on fire, and it hurt him to talk. Also, there were little alarming
spells of giddiness that came to him every now and then. He didn't dare
say anything to Freddy, because that would add just one more worry to
the English youth's stock. So he kept his mouth shut, clamped down hard
on the knife-like pains in his chest, and flew doggedly southward,
praying for dawn as he had never prayed in his whole life before.
But the darkness dragged on and on until Dawson was ready to despair of
ever seeing a dawn again. A numbness had settled in his left shoulder,
except when he moved it. And when he did by accident, he had to shut his
teeth tight to stop from crying out from the pain. A cold clammy sweat
formed on his forehead, and the beads kept continually trickling down
into his eyes to blur his vision, and caused him to imagine he saw all
kinds of crazy things that didn't exist at all a split second after he
had brushed the sweat from his eyes. Particularly he was seeing the
lights of ships below. Or, at least, certain he was seeing them until he
looked again. Of course, every time he "saw" the lights he knew
perfectly well that any boat in that part of the Southwest Pacific,
Yank or Jap, most certainly wouldn't be showing so much as a speck of
light at night. However, what he imagined seemed so real that he was
constantly sitting up straight and peering down over the right wing or
the left.
If dawn would _only_ come! If only there would come a thin pale line of
light in the east to give him hope, if nothing else! If--
"I say, old chap!" Freddy Farmer's voice cut into his thoughts, and
prayers. "Would you mind raising the shade and letting in a bit of
light, what? I'm getting blasted fed up with this darkness. I swear
we've had a solid week of it. I really do."
"Me, too, pal," Dawson replied, and struggled to keep his suffering out
of his voice. "It almost seems as if somebody blew out the doggoned sun.
Boy, if--Hold it! Am I right, or am I right, Freddy? Could that be the
first grey streak there to the east, huh?"
"It not only could be, but it is!" the English-born air ace shouted
happily. "Praise be to Allah! In a few moments now we should be able to
get a look at where we are. I bet you anything you like that the New
Guinea coast is just ahead of us, and that we'll see it soon."
"No bet!" Dave called back. "That's one bet I wouldn't want to win. And
how, I wouldn't want to win it!"
As Dawson spoke the last a sudden thought came to him, and he caught his
breath. The thought was: What if they didn't sight land within an hour
or less after dawn? Supposing their drift during the night hours had
been double or even triple what they had allowed for, and they were
actually lost somewhere above the broad expanse of the Southwest
Pacific? What if they were lost, and remained lost until the engine in
the nose sucked up the last drop of high test, and then quit cold? There
was a rubber raft in the MK-11, but Dawson knew in his heart that he
would never survive a single day drifting helplessly on the sun-flooded
waters. Yesterday, sure, or the day before--but not now. Not during this
day that was now dawning. And so, please, God! Please!
The silent prayer remained on Dawson's lips as he watched the pale line
of light low down in the east grow broader and brighter, until, as
though invisible doors in the heavens had been flung open, the light of
the new day came rushing westward, driving the shadows of night on ahead
of it. In a matter of less than fifteen minutes the two youths had
perfect visibility in all four directions. First, though, they peered
southward. And to Dawson it was like receiving a mule's kick in the
stomach. Nothing but dawn-tinted water as far as the eye could see. Not
a sign of land. Not a sign of anything but water; endless rolling swells
of it. A great sadness, a great bitterness welled up in him until he
could hardly breathe. And there was the sting of hot tears at the backs
of his eyeballs.
"No land--not a darn sight of it!" he heard himself mumble. "And I had
hoped--oh gosh, how I had hoped! Darn it, there _has_ to be land, or we
just can't possibly make Port Moresby. And I can't--"
He let the rest trail off and stared bleak-eyed at the limitless stretch
of water to the south. He wanted to turn around in the pit and say
something cheerful to Freddy Farmer in back. Say any old thing that
would take the sting out of what his pal must be thinking, too. But
somehow he couldn't turn around. Somehow he couldn't even think of
anything to say. He felt absolutely powerless to move. It was as though
he were a dead man looking out across a dead world.
And then, suddenly, a bunched fist came down on his left shoulder, and
he almost fainted from the pain in his chest as Freddy Farmer's wildly
shouted words smashed against his ear drums.
"Dave, look! Off there to port! Dave, look, look, old chap! A lot of
ships. A carrier task force. _It's Jackson's force, Dave! Jackson's!_
There's our task force. Dave! It's a miracle, a blessed miracle! There's
the task force!"
For one brief instant more Dawson couldn't move. Then he managed to turn
his head, but he could see nothing but swimming lights and shadows. The
pent up emotions within him had broken their bonds, and hot tears that
he couldn't check filled his eyes and blurred everything. That made him
angry at himself, and at everything else. And with angry motions he
rubbed and brushed the tears from his eyes. And then when he took
another look he saw what Freddy Farmer's sharp eyes had seen first. Far,
far off to port, and so low down on the horizon that they looked like no
more than a cluster of bugs on the water, were the two carriers, the
destroyers and the cruisers and supply ships of Admiral Jackson's task
force. Even though the distance was great, he could recognize them for
what they really were. And a happiness such as he had never known
flooded throughout his entire body.
"Jackson's force?" he heard himself echo weakly. "But what the heck?
What's it doing over there? That's a night's steaming from the search
area! Or--or have we been flying in circles all night long? It's--it's
like a dream. A mad, crazy dream! I--"
"Dave, snap out of it, for Heaven's sake!" Freddy's voice cut short his
mumbling. "Fly over to them. Fly over to them. _That's our task force!_
Don't you understand, Dave?"
"Sure, sure!" Dawson called back, though every word seemed to burn holes
in his lungs. "I see them, and I'm heading over. Just--just taking a
couple of minutes out to enjoy life again."
"Wait, jolly well wait until you get aboard!" the English youth yelled.
"Maybe you like being in this confounded aircraft, but I don't. Get us
over there, quickly. The sooner we give our report to Admiral Jackson
the better it will be for everybody concerned. Man, Dave, just think of
it! We found Sasebo's force, and _now_ we've found Admiral Jackson's.
Imagine that!"
"Yeah, imagine that!" Dawson mumbled, as a spell of cold shivers started
taking charge of his body. "Just the way you see it happen in the
movies. Only--"
He let the rest die because the effort cost him too much, and banked the
MK-11 around until it was heading full out for the Yank task force far
ahead. And then it was he woke up to a fact that had been in the back of
his brain for some considerable time. And what woke him up to the truth
was sight of three Navy Grumman Wildcats streaking up off the flight
deck of one of the carriers, and coming up and around toward them at top
speed.
"Get set to wave and signal those guys somehow, Freddy!" he choked out.
"We're in a _Jap plane_, you know. Only those guys _don't_. So stand up
and wave, or hold your hands up in surrender, or something. Navy Wildcat
pilots don't take chances. They've learned you can't against the Jap
rats. So, for cat's sake, wave, or do any old thing to get them to hold
their fire. Here, I'll help you!"
Dawson started to stand up in his pit of the MK-11, but before he was
half-way up invisible steel claws seemed to tear his chest wide open,
and he fell back into the seat gasping and choking for air. And
countless dancing red and black dots filled his eyes. It seemed years
and years before he could get air into his burning lungs, and drive the
red and black dots away. By then the first of the three Wildcats was
within shooting range, but Freddy Farmer was standing up straight,
waving his arms, pointing at his American uniform, and yelling blue
murder at the top of his voice.
The leading Wildcat, however, came boring in at terrific speed, and
Dawson died a thousand deaths as he expected with each new split second
to see the leading edges of the Grumman's wing start spitting out
stabbing tongues of flame, and to feel the Wildcat's bullets and air
cannon shells smash and pound their way into the MK-11.
However, the Wildcat pilot did not open fire. Instead he went sweeping
past the Jap two-seater, staring at it hard. Then he circled around and
came tearing up from the other side. As he drew abreast Freddy Farmer
practically fell out of the MK-11 in his frantic efforts to signal the
truth to the Yank Navy pilot. Dawson managed to lift his right hand, and
wave, too. And then the two other Wildcats came up and took up positions
close to the MK-11. And Freddy Farmer promptly went into his dance for
their benefit, too.
Eventually the Wildcat pilots either recognized Dawson and Farmer, or
else they spotted the Yank Air Forces uniforms that the two youths wore,
and could see that at least no Japs were wearing them. Or maybe it was
for some other reason. At any rate, the section leader nodded his head,
motioned for Freddy Farmer to stop trying to throw himself out of the
Jap plane, and then pointed over toward the carrier task force. That
was all Dawson and Freddy wanted, and they both nodded vigorously in
acknowledgment. Then, with a Wildcat on each side, and one just behind
and a little above, Dawson guided the MK-11 straight for the task force.
As he reached the flanking cruisers and destroyers, he saw the countless
upturned faces on the decks, and also the Pom-Pom guns and the "Chicago
Pianos" trained dead on the Jap plane. He grinned down at them happily,
but just the same a nervous shiver or two rippled through his burning
and pain-filled body.
And then, finally, Dawson had the MK-11 banked around and sliding down
toward the stern of the Carson as the carrier knocked off knots into the
wind. That glide downward was the greatest agony of his life. Huge as
the Carson was, the confounded thing seemed to dance and skip around
before his eyes. Countless times the landing officer, with a signal flag
in each hand, blurred right out of his vision. And once he almost
fainted with fright when he got the cockeyed impression that he was
heading the MK-11 straight for the Carson's superstructure.
The one thousand years passed by, however, and the Jap two-seater was
down on the flight deck, trundling forward while deck crews hung onto
the wingtips. And finally they managed to drag it to a halt. A choking
gasp of unbounded relief burst from Dawson's lips. And tears of
inexpressible joy made his eyes smart as he caught sight of Colonel
Welsh and Admiral Jackson racing across the flight deck toward the Jap
plane. Laughing and choking in the same breath, Dawson heaved himself up
out of the pit, stepped out on the wing but missed his footing and fell
sprawling on the wing. He slid off it feet first, so he was standing on
the deck when the Colonel and the Admiral came up.
"Here we are again, sir," Dawson cried. "Just like a couple of bad
pennies that--that--"
His tongue seemed to stick in his mouth, and the Carson seemed to spin
like a top.
"_Dave!_" he heard Freddy Farmer scream. "Somebody--quick--catch him!"
"Here, Dawson, steady!" he heard Colonel Welsh shout.
"Good grief!" cried a third voice. "Look at his chest! Good grief. The
man's hit bad. Here, somebody...!"
But Dawson didn't hear any more. The Carrier Carson turned upside down
and smashed him on the head with its flight deck. Then there was nothing
but complete silence and utter darkness.
* * * * *
It was a beautiful pink-tinted cloud that was carrying Dawson through a
beautiful world filled with soft and soothing music. Never had he felt
so rested, and so comfortable. So much so that he just couldn't be
bothered trying to figure out where he was, or what had happened to put
him there. Maybe it was Heaven. He didn't know, and he didn't care. If
it wasn't Heaven, then it was certainly the next best thing. Whatever it
was it suited him perfectly, and he was quite willing to stay where he
was indefinitely.
However, that was not to be!
The pink cloud faded away and became a white bunk in some ship's
whitewashed sick-bay. And the soft, soothing music faded out, and became
the quietly coaxing voice of a human being. In other words, he slowly
regained consciousness to find himself staring up into the face of
Freddy Farmer, and into the face, also, of Colonel Welsh. And it was the
Chief of Combined U. S. Intelligence who was speaking to him.
"Easy does it, son," the colonel was saying. "Try and hang on this time,
Dawson. You're all set, son. Everything is fine and dandy. Not a thing
to worry about. Just try and relax and be calm, son."
"That's right, Dave, old thing," Freddy Farmer echoed with a catch in
his voice. "Gosh, but it's good to see your eyes really clear. You look
fine, really. Feel a fair bit better, what?"
Dawson blinked, started to mumble a question, and then gasped as
complete memory came flooding back into his brain like water over a
broken dam.
"Hey, hey!" he got out. "What am I doing here? What are you doing here,
Freddy? Sasebo's task force! Holy smokes, Freddy! Didn't you--?"
Dawson would have said more, but Colonel Welsh gently put a hand over
his mouth, and shook his head from side to side.
"Now, now, son," he said with quiet firmness. "Try and realize what I'm
telling you. _Everything_ is all right, see? That Jap task force is
spread all over the ocean, and a good many of its ships sunk, too. Now,
try hard, Dawson, and really get hold of yourself. You've been raving
out the complete story of what happened to you and Farmer for two days
now. I'm trying to tell you that everything has been taken care of.
Everything is fine!"
Dawson blinked again and tried hard to absorb the full meaning of the
colonel's words. But there was one part that just didn't seem possible.
"Two days, Colonel?" he echoed. "You mean that I've been like this, out
cold for two days? Jeepers!"
"That's right," the senior officer said, and smiled. "Now, just relax
and I'll bring you up to date, briefly. You went cold right after you
landed that Jap plane on the Carson. So it was up to Farmer, here, to
explain everything. When he had told the story we got busy at once. We
figured out the course that Sasebo must have followed after you and
Farmer took off. Well, our scout-bombers found him. We caught him with
his planes on the flight deck. Thanks to you and Farmer, we were able to
do a good job on him. One of his carriers sunk, and the other two badly
damaged. The last seen of one of them it was on fire. Two troop ships
were sunk, and the rest of the force sent flying for bases where they
would be safe. In short, we certainly ruined him for a while. By the
time his force can put to sea again there won't be a Jap left on
Guadalcanal for him to reenforce. And by the way, _that_ attack went off
according to schedule. The Marines landed, and as usual they have the
situation in hand. And now you're aboard a cruiser bound for Australia
and a good spell in a hospital. Frankly, you haven't any right to be
alive, Dawson. Did you know that?"
"And that's definitely true, old thing!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good
grief, Dave, why didn't you tell me you had been hit? And to think that
all during that terrible night flight I didn't know a thing about it.
You must have suffered something awful!"
"Well, it wasn't very pleasant," Dawson replied in a voice so weak that
it surprised him. "I knew that I had caught a good one, but it wouldn't
have helped any to tell you, Freddy. There weren't any controls in your
pit. And we couldn't have changed seats in that crate. So the only thing
I could do was to stick it out. But, boy! I was sure glad to sit down on
that carrier. But, hey! How come we bumped into the task force, Colonel?
We were trying to get south to Port Moresby, and--"
"And you were headed in the right direction, Dawson," the colonel
interrupted with a nod. "In another twenty minutes you would have
sighted land. But you ran across us because we had given up the hunt for
the Jap force and had steamed full knots for the Solomons to slug it out
as best we could _if_ the Jap force did show up. It--well, maybe we can
call it an act of God that you sighted us, and gave us the information
that we so desperately needed. And--What's the matter, Dawson?"
Colonel Welsh cut himself off short, and anxiously asked the last as
Dawson groaned, and made a face.
"Matter?" Dawson echoed. "Plenty! One of the best sea and air scraps
there's been in the Southwest Pacific, and I--and I slept through the
whole thing! Why, doggone it, I--"
"And that'll be just about enough out of you!" Colonel Welsh said with
more sternness in his voice than there was in his eyes. "You and Farmer
had done your job, and a magnificent job you did, too, thank God! It was
somebody else's turn to take a crack at the Japs. And, of course, I mean
Admiral Jackson's pilots. So stop feeling that you were cheated, you
young fire eater. Farmer, here, didn't take part in the scrap, either,
so you've no complaints. In fact, Dawson, you can give thanks for a
miracle every night for the rest of your life. Give thanks for this!"
The colonel paused, slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and took out a
gleaming chunk of metal. And that's just about all it was: a gleaming
chunk of metal.
"What's that, sir?" Dawson asked.
"All that's left of your pilot's wings," the colonel replied, and
twisted the chunk of gleaming metal between his fingers. "It was driven
by a Zero bullet right into your chest to within a fraction of an inch
of puncturing your left lung."
"Huh, huh, sir?" Dawson gasped out. "You mean--? Holy smokes! A _second_
time?"
"The second time, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said gravely, and placed the
twice bullet-battered pilot's wings into their owner's hands. "For the
second time they saved your life. Frankly, I'll never tell this story to
anybody else because nobody else would believe it. But it's true. And
there you are. A war souvenir you couldn't duplicate, not even if you
lived to be a billion."
The colonel said some more words, but Dawson was only half listening. He
was staring at his bullet-battered wings, and living over in memory all
those terrible hours when his chest had been filled with searing flame.
Then presently his vision blurred, and without realizing it he slipped
off into blissful, contented sleep. And Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh
smiled down at his peaceful face, and slipped silently out of the
cruiser's sick-bay.
---- THE END ----
_A Page from_
DAVE DAWSON AT CASABLANCA
For the umpty-umph time Dawson checked his position and made absolutely
sure that he was where he was supposed to be. And for the umpty-umph
time countless fears shot through his brain to taunt him and jeer at
him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous. His navigation was all
cockeyed. He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred
miles south. He was--
"Cut it out, fellow, cut it out!" he rasped aloud at himself. "This is a
fine time for you to go haywire! You simply got here ahead of time. Your
watch tells you that, sap. Freddy was held up, that's all. Maybe he ran
into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe--"
Or something? But just exactly _what_? That was the question. Freddy
Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of
a pilot. It was crazy to say that weather had held up Freddy. No. It was
something else, not weather. But what? _But what?_ Why wasn't Freddy
Farmer here?
Dawson groaned, and shook his head as though to drive away the
tantalizing thoughts. But that didn't do any good. He started stunting
his plane all over the empty sky to take his mind off his thoughts. But
that didn't do any
Transcriber's Notes:
Page 41: Changed someting to something
Page 52: Changed come to some
Page 188: Changed Inteligence to Intelligence
Page 199: Changed Frdedy to Freddy
End of Project Gutenberg's Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal, by Robert Sydney Bowen