Dave Dawson in Libya

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Okay, thanks," Dave shouted back. "I'll try some more and then radio Operations."

Feeding high test gas to his engine, he pulled quickly upward and out of formation. Then, when he was well clear of the other sections drifting down to be taken aboard the carrier, he started kicking the Skua around in a desperate effort to get the right wheel to go all the way down. But it was no use. He could get both wheels back up into the wing sockets, but he could not get the right wheel more than a quarter of the way down. He finally gave up, gave Freddy an apologetic grin and called Operations aboard the carrier. He had been watched all the time, of course, and the orders were given to him at once.

"Get your wheels up, and keep them there, Dawson. Come down for a water landing. A crash boat will stand by to take you aboard at once. Land half a mile ahead of us. Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir," Dave replied in a voice that shook with emotion.

Of course it would be too dangerous for all concerned to attempt what is known as a "belly landing" aboard the carrier—a landing on the belly of the plane with both wheels up in the wings. The slightest skid could end up in a bad crash and quite possibly fire. And fire by accident aboard a carrier at sea is bad enough without asking for it, or tempting it. With that plan of action being out of the question, there were two other things that could be ordered done. One was to land in the water. The other was for Freddy and himself to bail out and let the ship crash. That he had not been given the last order was an unspoken compliment to his flying ability. Operations had faith he could sit down in the water without doing damage to Freddy or himself, or serious damage to the plane. Operations wanted to salvage the plane and repair it aboard, and Operations was counting on him to make it possible to save the ship.

For a moment he sat perfectly motionless at the controls, as though afraid that movement would end the thrilling spell through which he was passing. Then Freddy did break it by banging him on the shoulder.

"Get to it, my lad!" Freddy shouted. "The blasted water isn't coming up here to us, you know. You can do it in pukka style. We both know that."

Dave shook himself out of his trance, got his wheels back up into the wings, and then headed for a point half a mile ahead of the Victory. As he winged past the carrier, he saw one of the crash boats being lowered over the side. Then all that was behind him and there was just the expanse of the Mediterranean ahead. At the right moment he hauled the throttle back, and tilted the nose downward. Every muscle and nerve in him was drawn bow string tight as the blue water rose up toward him.

It was not the first time he had put a land plane down in the water, but on those other occasions it had not mattered if he cracked up the plane a bit. This time was different. The Victory needed this Blackburn Skua. The Fleet Air Arm in the Mediterranean had too few planes as it was. Every ship it could salvage was as good as two brand-new planes on the long way out from the factory in Britain. He had to make this the best landing of his flying career. He owed it to Freddy, he owed it to the rest of the boys aboard the Victory—and he owed it to himself.

One second ticked past. Two seconds—three. And then the blue water was right underneath him. He whipped out his free hand and cut the ignition. With his other hand he eased back the stick and brought the nose up a few inches. Flying speed fell off instantly. The plane seemed to hang motionless just off the surface of the water. The round crest of a gentle blue swell rolled by and whispered up against the belly of the plane. As though a thousand glue-covered fingers had touched the bottom of the plane, the Skua stuck to the water. It lurched just slightly and plowed up a faint spray. Then it settled a bit by the nose, steadied, and floated as nicely as a duck on a millpond.