"Bless my hat, bless my hat!" Major Alden kept mumbling. "The whole blasted plan of attack. Units, numbers, gun strength, air, navy—everything. Great guns! I'll never be able to believe it!"
"But it's true, sir," Dave spoke up. "That Nazi colonel actually told us what he planned. He was shooting off his—I mean, he was boasting. Like Nazis do, because he thought he had us for keeps. Can you give us a lift to the nearest radio post, sir? The sooner we notify G.H.Q. the better it will be, I think."
"Eh, give you a lift?" the major echoed looking up from the maps and military papers. "I'll jolly well drive you there myself, straight to General Maitland at Tobruk H.Q. We can make it by just before sundown if we hop along now. Great guns! The blighters would have wiped out the lot of us in no time at all. God bless the R.A.F., I say!"
The major gathered up the stuff on the wing and spun around to his junior officer.
"Take over the patrol, Baxby," he ordered. "Ride in Sergeant Tucker's car. Head back to the post at once, and have all other patrols called in immediately. Then move back to Tobruk to await orders. Got it?"
"Right you are, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Then off with you," the major ordered. "Come along, you two R.A.F. lads. Blast it, if this isn't like a cinema thriller!"
Motioning the two boys to climb in back, the major slid in behind the wheel, shifted gears and sent the light, fast scout car careening around and toward the north. The violent movement pitched Freddy and Dave down onto the floor, and by the time they had scrambled up onto the little stools again and were clutching the two mounted machine guns for support, the car was like a brown streak of lightning ripping across the surface of the sand and leaving a swirling trail behind.
"Gosh!" Dave shouted above the roar of the engine. "If we had wings this darned thing would take off!"
"Dashed if I don't think we already have!" Freddy called back. "Look over there to the right, Dave! Look at the color of the sky."