am worried about you. You've lost your pep and you're going stale.
And--"
"Hey, what gives?" Dawson cried, and sat up straight. "Just stick a Jap
Zero out there, sweetheart, and I'll show you who's going stale. Where
do you get that stuff, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't mean that," Freddy said with a faint gesture. "I imagine
you could shoot down a Zero--if the pilot would keep it still long
enough. No, I mean about your pep, your--well, your disinterest, Dave.
Once you used to be all keyed up about what was going to happen next.
But now...? Well, you just seem to slide along from day to day. Sort of
take things as they come."
"So?" Dawson mumbled, and munched on his chocolate.
"See what I mean?" Freddy cried angrily. "No interest at all in what's
going to happen next. Take this flight we're making right now. A couple
of weeks ago we were pulled out of China to India. And now we're on our
way to Australia. And, from there to where, or what? You haven't said a
word about that. Yet once you used to comb your brain for the answers.
Nowadays, though, you don't appear to give such things so much as a
thought. Are you getting war weary, Dave, or just naturally slipping."
Dawson didn't say anything for a while. He finished his chocolate and
licked his fingers in frowning silence.
"Well, I'll tell you, pal," he finally spoke. "Maybe it's because I'm
getting old. And so are you, only you won't admit it. Yet maybe that's
not right, either. I think it's because I'm all washed up with guessing,
and never guessing right. I mean about jobs for us to do. Think back
over our war experiences, Freddy. Think back and just name one time when
we got orders to report some place that we knew why, and what it was all
about. Go ahead. Think hard, and try and come up with one example. Just
try, brother; just try!"
Freddy Farmer concentrated hard for a moment or two, and then finally
shook his head.
"No, I'm afraid I can't think of a single time," he said. "But--"
"Nuts to the buts!" Dawson snapped. "That's the idea, see? Here today,
and some place else tomorrow. And nobody ever tells us. So why get all
steamed up wondering and guessing? I'm just tired of doing it, see? So I
skip the wondering and guessing, nowadays."
Freddy Farmer stared at him and then grunted and dragged down one corner
of his mouth.
"And if you'll pardon the Yank expression, my dear sir," he said, "you
are what is known as a cockeyed liar. And you know it! You mean to tell
me you're not wondering _why_ we've been ordered to Australia? Don't be
coy, old thing! You're just trying to put off an act!"
"It's put _on_ an act, dummy!" Dave growled at him. "Okay, I have
wondered a little. So what? At least I'm not filling the breeze with a
lot of questions out loud. I'll just take what comes, and let it go at
that. Only I hope it's some action. And I do mean real action!"
"And I've a fancy that's just what you're going to get!" the
English-born air ace spoke up. "I was talking with a chap in Calcutta,
just before we left. He has a friend attached to Far East H.Q., and he
hinted that the Japs have assembled a thundering big naval and air force
in the Southeastern Pacific. And an all out attack is to be made on
Australia 'most any day now."
"Nuts!" Dawson snorted. "After all these years, and you fall for that
kind of rumor stuff. You should know better, Freddy!"
"Oh, you think so?" the English youth flared up. "I suppose you've got
the real inside information straight from General MacArthur?"
"No," Dawson replied with a straight face. "But I met a chap in
Calcutta, too. A Yank infantry lieutenant. He has a girl who goes around
with a fellow who has an uncle who had dinner in Washington with the
close friend of a Senator. And what do you think that Senator said had
been decided?"
Freddy Farmer hesitated, but couldn't stop himself.
"What did he say?" he asked.
"That the U.S. has made a deal with Japan about the Pacific!" Dave came
back instantly. "We're going to take half, and the Japs are going to
take half. We're--Hey! What's wrong, Freddy?"
The last was because the English youth had suddenly wrapped his arms
about his middle, and was swaying back and forth with an expression of
agonizing pain on his face. He suddenly stopped and gave a sad shake of
his head.
"You!" he groaned. "Good grief! Why did it have to be you, my very best
friend? And I swore by all that's holy that I'd do it, too!"
"Say, what is this?" Dawson demanded, and leaned forward. "What in
thunder are you raving about, anyway? Swore you'd do what?"
"Swore I'd shoot the very next blighter who pulled that old, old one
about the U.S. taking the top half of the Pacific, and the Japs the
bottom half!" Freddy groaned. "So be a good chap, and hand me your gun,
will you?"
"I'll hand you more than a gun!" Dave growled. "You bum! You had the
pants scared off me there for a moment. I--"
Dave cut off the rest short as Captain Banks, of the Army Air Transport
Command, and pilot of the Flying Fortress, came through the door from up
forward. He held a slip of paper in his hand, and he gave Dawson and
Farmer a quizzical look.
"Big shots I've got aboard, huh?" he said with a grin. "Maybe personal
friends of MacArthur?"
"Not that I know of, anyway, Skipper," Dave replied with a grin. "Why?
Is that thing in your hand news for us? If it's bad news, then we bailed
out about ten minutes ago."
"Good or bad, I wouldn't know," the Flying Fortress' commander said with
a shrug. "It's a radio from MacArthur's Headquarters. We're to land at
Broome. There you two are to grab a plane and hike straight over to H.Q.
in Sydney, and report."
"But I thought you were taking us to Darwin?" Freddy Farmer spoke up.
"We were, but orders are canceled," Banks replied. "The big boys seem to
want you two to get to H.Q. in a hurry. You wouldn't have any idea, I
suppose, huh? Us Air Transport slaves don't get very close to the
fighting very often. Kind of a lonely life, if you get what I mean?
Take this ferry hop, for example. We're armed, of course, and there are
Jap air bases within range to give us some action. But will we run into
anything like that? No such luck. So we bear up the best we can, and
make a hobby of collecting gossip. So if you two know any--"
And that's as far as the Flying Fortress commander got. At that moment
there came the bank and snap of the aft turret guns. And a split second
later the excited cry carried through the ship.
"Enemy aircraft off to port! A half dozen of them. Zeros!"
"My gosh, what do you know?" Captain Banks gasped, and stared wide-eyed
at Dawson.
"You shouldn't have talked so loud, Skipper!" Dave laughed, and sprang
to his feet. "Tojo heard you that time, and is obliging!"
CHAPTER TWO
_Aces Don't Miss_
Maybe Tojo wasn't obliging the Flying Fortress' commander, but six Jap
Zero pilots most certainly were. As Dawson leaped to a pair of waist
guns and peered to port, he saw the six Zeros prop-piling down like six
bullet-spitting maniacs. Steadying himself, he trained his guns on the
leading plane and fired. His tracers streaked out and seemed to be
cutting the Zero's left wing in two, but the Jap craft continued to come
boiling in at the big four-engined bomber. Lumps of lead began to bounce
and jounce around in Dawson's stomach. The pilot of that leading Zero
seemed to be bullet-proof. He also seemed to have but one thought in his
head: to keep right on thundering down and ram the Flying Fortress in
midair.
But cold fear was Dawson's for only a brief instant. He corrected his
aim and let fly again with his guns. This time the Zero was out of luck.
It took the full fury of Dawson's fire, seemed to stagger in the air for
a moment before it blew up in a cloud of orange flame and smoke, and
went showering down out of sight.
"One for our side!" Dawson shouted happily. "Now--!"
The chattering yammer of Freddy Farmer's guns in the slot above him cut
off the rest of Dawson's words. And in practically the same instant a
second Zero spouted black smoke, and then nosed over to go hurtling
straight downward, tracing its path of doom straight to the surface of
the Indian Ocean.
"My error!" Dawson bellowed. "I meant, two for our side. Nice going,
Freddy!"
Of course the English-born air ace didn't hear him, because all of the
Fortress's guns were hammering death and destruction into the four
remaining Zeros. In less time than it takes to tell about it, there were
only two Zeros left. Then only one. And then, as Dawson got off a
perfect deflection burst, there weren't any Zeros left in that section
of the sky.
"And that's that!" Dave panted as he searched the sun-tinted air. "Six
for six. Not bad. It was almost fun while it lasted. It--well, strike
me pink, as Freddy would say!"
He had happened to glance down at his shirt to see that his silver Air
Forces pilot's wings were not pinned in place above the left pocket
flap. His decoration ribbons were there, but no wings. Where they had
been was a nice clean tear in the material. Pop-eyed, he stared at the
tear, and then impulsively looked down at the compartment floor boards.
And there they were. His wings. But not as he'd ever seen them before.
In a few words, they looked as if they had been run over by an express
train. Or better still, as if they'd been accidentally dropped into a
meat grinder. They were twisted all out of shape, and there was a deep
smooth groove right across the middle from one wingtip to the other
wingtip. And as Dave stared at them, and leaned over to pick them up, a
twitch of pain passed across his upper left chest.
"And I didn't even feel that Jap bullet!" he gulped, and fingered the
bullet-creased wings. "But, boy, that--that was too darn close!"
"What was too close, Dave?" Freddy Farmer's voice spoke at his elbow.
Dawson held out the bullet-creased wings for Freddy to see.
"One of those birds was a sharp shooter," he said with a mirthless
chuckle. "Only not quite sharp enough, thank my lucky stars. Kind of
close, huh?"
Freddy Farmer's eyes widened, and for a moment all he could do was stare
at the damaged wings and then at the torn space on Dave's shirt where
they had been.
"Good grief, I can hardly believe it!" he finally gasped. "It's--it's a
miracle, Dave. You should be dead, by rights, you know."
"Thanks, I like it better this way," Dawson replied grimly, and dropped
the wings into his pocket. "If I believed in signs I'd take this to mean
that it was only the beginning of something. And now that I come to
think of it, I wonder if it is."
"Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer snorted. "It's a sign, all right. But it's a
sign of how blasted lucky you always are!"
"Sure!" Dawson growled. "Also a sign that I've got to fork out dough for
a new pair, and--No, by gosh, I won't! The pin on these is okay. So
darned if I won't wear them for continued luck. I'll--"
He cut off the rest as Captain Banks came hurrying into the compartment.
The worry on the bomber commander's face faded away as soon as he laid
eyes on the pair.
"You two okay, eh, thank God!" he grunted. "Well, then I can bawl you
out. What was the big idea, anyway? Didn't you stop to remember that
there're eight other guys on this sky wagon?"
"Huh, Skipper?" Dawson echoed. "Come again?"
"Six nice juicy Zeros!" Captain Banks said with tears in his voice.
"_Six_ of them! And what happens? You birds nail four of them between
you. It ain't right. There should be a law against birds like you
cheating us war-starved ferry crews out of a look at the war. Kidding
aside, though, fellows, thanks, and how! Those Zero rats don't waste
much time giving you the works, do they? And my heart was choking me
when I thought that one of them was going to ram us. Wonder I didn't put
this old baby in a power spin. I--Hey! What happened to your wings,
Dawson? You been teething on them?"
"They dropped off, and Farmer stepped on them before I could pick them
up," Dawson grinned. "Look at his big feet, if you don't believe me.
But, speaking of other things, Skipper, how long before we get in?"
The Fortress commander glanced at his wrist watch, and pursed his lips.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Unless we run into more Zeros. And I hope
we do. But hey! Those jobs were pretty far out to sea, now that I come
to think of it."
"Too far," Dave told him quietly. "My guess is that they were
carrier-based. This is your usual ferry course from India to Australia,
isn't it?"
"Check, and I get your thought," the pilot nodded as his face became
grave. "You think maybe the Japs have sent out a carrier force to cut a
hole in our air supply route, huh?"
"Could be," Dawson shrugged. "I wouldn't want to bet against it, anyway.
And--well, skip it."
"No," the other said. "Go on and say the rest of it."
"Well, if I were flying this job," Dawson replied with a half grin, "I
think that right now I'd give those four Wright Cyclones you've got a
chance to show what they can do. But, after all, I'm strictly a safety
first guy, Skipper."
"That makes two of us," Banks said quickly. "Anyway, my job is to get
these babies to Australia for other guys to use, so I'll just stick to
my knitting, I reckon. Okay, fellows, hang onto your hats. I'm going to
cut that twenty minutes to fifteen, at least. And again, thanks for that
job on those Zeros."
The Flying Fortress commander not only called the turn, but made good.
Just ten minutes later the west coast of Australia was sighted. And five
minutes after that the big four-engined job, being ferried out to the
South Pacific to play its part in the war, was tooled down to an expert
landing on the Air Forces constructed field on the outskirts of the city
of Broome. Dave and Freddy gathered up their small and compact kit bags
and climbed out with the rest of the crew onto the ground. There they
intended to bid goodbye to the others, but before either one of them
could open his mouth a jeep streaked out from the hangar line and a
staff major popped out of it like a pea out of a split pod.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer?" he barked, and looked hard at Dave.
"I'm Dawson, sir," Dave replied with a nod. "And this is Captain
Farmer."
"Very good!" the senior officer snapped. "Come along, then. Get into the
car quickly! Your plane is waiting. Maps and weather charts are in the
pits. Come on; snap it up!"
A flash of resentment passed through Dawson. The major was a ground
officer. He wore no wings on his tunic, nor any decoration ribbons,
either. As a matter of fact, he looked to Dave like one of those well
known forty-eight-hour soldiers. In other words, a man who gets a
commission while en route to Washington, and comes back wearing his
brand-new tailor-made uniform.
"Something up, Major?" Dave asked quietly. "What's all the rush about?"
"What would you suppose?" the major came right back angrily. "There
happens to be a war on. Also, lots of things to do. H.Q. has ordered for
you to report in a hurry, and that's what you're to do. Now, let's get
going, you two!"
Dave knew that he was letting his anger get the better of him, but he
couldn't help himself. This staff major was the type of officer that
always gave him a pain in the neck. He'd met up with more than one
during his war career. Put an officer's insignia on their shoulder
straps and they went sky high with importance. And the higher the rank
they held, the higher went their belief in their own importance. Maybe
that was okay around training camps or induction centers. But that sort
of thing didn't go with shot and shell-seasoned veterans. So naturally
it didn't go with Dave.
"Just a minute, Major," he said. "I think first I should report the
engagement."
"What's that?" the other gasped, rising to the bait. "Did you say
engagement?"
"That's right, Major," Dawson assured him. "Half a dozen Zeros attacked
us about ninety miles off shore. We got them all, but they must have
been carrier-based. I heard a report that there is a huge Jap attack
force heading for this coast. Of course, it may be only a rumor, but--"
"Heading for _here_?" the Major gulped, and his face tightened. "Are you
sure?"
Dave shrugged and gestured with a hand.
"Well, I didn't actually see them, Major," he replied truthfully. "But
the Japs have pulled a lot of fast ones in this war. You never can tell,
you know."
"No, you never can, that's right," the other said, and glanced nervously
toward the west. "Well, your plane is waiting. I'll run you over, and
make the report _myself_ to the commanding officer. A huge Jap attack
force, eh?"
Dawson didn't say anything. He simply nudged Freddy Farmer's arm, and
the pair stepped into the jeep. The major stalled the engine twice
before he got the jeep going. And then he made a dash down along the
edge of the field as though Jap troops were actually rushing up from the
other side. He braked to a screaming halt in front of the field office,
waved a hand at a waiting plane some fifty yards farther on, and then
leaped out and dashed inside.
"Good grief, the blighter is in a hurry, isn't he?" Freddy Farmer
breathed as they walked over toward the plane, a Wright-powered Vultee
attack bomber. "But why did you fill him with all that junk about a huge
Jap attack force?"
"Well, you said you heard on good authority that there was one, didn't
you?" Dawson chuckled. "And, I just don't like efficient stuffed shirts
like him. I like to see them get their whiskers burned. Anyway, I'm
hoping that the C.O. of this field is the kind of a bird who'll do it.
We'll know when Major Importance comes out. Well, anyway, we've got a
nice job to fly. And we should see quite a bit of this down-under
continent by the time we hit Sydney."
"You take the scenery," Freddy Farmer grunted, and stowed his kit in the
Vultee's pit. "I'll take Sydney as fast as I can get it. Lord, Dave! Do
you suppose General MacArthur himself wants to see us?"
"Nope," Dawson replied instantly, and tossed his kit aboard. "If the
orders had read for me to report _alone_, I'd say probably. But we are
both to report, so meeting the general is definitely out, if you get
what I mean?"
Freddy Farmer glared and stuck out his tongue.
"Too bad you were wearing those wings at the wrong time!" he snapped.
"But pardon me, old thing, for stirring that brain of yours. You aren't
wondering about the future any more, are you? Well, let's get on with
it. Half a moment, though. As I recall, it's my turn to pilot. So get
into the gunner's seat, young man. Up with you!"
Dave shook his head, and grinned.
"Let me sky-steer her this time, as a favor, Freddy," he pleaded. Then,
as he looked past Farmer toward the field office, he added quickly,
"There isn't time to explain, but be a good guy and let me take her off.
I'll remember you in my will, if you do."
The English youth started to shake his head, but something he saw in
Dawson's face suddenly caused him to change his mind. He let out a
resigned sigh, and shrugged.
"Right you are, then," he grunted. "But I think I'm a fool to let you.
You're up to something!"
"Me?" Dave murmured innocently, and strapped on his parachute pack.
"Perish the thought, sweetheart. I just like to pilot. Oh-oh! Somebody
got choked off plenty, but is trying not to show it!"
That somebody was the staff major. He came over to the plane very
flushed in the face, and with an ugly look in his eye.
"You reported that rumor to the commanding officer, sir?" Dave asked
politely.
"I did!" the other snapped, and let it go at that. Then, suddenly
pointing a stiff finger at Dawson, he barked, "And just what do you call
_that_, Captain?"
Dave didn't catch the meaning of the question for a couple of seconds.
He was enjoying the mental picture of this band box officer rushing into
a hard bitten C.O.'s office with a scare rumor that a huge Jap attack
force was _less_ than a hundred miles off the Australian coast. And of
how he came out with his ears burning from the officer's words about
what he could do with his crazy and utterly impossible tale! And then
Dave realized that the Major was stabbing a finger at his bullet-smacked
wings.
"Why, they're my pilot's wings, sir," he replied. "They met with a
little accident."
"And they certainly look it!" the Major rasped. "A fine thing to wear on
a Government uniform! A lot of you young officers certainly need to be
taught a bit more respect for your uniforms, and the insignia you wear.
I'd advise you to obtain a new pair before you report to H.Q. in
Sydney. Now, go ahead and take off! You're late enough as it is! Get
going!"
"Yes, sir, very good, sir," Dave said as meekly as he could, and climbed
into the pilot's pit with anger seething in his soul.
The engine had already been warmed up, and it was now just idling over.
Strapping himself in, Dave looked back to get the nod from Freddy, and
to snap a quick glance at the major. The senior officer was standing a
few feet off the right wing tip in the perfect attitude of an old crank
waiting to make sure that a couple of trespassing kids got off the
property. Turning front, Dave smothered a grin and released the wheel
brakes, and inched open the throttle enough to get the Vultee rolling
forward. Then when the tail came abreast of the major, Dave opened up
the throttle wide and tapped the left wheel brake just enough to swing
the tail over to the right. Then he banged the throttle the rest of the
way open and took off in a hurry. As he cleared the ground, he looked
back and hooted. The major was flat on his back in a cloud of dust, with
his feet straight up in the air. And his officer's cap was spinning
along the edge of the field like a runaway spare wheel.
"Oops, so sorry, Big Shot!" Dawson shouted. "Darned if I didn't forget
you were there. Better go wash your neck. The Army must always look
clean and tidy, you know, Major. So long, chump!"
"And the Military Police will probably be waiting for you, old thing, at
Sydney!" Freddy Farmer sang out between spells of laughter. "There's
such a thing as radio, you know."
"And that'll be okay, too!" Dave chuckled. "They can bring me back here,
so's I can do it all over again. Make cracks about my wings, huh? Too
had he wasn't a captain, or I wasn't a major, too. I think I would enjoy
very much pasting that make-believe in the nose. Well, here we go again.
On again, off again--as usual!"
CHAPTER THREE
_Flight To Nowhere_
The sun was sliding down over the western lip of the world in a hurry
when Dawson sat the Vultee down on the Sydney field after a
trans-Australia flight from Broome. As soon as they taxied into the line
and mechanics took over, a sergeant of the Military Police came hurrying
over to them. For just a brief moment Dave's heart floated up to the
region of his throat. It was just a wasted sensation, however. The M.P.
was simply doing his duty of informing all pilots landing from other
bases to report first to the operations office.
Dave and Freddy legged out, collected their stuff, and went over to
operations. They were obviously expected, for the officer on duty
greeted them with a grin and a nod, and jerked a thumb at the motor
transport building next door.
"A car and driver are waiting, Captains," he said pleasantly. "Over
there in front. He'll take you to Headquarters at once. Have a nice trip
out?"
"It wasn't too bad," Dave replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he
added, "I suppose I'd be shot if I asked questions?"
The operations officer chuckled and shook his head.
"No," he said, "you wouldn't be shot. But you wouldn't get any answers,
either. Because I don't know any. I can tell you this much, though, if
it will help any. You two are the umpty-umph pilots since yesterday
morning who have checked through here in a hurry to get to Headquarters.
Looks like something big is in the wind, but I wouldn't know. Nobody
tells us guys anything, anyway. Good luck, just the same, and--Well, for
the love of Mike, Dawson! Did some sweet young thing in China try to
steal your wings with her teeth? Man, those are chewed up, what I mean!"
"No, Zero teeth, if you get what I mean," Dave grinned. "I'm a lucky
guy, I guess."
The operation officer's eyes widened, and he let out air slowly.
"Did, huh?" he breathed. "Luck, and how, what I mean! Man, what I
wouldn't give for a war souvenir like that! You're the second chap I've
met whose life was saved by a bullet ricocheting off his wings. I know
one fellow, too, who got saved by his cigarette case. No fooling,
Dawson, you've really got something there. Well, anyway, scram along,
kids, and a million in luck!"
"Same to you, and in bunches, soldier," Dave grinned, and went outside
with Farmer.
"See what I mean, Freddy?" he said as they walked toward the motor
transport building. "There's nice guys, and otherwise, in every man's
army. You never can tell a fellow by the rank insignia on his
shoulders."
"Quite, oh quite," the English-born air ace murmured absently. "But I'm
wondering why so many pilots have been ordered to Headquarters. I
wonder."
Dawson shrugged and headed toward a war-painted staff car with a
corporal driver lounging against a front fender.
"Search me," he said. "Could be that they have decided to wash out the
Army Air Forces, and make ditch diggers of us all. Not a bad idea, after
the flying I've seen _some_ guys do."
"Yes, definitely," Freddy Farmer replied instantly. "But how the deuce
do you manage it, Dave? I should think the whirling prop tips would
smash it."
"Huh?" Dawson ejaculated. "Come again, Freddy? How do I manage what?"
"To hold a mirror out in front of you, so you can see yourself flying
around!" the English youth shot at him. "Quite a trick, isn't it?"
"Bingo, and out!" Dawson laughed. "Okay, wise guy! That puts you one up
for the day. But the sun hasn't set yet. So keep right up there on your
toes, my lad. Well, this must be ours."
As Dave spoke the last he returned the salute of the corporal driver,
who had straightened to attention.
"This the H.Q. taxi, Corporal?" he asked.
"I guess you could call it that, sir," the non-com said with a chuckle.
"Step right in and it will take you there itself. It sure has made
enough trips these last couple of days to be able to do it on its own."
"Really?" Freddy Farmer murmured. "All Air Forces officers, Corporal?"
"No, not all, sir," the non-com replied. "About fifty-fifty Army and
Navy, sir, I'd say. Quite a bunch of them, too. I guess maybe
something's being cooked up for Tojo and his boys. High time, I'm
thinking, too. We're quite a few runs behind them tramps."
"But we'll catch up, don't worry," Dawson assured him. "They took first
swings, you know, so our team will get last swings. And I do mean last
swings, too."
The non-com driver nodded and grinned broadly. Then as he held the car
door open for the pair to climb in, he let his eyes rest on their
decoration ribbons.
"Yeah, Captain," he grunted, "we get last swings. But I can see that you
two officers ain't been exactly hitting loud fouls every time you came
up. Nailed plenty of them slant eyes, huh?"
"A couple, I guess," Dave grinned. "But they were probably fledglings on
their first time out."
"Yeah, I bet, I bet!" the corporal snorted, and slid in behind the
wheel. "Well, here goes for trip nine thousand and something!"
Regardless of what number trip it was for that corporal, it was
certainly the fastest, wildest ride that either Dawson or Freddy Farmer
had ever had in a car. When they finally pulled up in front of the
building that served as USAFFE Headquarters (United States Armed Forces
in the Far East) they were both quite certain that they had left ten
years of their lives somewhere along the road. As he climbed out, Dave
took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and offered it to the driver.
But the non-com shook his head.
"That's okay, sir, and thanks just the same," he said. "I used to drive
a hack in New York before the draft nailed me. So I know right guys when
I see them. I don't want no tip, sir."
"It isn't a tip," Dave grinned, and dropped the bill in the driver's
lap. "Just a little something to buy stuff from the hospital canteen with
while you're convalescing. Go on; keep it."
The non-com blinked stupidly for a moment; then his flat, freckled face
cracked in a broad grin.
"I get it, Skipper," he said with a chuckle. "I won't spend _this_ in no
hospital. I can drive this baby with my eyes closed."
"And I think you did!" Dave laughed at him. "And good luck."
"And good hunting for both of you, sir!" the driver called out as Dave
and Freddy went up Headquarters front steps.
Just inside the big front doors, they were buttonholed by an officer
seated at a desk who wanted to know their business there. They couldn't
tell him that, but they gave the officer their names, and that was good
enough. In fact, it seemed to please him, for he let out a long sigh.
"Well, thank Heaven, you're the last of the lot!" he breathed. "I've
been seeing nothing but Army and Navy pilots--even in my dreams. Report
to Room Twelve Fifty for further orders. Good luck."
Dave asked where he'd find Room Twelve Fifty, received the information,
and started off with Freddy.
"This is getting to make me feel not so good," he grunted, as he stabbed
an elevator button and waited for the car to come down.
"What do you mean?" the English youth asked quickly. "Have you heard
something I haven't?"
"With your big ears?" Dave shot at him. "Such a question! No. I mean the
parting crack everybody gives us. Good luck, good hunting, and so forth.
It makes me nervous when everybody keeps wishing me good luck. Makes me
feel they really do know something bad is going to pop, and they're
saying to themselves, 'And he seems such a nice guy, too!"
"If they _know_ you they're not saying that!" Freddy cracked back fast.
"But I get the idea of what you mean. Frankly, I'm getting to hate those
two words, good luck. Half the time I fancy they're not really meant."
"Boy, are you going sour in your middle age!" Dave chuckled. "Cheer up,
pal, and--and _Good luck!_"
Freddy glared, and he might have started things right then and there but
for the fact that the elevator came down at that moment and the sliding
doors parted open. A couple of minutes later they were pushing through
the door of Room Twelve Fifty. It wasn't a very big room, but it seemed
jammed to the ceiling with Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots. Both
Dave and Freddy spotted several pilots whom they knew. Then, suddenly,
both came to a full stop and stared pop-eyed at the far end of the room.
There was a desk there manned by a couple of high ranking officers. The
pilots in the room were filing past the desk, and obviously giving their
names, and so forth, to the two officers. One of them was an infantry
colonel, and the other was an Air Forces major. It was sight of the
infantry colonel that caused both Dave and Freddy to stop dead, and
gape. In short, once again they were meeting their old friend Colonel
Welsh, Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence.
"Oh-oh!" Dave murmured. "Do you see what I see, Freddy?"
"I most certainly do," the English youth replied. "Fact is, we might
have guessed, what?"
"Yeah, something like that," Dawson grunted absently. "The colonel in
the flesh, huh? Well, that means there isn't any clam bake coming up,
that's certain. But I guess we must have fallen down on that last job he
gave us, Freddy. And he's very disappointed."[A]
"Eh?" Freddy gasped. "What do you mean, we must have fallen down on the
job? Don't be silly!"
"Well, look at all these other pilots here," Dave replied. "Must be he
doesn't think we're so hot any more, and is going to give us plenty of
help on the next job--whatever it is."
"Man! How some people hate themselves!" Freddy Farmer snorted. "But I
wonder what's up; what he has up his sleeve?"
"Well, there's one way to find out, I guess," Dave grunted, and started
to move. "Get into line, here, and ask him when it comes our turn."
As Dave and Freddy were the last two to enter the room, and were
therefore at the end of the line, the room was pretty well cleared of
pilots when they reached the desk. Colonel Welsh was bent over a list of
names and didn't look up.
"Name, rank, and former unit?" he asked mechanically.
"Dawson, sir. Captain. Returned from special assignment in China."
Colonel Welsh stiffened, let his pencil drop, and looked up quickly. A
broad smile of welcome lighted up his thin, sun-bronzed face. He didn't
bother to reply to their salutes. He simply put out his hand.
"So you made it, Dawson, and you, too, Farmer?" he said. "Good! I've
been worrying you wouldn't get under the wire. How are you?"
"Fine, sir," Dave grinned as he shook hands. "And sort of curious, of
course."
"Oh, quite, sir," Freddy echoed, and extended his hand. "And I fancy
Dawson has expressed it for both of us."
"Well, stay curious for a while, boys," the colonel replied with a dry
chuckle. "But here, I want both of you to meet Major Taylor. He's seen a
bit of action in this mess, too. Take a look at his decorations, if you
don't believe me. Major Taylor, Captains Dawson and Farmer."
The two youths shook hands with the major, and both liked him instantly.
He had twinkling grey eyes that could become as cold as ice cubes when
he wanted, and a warm smile that showed he always meant what he said
from the heart.
"Big moment Number One for me today, Captains," he said. "I've heard
about you two plenty, of course. So I'm mighty glad to meet you. Maybe
we can have fun together. With the Jap rats, I mean."
"Nothing would suit me better, Major," Dawson replied, and meant it,
too.
"Definitely, Major," Freddy Farmer added. And then with a faint smile,
"But _where_, sir?"
"Oh, haven't I told you yet?" Colonel Welsh spoke up with a quick laugh.
"Why, we're all making a little flight to--well, to give you something
to think about, Farmer, let's call it a little flight to nowhere!"
[Footnote A: _Dave Dawson With The Flying Tigers._]
CHAPTER FOUR
_Action Bound_
"Flight to nowhere, eh? What the blasted blue blazes did he mean by
that? Is this thing going to be fitted with wings, or something, I'd
like to know?"
It was Freddy Farmer who spoke the words. With Dave Dawson, and some two
dozen Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots, he stood on the deck of an
American destroyer steaming out of Sydney into the Tasman Sea at full
knots. Just five hours ago they had met Colonel Welsh at H.Q., and--and
learned nothing except that they were going on a flight to nowhere.
Shortly after the Colonel had imparted to them that choice bit of
"secret information," he had sent them on their way to enjoy the sights
of Sydney for a few hours, and then to report to a certain Army pier at
such and such a time.
Well, they had seen most of the sights of Sydney in a restaurant where
Freddy Farmer was at least happy, because the place was stocked with far
more food than he could possibly eat at one sitting. And when it was
practically coming out of his ears, they left the place and took a short
walk about town. At the proper time they reported to the pier where a
bunch of Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots were already gathered.
Everybody was full of questions, but there wasn't a single answer in the
whole crowd. Then presently a sleek, battle grey destroyer slid in and
tied up long enough for the whole gang to be taken aboard. And now the
destroyer was cleaving the night-blackened waters of Sydney Harbor and
sending spray flying well back over the bridge.
"Don't ask me, sweetheart," Dawson grunted, and stared down at the black
waters swirling past the destroyer's hull. "Could be they're going to
take us out and drown the lot of us. How do I know?"
"Well, you could at least be helpful enough to make a sensible guess!"
Freddy snapped. "Confound you Yanks, anyway! I never saw such mysterious
business!"
"Listen to the guy!" Dawson hooted. "You forget I've been to England,
and served in the R.A.F. with you. For cat's sake, it usually takes a
ton of TNT to get an Englishman to open his mouth long enough to admit
that the sun is shining. Us Yanks mysterious? Pal, we're blabber-mouths
compared with your British Intelligence Service. And don't argue with
me, because I've had experience, I have!"
"Rot!" the English youth growled. "But never mind, anyway. The point is,
where are we going?"
Dawson said nothing. He just leaned a bit more over the chain railing,
and stared down at the water.
"Well, can't you make a guess?" Freddy insisted.
Dave started to shake his head, but on second thought checked himself.
He turned and peered at Freddy in the gloom.
"_I_ don't have to guess, Freddy," he said quietly.
Young Farmer stiffened, caught his breath in a gasp, and leaned close.
"What's that, Dave?" he breathed excitedly. "You know? You know where
we're going?"
"Yes, I know," Dawson murmured, as though it were the most natural thing
in the world for him to know. "Sure, I know, pal."
Freddy Farmer waited just two split seconds before he practically
exploded in a shower of small pieces.
"Then for goodness' sake, tell me, Dave!" he choked out. "Don't keep me
like this, blast you! _Where are we going?_"
"You want to know, huh?" Dave echoed, and bent his head close to Farmer.
"You want to know where we're going? Well, see where my hand is
pointing? Out there beyond the bow of this tub? Well, we're going out
there, sweetheart."
Freddy groaned, choked and spluttered, but before he could spit out a
single word, Dawson pushed back the cuff of his jacket to reveal his
wrist watch. The radium-treated dial showed that it was exactly five
minutes to midnight.
"So that makes us one all for the day, Freddy," he chuckled. "I told you
I'd get you to bite on something before the day was over. I warned you
to keep up on your toes. Okay, and not sore, huh?"
"Just plain disgusted, you blighter!" Freddy snarled. "Man! Why I put up
with you day after day, I don't know!"
"Maybe it's love," Dave chuckled, and jumped quickly as the English
youth aimed a booted foot.
Freddy's foot didn't connect with certain places, however. And he didn't
make a second try. He simply snorted to himself and joined Dave in
staring silently down at the black water flowing past. For perhaps some
ten of fifteen minutes neither youth said anything. Each seemed to be
quite content with his own thoughts. Eventually, though, Dave broke the
silence.
"Well, there's one thing, anyway, Freddy," he said. "Wherever we're
going, we're going to get there soon, I guess."
"Would that be the beginning of another side-splitting act of yours?"
Freddy growled. "And what do you mean by it, anyway?"
"It's the detective in me," Dawson replied, unruffled. "Here we are on a
destroyer heading out to sea in pitch darkness, but I haven't been
assigned any place to sleep, have you?"
"By Jove, that's right, Dave!" young Farmer exclaimed excitedly. "We
haven't, have we? Good grief! Do you suppose this is taking us to New
Zealand, and we've got to ride on deck all the way?"
Dawson didn't answer for a moment. He threw back his head and stared up
at the trillions upon trillions of stars that glittered and gleamed in
the jet black sky.
"My celestial navigation tells me we're headed more toward New Caledonia
than New Zealand," he said. "But I'll bet you a pair of flying goggles
that we're not going to either of those places."
"I won't take the bet, because you're too blasted lucky," Freddy spoke
up quickly. "But anyway, why didn't you think so?"
"Well, I got hit by a sudden hunch, while we were waiting on the pier
for this tin can to tie up," Dawson said slowly. "And I got chewing the
fat with some of the others there. Know something, Freddy?"
"Well, I will after you tell me, of course," the English youth replied.
"What?"
"Keep your shirt on; a guy has to take a breath now and then, you know!"
Dave grunted. "Well, I didn't run into a single guy who hasn't had some
experience flying off an aircraft carrier. If you want my guess, it's
that this load of pilots is being taken out to some carrier force
waiting way off shore."
"I wonder, I wonder!" Freddy Farmer murmured after a long pause. "Why
would a carrier force be so top hat as not to come in and get us, I'd
like to know?"
"Call it 'high hat' next time, Freddy," Dave corrected gently. "White
folks will think you're English, if you--"
"Now, look out, my good man!" Freddy began menacingly. "I'll have you
know that I'm--"
"And I don't blame you for being proud that you're English, pal," Dave
broke in with a chuckle. "So would I be, if I wasn't Yank. Okay, skip
the funny crack. The reason a carrier force wouldn't come in to pick us
up is probably because of that one word pronounced _spies_! One thing we
want to keep plenty secret out here in the Southwest Pacific is the
location of our carrier task forces. So we were loaded aboard this tin
can at night, and are being sneaked out to one. Catch on?"
"Not definitely," Freddy Farmer muttered, and scowled in the darkness.
"Seems to me that a carrier task force at sea would have its own pilots,
and what not. Besides, a lot of us aboard this destroyer are Army Air
Forces pilots."
"So what?" Dave said, and shrugged. "So maybe the Navy needs help in the
air, and knows just where to get it."
"Better keep those remarks under cover, or a certain Army pilot may be
reported lost overboard!"
Dave jumped straight up at the sound of the voice at his elbow, and
whirled around in midair. When his feet came back on deck again he saw
Colonel Welsh standing in front of him.
"Gosh, you scared me, Colonel!" he gasped. "I thought a Navy pilot _had_
overheard me!"
"Good thing one didn't," the senior officer chuckled. "Plenty of rivalry
between you Army and Navy pilots. And I'm afraid there are hot heads on
both sides. Well, how are you enjoying a ride on a destroyer, eh?"
"Oh, just too, too wonderful, sir!" Dawson replied with a groan. "But I
didn't see you on the pier, Colonel. When did you come aboard? At the
last minute?"
"No, I came aboard much earlier," the Colonel replied. "I've been up in
the commander's quarters."
"Er ..." Freddy Farmer began, and faltered. "I mean," he began again, "I
don't suppose he told you, sir, where we are headed?"
The colonel laughed and shook his head.
"He didn't have to, Farmer," he replied. "You see, I already knew. But
hold on with your questions, because I don't mind telling you, now that
we've shoved off. We're making for a rendezvous with a carrier task
force a couple of hundred miles out to sea. We should contact it just
about dawn. You chaps, if you want to sleep, will have to do it on the
deck, I'm afraid. I wouldn't advise it, though, the way this ship is
smashing the swells. And the commander says that it will be even rougher
outside."
"Thanks, I think I'll stay awake," Dawson laughed. Then, in a serious
tone, "And when we reach the carrier task force, sir?"
"Why, we go aboard, of course," the colonel replied. "There are two
carriers. The Hawk, and the Carson. Half of you will go to one, and half
to the other."
"And then, sir?" Dave persisted.
"For military reasons, Dawson, I'm afraid I didn't hear you," the senior
officer replied. "Count on it for something interesting, though. And not
easy by any manner of means. Fact is, all this may be simply the
beginning of a very costly waste of time, and effort."
The Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence spoke the last while staring
flint-eyed out over the rail, and as though he were repeating his own
thoughts aloud to himself. A million questions piled up on the tip of
Dave's tongue. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer. However, neither
one of them spoke for fear it might stop the Colonel from saying more.
However, they were both out of luck. The senior officer grunted, shook
himself a little, and turned to them with a smile that showed his even
white teeth even in the gloomy light.
"Well, I wish I had time, now, to get a first-hand report from you boys
of that trip to Chungking you made," he said. "And your experiences with
the Flying Tigers. However, I only popped out for a breath of air.
There's still a lot of paper work for me to do. I'll be seeing you soon,
though; don't worry. A lot of you, probably, as I'll be aboard your
carrier, the Carson. Until then, good luck!"
Dave groaned, but not loud enough for Colonel Welsh to hear as he walked
away.
"Even him!" Dave sighed. "Good luck to you, and good luck to you--and
nuts! If anybody should suddenly say, 'Bad luck' to me just once, I
think I'd keel over in a dead faint!"
"Oh, come off it, Dave!" Freddy grated. "What do you expect folks to
say? Man, but you're getting to be a testy blighter! So we are going to a
carrier task force, eh? Well, I'll have to admit that for once you were
right. But I certainly wish he'd told us more."
"And you can repeat that!" Dave grunted. "And all this may be simply the
beginning of a very costly waste of time and effort. That, my little
friend, did not sound so nice to me. It didn't even sound close to
nice."
"Quite," Freddy said with a little sigh. "But nothing's nice about this
blasted war, you know. So we might just as well make the best of it.
And--"