In one of the R.A.F. planes that roared above the raging war inferno that stretched from El Aghelia in the west to Bardia and Sollum in the east, were Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. They were still caked with sand, and they still wore their tattered uniforms. And they were dead tired and practically all in. But not for all the gold in the world, or all the discipline in the world, would they have remained on the ground inactive during this great conflict in the middle East. The high ranking officers of British G.H.Q. had suggested, begged, and practically demanded that they go to a hospital in Tobruk, and place themselves under a doctor's care at once. But arguments, threats, and demands had simply fallen on deaf ears. In the end, and with frank admiration glowing in his eyes, General Maitland had granted permission for them to take a plane from one of the nearby R.A.F. bases and go aloft for an hour or so to watch the gigantic battle. At the end of an hour, however, they were to fly out to sea to the Victory, whose position had been given to them.
"Five minutes more, Dave!" Freddy shouted above the roar of their engine. "Think we can get just one more Heinkel bomber before we head for the Victory?"
Dave turned in the cockpit, grinned at him, and shook his head.
"Boy, what a hog for air scrapping you are!" he cried. "But nix, no more. We more or less promised the general we wouldn't get too close to the scrapping—just take a look-see around. Instead we tore in and got us a Nazi apiece. But two's enough. I haven't got half a dozen bullets left. Besides, this isn't our show, really. The other fellows deserve their innings. Also, I've suddenly got a yen for the flight deck of the Victory. What say? Shall we let these guys have their fun without us butting in, and buzz home to the Victory?"
Freddy cast a sad glance about the sky swarming with British and Axis planes, then sighed heavily and nodded.
"Right you are," he said. "Guess we've been selfish long enough. Yes, the flight deck of the Victory would be fine. Hurry it up, though. I've got something very important to do. Matter of life or death, you know."
"What?" Dave cried in alarm. "You—?"
"Never mind the questions!" Freddy cut him off. "Just get me to the flight deck of the Victory as fast as you can."
Forty minutes later Dave sighted the aircraft carrier, and ten minutes after that he received word from the operations officer to come aboard. The huge ship looked strangely bare and alone as it steamed into the wind. There wasn't a single plane on deck. All available ships were in the air, either scouting for fragments of the Italian fleet or lending their aid in the battle ashore. Just the same, the long smooth deck looked like home sweet home to Dave as he guided his borrowed two-seater fighting plane downward.
He came in clean as a whistle, and no sooner had the secret arresting gear brought the plane to a halt than Group Captain Spencer seemed to pop right out of thin air and come racing across the deck to greet them.