Dave Dawson on Convoy Patrol

by Robert Sidney Bowen

That alone was enough to fray their nerves and put them on edge, but to add to their helpless misery was the fact that they picked up spots of other signals they knew did not come from the raider. Some were in British code, and it was easy to guess that aircraft on the hunt for them were communicating with each other and their shore bases. And then there were signals in German code that were obviously being sent out from Nazi aircraft. Those signals worried them more than the fact they could not establish definite contact with the raider. The same question burned through their brains in letters of fire a foot high. Had scouting Nazi aircraft spotted the all important convoy and were they establishing contact with the raider? And were the raider and her wolf-pack already sneaking into position to pounce upon those precious cargoes destined for England?

Hours of groping blindly about in the dark. Hours when at any minute they might plow headlong into R.A.F. planes searching them out. Hours of heart crushing failure to achieve their all important goal, contact with the raider. Hours during which every tantalizing thought possible rose up to peck at their tired brains like vultures over a dead steer.

And, now, dawn! Dawn and light. Light that would reveal them to the pilots of other planes that might come across them in the air. The eyes of British pilots. And the eyes of Nazi pilots. Dawn and one last hope, a final prayer. That the mystery raider was hugging the area below that storm ahead, and the static created by the storm was the reason they couldn't contact the raider. One last hope. One last fight, not against aircraft, but against the raging fury of an Atlantic storm. If they could not find the raider somewhere in that storm area then their mission was doomed to failure. Time's sands were running out in the glass. If they did not find the raider this time, it would mean that the raider was nowhere about. That it was far away, in contact with a real Nazi scouting plane, and ... and perhaps in the very act of pouncing upon the convoy.

Dave shuddered and wiped sweat from his brow as the last thought whipped across his brain. Then almost instantly he gritted his teeth, got his chin up, and squared his jaw.

"Nuts to that storm!" he muttered. "This Cat-boat can take worse than that. We'll find that darn raider if we have to hunt it out from pole to pole. Got your safety belt fastened tight, Freddy? We're going to get a nice tossing."

"As tight as it'll go," the English youth replied. "I'll be okay as long as the wings stay on."

"They'll stay on," Dave said grimly. "This job is Yank built, and good. Make a check on our course. I want to head into that mess ahead in the direction of the nearest British Fleet unit to our position. The direction signals you last flashed out to the raider. I'm just banking on a hope she caught them and is heading that way, too."

"That would almost be too good to be true," Freddy sighed. "But hold your horses a minute and I'll make a definite check."

Freddy busied himself with his charts and navigation for a moment or so, then straightened up and nodded.

"Keep her as she goes, Dave," he reported. "We're right on the old beam, now. And...."