It took ten minutes to reach the top of the high point of desert, but every second of those ten minutes was a lifetime of torturing suspense to Dave and Freddy. Neither of them spoke a word, but the same question stood out in letters of fire in their brains. What was beyond the rise of ground? For the last fifty yards Dave fed every ounce of gas to the pounding engine that it would take, and the car fairly streaked over the sand. Then finally they roared up and onto the crest. Dave slammed on the brakes, and sat motionless, unable to utter a word. Emotion ran riot within him, and the hot tears of inexpressible joy stung the backs of his eyes. Freddy threw both arms about him and hugged him like a long lost brother.
"There it is, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "The good old Union Jack flying from the pole. The British flag. That's Tobruk, Dave. I recognize it from pictures. Tobruk. You hit it on the nose, Dave. Right on the nose!"
"Tobruk!" Dave whispered softly. "Tobruk, and—and I'll never forget how good you look as long as I live. Never!"
"The end of the trail, and in time!" Freddy breathed, and unashamed tears of joy streaked the caked sand on his cheeks.
[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN]
Claws of the British Lion
A continuous roaring thunder that seemed to shake the entire world greeted the new Libyan dawn. The roaring thunder of war on the land, in the air, and on the sea. Thanks to Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer, the British Middle East High Command had been warned in time to call in its outpost forces and concentrate them into a swift mobile force that streaked out to smash hard at the enemy forces stealing in for a surprise attack that never took place.
On land the British forces struck the middle and both flanks of the enemy desert forces and sent them reeling back into the desert scattered and completely disorganized, and suffering terrific casualties. To the west at El Aghelia, and Bengazi, other Nazi-Italian units found nothing but small British rear guard units that made them pay far more for every foot of ground they captured than that foot of ground was worth. It was the same at many other points, too. Instead of being surprised, it was General Wavell's armies that surprised the Axis units. They weren't where the Nazi and Italians had fully expected them to be. They were like ghost armies that faded out of sight, and then suddenly materialized on a Nazi flank to crush a tank company as though they were so many toys, and to spread terror and complete befuddlement in the enemy ranks.
In the air every available R.A.F. plane had been hurled into the battle. Carefully guarded Nazi fuel supply truck units and ammunition trains and armored car columns were blasted into eternity by the rain of bombs and bullets showered down from R.A.F. wings. Nazi and Italian planes were shot down like flies. Numbers made no more difference to the R.A.F. boys on the wing than numbers meant to the brave-hearted, two-fisted fighting British, and Australian, and New Zealand and South African soldiers on the ground. They gave ground, yes, but they left nothing worth the holding. And the Axis forces paid one of the highest prices in history for stretches of useless hot desert land.
On the sea, units of the Mediterranean fleet were doing their share, too. Italian navy ships sent to take part in the surprise Axis attack were caught cold by John Bull's sailors, and were scattered about the blue waters of the Mediterranean like helpless chunks of steel. Not a single Italian naval shell was fired ashore into the ranks of the British troops. The Italians didn't have the chance to fire a single shell. The British sailors caught them in a perfect trap and plastered them from bow to stern with screaming shells. In a couple of hours there wasn't a single Italian ship in sight off the Libyan coast. Those that had not gone down under the waves were scurrying like terrified ducks for the safety of their bases in Naples and in Taranto, leaving behind the British navy in supreme command of Libyan waters.