Dave Dawson on Convoy Patrol

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"In case you don't know," the Air Marshal spoke again, "I hate blasted speech making. So don't expect anything polished from me. And if what I say doesn't make sense, don't hesitate to interrupt me with questions. First, though, I've got to ask you a question. And, lads, don't try to be heroes. Everybody is a hero in this confounded mess. It doesn't mean a thing. Find the answer to what I ask deep down inside of you. Be honest with yourself, and with me. Now, here's the question. Is there any one here who would rather return to his squadron for regular service in place of accepting assignments that may call for service and performance far beyond the ordinary call of duty? Think it over, chaps, and if you would prefer to return to your squadron and your pals it will be perfectly all right. It will mean nothing to me one way or the other. And I will give you my word on that."

The Air Marshal stopped talking and a pin dropping silence settled over the room. If anybody actually debated whether to return to his squadron, or remain, nobody else realized it. Every pair of eyes was fixed steadfastly on Air Marshal Manners' face. And every pair of lips remained still for two long minutes. It was the Air Ministry high ranker who finally broke the silence. He grinned and made a little gesture with one hand.

"Knew perfectly well it would be a waste of breath to ask it," he said. "Okay, right you are, then. We're all in it together, come what may. Now, you don't have to tell me you've been close to blowing your top with curiosity these last few weeks. I can see it in your faces right now. Well, I'll put an end to the mystery. A few weeks ago I was put in charge of what is to be known as the Emergency Command. In simple language the Emergency Command is to be made up of proven pilots who can fly anything, at any time, and at any place. That's why you chaps have been buzzing from drome to drome these last few weeks. I made a list of a hundred pilots I'd like to have in my Command. Those pilots were sent through the special training courses. And you thirty-five lads qualified for service in the Emergency Command. And by the way, congratulations to each and every one of you. You all proved you have the kind of stuff I'm going to need."

The Air Marshal paused for breath and to grin at the sea of eager faces before him. The pilots grinned back, and in the breast of each was the tingling warmth that comes with the knowledge of having accomplished something above the ordinary.

"And now to get down to serious business," the famous ace of Dunkirk said in a grave tone. "The jobs you'll get will be tough ones. All of them. I fancy that no two jobs will be the same. You'll be flying one type of ship one day, and another type the next. Maybe one day you'll go on a special Berlin bomb raid. And perhaps when you return ... if you do ... you'll be assigned the task of ferrying War Office officials to Canada, or goodness knows where. In case you're wondering just why such a Command should be formed, just give a thought or two to the name. That's the whole explanation. An Emergency Command. Pilots ready to do any kind of a job at a moment's notice. A suicide command, if you like. The point is, though, you will not act as a unit. You'll be assigned to a number of established squadrons, but your job there will be special, and you will follow my orders as given you through the O.C. of the squadron to which you happen to be assigned at the time. All clear up to now?"

Air Marshal Manners paused again and ran his eyes over the group. Heads nodded and the murmur of assent passed from lip to lip. He grinned and heaved a sigh of mock relief.

"Well, so much for that, then," he said. "Now, something else. The Emergency Command is to be something that is very hush-hush, and for very good reason, I think. Because of your work you will soon learn many, many important secrets about R.A.F. operation. Adolf's little Intelligence and Gestapo boys would love to find out some of those things themselves. So to check any attempt on their part to find out, the identity of you chaps is going to remain a secret. By that, I mean that on the records you will join a squadron as a replacement, and only the O.C. of that squadron will know that you are there for a certain purpose. And when you leave it will go in the records as a routine transfer or some other suitable explanation. So naturally you lads have got to live up to it all the time. Act the part of a replacement, and don't say a thing to anybody.

"And now, thank heavens, I come to the last part of this speech making. Here on this table are thirty-five sealed envelopes. In each envelop is the number of an R.A.F. squadron, the name of its O.C., and its present location. As all of you have qualified for any kind of a job there is no sense in my designating a certain job for a certain chap. In short, you'll pick your first assignment blind. Some assignments are solo, meaning that you'll go alone. And some will be for two of three of you chaps. It all depends. So step up here and each of you take an envelop. However, don't open it at once. I've got a few more words to say first. Right-o. Step up, all of you."

The Air Marshal finished the sentence with a gesture of his hand-toward the table. There was a shuffling of feet as the pilots stood up and walked towards the table on the raised platform. Dave turned his head to look at Freddy, and in his pal's eyes he read the same thought that was in his own brain. Was this night to see them split up? To see them sent to opposite ends of the British Isles? Perhaps to opposite ends of the earth? It was a thought that cut deep, and though each forced a cheery grin to his lips there was the beginning of a dull ache of dread and fear in his heart.

"I've got my fingers crossed, if you know what I mean," Dave whispered out the corner of his mouth.