Dave Dawson in Libya

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Good grief!" Freddy breathed softly. "I never would have believed it possible. That was wonderful, Dave. Phew! It was—it's left me weak as a kitten. It—"

"Then get strong, and pronto!" Dave ordered, and thrust the Luger into his hands. "I'm on my way to the fuel truck. Shut up, and don't argue. You keep that guard occupied. Don't let up on him for an instant. If worse comes to worse—shoot and duck out the back of this tent and head for the rear of the headquarters tent. Your shots will bring them running, I hope, and we'll still have a chance. But watch the guard and keep telling him how a bullet hurts. He's yellow, or he wouldn't have folded up just now. Okay, I'm on my way. Luck to us both, pal!"

Freddy started to open his mouth to protest, but Dave silenced him with a quick shake of his head.

"About time I did something for our team," he grunted, and moved toward the front of the tent. "You just hold everything. Be right back."

He took another step and flashed a searching look outside. The Germans checking their equipment were well out of sight by now. As a matter of fact, he didn't see a sign of a single German save the guard who marched slowly up and down with eyes that were saucers of fear.

"You're doing fine," Dave grunted at him in his own tongue. "Just keep it up. My pal is the best shot in the British army. He could split your backbone in two from that distance without half trying."

The guard shivered slightly but did not turn his head. Dave threw a final wink and a grin back at Freddy, and then went out of the tent and off toward the left with the speed of a shell leaving the muzzle of a gun. Legs working like piston rods, and body bent well forward, he streaked across a fifty foot open stretch of sand to the safety of the first of the parked tanks. There he halted for a brief instant, tore off a large piece of his shirt and pulled an army clip of waterproof matches from his pocket. Then he streaked forward again toward the nearest fuel truck. Tins of gas and oil had been taken out and placed on the ground. He grabbed hold of one and, working with the speed of lightning, untwisted the cap and soaked his torn piece of shirt with gas. Then he placed the piece of cloth close to the pile of tins. Crouching down, he struck one of his matches, tossed the flame down onto the gas-soaked strip of shirt cloth, spun around in a continuation of the same movement and raced for dear life back toward the prison tent.

He was still several strides from the tent when the flames reached the first of the gas tins. It exploded in a roar of sound, and brilliant orange red fire leaped up into the sky. Even as Dave dashed into the tent and snatched the Luger from Freddy's hand, a second and a third tin of fuel exploded. Dave didn't take time out to watch the fireworks display. As Freddy gaped at him open-mouthed, Dave twisted back toward the guard, who stood staring dumb-eyed at the flames, and cracked him back of the ear with the barrel of the Luger. The German slowly folded up and dropped to the ground without a sound.

"So he won't shoot when our backs are turned!" Dave barked at Freddy, and dived for the rear of the tent. "Come on, and put plenty of speed into your legs. It's make or break for us now!"

The English youth needed no urging. He dived after Dave, and they both squirmed out from under the rear side of the tent like a couple of snakes fleeing a flaming jungle. By then the whole desert camp was in a terrific uproar. Troops and officers were racing madly toward the fuel truck, which was now a towering column of flame and pitch black smoke that reached high up into the sky. Hoarse shouted orders flew thick and fast, and the soldiers fell upon nearby equipment like mad demons and tried to haul it farther away from the blazing inferno.