Night had dropped down over the Mediterranean, and the H.M. Aircraft Carrier Victory was running without lights in a southwesterly direction. There was plenty of light below decks, however, but whenever an outside door was opened the bright lights immediately winked out and the pale blue "battle lights" glowed. Thus it was impossible for any telltale glow of light to reveal the Victory's presence to any nearby enemy craft of the sea, or to any enemy aircraft that might be patrolling the air above. True, the pale glow of the battle lights escaped into the night, but it was so dim as not to be noticed even at close range.
In Group Captain Spencer's quarters, Dave and Freddy bent over a huge map spread out on the desk, and listened closely to their senior officer's words.
"Here we are, now," the group captain said, touching the map with the point of his finger. "We have changed course for the last time, and it's pretty certain that the enemy has no idea what we're up to. It was lucky we were still steaming along at the rear of the main fleet unit when those Jerries showed up this afternoon. Had we been in the act of cutting away then, those lads who did get back to their base would certainly have reported us up to something. As it is, though, they probably think we're still tagging along with the fleet."
"And probably hoping we hit a couple of mines," Dave added with a chuckle.
"Probably," Group Captain Spencer agreed with a grin. "I don't believe those lads feel very kindly toward the Victory right now. We certainly gave them something to think about this afternoon. But, as I was saying, here we are right at this moment. In six hours, that'll be two o'clock tomorrow morning, we will be about fifty miles off the Libyan coastal town of Misurata. That is, of course, unless a couple of our destroyers that are way out in front of us sight something to make us change our plans."
"I sure hope not," Freddy said with a frown. "I'm all for this scouting show, and want to get on with it."
"Me, too!" Dave chimed in. "I've got a hunch I'm going to get a big kick out of it."
"I hope that's all you get out of it, except the much needed information," Group Captain Spencer said softly. "I don't want to sound like a phonograph record, but this is a mighty dangerous mission. You see, we haven't the faintest idea what you may or may not run into. Before you've hardly flown in from the coast you may run slap bang into a swarm of Axis planes on patrol. Then, too, much of your flying will have to be done blind. I mean, Libya isn't like England or France where there are towns, and rivers, and lakes, and all that sort of thing to serve as landmarks. It's a blasted expanse of sand, once you get in a way from the coast. And your only landmarks to fly by will be a tiny oasis village here and there that you can miss very easily because they blend in so perfectly with the cursed sand. I've done quite a bit of flying out that way, and I can tell you that it certainly isn't any pleasure hop."
"We'll jolly well be praying that the engine keeps ticking over," Freddy murmured.
"Right you are, and pray hard," Group Captain Spencer said with an abrupt nod of his head. "That's another of the several dangers attached to this show—a forced landing. Behind our own lines, a forced landing in the blasted desert is bad enough. But a forced landing behind the Axis outposts will be doubly unpleasant. And that brings up something I might just as well mention now as later. I said that this show is to be a secret. I meant it! It's to be just that. There will be no Fleet Air Arm markings on your plane. And you will not wear anything or even carry anything that would connect you in any way with the Fleet Air Arm, or the Victory. You'll not even take along your Mae West life jackets. And in case you are forced down in the desert, you will set fire to your ship at once. You understand that perfectly?"
The two boys nodded together.
"And if you are forced down, don't expect planes to be sent out to look for you," Group Captain Spencer continued grimly. "You will be strictly on your own. You can't expect any rescue help from us. That sounds pretty grim, and it is. But we've got to work it out that way. To let the enemy even suspect that the Victory had slipped in close to shore, and that the Fleet Air Arm was taking an active hand in the Libya problem, might result in no end of trouble. For one thing, it would have every German and Italian plane within range out hunting for the Victory. And that would put us in a pretty bad spot, if we were caught so far away from the main body of the fleet. And—By the way, what I've just said doesn't change your desire to tackle the job, does it?"
Neither of the boys said anything. They just sat there looking at him quietly. The group captain flushed faintly and smiled.
"Sorry, lads," he said. "Just thought it was up to me to ask, you know. But, back to the job. The minute you leave the flight deck you will be on your own. You will have extra tanks that should last you about eight hours. You will have your guns, and such, in case you do bump into Axis winged trouble. You will have a camera and plenty of plates. You won't have a radio, though, because to use it might give your position away, and the Victory's, too. There must be no radio contact between you chaps and the Victory. Another part of your equipment consists of items I hope you will not be called upon to use. Briefly, they are water flasks, emergency rations, pocket compass, sun helmets, service automatics, and one or two other things."
"Say, could I make a suggestion, sir?" Dave suddenly spoke up as the senior officer paused. "It might help in case we did run into trouble and went down."
"Certainly you may make suggestions," Group Captain Spencer said with a broad smile. "My word, you chaps are doing the show, you know. What is it, Dawson?"
"The clothes we wear, sir," Dave said. "Why not go all the way in fooling them about a connection with the Fleet Air Arm and the Victory? Why couldn't Freddy and I wear regulation desert infantry or machine gun company uniforms? Say, British, or Australian, or New Zealand? Uniforms from one of General Wavell's outfits?"
Group Captain Spencer looked impressed, but Freddy frowned slightly.
"But what about the plane, Dave?" he objected.
"Well, what about it?" Dave wanted to know. "If we can't set it afire in the air before we bail out—if we have to—we'll certainly destroy it as soon as we're on the ground. Later, if we are picked up, we're just a couple of infantrymen who got lost from a desert scouting patrol. See what I mean? What plane? Sure we saw a plane land and burn up, but it looked to us as if the poor devils in it burned up, too. See what I mean, Freddy?"
The English youth's face suddenly lighted up and he became all smiles.
"Sure, of course!" he cried. "Am I stupid! Not a chance in the world of them connecting us up with the plane and perhaps trying to force a story out of us."
"Right!" Dave echoed. "And as a couple of captured infantrymen, we won't be so important to them as a couple of captured airmen. They might not watch us so closely, and if we should get a break, why—Well, figure it from there."
"I say, hold it up a bit!" Group Captain Spencer cried. "I've half a mind not to let you tackle the show. My word, you've practically failed and got yourselves taken prisoners already. However, that's a good suggestion of yours, Dawson. I'll see Ship's Stores after we finish talking and have them fix up a couple of infantry uniforms for you. Now, get your eyes on this map again."
All three of them bent closer to the map, and the group captain continued speaking.
"Here's Wavell's most advanced outpost," he said, and pointed his finger, "here at El Aghelia, in the curve of the Gulf of Sidra. Eight hours after you take off the Victory will be at this point off the Libyan coast. See, I've written down the exact latitude and longitude. Take a good look, both of you, and get that location reading stamped in your brain."
Dave and Freddy repeated the figures several times to themselves until they were sure they would not possibly forget them. Then Dave looked at Group Captain Spencer.
"That point's only some thirty miles off Bengazi," he said, "and some three hundred miles east of the point where we'll take off. The Victory will have to do a lot of steaming to get there in eight hours."
"Yes," the group captain nodded. "But she can do it, with a bit to spare. I know what's in your mind, though. You're wondering why the Victory doesn't just put out to sea a bit, and then come in again to take you aboard?"
"I was wondering about that, sir," Dave admitted.
"Well, she's not going to do that for two reasons," the senior officer said. "First, because it will be daylight and it would be too much of a risk to cruise around so far to the west. We might be sighted by Axis planes crossing over from Sicily. The other reason is for your protection as well as ours. As you can see by looking at this map, your return flight will take you from El Aghelia up the eastern coast of the Gulf of Sidra to Bengazi and then on out to sea to our rendezvous point. That way you'll have less of an overwater flight to make to reach us. Also, if you are chased by enemy aircraft and get into trouble, you'll be in a position to make a run for a safe landing on British-occupied ground. The Victory will have an advance scouting plane aloft all the time, and if its pilot sees you in trouble the Victory will be notified at once so that she can make tracks away from the rendezvous area."
The group captain paused for breath and to light a cigarette.
"And that is another thing I want to warn you about," he said presently. "If you are chased by enemy aircraft, makeno attempt to reach the Victory until you have completely shaken off and lost all such aircraft. In short, and to sum it all up very bluntly, you have about two chances of making the scouting patrol a success as against ninety-eight chances of failing."
"One chance in forty-nine," Freddy murmured, and then shrugged. "Well, I fancy that's better than one chance in a hundred."
"Tell us this, sir," Dave said. "Supposing we have to land at Bengazi, or some other British held point, what then? I mean, how do we make contact with the Victory?"
"You don't," Group Captain Spencer said bluntly. "Not unless you have information of vital value to the Fleet Air Arm, or the fleet itself. Any information, and all pictures you obtain of Axis positions and so forth, you will turn over to the commandant of the Bengazi post for immediate transfer to General Wavell's headquarters. If your plane is in a condition to permit you to fly on to H.Q., then do so. The main thing, though, is to get the information and pictures to General Wavell's headquarters the fastest way possible."
"And if we have information of value to the Air Arm or the fleet?" Freddy prompted.
"In that event," the group captain said with a frown, "we'll have to take a chance on the Bengazi radio informing us so that we can arrange for some other point of rendezvous, or some way of your getting the information to us. But I repeat once again: the Victory is playing a sort of lone wolf game in this thing, and she cannot run any risk of being caught and sunk by Axis planes, or even seriously damaged. You don't build an aircraft carrier in a day, you know. And we all know we have all too few of them as it is. The loss, or a long lay-up, of the Victory would be a serious blow to the Air Arm as well as to the fleet. Naturally, I'm counting on you two—and all other pilots we may have to send out on this job—not to put the safety of the Victory in jeopardy at any time, no matter what the cost may be to yourselves. In fact—"
The senior officer paused and made a face.
"In fact, she may even play a dirty trick on you," he continued after a moment. "I mean, she may find it too dangerous to make a rendezvous contact with you—and won't be there when you show up. However, there is a very slim chance of that. If it does happen, you will try to make land if you possibly can."
Dave nodded, then looked at Freddy and chuckled.
"What's funny about that?" the English youth wanted to know.
"Not a thing," Dave replied, but kept a grin on his face. "It was just a crazy thought I had. The way this thing stacks up, you'd think the Victory doesn't want to see us any more. But we'll fool her, eh, Freddy? She can't toss us out into the cold, cruel world like that, can she?"
"I should say not!" Freddy said with a short laugh. "I like the Victory very much. The old girl can't give me the cold shoulder. No, not a bit of it."
"Now I'm sure of it!" Group Captain Spencer exclaimed with an abrupt nod.
The two pilots stared at him.
"What's that, sir?" Freddy murmured.
"That you'll jolly well come through this with flying colors," Group Captain Spencer said. "I've met a lot of chaps who right now would be worrying themselves sick and biting their nails over the danger possibilities of this venture. But the way you two—well, to use a bit of your American slang, Dawson—the way you two take it all in stride, and fun around, makes me feel sure that you'll come out on top. Chaps like you two worry about the dangers afterward, not before. You take care of things as they pop up, and I suppose that's the way it should be."
"Well, don't worry, sir," Dave said. "Freddy and I'll both be in there pitching."
"Eh, pitching?" Group Captain Spencer murmured with a frown.
"More American slang, sir," Dave explained. "It means, we'll be swinging all the time, right from the bell. We'll be right on the old beam—in the groove, and—Well, you know what I mean, sir."
"Er—er, yes, of course," the senior officer said a bit dubiously. "Oh, quite! Well, I guess that ends this session, unless either of you chaps have anything to ask?"
"Not me, sir," Dave said with a shake of his head. "I reckon I've got it all down pat."
"Me, too, sir," Freddy echoed with a nod.
"Right-o," Group Captain Spencer said, and crushed out his cigarette. "Go rest up a bit, now, and relax. I'll see about those infantry uniforms from Ship's Stores. Afterward we'll check over everything you're taking along. Right now, though, relax and try to get your thoughts on other things. That's all."
After the two boys had left, the group captain stared silently at the closed door of his quarters for a long moment. Then presently he smiled and nodded his head.
"Just youngsters," he murmured softly, "but, by George, they've got the fighting hearts and courage of a dozen men!"
A billion or so stars winked down on the long black shadow that was the Aircraft Carrier Victory sliding through the even blacker waters of the Mediterranean. A row of tiny pin points of light stretched the entire length of the starboard side of the flight deck, and at the stern end was a lone Blackburn Skua fighter-dive bomber with its prop slowly ticking over. In the forward pit sat Dave Dawson, and behind him in the gunner's pit was Freddy Farmer. Off to one side stood a silent, watchful group of flight deck mechanics. And on the stub step of one wing, with his head and shoulders inside the partly opened cockpit hood, stood Group Captain Spencer.
Everything possible that could be done, had been done. The plane, fitted with extra tanks to add to its cruising range and time in the air, had been checked and rechecked from propeller boss to rudder post. Every square inch of wing surface, every wire, every nut, and every cotter pin, had been carefully examined by expert eyes. The plan of flight had been gone over two or three times, and last minute instructions had been delivered. All was ready for the take-off. There was nothing more to be said or done. The success or failure of the highly important mission about to be made was strictly in the hands, the capable hands, of two stout-hearted, fighting Royal Air Force pilots, attached for special duty to His Majesty's Fleet Air Arm.
"Happy landings, you two," Group Captain Spencer said quietly, though his voice trembled with deep emotion. "We're all counting on you, and pulling for you. And—well, good luck."
The group captain quickly squeezed the hand of each and then stepped down and away from the plane. Dave grinned at him, nodded, and then turned his gaze to the instrument board. Every instrument received his intent scrutiny. Then finally he twisted around in the seat and looked at Freddy.
"Ready, little man?" he grunted.
The English youth snorted and shrugged.
"For what?" he demanded. "For tea to be served? You're certainly hanging around long enough for us to have some. Stop making the old girl wait! She wants to be rid of us—well, you, anyway."
Dave grinned, and winked.
"So we both feel the same way, eh?" he grunted.
"What way?" Freddy demanded.
Dave put a hand to the side of his mouth.
"My heart's bumping up against my back teeth, too!" he whispered.
"Aren't you right!" Freddy whispered back. "So hurry up and get us off this blasted carrier before we change our minds. It's the waiting that gets me down."
"But it's your old pal who gets youup!" Dave cracked, and turned front.
With a final look and a nod toward Group Captain Spencer standing with the flight deck mechanics, he kicked off the wheel brakes and slowly opened the throttle, or the "gate," as the R.A.F. boys call it. The Bristol Pegasus engine increased the tone of its song and the plane moved forward, picking up speed with every revolution of the engine. Dave pushed the stick forward, got the tail up and sent the plane streaking along the smooth deck on its wheels. A split second later the "Island" (the bridge and superstructure of an aircraft carrier) flashed by on his left. Another few seconds and he pulled the plane clear and the tiny row of pin point take-off guide lights on his right fell away.
He held the ship in a steady climb for a couple of thousand feet or so. Then he leveled off, banked around to the south, and set his plane on the first leg of his compass course. That done with, he pulled back the throttle to cruising speed, shifted to a slightly more comfortable position in the seat and put his lips to the flap-mike.
"Calling Crimson!" he said. "Plane off. Calling—"
He cut himself off short as Freddy's hand banged down on his shoulder. Right afterward he heard the English youth's words in his ears.
"A beautiful start of things, I must say!" Freddy shouted. "The lad is balmy, and talking to himself so soon. I say, Dave, save that until they put you in a padded cell, eh?"
"What the—?" Dave shouted, and then stopped short. "My gosh!" he then blurted out. "I'll never live this down with you around. Boy! Am I bright!"
Dave shook his head in a sheepish gesture and kept his face front so that Freddy couldn't see its bright color even in the faint pale glow of the instrument board light. He had started to radio check with Operations aboard the Victory only to have Freddy's descending hand and wise-crack wake him up to the fact that the Skua's radio had been taken out, and that he had actually just been talking into thin air. The flap-mike was fastened to the lower part of his helmet, but it wasn't hooked up to anything.
He mentally kicked himself all over the plane for being so stupid, and finally turned around to grin at Freddy.
"You want to change seats after that one?" he asked.
The English youth grinned, but shook his head.
"No, I think not," he said. "If that's the worst you do before we're back, everything will come out all right."
"It will come out all right!" Dave echoed in a rush of words. "This job means a lot, Freddy. We can't let the Fleet Air Arm down."
"We won't," Freddy said, and the look in his eyes said that he meant just that.
"Atta boy!" Dave chuckled. "That's the old fight. And don't worry, pal, I won't let you down, either. Gosh! I'd cut my throat if I did."
"Oh no, you wouldn't!" Freddy said firmly.
"No?"
"No, Dave, my lad," Freddy said, "because I'd jolly well cut it for you, see? Well, there's the first thread of dawn."
As Freddy spoke, he pointed toward the east off the left wing. Dave looked in that direction and saw the thin grey line low down on the horizon. It was the very first signal that the sun was on its way up for a new day. Like night, day comes fast in the Middle East. The first telltale grey line mounts and brightens, and then while you watch a blaze of color streams up over the horizon and starts racing after the shadows of night you can actually see if you turn to the west and look. It is something like the way thunder clouds look sliding down over the horizon before the slanting rays of the sun that has finally broken through—bright and golden to one horizon, and dark and murky to the other.
Letting the plane more or less fly itself, Dave sat staring toward the east and watched the dawning of a new day. In an abstract sort of way he wondered where Freddy and he would be when that sun coming up had made its journey across the sky and had slid down over the western lip of the world. Would they be safely back on the Victory? Would they be at El Aghelia, or Bengazi, or some other British Libyan outpost? Would they be down on the Libyan sands with nothing but a charred heap of wreckage for an airplane? Or would they—
He shook his head angrily as though to drive away the thoughts. They came creeping back to him, however. They sneaked up on his brain when he wasn't suspecting them. And little by little the dangerous side of this mission crept in to occupy his mind. Back on the Victory he had simply accepted as a matter of course that the flight would be fraught with danger. All flights made in war skies were that way. That's why wars were wars. So even after Group Captain Spencer's repeated words about the dangers involved, he had refused to give much thought to that angle of the venture.
He was giving considerable thought to it now, though, and much against his will. That there was an eerie trembling at the back of his neck, and that his heart pounded much too hard, made him furious at himself. His fury, however, didn't drive away the tantalizing thoughts. There, just a few miles ahead of him now, was the Libyan coast. Beyond were miles and miles of hot, blazing desert sands, dotted here and there by a native village so small you could drop it down into Times Square, New York, and hardly be able to find it again. And all of those countless miles of desert were held by the enemy, patrolled by them on the ground, and in the air.
The truth of the matter was that he and Freddy were heading straight into a world where neither man nor nature was their friend. The blazing sun, and the burning sands, were just as much their foes as a Nazi tank, or a Nazi plane, or a squad of desert troops. Their only friend, their only ally, was the Blackburn Skua and its 830 hp. Bristol Pegasus engine. The plane, the engine, and their own will and ability to survive.
"Hey, what are you shaking your head about? Something wrong?"
He turned at the sound of Freddy's voice and grinned reassuringly.
"Just thinking things over, and adding up the points on our side," he said. "You know me! Old Man Cold Feet, once I get started off on something."
"Stop fishing for compliments!" Freddy laughed at him. "Your feet aren't half as cold as mine. And—Uh-uh! Get us some altitude, Dave. Looks like some kind of a coastal patrol plane down there and to the right. What do you make of it?"
Dave leaned forward and to the side and stared downward in the direction of Freddy's pointed finger. A few thousand feet below a murky shadow was moving toward the northwest. Though the light was bad, the shadow was moving too swiftly for it to be any kind of a surface ship. It was a plane, no doubt about that. However, Dave didn't waste time to make sure whether it was British or Axis. He pulled the Skua's nose upward, and fed a bit more fuel to the smooth singing Pegasus engine.
"Maybe it's just two other guys!" he called back over his shoulder. "We'll ignore them just the same. Company's something we don't crave. All set with that camera, Freddy? The sun's coming up fast, and you never can tell how soon we might spot something."
"All set, and ready to start clicking!" the English youth replied. "You show me something, and I'll do the rest. I'm a whiz at this sort of thing, you'll understand."
"Let you know about that after I see some of the results!" Dave chuckled, and held the Skua in its long climb up over the coastline of Libya.
An hour later they were deep over the desert and the sun was a brassy ball that touched the sweeping sands below with fingers of fire. Dave's eyes ached and smarted from the constant glare, despite the sun lenses he had slipped on over the glass of his goggles. They had long since shoved open the cockpit hood, because, though it was uncomfortable in the steady beat of the sun's rays, it was like flying along inside a baker's oven when the hood was shut.
An hour's flight over the desert, and nothing but sand, sand, and more sand. Here and there dark streaks had marked rocky strips that pushed up through the burning sands. And a few tiny dots from their altitude were clumps of desert bush, and a dried up oasis or two. But they didn't sight a single village, though they strained their eyes until they ached almost unbearably. And as far as troops, tanks, and other motorized equipment went, they might just as well have been coasting around over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
There just wasn't anything below them but sand during the first hour of patrol. And the scene was not one bit changed at the end of the second hour. As a matter of fact, the scene was so much the same Dave had the crazy feeling they had been hovering motionless in the same spot of air for time on end. For the last twenty minutes neither of them had spoken a word. To talk was an effort and, besides, there was so little to talk about save the one thought that each kept to himself, the one gnawing fear within each. It was the mounting realization that failure of the mission was beginning to hover in the offing.
For two solid hours, during which time they had covered countless square miles of enemy territory, they hadn't sighted a single thing worth remembering. No troop depots, no desert outposts, no roving tank patrols, and not even any enemy aircraft. That last, the fact they had not sighted a single Italian or Nazi plane in the air, plagued Dave and caused the fingers of worry to play upon his tightly drawn nerves. True, they had not flown close to Tripoli, or anywhere near it. Perhaps Tripoli was overflowing with Axis planes and mechanized desert units. That wasn't the point. That wasn't the reason Freddy and he had been sent out on this scouting patrol.
The British High Command knew that troops and equipment had been assembled at Tripoli. What the High Command didn't know wasifany of those units had moved out into the desert, and where, and in what numbers. It stood to reason that the Axis High Command in Libya hadn't kept them bottled up in the Tripoli area for fear of surprise attack by Wavell's forces. That was foolish, if for no other reason than the fact that over four hundred miles of desert lay between the most advanced British outpost and the Tripoli garrison.
It was a dead sure thing that parts of the Axis forces had moved out into the desert, and had established communication lines with the main base. Yet—
"Yet there's not a single sign of them!" Dave spoke the thought aloud. "Not a gosh darn sign—unless we're stone blind, and can't see beyond our noses!"
"What did you say, Dave?" he heard Freddy ask.
He turned in the seat and shrugged.
"Just talking aloud," he said. "This business is getting me down. Why haven't we seen anything? Even a village would help. But it's all as blank as a sheet of paper—yeah, a sheet of sand paper. Look, Freddy, I'm just about making up my mind to something."
"To go back?" Freddy asked, and a worried look stole into his eyes.
"Back, nothing!" Dave snorted. "We've still got gas. We're not licked by a darn sight. No, that isn't the idea. Look, we've covered a lot of ground. If we've passed over Axis forces in any of the areas we've checked, then they must have tunneled out from Tripoli, by gosh, and are still underground. That's crazy, of course, so it leaves us one more thing to try."
"Well?" Freddy grunted as Dave paused. "I'm waiting. Let's have it."
"The Tripoli area," Dave said promptly. "Let's get us some more altitude and sneak up on Tripoli as closely as we can without being spotted. If we don't spot anything there, then we can be pretty sure that the Tripoli rumors are so much hog-wash."
"I doubt that last," Freddy said gravely. "The High Command must be pretty sure, rather, dead sure, that something's up, else Fleet Air Arm Command wouldn't have agreed for the Victory to pull out of line and go steaming off on its own."
"Yes, I guess that's true," Dave nodded, and scowled. "But I'm still in favor of sneaking up on the Tripoli area if we can. And for a couple of reasons, too."
"Such as?" the English youth prompted as Dave hesitated.
"Well, first for a look-see at the area," Dave explained presently. "Second because it will take us back toward the coast. It was still pretty dark when we flew in over the coast, and—well, it's just a guess that the Nazismaybe sneaking along the coastline. Maybe they're not circling down toward the south and up to flank Wavell's advance forces. Get what I mean?"
"Instantly!" Freddy exclaimed, and his tired eyes lighted up. "I'm tipping my topper to you, my lad. Yes, I believe you're right. They may be sneaking along the coast, just far enough inland to prevent observation from the sea. Yes, let's head back that way, by all means. Good grief, anything would be better than this tooting around over the blasted desert down there. It's like standing in front of a blast furnace with the door open!"
"Ten times worse!" Dave muttered, and started banking the Skua around and up in a climb for altitude. "Boy! I'd sure like to pick the next spot for Hitler and his big bums to invade. I'd get me a transfer to duty there so fast it would make your head swim."
"And where would that be?" Freddy asked.
"The North Pole," Dave said. "Gee! Nice cool air spilling into the cockpit. And a—Hey!Freddy!"
Dave bellowed the last and sat up straight in the seat. The English youth jumped in alarm and banged his head on one of the cowling braces.
"Good grief, what?" he choked out. "What's the matter?"
"Plenty!" Dave snapped back over his shoulder, and at the same time wheeled the Skua around in a quick turn. "Trouble in six different packages. To your right and up! Take a look! Busting down out of the sun. And they aren't sea gulls, either. Buckle your safety strap and get set, Freddy!"
The English youth did just that as he jerked his head around and squinted up toward the sun. He was blinded for a second or so by the brassy glare, but he performed the well known war pilot's trick that makes it possible to spot planes sliding down out of the sun. You close one eye and then hold the thumb of your free hand four or five inches in front of the eye you keep open. The ball of your thumb covers the sun and permits you to see planes diving down in its glare. You can't do it for very long because there is still enough glare to get into your eyes. However, you can stare in the direction of the sun long enough to spot what you want to see.
Anyway, Freddy pulled that sun "eclipsing" stunt and saw the six planes streaking down toward the Skua. They were just moving blurs at first, but in a second or so they took on definite shapes and outlines. He lowered his thumb and eyes and swung to man his rear guns.
"Three Nazi Henschel reconnaissance jobs!" he shouted at Dave. "And three Italian Breda Sixty-Fives. How in thunder did they get up there in the sun?"
"Don't ask me!" Dave called out, and slid the safety catch off his gun trigger button. "Maybe they've been up there all the time, and just now spotted us. I don't know. But, brother, I'm not going to bother about asking them. Hang on, Freddy! I'm first going to try and give them the slip. Gee! Running away from Muzzy pilots and Jerry pilots. But there'll come another day."
"That's what you think!" Freddy shouted. "It's already here, my lad!"
Freddy Farmer had not shouted a lie, nor had it been an attempt at a kidding wise-crack. Even as his words became lost in the roar of the Pegasus engine, the yammer ofRheinmettal-Borsigs, the German aerial machine gun, andBreda-Safats, the Italian aerial machine gun, filled the desert air. Out of the corner of his eye Dave saw tracer bullet smoke weave downward well clear of the Skua, and a tight grin of relief came to his lips.
The attacking planes had had the advantage of surprise, and they had been able to get in the first shots, but even with those two things in their favor the enemy pilots has missed badly. That made it instantly obvious that they were not seasoned air fighters.
"That's a small break for us, anyway," Dave grunted, and hauled the Skua up and around in a prop clawing climbing turn. "But there's still six of them, so this isn't going to be any waltz. Okay, Jerry, let this give you an idea you weren't invited!"
As the last left Dave's lips, he ruddered slightly to the left and pressed his trigger release button. His four Vickers guns cowled into the wing spat flame and sound, and a German Henschel, in the act of banking off to twist back and charge downward, was caught square in the burst of bullets. The Nazi craft seemed to jerk sideways for a split second. Then almost instantly it continued around and down—and kept right on going down, leaving behind a long trail of oily black smoke.
"And then there were five!" Freddy sang out. "Well done, Dave. Uh-uh! No you don't, my little Italian bambino! I've been waiting for you. Oh, very much so!"
Freddy Farmer's rear guns barked out their message of war, and one of the Italian Bredas was smacked on the wing like a clay pigeon. It acted as though it had been hit by a couple of battleship salvos instead of machine gun bullets. Or perhaps it was because the Italian pilot at the controls went a little bit crazy in his frantic efforts to yank his plane out of Freddy's deadly fire. At any rate the 870 hp. Gnome-Rhone fitted Italian Breda went spinning nose over rudder post across the sky. The violent maneuver was too much for the ship. The monoplane wings sheared off as though some invisible giant had slashed them off with a knife. Instantly the wingless fuselage pointed its nose downward and dropped like a bomb.
Freddy didn't wait to see if the pilot and gunner were able to bail out. The two other Henschels had swerved in close by then and were spraying the Skua with a shower of hissing bullets as Dave slammed the plane through a full roll and then took advantage of the British ship's superior speed and power and zoomed straight up at the vertical. The zoom maneuver completely threw the Henschel pilots off guard, and as the Skua rocketed upward Freddy swung his guns around and raked one of the Henschels from prop to tail. The German craft seemed to stop dead in midair. Then the starboard strut between the right bottom and top wings buckled in the middle as though hit with a sharp axe. A second later the two wings folded together. The plane lurched drunkenly off to that side and then slowly rolled over and down into a spin. That's the last either of the boys saw of it. There was still one Nazi and two Italian planes in the air, and the loss of the three other ships seemed to add to the savage fury of the attack of their pilots and gunners.
They slashed up toward the zooming Skua with all guns blazing. Dave and Freddy heard the nickel-jacketed bullets rip and chew their way into their plane. Twice the Skua seemed to falter, but each time it kept on going upward. Finally Dave shook his head and kicked the plane over and down out of its zoom and sent it corkscrewing off to the left.
"Can't shake those guys!" he shouted back at Freddy. "They must have hopped up their engines, or something. Anyway, they've got more speed and power than I figured. We've got to fight it out with them, Freddy. There's no chance to shake them off."
"Okay by me!" the English youth shouted back. "Just beginning to enjoy myself, anyway. Tell you what, Dave! Go after that German beggar. If we put him out of business I fancy those Italian lads won't hang around very long."
"Just the idea I had in mind!" Dave said with a nod. "Mussolini's pilots are tough on pigeons and maybe crows, but that's about all. Okay, there's the little Nazi. I'll smack him and force him to turn off. Then you give him the works as we go by. You know, the old team work!"
"Right you are!" Freddy cried, and crouched over his guns. "The old team work it'll be!"
Stepping hard on rudder, Dave sticked the Skua up on wing and hauled it around in a vertical bank to the right. The terrific speed of the turn caused his eyeballs to start to roll up backwards in their sockets, and for a split second or so he almost went blind, or had a "black-out," as the R.A.F. expression terms it. He eased off the speed of the turn, however, and the pinkish haze that was starting to film his eyes faded away until he could see clearly again.
"Hey, no more of that!" came Freddy's warning shout. "You'll have us blind as bats, maneuvering at such speed. Then we'll be easy pickings for those lads."
"Sorry, Freddy!" Dave sang out, and started to drop the nose. "Forgot for a second I had you along. Won't do it again."
"Be sure you don't!" Freddy cried. "Okay, Dave, let him have it! I'm all set for the finishing touches."
Dave didn't even hear the last. He had hunched forward and was giving every bit of his attention to the last Nazi Henschel biplane reconnaissance ship that was banking over and off the top of a power zoom. The instant it was square in his sights, he jabbed the trigger release button. He saw his tracers slice into the plane just in back of the B.M.W. 132 radial engine. Before he could rudder enough to bring the pilot's cockpit and the observer-gunner's cockpit into his sights, the German had wheeled to the left and down.
At perhaps a thousand other times that would have been the perfect maneuver for the German pilot to make. This time, however, was the exception. In fact, because of the Skua's terrific diving speed, the German pilot actually made the worst maneuver possible. Dave simply held the Skua in its thundering power dive and let Freddy Farmer do the rest. And the English youth was not asleep. He brought his guns to bear on the Henschel as they flashed by and practically cut the Nazi ship in two with his steady, relentless, furious fire. Flame shot out of the Henschel and leaped up toward the sky. A huge ball of smoke completely enveloped the plane. When the wind caught the smoke and blew it away, the Henschel just wasn't there any more. It was simply a shower of smouldering embers slithering down toward the blazing sands.
"I thought so, I thought so!" Freddy's wild cry came to Dave's ears. "There they go! And will you just look at those blasted beggars hop it! Three cheers for Mussolini and the Italian Air Force!"
Dave pulled the Skua out of its dive and twisted around to look in the direction of Freddy's pointed finger. What had been two Italian Breda Sixty-Fives a few moments before were now just two dots against the brassy Libyan sky, and becoming smaller and smaller as they moved swiftly toward the west. Even as Dave watched them, with a scornful grin of his lips, the two dots faded out of view completely.
"So now what?" he presently asked Freddy. "Do we head for the Tripoli area, or do we start drifting northward toward the nearest British outpost?"
The English youth didn't answer at once. He leaned forward and looked over Dave's shoulder at the instrument board. He frowned slightly and absently fingered the high speed aerial camera fitted to the right side of his cockpit and pointing downward through a port opening in the floor of the pit.
"I see that we've still another hour's flight in the petrol tanks," he said, looking at Dave. "Another hour before we have to head north for the Victory rendezvous. If you're asking me, I say let's head for Tripoli. Let's have a look along the coast, anyway. Hey! What the dickens are you chuckling at, you funny-looking ape?"
Dave wiped the grin off his face and looked surprised.
"Who, me?" he asked innocently.
"Yes, you!" Freddy said with a nod. "Out with it! What's so funny?"
Dave chuckled again and pointed at Freddy's hand still fingering the camera.
"You," he said. "What a guy! With maybe the fate of the entire Middle East hanging in the balance, all the lad can think of is taking pictures!"
"Rot!" the English youth exploded, but a faint flush seeped into his cheeks. "But, blast it, that's part of the job we're supposed to do, isn't it? And we both agreed that was our last chance, didn't we?"
"Okay, okay, little man!" Dave said, and raised a hand in token of surrender. "Keep your shirt on, and stop biting my head off. So help me, I'll find something for you to snap with your precious camera. I'll—"
Dave never finished the last. At that moment the Bristol Pegasus engine in the nose coughed and made a rasping sound that sent cold chills slicing up and down Dave's spine despite the burning glare of the desert sun. He locked eyes with Freddy for a brief instant and then twisted his head front and looked at the instrument board. The answer showed on the dial of the oil pressure gauge. The needle was swinging around the dial toward the zero mark like the floor indicator of an express elevator on the way down to street level.
"Well, I guess the blighters were darn good shots, at that," he heard Freddy comment as the engine coughed a couple of times more and then began to die out in a long metallic sigh.
An instant later it was as though an invisible little imp hiding under the engine cowling had stuck the end of a parted oil line through the instrument board into Dave's cockpit. A spurt of hot black liquid went streaming out and down past his legs. He jerked his legs aside in a flash, whipped off the ignition and yanked back the throttle in practically a continuation of the same movement. Then, as the oil ceased spurting back into the pit, he sticked the plane down into a long flat glide and turned to Freddy again.
"Can I let you off any place, sir?" he asked with a tight, forced grin on his lips.
Freddy blinked as though forcing back the tears of bitter defeat and failure that sprang to his eyes. Then he grinned weakly, and nodded.
"Why, yes, if you'll be so kind," he said. "On the deck of an aircraft carrier named Victory. You wouldn't mind?"
"Iwouldn't mind a bit," Dave replied. "But these horses we have up front don't want to work any more. Seriously, Freddy, what do you think?"
"About what?" the English youth asked in an innocent tone.
Dave scowled at him.
"Cut it out!" he growled. "You know what I mean. Okay, if you won't talk, then I will. We've got to destroy this ship, haven't we? Okay. I say the heck with bailing out and dropping down with all the stuff we'll need down there in the desert. Also, it may be hard to fire the ship before we go over the side. Let's land the bus and take our time selecting the stuff we want to take on the tramp back to—"
Dave stopped short, swallowed hard, and cast a quick glance down at the vast expanse of desert sand waiting below to receive them.
"Stuff we need on the walk back to the nearest British outpost," he finally finished the sentence. "Well? What do you say?"
"The same thing," Freddy said, and made his lips smile. "Didn't you hear me? Besides, I never did like jumping by parachute. Scares the life out of me, you know."
Dave looked at the cool, calm expression in the English youth's eyes, and at the grim set of his jaws.
"Yeah," he murmured with a chuckle. "I just bet bailing out scares the pants off you. And probably eating an ice cream soda does the same thing, you old soldier. Okay, then, we'll take the bus downstairs and sit down on the sand."
The two boys smiled at each other, but each could see that there was no joy in the other's eyes. Instead there was a look of bitterness and helpless rage that neither could keep from showing through. The one thing they had feared most had come to pass. Their Skua wasn't of any more use to them now. They were on their way down into the middle of a desert wilderness. And after what. Nothing. They had accomplished nothing during the three hours and some odd minutes that had passed since taking off from the flight deck of the Victory. For all the good they had accomplished, for all the enemy information they had obtained, they might just as well have stayed aboard the carrier.
It was no use trying to dodge the truth. They had failed in their mission completely, and now they were on their way down to battle for their lives against the enemy desert and the enemy sun.
"Thumbs up, Freddy!" Dave suddenly said in a steady voice. "We're not admitting defeat yet—no, not by a darn sight."
"Certainly not!" the English youth echoed. "I've always wanted to see what it was like in the middle of a desert, anyway. So take me down, my good man. I want to stretch my legs."
Dave grinned and winked and then turned front and gave his attention to flying. He circled the ship around and headed it due north at a gliding angle that was just a degree or two above the stalling point. Safety lay to the north, and the farther he could stretch the plane's glide in that direction the less the number of miles Freddy and he would have to plod over the desert sands.
Holding the ship steady, he hunched forward in the seat and stared hard and long at the uninviting expanse of desert that stretched out on all sides toward the four horizons. Half a dozen times he thought he saw dark splotches down on the sand—dots and darkish shapes that might possibly mark the location of a village, or perhaps even an Axis (German-Italian) desert outpost. But when he tried to get a better look, the rays of the sun reflecting upward from the shimmering sand made his eyes smart and water, and everything to swim around in his gaze.
Inch by inch he eased the plane downward as slowly as he dared, and used every bit of his flying skill to stretch the glide as far northward as possible. No airplane, however, can remain aloft without the use of its engine, and the Skua's engine was dead for keeps. And so after a certain length of time the desert was only a few hundred feet beneath the wheels he had cranked down out of the wing. At that low altitude the desert ceased to be flat and smooth as a sheet of ice. Dave saw that it was very much ridged by sand dunes built up by desert storms. And he saw also that there actually was considerable shrubbery about. But of course it was desert growth, and so bleached and whitened by the hot rays of the sun and the drifting sand that the stuff blended in perfectly with the sand. Unless you were practically down in it, you could very easily miss it altogether.
"Okay, Freddy, hang onto your hat!" Dave shouted as he eased the plane up out of its gliding angle and prepared to sit down on the sand. "This is it. Here we go!"
"Fire away!" came the English youth's reply. "I'm hanging on!"
For a couple of split seconds the plane hung motionless in the air as though it were suddenly reluctant to settle. Then it sank down the few remaining feet, bounced lightly twice, and rolled forward to a gentle stop. Dave didn't have to bother about applying the wheel brakes. The wheels sank two or three inches into the sand, and that action served enough for brakes.
As soon as the plane came to a full stop, Dave and Freddy started gathering up what few things they had brought in the event of just such an emergency as this. They tossed their helmets onto the cockpit floor and put on the small but very useful army pith helmets. They wiggled out of their parachute harness, and fastened their precious water bottles to their belts. They made sure that they had taken out every bit of the compact emergency rations brought along, and checked to make sure that they had knives, compass, and their automatics.
Finally they had everything they needed. Dave started to leg down onto the sand, but suddenly dropped back in his seat and stared at Freddy out of miserable eyes.
"I once saw a man shoot a horse that had broken its leg," he said in a strained voice. "He was really and truly crying as he pulled the trigger. I was pretty young at the time, and I couldn't figure out why he'd shoot the horse if it made him feel so badly. I thought at the time he must be crazy, and I got scared pink and ran all the way home without stopping. I know now why he shot that horse, and—and I guess I sort of know, too, just how he felt."
Freddy swallowed and nodded silently. Dave impulsively reached out and touched the cockpit rim with his hand.
"Sort of like that horse, old girl," he mumbled in a low voice. "We can't leave you here to fall into enemy hands. So we've got to put you out of the way—yeah, sort of out of your misery, I guess you could call it. The desert, and the Nazis, would only do you harm, if they found you. So—so long."
"Let's get on with it, Dave," Freddy said after a moment's silence, and legged out onto the sand.
Five minutes later the Bristol-powered Blackburn Skua was an inferno of flame and black smoke that towered high up into the brassy desert sky. Dave and Freddy were many yards away, heading northward. Not once did either of them turn their heads to look back at the blazing plane that the fortunes of war had forced them to destroy and abandon.
"Well, I've had my fill!" Freddy gasped. "I can jolly well tell you, I've had my fill."
The two pilots had been tramping across the sand for a little over two hours, and Freddy Farmer had suddenly come to a halt and wiped a bucketful of sand-washed sweat from his face. Dave stopped and looked at him questioningly.
"Fill of what?" he asked. "What do you mean, or is the sun getting you?"
"I said I'd always wanted to see what it was like in the middle of the desert," the English youth replied with a grimace. "Well, I've had a look, and I can tell you I'm fed up with it, no end. How far do you think we'll have to go with this sand walking business, anyway?"
"Oh, not so far!" Dave said in a cheery voice. "Eight or nine hundred miles, I guess. Maybe an even thousand."
Freddy shot him a look of withering scorn.
"Only that far?" he snapped. "I thought it would be at least a couple of thousand miles. If what you say is true, we should be there by sundown, easy. But, no fooling, Dave, I'm done in something awful. I could sit down and rest for a week."
"Me, too, Freddy," Dave agreed. "But if we sit down here on the sand under this sun, we'll be fried to a crisp. Come on, fellow, up and at 'em, huh?"
"Who said anything about sitting down here?" Freddy said indignantly, and pointed. "Look over there. Lots of desert bush, and plenty of shade for both of us. What do you say?"
Dave scowled and looked in the direction of Freddy's pointed hand. He himself was also desperately tired, and he knew that to continue on under the blazing sun would take more out of the two of them than they could spare. Yet some inner force urged him to go on; to keep Freddy moving forward. Why, he had not the slightest idea. There was just some little voice within him that begged, pleaded, and commanded him to keep on moving northward.
"They sure look inviting, Freddy," he said in a weary voice as he eyed the huge clump of thick desert bush about a hundred yards away. "But I've got a hunch that we should keep going."
"You and your hunches!" Freddy groaned. "What difference does half an hour make, I'd like to know? Don't get the idea I'm being a quitter, Dave. Nothing like that, really. Fact is, I'm trying to be sensible. We're not trained for this sort of thing. If we bite off too much at one time, we may pay dearly for our foolishness. Let's rest a bit in the shade of those bushes, such as it is, and then have another go at this blasted tramping."
"Okay," Dave finally relented. "I guess you're right at that. No sense burning ourselves out this early in the game. Okay, we'll—Hold everything, Freddy!"
As Dave shouted the last he put up both hands as a shield for his aching eyes and peered hard toward the northwest.
"What is it, Dave?" Freddy cried eagerly. "What do you see?"
"I don't know," Freddy said slowly. "I'm not sure at all. Take a look in the direction I'm pointing, Freddy. Call it a mile, or so, over there. What do you make of that darkish streak over there? Say! That's a ledge of rock, and covered with desert bushes, or I'm a Chinaman."
Freddy cupped his own hands to his eyes and strained them in that direction.
"You're no Chinaman, Dave!" he cried presently. "That's rock sure enough. Looks like a plateau split right down through the middle, but you can't tell in this blasted sun."
"What do you say we make for it?" Dave said. "If it's what it looks like, it'll give us more shade than those desert bushes over there. And the sun is getting close to high noon in that darn sky up there. In an hour or so your bushes won't be worth a darn. What do you say? Shall we pull up the old socks and try to reach that place, huh?"
Freddy sighed and shrugged resignedly.
"Right you are," he murmured. "But I certainly wish I could learn to say no now and then to your wild propositions. I'd certainly save a lot of wear and tear on myself. Right-o, my little hero. Lead the way. I'm right at your heels. Phew, if these poor blistered feet of mine were only walking the flight deck of the Victory right now. How wonderful, how delicious that would be!"
"Shut up!" Dave growled at him, and started plodding across the seemingly endless expanse of sand. "You'll have me blubbering like a kid in a minute."
A little under an hour later, the two boys had very definitely learned something else about the Libyan desert, or any other desert, for that matter. It was that, when you think some spot is a certain number of miles away from you, you can just multiply your guess by at least six, and the answer willstill be lessthan the actual distance. The glare of the sun, the shimmering heat waves rising up from the sand, plus the flatness of the desert, fool you completely when it comes to judging distances between two points.
"This is sure a long mile!" Freddy broke a five minute silence. "Or have we been walking in circles? My compass says not, but maybe the heat's got it, too."
"You and me both!" Dave groaned, and nodded his head. "It's been looking only a mile away for the last twenty minutes. I'm sorry, Freddy. I guess the desert is a tricky spot. How're you doing? We've got to keep going now, you know. If we stop, we're done for."
Freddy wiped hot hands across his equally hot face. There was not even the comfort of sweating, now. No sooner did a bead of sweat ooze out on their bodies than the heat dried it up. From head to foot every square inch of their skin felt like a piece of bacon in a frying pan that a good housewife forgot all about before she left for the movies. Even though they wore desert sun glasses, their eyes felt as though they were exposed to the direct rays of the brassy ball of fire in the sky. Each step was an effort, for their leg joints seemed sapped of all body lubricants. And every now and then, to add to their torture, a little flurry of wind would spring up as though by magic and hurl a swirling cloud of hot stinging sand directly into their faces. However, each new little discomfort that rose up to torture them only served to feed fuel to the flame of resoluteness and grim determination that burned within them.
"Am I right or wrong, pal?" Dave asked when Freddy did not speak.
"Your turn to shut up!" the English youth grunted. "I'm not quitting until you do, my American friend. Matter of fact, though, I think the blasted spot does seem a bit closer."
"Me, too," Dave cried, and increased the pace. "Come on, Freddy. The old whirlwind finish. Yes, itiscloser. I'd say only about—"
"Don't say it!" Freddy begged. "Let's stop guessing and not break our hearts. Let's just walk. What's the matter? Can't you go faster than that?"
Dave grinned happily as the English youth increased his stride and went sailing into the lead. Just like old Freddy Farmer. Groans and gripes a bit, and then before you know it he's making you look like the one who's groaning and griping.
"Tough guy, huh?" Dave chuckled, and drew up on a level with Freddy's shoulder. "Maybe you want to sprint the rest of the way? Well, skip it, pal. This pace is fast enough for me. Boy! Only a couple of minutes more. And look, Freddy! It's like a regular cliff. Two cliffs, with a valley in between. Gosh! What do you know! A canyon cut into this darn flat desert."
"Think again, Dave," Freddy said with a smile. "Better still, turn around and take a look. I did. We've really been walking uphill, to the top of a plateau formation of ground. Those cliffs are the two sides of a crack that time has made in the plateau formation of ground. Just as unexplainable as why you suddenly come across an oasis with water and palm trees in the middle of a barren desert."
At Freddy's suggestion Dave turned around and looked back in the direction whence they had come. It was then he realized the truth of the English youth's words. Instead of standing on a flat, almost shapeless desert, they were actually standing near the crest of a long sloping hill. True, the slope was marked by countless sand dunes kicked up by the desert winds, but it was still easy to see that they were a good couple of hundred feet higher than they had been when they'd started out. To make sure it all wasn't just a trick his eyes and the desert sun were playing on him, he turned front again and looked at the brownish slash that marked the split in the plateau and formed the escarpment. The brownish slash in the desert was the highest piece of ground before his eyes. Beyond, he could see only Libyan sky and the brassy glare of the sun. That was so because he was actually looking uphill.
"Well, what do you know!" he exclaimed, and grinned at Freddy. "No wonder my legs feel ready to drop off. We've been plowing uphill and didn't know it."
"The desert is full of tricks," the English youth said with a shrug. "And all of them mean ones, too. Well, let's get on with it. Won't be long now."
It turned out to be longer than that, however. Another twenty minutes passed by into time history before they reached the top of the escarpment and stood looking down its side. The canyon was about seventy-five yards long, perhaps thirty-five feet deep, and a hundred feet wide at the top. The two sides were formed of jagged rock with treacherous spots of crumpling sand-stone here and there. There was plenty of brush and shrubbery about, however, and it was thick enough to cast patches of shade regardless of the burning rays of the sun. One point struck them at once as being an ideal spot where they could relax and rest until the sun was deep in the west, and the cooling winds of night were beginning to steal across the desert. It was to their left and about halfway down. A shelf of rock jutted outward a bit. As a matter of fact, it was really two shelves of rock that jutted out. The bottom one served as a platform upon which to rest. And the top shelf, rimmed with thick desert bush, served as a roof, a sort of canopy for the shelf lower down. Fortunately the side of the escarpment was not too steep to make it impossible for them to reach the lower shelf.
"That's us, Freddy!" Dave exclaimed, and pointed to it. "We'll get down there and be cliff dwellers until it's cool enough to start getting underway again. I vote that we get down there pronto, and have a bit to eat and a little water. That's our biggest danger—water. We must save every drop we can. Who knows when—"
Dave stopped short, and a horrified look leaped into his eyes. He pointed his finger at Freddy and worked his mouth, but no words came from his lips. The English youth stared at him and impulsively recoiled a step in surprise and amazement.
"Dave, what's the matter?" he gasped out. "Dave! Come out of it! What in the world?"
Dave gulped and shook his head as though to snap himself out of his stunned trance.
"Your water bottle, Freddy!" he blurted out. "Look! It's leaking! The canvas cover is dripping wet at the bottom. When did you do that?"
The English youth didn't bother to reply. He reached down and took hold of the canvas-covered water canteen slung at his belt. The bottom half was dripping wet, though the burning rays of the sun were doing their best to drink up every drop of moisture. As Freddy tilted it bottom side up, both boys saw the tiny slash in the canvas covering and the even smaller crack in the metal underneath.
"I can tell by the weight," Freddy said in a tight, strained voice. "There's no more than a cupful left. Talk about luck! Blast it!"
Dave nodded and said nothing. There was no mystery as to how the canvas had been slashed and the metal canteen split so that the precious water had seeped out a drop at a time as Freddy plodded across the sands. It was obvious that a made-in-Germany bullet, or a made-in-Italy bullet had done the work. A stray bullet, a bullet in a thousand during that air scrap had cut through into the Skua's cockpit and nicked the bottom of Freddy's water canteen. It had creased the metal, but not enough to leave an opening through which the water could escape. No, it hadn't cut all the way through, but later the bumping of the canteen against Freddy's leg as he trudged across the sand had caused the paper thin layer of metal left to part and crack and allow the water to seep through.
"Blast the Jerry or Muzzy gunner who did that!" Freddy grated through clenched teeth.
"I'm hoping it was one of them we got!" Dave grunted. "Well, my water canteen's still okay. We'll just have to go extra easy with the drinking. It's not your fault, anyway. Let's forget it and get down there. I'm beginning to feel more like a grease spot every second. We'll split what's in your canteen for our first drink, and then take turns at mine, later. Come on. And hold that canteen bottom side up as you climb down."
"Have no fear of that!" the English youth said grimly. "It would have to be mywater canteen, wouldn't it! It couldn't be my leg, or an arm, or maybe my neck."
Dave laughed and slapped him on the back.
"Chin and thumbs up, pal!" he cried. "Forget it! We'll just make believe we're a couple of camels. They go for days without water, you know."
"Oh, quite!" Freddy grunted. "But who wants to be a blinking camel? However, right you are. Let's get out of this sun, anyway."
Ten minutes later the two boys had safely reached the shelter of the lower ledge of rock. It wasn't cool and comfortable, by any manner of means. As a matter of fact, it was something like squatting down on the top of a stove that hasn't been out for very long. Regardless of that, however, it was like an icebox compared to the direct rays of the blistering sun above, and the blistering heat of the shifting sands beneath their feet.
"Boy, oh boy!" Dave sighed wearily. "The first thing I'm going to do is get off these shoes. What I wouldn't give for the Kind Fairy to wave her magic wand and create a nice, cool babbling brook to dip these dogs in. Gosh! I—"
"Hold still, Dave!" Freddy suddenly cried. "Hold still! Don't move a muscle!"
Dave, in the act of putting his hands in back of him to serve as a brace while he arched his body backwards, froze motionless and look wild-eyed at Freddy.
"What's the matter?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Freddy didn't reply. He simply shook his head, and picked up one of his shoes he had taken off. He gripped it by the toe and leaned slowly around in back of Dave. Then in a sudden movement he cracked the heel of the shoe down on the rock with a resounding smack.
"There!" he breathed, straightening up. "That takes care of that little beggar."
"Hey, what gives, anyway?" Dave gulped and frowned. "You playing games or something?"
"Hardly!" Freddy said dryly. "I was simply saving you a lot of pain, and perhaps something worse than that. Take a look."
Dave twisted around, half expecting to see a squad of Nazi soldiers crouching behind him. What he really saw was the mashed body of a three-inch long lizzard-like creature. It looked like a cross between a lizzard and a grasshopper, and there was a suggestion of a lobster about it, too. The body was long and tapering, like that of a lizzard. At the head two tiny horns with lobster-like claws at the end stuck out in front. And there were four long legs on either side of the body.
"Gosh, what's that?" he asked. "Some kind of a desert bug?"
"The worst you can meet in the desert," Freddy replied. "It's a scorpion. See that barbed point that forms the end of his tail? That's his stinger. You can see it's sort of hook shaped. Well, he strikes with it by whipping it up over his back. Five minutes after a scorpion stings you, you're in horrible pain, and your whole body begins to swell up. It can easily be fatal unless you get medical attention at once. You were about to put your hand right down on top of it, my friend."
Dave's face paled, and he shuddered violently.
"Gee!" he breathed in an awed tone. "Gee whiz! Remind me to remember you in my will, Freddy. Gosh! The enemy is just a small part of what you have to fight in desert warfare, I'll say. Boy, oh boy, Freddy, you're my pal for life, and no fooling. Wow."
"I was just lucky enough to spot it in time," Freddy said. Then, getting to his feet, "I think, though, we'd better search this place to see if it has any brothers or sister hanging around. In case I do fall asleep, I'd hate to wake up with one of the beggars sitting on my nose."
"Sleep?" echoed Dave, as they started searching the shelf of rock, and gripped a shoe ready for action. "I won't do any sleeping. After that close call I'll have the jitters for a week."
Freddy just grinned and said nothing. The search took about fifteen minutes, but no brother or sister scorpions were found lurking about ready to avenge a death in the family. So presently they relaxed again, ate some of their emergency rations, and each drank half of the water left in Freddy's bullet-creased canteen.
"Well, that sure helped," Dave said, leaning back against the shelf wall. "I'm beginning to feel like a new man already. Now, if that sun will only slide into high gear and get across that sky, everything will be jake."
"Don't hurry the sun," Freddy murmured, and stretched out. "I'm perfectly comfortable right here. It can take as long as it likes. But it's a bit of a mess, isn't it, Dave? We sure let the Victory down."
"Yeah," Dave grunted, and felt his eyelids growing strangely heavy. "We sure turned out to be just a couple of foul balls. But we're not licked yet. We've got our strength, something to eat, and some water. Maybe when it gets a bit—gets a bit—a bit cooler—"