Dave Dawson in Libya

by Robert Sidney Bowen

But it suddenly wasn't so nice after all. The German pilot had gone racing away, but he had left his calling card. And the gods of war, wherever they were sitting huddled together, laughed with glee at the unfortunate turn of events. The right engine (right outboard engine) started sputtering out its story that it was all through for the day. Dave instantly cut the ignition and throttle to prevent the possibility of fire. With the right engine gone, the force of the left outboard engine tried to veer the ship around in that direction, and Dave was forced to put on a lot of opposite rudder to keep the plane flying straight.

That, however, didn't help much. With one engine completely dead, the plane began to lose altitude slowly. Even with the left outboard engine running full blast, the Messerschmitt One-Ten became logy in the air, and it was all Dave could do to keep it on an even keel, and stop it from whipping over and down into a spin. Presently, after he had almost lost control a couple of times, he was forced to nose down slightly and keep the nose down. He turned around and shook his head sadly at Freddy's bitter expression.

"This doesn't seem to be our lucky day, either," he said. "We have a little altitude, but not much. In ten minutes or so we'll be down so low we'll have to land. These jobs just won't fly on one engine. Would you like to take a stroll on the nice desert, my little man?"

Freddy groaned aloud and flung a look of hate down at the stretches of desert sand below.

"If I come out of this alive," he declared in harsh tones, "I'll shoot the blighter who even mentions the word, sand, to me. Well, tough luck for us, Dave. Thank goodness, though, that beggar got scared and went barging on home. I fancy he'd be enjoying himself a lot right now, if he had hung around."

"Being a Nazi, he sure would," Dave nodded. "Crippled ships are their favorite dish. It was the same in the First World War, too, I understand. What a race of people! But, darn it, this desert landing burns me up. And I don't mean that as a wise-crack. It's getting to be a habit with me. I probably won't know what to do if I ever see a real airdrome or carrier flight deck again. I wonder how far we are from the British lines."

"A long, long walk over this blasted desert, I'm afraid," Freddy said gloomily. "And we've got to get there long before dawn tomorrow, too, or the information we have won't be worth much. It will take a few hours at least for the British garrisons west of Tobruk, at Derna and Bengazi, to fall back to the main body, or they'll be cut off by the Germans blocking the way at Tobruk."

"That's right," Dave said, and guided the plane downward. "And that's exactly what the Nazis plan to do to make their attack a complete success: smash right through the middle of the British defenses; cut British strength in half, and then mop up a half at a time. But, darn it, we can't let them get away with that even if we have to run all the way to Tobruk, or some British outpost that has a radio. No, darn it, we'll beat those Nazis yet. We're not through, and all washed up."

"Well, we are with this airplane, anyway," Freddy grunted. "Here comes that blasted desert. Oh, how I hate the very sight of sand! But don't think I'm giving up hope and quitting, Dave. Don't crack us up. I'm just talking aloud, you know."

"It'll be a rainy day when you up and quit, Freddy," Dave said with a chuckle. "Don't worry. I feel just the same way. I could chew nails plenty right now. Oh well, hold your hats, children."