DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE
FLYING TIGERS

by R. SIDNEY BOWEN

Author of:
"DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A. F."
"DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA"
"DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL"
"DAVE DAWSON, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT"
"DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS"
"DAVE DAWSON ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT"

The War Adventure Series

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

AKRON, OHIO
NEW YORK

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

COPYRIGHT, 1943, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER ONE]
Eagles' Reward

With all the appearance of a man striving to solve one of the world's weightier problems, Freddy Farmer studied the Hotel Savoy menu card line by line from top to bottom. Across the table Dave Dawson sat looking at his closest pal, and grinning from ear to ear. Eventually, though, when the English-born air ace continued to take the menu apart bit by bit with his eyes, Dawson decided that enough was enough. He reached over and whisked the card out of Freddy's hand.

"Okay, little man," he chuckled. "I'll tell you what the big words mean, if you like. Now, this one, here—water. That's stuff that comes in a glass. You drink it. It also comes down out of the sky in what we call rain. It flows under bridges, and—"

"And please stop, I beg you!" Freddy snapped. "My sides ache with laughter. I couldn't possibly stand another of your hilarious remarks. And hand back that menu before I take measures that will get us both thrown out of this hotel!"

"But why hand it back?" Dawson laughed. "Holy smoke! Don't you know it by heart yet? For fifteen solid minutes you've been looking at the thing."

"Quite," the other replied gravely. "And thoroughly enjoying myself making believe. Hand it back, please, young fellow!"

"How's that?" Dave echoed, and passed the menu. "Making believe? I don't get you."

"Knowing the limits of your so-called flashes of brilliance, I can well imagine!" Freddy shot at him. "However, the fact of the matter is that here in London food is rationed. And there are many, many savory dishes that don't even appear on menus any more. So, to make myself feel good, every time I pick up a menu I simply imagine that all the pre-war dishes are there. And I have a lot of fun deciding just what I'll order. Do I make myself clear?"

Dawson sighed heavily, and shook his head.

"Too clear," he said sadly. "Lately I've been suspecting that you were going just a little bit screwy. Now I know! And me waiting here, polite like, while you fumbled around! What a guy!"

Dave snorted, sighed again, and crooked his finger at the waiter. The man came over to their table, and the two air aces gave their orders in accordance with the short list of items on the menu.

"It will be wonderful when this war is over!" Freddy Farmer murmured as the waiter walked away. "Just think, Dave! Just think of being able to step into a restaurant and ordering anything that strikes your fancy."

"Which would be everything in the place, as far as you're concerned!" Dawson laughed at him. "For a skinny guy, I never saw the beat of how you can store food away. It scares me at times, too. I have dreams that you've eaten so much that you can't even fit into one of the new Lancaster bombers. But skip it, pal. For two long months you and I can do any darn thing we want. And back in the little old U. S. A. there are plenty of things for us to do. I'll really show you the States this time! And how!"

The English youth half smiled, and nodded.

"Yes, quite," he grunted. "But next leave we get we're going to spend here in England. And another thing, my boy! Not that I actually believe you are crooked, you know. However—well, I'm jolly well going to get a little practice tossing coins before I have another go at it with you. And that's a fact, too!"

"So help me, pal, it was strictly on the up and up," Dave said as he made a little cross with his finger over his heart. "And it was the best of two out of three, too. I was just lucky, kid. But look, Freddy. If you really and truly want to—"

"Not at all, Dave!" the English youth cut in quickly. "Don't mind me, old thing. I always feel a little bad when I leave England, if only for a day or two. No. You won the coin toss, and so we'll spend our leave in the U. S. Besides, we're supposed to make some speeches to help sell War Bonds, you know. And speaking of that, do you know something, Dave?"

"What? But I think I can guess, Freddy. As a speech maker I'm a swell coal truck driver."

"Me, too!" Freddy echoed with a grimace. "Good grief! I'd rather face a flight of Messerschmitts than a speaker's audience. I know I'll be a terrible flip, as you call it."

"It's flop, pal," Dawson chuckled. "And that'll be two of us. Between you, me, and the gate post, I'll be tickled silly if something happens to make this lecture tour in the States fall through. I don't feel happy about it, at all. Just the same, though, if it will sell some War Bonds, then we sure can't let them down. And it will give you a swell look at Uncle Sam's home grounds."

"Yes, there's that part of it," Freddy Farmer murmured with a nod. "It's little enough for us to do, and—"

The English youth suddenly stopped dead with his mouth hanging open. Dave, looking at him, saw his eyes come out like marbles on the ends of sticks. And for a split second he thought his pal had been stricken ill. Then as he turned his head and looked in the direction of Farmer's stare, his own jaw sagged, and his own eyes popped out in dumbfounded amazement.

The reason was the approach of the waiter with their orders. However, what the man set before them wasn't even close to what they had ordered. In fact, it was almost as though the Good Fairy had waved her magic wand and changed the Hotel Savoy dining-room into a little bit of another world. In short, each of them was served with a generous helping of red, juicy roast beef! There were also mashed potatoes, and creamed corn, and peas. And, yes, thick brown gravy, too!

For a long moment both of them sat speechless for fear that a single sound would break the spell, and that all that was set before them would disappear in thin air. Eventually, though, Dawson summoned the courage to look up into the waiter's grinning face, and speak.

"My heart is bleeding, but I'm afraid you've made a mistake," he said with a gigantic effort. "We didn't order this. Is there some rich Indian Rajah staying at the hotel? And he brought along his own supply of food, huh?"

The waiter laughed, and shook his head.

"Hardly, sir," he said. "The officials would have taken it from the blighter before he left the ship, I fancy. Only them that has the ration meat coupons can get it. And that goes for Royalty as well as the likes of me."

"But—but, I say!" Freddy Farmer stammered out, and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "We used up our last meat ration coupons yesterday, you know."

"This is a gift, sir," the waiter said. "From the gentleman at the next table. He gave me all of his meat coupons, he did, and told me to serve you the best. And the best it is, I guarantee, too!"

If Dave and Freddy had kept their eyes on the waiter's face, they would have seen him unconsciously lick his lips, and an envious look creep into his eyes. However, they had both turned as one man and were staring at the next table. There, dressed in a quiet but Bond Street-tailored business suit, sat a short and slightly rotund Chinese gentleman. He met their collective stare, smiled broadly, and bobbed his head up and down. And then, when neither of the air aces were able to speak, he got up from his table, came over to theirs and bowed gravely.

"Would you do me the honor, Gentlemen?" he said in perfect English. "I confess that my ears overheard a bit of your conversation, and as I had several unused meat ration coupons, I thought that perhaps you two would accept. But permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Soo Wong Kai."

Still not quite sure that they had not been dumped down into a little corner of fairyland, Dave and Freddy pushed back their chairs and stood up.

"There aren't the words to thank you, Mr. Kai." Dave smiled, and extended his hand. "I am Captain Dawson, and my friend, here, is Captain Farmer."

"Your introductions were unnecessary, Captain," the Chinese said with a smile, and shook hands with them both. "You two famous men of the air are known to millions, you know. When I return to China, this thrusting of myself into your acquaintance will be one of my happiest memories. But if I might make a suggestion—the roast beef is not half so savory when it is cold. I beg of you, please seat yourselves, Captains, and give me the great happiness of eating my humble offering."

"On condition that you have the waiter bring your meal over here, sir, and join us," Freddy Farmer said politely. "And may I ask, sir? You are the Mr. Kai of the Chinese Embassy here, are you not?"

"You are absolutely correct," the other smiled, and signalled to the waiter to transfer his meal to their table. "Quite correct and, indeed, kind. We of China do not like to take our meals alone. And it is the same when we are in foreign lands, too. So I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous hospitality."

"Well, to be truthful, sir," Dawson chuckled, "the pleasure really is all ours. You'd be surprised how sick Freddy and I get of hearing each other sound off."

"Eh?" the English youth grunted, and shot Dave a hostile look. "Sound off, you say?"

Soo Wong Kai laughed softly and leaned toward Freddy.

"The American way of saying, throwing the bull, Captain Farmer," he said. "Or, as you English would have it, swinging the gate. In China we have an expression which, when translated, means, counting the locusts. There are billions and billions of locusts in China, you see. So to say that one is counting the locusts is to mean that one is simply talking to hear oneself. Or sounding off. Or throwing the bull. Or swinging the gate. You see?"

"I've got a hunch you've kind of been around here and there, eh, Mr. Kai?" Dave grinned at him. "And—oh, my gosh! Pardon me, sir!"

The Chinese looked at Dave and raised his thin brows in innocent puzzlement.

"For what, may I ask, Captain Dawson?" he said. "For what reason should you exclaim and ask my pardon? I fear I do not quite understand."

Dawson swallowed, and licked his lower lip quickly.

"I suddenly remembered seeing your picture in the London Times, and reading about you, sir," Dave presently said. "You're Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek's new Minister of War, aren't you? And the head of the Military Mission that recently arrived in England?"

"That's true." The Chinese nodded and smiled. "But I still fail to see why you must beg my pardon."

"Well, for being sort of flip with my talk, sir," Dave said. "You're a high government official, and—well, after all—"

"After all, are we not both men, Captain?" the other interrupted quietly. "And are we not fighting the same foe, each in his own way? Believe me, Captain, it is I who look up to you, because of the great and fine things you have accomplished in the name of liberty and world happiness. You, and your true friend, here. And millions of other brave soldiers, too. Yes, I am a high government official, as you say, but the higher a man gets the more he respects and admires those who do the fighting, and shed the blood. They are the ones who are winning this war, not we aged ones who are serving our respective countries in some official capacity. Youth will win this struggle, Captain. And youth will win the peace, too. But—"

Soo Wong Kai paused. His face remained grave, but as he leaned slightly toward Dawson there was a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"But what do you say we skip it, eh?" he chuckled. "Out the window with who's who, and why. Until we must part, let's just be three guys named Joe, huh?"

Both Dave and Freddy gulped hard, and then burst out laughing.

"Fair enough, it's a deal!" Dawson cried. "But I repeat what I said just now. You've sure been around, Mr. Kai. But plenty!"

[CHAPTER TWO]
Clocks Won't Wait

For the next hour the English air ace, the Yank air ace, and the new Chinese Minister of War would hardly have noticed a German Luftwaffe bomb coming down through the dining-room ceiling. None came down, of course, because the good old R.A.F. patroled the night skies outside, and German night fliers had long since realized that the R.A.F. boys could beat them to the punch any day in the week, and twice on Sundays. Under pressure from the Chinese official, Freddy and Dave recounted some of the experiences they'd had during the war. And under polite pressure from them, Soo Wong Kai told them many interesting stories of China.

"That's one country I sure want to visit before I die," Dave said after a short silence. "It must be very wonderful in China. I've read quite a bit about it, but I guess if you piled all the books about China one on top of the other you wouldn't even begin to scratch the surface, eh? If you get what I mean, sir?"

"Yes, I do, Captain," the other replied. "And I'm afraid you're quite right. There has been a great deal written about China, but it would take ten times as much to tell the story of the real China—the China of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and his people."

"There's a soldier!" Freddy Farmer spoke up with a vigorous nod. "What a splendid leader, and what splendid troops he now commands. I quite agree with Dave, sir. I, too, hope to visit China some day."

"And may that day come soon," Soo Wong Kai said gravely. "Soon, because of the things you will see in China. And soon, because of the honor such a visit would be to my country. China has come a long way, and she still has a long, long road to travel. But we shall travel that road, and we shall attain the goal at the end of that road. But there I go sounding off, when I can easily see that you two gentlemen are doing me the great honor of being polite. So—"

"No, you're wrong, sir!" Dawson spoke up quickly. "I'm enjoying every second of this talk. And I know Freddy is, too. Believe me, sir, and this is the truth: If I'm given the chance—which you can bet on that I won't be—of picking the next front to fight on, I'll pick China right off the bat."

"Hear, hear!" Freddy Farmer added his bit quickly. "Quite, sir. We were almost there, when we were in Burma just before the States came into the war. However, as Dawson says, if we have our choice next time, it will most certainly be China."[1]

"And a happy day that will be for my struggling countrymen," Soo Wong Kai said softly. "We have there, now, the Flying Tigers. True and brave airmen they are. And China will never be able to repay her debt to those gallant boys. What they have done for China is something no nation and no people could ever hope to repay in full. And to have you two fight on the China front would be much the same thing. Do not look at me so, for it is the truth when I say that I have heard your names, and your deeds, mentioned deep in my country. So, should your orders ever carry you to China, all that China has to offer is yours for the asking. And—Ah! But the truth embarrasses you, eh?"

Dawson grinned, and wished that some of the redness would go out of his face. He liked praise just as much as the next fellow, but Soo Wong Kai was sure hitting on all sixteen cylinders.

"Well, there's a couple of other fellows or so fighting in this war, too, sir," he said with a little laugh. "But thanks just the same, sir."

"And thank you, Captains, for a most pleasant meeting," the Minister of War said as he rose to his feet. "I shall always remember this happy event. And it will be my perpetual wish that some day we will meet again in my country. Again, thank you. And I bid you a heartfelt good evening, Captains."

Both Dawson and Freddy leaped to their feet, stammered out their thanks, shook hands with the Chinese, and remained at attention as he walked away and out of the dining-room.

"Well, quite an event, what?" the English youth breathed after they had reseated themselves. "Quite a splendid chap, eh? A very decent sort."

"Tops, and how!" Dave grunted, and pointed at their empty plates. "Go on and say it, pal. I can read it in your eyes."

"Say what?" Freddy demanded. "And just what can you read in my eyes, I'd like to know?"

"What you're thinking, and wishing," Dave said with a straight face. "That he'd brought along one of his official buddies."

"You still aren't making sense!" Freddy snapped. "Speak up! Get it off your blasted chest, whatever it is."

"As if you didn't know!" Dawson snorted. "If he'd brought along one of his official buddies, why then there would have been more meat ration coupons, of course. And you could have worked them for a second helping of roast beef. Don't try to kid a pal, pal! You were kind of thinking that, weren't you?"

"No, my little man," Freddy replied softly, and slowly reached for a dish of pudding he hadn't touched yet. "But would you care to have me show you what I'm thinking now?"

"Do, sweetheart!" Dave growled, and reached for his own pudding. "And you'll be combing pudding out of your hair, too. So—Sweet tripe, Freddy! Let's dive in and finish this. We're due out at Croydon Airport in a little over an hour. And we haven't packed, or paid the bill yet. And you can bet your sweet life that that Newfoundland-bound bomber isn't going to wait for us."

"Right as rain!" Freddy echoed behind a heaping spoon of pudding. "Darned decent of the Air Ministry to give us a ride by air, instead of having us make the crossing by water. A magic world, isn't it, Dave! By this time tomorrow night we'll be dining in New York City. Magic isn't the word."

"No, it's speed!" Dawson snapped. "Can the chatter, pal, and just shovel it in. And I'll match you for the check."

"No, Dave, I'll pay it."

"What?" Dawson gasped. "Am I hearing things?"

"I said that I would pay the check," Freddy replied. "No! Not because I am big-hearted, either. Simply to save the trouble of tossing coins with you—and losing as usual."

"Oh, well, don't feel too bad, pal," Dave grinned at him. "You'll catch on to how it's done, some day. Then you can make up for lost time. However, just to prove that I'm a nice guy, I'll pay the check myself."

That last caused Freddy Farmer to go speechless. And he remained speechless while Dawson took the check from the waiter and paid it in full, plus tip.

"Wonderful!" the English youth breathed softly. "I have just witnessed the miracle of miracles, and I don't believe I have the strength to get out to Croydon Airport."

"Oh, Big-Hearted Dawson, they call me," Dave grinned. "Besides, I feel pretty swell right now. And who wouldn't when he was about to head back to the good old U.S.A.! Well, let's go, youngster. That bomber won't wait."

A few minutes over an hour later the two youths climbed out of the taxi in front of the Croydon Airport Administration Building, parked their suitcases outside and went inside to report to Group Captain Bainsworth, R.A.F. Commandant of the field. The senior officer smiled, and nodded as they came to attention and saluted.

"Knew you chaps would be along presently," he said. "Squadron Leader Hixon, your pilot, was in here a moment ago fretting that you wouldn't show up in time. I assured him that chaps going on leave are never late. You've proved that truth again. Well, Dawson, I fancy you're a bit bucked up to be going back to the States, what?"

"Right on top of the world, sir," the Yank air ace informed him. "Not that I don't like England, you understand, sir, but—"

"Quite," the senior officer broke in with a smile. "Any chap wants to see his native land. And you, Farmer? Glad to be going along?"

Freddy half shrugged, and let a little sigh slide off his lips.

"It's quite wonderful out in the States, sir," he said. "But—well, I try to be a good soldier and go where I have to. And this time, it happens to be the States. Of course, I could do with a bit more interesting company, but—"

The English youth shrugged again and made a little gesture with his hands. The group captain chuckled, and Dave shot Freddy a you-wait-until-we're-outside look. Then he grinned broadly.

"Well," the group captain presently said, "I guess the aircraft is about ready. I'll go along out to it with you. Good luck, both of you. And—well, have a marvelous time. Yes, quite! Be sure and have a marvelous time. And the very best of luck."

The way the senior officer seemed to hesitate in saying the last couple of sentences had a queer effect on Dawson. He gave the man's face a keen look, but could read nothing there. Then, with Freddy, he thanked him for his good wishes, and walked with him out of the Administration Building, and over to where a revved up Lockheed "Hudson" bomber was waiting at the far end of the field. They walked almost three quarters of the way in silence, but when they got close to the waiting bomber Group Captain Bainsworth slowed up to a halt and faced them.

"I say, a moment, you two," he said quietly. "A favor I want you to do for me. After you reach New York, you'll be going on down to Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence, no doubt. Well, I have a letter I'd like you to deliver for me. It was sent out here about half an hour ago. Better stick it away out of sight. Best not to let anyone know you're carrying it, you know. Here."

Dawson happened to be standing closest, so he took the sealed envelope that Group Captain Bainsworth slipped out of his pocket and handed over. Dave didn't look at it, though. He looked at the group captain, licked his lips, and frowned slightly.

"Yes, glad to, sir," he said. "But—well, there's the matter of the censors, sir. On the American side, I mean. I may have to turn it over to them for inspection. That be all right, sir?"

"Decidedly not, Dawson!" the senior officer replied gravely. "Let no one see it. But don't worry. Take a look at the name and address, and you'll understand why there's no need to show it to anybody but the right party."

Dave held up the envelope and glanced at what was written on the outside. Freddy Farmer took a look, too. And they both stiffened and caught their breath. The envelope was addressed to—

The Hon. Cordell Hull
Secretary of State
Washington, D. C.

"Jumping catfish!" Dawson choked out before he could check his tongue. "But—but why doesn't this go by diplomatic pouch, sir?"

"I don't know myself, Dawson," the group captain told him. "For a good reason, no doubt. I simply know that it arrived here half an hour ago, along with instructions to turn it over to you two chaps for delivery. Perhaps you'll learn the reasons in Washington. Perhaps not, too. No matter, though. Just take it along, and don't let anybody get so much as a look at it. Well, let's get on over to the aircraft."

"Yes, sure," Dave mumbled, and slid the sealed envelope into an inside pocket. "It will be delivered, sir, without anybody else getting a look at it—not even the censors."

"Splendid, splendid!" murmured the senior officer almost absently. "That's the thing to do. Quite!"

A few moments later Dave and Freddy were in the bomber and Squadron Leader Hixon was slowly opening up the engines to move the aircraft forward toward the take-off runway.

"All aboard, pal!" Dave called out cheerfully to Freddy Farmer. "A late breakfast in Newfoundland, lunch in the air on the way down the Canadian coast, and dinner in little old Manhattan! Boy, oh boy! And then sixty days of having fun!"

"Except when we have to make those blasted speeches for War Bonds!" Freddy Farmer growled out as a tag line.

[CHAPTER THREE]
Simmering Doom

At almost the exact moment the Lockheed Hudson bomber cleared the runway at Croydon Airport, and went nosing up into the night-shrouded sky, a man entered the lobby door of a certain hotel in the West End section of London, and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. There he got off, turned to the right, and walked along the corridor until he reached the sixth door on the left. He faced it, and hesitated a moment while he shot a sharp piercing glance back along the corridor. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out a bony forefinger and stabbed the hotel suite button four times in rapid succession.

Thirty seconds ticked by, and then the door was opened a scant inch. There was no light to be seen through the door opening, only pitch darkness. And then a voice inside grunted, and the door was swung open wider.

"Come in quickly, please!" a soft, hissing voice commanded out of the darkness.

The man passed through into the darkness, and moved a little to the side so that the door could be closed. He heard the latch click. And then at a second click light flooded the suite sitting-room in which he stood. He turned his head and met the eyes of the man who had opened the door. He smiled coldly, and the corners of his mouth were a little drawn and tight.

"You are nervous tonight, Herr Kyoto?" he muttered thickly.

The one addressed as Herr Kyoto smiled broadly, but only with his lips.

"It is better to be nervous than to be a fool, my friend," he said in his soft hissing voice. "A fool dies soon. And a dead fool is of no use to his country, be he Japanese or German. You agree, yes?"

The man who had entered the hotel suite shrugged his massive shoulders, slipped out of his heavy coat and threw it over a chair as he let his big frame drop into another one.

"Perhaps yes, and perhaps no," he grunted, and watched the other glide across the rug and settle like a butterfly in a chair that would comfortably have held three of his half-pint size. "I cannot speak for you Japanese, only for Nazis. And a man who can be a fool cannot be a Nazi. At least, he can merely be one in name only. But I speak just words. You may have a reason for your seeming nervousness? It is possible that you are not so safe in London as you would like to believe, eh?"

The Japanese smiled again, and once again it was only with his lips. His eyes were still like those of a cobra on ice. He reached out his thin right hand and rubbed the ball of his thumb back and forth across the ends of his other four fingers.

"During my stay of twelve years here in England, my true German friend," he said, "I have spent much money so that all would be well when the day arrived. My money, my lips, and my hands have done all that was necessary to prove that I am Japanese only by birth. It is known, and believed, by all those of importance in England that instant death awaits me should I ever return to Japan. That is as I wished, and planned it to be. True, yes, I am often stopped on the street. I am often politely conducted to the nearest police station by some fool English official. But my papers are all in order. They have been so for years. And so it is always an apology and my continued freedom in less than five minutes. However, perhaps being nervous yourself causes you to think that I am? Perhaps that is what you mean?"

The German's face became hard and brutal. He thrust out his right arm to its full length, with his fingers extended.

"So!" he said harshly. "You don't see any trembling or quivering of the fingers, do you? No, and naturally so. I have no time to be nervous—about anything. I have time only to serve Der Fuehrer, and the Fatherland."

"As in like manner I serve my Heaven-born Emperor, and Japan!" the half-pint breathed out. "However, you and I need have no worry about the other. Nor was this meeting arranged so that we might discuss such impossible things. It was arranged for you to make a report to me, yes? And you have a report to make, please?"

The Nazi lowered his head for a moment, and a look of angry contempt glowed in his eyes. However, when he raised his head again his twinkling eyes matched the smile on his lips.

"Yes, and a most interesting report, Herr Kyoto," he said. Then, after a quick glance at his wrist watch, he went on, "At this moment the airplane is in the air and flying westward. They are both aboard. And one of them must carry the document that was delivered to the commandant of the Croydon Airport. My agent also told me over the telephone that this commandant walked out to the airplane with them. He saw the commandant hand something to one of them, to the one named Dawson, so he believes. But because of the distance, and the bad light, my agent could not tell which of them received what the commandant gave. However, that is unimportant. We know, now, that one of them carries a certain document."

"It would seem so, yes, Herr Miller," the Jap murmured, and gave a short nod of his head. "Forgive me, please, but we do not know if this be truth. Your agent saw something change hands, but he did not see what changed hands."

"Perhaps I should have instructed him to run out to them and ask?" the Nazi sneered.

"It would have been foolish to do so," Kyoto replied, as though the remark had sailed right over his head. "But I was only pointing out a possibility, my friend. Like you, I am sure that the one called Dawson, or the one called Farmer, carries the document. Had they not dined with Soo Wong Kai I would wonder. But they did, and so I do not wonder."

The Japanese emphasized his words with a faint nod of his billiard ball-shaped head. And for a moment or two the suite sitting-room was filled with silence. Presently, though, the little brown rat of the Rising Sun made chuckling sounds in his throat, and gave a little twist of his head.

"These enemies we must fight and crush are strange people, indeed!" he grunted. "They let two mere children, two young boys, perform a task that belongs to grown men. It is difficult not to laugh in their faces when I hear of them doing such things. No wonder they prove so weak, and so stupid!"

"And lucky!" the German echoed savagely. "Those two, I mean. I had two brothers, two of our greatest aces. This Dawson, and this Farmer, shot them down. One over France. The other in Libya. It was over a year ago. My brothers were killed. That American and that English swine have probably forgotten all about those two air battles. They probably do not know to this day the names of those they killed. But I know of them. And I will never forget. It will be the greatest joy of my life to let them know the truth—just before I destroy them as they destroyed my two brothers."

"When all is accomplished, may that joy be yours threefold, my friend," the Japanese said softly. "But not until all is accomplished. Personal desires must wait. There is something else a thousand times more important. You agree with me, of course?"

The Nazi's face tightened, and he locked eyes with the Japanese. Being of the "Master Race," he was filled with the sudden animal urge to curl his thick fingers about the little brown man's neck and snap it as one might snap a toothpick. His sense of treacherous cunning refused to permit him the joy of doing that, however. These monkey men of the Far East were of some use to Der Fuehrer in carrying out his great and wonderful plan for the world. So it was better to soothe and salve them along until they, too, should be made slaves to serve the Fatherland.

And so Herr Miller presently relaxed, smiled and nodded his bullet-shaped head.

"But of course, Herr Kyoto!" he exclaimed. "You need not have any fears. We Germans win the battle first, and enjoy ourselves afterward. No, have no fear. A certain document will never reach Washington D. C. That is my promise. With my own hands I will turn it over to you. Der Fuehrer himself has so ordered. Nothing, then, shall stop me from obeying that order."

The Japanese nodded politely, but a glint of worry came into his slanted brown eyes.

"Yes, the true soldier always obeys," he purred. "But, speaking of the little arrangement just between us two, the money is even now waiting for the moment when you place that document in my hands. No one else will know. However, I do not think that it can be earned with words, words that we speak to each other here and now. There is an airplane carrying that document westward at this moment—while you are here, honoring me with your company. Time is short, and the distance from you to that airplane grows longer and longer. But then, it may be that you are a master of magic, yes?"

Herr Miller laughed, and there was both amusement and scorn in the tone.

"So you are the nervous one, eh?" he echoed. "You worry that I let those two little swine and their precious document slip through my fingers? Ah! I am afraid that you do not truly understand us Nazis, Herr Kyoto. We plan for everything. We make sure that there will be no failure, even before we start. Mein Gott! You have only to look at all that we have accomplished in two short years to believe for the truth what I say. Yes, time grows short, and the distance grows longer. But that matters little to me."

The German paused to puff out his chest, and set his jaw at an arrogant angle. These stupid little brown men of the Far East! What swine to think they could suggest things to Germans! But aloud, he said:

"In a few moments I will leave you, Herr Kyoto. I will go to a certain spot not many miles from here. Yes! Close to the shadow of London itself. A German plane and a German pilot will be waiting for me. He will take me far out to sea. The plane is very fast; so much faster than this airplane that has the document aboard. Also, certain of our U-boats well posted about the North Atlantic are keeping track of that British airplane's journey. I will contact them by radio, and will meet the one nearest to that airplane's course. By parachute I will go down to the water's surface. The U-boat I select will pick me up. A short time later it will be light. Then we will go to the surface and watch for this aircraft. And when we sight this airplane?"

The German paused again, rubbed his hands together, and shook with silent laughter.

"Then, Herr Kyoto," he continued, "will be the beginning of a most enjoyable little experience. And by the following day, at the latest, you can expect me here in this room—with your precious document! It will all be so very simple."

As the Nazi finished the Japanese rose from his chair, clasped his two hands in front of him and bowed low from the waist.

"I salute you and bid you good fortune, Herr Miller," he said in his soft hissing tone. "I will await with joy and confidence for your return. When the document of which we speak is in my hands, it will be the same as the winning of a score of major battles. May good fortune go with you, and the deep joy of your personal revenge be yours after you have accomplished the main part of your mission."

The Nazi smiled and turned toward the door, but there was a look of icy contempt in his eyes that the Japanese did not see. However, perhaps it was not necessary for the Japanese to see that look of cold contempt, for when the door had closed behind the Nazi the little brown rat from the Far East curled his lips back in a snarl, lifted one hand and sliced it edgewise through the air.

"When you return with the document," he hissed out in his native tongue, "then we shall see who is of the master race!"

[CHAPTER FOUR]
Atlantic Mirage

With its twin engines thundering out a mighty song of power, the R.A.F. Lockheed Hudson bomber cut a straight and true path westward at some eight thousand feet above the long rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. Higher up, a billion twinkling stars looked down on a crazy world at war out of a cloudless night sky, and served as a billion guiding beacons to that lone aircraft pointed dead on for the Newfoundland coast.

Stretched out comfortably in the empty bomb compartment of the Lockheed, Dave Dawson absently lifted a hand and pressed it against the upper left part of his tunic. Underneath the cloth he could feel the sealed envelope tucked safely away in the inside pocket. A moment later he let his hand drop down into his lap and sat scowling faintly at the rack of signal flares on the port side of the compartment. Then, suddenly, as though he could actually feel it, he turned his head to meet Freddy Farmer's curious stare. The English-born air ace nodded and grinned.

"I've been combing my brains, too, old thing," Freddy said, "wondering what in the world that envelope contains. Blasted odd that it should be turned over to us for delivery. And to your Secretary of State, no less."

"Yeah, screwy, all right," Dawson grunted. "Funny thing, though. The way it was handed to us, it makes me feel as though I were smuggling something into the States. You haven't got enough fingers on your two hands to count the number of aircraft that are flying back and forth across the Atlantic these days. And not a few of them are strictly courier planes, too. So why wasn't this sent by one of the usual courier planes, I ask you?"

Freddy Farmer sighed and shook his head.

"You can ask me," he grunted, "but I haven't the faintest idea what's the correct answer."

"And you can say that again for me!" Dawson muttered. "Unless it's because—Oh nuts! I'm just letting the old brain go for a stroll."

"Unless what, Dave?" the English youth prompted. "I know, I know! It's probably another one of those crazy hunches of yours. But some of them have come pretty close to the real thing in the past. So what's this one about?"

"Come close, huh?" Dawson snorted, and gave Freddy a hard look. "Plenty of them have smacked the nail right on the head. And you know it, pal. But anyway, the only reason I can see why they handed this to us is because they didn't want it to go by the usual method."

"Obvious!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "A ten year old child could reason that out, silly! I thought you had a hunch on why they didn't want it to go the usual way. And while you're on the subject, just who do you mean by they?"

"For a little guy you can sure ask plenty of big questions!" Dawson growled. "Sweet tripe! How do I know? They could be most anybody. Maybe the Yank Embassy in London. Maybe Yank G.H.Q. in London. And maybe the Queen of Sheba, too! How do I know? I had lots of questions I wanted to ask the group captain back there at Croydon, but after taking a look at his face, I could tell it wouldn't get me to first base. Maybe he knew, but it was my hunch he wasn't going to tell us."

Dawson paused a moment to lick his lips and shrugged.

"So who sent it is anybody's guess, and I'm not even bothering to guess," he continued. "But about it not going through the usual channels, here's what I think. The powers that be were afraid it would be spotted, maybe even swiped, or lost. Maybe they knew that somebody was wise to the fact that this was headed for Secretary Hull. So to throw whoever it was off the beam, they sneaked it out to Croydon to be taken across and delivered by us. Who would guess that a couple of guys going to the States on leave would be carrying a letter to the Secretary of State? See what I mean?"

"Yes, that's a possibility," Freddy Farmer grunted with a frown. "But here's a funny thing, Dave. I didn't exactly plan to pop on down to Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh. Did you?"

"To tell the truth, I hadn't even thought of it yet," Dawson replied. "Of course, if we should be passing through D. C. I sure would drop in to see the colonel. But it was just one of those things I'd probably do while on leave."

"But Group Captain Bainsworth seemed to think that was just what we were going to do," Freddy argued. "And right after we reached New York."

"Yeah," Dawson grunted, and looked at his English pal. "Or else it was a left-handed order, and we're just catching on now."

"And that's a possibility, too," Freddy Farmer said with a grave nod. "But—blast it!—we're supposed to be going on leave, and to forget the confounded war for a spell—if we can. Which we won't, of course. But there should be a law against filling up a chap going on leave with mystery. There really should!"

Dave opened his mouth to speak. Instead, though, he bent his head and faked a cough while he wiped the grin from his face. When next he looked at Freddy, his eyes were bright and eager.

"Know what, Freddy?" he said. "I just thought up a way to find out all the answers. Yes sir! And it's foolproof. We can't miss!"

"Really, Dave?" the English youth echoed excitedly, and leaned forward a little. "How?"

Dawson winked very confidentially, and started to slip a hand inside his tunic.

"A cinch way!" he said in a stage whisper. "And are we dumb not to have thought of it until now! Tell you what, pal! We'll rip open the envelope and see for ourselves. I bet you all the stored up coffee in Brazil that it will be mighty interesting, too!"

Freddy Farmer sat up straight. The blood drained from his face, his jaw sagged, and a look of utter horrified amazement came into his eyes.

"Good grief, Dave!" he gasped out. "Are you mad? Are you absolutely balmy? Open that envelope? When it's addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull? Good grief, Dave! Why—why—why, they could shoot you for a thing like that. And besides, it was entrusted to us. For Heaven's sake, Dave, don't you dare open—"

The English youth broke off short and choked and sputtered over his own words as he saw the broad grin spread over Dawson's face.

"Boy! Do I get a kick out of the way you can change expressions on that mug of yours!" Dave laughed. "Okay, sweetheart. Just for you I'll let the envelope stay right where it is. But, pal, did you rise in a hurry to the bait that time! Boy, oh boy!"

Deep red flooded Freddy's face, and he could only go on sputtering for a moment or two longer.

"You no-good blighter!" he finally got out. "You almost had me believing you for a moment. Blast you! For sixpence I'd take that envelope away from you, and make sure that nothing happened to it!"

"Well, of course you could try, pal!" Dave grinned at him. "But maybe they wouldn't like us to make a wreck out of this bomb compartment. So let's skip it, huh? Besides, I think I'll go forward and ride with Squadron Leader Hixon for a while."

"Do that, by all means!" Freddy Farmer snapped at him. "And observe him closely. Perhaps he can teach you something about flying. Nobody else has been able to, though, Lord knows, they tried hard enough and long enough!"

"Smacko!" Dave chuckled, and pushed up onto his feet. "I walked right into that one. So that evens us up. See you later, pal."

"Much later, if I get my wish!" Freddy snorted, and squirmed around to a more comfortable position. "Now, run along, my little man. I've got important things to think about."

Dawson let the conversation hang on a nail right there, and went forward and into the pilots' compartment. The co-pilot's seat was empty, and he caught Squadron Leader Hixon's eye in the rear view mirror, and cocked a brow.

"Mind if I ride with you for a bit, sir?" he asked.

The pilot grinned, nodded, and jerked his head at the empty seat.

"Do that, Dawson, please," he said. "Been on the point of calling somebody up here to help me keep awake. Blasted uninteresting flights, these. Too much water, and too little anything else. But I fancy you're just as keen to get it done with as I am, what?"

"It will be swell to get back home, and how!" Dave grunted, and slid into the empty co-pilot's seat. "I've got a million things I want to do, but I probably won't have the time to do even half of them. Time flies too darn fast when you're on leave."

"How right you are!" the Squadron Leader echoed. "A chap no sooner settles down to have a bit of sport and fun than it's time to pack up and catch a train or bus back to the drome. But war's like that, of course. Good times go by in a hurry. And—well, flights like this one seem to take years and years."

"Well, dawn's busting over the horizon, anyway," Dawson consoled him. "And it looks like we'll have sunshine and blue sky for the rest of the trip. That—"

The Yank air ace cut himself off short, leaned forward and peered out through the window glass on his side.

"See something?" Squadron Leader Hixon inquired casually.

Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He thought he saw something on the surface of the water a few miles ahead and a couple toward the north. It seemed to disappear from view, however, when he strained his eyes. Then, suddenly, he saw it again, and his heart leaped up in his throat to hit hard against his back teeth. Without taking his eyes off the distant object, he reached and rapped Squadron Leader Hixon on the arm.

"Take a look up ahead there, and a couple of degrees to the north, sir!" he cried out. "That looks to me like a submarine on the surface. Yes, it is. But I can't tell from here whether it's one of theirs or one of ours."

"By Jove, you're right, Dawson!" the Squadron Leader's voice boomed close to Dave's ear. "A sub, right enough. And not making headway, either. It's—Oh, blast our luck!"

"What do you mean?" Dawson shot at him.

"Not a U-boat," the pilot said with heavy disappointment in his voice. "Can tell from the shape of the conning tower. It's one of our undersea boats. Should know I'd never have the luck to come across one of Hitler's U-boats on the surface like that. I'm—I say! Seems to be a bit of trouble, what? They've sighted us and sent up a signal."

Dawson didn't make any comment for the moment. His gaze was fixed on the submarine awash on the surface, and he saw the red distress flare arc up into the air from the conning tower bridge. Squadron Leader Hixon had changed course and was drilling the Lockheed Hudson down across the sky straight toward the motionless submarine. In a matter of seconds Dave was able to see the groups of men on the bow and stern decks. And as a second and a third red distress flare arced upward, he saw the men on deck start waving their hands wildly. And a split second later he saw a thin column of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch.

"Trouble is right!" he grunted. "Must be a fire inside, which forced them all up top-side. Nothing we can do for them, though, is there, sir? This Hudson can't land in the water to pick them up."

"Certainly can't!" the pilot grunted with a frown. "Too many of them, anyway, even if we could. The chaps are just out of luck, too. My orders are for radio silence, regardless. I can't even send out a flash to any of our navy boats that may be close by."

"That is tough!" Dave groaned, and watched the trickle of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch. "But we could change course, sir. I mean circle around a bit and perhaps spot one of our patrol destroyers, or something. Then we could drop a note giving them the location of these poor devils."

"Yes, of course we can do that, and will," the pilot said. "A good suggestion, Dawson. First, though, we'll slide down over them for a closer look. There's just the chance that it isn't as bad as we think. Maybe they just want to give us some kind of a message, and that fire aboard is really under control."

"Well, here's hoping, and how!" Dawson breathed as the Lockheed went sliding down lower and lower. "There's only one thing worse in my book than fire in the air, and that's fire on the water."

"And aren't you right!" the Squadron Leader echoed, tight-lipped. "Well, here goes for a better look at the chaps."

"What a sweet spot to be in, I don't think!" Dawson grunted. "A fire right under their feet, and about four miles of ocean under the fire. I hope—Hey! What gives?"

Dawson hardly realized that he had choked out the last. As a matter of fact, the words he spoke were simply automatic, for in the next split second his brain was in a mad whirl. The forward gun of the submarine had suddenly spat red and orange flame upward. And in practically the same instant the starboard engine of the Lockheed exploded in a thunderous roar of sound, and a sheet of vivid red flame went sweeping back over the wing!

[CHAPTER FIVE]
Ice Cold Courage

For a seemingly year long split second it was absolutely impossible for Dawson to get control of his whirling brain. And it was obviously the same with Squadron Leader Hixon, for the pilot just sat motionless in the seat, gaping wide-eyed out at the flame and smoke pouring out of all that was left of the starboard engine.

"They nailed us!" Dawson suddenly found his tongue. "Their bow gun. A bull's-eye on the starboard engine. Better level off, sir! We're heading down too fast!"

As a matter of fact, Dawson's wild yell of alarm wasn't necessary. The squadron leader had snapped out of his trance, and was battling furiously with the controls. But like a wild horse with the bit in its teeth, the Lockheed Hudson went screaming downward toward the rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. What was left of the blasted starboard engine started flying off in small pieces. One chunk of metal smashed straight into the window close to Dawson's head. He ducked just in time as a shower of slivered glass came spilling in on him.

Then terror seemed to explode in his chest as he saw the squadron leader slump over against the control wheel. The flying chunk of metal had carried on past Dawson to glance off the pilot's helmet. Its force was not enough to rip through the helmet and snuff out the man's life. But it had been enough to knock him cold and send him slumping forward over the control wheel. Even as Dave glanced at the man, he was in action himself. With one outflung hand he forced Hixon back in the seat. And with the other he swung the control wheel over to a position in front of him. Then he grasped it with both hands and took up the struggle that Squadron Leader Hixon had left unfinished.

However, it was almost as though the Lockheed had become something human, and gone just a little mad. It was as though the aircraft actually realized that it was master of its own fate, and were savagely hurtling downward to smash itself to bits, as well as the bodies of the men it had aboard. Face grim and strained, and lips pressed tight, Dawson battled the crippled plane with every ounce of his strength. Twice he succeeded in getting the nose up and the craft back onto even keel. However, a good portion of the damaged starboard wing had been ripped away by the furious slip-stream of the plunging bomber, and no sooner would it get on even keel than it would flop over on the damaged wing, and struggle to wham right down to the vertical.

Whether more shots were fired from the guns of the mysterious submarine below, Dawson didn't know. Nor did he dare take his attention off the bomber for one split second to take a flash look. If noise meant shooting, then the submarine was hurling up everything it had aboard, for there was a continuous thunder in his ears. However, the sound could well have been caused by the violent vibration of the diving plane, plus sections of the starboard wing breaking free. But what caused the continuous thunder was the least of his worries. In fact, he didn't even give that item a second's thought. If the Lockheed hit those grey-green swells nose on it would be curtains for fair. Not even a Heaven-sent miracle could save a man's life from that kind of a crash. That kind of thing just didn't happen.

"Up, baby; up, pal! Come on! Up with it, and take it steady. Come on! Up—up—up!"

From a long way off Dawson heard his own pleading, commanding voice. A day of doom thunder was in his brain, now, and there was a terrific pounding in his chest as though his heart would burst out through his ribs at 'most any second. And down there before his eyes the grey-green water came surging, lunging upward. And then, suddenly, the nose of the Lockheed came upward for the third time. How, or just why, he didn't have the faintest idea. Maybe Lady Luck or the gods of good fortune had reached down and given invisible help. The fact was that the bomber seemed to realize that it did have a master, and was grudgingly obeying that master's commands.

At any rate, the nose came up until the aircraft was on an even keel. On an even keel, with the belly of the fuselage not fifteen feet over the grey-green swells. Dawson had long since killed the port engine, and so there was but one thing to do in the few split seconds of time allowed. Before the plane could flop over on its damaged wing again, he hauled the nose even higher. That killed off flying speed and brought the bomber to a stall. For a century long instant it seemed to hang dead motionless in the air, with its nose slanted up several degrees toward the clear dawn sky. Then it quivered violently and dropped belly first toward the water like ten ton of loose brick. A split second before it hit, Dawson spun half around in the seat and flung both arms about Squadron Leader Hixon, and braced hard with both feet.

The crash landing gave him the crazy thought of an express train ripping through a stalled freight loaded with empty tin cans. The roar of sound was deafening, and a wave of darkness surged up out of nowhere and tried to engulf him. And to make it all quite complete, a hundred or so little unseen demons stepped up and sledge-hammered every square inch of his body. When his brain stopped spinning long enough for him to take stock, he found that the force of the crash had flung him clear across the pilots' compartment, so that he was completely shielding Squadron Leader Hixon with his body. He also was able to realize that the pilot had regained consciousness, and was gaping up at him out of wide and still slightly dazed eyes. Dave grinned, tight-lipped, and heaved himself off the man.

"You hurt bad, sir?" he choked out. "Can you move? We're down in the water now. Got to get out of here before the nose goes under."

For answer the squadron leader straightened up in the seat and shook his head. Then he spoke.

"Quite fit," he said. "Thanks to you, of course. Something must have cracked me one on the head. Right-o! Let's get aft and see if the others are all right."

Dawson didn't hear the last because he was already ducking through the door and back toward amidships. After a couple of steps his eyes focussed on the scene, and his heart leaped with relief. The crew, and Freddy Farmer, were none the worse for wear and tear. They had obviously realized that a crash landing was inevitable and had braced themselves for the jolt. But even at that the force of the crash had spilled them around like peas in a can. They were slowly picking themselves up off the belly floor as Dawson came down the catwalk.

"Anybody hurt?" he shouted.

A general mumble in the negative assured him that the worst could be no more than a few bruises here and there. And then Freddy Farmer was standing beside him, eyes flashing.

"You and Squadron Leader Hixon gone completely balmy?" the English youth barked. "What in the world did you mean by sliding down so close to a U-boat? Why in thunder didn't you stay high? There're no depth bombs aboard. Or didn't Squadron Leader Hixon know?"

"U-boat?" Dawson choked out. "You're nuts, pal! It was one of ours! And is the fur going to fly because those blind men took a pot shot at us! They fired distress flares, and Hixon—Ye gods! Look, will you! Look!"

Dawson practically gagged out the last as in that moment he had unconsciously turned his head and looked out through one of the bomb compartment ports. There, not seventy yards away, was a German U-boat nosing slowly through the water toward the crashed Lockheed. Its superstructure wasn't even close to that of British design. And what was even more convincing was the black cross edged in white that was painted on the sides of the conning tower.

"The blighters! The low-down tricky blighters. They had her rigged up to look British. But now they've tossed the camouflage overboard and are showing their own dirty colors. And what about me? Good grief! I should be thrown right out of the R.A.F. for this stupid bit!"

It was Squadron Leader Hixon who had gasped and groaned out the words. He had come aft to join Dawson, and seen for himself through the compartment port. His face was drawn and haggard, and he wore the utterly bitter expression of a man who wants nothing but the opportunity to crawl away and cut his own throat.

"My mistake as well as yours, sir," Dawson spoke to him quickly. "She certainly looked English when we started down. The dirty rats! Waited until we were so close they couldn't miss with that bow gun. What a sweet mess this has turned out!"

"Well, it won't get any better if we just stand here," Freddy Farmer said quietly, and pointed at the two inches of sea water that already covered the compartment floor. "I suggest that we go top-side, and at least not give them the satisfaction of seeing us drown like so many rats!"

"That's showing the old brains, pal," Dawson grunted. "You're dead right! Up we go, everybody. That she's heading over here must mean that she plans to take survivors prisoners. So—well, it could be worse. And more than one fellow has escaped from a German prison camp."

Dawson grinned cheerfully as he spoke the words, but in truth his heart was heavy as lead. And then, suddenly, as he caught Freddy Farmer's eyes on him, his heart seemed to stop beating altogether and freeze up in a solid ball of ice. The English youth's eyes were not fixed on his face. On the contrary they were fixed on that part of his tunic that covered his inside pocket. And although Freddy didn't move his lips to say anything, he didn't have to. In a flash Dawson remembered the envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull.

Could—could that envelope be the reason for all this? Was there any connection between that envelope addressed to Cordell Hull and the mangy trick the U-boat had played in shooting down the Lockheed?

The two questions stumbled a burning path through his brain. And although he tried to thrust them aside as utterly fantastic, they remained fixed and fast to taunt and torment him as he climbed top-side with Squadron Leader Hixon, Freddy Farmer, and the four members of the bomber's crew. And as if that weren't bad enough, the envelope tucked away in his inside pocket began to feel like a plate of white hot steel burning away the skin of his chest.

By the time all had reached top-side, and were staring at the U-boat creeping closer and closer, the Lockheed was well down by the nose, and the damaged starboard wing was completely under water. For one crazy instant Dawson wondered why those Hitler-mesmerized killers aboard the U-boat didn't head off in the opposite direction and leave them to a watery fate, which would come in a very short time. But even as he wondered about that, the burning sensation of the sealed envelope in his inside tunic pocket seemed to give him the answer.

"Well, if it's true," he whispered to himself, and started to slide his fingers inside his tunic, "then they're going to have fun trying to get it!"

He gave a faint nod of his head for emphasis, and then reached up with the others to grab hold of the rope that came curling through the air from the bow of the U-boat. They all caught it, and one of the Lockheed's crew quickly made it fast about the opened fuselage hatch.

"Pull yourselves over!" a harsh voice came from the conning tower bridge of the U-boat. "And if you swine try any tricks, you will all be dead men. Hurry! Pull yourselves over. I do not wish to remain here all day! Hurry!"

A fitting remark rose to Dawson's lips, but he choked it back and took his hold on the rope. Slowly the half submerged bomber was pulled over until it was bumping against the hull of the U-boat. A couple of square-headed Nazis caught hold of it with boat hooks, and held on hard while the voice on the conning tower bridge snarled out the next order.

"Jump aboard, you fools! Be quick about it. Fall overboard and you can save yourselves. We won't! So be quick about it!"

It was no time for those on the top of the Lockheed to put up any argument. And so one by one they leaped across the three feet of open water, caught hold of German hands outstretched and clambered up onto the sea water-dripping deck of the U-boat. Dave was the last to leave the doomed Lockheed Hudson. And when his feet touched the wet deck, he ignored the hands reached out to help him, and turned around to stare back at the bomber.

"Happy landings, old girl!" he said softly. "And don't worry. You've got thousands of sisters and brothers that will carry on for you. So long!"

[CHAPTER SIX]
Action C.O.D.

Steel claws slammed down on Dawson's shoulder, and spun him around. Close-set pig-like eyes blazed into his, and thick lips twisted back in a snarl.

"What are you trying to do?" the owner's voice roared in his ears. "What kind of a trick is this? You think you can still escape, eh?"

Dawson stared steadily at the huge man, who wore a seaman's jacket over civilian clothes. He stared steadily, then grinned, tight-lipped, and shrugged a little.

"You'd never guess, Nazi," he said evenly. "And even if you did, you wouldn't understand. Only white men would!"

The German bunched one huge fist, and it looked as though he were going to smash it straight to the Yank's face. As a matter of fact, Dawson expected just that, but he did not regret his words. He was too filled with boiling rage to care what he said to these Naziland-born butchers. However, the German seemed to think better of his first intentions. His face remained puffed and red with rage, but he relaxed slightly and was content to stab Dawson with his pig-like eyes.

"We will see about that tongue of yours later, Captain Dawson!" he rasped out in a voice that shook and trembled. "Yes, later, we will see about many things. Now, go aft with these other swine. And if you wish a bullet in your swine skull, then just try another trick on me! So! Move along, you dogs!"

With their hearts and hopes down in their boots, but with their heads high and their jaws squared, the little group from the doomed Lockheed permitted themselves to be herded to the conning tower and down into the bowels of the U-boat. And from the central control room they were shoved and cuffed forward to an empty torpedo storing chamber. The air was thick and foul, and it was difficult to breathe. However, not one of them so much as made a face. They were ordered to sit down on a steel bench, and they did so without a word of comment, and with a look of calm defiance on every man's face.

When they were seated, the man in civilian clothes and the commander of the U-boat stood in front of them and swept them with leering, triumphant eyes. Then the commander spoke to the other in German.

"My congratulations, Herr Miller," he said. "It was as simple as you promised it would be. Too bad we were forced to cast all that clever superstructure camouflage adrift. We might have been able to use it again before we return to the St. Nazaire base."

"Yes, it was very simple," the one addressed as Herr Miller grunted back, and toyed with a small but deadly Luger he held in his big hands. "But it is perfect planning, and thoroughly knowing your swine enemies, that makes things so simple. Do not forget that, Herr Kommandant. But I think we had better submerge at once. There are many British patrols in these waters. I can do what I came to do under water as easily as on the surface. But send one of your men in here to assist me in keeping an eye on these dogs. Two of them have the reputation of being reckless, stupid fools. And I do not wish to deal with them until another little matter is settled. So send one of your men in here, at once."

"Ja, ja!" the U-boat commander replied, parrot-like, and turned and ducked out through the compartment door.

Hardly had he disappeared when his place in the compartment was taken by a hefty Nazi sailor wearing the familiar look of meek obedience and Teutonic dumbness from the neck up. At a word from Herr Miller, he took up a position where the Luger in his hands could be trained dead on any man in the bat of an eyelash. Herr Miller glanced over at him, nodded his approval, then let his leering gaze slide back over the row of prisoners. He gave a jerk of his head, and a jerk of his Luger.

"Empty your pockets, at once!" he rasped out, and let his leering gaze rest for a full second on Dawson's face. "Empty your pockets and toss everything on the deck here at my feet. The swine who does not empty out everything will be shot instantly!"

For a couple of seconds not one of the prisoners moved. Then Dawson chuckled softly and began tossing his personal belongings down onto the compartment's steel deck.

"Might as well give him his selection, fellows," he grinned at the others. "He's holding the gun, he and his brother rat."

"Silence, swine!" the German thundered, and practically waved the barrel of his Luger in the Yank's face. "And let me remind you, you American dog, if you do not empty out everything, I will shoot you on the spot!"

Dawson looked up at the man, and although he kept a thin grin on his lips, there was nothing but a chip of ice in his chest.

"Okay, Herr Miller," he replied in the man's own tongue. "I'm tossing out everything I've got. And you can strip me, and search my clothes if you want to. But I just want to ask one question. It's important to both of us, Herr Miller!"

The Nazi narrowed his eyes, and gave Dawson a hard, searching stare. Then he grunted and nodded.

"And what is the question?" he demanded in German.

"Has the Lockheed gone under yet?" Dawson asked with forced calmness.

The Nazi blinked, and looked just a trifle startled.

"But of course!" he finally rasped out. "It was sinking when you fools came aboard. By now it is halfway to the bottom."

"Yeah?" Dawson echoed softly. Then with a head shake of mock pity, "That's tough—for you, Herr Miller. You should have made the Lockheed empty its pockets—if you get what I mean?"

The Nazi started to speak, but checked himself and slid his narrow-eyed stare along to Freddy Farmer's face. The English youth was taking a bunch of keys from his tunic pocket. He stopped the motion for a moment, stared innocently back at the Nazi, then flipped out his hand.

"Here, catch, old bean!" he grunted. "The key to the situation, you know, what?"

The German's brain was much too slow for his reflexes. He automatically caught the bunch of keys as they came sailing through the air, and stared down stupidly at them. Then he bellowed out an oath and flung them down onto the steel deck.

"So!" he bellowed. "You swine dogs dare me to shoot, eh?"

"Why not?" Dawson cut right back at him in a flash. "It might as well be now as later. But you're still out of luck, Herr Miller. We haven't got it! I left it aboard, and you'll have to do some diving, what I mean."

As Dawson clipped out the words, he held his breath, and kept his gaze riveted on the German's face. But it wasn't more than a split second or two before he knew beyond all doubt that the fantastic, and the utterly incredible was indeed the truth. A Nazi U-boat, cleverly camouflaged as a British submarine in distress, had shot down an R.A.F. Lockheed Hudson for just one purpose: to capture its crew alive and secure a sealed envelope that this Herr Miller knew was carried by someone aboard. Moreover, he knew that that someone was either Freddy Farmer or himself.

The conglomeration of inner emotions that swept across the Nazi's face told Dawson the truth. And if he needed any further confirmation, he received it right after he spoke again.

"That's right, Herr Miller," he said evenly. "There's our stuff on the floor. Strip us and search our clothes, if it will make you feel any better. But you won't find a certain sealed envelope. No, not unless you do some fancy diving and reach that bomber. You see, stupid, we had our orders, too. And you can guess what they were!"

Wild, angry dismay flooded the Nazi's face. Not yet accustomed to dumbfounding defeat, he was unable to maintain rigid control over his emotions. His eyes popped out, and then popped back in again. His jaw sagged, and his lips moved, though he didn't utter a sound. His hands shook, and the beet red came surging up into his flat, moon-shaped face. Dawson knew that the danger point was close, very close. The German had been flung far off balance, and in the next second or so the animal training in him would get the upper hand. Cold, common sense would go flying out the window, and all that would be left would be the savage lust to butcher and slaughter.

And so Dawson half stood up, and tore off his tunic.

"It's the truth, Herr Miller!" he shouted, and started to rip open the seams. "Take a look, stupid! You see anything hidden in the lining? Take a look and weep, you fathead. See any sealed envelope? See anything that interests you? I told you that I left it aboard. Okay! See for yourself. Here! Take a darned good look!"

As Dawson spoke the last he held out his ripped tunic with his hands. He practically shoved it right under the Nazi's nose. And then, as the German automatically looked down at it, the Yank air ace practically exploded in a whirlwind of action. He flung the tunic straight into the Nazi's face. He slapped down his right hand, caught the Luger by the barrel and twisted it free. His other fist he smashed to the German's jaw, and one knee he brought up hard into the Nazi's belly. And then, in what was practically a continuation of the original movement, he reversed the Luger in his hand, half turned, and drilled a single shot at the pop-eyed Nazi sailor. The bullet hit the steel plate right behind the sailor's left ear. And that was close enough. His own gun dropped from his fingers, as he flung both hands high in terrified surrender. And the Luger had hardly struck the deck before Freddy Farmer had dived from a sitting position on the metal bench and scooped it up. But Dawson didn't see that fast bit of action. He didn't because he was busy clipping Herr Miller one for good measure on the back of the skull as the man fell down. That done with, he shot a look over at Freddy Farmer and grinned broadly.

"Nice going, pal!" he chuckled. "But I'll give you a kiss later. We've got things to do, right now. Okay, you fellows. Get behind Farmer and me. Maybe that shot of mine was heard, and we haven't got time to lose."

"But, good grief, Dawson!" Squadron Leader Hixon gasped out. "What in the world can you do? There must be thirty Nazis, at least, aboard this thing, man!"

"That's right!" Dawson shot back at him. "And I'll bet not one of them has any hankering to drown! Catch on? Okay. Stick close while Freddy and I rush the central control room. Okay, sailor! Step along ahead of me!"

As Dawson spoke the last he whipped out his free hand and caught the scared stiff sailor by the arm, and yanked him over and shoved him through the compartment door leading to amidships. He and Freddy Farmer kept right at the German's heels. Like blockers running interference for a ball carrier, they went charging into the central control room. Dawson saw the U-boat commander turn from his post at the periscope sight. He saw the anger that flooded the Nazi's face as he recognized the sailor, and right after that the look of dumbfounded fear that glazed the man's eyes as he caught sight of Dawson and Freddy Farmer right behind.

Perhaps it was just a nervous twitch of the U-boat commander's hand. Or perhaps he actually did start to reach up for his holstered Luger. At any rate, Dawson didn't wait to find out which. He squeezed the trigger of the Luger he held in his own hand, and the bullet snipped a button off the German's jacket before it smacked into the radio panel on the far side of the control room.

"Don't move, anybody!" Dawson thundered in German. "Get stupid, any one of you square-heads, and we'll all go to the bottom, to stay for good. I—"

The Yank choked off the rest, half turned, and fired the Luger. A thin-faced, hawk-nosed junior officer had tried to snatch up a gun and shoot across his chest at Dawson. His gun didn't even have a chance to go off. Dawson's bullet caught him in the chest, spun him like a top, and dumped him flat on his face, to stay there motionless.

"Anybody else want to play?" the Yank grated, and swept his eyes over the four or five other Germans in the control room. "Suits me swell, if you want to. So just start something. Go ahead, you Nazi slobs!"

There was a moment of silence, save for the whine of the electric motors driving the U-boat down below the surface. Then its commander made sounds in his throat and licked his lips.