Dawn was a faint gray line marking the point where the North African sky met the North African Continent in the east. Just a faint gray line heralding the coming of a new day, though the world was still shrouded in the darkness of night. A new day. A new day of war. A new day—of victory, or utter failure?
The question was like a pin-point white hot flame burning in Dave Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer hugged the hard-packed ground behind a clump of withered desert brush. Just seventy yards beyond the desert brush was a long level strip of desert, flankedon both sides by scrub-covered hills. Hills? They were little more than mounds of rock and sand. As though Nature throughout the ages had thrust them up from the bowels of the earth and covered them with scrub growth for a crazy prank. They looked just about as natural in the middle of the Sahara as a part of the Sahara would have looked in the middle of New York City. Nevertheless, there they were. Another bit of the mysterious Sahara's phenomena for man to study and wonder about. A desert oasis completely surrounded by hills! Yet there it was for mortal eyes to view.
However, the strange freak of Nature's handiwork held no interest whatsoever for Dave Dawson or Freddy Farmer. What interested them completely were the man-made things on that strip of desert valley. The fifteen Junkers Ju-88's, the six Messerschmitt 109's and the single two-seater Messerschmitt 110, that were pulled way back under perfect camouflage covering on either side of the desert strip—the planes, and the groups of shadowy figures that were walking about among them.
For fifteen minutes the two youths had hugged the ground behind the scrub bush and peered out at the weird yet deadly-looking scene in silence. For one thing there was nothing to say. However, the main reason for silence was that each was close to the point of complete exhaustion and collapse. Not two, but three hours ago they had started toward the spot where they now were. Those three hours had been the most torturing and grueling of their entire lives. Three hours used to cover a distance of but a little over a mile! Simple enough to think about, but how far different the actual execution of that night-shrouded journey. Cuts and bruises on their bodies were countless. Their uniforms were in shreds and tatters, and there was an utter weariness within them such as few men have ever experienced. A hundred times all that kept them going over the rock-studded ground, with thorn-bush barriers every other foot of the way, were their fighting hearts and savage determination to win through in spite of all odds.
And theyhadwon through, but were now forced to stretch out on the ground and fight another battle—the battle for new strength and new energy that would carry them forward to the most terrific struggle of all. Yes, carry them forward to the struggle—and the successful completion of an almost impossible task.
"Freddy, I'm wondering," Dawson suddenlywhispered, and touched the English youth's prone body with his hand.
"Yes, Dave?" came back the equally faint whisper. "Wondering about what?"
"If—" Dave began, and paused. "I mean, maybe we're all wet about this business. There's not an engine out there ticking over, and it's darn close to dawn. You'd think they'd be warming them up now, if they expected to go out at a moment's notice. In other words, I'm wonderingifMajor General Hawker was right. If this bunchreally doeshave any connection with the President's trip to Casablanca?"
"I'm sure it must have, Dave," Freddy Farmer replied after a few seconds of silence. "Everything absolutely adds up to that. In my mind, there's no doubt about it. As for warming up the engines, the blighters are up and about. No doubt they'll start them up any minute now. May be waiting for a bit more light, you know. The point is, what are we—"
The English-born air ace never finished that question. He didn't because at that moment a figure garbed in the uniform of the NaziLuftwafferushed out of a little camouflaged hut on the left side of the desert strip and shouted orders at the top of his voice. He spoke in German, of course, but both Dawson and Farmer knew the language, and so—and so absolute confirmation of the truth was given them.
"All pilots and crews report toHerr Kommandantat once!" the voice bellowed in a note of wild, frenzied excitement. "Der Taghas come! The signal has just been received from Casablanca. Your targets are approaching there now. The AmericanSchweinehunds, and the English ones, too.Der Taghas come!HeilHitler!"
A brief moment of silence settled over everything. And then a silence-shattering roar came from many throats.
"HeilHitler!"
Bombs were exploding in Dave Dawson's brain, and his heart was pumping madly in his chest as he pushed up onto his hands and knees.
"Freddy!" he got out in a choking gasp. "This is it! You hear what that bird said? They've received word from some rat in Casablanca, just as Major General Hawker thought they would. Freddy! It's up to us now, or else! Those confounded bombers justcan'ttake off! And that's got to bethat!"
"Absolutely!" the English youth echoed in a hoarse whisper. "And just look at the blighters!Like blasted ants crawling all over those planes, and—Dave! Do you see—"
"Right!" Dawson cut in, and gripped his arm. "That Messerschmitt 110. They're not touching it yet. Must be theKommandant'splane. Probably going to tag along and watch the slaughter, but keep out of the way."
"Yes, yes!" Freddy said excitedly. "But we—"
"My idea all along, pal!" Dawson breathed fiercely. "That's not the ratKommandant'sbaby, that'sours, Freddy! If we can only get it off before they get us, we can pin the rest of those crates on the ground like nobody's business. But, Freddy!"
"Yes, Dave, yes?" the English youth asked impatiently. "What now?"
"Just a thought," Dawson said in a quiet, steady voice that surprised himself. "We'll get that baby off, and we'll raise merry heck with these birds, even if it's the last thing we do. That's the idea! Maybe itwillbe the last. I have a funny feeling that we've had more than our share of luck already. So—Well, if you'd rather we tried to swipe a single-seater Messerschmitt apiece, so that—"
"Rot!" young Farmer snapped angrily. "So that one of us might get away? Meaning me?Not a bit of it, Dave! We started the balmy business together, and by the Lord Harry we'llfinishit together, one way or the other. So stop your silly talk, and let's get on with things. You have your gun, of course?"
"Right in my hand, kid," Dawson assured him. "And you're a pretty nice guy, Freddy, if I haven't ever mentioned it before. Okay, together it is. Keep low, and run like the dickens. If somebody gets in our way—well, it will be just too bad for him. They're going half nuts out there, now, so maybe we'll get the breaks and not be seen. Set, Freddy?"
"Set, old thing," the English youth replied, and pressed Dawson's arm. "Luck to us both!"
"We don't count," Dawson said, and pressed young Farmer's arm in return. "Luck to the Casablanca war conference, please God! Right! Here we go!"
Dawson pressed Freddy Farmer's arm once more, then wheeled around, bent way over almost double, circled the scrub bush, and went streaking out onto the desert strip at top speed toward the Messerschmitt 110 parked a good eighty yards away. Farmer bolted right after him.
Perhaps it was Dawson's spinning imagination, or perhaps it was an actual fact, but it seemed that no sooner was he out from behind the scrub bush than the amount of light thrown forward by the swiftly approaching day was tripled in intensity. He had the sensation that he and Farmer stood out as clear and as huge as a couple of runaway horses, and that every German eye was fixed upon them. In fact, had a hundred machine guns suddenly opened up on them, he would not have been the least bit surprised. With every racing stride he took, with every split second that skipped by, he expected just that.
However, there were no screams of alarm, and there were no blasts of yammering machine-gun fire as the two youths covered forty yards in their headlong dash and reached the first of the parked bombers. At that point, Dawson swerved sharply to the left in order to avoid all notice if possible. Then he swerved back to the right again without checking his speed for a single instant. They had to pass four more bombers with mechanics and pilots swarming all over before they reached the Messerschmitt 110. They accomplished it in a matter of split seconds, but to Dawson's high-pitched nerves and whirling brain, it seemed a thousand years.It seemed as though he was only crawling over the ground, and in slow motion at that.
But the crazy thoughts he had were far from the truth. He was traveling so fast that he virtually ran into the side of the Messerschmitt and was bounced back, to bump up against Freddy Farmer's plunging body. They caught hold of each other in an effort to maintain their balance. They succeeded, but no sooner had they regained their balance and were turning to scramble up into the plane than two uniformed Nazis came running around the tail of the aircraft.
The two Nazis saw Dawson and Farmer. Their jaws dropped, and they skidded to a halt and reached for their holstered Lugers. But they might just as well have tried to jump over the stars and drop straight down on the two air aces. Dawson's gun barked once, so did Freddy Farmer's, and there were two less Germans in the world.
Before either of the dead Germans had hit the ground the two air aces had whirled and had thrown themselves into the Messerschmitt's cockpit. Though nothing had been decided between them, Dawson impulsively leaped into the pilot's pit, and Freddy Farmer piled into thegunner's pit aft. It was one of those unspoken agreements, and as Dawson landed in the seat, his hands shot out for the engine switches, throttles, and starter buttons. Two seconds later, the grinding of the starter gears sounded like the loudest noise in all the world, and Dave's heart pounded in wild fear that their two shots were bringing a horde of other Nazis on the run. However, he didn't waste time looking about. He hunched forward in the pit and concentrated every bit of his attention and all his prayers on getting the two Daimler-Benz engines started.
One second, one minute, one hour, or maybe a thousand years dragged by before the two engines "caught" and roared in a mighty earth-shaking duet of power. Dawson's heart leaped with wild joy, and for five precious seconds he forced himself to let the engines run to warm up a little before the take-off. At the end of five seconds, he eased off the throttles, kicked off the wheel brakes, and let the Messerschmitt trundle forward out of line with the other aircraft. No sooner was he in the open and swerving left toward the long way of the field, than the chattering yammer of a machine gun rose above the general roar, and he heard the deathlywhine of bullets passing overhead. He also heard a wild yell from Freddy Farmer's lips, but he didn't dare twist around in the seat and look back. He didn't because he was pointing the long way of the desert strip now, and was ready to ram his throttles wide open. In front of him was a milling mass of Germans. He was that a furious attempt was being made by a Messerschmitt 109 pilot to trundle his single-seater out of line and onto the desert strip to block the way!
Stark terror gripped Dave's heart as he saw the nose of that single-seater moving out toward the line of his take-off. He had impulsively rammed both of his throttles wide open, and his aircraft was leaping forward like a shell leaving the mouth of a cannon. Whether or not he would pass that moving 109 in time was something that was in the lap of the gods.
Touch and go, and it was instinct more than sane thought that gave him a new lease on life. As the Messerschmitt 110 rocketed forward toward the milling mass of Nazis and the Messerschmitt 109 rolled out into his path beyond, Dawson jabbed the electric trigger button of the ME's guns and punched the air-cannon firing knob. Instantly the plane bucked andjumped madly as the guns yammered and pounded, and it was all Dawson could do to hold it on its straight take-off line.
"Gangway, bums, or take it!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Leap for your lives, or else!"
Words, crazy, insane words poured from Dave Dawson's lips as he held the Messerschmitt 110 as steady as a rock and guided it forward at full throttle. Perhaps his actions were as crazy and insane as his words. For every German his guns sent spinning to the ground, two more seemed to come bounding out of nowhere with blazing sub-machine guns in their hands. The Messerschmitt 109 that was being rolled out to block his path loomed up larger and larger with every split second until it seemed to fill the entire desert valley almost directly in front of his prop.
Yes, perhaps crazy, perhaps insane, and perhaps totally and hopelessly mad. Dawson didn't have time to wonder about that, or to give it a single thought. The only thought he held in his swirling brain was that he had to get the Messerschmitt off and into clear air. If he didn't, all was doomed. And the point was that getting the aircraft into the air was but the beginning of things!
"Up, up with you! Come on! Get off,get off!"
Shouting the commands at the plane, he hauled back on the controls, held his breath, and shut his eyes, as though that would help a little. An eternity of suspense dragged by. At the speed he was traveling now, there wasn't a hope in the world that Freddy or he would survive a crash with that other German plane. It was now, or never. All, or nothing but instant death. With the fate of the entire civilized world hanging in the balance, was it life, or was it—
A mighty upward surge of the Messerschmitt caused Dawson's heart to swell with joy. He opened his eyes and instinctively ducked because his left wing and the nose of the Messerschmitt 109 seemed to be touching one another. But not quite, thank God, and the 110 went prop-clawing up close to the vertical. Prop-clawing upward as the withering fire of enraged vultures below spewed up after it.
"Made it, made it!" Dawson choked out, and instantly kicked the Messerschmitt over on wingtip and pulled it around in a screaming turn. "Freddy, we—"
He cut short his words as sudden memory of Freddy Farmer's wild yell came back to mind. It seemed as though he lived and died a hundred deaths in the time it took to turn his head and glance back at the rear cockpit. What he saw sent a flood of joy into his pounding heart. Freddy Farmer was still alive and kicking. And very much so, too. He had his rear guns swung around and down and was blazing away at the ground. One of his bursts of bullets had already nailed one of the Junkers 88's, and livid red flame was shooting upward from the giant aircraft.
"First blood for you, Freddy!" Dawson screamed into the thunder of his twin Daimler-Benz engines. "First blood for you, and how! Let's go, kid! They think they've got a date at Casablanca. The heck they have, I'll say! Here, you, a kiss from Casablanca!"
As Dawson roared out the last, he droppedthe nose of the Messerschmitt like a rock and went piling down toward the row of parked planes. He saw two Messerschmitt 109's taking off, but they were past his line of fire, so he couldn't do anything about them. Nor could he do anything about the ocean of ground fire that swept up toward him. Maybe their 110 would be "drowned" in that ocean of machine-gun and rifle fire, but not before Freddy and he had made that secret desert airdrome a shambles of burning aircraft that would block off all other attempts to take off.
With every cubic inch of air seemingly filled with death-whining bullets from the ground guns, Dave rocketed the 110 recklessly downward and let go with all his guns and air cannon. One, two, three huge Junkers 88's seemed to crab sideways and then break out into flame before he was forced to pull up out of his mad dive, or go roaring in to his doom. His heart was smashing against his ribs, and his face was bathed in hot sweat as he pitted every ounce of his strength against the downward momentum of the Messerschmitt. Then, with but half a second to spare, he got the nose up and went engine-howling for the dawn gray sky.
"Dave! They are—"
Whatever Freddy Farmer had to say was drowned out in a tremendous thunder of sound. Sound that billowed up from the ground directly under the power zooming plane. Sound that seemed to envelop the Messerschmitt, to grab it with many hands and fling it cartwheeling end over end out across the North African dawn. All the fireworks in the world popped and crackled in Dawson's head. A thousand steel fists hit against his body from every conceivable angle. The nose of the Messerschmitt and the instrument panel started spinning until all he could see was a whirling blurr. The air that he sucked into his lungs was as liquid fire, and it seemed to dry up every drop of blood in his body. In a crazy, abstract sort of way he knew that some of the Junkers bombs had let go before he had been able to zoom out of range, and concussion had caught the Messerschmitt to make it as helpless as a dried leaf in a cyclone.
"Dave! Man your guns! Two planes got off! There they come down. From in front—from in front!"
Freddy Farmer's screaming voice seemed to tear away the blurred veil that covered Dawson's eyes. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see the two Messerschmitt 109's streakingdown at him from in front. Freddy Farmer's guns were already blazing away, but the angle was bad, and the tracers were smoking well above the diving planes.
Even as Dawson looked up and spotted the two planes, he was pulling up the nose and fumbling for the electric trigger button on his control stick. He found it, only to have his fingers slide off. When he looked down, he saw that his hand was red and glistening from his own blood. The sight stunned him for a second because he felt no pain. That is, no acute pain. From head to foot his entire body felt numb and weak, but there was no sense of pain whatsoever. He was even more astonished when he saw that the front of his ripped and torn tunic was stained with blood, too.
One glance, however, was all he could take—one glance to see, realize the truth, and be dumbfounded. Then he snapped his eyes upward, tapped right rudder just a little to bring one of the diving planes into his sights—and fired!
The result? He saw what happened with his two eyes, but he did not know whether his bullets and air cannon shells, or Nazi panic, caused it. It seemed that he had hardly jabbedthe electric trigger button when the plane in his sights swerved violently off to the right. Maybe his burst hit it and kicked it that way, or perhaps the unthinking Nazi pilot swerved purposely to throw Dawson off his aim. But whether no or yes, the 109 swerved violently to its right, and went side-slashing into the other diving 109. One second there were two planes hurtling downward, and the next they had locked wings, crumpled about each other like wet paper, and then completely disappeared in an exploding ball of flame and oily black smoke.
"Good gosh, no!" Dawson gasped, and hurled the no over and around to avoid the flaming inferno as it went plunging past. "Did I get him, or did the guy go haywire? Hey, Freddy! Did you see that?"
Silence greeted his question, and terror was his again as he twisted around in the seat. What he saw brought no yell of joy to his lips. On the contrary, it brought a sob of alarm, because Freddy Farmer was slumped over like a sack of wet meal against the side of the cockpit. One upstretched hand still clung to the trigger guard of the rear guns, but the English youth's face was deathly pale, save where it was spattered with drops of blood. His eyes were closed.
"Freddy!" Dawson shrieked. "Freddy! Speak to me, pal! Oh, dear God,no! Please, oh, please! Freddy! Freddy, boy!"
Dawson's voice faltered, and the only sounds he made were dry sobs that struggled up out of his throat. He turned front, and hot, stinging tears fell from his eyes. On the ground was a sight that should have brought shouts of joy to his lips and filled him with wild, surging happiness. The secret desert-oasis field was now completely covered by clouds of dirty black smoke that were slashed every few seconds by the bright red and orange flames of newly exploding bombs. Each time a flash of flame slashed its way up through the clouds of dirty smoke, bits of plane wreckage came hurtling up after it.
Yes, Goering's Snoopers were doomed. They would never fly to Casablanca, or to any other place, for that matter. But that wonderful, thrilling realization left Dawson untouched. Somehow, he was beyond all feeling. His brain was numbed, his heart was dead, and there was hardly the strength in him to go on living. His tattered tunic was now drenched with blood. Drops of blood fell from his fingers curled about the Messerschmitt's controls. A gray curtain seemed to hover before his eyes, and it took every ounce of effort that he possessed to peer through it and make out the instrument panel.
"Can't be done, can't be done!" He heard his own mumbled voice as though from miles and miles away. "We plastered them for keeps. But—but they got old Freddy. And maybe they got me, too. Oh, dear God, I'm so tired, so darn tired. I—I can't fly this thing back to Casablanca. I just—I just want to quit now, and go to sleep. What does it matter, anyway? Freddy's gone. And without old Freddy, I—"
His mumbling voice trailed off, and there was nothing but the continued thunder of the Daimler-Benz engines in his ears. Suddenly he heard another voice. A voice? Or was it something inside of him speaking?
"Quitting, huh? Just like that! You get a couple of scratches, and you want to let down and quit. Isn't that just dandy? So Freddy's gone, huh? How doyouknow? You can't tell from here! But, no, you don't even want totryto get back to Casablanca, where maybe he could be savedifhe's still alive. No! You just want to quit and makesurethat he dies. Okay, quitter! There's hard earth down there. Dive inand make sure of death!"
The little voice kindled a spark of anger within him, and it flared up into a bright hot flame. Quitter, huh? The heck he was! Maybe Freddy wasn't dead! Please, God, let that be true! He'd get Freddy back. Honest he would. He'd get Freddy back, no matter what. This wasn't the end for either of them. Remember how they had once kidded that the Nazi was not yet born who could polish off either of them? Well, that was true. Yes, doggone it, that wastrue! Casablanca? Okay! You bet! It was hard to move, and that darn gray veil made things hard to see. But he'd get through just the same. Casablanca, here we come! Here we—
The wheels of the bullet-riddled Messerschmitt 110 touching hard ground seemed to snap something inside Dawson's head, and drag him back from another world. In a daze he looked about and saw that he was rolling along the Casablanca field. Above him, the air was filled with Allied aircraft. A sharp stab of fear passed through his heart when he realized that this Nazi plane had been in the air with those other aircraft. He vaguely remembered they had spotted him way out from Casablanca, closed in, and then dropped into escort position.
And nowhewas down on Casablanca base!He'd made it, but he hadn't realized it until just now! Could a pilot fly a course while semi-conscious? Maybe he could, because Dave had very little recollection of this flight except for the very start. And—Wait!Freddy Farmer!
As the thought flashed through his brain, he lurched upward out of the seat and looked back. Fresh fear and terror gripped him. Freddy was still slumped lifelessly against the side of the pit. His face seemed even paler, and it was covered with more dots of blood. Dawson started to call out, when he heard the pounding of many running feet. He turned his head in that direction and saw a large group of figures, led by Colonel Welsh, racing toward the plane. He waved frantically with one hand and called out.
"Ambulance!" he shouted. "Get the ambulance at—"
At that exact moment a dark cloud swooped down on top of him. A great roaring started up inside his head. He knew that he was tumbling headlong out of the pit and down onto the wing, but he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Something, probably the wing stub, hit him one last and final smash on the head, and there was nothing but darkness, and utter silence.
Dave Dawson found himself suspended in a world of clear, fresh-smelling and soothing white when he again opened his eyes. It did not puzzle him that all should be white, because his brain was too contented to bother figuring it out. His whole body felt contented, too. A lulling warmth enveloped him, and he did not care whether anything ever changed again. This lulling warmth and this soothing contentment were all that he could desire.
However, that perfect spell of both mind and body was not long-lasting. As complete consciousness finally returned, the aches and pains took charge of his body, and his brain awakened fully with a terrible memory.
"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!"
Hardly realizing that his lips had gasped out his pal's name, he struggled to push himself up. But even as he started the effort, other hands were placed upon him and he was gently pressed down to his original position. A position that he then realized was flat on his back in a hospital bed. And then the face of the owner of those gently pressing hands came into his vision, and he recognized Colonel Welsh.
"Don't, son," the Intelligence Chief said softly. "Just let yourself go, boy, and relax completely. Farmer is all right. Shot up a little, just as you were, but he'll pull through with flying colors."
"You're sure, sir?" Dawson choked out. "You mean it? You wouldn't kid a—"
"My word of honor," Colonel Welsh stopped him. "He's weak, yes, from the loss of blood, just as you are. But he'll be all right, just as you'll be all right after a period of mending and resting. And if you'll promise to get another good sleep, I'll have you moved into Farmer's room so that you can be together. And, son—"
"Hey!" Dawson blurted out, as the thought suddenly came to him. "The President's party, and—"
He would have said more, but Colonel Welsh put a hand to his lips. "Don't waste strength talking, son," he admonished with a smile. "Believe me, everything is perfect. The war conference is under way right now. And never mind giving me a report, either. Both you and Farmer have babbled it all in the two days since you've been here. I don't know what to say, Dawson. Wonderful isn't half the word that's needed. I can only say that it is another great debt that civilized man owes to you two. But for what you did, just you two alone, there's notelling what terrible changes there might have been in this war. We caught the Nazi agent here who sent the signal of the President's coming to that secret base. He was one of von Steuben's men my agents had been watching, hoping he would lead them to bigger fish. But it turned outhewas the big fish here at Casablanca. We caught him at his hidden radio, but the message had already gone through. He admitted it, even boasted about it, saying that it was too late for us to do anything. No matter how many planes we put in the air, some of those Junkers would get through in time. That was no lie. Some of them, and maybe all of them would have gotten through, becausewehad no idea from which direction they would come to deliver their attack. Or when, so that we would be ready. But you and Farmer—"
Colonel Welsh stopped talking, blinked his eyes, swallowed hard, and smiled.
"All I can say," he finally got out, "is that I thank God from the bottom of my heart that you two are fighting on our side. And, son—"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence was about to add that the President of the United States had said that he wished to see Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer before he left Casablanca andpersonally decorate them for their brave and gallant service above and beyond the call of duty. But Colonel Welsh decided to wait until another time, because what use is it to tell a fellow anything when he is fast asleep with a happy and thoroughly contented smile on his face?
—— THE END ——
After carefully checking the readings of his "black light" instrument dials, Dawson raised his eyes and scowled out at the ocean of inky darkness that seemed to sweep in on him from all sides.
"Right on course, unless those instruments are haywire, which of course they're not," he murmured. "But just the same, I'd sure like to get out of these clouds. The darn stuff must stretch all the way to China!"
As he spoke the words he absently fingered the switch button of his radio, but when he suddenly realized what he was doing he snatched his hand away as though the thing were red hot.
"Radio silence at all cost, chump!" he growled at himself. "And stop worrying about Freddy. He's somewhere right back there behind you. You saw his ship as clear as could be only thirty minutes ago! So take it easy."
Yes, only thirty minutes ago Freddy Farmer had been right there at his right rear in the other plane. Sure! But kingdoms have fallen,
Transcriber's Notes:Page 92: Changed givin to givingPage 127: Changed thanks to tanksPage 144: Changed Washingtan to WashingtonPage 146: Changed blust to blurtPage 161: Changed tto to toPage 180: Changed Georing's to Goering's