Dave Dawson at Casablanca

by Robert Sidney Bowen

Death Takes Wing

For the tenth time, Dave Dawson checked his position and made absolutely sure that he was where he was supposed to be. For the tenth time, countless fears shot through his brain to taunt and jeer at him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous point. His navigation was all cockeyed. He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south of it. He was—

"Cut it out, fellow!" he ordered himself. "This is a fine time for you to go haywire! You're simply here ahead of time. Your watch tells you that. Freddy was held up a bit, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe—"

Or something? But what? That was the question! Freddy Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of pilot. It was crazy to think that weather would hold up Freddy. But where was he? Why wasn't he here?

These tantalizing questions pounded in Dawson's brain like the booming of big guns. He clenched his teeth and gripped the controls of the Lockheed Lightning so tightly that the knuckles of his hands showed white through the skin. That this was perhaps the last flight he might ever make didn't bother him much. What did was the fear that Freddy and he might fail in the successful completion of this vitally important mission. And that fear was doubled when he realized that the odds were all against them. Yesterday when they had volunteered for the job Major General Hawker had told them in no uncertain terms that their chances of finding the secret Nazi bomber base were about one in a thousand, and their chances of coming back alive were about one in a million.

Yes, the odds were all against them, but that didn't matter. They'd had the odds against them before and had won out. So right after leaving Major General Hawker's office they had selected two Lockheed Lightnings on the field and flight tested them thoroughly. By then darkness had settled, so they had gone to one of the field hutments and tumbled into bed with their clothes on, so that there would be no waste of time in case they had to make a night take-off in a hurry.

Good fortune was theirs, however. They each had twelve solid hours of sleep before word came that Nazi bombers were sighted off the coast. Five minutes later they were both in the air, but instead of flying out to sea, they carried out a prearranged flight plan. Dawson had flown northward to circle around to the east and then southward to a point over the middle of the Atlas Mountains. And Farmer had flown south with the idea of circling eastward, and then up north to rendezvous with Dawson. One of them would be sure to cross the path of the Nazis winging back to their secret base. The instant one of them spotted the Nazis he would code call the other over his radio and give his position and course. The other would head that way at once, join up, and together they would trail the Nazis to their base, and then code call Casablanca where a hastily assembled squadron of American bombers was waiting.

Yes, a very carefully thought out plan of action, except for one flaw. And that one flaw was making itself known right now as Dawson coasted the Lockheed about in the North African sky over the prearranged rendezvous point. In short, he had not seen the Nazi bombers, and he had not heard so much as a whisper over the radio, though he had called Freddy Farmer several times for a check. No bombers! Radio silence since Casablanca! So—

"So," Dave said to himself as he tried to still the fearful pounding of his heart, "So something has happened to Freddy! He's bumped into trouble, and his radio went haywire on him. Or he's lost and has missed the Nazis completely. Or—or he's dead!"

Dawson hardly realized that he had spoken the words until they were out. Their echo in his ears caused his mouth and throat to go dry, and fingers of ice to curl about his heart. He shook his head savagely and pounded one clenched fist on his knee.