Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"You mean drown, kid!" Dawson corrected his own thought. "If you run out of fuel, or overshoot your mark, or Freddy gets us lost, some sharks are going to have a swell meal. And no kidding, either!"

And with that not too pleasant thought he lapsed into silence again, a silence broken only every so often when Freddy gave him a change in course. In between times the seconds piled up to form minutes, and the minutes added up to total one hour, two hours, three hours, and four hours. And then, at the end of four hours, the gods of war seemed suddenly to decide that those two daring young sky eagles had been receiving too many good breaks. At any rate, one of those sudden and unexpected Pacific storms swept down on them. And swept down so fast that the B-Twenty-Five was almost stood up straight on her twin-ruddered tail before Dawson realized what was happening.

True, he did receive a slight warning in advance. An invisible hand seemed to sweep away the stars, and leave a roof of pitch darkness. But it was done in a flash, and as a warning of what was to come it was just about as helpful as seeing the flash of a lightning bolt headed your way. In short, one instant the B-Twenty-Five was rolling along through calm air as nice as you please. And in the next instant invisible forces were trying to tear it apart and throw the pieces all over that section of the Pacific.

Dawson thought he heard Freddy Farmer shout something from his navigator's nook, but he had no time to turn around and yell for a repeat of whatever it was. All the rain in the world seemed to be flooding down on the B-Twenty-Five. And terrific blasts of air were thundering in on it from every conceivable direction. Twice he would have sworn that the aircraft whipped through a full roll. And twice he was as sure as he was that he was over a foot high that the bomber was completely upside down and whanging along on its back. Aches and pains were shooting through every cubic inch of his body, and hanging onto the control wheel, that was whip-sawing back and forth, was just about as easy as trying to hang onto the broken stub of a spinning propeller. In fact, it was all he could do to stop the control wheel from driving back and caving in his chest. It took every ounce of his strength to hold it forward so that the wind-rocketed plane wouldn't go whanging up into a stall. And he was just about spent when Freddy Farmer scrambled forward to lend his strength to the job.

Neither of them spoke a word. In the combined roar of the engines and the raging storm it was all they could do to hear themselves think. Besides, there was no use for words now. Nothing that either of them could say would help any. It was just a question as to whether their strength would outlast the storm, and whether the strength of the plane itself would last through the terrific beating it was taking from the storm. A question of man, and man-made things, against the raging fury of the storm gods. And while the great struggle went on, time stood still. For Dawson and Farmer time ceased to exist. They were conscious of nothing else save the use of their combined strength to hold the aircraft as steady as they could. Conscious of that, and of their prayers that this night might not be the end of everything for them.

And so it is quite possible that the gods of misfortune looked down from their high places, and were forced to admire the do or die efforts of those two air aces, and were willing to slacken off their fury. Then again, perhaps it was just one of those things that happen to every airman sooner or later. Just one of those freak storms out of nowhere that can not be predicted, or explained after they hit. At any rate, the raging storm was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Dawson's lungs were burning, his head was pounding, and spots were milling around in a red haze over his eyes. And then suddenly the B-Twenty-Five had shot out into calm air, and there overhead was the canopy of twinkling stars again.

"Take a look, Freddy!" Dawson managed to squeak out past his lips. "Those are stars, aren't they? And we're still right side up, huh?"

"Don't ask me!" the English youth gurgled, as he slumped back in the co-pilot's seat. "If they aren't stars, and we're not right side up, then it doesn't matter. Doesn't, because I haven't one ounce of strength left to do anything about it. Good grief! That was all the storms I ever saw rolled into one!"

"You're telling me!" Dave gulped. "Boy! What rain! And what a breeze. But haul it out of here, Freddy. Get back and check on our position, will you? Heavens knows where that storm tossed us. And—Sweet tripe! Look at that dash clock, will you! That thing lasted an hour and forty minutes!"

"Forty years!" Freddy shouted as he went aft to take their position from the stars. "And I know blasted well that I've got a grey hair for every one of them. Be right back, Dave."