DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL

By R. SIDNEY BOWEN

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER ONE]
Secret Orders

The savage fury of the Nazi Luftwaffe was once again raining down upon the brave and stubborn city of London. Wave after wave of German bombers roared in over the city from every possible direction, dumped their tons of life blasting missiles, and then went streaking away toward safety with British searchlights, anti-aircraft shells, and night flying Spitfires and Hurricanes of the R.A.F. hot on their tails. Some made it, but some others were caught by the two fisted hard fighting boys of the R.A.F., and once caught the Nazis didn't stand a chance against such flying skill, daring, and perfect marksmanship. One after another the German planes burst into flame and went hurtling downward to complete destruction.

Down on the ground in the city, London's millions squared their shoulders and grimly took the terrific blasting from the night skies. Air raid wardens went about their jobs with a look on their haggard faces that told the whole world that a thousand such raids as this one would not even begin to crack England apart. The gallant fire fighters went about their dangerous tasks with the same expression on their faces, and the same confident belief in their hearts that England would forever survive. In the air raid shelters it was the same. In hotels, too, and apartment buildings, and restaurants, and theatres. All London was one huge fortress that nothing made by man or devil could destroy. And in that fortress the men, the women, and the children stood ready and waiting to take the worst unflinching.

In the basement restaurant of the Savoy Hotel were two youths who ate their meal outwardly calm, but seethed inwardly as the faint dull boom of each exploding bomb echoed through the thick walls and ceiling. Both wore the uniform of the Royal Air Force, and both held the rank of Flying Officer which is equal to the rank of First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Corps. One was Dave Dawson, American born, but now offering his life and his all in serving England's cause. The other youth, a year younger, was Freddy Farmer, Dave's dearest friend and squadron pal, and true British from the soles of his shoes all the way up to the top of his head.

For several moments they had been eating in silence, each contentedly occupied with his own thoughts. But as a louder roar seeped down into the room, Dave put down his fork and clenched both fists in a gesture of raging helplessness.

"I can't eat any more," he said. "Every bite chokes in my throat, I feel such a heel."

Freddy Farmer put down his own fork and gave a slight lift of his head to indicate altitude.

"Because of the business up there, you mean?" he grunted.

"Yes," Dave replied through clenched teeth. "I feel that I should be up there helping the boys dust off the baby killing rats, instead of being down here shoveling food into my mouth."

"Feel exactly the same way," Freddy agreed. "But, after all, there's no sense wasting good food, you know. Blessed little of it around these days. Besides, orders are orders. We have to stick right here. So I say eat while the eating is good."

Dave grinned and heaved a long sigh.

"You and that stomach of yours!" he exclaimed. "It's a darn good thing they've got the ration card system here. Let you loose and you'd have the rest of the country starving in a week. And when you're not eating you're sleeping. What a man, what a man!"

The young English youth forced a stern look to his face. He pointed a finger at the blue and white Distinguished Flying Cross ribbon under the wings on Dawson's tunic.

"Watch your tongue, my good fellow!" he said. "One more crack like that last one and I'll go straight to the Air Ministry and tell them the truth. Quite right! I'll tell them you didn't do a blessed thing to win that ribbon. That I did all the work, but simply said that you helped a little so's you could get a medal, too. And frankly, that's really the way it was, you know."

Dave grinned then put up his hands in mock terror.

"Please don't!" he pleaded. "Now that I've got it I want to keep the medal. So help me, you spill a word and I'll tell them how you were always falling on your face in the sand, and that I had to carry you halfway across the Libyan Desert on my back."[1]

"Oh is that so!" Freddy cried. "Well, you didn't carry me a single yard, and you know it. In fact, I...."

The thunder of a Nazi "egg" striking much much too close for comfort cut off the rest of Freddy's words. They both stiffened slightly, and sat perfectly motionless half expecting to see the ceiling split open and spill plaster and brick down upon them. However, the ceiling was thick and well constructed, and after a brief moment or so the building stopped shaking and trembling. The two youths instantly relaxed but there was hot anger in their eyes.

"Bang away, Adolf!" Dave grated softly. "For every one you drop we'll be dropping two on your neck of the woods soon. And that'll be only the beginning."

"Check!" Freddy breathed fiercely. "And when that time comes I think I'll ask for a transfer from fighters to bombers. I'd love to dump bombs on Berlin."

"Me, too," Dave agreed absently. Then as a frown creased his brows, "What do you make of it, Freddy? You got any ideas? Boy, if anybody can send a fellow's curiosity sky high it's those Brass Hats who run the Air Ministry!"

"Meaning what?" Freddy asked with a blank look on his face. "Have I got any ideas about what?"

"For you I should draw pictures on paper!" Dave groaned. "What do you think I mean? Why were we suddenly recalled from service with the Fleet Air Arm in the Mediterranean back here to England? Why have we been skipping all over England flying everything from kites to four engined transports? And why when we're only back with our old Fighter Squadron for a day do we suddenly receive mysterious orders to come here to London, and take rooms in this hotel, and stick here day and night until we receive further orders? Answer me those, my pal!"

"Simple," Freddy said with a straight face. "Air Ministry just can't believe that a chap like you can actually fly an airplane. But before kicking you out they decided to give you one last chance to prove it. Right now you are waiting for them to decide whether to keep you on, or kick you back to Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A. But don't lose heart, my little man, you may...."

"Nuts!" Dave snorted. "You were with me, pal, and...."

"And I was simply along to check and make a personal report on your flying ability," the English youth interrupted in an easy voice. "And if you must know, I said that you weren't too bad. A little ragged on the turns, but that you usually do manage to get into a field after shooting for it five or six times."

"Then everything will be jake!" Dave breathed in mock relief. "But now that you've got that side splitting humor off your chest, get over on the sane and intelligent side for a change. What do you think it's all about anyway?"

Freddy Farmer didn't say anything for a minute or so. He stared thoughtfully down at the last piece of meat. He nudged it a couple of times with his fork, then presently speared it and put it into his mouth.

"Next week'll be okay!" Dave growled. "There's no hurry."

"We English never talk with food in our mouths," Freddy said after he had swallowed. "But what do I think? Frankly, nothing, Dave."

"Well, that's acting natural, for you," the Yank born R.A.F. ace said with a grin. "But I had hoped that a bright idea or two had wormed into that thick skull of yours. At least, that you might have heard a hint dropped here and there. After all, Freddy, it all seems so screwy. Look, a little over five weeks ago we were doing daily patrols off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Since then we've flown everything they've got over here on this island, but not once have we had the chance to take a crack at a German ship. Holy smoke! What are they trying to make out of us? Test pilots, or something? I asked a million questions, but I always got a sweet little blank for an answer. And between you, me, and that dab of mashed potato on your chin, I don't think the birds I asked knew the answers either."

"Now that you've confessed," Freddy said and automatically wiped his chin with his napkin, "I might as well admit that I asked a few questions, myself. And like you, got nothing for an answer. No, Dave, I'm afraid I can't help you at all. I'm practically passing out with curiosity, myself. It's been a queer business these last five weeks, and no doubt about it. All that I can even guess at is that Adastral House has something up its sleeve. And we'll not find out until they're darn good and ready to tell us."

"It's always like that," Dave grumbled. "Gee, sitting here is driving me bats. For two cents I'd go out and take a walk, and the heck with the bombs. But I...."

Dave cut himself off short as he suddenly became conscious of the waiter standing at his elbow. He looked up.

"Yes?" he grunted.

"Beg pardon, sir," the waiter said, "but would you two gentlemen be Flying Officers Dawson and Farmer?"

"Right," Dave said with a nod. "I'm Dawson."

The waiter held out a folded slip of paper.

"A phone call just received, sir," he said. "The party at the other end said that either of you two gentlemen was to call this number at once. It took a moment or two to find you. The manager thought you might be in your rooms. He tried there first."

As the waiter spoke the last he gave the pair a look that seemed to say that men in uniform shouldn't scurry down to the basement just on account of a mere bomb raid.

"We would be, but we're hungry," Freddy Farmer said quietly.

"Yes, of course, sir," the waiter said as his face got beet red. Then he hastily shoved the paper into Dave Dawson's hand and hurried away.

Dave unfolded the paper and looked at the phone number. It was a London exchange but the number was completely unfamiliar. He handed the paper to Freddy.

"Any of your girl friends know you're here?" he asked.

Freddy glanced at the number, himself, and shook his head.

"Clear as mud to me," he said. "I haven't the faintest idea. But we'd better call it before a Jerry bomb flattens the telephone company. There's a booth over there. You want to call it?"

"And maybe get one of your girls?" Dave chuckled and shook his head. "And you tell her it was your valet? Nix, pal. You go call her. I'll stand outside and make faces. Boy! Love in an air raid. Now ain't that something!"

Freddy blushed slightly but made no return comment. They got up and crossed the dining room to the phone booth built into the wall. The young Englishman stepped inside, closed the door, and put through the call. Dave watching him say his eyes pop, and his jaw drop, and the light of eager excitement leap into his eyes. In less than a minute Freddy was out of the booth and as breathless as though he had just run a couple of miles at top speed.

"Guess what?" he gasped.

"You just tell me instead," Dave said. "What's up? An armistice been signed?"

"That was an Air Ministry number, Dave!" Freddy breathed. "As soon as the All-Clear sounds you and I are to report to Room Five Hundred, Fifth Floor, Air Ministry!"

"No kidding?" Dave echoed as the familiar tingling sensation came to the back of his neck. An eerie tingling that had always proved in the past to be an advance warning of action and danger just ahead. "Who has Room Five Hundred?"

"The chap who talked to me on the phone just now," Freddy said. "None other than Air Marshal Manners!"

"Manners?" Dave gasped. "The man who led the R.A.F. at Dunkirk? Hey, wait a minute! Before we went out for service with the Fleet Air Arm in the Middle East I heard some kind of a rumor that he was going to be put in charge of something very big, and very hush-hush. Boy, oh boy! Do you think, Freddy?"

"I'm not thinking," Freddy said and fished in his pocket for money to pay for his meal. "I'm heading for Adastral House right now."

"You mean you're following me!" Dave cried and bolted from the dining room.

[CHAPTER TWO]
Daredevil Wings

As Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer stepped through the door of Room Five Hundred on the Fifth Floor of the Air Ministry their first impression was that they were stepping into a concert hall, and that the place was almost filled up. The room was huge, tremendous in size, and at least thirty or forty men in R.A.F. uniform were seated in chairs. At the far end Air Marshal Manners, the R.A.F. hero of Dunkirk, sat at a table on a small raised platform.

"Name, rank, and papers, please!"

Dave stopped short and jerked his head around to stare into the inquiring eyes of a Staff Sergeant. The non-com held a sheet of paper in one hand, and a pencil in the other.

"Must make sure you're supposed to be here, you know," he said as Dave continued to stare.

"Oh sure, sorry," Dave grinned, snapping out of his trance. "Flying Officer Dawson, Former Flight Squadron Two-ten. Here's my pass and papers."

The Staff Sergeant checked the papers with what was on the sheet he held in his hand. Then he gave Dave a searching look and nodded.

"Check, sir," he said. "Take any seat."

Dave put his papers back in his pocket, and waited for Freddy to pass examination. Then they walked farther into the room and found a couple of vacant chairs. For some ten or fifteen minutes they just sat there looking around and wondering what was up. They were not alone in wondering either. They could tell that all of the others were as much in the dark as they were. One thing struck an important and intriguing note, however. Both of them saw many faces they had seen during the last month flying off at least fifty different airdromes about England in as many different types of planes. It wasn't until then that it dawned on them that they had not been the only ones to take that unusual and mysterious advanced flying course.

And then when general curiosity was just about ready to burst wide open like an exploding bomb, Air Marshal Manners stood up, rapped on the table and grinned down into the sea of faces.

"All right, chaps," he said. "I guess we can get on with it. Relax, all of you. Smoke if you wish. I know this must look like some blasted school room, but it isn't. I decided this was the best place to get you all together, so that was that."

The Air Marshal paused, cleared his throat, and took a perch on a corner of the table. Then for a moment or two he let his wide set steel blue eyes roam from face to face. As Dave locked looks with the famous ace he had the sudden impression that Manners was looking straight into his brain and reading all that was there.

"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.

"I've had mine crossed since we came in," Freddy replied. "Had a feeling that something like this might pop up. Luck, Dave, old boy!"

"Luck to us both!" Dave breathed fervently and took his place in the line that was forming.

Some ten minutes later each pilot held a sealed envelop in his hands, and he held it as gingerly as though it were a delayed action bomb that might go off any second. Air Marshal Manners crushed out the cigarette he was smoking and faced them again.

"More rubbish talk, chaps," he said, "but I owe it to you and to myself to give you all a fair chance. Don't take what I say lightly. This is serious business. Mighty serious. Maybe half of you will be dead by this time tomorrow night. There is no telling. When you open your envelopes you'll jolly well be thumbing your nose at death. The odds will be all against you. That's why I had to pick the best I could find. Pilots with all around ability, courage, and fighting spirit. The Emergency Command, and just that. Pilots who have the choice of two things. Doing the well nigh impossible, or getting a wooden cross. And so, if any of you want to change your minds now, go ahead. It will still be perfectly all right with me."

As Air Marshal Manners spoke the last he looked at each man in turn, and his eyes repeated sincerely what his lips had just said. Nobody made a single move. Not a pilot so much as licked his lips as though to say something. Thirty-five steel clawed birdmen of the R.A.F. stared him right back in the eye, and waited.

"God bless you all," the famous ace said softly. "Right-o. Open your sealed assignments. Orders as to what you are to do will be awaiting you at the Squadron you join."

Almost before the Air Marshal had finished the room was filled with the crackling sound of sealed envelopes being ripped open. However, neither Freddy nor Dave opened theirs at once. Invisible hands seemed to stay them, and they looked once more at each other. For some crazy reason Dave's throat choked up, and for a moment Freddy's face became a sort of a blur. It was clear again in his vision almost instantly, however. He grinned and shrugged.

"Well, it's got to be done, and so here goes," he said.

With that he ripped open his envelop, and drew out the card inside. The few words were printed by typewriter, and read:

Squadron No. 74,
Coastal Command,
Squadron Leader Hays,
Plymouth, England.

Dave stared at the printed words, and was almost afraid to raise his eyes and look at Freddy. He heard the ripping sound that the English youth made. And then there was a moment of silence as Freddy read of his own assignment. Then suddenly both acted as though by silent and mutual agreement. They stepped close and placed their cards side by side. The whole world seemed to stand still as they stared at each other's cards. A moment later unconfined joy filled their hearts, for the printing on the cards was identical.

"Boy, do I feel ninety years younger!" Dave finally breathed.

"That's putting it mildly," Freddy echoed in a voice choked with emotion. "Phew! I feel like I had just died a thousand times, and come to life again. Wonder if any other chaps are going to Coastal Command?"

A few minutes later they found that they were the only two assigned to the Coastal Command Squadron stationed at Plymouth. And just before they left to head for their new station Air Marshal Manners drew them to one side.

"You're either lucky, or mighty unlucky, lads," he said. "I wondered what two would get that assignment. The toughest of the lot, in my opinion. Means everything to England. Everything. But that's all I've got to say, now. Good luck, you two. And happy landings!"

The famous ace of Dunkirk gripped them both hard by the hand, then abruptly turned on his heel and walked away. Dave and Freddy looked at each other, but neither spoke. There was no need to speak. Each knew what the other was thinking, for he was thinking the same thing. High adventure and furious action awaited them just ahead. And perhaps death, too. But what they did about it would mean everything to England. Air Marshal Manners had said so. And knowing the man and his reputation for abrupt frankness they realized that he had not purposely painted the picture black. He had told them straight from the shoulder, and he had meant every word he said. England was counting on them, and there could be no such thing as failure. Not even in death.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Dave finally grunted. "Let's go!"

[CHAPTER THREE]
Satan's Agent

All Nazi bombing aircraft had gone scurrying back across the Channel to their funk holes in Occupied France, and a new dawn was sliding up out of the east as the train bearing Dave and Freddy raced along the track toward the great British naval base at Plymouth on the south coast. By a bit of luck they had managed to get an apartment to themselves. And as soon as the train had pulled out of the London station they had stretched out on the seats with the idea of getting in as much sleep as possible before tearing into the mysterious task that lay ahead of them.

Their intentions and their efforts were fine, but that's about as far as things went. Sleep completely ignored and abandoned them. There was too much in their brains, and in their hearts to permit sleep a single chance to take charge. And so after an hour they both gave it up, sat up, and switched on the dome light in the car ceiling.

"Boy, that did me a world of good!" Dave breathed and rubbed knuckles in his eyes. "Feel like a new man, and rarin' to go."

"Liar, you didn't sleep a wink," Freddy said scornfully.

"Yeah?" Dave shot at him. "Who says so?"

"I do!" Freddy shot back. "I was awake every second of the time, and I didn't hear a thing."

"Hear a thing?" Dave questioned without thinking. "What do you mean?"

"You," Freddy said. "When you sleep you snore loud enough to shatter windows. And there was hardly a murmur out of you."

"Ouch!" Dave yelped. "Strike three on me! I sure walked right into that one. Okay, I was kidding. I didn't get in a wink, either. Boy, if you must know, this suspense is wearing me down."

"Practically exhausted, I am," Freddy murmured. "Coastal Command, eh? I guess that means those Yank built Consolidated "Catalina" flyingboats."

"Or maybe those big four engined British Short "Sunderland" flying boats," Dave added in a speculative manner. "Well, either one suits me. Both are tip-top crates. But that means patrolling over coastal waters hunting for submarines. Heck, unless the bus falls apart and you drop into the drink I can't see much danger in that kind of work."

"Neither can I," Freddy said. Then thoughtfully rubbing the palms of his hands together, "Somehow, though, I have the hunch that it's going to be a bit more than tootling a flyingboat around from here to there and back again. The way Manners said happy landings to us makes.... Well, the way he said it made me sort of feel my stomach was suddenly filled with cracked ice. You know, sort of cold and shivery?"

"Right on the nose!" Dave said and nodded vigorously. "And there was a look in his eye, too. Gave me the feeling he knew darn well he'd never see us again."

"What a pleasant thought!" Freddy groaned. "I say, let's talk about something else. Any more of this and I swear I'll leap off the train and walk back."

"That will be the day, when Freddy Farmer back-tracks on anything!" Dave said with a chuckle. "But maybe it's best to talk of other things. After all, in this game talking about the unknown doesn't help at all. Like other jobs we've had, we've just simply got to take this one in stride as it comes along. And let it go like that."

"Oh quite," Freddy murmured. Then wistfully, "But I'd still jolly well like to know what we're going up against."

"You'll find out, and soon!" Dave said. "Right now, skip it. Tell me. What do you think of the Dodgers' chances to cop the flag this year?"

Freddy Farmer sat up a bit, blinked, and looked blank.

"Eh?" he echoed. "Dodgers? What country is that, and who are they fighting? I don't believe I ever heard...."

The English youth cut himself off short as Dave rolled over on the seat and collapsed with laughter. Then before Freddy could draw in breath to demand an explanation, the compartment door was rolled aside and a tall moon faced youth in the uniform of an R.A.F. flying officer stood in the doorway. Dave cut short his laughter, and both looked up into the grinning face of the man in the doorway.

"Am I interrupting something, chaps?" he asked in a north of England accent. "Just passing as I heard the outburst of humor, and saw you were R.A.F., too. Name's Steffins. Heading for Coastal Command, Plymouth."

"Come in, come in, Steffins," Dave said and moved over to make a place. "I'm Dawson, and my son, here, is named Freddy Farmer. Don't pay any attention to those wings and D.F.C. ribbon on his tunic. He stole them."

"All lies, Steffins," Freddy said, extending his hand. "The truth is, Dawson's really wearing my extra tunic. Likes to put on a show, you know. Look, Dave, have you cleaned those field boots of mine, yet? And don't forget to change back into your corporal's uniform before we reach Plymouth."

"Oh, you chaps going to Plymouth, too?" Steffins asked in a delighted tone. "By any chance is it Seventy-Four, Coastal Command? That's where I'm headed. Been up north on Lockheed Hudsons for the last two months. Got dropped in the water twice."

"Yeah, we're heading for Seventy-Four, too," Dave said. "We were in Sixty-Two on the west coast. Catalinas. What do they fly in Seventy-Four, anyway? Do you know?"

Dave wasn't sure but he got the impression that Steffins flashed him a searching, puzzled look. It was gone in an instant, however.

"Most everything, so I've been told," he said, "I say, you're a Yank, aren't you?"

"R.A.F. for the duration, anyway," Dave replied with a nod. "What was your Lockheed squadron? I know some chaps on Lockheeds up North."

Steffins seemed to hesitate, but perhaps it was only to draw air into his lungs.

"Squadron One Hundred and Twenty," he said. "A fairly new outfit. Squadron Leader Clancy was O.C. But I'm keen to get to Plymouth. Never been there before. And I'm blasted sick of the North Sea, I can tell you. Funny thing, though, about leaving my old squadron. Thought I was set there for good. Then suddenly yesterday the O.C. told me I had been assigned to Seventy-Four at Plymouth. Seemed to hint it was special duty, or something. Wouldn't say a thing, though. Just gave me my traveling papers, and such, and sent me off."

A suddenly liking for Steffins shot through Dave Dawson. Perhaps the lad was on the same kind of a mission as he and Freddy. He started to open his mouth to speak, but at that instant he happened to catch Freddy's eye. The English youth gave a hair width shake of his head, and said the rest in a look. Dave closed his mouth and started again.

"It wasn't like that with us," he lied. "Freddy and I asked for a transfer. Change of scenery, and all that kind of stuff. I guess there's more action off the south coast anyway. For the last two weeks we didn't do anything but use up gas and oil. I hope...."

At that moment all three of them heard the ungodly wail of a plane coming down in an all out power dive. It was not the wail but the sound of the plane's engine that brought them to their feet and diving for the compartment windows. It was not the steady beat of a British or an American engine. It was the throbbing pulsating roar of a German made engine. In fact, the unsynchronized throb of two engines. Even as they reached the window and stared up into the dawn sky they saw that the plane was a long range Nazi Focke-Wulf 187 destroyer plane. The craft was low down and racing in toward the moving train. An instant later the savage yammer of machine gun fire sounded above the beat of the engines.

"Strafing us!" Dave shouted unconsciously. "Why, that tramp! Do I wish I was in a Spitfire or a Hurricane! I'd soon...."

Dave stopped short, half turned and saw Steffins striving frantically to crawl under one of the seats. The man's face was paper white and he was biting into his lower lip hard. Another yammering burst from the strafing plane and jerked Dave's eyes back to the window. He started to duck himself but checked it as he saw that the pilot of the plane seemed to be concentrating on the rear car of the train. He looked at Freddy and saw the veiled contempt in the English youth's eyes. Freddy half jerked a thumb at Steffins still trying to crawl under the seat, and shrugged.

Dave laughed, and called out to Steffins.

"Give it up, Steffins! Those things are bolted to the floor. Besides, the lug isn't shooting our way."

"And also he has gone on his merry way!" Freddy said, turning away from the window. "The blighter just thought he'd have a bit of murdering sport on the way home. If I was in my old Hurricane he'd jolly well get a bellyful of his kind of sport."

Very red of face and twice as sheepish looking, Steffins stopped trying to crawl through bolted wood, and got up onto his feet. He gave Freddy a hard stare, then smiled slowly.

"Sorry I made such a fool of myself," he said with an effort. "Truth is, though, I got peppered a bit by one of those lads back in the September show. Turns my blood cold every time I hear one of the beggars come down. Well, I guess I'd better buzz back to my compartment and get my stuff together. Must be getting near there, now. Nice to meet you two. Hope we see a lot of each other."

"Sure, I guess we will, Steffins," Dave said pleasantly.

"Right you are," Freddy murmured as the pilot slid through the door and closed it shut.

"A nice guy to have around in the clutch," Dave grunted when he and Freddy were alone. "Ask me and I'll tell you the guy is yellow. Hey, why the heavy scowl, pal? What's suddenly on that thing you call a mind?"

"Your nice little friend," Freddy said with a jerk of his head toward the door. "It doesn't quite check. The lad is a bit queer, I'd say."

The opening was too perfect for Dave to let it slip by unnoticed.

"What Englishman isn't?" he cracked.

"I'll remember that one," Freddy growled. Then grave of face, "No, serious, Dave. I wish the devil the lad hadn't come in here. I'd feel better right now. I think I've seen him someplace before, but blessed if I can remember where. And the beggar lied to us, unless I'm completely wrong on my R.A.F. squadrons."

Dave started another smart remark but cut it off at the look on Freddy's face. He hitched forward a bit on the edge of the seat.

"How come?" he asked. "What are you driving at? I didn't notice anything unusual, but I really wasn't listening very hard. What do you mean?"

"A friend of mine used to be in One-Twenty Lockheed Hudsons," Freddy said with meaningful emphasis. "I ran into him a couple of weeks ago, when you and I were at Hull for that spell. He told me then that One-Twenty was washed out three months ago. Rather it was hooked up with One-Thirty-Six and they were doing coastal patrol around the Dover area."

"No kidding?" Dave exclaimed. Then with a puzzled frown, "But what was the point in the guy lying to us? He.... Say, I had a hunch at first when he came in. Maybe he's on some hush-hush thing like we are."

"I doubt it, and a lot!" Freddy said tight lipped. "I'm sure the chap was trying to pump us for all he was worth. Remember that time I shook my head at you? Well, he was fairly falling over on his face waiting for you to speak. And the way he tried to crawl under the seat! No, the lad has something very queer about him. Blast it! I wish I could remember where I've seen him before. I.... Wait! Let me think. I almost had it that time!"

Freddy scowled hard and pressed both palms against his forehead as though that would help memory to come back. As Dave watched him the tingling sensation came to the back of his neck once again. He sat as a man turned to stone, hardly daring to breathe.

"Well?" he finally got out after several tormenting minutes dragged by.

Freddy shook his head, started to gesture for silence with one hand, and then gasped and sat up straight.

"Got it, of course!" he cried. "Unless I'm completely balmy."

"Could be," Dave grunted. "But spill it anyway."

"Earlier tonight just as we were leaving Adastral House," Freddy said in a strained voice. "You were ahead of me yelling for that cabby, so you didn't see. In the blasted blackout I flew full tilt into a chap. We both went flat. I used my flash to help us both get up. And I got a look at the other chap's face. Dave, I swear to you that the chap was this Steffins. I can see his face now as clear as day!"

"So what?" Dave grunted as a sense of disappointment rippled through him. "The guy was in London to catch this train, and you just happened to collide with him in the blackout. Maybe he didn't get a look at your mug, so didn't recognize you just now."

"Let me finish!" Freddy snapped angrily. "When I bumped into him outside Air Ministry he was wearing the uniform of a captain in the Fifth Londonshire Infantry!"

"Sweet jumping tripe!" Dave breathed softly. "And he pops up again on this train wearing an R.A.F. uniform? Heck, Freddy, you must have made a mistake. It doesn't add up to make sense!"

"Perhaps it doesn't," Freddy said with a shrug. "But I still don't like that chap. And what's more, when we get to Plymouth I'm going to make it my job to find out more about him."

Dave made no reply. He turned his head and stared absently out the car window. For reasons he couldn't possibly explain to himself at the time he suddenly had the feeling that Freddy Farmer had spoken words of truth. That the English youth had looked into the future, seen what the war gods were brewing, and spoken an advance warning for them both. Dave shivered slightly and turned from the window.

"I wonder what it will be like when peace comes to this cockeyed world again," he grunted.

"I wonder how many of us will be around to find out," Freddy murmured as though talking to himself.

[CHAPTER FOUR]
Atlantic Fury

With her twin engines thundering out their duet of mighty power, the American built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat patrolled back and forth over the convoy of fifteen merchant ships plowing through the Atlantic swells toward the southwest coast of England. At the controls sat Dave Dawson, and at his side in the co-pilot and navigator's seat was Freddy Farmer. Aft at their respective stations were the three other members of the plane's crew. For seven long hours the flying boat had been escorting the convoy through dangerous waters. And every instant of that time five pairs of R.A.F. eyes had been searching the waters below for signs of a lurking group of Nazi "steel fish," and scanning the heavens for the first glimpse of a Nazi air raider winging out from its base in occupied France.

Nine solid hours of being constantly on the alert, and not so much as a single floating hunk of wood sighted. It was as though the Germans had no idea that valuable cargoes of war material were headed for England. Or else the presence of the Catalina flying boat and the small but heavily armed "Corvette" escort freighter leading the convoy made them decide to leave it alone. At any rate the merchant ships had not received a single scare, and soon they would be through the danger zone and unloading their war stuffs at England's docks.

Taking one hand from the controls, Dave dug knuckles into his tired eyes and sighed heavily.

"If this is the British idea of a joke," he growled, "all that I can say is that it smells out loud."

"Meaning what?" Freddy asked and made a few final marks on his navigation charts. "Mad because all those ships down there are going to get through safely?"

"Nuts, of course not!" Dave snapped and gave him a scornful side glance. "And you know darn well what I mean."

"That's true, I do," Freddy said and scowled out over the nose of the flying boat's hull. "Certainly is funny. Do you think by chance that something's gone haywire?"

"All I know is that I'm getting close to going haywire!" Dave replied savagely. "For two days now, we've been attached to Seventy-Four Squadron of the Coastal Command, and what have we done? Nothing but toot these big babies out over the Atlantic, pick up a merchant convoy, and toot back with them. Not a sign of a U-boat, not a sign of a Nazi plane, and.... Heck! Not a sign of anything. And we were two chaps who were to tackle a do-or-die mission and receive secret orders from our new O.C. You know, Freddy, I'm beginning to think, it's all a lot of hog wash. But why Air Marshal Manners should hand out all that fancy stuff sure beats me."

"I'm just as much in the dark myself," Freddy grunted. "But somehow I don't think that it was supposed to be this way. I think that something went wrong some place, and Manners had to hold up our special orders. Or perhaps he wanted us to get well acquainted with things. I mean, make it definitely look as though we were just a couple of replacements."

"Maybe so," Dave sighed and stared at the flock of British destroyers steaming out to take over and lead the convoy into port. "Maybe so, but I still don't like it. So help me, I doubt I'd be able to recognize a Nazi plane now if one should fall into my lap. Well, there're the destroyers, so this trick is over. Send the code signal to Plymouth Base that we've made contact and are coming in. And tell Sergeant Black aft that I'll have another slub of that coffee before we go in. And tell him I mean coffee, not tea!"

"A regular barbarian, drinking that horrible stuff!" Freddy groaned and adjusted his radio mike. "I swear, we'll never be able to make you a real Englishman!"

"It's still coffee!" Dave said with a grin. "And hurry it along, my little man."

A few minutes later the Catalina flyingboat had left the convoy far behind and safely in the charge of the destroyers. A cup of warm coffee was in Dave's stomach, and he was almost becoming slightly satisfied with the world again. Now, if only about forty-'leven Nazi planes would show up and give them a little action everything would be all to the merry. No hope of that, though, he reflected gloomily. They were too near to Base, and any Jerry lad who showed his nose around Plymouth Base just naturally didn't get back to Germany. The Jerries knew that and so they stayed well clear of that little bit of England.

"And what about the great mystery, Dave?" Freddy suddenly spoke up to break his train of thought. "Do you think we should go to Squadron Leader Hays and tell him our story?"

"Meaning your boy friend, Flying Officer Steffins?" Dave echoed with a frown.

"None other," the English youth replied. "I told you there was something queer about that chap. I really think we should speak to Squadron Leader Hays about him."

Dave made no comment for a few moments. During these two days at Plymouth Base he had thought a lot of thoughts about the queer acting R.A.F. pilot they had met on the train coming down. And the most important thought was the fact that neither he nor Freddy had so much as set eyes on the man since the moment he had picked himself up off the compartment floor after the Nazi plane strafe and gone forward to his own seat. The man had simply vanished into thin air. He most certainly had not reported at Plymouth Base. Freddy had made sure of that by asking all around. As a matter of fact, nobody at Plymouth Base had even heard of the man. And the bulletin board in the mess had said in so much black type that Dawson and Farmer were the only two replacements posted to Seventy-Four.

"Sorry to wake you up, Dave," Freddy spoke again. "But what do you think about the situation?"

"Pipe down, I was thinking," Dave growled. "But I can't even get to first base. Maybe we should speak to the Squadron Leader, yet that might make us look like a couple of saps. If there's one thing that gets a fellow's goat in this war it's the dizzy unfounded spy scares that pop up every time you turn a corner. And after all, to us he was just a yellow belly who shot off his face and asked a lot of questions. Maybe he was just some bird posing as an R.A.F. officer just for the heck of it. That sort of thing's happened before. You know, some bird wants to make an impression on his girl and he goes calling all dolled up as an officer, when he really should be wearing his private's uniform. No, Freddy, I don't think Squadron Leader Hays would love us extra much if we went to him with such a crazy story."

"I'm afraid you're right," Freddy grunted. "It is just a little bit crazy. But I still swear he's the same chap I bumped into in front of Adastral House."

"Well, maybe that time he was calling on a girl who likes the Army best," Dave chuckled. "Anyway, let's skip it for the time being. There's Base, and here we go down to a stack of warm food, and a little shut eye."

Dave's statement was half truth and half falsehood. They did put away a stack of food, but there was to be no shut-eye for either of them. They had hardly finished their meal when an orderly appeared with word that they were to report at once to Squadron Leader Hays' office. They exchanged looks, grinned happily, and instantly lost all desire for sleep.

"Hot dog!" Dave breathed and pushed back from the table. "Maybe this is it!"

"I'm saying nothing until I'm dead sure," Freddy grunted and got up, too. "The way things are going perhaps we're to be favored with the special honor of washing dishes."

"Boy, can you make a guy feel good!" Dave growled and gave his best pal a playful poke in the ribs.

When they reached the Squadron Leader's their hopes dropped a little for the simple reason that they were not the only two summoned. There were ten other pilots there as well. Squadron Leader Hays waited until Dave and Freddy had settled themselves in chairs and then started to speak.

"Special job for you fellows," he said. "Coastal Command is testing out a new type of plane to be used on short range work. It's the new Fairey "Fulmar" fighter. It's powered with a Bristol Pegasus engine that's been jacked up a bit to give a couple of hundred more horsepower than the ordinary Pegasus. It's a land job, of course, but it's been fitted with extra tanks, and sections of the wings are sealed so that you'll float for quite a bit of time in case you fall down into the drink. Whether these Fulmars will give us the service Coastal Command demands remains to be seen. Anyway, six of them arrived last night, and I've selected you chaps to give them a good testing. If you can find any off-shore Nazi planes then so much the better. However, don't go too far out, and don't get too close to the French coast. You can be sure that the Jerries are just aching to shoot down a Fulmar and get a good look at it. Well, that's all. They're out on the line now, and the mechanics are waiting. You can take off any time you want."

The Squadron Leader made a little gesture with his hand that dismissed the group. Disappointment tugging at their hearts, Dave and Freddy started toward the Squadron Office door, but pulled up short as the Commanding Officer spoke again.

"Oh, Dawson and Farmer!" he called out. "Wait a moment, will you?"

Both youths wheeled around with hope soaring up anew. The Squadron Leader waited until all the others had left, then grimaced and sighed unhappily.

"Darnedest war I ever fought in!" he growled and motioned to the boys to step closer. "There's enough blasted hush-hush stuff to smother the whole Empire. Of course what I told the others was plain rot. We've got Fulmars here, and they are to stay for keeps. This testing idea is all bosh. But orders are orders. So there's nothing I can do about it."

The Squadron Leader made another face and took a sealed envelop from out of his inside tunic pocket. He handed it to Dave.

"Your orders for something or other," he said. "Don't read them until you're in the air. And don't bother asking me questions. I don't know a blessed thing about them. What's more, I don't want to know. This arrived from Air Marshal Manners an hour ago. Here, take it, and get on with your job. Stuff it in your tunic pocket and keep it there until you're in the air. And.... Well, naturally, good luck and all that sort of thing. Now, buzz off, both of you."

Dave and Freddy saluted, executed a snappy about face and walked on air out of the squadron office and over toward the south side of the field where Six Fairey Fulmar fighter planes were lined up with engines ticking over. From the depths of dread and despair they had soared up to a new high. The long awaited event had come to pass at last. The sealed orders in Dave's pocket seemed to turn into a white hot coal that burned right through his clothing to his skin. He couldn't speak because excitement and eager expectation was like a hand of steel clutching at his throat. Sealed orders. For what? For life, or for death? Right now neither of them cared very much. One thing was certain. Those sealed orders meant action, and action was all that mattered to those two fisted, stout hearted, steel clawed birdmen of the Royal Air Force.

[CHAPTER FIVE]
Mystery Wings

It took every ounce of his will-power, but Dave Dawson forced himself to wait until he and Freddy had the Fulmar clear and well out of sight of the Plymouth Base before he took the sealed orders out of his pocket. He turned in the seat so that Freddy could read them at the same time, but he didn't rip open the envelop at once. He held it up and looked at Freddy.

"Let's fool Manners," he said with a straight face. "Let's just toss this over the side and go on down back and land. There's probably nothing in it anyway. What say, huh?"

Freddy's jaw dropped, his eyes popped, and his face turned white as a sheet.

"Good grief, Dave, have you gone mad?" he gasped and grabbed for the envelop. "Don't you dare...!"

The English youth cut himself off short and turned beet red as he saw the grin on Dave's lips. He swallowed hard and balled one hand into a hard fist.

"Some day you'll pull one of your bad jokes just once too often!" he growled. "Open that letter before I throw you out bag and baggage. Phew! What years you took off my life, you ... you...!"

"Naughty, naughty, don't say it!" Dave said with a laugh as Freddy floundered around for a suitable word. "Mama wash your mouth out with soap! Okay, pal. Sorry you almost had heart failure. Guess it is a bum time to pull one like that."

"Shut up and open that letter!" Freddy shouted in a fuming voice.

Dave nodded and tore open the envelop and pulled out two typewritten sheets of paper. He smoothed them out, let the ship fly itself, and then started reading the orders. They read:

Flying Officers Dawson And Farmer

You are to first make sure that no aircraft either British or Nazi are in sight. Then you are to set a course for the area off the French coast as indicated on the second sheet of these orders. En route you will tune your radio to wave length reading 429-6B and leave it at that reading regardless of what happens. For your information when your radio is set at that reading it will be in constant contact with special directional finder apparatus aboard certain British naval craft in surrounding waters. They will know your exact location every second of the time, but your signal will not be heard by any enemy aircraft or surface vessels.

When you reach the area marked on the second sheet you will cruise about and maintain a constant look-out for a single funneled Nazi surface sea raider of some seven thousand tons. The craft will probably be painted a dull grey, and may be flying the flag of almost any country. The craft has flat decks from bow to stern and sets low in the water. Even from close range she looks like an ordinary tramp. She is, however, heavily armed and is fitted with hidden guns that can be hoisted above decks at an instant's notice.

Most important of all she is the fuel ship for a wolf pack of some ten to fifteen Nazi U-boats. They will be close to the ship but will submerge the instant your plane is sighted. You probably will not even see them. So concentrate only on the surface raider.

Make no attempt to attack the raider! Do not touch your radio! The raider's set will be open and although it will not be able to hear your directional finder signal it will pick up anything else.

Even though you are attacked by enemy aircraft do not give battle!

You are to act as though you are lost. As though you are having engine trouble, or are out of fuel. When you sight the raider start down and keep on going down. You are to make a crash landing in the water.

As soon as you have crash landed your signal will stop going out over the air. British naval craft in that area will then head under full draft for the spot. And Fleet Air Arm craft will be launched with torpedoes and bombs. The two units will attempt to trap the raider and her U-boats and blow them out of the water.

When you have landed your job is done, and you are to save your own lives as best you can. This area is believed to be the rendezvous point of the most dangerous raiding pack England has yet battled. It is absolutely essential that this pack be destroyed. And it is hoped ... and expected ... that you will fulfill your orders to the letter. The success of the entire venture depends upon your causing the raider no alarm, keeping your directional finder signal going out over the air all the time ... and creating the impression that you are lost and making a forced landing in the water without being able to send out your position.

Good luck, and God bless you!

Manners
Emergency Command

Dave waited until Freddy nodded to indicate that he was through reading, and then took a look at the second sheet. It contained a complete navigation course that led to an area of the Atlantic about seventy-five miles west-south-west of Brest on the coast of occupied France. One glance was enough to tell them both that surface and under-sea raiders working out of that rendezvous area could fan through England's trade lanes with Canada and the United States in the matter of a few hours and then go scooting back to any one of a number of bases on the French coast.

"Well, Manners certainly wasn't kidding when he gave us that little pep talk," Dave finally broke the silence. "Boy, he sure did hand us something sweet, didn't he?"

Freddy didn't reply at once. He swallowed a couple of times and ran a finger around the strap of his helmet as though it had suddenly become a little bit too tight.

"And not a chance to fire a shot!" he groaned. "Blasted clay pigeons, that's what we've got to be."

"Dead ducks, and how!" Dave breathed. "Nope, I don't think it's going to be nice at all sitting in the water with the British navy and Fleet Air Arm lads heaving everything at the raider and her subs. Of course, though, I can still pitch this thing overboard, and we can swear Hays didn't give us a thing."

"Never mind that!" Freddy growled. "As you would say, we stuck our chins out, and we've got to keep them out. Set the course, my little man, and tune in on that wave length. No, wait, I'll do that little thing. Who knows but what you might get Manners on the thing and start offering brighter suggestions. Blast it, though, I hate swimming. Specially in mid Atlantic this time of year."

"Cheer up, pal!" Dave laughed. "I'll save you, my boy!"

"In that case I'm doomed for sure!" the English youth groaned and turned his attention to the radio.

For the next several minutes neither lad spoke. Each was busy with his own thoughts. And be it said they were not pleasant ones. However, they were not unpleasant thoughts simply because almost certain death awaited them out over the Atlantic. That their chances of surviving this assignment were almost nil didn't bother them a bit. What rankled was that they had to go down to whatever kind of doom awaited them without so much as starting to put up a show of resistance. Aerial decoys, that's what they were. Just a couple of lads sent out to act as helpless enemy bait, and when they had done their job probably get blown to atoms forty ways from Sunday. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair. But it was orders, and that was that!

"A penny for your thoughts, Freddy!" Dave suddenly called out. "If they're the same as mine they're not worth that much."

"Matter of fact, I was thinking about that directional finder gadget," the English youth replied as he stared at the radio. "It sure must be something pretty neat. Just think, British war craft know where we are right now. The chaps at the other end can put a dot on their navigation charts marking the spot of water we're over now. What will this war bring out next?"

"Don't ask," Dave grunted and fixed his eyes on the distant horizon. "One thing I hope, though. When we crash land and our signal automatically stops, I hope those boys will get to the spot in a hurry. The Jerries are no dopes. They may smell something fishy. And they sure will once they spot naval craft smoke on the horizon."

"The bombers will be on top of them long before that," Freddy said. "Besides, though Manners didn't say so, it's up to us to delay the raider as long as we can. Ten to one she'll hove to to pick us up. Particularly the plane. This Fulmar is a new job, you know, and it would be a feather in the raider captain's cap to take one back to port."

"Sure, that's true," Dave nodded. Then with a frown, "But the set-up doesn't appeal to me so much. No, I don't mean about our necks. I mean, Manners' hope that the navy and Fleet Air Arm will wipe out the raider and her tin fish children. Seems too much to hope for, the way I figure it. Frankly, I wish we could have talked with Manners instead of only being able to read what he wrote. I've got ideas that...."

"Don't I know it!" Freddy cut in. "But forget them, my friend. You'd have Manners tearing out his hair in two minutes. Don't worry, he's considered this thing from every angle, and picked the best way to do the job."

"Maybe," Dave grumbled reluctantly. "But I still would like to have been able to talk to the guy."

"And that's a break Manners will never know about," Freddy chuckled. "Anyway it's no good now. The area's just ahead, and who knows what else. And by the way, Dave, did I ever tell you that it's been nice knowing you? I'm afraid I'll have to admit it's true."

As the English youth's quiet voice came to Dave's ears a hard lump formed in his throat and for a brief instant the horizon ahead became just a little bit blurred.

"Well, I guess I've got to admit that you're aces, too, Freddy," Dave said, a moment later and reached back a hand.

Freddy took the hand in his own and gripped it hard. Neither spoke a word. They didn't have to. All the words in the world meant nothing compared to the real meaning and significance of that handclasp. It was Freddy who finally broke the silence.

"What am I?" he said gruffly. "Your precious little girl friend, or something? Let go, and get to work."

"Now isn't that just like the guy?" Dave sighed and kept his eyes on the sea and horizon ahead. "I hold his hand to help stop him shaking and trembling with fright, and he bawls me out. Yes, the English are a screwy race, no fooling. I...."

"Shut up, Dave!" Freddy cut in sharply. "Take a look to the left! What in the world do you make of that?"

"Huh?" Dave echoed and bent forward slightly to stare down over the left wing of the plane at the rolling grey green swells of the North Atlantic. "What do you mean, look? I don't see a thing but water."

Freddy reached forward and rapped him sharply on the shoulder.

"Not down, up!" he shouted. "Off to the left about three miles, and a couple of thousand feet above us. It's a plane!"

Dave jerked his head up and stared hard in the direction indicated. For a couple of seconds he saw nothing but sun bathed blue sky and scattered patches of clouds. Then suddenly he saw the flash of sunlight on wings. He took a good second look and gave an angry shake of his head.

"Now what?" he grated. "Aren't we ever going to get started on anything? That's a British plane. From here it looks like a Fairey 'Swordfish' torpedo plane of the Fleet Air Arm. It's a biplane, and not a low wing monoplane job like this one we're in."

"It is a Swordfish torpedo plane!" Freddy cried excitedly. "And look, Dave. There! See? See its markings? What in the world?"

"Boy, what eyes you've got, pal!" Dave grunted and squinted hard at the distant plane. "I can't see a thing. That darn sun is.... Hey! Holy smoke, Freddy! That ship is carrying the markings of Seventy-Four Squadron! Our own outfit!"

"Exactly!" Freddy echoed. "It means that somebody was sent out to signal us that the show was all off. Or else some lad has been trailing us just to find out what we're up to."

"Well, it can't be the first," Dave said as a tiny tingle of worry rippled through him. "Our orders were sealed, you know. Nobody at the Plymouth Base knows where we are."

"Well, one chap does," Freddy said and pointed. "That chap up there."

Dave made no comment to that. He turned his head front and searched the rolling swells all the way south to the horizon line. And to the east and to the west as well. But that was all he saw. Just miles and miles of rolling grey green swells. There wasn't the sign of a single thing on the surface, nor the faint shadow of a U-boat lurking under the surface. In fact, there wasn't so much as a single puff of smoke to denote the presence of surface craft.

"Somebody's either taking us for a sweet sleigh ride," he grunted to himself. "Or else we just naturally read those orders wrong. My guess is that...."

Dave never stated what his guess was. At that moment the savage yammer of aerial machine gun fire crackled against his ear drums above the roar of the Bristol engine. He jerked his head around just in time to see Freddy Farmer clutch at his left cheek and slump over against the side of the cockpit. The English youth straightened up almost immediately and took his hand away from his cheek. Dave's heart started beating again when he saw the thin narrow red line that cut down from the lobe of the ear toward the point of the jaw. Freddy had been slightly creased by a bullet. An inch or so more to the right, however, and the English R.A.F. ace would have been stone dead.

In practically the same instant that Dave looked at Freddy he jerked his gaze skyward. The strange plane from Seventy-Four Squadron was racing down at them with all guns blazing. The thick glass hood over the Fulmar's two place cockpit was being turned into a mass of millions and millions of tiny cracks as the bullets from the Fairey Swordfish's guns slammed against it. Hardly realizing that he was doing so, Dave jumped hard on the controls and whipped the Fulmar up over and down in a wing screaming half roll. The maneuver took them clear of the other plane's gun for a moment or so. But no longer. The biplane followed through in a similar maneuver and came tearing down in again.

"You dirty rat, what gives?" Dave bellowed angrily and slid off the safety catch of his gun triggers. "If you're asking for trouble you're getting it now ... and plenty!"

Even as the words raced off his lips he kicked the Fulmar through a vicious half roll and then hung it on its prop. The Swordfish's pilot was caught cold and a ten year old kid could have picked him off at that distance. It so happened, though, that Dave didn't have the chance to fire a single shot. Quick as a flash Freddy leaned forward and knocked his thumb off the trigger button.

"Don't, Dave!" Freddy screamed. "Are you crazy? Our orders were not to shoot even if we were attacked!"

"But this is different!" Dave roared. "That bird...."

"No!" Freddy cried insistently and hung onto Dave's hand. "We've got to follow orders. Fake that you've been hit, and try to get away from him. Gosh, Dave, we haven't even sighted the raider yet. Get away from this chap. A Fulmar can fly rings around a Swordfish. Get away from him and let's continue with the patrol."

Whether it was Freddy's convincing argument, or whether it was the fact that the Swordfish was no longer a perfect target, Dave didn't really know. Anyway, he kicked the Fulmar off its stall and went sliding off and down to the right. However, the stall had cut the Fulmar's speed to practically nothing. Also there was more than just an average run of the mill pilot flying the strange plane with Seventy-Four Squadron markings. Before Dave could pick up sufficient speed to do any fast maneuvering the Swordfish came ripping in again with its guns spewing out jetting streams of flame.

Dave felt the plane tremble as it was hit in a hundred different places. Then suddenly the Bristol in the nose began to cough and sputter, and the controls went wishy-washy in his grasp. A cold lump of ice took the place of his heart, and a load of buckshot began to bounce around in his stomach. For a moment he couldn't move a single muscle. He simply sat there like a man of stone waiting for the next burst from the Swordfish's guns to rip and tear into his body. Instinct, however, took charge where his brain failed. The next thing he realized he had put the plane into a tight spiral and was working down toward the surface of the water as fast as he dared.

It was not enough, though, for the mysterious Swordfish pilot to know that the Fulmar was crippled and going down. The plane tore in for three more bursts before it zoomed up for altitude and went thundering away at full throttle toward the east. Luckily the parting burst did no further damage to the Fulmar. The plane was finished for good, however. The engine made one last gasping sound and then died completely. Dave gingerly worked the wabbly controls and eased the craft out of its tight spiral and put it into a long flat glide. Then he turned around and glared at Freddy.

"Right or wrong, we should have plugged that tramp!" he growled. "I had him pinned to a cloud when you knocked my hand away from the trigger button. But skip it, pal. Orders are orders, I guess. How's the face feel?"

"Can't feel a thing!" Freddy called out and impulsively touched the bleeding bullet crease on his cheek. "What do we do now, Dave?"

Dave laughed harshly and pointed down.

"Three guesses!" he said. "And all of them correct. We go down and play we're in the Navy. And I.... Oh my gosh, Freddy! Look! That rotten bum plastered our radio and knocked it haywire. That means our signal's stopped going out over the air. And that means that the navy ships and planes will come a-running, and there's not a raider or a U-boat within miles of here, I bet."

Freddy looked blank for a moment. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"What a lad, what a lad!" he finally cried. "Yes sir, one in a million. Sure the planes and ships will come a-running. But won't it make you feel good to be picked up instead of floating around until you sink?"

Dave grinned and gave a little shake of his head.

"Yes, I guess it will at that," he said. "But, heck, once we crashed the signal would have stopped, and they'd have come anyway. But darn it, I don't like this, Freddy. Not even a little bit. I've got a funny feeling that Manners didn't think of this possibility at all."

"What do you mean by that crack?" Freddy exclaimed as he saw the look on Dave's face.

The Yank R.A.F. ace slowly raised a hand and pointed ahead and toward the east. Freddy looked in that direction, gulped, but said nothing. About a mile away and just beneath the surface of the water was the tell-tale shadow of a submarine. It was slowly coming to the surface, and as the boys watched it they saw that it was a Nazi U-boat. Just a lone Nazi U-boat in an area where they had been expected to sight ten or fifteen in the company of a powerful surface raider.

Dave slowly turned and looked Freddy in the eye.

"And on second thought I like it even worse," he said. "That U-boat knew that we were coming here. It also knew that a Fairey Swordfish was going to shoot us down. Catch on to what I mean?"

"No, I don't quite follow you," Freddy said with a worried shake of his head.

"The old double cross, or whatever you want to call it," Dave said and flattened the glide of the plane even more. "We were going to set a nice little trap for the Nazis, but they've crossed us up. It's my guess they have set a nice little trap for the naval ships that are right now racing to our rescue!"

Freddy Farmer's face paled as he looked at the damaged radio.

"And there isn't a thing we can do about warning them," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Not a thing," Dave said as he stared at the submarine again. "But there's something we can do, Freddy. Hang onto your hat, pal! You and I are going to crash right on top of that baby! By the time he gets clear of our wreckage it'll be too late for him to crash dive and let go with his torpedoes at our navy ships. Hang on, pal!"

"Right you are!" Freddy sang out. "Give it to the beggar! At least we can do one more thing to help. Let her rip, Dave, and the heck with our necks!"

[CHAPTER SIX]
The Dead Don't Fly

Hunching over the controls, Dave veered the Fulmar around until it was heading in the direction of the U-boat, and then steepened his dive to gain extra speed. Unconsciously he felt for the straps of his life jacket, or Mae West as they call them in the Royal Air Force. Even as he touched them, however, he grinned and gave a little shake of his head. If they smacked that surfacing U-boat as they planned, their life jackets wouldn't be of any use to them. When you're smashed to pulp in a crash a life jacket is just a souvenir for somebody else to take home.

"And smack him we're going to!" Dave grated to himself. "Good old Freddy. I simply told him what I was going to do, and there wasn't a single yip of complaint out of him. Dear God, if one of us can come through this thing please make it Freddy Farmer. England needs him, and alive!"

As the simple but straight from the heart prayer slid off Dave's lips he steepened his dive even more. The U-boat had suddenly started acting strangely. It was half awash and seemed to be hanging half in and half out of the water. Then as the bow started to go under again the truth dawned on Dave. The U-boat's commander had sighted them, guessed their intentions, and was not taking any chances. Instead he had slammed shut the conning tower hatch and was crash diving as fast as his diving fins and propellers could take him down.

"Faster, Dave, faster!" Freddy's voice screamed. "The beggar is trying to cheat us. He's going to pop down where we can't hit him. Get the blasted rotter, Dave. Get him, please!"

"What do you think this is, slow motion?" Dave shouted back over his shoulder. "Our engine's dead, pal, you know. All we've got is gliding speed. And it isn't going to be enough, I don't think."

"It's got to be!" Freddy howled and unconsciously thumped Dave on the back. "We can't let him cheat us. We just can't!"

Dave didn't bother to make any further comment. The Fulmar was streaking down like a comet straight from Heaven, but the U-boat wasn't losing any time in crash diving. In the last couple of seconds Dave knew that they had lost. If he dived straight in they would only hit hard water, and not even touch the U-boat that was now completely submerged. And so in the last split instant of time Dave hauled up the nose of the Fulmar in order to save Freddy and himself from certain instant death.

The diving speed of the plane was too great, however, to permit him to pull it completely up onto level keel. The belly of the plane struck the water with terrific force. The mighty hands of invisible giants seemed to reach down and jerk the plane up toward the sun flooded sky. Then suddenly they sent it crashing down again. Twice more the plane bounced before it finally stayed down. And during that time Dave and Freddy were tossed about in their double cockpit like a couple of dried peas in a tin can. A thousand and one fire crackers went off in Dave's head. Hundreds of bombs exploded, and countless balls of colored light wheeled and spun around before his eyes. Then as though somebody had slammed shut a sound proof door, there was nothing but silence all about him.

For a moment or so he sat slumped up against the side of the cockpit where the last crazy lurch of the plane had flung him. Then he gulped air into his aching lungs, slowly sat up straight and turned around to look at Freddy. The British youth was upside down in his section of the cockpit. His head was down by the flooring, and his feet were sticking up in the air. His safety belt had been snapped in two by the terrific impact of the plane, but by some miracle he had been spared serious injury. Even as Dave reached back to lend a hand Freddy wiggled himself around and came upright, eyes popping and his face the color of a flaming sunset. It was a second or so before he could drag enough air into his lungs to speak.

"Did we get it, Dave?" he finally choked out.

"Sure we got it!" Dave replied. "But I don't mean the U-boat. You don't happen to have a nice ocean going cruiser in your hip pocket, do you? I think this baby is going to sink right from under us in darn short order."

As Dave spoke he made a sweeping gesture with one hand. Freddy looked about and it was not joy and happiness that came into his eyes. The Fairey Fulmar fighter plane looked as though it had been jammed through a meat grinder. The tail was completely gone; broken off clean as though clipped by an axe. The wing was twisted and bent, and the fuselage was punched full of holes. Sea water was coming in through the holes, and coming in fast. Freddy shook his head and looked at Dave in apologetic chagrin.

"If we get out of this you can kick me around the block six times!" he said bitterly. "All my fault for not letting you get that blasted Fairey Swordfish when you had him cold. It wasn't until after that that he got our engine. Gee, Dave, I could jump overboard and drown myself for being such a blasted fool. I...."