Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"I don't think they've spotted us yet, Dave!" Freddy Farmer suddenly spoke in a low voice, as though he feared the Jap pilots would overhear him. "They seem to be going higher up, and swinging westward toward Bataan."

"I know," Dawson replied in a low voice, too. "Looks that way to me. And here's hoping we're both right. If those tramps only keep out of the way, maybe we'll have a chance. But if they spot us and come a-running, Freddy, it isn't going to be funny."

"Well, if I can get one or two of the beggars," the English youth muttered, tight-lipped, "it won't be so bad. Think I'll go aft and man the turret guns right now."

"No, stick around until you have to," Dave stopped him. "If we're going to crash land, we'd better be up here together. Then one of us can help the other get out, if one of us is—well, you know what I mean."

"Quite," Freddy murmured. "But we haven't crashed yet, so why talk about it?"

"Suits me swell," Dawson said with a dry chuckle. "My error, pal. And, heck, this wouldn't be our first crash. But what we want is for those little brown rats to keep right on going the way they are."

Freddy Farmer echoed the hope with a grunt, and let it go at that. Both boys lapsed into silence, and sat very still as the B-Twenty-Five slid down lower and lower, and the distant flock of Jap Zeros mounted higher and higher into the Southwest Pacific dawn sky. And then when it seemed almost certain that the Japs were completely unaware of the B-Twenty-Five's existence, one of the formation suddenly cut around in a dime turn and came hurtling back down like a red disc-marked bolt of lightning. One look at that fighter plane cutting down across the dawn sky was all that Dawson needed to realize the bitter truth. And all that Freddy Farmer needed, too. The little game of hide-and-seek was all over. The B-Twenty-Five had been sighted. And not only one Zero, but two others, had cut out of formation and were wing screaming down in a power dive.

"The dirty beggars!" Freddy Farmer grated, and started to push up out of his seat. "See you later, Dave."

But Dawson flung out a hand, caught the English youth's arm, and hauled him back down into the seat.

"Waste of bullets, Freddy!" he barked. "We'll be touching ground any second now. Our only hope is to beat them down to the ground. Stick right here. The crash might buckle the fuselage and cut that turret in two. Stick here—and get set, kid!"