To the east the sky was filled with a dull copperish haze. It spread out to the side for miles and towered high into the heavens. It was as though a huge expanse of copper screen mesh had been spread across the blue of the Libyan sky. At its highest point the sun was perched like a brass ball on the top of a flag pole.
"Maybe it's going to rain," Dave suggested. "Maybe rain clouds are that color in this neck of the woods."
"Rain in March?" Freddy snorted. "The rainy season's long over before then. That's some kind of a desert storm, I think."
Freddy let go of the machine gun mounting long enough to lean forward toward the front seat.
"What's that sky mean off to the right, sir?" He shouted the question.
The major took his eyes off the desert ahead just long enough to flash a snap glance toward the copperish-colored sky to the east. As he saw it, he started slightly, and his sandy-colored brows came together in a frown.
"Sand storm!" he called back over his shoulder. "And if it catches up with us it'll be very nasty indeed. That's a good one, too. Getting close to the time of year when they kick up quite a bit. If we can't outrace it, duck low and stay there. The stuff's like powdered glass. Dash it all! Even the weather's fighting for the Nazi. I—"
The dreaded snarl of aerial machine gun fire cut off the rest of the major's statement. Dave whirled around and stared upward and to the rear. He saw the diving plane at once. It was a Messerschmitt One-Nine. As a matter of fact, he was positive it was the same One-Nine that had quit that last air battle and gone racing off home. Obviously, though, the pilot had come back, sighted the One-Ten on the ground, and the scout car speeding across the desert to the north. He had added things up to get the right answer, and was now making a final effort to prevent valuable information from reaching British headquarters.
"The bum has come back, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and swung one of the machine guns around on its swivel mounting. "He wants some more, so let's give it to him!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath replying. He simply nodded, swung the other gun around and lined up the diving plane in his sights. A split second later both boys were sending savage bursts of bullets up at the diving plane. The Messerschmitt did not swerve off, however, even though Dave could see their tracers slapping right into the plane. The German pilot was determined to do his worst while he lived. He came right on downward, engine howling a song of mighty power, and all of his guns spewing out streaks of nickel-jacketed lead bullets.