the destroyer, and the craft seemed virtually to spin around to port the
length of her keel, and then fairly streak across the water.
"The submarine detector has picked up something, I guess!" Dave
muttered, and took a firmer grip on the chain rail. "Now, wouldn't it be
sweet to get torpedoed even before we get any place?"
"You say the happiest things!" Freddy got out in a slightly strained
voice. "Shut up, and use your eyes. Maybe we'll sight something."
"In this darkness?" Dave echoed, and promptly leaned over the chain rail
and strained his eyes at the black water beyond the bow. "Don't be
silly. Not unless it's trimmed with neon lights."
For perhaps five minutes the destroyer pounded through the night sea at
emergency knots. Then the all clear horn sounded again. The destroyer's
speed slackened off slightly, and her bow came cutting around to the
previous course. A faint sigh of relief seemed to whisper along the
spray-drenched decks. And then presently everything was as normal as
before.
"Probably one of ours," Dave grunted. "Or just a false alarm. But either
suits me okay. There's something about getting torpedoed and drowned
that I just don't like."
"Quite, oh quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "If a chap has to cop one, much
better to cop it in the air. Definitely cleaner, you know."
Dave nodded, but didn't make any comment. And once more the two air aces
lapsed into silence and stood at the chain rail peering out over the
night-shrouded waters, each with the same thought unspoken in his mind.
Way out there ahead were two Yank aircraft carriers waiting to take them
aboard. And when that was accomplished, then where to next? A
tantalizing question that only time would answer for them. And the
smirking gods of war, too, of course, if the two youths could but hear
their death rattle voices!
CHAPTER FIVE
_Instructions For Eagles_
The sun was hardly a faint band of yellow white light on the eastern
horizon when the speeding destroyer came within sight of the waiting
task force. Despite the bucking and pitching of the craft during the
dark hours of night, a good many of the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps
pilots aboard had managed to curl up somehow on the deck and go to
sleep. It was not the case with Dave and Freddy, however. They remained
awake the whole time talking of this and that, or just staring
thoughtfully out across the vast stretches of night-shrouded water.
And so they were among the first to see the faint shapes of the task
force low down on the horizon. As usual, Freddy spotted them first and
nudged Dave excitedly.
"There they are, Dave!" he cried, and pointed. "Right up ahead, there.
Lord! A mess of them, what? Looks like the whole blasted Navy. I can
count two carriers, half a dozen cruisers, and twelve destroyers!"
"Thanks, that saves me the trouble," Dave grunted, and squinted ahead.
"Yup! That's a task force sure enough. And, boy, look at those
destroyers skipping around! Fat chance Jap subs would have getting close
to those flat-tops. I wonder which is the Carson? They both look the
same to me."
"I don't care which is which," Freddy replied, and kept his gaze riveted
on the flotilla of battle craft drawing closer and closer. "I'd much
rather know where they are headed. After we've been put aboard, I mean."
"Well, keep your shirt on, sweetheart," Dave choked him off. "You'll
find out soon enough, and--Oh yeah! There they are. I was wondering if
either of those flat-tops had any planes up. Didn't think they'd leave
it all to the destroyers. The whole works is hardly making any headway."
Freddy Farmer didn't make any comment. He had followed the direction of
Dave's pointing hand with his eyes, and was watching the three sections
of Navy scout-patrol planes circling about high in the air above the
coasting task force. And a moment or two later, as though the task force
commander had heard Dave's comment and decided to do something about it,
every ship picked up speed and swung from a southeasterly course to one
due south.
"What the deuce, now?" Freddy Farmer breathed to nobody in particular.
"Why are they heading south? Have the Jap rats put a landing party
ashore on Admiral Byrd's Little America?"
"Well, they've sure got a long ways to go to reach it!" Dave said with a
laugh. "But if you use your head and your eyes, little man, you'll soon
catch on to the idea that the carriers are about to take their planes
aboard. So they've headed into the wind, which happens to be from the
south. Now, anything else you'd like explained?"
If there was, the slightly red-faced Freddy Farmer didn't ask. He simply
gave Dawson a withering look and then watched the scouting planes aloft
circle around and down and land aboard one of the carriers like so many
soldiers on parade.
"Splendid!" he breathed. "Darn good show. Those Navy chaps are a bit of
all right when it comes to flying."
"And okay in a lot of other things, too," Dave added absently. "Well, it
won't be long now. We're changing course to cut down the distance.
Wonder how we're going to get aboard them? Swim?"
"I certainly hope so in your case!" Freddy snapped, and let it go at
that.
By now all of the sleeping pilots were fully awake, and were gathered at
the chain rails to fill their eyes with the impressive sight. The air
was filled with complimentary remarks by the Navy pilots aboard. And for
once the Army pilots had nothing to say. They were witnessing something
being done in expert fashion, and there was no room for chiding
wisecracks.
Signal flags fluttered up aloft the destroyer carrying the collection of
pilots, and signal flags in answer were seen to break out from one of
the carriers. A moment later the task force ships maneuvered about into
a change of position, and during the next few minutes too many things
happened too smoothly to give either Freddy or Dave a chance to take in
the entire picture. Colonel Welsh and the destroyer's commander stepped
out on the bridge along with the next in command. Names were called out.
The pilots were split into two groups, one group assigned to one side of
the destroyer, and the other group to the other side. Dave and Freddy
were assigned to the port side, and in less time than it takes to tell
about it, the destroyer ran up close alongside one of the carriers that
was practically stationary in the water. The destroyer was warped in
even closer, and at a command from the bridge the pilots went up rope
ladders and in through an opened hull door of the giant carrier towering
high above the destroyer.
And no sooner were they aboard the carrier than a young ensign took
their names, and turned them over to a seaman who in turn led them to
their assigned quarters. As a matter of fact, so smoothly and with
precision had everything functioned, that Dave's first move when he
entered the cabin he and Freddy were to share was to sit down on one of
the bunks, give a little shake of his head, and expel air from his
lungs.
"Boy, some navy!" he breathed. "No wonder they boast about it, plenty.
Gosh! Seems like only a couple of seconds ago we were bouncing along on
that tin can. And now here we are aboard this big baby that feels as
motionless as the Empire State Building. Only it isn't. She's boiling
off knots, now."
Freddy glanced out the port at the dawn-tinted waters sweeping past, and
nodded half-heartedly.
"Quite," he murmured. "But now that we're aboard, what next, I wonder?"
The English-born air ace didn't have to wonder long. The last word had
hardly left his lips when the inter-ship speaker (nick-named Donald
Duck) barked forth with orders.
"All pilots report to the flight deck at once! All pilots report to the
flight deck at once!"
"That's us!" Dawson grunted, and made a pass or two at his tunic to
straighten out a few of the wrinkles that actually weren't there. "Hit
the deck, Freddy! Top side with you, sailor!"
"Don't!" the English youth groaned, and took a quick glance at his
reflection in the small wall mirror. "You talk bad enough as an Army
man."
"Every day it comes more compliments!" Dawson mocked, and led the way
through the cabin door.
Some twenty or so seconds later they were up on the flight deck and with
the members of the group gathered just under the signal bridge. Up there
they saw a lot of Navy gold, but it was Colonel Welsh who spoke to them.
"You gentlemen have come aboard this carrier to take part in a difficult
and hazardous operation against the enemy forces in the Southwest
Pacific," he began. "The details of the operation will be explained to
you in full, later. Right now, though, I want to impress upon you that
you are all guests of the officers and crew of this carrier, and as such
will refrain from thoughtlessly interfering with the general routine of
the ship's company."
The colonel paused and grinned.
"I'm including myself in these instructions," he said, "because,
frankly, this is my first visit aboard a carrier at sea. And I, too, am
mighty curious to see what makes one of these flat-tops tick. However,
this is no time for sight-seeing, so I am asking you gentlemen to
confine your movements to the officers' quarters, and the flight deck.
Well, I guess that's all--except for one thing. All of you are to report
to the Ready-Room, on the hangar deck, at five o'clock this afternoon.
And--But there I make my first boner!"
The colonel stopped and grinned apologetically at the Admiral in command
of the task force. Then he turned back to the pilots.
"Air Forces pilots will report at five o'clock," he chuckled. "And Navy
and Marine Corps pilots will report at two bells, or whatever the
correct number of bells it is. Anyway, all of you be there. That's all,
and dismissed."
The pilots let out a cheer for the colonel and then broke up into
groups of two and three and began to wander along the smooth flat
surface of the flight deck. They didn't wander about very long, however.
There were few planes on deck, and the dawn sun climbing up over the
horizon reminded each and every one of them that what was really in
order was a little food. Particularly Freddy Farmer, and it was he who
led the straggling procession down below decks to the pilots' mess room.
And when he and Dave had eaten their fill of Navy chow they went to
their quarters to arrange their personal belongings that had been taken
aboard from the destroyer, and to chew the fat a bit. They did little of
either. At least, that went for Dave. Just to "relax for a couple of
shakes" he stretched out on his bunk, and the next thing he knew Freddy
had him by the shoulder and was shaking him hard.
"Out of it, Dave, old thing!" came Freddy's muffled voice to his
sleep-lulled brain. "Out of it, I say! You want to be late and get off
to your usual bad start? Blast you, man! Out of there, or you get this
whole pitcher of water, and I promise it!"
Dave blinked and blinked some more, and finally sat up on the bunk.
"Huh?" he groaned. "What's cooking? Where are we, and what's the idea
of trying to break off my arm? And--Holy smokes! Where are we, anyway?"
"You can ask the navigation officer, later!" Freddy snapped. "Right now,
move yourself, and get presentable. We've just about two minutes to get
to the Ready-Room. Come on, Dave! Prop-wash the sleep out of your brain,
will you? Lord! You're more bother than my maiden aunt!"
Dawson blinked again, started to speak, but checked himself as memory
came rushing back into his brain. Instead he let out a yell, jumped off
the bunk and cracked the top of his head against the bunk above. And he
let out another yell.
"Doggone it!" he growled, and rubbed the top of his head. "Why don't
they build these cabins big enough so a guy can move around without
killing himself? Hey! Where's my tunic? Where's my cap? Hey, Freddy!
What did you do with my stuff? Oh! Here it is. Two minutes to go, huh?
Then what are we waiting for, pal?"
Freddy Farmer snorted and went outside alone, but in just about less
time than it takes to tell about it Dave went out and caught up with
him. And together they made their way to the Ready-Room on the hangar
deck. It turned out that they were the last to show up, so when they
entered the door was closed and Colonel Welsh rose from where he was
sitting with the task force's commander at the head end of the room. He
waited a couple of minutes for feet to stop shuffling around. Then he
grinned and made a little half salute with one hand.
"Now it comes, Gentlemen," he said with a chuckle. "Now you'll get the
answer to the one question that has burned holes in the brain of each
and every one of you since the moment you received word to report to
H.Q. at Sydney. Or could I be wrong?"
The short, hooting laugh that spread from lip to lip of those present
was proof enough that the colonel had hit the nail right smack on the
head. Every last one of them had thought of little else but the reason
he had been summoned to H.Q. at Sydney.
"Well, here is the picture," Colonel Welsh continued, but there was no
smile on his face now, nor any light note in his voice. "The Southwest
Pacific Command is going to try and beat the Japs to the punch. In other
words, we're pretty sure that the Jap is about set to let fly with
another of his blows at us, so we're going to beat him to it. In brief,
we're going to go after them in the Solomon Islands."
The colonel paused for breath, and a mounting murmur of suppressed
excitement ran its course about the Ready-Room. Nobody said anything,
though, not even a whispered word of comment to his friend sitting next
to him. On the contrary, each man simply hitched forward a little more
on the edge of his chair, and kept his attention riveted one hundred per
cent upon the Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence.
"The assault upon the Jap-occupied Solomons," he went on presently,
"will be a two part affair with land, sea, and air forces cooperating
throughout. The first part will be the capture and holding of an airport
on Guadalcanal Island. And the second part, which will be carried out
simultaneously with the first part, will be the capture of Tulagi on
Florida Island some twenty-two water miles north of Guadalcanal. That is
what we have made plans and arrangements to carry out. However, a good
part of whether we do it or not will depend upon you pilots."
The senior Intelligence officer paused again and for a moment let his
keen eyes roam over the collection of faces before him.
"I doubt that any of you will be taking any active part in either of the
two surprise attacks of which I've spoken," he suddenly hurled the
thunderbolt at them. "Your job will be to find, checkmate, and stop cold
Jap forces that could prevent us from carrying out either of these
attacks successfully. To put it bluntly, we have information and data
which indicates that a large Jap sea, land, and air force is forming at
their Truk Island base in the Carolinas preparatory to moving south
against our positions on New Guinea, if not directly against Australia
itself. In fact, we believe that this huge Jap force is already on the
move. But just exactly where it is, we can only guess. Your job, and the
job of those aboard the other carrier in this force, will be--to find
that Jap force _at all costs!_ We have got to find that force and either
destroy it or make it turn back. If we don't then thousands of American
soldiers, sailors, and airmen will be forced to give up their lives in
vain. No matter what, you have got to find this Jap force that is
somewhere between Truk Island and the New Guinea coast!"
As the colonel paused again, not a man moved. Not a man hardly so much
as breathed. Everyone sat motionless, eyes on the colonel's grave face,
and thoughts fixed squarely upon the do or die order that had been
issued!
CHAPTER SIX
_Blind Eyes_
The Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence seemed purposely to allow three
or four moments for the importance of his statement to have its effect
upon his listeners, and then he made a little gesture with one hand, and
flashed them a brief smile once more.
"And the reason you gentlemen have been selected for this job," he said,
"is because your commanding officers consider you best fitted and
equipped to tackle it. To put it another way, you pilots are the cream
of the crop. Perhaps some of you may be wondering why you were not asked
to volunteer for the job. Well, the answer to that is easy. In the first
place we would have been forced to reveal somewhat the nature of the
job, and it was our desire to keep everything a secret right up to the
last minute. And in the second place, and just as important, asking you
to volunteer would be just a matter of routine. Your war records show
that no matter whether you volunteer for a job, or receive orders to
perform it, you go at the job all out just the same. However, before I
go any further, just for the sake of the record I'd better say right
here that any pilot who does not wish to take part has my full
permission to withdraw right here and now. No questions will be asked,
and his withdrawal will not be held against him in any way."
The colonel stopped talking and let his eyes wander about the Ready-Room
again. Nobody said anything. Nobody even so much as moved. They all just
sat there in their seats waiting patiently for the colonel to continue.
He did, with a grin and a little hunch of his shoulders.
"See what I mean?" he said. "Just a waste of time finding out if you
fellows _want_ a crack at this thing. Incidentally, I'm very proud of
all of you, and very grateful in the name of your country. But to get on
with this thing. As you've probably come to realize by now, we've not
only picked crack pilots for this job, but also crack flying teams. By
selecting pairs that have had considerable experience together against
the enemy, we believe that we will get far better results than if we
had simply picked a crack pilot from one squadron, a crack pilot from
another squadron, and put them together in the same plane. There isn't
enough time for you to get to know one another in the air. And so we
have selected teams instead of individuals."
The colonel paused, half turned to glance at the commander of the task
force, and then faced the pilots again.
"You will probably not take off on the first phase of this vitally
important Jap hunt until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest," he
continued. "However, I want all of you pilots to remain on constant
alert, just in case the unforeseen does happen. Right after I finish
this little talk you will be assigned to your planes, and you will also
be given instructions about take-off orders, take-off rules and signals,
and communication code-words to be used while in flight. And, of course,
before each patrol the team of each plane will be given complete
instructions as to the patrol course to be flown, _and_ exactly what is
to be done in the event any units of the enemy are sighted. Admiral
Jackson, here with me, and the executive flight officer, will have
charge of those details. My job--"
The colonel paused and half grinned.
"Call me the team coach, if you wish," he said. "I'm the coach giving
you the old pep talk before the big game. And believe me, it _is_ the
big game. If we don't find this Jap force reported moving southward;
don't find it and do something about it, our initial offensive against
the Japs in the Southwest Pacific can easily be turned into a most
disastrous defeat for our forces. That possibility you must not forget
for a single instant, and act accordingly."
The Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence took another couple of moments
out, and Dawson, watching him intently, saw the corners of his mouth
tighten, and a hard, steely look come into his eyes.
"And let's not try to kid ourselves either," he suddenly said in a low,
quiet voice that contained just a faint ring of steel against steel. "It
is going to be the hardest job any of you have yet tackled. And some of
you, only a few I hope to God, will not be coming back. We are playing
for surprise one hundred per cent, but we've got to remember that the
Japs have not thus far shown themselves to be stupid and dumb when it
comes to the question of pulling a fast one. For that reason, we've got
to be on the alert against any surprises they might pull out of the hat.
Frankly, nobody knows where this carrier force is right now, or where
it's headed. Not even our own Navy Department. This maneuver is strictly
hush-hush. And that's just as it should be, everything considered. We
have a tough job ahead, and there's no sense making it any tougher
through being careless and not on the alert. And now, just one more
thing. You can consider it an honor to be selected to take part in this
maneuver, but don't let it go any farther than that. I mean, there are
pilots, and air crews aboard this carrier, and the Hawk, who will not
take part in your work. That, however, doesn't mean they won't have a
job to do, and a mighty important one, too. So just don't get the idea
that you are something special--even if you are. See what I mean? All
right, then. Thanks for listening, and a million in luck. Very good,
sir. Your turn."
The colonel spoke the last to the carrier task force commander seated
beside him. The high ranking naval officer rose to his feet, spoke a few
words of greeting to the pilots, assured them that they were most
welcome aboard the ship, and expressed the hope that they would find
their stay aboard pleasant for themselves, and profitable for the cause
for which they were fighting. Then the Naval officer turned them over to
the executive flight officer. He in turn led them out into the deck
hangar, and with the aid of a few junior officers assigned the planes to
be used on the Jap hunt.
The plane given to Dawson and Farmer was a Wright "Cyclone" powered
Douglas "Dauntless." That suited them both right down to the ground. Or
rather, right down to the deck. It did because they both had flown that
type of carrier-based plane quite often. And in their combined opinion
it was the very latest thing in long range scout-bombing planes.
"Nice, very nice!" Dawson breathed happily, as he ran his eyes over the
sleek, yet powerfully built aircraft. "I was worrying a little about
what they were going to give us to fly. But I'm not worrying any more.
This baby is all that I'd ask for."
"Quite; me, too!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "It's got the range, and the
power."
"Also, it has the what it takes, in case we bump into Zeros and such,"
Dave reminded him. "Gee, I wonder if they're going to let us try out the
ships before they send us off on the hunt job?"
"Naturally," Freddy Farmer replied, as though he considered such a
question quite unnecessary. "After all, you know, even aircraft of the
same type are different in lots of little things."
"Yes, I know," Dawson grunted. "But--"
And that's as far as he got. It was almost as though his question about
test flying the Douglas Dauntless had been overheard, because at that
moment a junior officer came up with the announcement that most of the
aircraft were about to be taken up onto the flight deck so that they
could be test flown before darkness set down for the night.
And just twenty-five minutes later by Dave's watch he was seated in the
pilot's pit of the Dauntless buckling his safety harness, and making the
one hundred and one last minute preparations for flight. Seated in the
pit in back of him was Freddy Farmer, making ready himself. The Carrier
Carson had turned slightly into the wind and was rushing through the
Southwest Pacific at full knots to give the pilots every take-off
advantage possible.
"Okay, Freddy?" Dave called back. "All set?"
"Been waiting for hours!" the English youth shot back at him "Right-o!
Any time you get the signal."
Dave grunted and fixed his eyes on the flight bridge. The officer there
suddenly turned and pointed his flag at Dave. Dawson gunned his engine
slightly, and with the aid of a crew man on each wing he wheeled the
Dauntless forward and into take-off position. The flight officer raised
the flag, looked at Dave, and then brought the flag down fast. Dawson's
hand on the throttle shoved it forward. The Wright Cyclone in the nose
roared up in its song of power and the Dauntless moved forward down the
deck. It picked up speed with every rev of its three-bladed steel prop,
and Dave had it clear of the deck in no time at all. He went cutting up
and off to the left to make room for the next plane taking off.