"Sand," he said hoarsely. "Blasted desert sand!"
THE END
[1] Dave Dawson With the R.A.F.
A Page from
DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL
Golden sunshine was streaming down on the broad wings of the American built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat, but ominous coal black clouds were beginning to pile up high in the western sky. Even as Dave Dawson stared at them, they seemed to fling a dark shadow far out over the rolling grey swells of the North Atlantic. He gave a little angry shake of his head and impulsively took a tighter grip on the controls of the flying boat.
"That storm looks plenty bad, Freddy," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think?"
Freddy Farmer, seated in the co-pilot's seat, nodded grimly and glanced at the altimeter. It showed exactly nine thousand feet.
"We'll just have to hit it on the nose, and pray," he said after a moment. "If we climb above it we might just as well go back to port.