Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Air Forces pilots will report at five o'clock," he chuckled. "And Navy and Marine Corps pilots will report at two bells, or whatever the correct number of bells it is. Anyway, all of you be there. That's all, and dismissed."

The pilots let out a cheer for the colonel and then broke up into groups of two and three and began to wander along the smooth flat surface of the flight deck. They didn't wander about very long, however. There were few planes on deck, and the dawn sun climbing up over the horizon reminded each and every one of them that what was really in order was a little food. Particularly Freddy Farmer, and it was he who led the straggling procession down below decks to the pilots' mess room. And when he and Dave had eaten their fill of Navy chow they went to their quarters to arrange their personal belongings that had been taken aboard from the destroyer, and to chew the fat a bit. They did little of either. At least, that went for Dave. Just to "relax for a couple of shakes" he stretched out on his bunk, and the next thing he knew Freddy had him by the shoulder and was shaking him hard.

"Out of it, Dave, old thing!" came Freddy's muffled voice to his sleep-lulled brain. "Out of it, I say! You want to be late and get off to your usual bad start? Blast you, man! Out of there, or you get this whole pitcher of water, and I promise it!"

Dave blinked and blinked some more, and finally sat up on the bunk.

"Huh?" he groaned. "What's cooking? Where are we, and what's the idea of trying to break off my arm? And—Holy smokes! Where are we, anyway?"

"You can ask the navigation officer, later!" Freddy snapped. "Right now, move yourself, and get presentable. We've just about two minutes to get to the Ready-Room. Come on, Dave! Prop-wash the sleep out of your brain, will you? Lord! You're more bother than my maiden aunt!"

Dawson blinked again, started to speak, but checked himself as memory came rushing back into his brain. Instead he let out a yell, jumped off the bunk and cracked the top of his head against the bunk above. And he let out another yell.

"Doggone it!" he growled, and rubbed the top of his head. "Why don't they build these cabins big enough so a guy can move around without killing himself? Hey! Where's my tunic? Where's my cap? Hey, Freddy! What did you do with my stuff? Oh! Here it is. Two minutes to go, huh? Then what are we waiting for, pal?"

Freddy Farmer snorted and went outside alone, but in just about less time than it takes to tell about it Dave went out and caught up with him. And together they made their way to the Ready-Room on the hangar deck. It turned out that they were the last to show up, so when they entered the door was closed and Colonel Welsh rose from where he was sitting with the task force's commander at the head end of the room. He waited a couple of minutes for feet to stop shuffling around. Then he grinned and made a little half salute with one hand.

"Now it comes, Gentlemen," he said with a chuckle. "Now you'll get the answer to the one question that has burned holes in the brain of each and every one of you since the moment you received word to report to H.Q. at Sydney. Or could I be wrong?"