Dave Dawson on the Russian Front

by Robert Sidney Bowen

As a matter of fact, it had been their torn and mud-smeared uniforms that had come close to delaying their arrival at the Aberdeen R.A.F, Depot indefinitely. Following Freddy Farmer's plan of action, they had walked three miles along the Old North Road to a town which did turn out to be Leadburn, just as the English-born air ace had guessed. Patroling Home Guards stopped them, and after considerable argument they were taken to the quarters of the town's Military Commandant. That gentleman was awakened from a deep sleep, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't even like it a little bit. And being that kind of an officer, he felt that the two youths should be tossed into the local clink for the rest of the night, and their case looked at in the broad light of day.

But at that point both Dave and Freddy went to work on him, so to speak, much to the silent amusement of the Home Guards. At any rate, they convinced the Commandant that he should phone the Air Ministry. He did, and that changed everything, instantly. The boys couldn't hear what was said at the other end of the wire, but they didn't have to. The sullen annoyance in the Commandant's face changed at once. His eyes widened to saucer size, and his face turned a deep brick red color that went right up into his hair. He almost got his tongue tangled up in his teeth telling the person at the other end of the wire that he would "do that at once." And when he finally hung up, his forehead was dotted with beads of nervous sweat.

And so the boys got action, plus! In less time than it takes to tell about it the Commandant's own car was turned over for their use. And they were given a Corporal, who knew the roads well, to handle the wheel. And that was exactly what the Corporal did, and then some. He was ordered to make the run north to Aberdeen Depot as fast as he could, and hardly had he shifted gears before both boys realized the man planned to do even better than that. He was indeed an expert driver, but even experts break their necks sometimes. And what worried Dave and Freddy as they shot northward through the night was that the driver would not only break his own neck, but theirs as well!

Lady Luck rode with them, however. And in due time they passed through the Aberdeen Depot gates, and were conducted over to the Depot Commandant's office. He had been waiting for them, and getting new grey hairs with every passing minute. Of course the Flying Scotsman had long since arrived at the station, and when they were not found aboard, the Commandant had more or less taken it as his personal responsibility. And so his joy was great and his relief unbounded when finally the two youths did show up. He took them under his wing at once, and got them a good meal and something hot to drink. Then he chatted with them for a bit, and it was all the two youths could do to stop from grinning in his face. Naturally, the Commandant knew nothing, save the fact that they were to be flown to Moscow, and so naturally he dropped a casual question here and there in an effort to add to his knowledge.

But neither Dave nor Freddy were having any of that. As a matter of fact, if either of them was tempted to give their host a tip as to the nature of their mission, they had only to think of that little business aboard the Flying Scotsman to be easily able to kill such an intention right then and there. If German agents had big ears in London, they would certainly have big ears in Aberdeen. And the conviction that of course there weren't any Nazi agents way up there in Aberdeen was just about the stupidest idea one could have. Nazi agents are like cockroaches. You'll find them around, no matter how many you kill, until you've found the nest and burned it out. And the Gestapo nest was in Berlin.

However, the hour or two with the Depot Commandant passed pleasantly enough. And then the pilot, navigator, and radioman of the Moscow-bound bomber reported at the Commandant's office. The pilot was a Squadron Leader named Freehill, and the ribbons under his wings proved that he had won his rank the hard way. The navigator was a Flight Lieutenant named Parsons, and he had a ready smile and a hearty handshake that made both Dave and Freddy feel glad that he was going to be along on the flight to Moscow. The radioman was a cheery-faced sergeant named Dilling, who looked as if he should be on the vaudeville stage rather than inside a Wellington bomber. All three of them seemed rather mysteriously tickled about this coming flight to Moscow, but it was not until later, when they were all taking it easy under the Wellington's wing, while the twin Bristols were warming up, that Squadron Leader Freehill explained the reason for their secret joy.

"This aerial taxi business has almost got us down," he said out of a clear blue sky. "But not this trip we're to make with you chaps. You're a blessing, if there ever was one, or two, rather. It should be a bit of all right this time, I'm sure."

"Here's hoping, anyway," Dave said with a grin. "But I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, this trip is to be different?"

"A difference of about two thousand miles, for one thing," the other replied with a chuckle. "And a good chance to see a Jerry or two, for another. Or at any rate, so I hope. You see, most times we're blasted chauffeurs for some war correspondents, or some brass hats, or political big wigs, headed for Moscow to chat with Stalin and all the lads. Very valuable cargo, you know. And we must get them there without grey hairs, or them getting their feet wet. So we have to fly a course north to within six hundred miles of the Pole, and then around the tip of Norway and down into Russia through Murmansk and Leningrad. Like flying through an ice box. Terribly cold. And no end boring, too. Except for Parsons, here. He's kept pretty busy making sure we don't end up in Greenland or some such other place."

"Quite!" the navigator echoed with a faint chuckle. "Takes me a week to rest my poor brain after one of those thirty-two hundred mile hops. No fun at all, really. You two chaps we are taking across as the crow flies. Wouldn't be at all surprised if a Jerry or two came up for a look at us. They're frightfully worried about R.A.F. planes over their heads these days, you know."