"What's the matter?" the English youth gasped. "Are you paralyzed? Come on, Dave! No telling when they'll come back."
Dave shook his head, took hold of Freddy's arm and pulled him down onto the sand.
"Nix, Freddy!" he admonished. "Sit down and start eating. The hunch just hit me right between the eyes. This isit, Freddy!"
"This is what?" the English youth demanded angrily. "Listen, Dave, if—"
"Shut up, and eat!" Dave cut him off. "This is the surprise.I'm sure of it. The colonel's little surprise. Don't you get it? They don't believe our story about the British plane crashing, and the two fellows in it burning up. They thinkwe'rethose two chaps. Get it? So that Messerschmitt is the colonel's little trap. I'll bet you every dollar I ever hope to have that they're waiting and watching for us to make a break for that plane, and have got a couple of machine guns trained on it in the bargain. It's up to us to fool them, and stay put."
The annoyance and anger slowly and reluctantly faded from the English youth's eyes. He looked at Dave, then looked sadly out at the plane.
"Of course you're right, Dave," he murmured after a moment or two. "I'm a blasted fool, and almost ran us into something. Yes, you're dead right, Dave. Oh, well, let's eat. At least that's something to do!"
They had been eating for about ten minutes when their guard suddenly appeared in front of the tent. He glared at them for an instant and then motioned with one of his hands.
"Herr Kommandantwants to see you," he said in German. "Come!"
The two boys didn't move a muscle. They simply looked blank and puzzled until the guard made motions that even a blind man would have understood. Then they slowly got to their feet and walked out of the tent.
The German colonel was flanked by his major and two Nazi Air Force pilots. All of them stared flint-eyed as the guard ushered the two boys into the headquarters tent. They returned stare for stare and waited for somebody to speak. The colonel seemed to be trying the silence and hard eye cure on them, for it was a good three minutes before he opened his mouth. Dave had the crazy urge to laugh in the man's face, and if the situation hadn't been so deadly serious he probably would have. German officers have never taken any prizes for good looks, and the colonel was certainly at the bottom of the list.
"Tell me your story again!" he suddenly snapped out, and nodded at Dave. "Yes, you, my little American."
Dave hesitated a moment as though to get the facts straight in his mind. Then he slowly told a story identical with everything that he and Freddy had said before. The Germans listened in silence, but a sneer twisted the colonel's lips by the time Dave had finished.
"So?" the German commandant echoed in a purring tone. "You did not arrive at the crash in time to save the two Englishmen in it, eh? They were unfortunately burned up alive?"
A warning bell sounded in Dave, and the familiar tingling sensation was at the back of his neck. He was sure that he and Freddy were being trapped, but he was helpless to do anything about it. The only possible thing he could do was to stick to their story.
"They certainly looked burned up to me, sir," he said.
The colonel smiled, and his slitted eyes held a triumphant glitter.
"You were very clever not to take advantage of the chance just now to try and escape in that Messerschmitt plane," he said with a leer. "Very clever, because you would most certainly be dead now if you had made such an attempt. However, you do not fool me a bit. Infantry officers, eh? Bah! Do you think we are fools, you swine?"
Both Dave and Freddy had the sickening sensation of the ground falling away from under them. They forced themselves to keep dismay from their faces, however, and stared puzzled-eyed back at the colonel.
"What is that, sir?" Freddy presently asked in a surprised tone. "You—you thinkwewere in that plane? But that's ridiculous! Those two poor chaps burned up. They died! We saw them with our own eyes. Look at these cuts and scratches on my hands. I got them trying to save those R.A.F. lads. I don't understand what you mean, sir!"
"You understand perfectly!" the colonel said harshly, and stabbed a thick finger at him. "Yes, you would like me to believe your story, but I don't. You see, I have other proof. You probably injured your hands on rocks and desert brush, butnotfrom trying to save two British airmen. They didn't burn up and die in their plane!"
"Say, what is this?" Dave choked out with forced dumbfounded amazement, though his heart was actually sliding down into his boots. "Who says they didn't burn up?"
"I do!" the colonel thundered in a voice that was probably heard 'way back in Tripoli. "These two German pilots have just returned from an inspection of that crash. I radioed Tripoli last night for that to be done. They have just arrived and made their report to me!"
The German paused and bent the eyes of death on the two boys.
"They found no charred bodies in that crash!" he suddenly spat out in their faces. "They found goggle glasses and rims in the burned cockpit. They found radio earphones of burned helmets. They found the remains of a camera—something that is only carried in that type of plane onspecialoccasions! They found parachute harness buckles and clasps. They found lots of things that the occupants of that plane left behind whenthey set fire to their craft!"
"Set afire, my hat!" Freddy blurted out. "I tell you we saw it crash and burn up!"
At that moment one of the German airmen shook his head and said something to the colonel so fast that neither of the boys could catch what it was. The colonel nodded and broadened his leer.
"Stop lying!" he snarled. "You are caught. The plane did not crash and burn up.HerrCaptain, here, has just told me that the marks in the sand show that the plane made a good landing. There were also other marks in the sand.Two sets of footprints leading northward from the crash!"
The German commander thumped his fist down on the table in front of him and glared at the two boys out of eyes fitted with dancing shafts of lightning. Dave could almost feel every drop of blood drain down out of his body. His mouth went bone dry and his leg joints seemed to turn to jelly. It was all he could do to hold himself erect. He glanced at the German pilot who had spoken, and in that moment he would gladly have given anything to get his hands about the man's scrawny, leathery-skinned neck.
"So what?" he suddenly shot out, returning his gaze to the colonel's face. "If you think we're R.A.F. pilots, then that's your mistake. So what?"
The colonel's eyes flew open a bit in stunned surprise. Anger flooded his face with a fiery red. Then just as quickly the anger faded and he laughed harshly.
"American bluff!" he snorted. "I have heard of that, but it will do you no good. No good at all, do you hear? I know all about you now, and—"
The colonel leaned forward and thrust out his jaw.
"And I shall deal with you as I would any other spies!" He fairly crammed the words down their throats.
The boys blinked, but that was the only outward sign they gave of the conflict of emotions that raged within them.
"Yes, deal with you as spies!" the German repeated. "And I know a very nice way to deal with spies."
"We are not spies," Freddy spoke up quietly. "We are no more than prisoners of war. We demand we be regarded as such. Or do the recognized rules of warfare mean nothing to you?"
Dave expected to see the German fly into a rage at Freddy's final outburst, but such was not the case. The colonel's face became hard as a disc of frozen ice. His eyes were pin points of flame that licked out from between the lids. He gave a curt shake of his melon-shaped head.
"No, they mean nothing to me!" he said, tight-lipped, and flung one arm out in a circular gesture. "Here in this desert I hold the supreme command. HereIam theFuehrer, the Leader. My word is law. To disobey means instant death. My officers and my troops know that, too. No, I make my own rules. And when I order, you to be shot—you will be shot!"
Dave knew, as Freddy knew, that it was foolish and a waste of time to pose as infantry officers any longer. The game was up. Well laid plans and precautions had availed them nothing. They had failed. An inspection of the burned up plane had knocked the props right from under them. Their future was in the laps of the gods. No plans and preparation now. They could only fall back on fast thinking, fast action and prayer.
"Okay, go ahead and shoot!" he told the German defiantly. "Our job is done. Our reports are now in the hands of the British High Command. Sure! We've done our job, and we're not afraid to die. Go ahead and shoot, and nuts to you and your whole gang!"
The German colonel gave him the kind of a look a wearied parent might give a spoiled brat, and slowly shook his head.
"It is no use, my little fool American," he said. "You only waste your breath seeking to fool me. Whatever your mission was, I know that it failed. It failed because you did not return to your base. You landed in the desert, and very stupidly allowed us to take you prisoners. And you made no code report to your superiors because there was no radio in your plane. These German pilots made sure of that, too."
The colonel turned to them, repeated the statement in German and watched the two pilots shake their heads vigorously. Then suddenly the colonel whirled around as Freddy burst out laughing.
"And what is so funny, my swine Englander?" he snarled.
Freddy didn't even look at him. He looked at Dave instead and grinned broadly.
"Well, I guess we lose that bet, Dave," he said. "But I have to laugh when I think of Jones and Barker in that other patrol plane trying to collect from us. I don't fancy they'll come out this way again looking for us."
"Not a chance," Dave replied quickly, playing up to Freddy's lead. "They're safe and sound at Wavell's base now. They'd be crazy if they didn't stay there until Zero Hour."
"What's that?" the German colonel shouted, and came part way up out of his chair. "Another patrol plane? Zero Hour? What do you mean?"
Dave fairly leaped at the opening the German's questions presented.
"Oh, nothing," he said with a shrug. "We were just kidding to see what you would do. We were really alone. There wasn't any other plane along with us. Oh—Anyway,you didn't see one, did you?"
The German colonel didn't reply. He dropped back on his chair and eyed first one of them and then the other. Because his eyes were so well hidden behind the slits, it was impossible for Dave to tell what effect his lies had had upon the German. However, he was fairly sure that the man was puzzled; wasn't so sure of himself now, and was giving the matter very serious consideration. For a second Dave was tempted to carry on his crazy chit-chat with Freddy in the hope of befuddling the German even more. On second thought, though, he killed the urge and was content to let well enough alone.
"Another plane, eh?" the German muttered in his own tongue. "I wonder. It is of course possible, yet—"
He jerked his head around to the taller of the two German Air Force pilots.
"You took part in that air battle yesterday shortly after dawn," he snapped. "How many enemy planes did you engage?"
"Only one, a British Blackburn Skua," the pilot replied instantly. Then, as his face darkened from memory, he added, "I would have shot it down, myself, but I was flying as observer-gunner in one of the Italian planes. The weakling at the controls became scared and ran away."
"Those Italians!" the colonel said, and spat onto the sand. "Not one of them, including their fat dictator, has the courage of a newborn chicken. Bah! I spit on their flag! So there was no other enemy craft?"
"None," the German pilot assured him. "Only the one."
The colonel nodded and turned to the boys again.
"And if you had been lucky enough to return to—to General Wavell's base, as you think thatotherplane did," he asked softly, "just what would you have reported, eh?"
Dave opened his mouth to let fly with a wise-crack, but Freddy beat him to the punch.
"Your plan of surprise attack, of course," the English youth said quietly. "How you have fifteen motorized units hidden out here on the desert. And how you plan to make the surprise attack on the British garrison at Tobruk just before dawn tomorrow. And how you expect to take Tobruk from the English and thus trap all of the British forces that extend westward to Bengazi and the most advanced outpost at El Aghelia at the southern end of the Gulf of Sidra. Yes, those and a few other details. But it doesn't matter now about us giving the British High Command the information. The other two chaps have informed them, of course."
Had a thousand pound aerial bomb suddenly blown up inside the desert headquarters tent at that moment, no one there could have been more surprised. The German colonel's eyes bulged out, and his jaw dropped down so low it almost struck the top of the table covered with maps. Even Dave caught his breath and stared hard at his pal. The English youth simply smiled and shrugged, and appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. Eventually the German colonel pulled himself together and snorted aloud.
"Very clever, my little swine," he sneered. "For a moment I thought you did know something. But of course you don't. Nor does anybody else, for you two were alone."
Freddy Farmer shrugged again.
"Then it must be so if you say so," he said gravely.
The colonel reddened again. He clenched and unclenched his big fists and looked as though he were going to lose his temper completely and lash out at the young Englishman. He held his temper in check, however, and twisted his lips into a sneer.
"Perhaps you know some of the other details?" he asked, and watched Freddy's face closely.
"No, I don't, to tell the truth," Freddy replied calmly. "Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me. It's about the Italian fleet. I'm not sure what part it is to play in your attack plans."
The words scored another bull's-eye, that once again amazed everybody including Dave Dawson. Then, before anybody could speak, Freddy spoke again.
"Not that it matters," he said, "but are units of the Italian fleet to bombard Bengazi and Derna? Or just Tobruk? Of course, the British Mediterranean fleet will be there to greet them, but I'm curious to know, just the same."
The German colonel opened his mouth to bellow with anger, then suddenly snapped it shut. He smiled and looked at Freddy with almost a touch of admiration.
"My congratulations, my little Englisher," he said. "You are far more clever than I suspected. But your eyes gave you away just now. Too bad. You might have enjoyed yourself a bit watching me worry. But such is fate, eh? My surprise attack? I am quite willing to explain it to you. Dead men cannot talk, you know."
The German paused, and the cold glitter that came into his eyes seemed to touch Dave's heart like fingers of ice.
"You are quite correct," the German continued speaking. "There are fifteen desert units hidden out here on the desert. We have been in the desert for a full week now. And not one Englishman has known that we were here. Fifteen units. A mechanized infantry division, and a tank division. Over thirty thousand troops ready and eager to teach you Englishmen a lesson you will never forget. No, the Italians are not fighting your great General Wavell this time. This time it will be Germans—realsoldiers. And we will crush and annihilate Wavell's troops to the last man."
The German nodded savagely and thumped his fist on the table for emphasis.
"At Tobruk, at dawn tomorrow!" he shouted a moment later. "Tonight will be our last night on the desert. At dawn tomorrow the battle and victory. Nothing can stop us. Nothing shall! And within a week we shall be in Alexandria and Cairo. The British Northern African army will be shattered, and your great General Wavell's troops in Ethiopia and Eritrea will arrive too late. They will simply march into our waiting arms!"
"And the Italian fleet?" Freddy murmured as the other stopped shouting.
"They will do their little part to help with the bombardment of Tobruk," the Colonel said with an impatient gesture. "But we are prepared to carry them on our backs if we have to. And now, my little Englander, we speak of you. Does your American friend understand German, too?"
"We both speak and understand it," Freddy replied calmly.
Dave stifled a gasp of utter amazement just in time. As it was, he could not stop himself from jerking his head around and staring at Freddy out of accusing eyes. Freddy admitting they both spoke German? What in thunder had gotten into him? Yet the German colonel seemed to have known they spoke his language, or at least that Freddy did. What in the world—
"It is amusing to speak English," the German colonel's voice cut into his whirling thoughts. "So we will not change. Now I have given you a little information. It is your turn to give me some. I wish to be sure about the strength of the British garrisons at Tobruk, and Derna, and Bengazi. Also the British strength at Bardia, and at Sollum on the Egyptian frontier. You will give me that information?"
"Even if I knew, which I don't," Freddy said, speaking right up to him, "I most certainly wouldn't tell you a thing."
"Bravo!" the German cried in a mocking voice, and clapped his hands. "The little English pig is full of courage. Of course you wouldn't tell menow! Later, it will be different. You both will beg and scream for permission to tell me everything you know."
"That's what you think!" Dave spoke up for the first time in several minutes. "You've got another guess coming, if you ask me."
"I am not asking you, my American fool!" the German snapped at him. "You, and this little Englisher, will be asking me—yes, begging me to listen to all you have to say. And that will be a lot. Ah, sneer, and look very brave, if you wish, but tonight it will be different. Yes, much different. You two will come along with us tonight on our last march to our attack positions. But tonight you will not ride in one of the cars. You will walk and run behind my car. Your hands will be tied behind your backs, and there will be a rope leading from each of you to the rear of my car. It will not be pleasant, my little ones. Sand and exhaust fumes will get in your eyes, in your noses, and in your mouths. You will stumble and fall and be dragged through the sand before we can stop the car. The sand and the desert brush will peel the skin from your bodies. We will set you on your feet again, and continue onward. Presently, again you will stumble and fall, and again the sand will do its work. Again, and again, and again—until your brains crack and you beg me to listen to what you have to say."
The German stopped short, and his smile was as cruel as the smile on the face of Satan himself.
"Yes, you will talk tonight, never fear!" he spat at them. Then he jerked his head around to the major.
"Have the guard take them back to their prison tent!" he barked. "Perhaps when they have thought it over a bit, they will decide not to make me force them to speak. I am no murderer, but victory comes first! Take them away!"
When the two boys were back in their prison tent, and the guard had taken up his post, Freddy turned to Dave and looked at him out of sad and apologetic eyes.
"I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "I was a complete idiot, and I wouldn't blame you for shooting me. I guess I just couldn't resist throwing it into the blighter's face."
"Maybe you know what you're talking about," Dave said with a hopeless sigh, "but it's all just so much succotash to me. What gives, anyway? How did you find out about their attack plans? And for cat's sake, when did he find out we spoke German? Boy! Am I in a flat spin!"
"Then you didn't notice it?" Freddy asked in surprise. "You didn't see what I saw?"
"No, guess I'm blind as a bat," Dave said. "But let's cut out the guessing games. Tell me the works before I pass out with curiosity."
"Why, it was one of those maps on the table in front of him," Freddy said. "The one by his right hand. It was completely marked and showed the whole plan of attack. It was hard reading the notes he'd made because they were upside down to me. But I got most of them after a while, and filled in the rest with guesses. At the end there he saw me looking at the map and realized how I had found out so much. If only I hadn't let him catch me. I had the beggar mighty worried. I'm sure I had him actually believing that there was another plane with us, and that it got back to Wavell's headquarters. Blast the luck, anyway!"
"Well, I sure take the booby prize!" Dave groaned. "Sure, I saw the maps, but I was just dope enough not to give them a thought. Old Freddy Farmer with the hawk eye—and brains. But how come he figured you spoke German?"
"The maps, Dave, the maps!" Freddy said patiently. "All the notes and stuff were in German. He realized at once that I had read and understood them. Don't you see?"
Dave groaned again and threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.
"Look, Freddy," he said, "if I turn around will you give me a good swift kick? Boy, am I slipping! Yeah, I guess you were crazy to select me to come along with you on this trip. I'm a lot of help, I don't think!"
"Now, just cut that out!" Freddy snapped at him. "No one runs down my best pal to my face, not even you. It was just by luck I happened to notice the map, anyway. And look what small good it's done! That cold-blooded beggar wasn't fooling us, Dave. He's just the type to do what he says he'll do. And it's all my fault. If I'd only kept my mouth shut."
"It's your turn to lay off running down my best pal," Dave told with a grin. "What's done is done, as they say. We've just got to figure some way to beat him. One thing, anyway. We know the whole set-up now. Gosh! If we could only get hold of that map and get out of here—"
Dave let the rest trail off into silence and stared moodily out the opened front of the tent. The Germans were making an inspection of their equipment after the night's march across the desert. Fuel supply trucks were being unloaded, and squads of soldiers were refueling the tanks and armored cars and troop transports, while others were checking engines and guns, and making sure that everything was in order.
The two boys watched them for several moments, then suddenly Dave leaned close to Freddy and spoke in a whisper.
"We've got about one chance in a thousand, Freddy," he said, "maybe not even that much of a chance. But we've got to do something, and do it darn soon. Got any ideas, or suggestions?"
"Not a one," the English youth replied instantly. "But I can tell you have. What is it?"
"While one of us keeps this guard busy," Dave said, "the other has got to sneak over there to that fuel supply truck and touch off the gas and Diesel oil it's carrying, and get back here. Then in the excitement that follows, we've got to reach the headquarters tent, grab that map and get away in the Messerschmitt. What do you think?"
"I think it's like trying to fly to the moon," Freddy grunted. "But that doesn't mean I'm not game to try it. Just how do you expect to keep the guard busy while one of us sneaks over to that fuel truck?"
Dave didn't answer at once. He sat watching the squads of German soldiers move farther and farther along the line of trucks. Presently they were hidden from view at the far end of the line. He touched Freddy's arm, put a cautioning finger to his lips, and rose slowly to his feet. Before the English youth could stop him, Dave had moved forward with the speed of striking lightning. The guard had his back to them and was staring out across the camouflaged desert camp for a moment before resuming his pacing. In that split second of time allowed, Dave Dawson acted. He flashed out his right hand and plucked the guard's Luger from its belt holster before the German realized what had happened.
"Turn, and you're a dead man!" Dave warned him in German, and backed into the tent.
The guard checked his half turn and froze, the hands gripping his Mauser rifle turning white at the knuckles.
"Just keep walking up and down," Dave spoke to him in a steady, deadly voice. "Go ahead and raise an alarm if you want to, but it won't doyouany good, see? Your pals may shoot us, butyou'llbe dead before they can start shooting. Go ahead, now. Walk up and down some more—and hold that rifle just like you're doing.Barrel pointed up!"
As Dave held his breath, the guard hesitated a moment. Then his desire to go on living won out. He started pacing up and down in front of the prison tent, holding his rifle so that the barrel pointed to the sky.
"Good grief!" Freddy breathed softly. "I never would have believed it possible. That was wonderful, Dave. Phew! It was—it's left me weak as a kitten. It—"
"Then get strong, and pronto!" Dave ordered, and thrust the Luger into his hands. "I'm on my way to the fuel truck. Shut up, and don't argue. You keep that guard occupied. Don't let up on him for an instant. If worse comes to worse—shoot and duck out the back of this tent and head for the rear of the headquarters tent. Your shots will bring them running, I hope, and we'll still have a chance. But watch the guard and keep telling him how a bullet hurts. He's yellow, or he wouldn't have folded up just now. Okay, I'm on my way. Luck to us both, pal!"
Freddy started to open his mouth to protest, but Dave silenced him with a quick shake of his head.
"About time I did something for our team," he grunted, and moved toward the front of the tent. "You just hold everything. Be right back."
He took another step and flashed a searching look outside. The Germans checking their equipment were well out of sight by now. As a matter of fact, he didn't see a sign of a single German save the guard who marched slowly up and down with eyes that were saucers of fear.
"You're doing fine," Dave grunted at him in his own tongue. "Just keep it up. My pal is the best shot in the British army. He could split your backbone in two from that distance without half trying."
The guard shivered slightly but did not turn his head. Dave threw a final wink and a grin back at Freddy, and then went out of the tent and off toward the left with the speed of a shell leaving the muzzle of a gun. Legs working like piston rods, and body bent well forward, he streaked across a fifty foot open stretch of sand to the safety of the first of the parked tanks. There he halted for a brief instant, tore off a large piece of his shirt and pulled an army clip of waterproof matches from his pocket. Then he streaked forward again toward the nearest fuel truck. Tins of gas and oil had been taken out and placed on the ground. He grabbed hold of one and, working with the speed of lightning, untwisted the cap and soaked his torn piece of shirt with gas. Then he placed the piece of cloth close to the pile of tins. Crouching down, he struck one of his matches, tossed the flame down onto the gas-soaked strip of shirt cloth, spun around in a continuation of the same movement and raced for dear life back toward the prison tent.
He was still several strides from the tent when the flames reached the first of the gas tins. It exploded in a roar of sound, and brilliant orange red fire leaped up into the sky. Even as Dave dashed into the tent and snatched the Luger from Freddy's hand, a second and a third tin of fuel exploded. Dave didn't take time out to watch the fireworks display. As Freddy gaped at him open-mouthed, Dave twisted back toward the guard, who stood staring dumb-eyed at the flames, and cracked him back of the ear with the barrel of the Luger. The German slowly folded up and dropped to the ground without a sound.
"So he won't shoot when our backs are turned!" Dave barked at Freddy, and dived for the rear of the tent. "Come on, and put plenty of speed into your legs. It's make or break for us now!"
The English youth needed no urging. He dived after Dave, and they both squirmed out from under the rear side of the tent like a couple of snakes fleeing a flaming jungle. By then the whole desert camp was in a terrific uproar. Troops and officers were racing madly toward the fuel truck, which was now a towering column of flame and pitch black smoke that reached high up into the sky. Hoarse shouted orders flew thick and fast, and the soldiers fell upon nearby equipment like mad demons and tried to haul it farther away from the blazing inferno.
All that Dave and Freddy saw out of the corners of their eyes as they raced zigzagging toward the rear of the headquarters tent. They actually passed German troops rushing toward the fire, but not one of the enemy soldiers so much as gave them a glance. All eyes were riveted on the towering column of flame and smoke.
In less time than it takes to tell about it, Dave and Freddy had darted and twisted around tanks and armored cars and reached the rear of the headquarters tent. There they halted and strained their ears for any sounds inside. It was impossible to tell if there was anybody inside, however, because of the terrific din that rolled across the desert camp in ever increasing waves of sound.
Dave nodded to Freddy, gripped the Luger tightly, dropped to his knees in the sand and whipped up the bottom edge of the tent canvas. One look and wild joy flooded his face. Freddy saw that look and didn't bother to ask questions. Seconds later both were inside the empty tent and stuffing maps and papers inside their shirts. Another few seconds and they started to turn around and skin out the way they had entered. At that exact instant, however, a blurred figure came racing into the tent. Dave saw the flash of a gun coming up and let his body drop. At the same time he shoved Freddy with his free hand, and swung his Luger and pulled the trigger with the other.
Two shots blended together as one. Death hissed past an inch from Dave's nose and bored a hole in the rear wall of the tent. The blurred figure screamed with pain, dropped his gun and clutched wildly for his right shoulder. It was not until then Dave recognized the pain-twisted face of the German major.
"For the two punching bags you made out of us!" Dave barked at him in German, and then practically slid out under the rear tent flap on his stomach.
Leaping to his feet, he paused long enough to give Freddy a hand up, and then led the way at top speed toward the extreme rear of the camp. Once he reached it, he swerved sharply to the right and ran along behind a line of parked troop trucks. Presently he pulled up to a panting halt beside the last truck. The burning fuel truck was now far to his right and to his front. Directly in front of him, though, and not fifty yards away, was the Messerschmitt One-Ten. There wasn't a soul near it. Every jack man in the camp was busy fighting tooth and nail to stop the blaze of the fuel truck from spreading. Dave reached back and gripped Freddy's arm.
"I'll dive for the controls," he said, talking fast, "You dive for the rear pit and the guns. They've stopped the engines, but I'll kick them into life, and taxi away from here. You hold them back with your guns in case they start after us. Can't taxi too fast because of the sand. And I don't dare take off at once. Want to give the engines a little time to get turning over sweet. Okay?"
"Okay!" Freddy breathed. "And you'll get the Victoria Cross for this, if I've got anything to say about it."
"Just the flight deck of the Victory will be okay by me," Dave said grimly. "Right! Here we go!"
The fifty yards to the unguarded Messerschmitt One-Ten seemed more like fifty miles to Dave as he and Freddy sprinted across the sand. His heart hammered against his ribs, and not just because of his running efforts. With every step he expected to hear the roaring challenge and the sharp bark of rifles and Lugers speeding bullets toward him. With every step, also, a hundred wild, crazy thoughts flashed through his brain. Was the Messerschmitt in condition to fly? Was there enough gas in the tanks to take them to British held ground? Would the engines start? Would he be able to make a good desert take-off? Hundreds and hundreds of wild thoughts, each one stabbing his brain like a pin point of fire.
And then, suddenly, they had reached the German plane and had vaulted into the cockpit. Dave's fingers fairly flew to the starter buttons, the throttles, and other gadgets all marked in German. A soul torturing eternity dragged by, and then the twin 1150 hp. Daimler-Benz engines roared into life. The instant he heard the first peep out of the engines, Dave kicked off the right wheel brake, gunned the engines slightly and started the One-Ten moving around to the left. Every ounce of his flying skill was in his fingertips as he nursed the throttles and got the plane to moving faster and faster. Whether they had been seen, whether they were already being pursued and fired upon, he did not know. He didn't even bother to find out. He simply concentrated every bit of his effort on taxiing the Messerschmitt away from the desert camp and "nursing" the throttles so they would get maximum power out of the engines.
One moment—two—three—Finally the One-Ten was fairly skipping across the surface of the sand. A high dune rose up straight in front of Dave. He gulped, swallowed and pulled back hard on the control stick. The wheels seemed to stick to the sand for one last moment, then the plane practically leaped into the air, and the dangerous sand dune rushed by underneath. Dave whistled, wiped sweat from his face, and twisted around in the seat to look back. The desert camp was rapidly falling away and down. The column of flame and smoke from the burning fuel truck still mounted into the sky. He saw several other tongues of flame spitting his way, and realized at once that they were Germans trying to knock them out of the sky with rifle and machine gun fire. The bullets, however, weren't even coming close. And Freddy, hunched over the rear guns, wasn't even bothering to pull the triggers.
A moment later the English youth let go of his guns and turned front to grin happily at Dave.
"Clean as a whistle, Dave!" he cried. "The beggars are only just now realizing what happened. Good grief, don't ever remind me that this actually happened, because I won't believe you. Talk about your fairy stories! This is certainly one nobody would ever swallow."
"Oh, that was child's play!" Dave chuckled, and made a mocking bravado gesture. "You should see me when I'm really hot, pal. Heck! That was just fun. Let's go back and do it all over again just to make them madder, huh?"
Freddy made a face and stabbed a finger to the north.
"Just get goingthatway, and quickly, my friend," he said, "or I'll boot you out of that seat and take the controls myself. No, thanks! I've jolly well had all I want of the nasty Nazis for a while!"
Dave laughed and sticked the Messerschmitt out of its roaring power zoom, then banked around toward the north. He took one last look back at the desert camp that was now little more than a darkish patch on the distant desert, and then turned front and gave all of his attention to the instrument panel. The things he noticed brought a happy smile to his lips. The tanks were full, the engines were performing perfectly, and there was not the slightest indication that the plane would not carry them safely to British-occupied Bengazi.
Fate, however, had decided that such was not to be their good fortune. Fate, assisted by the radio back at the desert camp, and three Messerschmitt 109 single seater fighters sent streaking away from the nearest Nazi air base. Fate, plus the marvel of radio, plus the speed of Messerschmitt 109s. What Dave's instruments told him really didn't have anything to do with it at all.
The first indication that all was not to be nice, pleasant sailing came at the end of some thirty-five minutes, when Freddy suddenly banged him on the shoulder and pointed up and off to the left. He looked in that direction and saw the three dots high-tailing down out of the dawn sky with the speed of comets gone absolutely crazy.
"Company, Dave!" Freddy shouted. "The blighters got on the radio, of course, and contacted Tripoli air base. Looks like we're in for a bit of trouble."
"Not Tripoli," Dave said with a shake of his head. "Those birds couldn't have come this far so soon. Sure, they probably got on the radio, but to some spot much closer. If you ask me, it looks as if they've started moving the planes up closer. Set up a few emergency fields out in the desert so they wouldn't have to fly so far to give air support to the ground forces."
"That's probably it," Freddy agreed. "But right or wrong, it doesn't make any difference now. Think you can skip past before they catch up with us?"
Dave stared at the three dots coming down from the left and then glanced ahead at the seemingly endless expanse of desert. It stretched to the north as far as he could see, and there wasn't a single sign of any British outpost or desert village garrison. He couldn't tell for sure, though, because a strange copperish color was crawling up over the northern horizon.
"No, we can't fly away from them," he told Freddy with a shake of his head. "We'll have to make a running fight of it, and hope for the best. Okay, Freddy, they're asking for it, so let's give it to the bums."
Freddy made no answer. He went back to his guns and checked them to make sure everything was in order. Dave fed the two Daimler-Benz engines every ounce of gas they would take and eased the nose up to get as much altitude as possible before the three Messerschmitt 109s could close in from the left and give battle. The lull before the battle lasted less than a minute. Flying by hand, Dave kept his eyes glued on the diving attackers, and was set and ready the instant he saw the little stabbing tongues of flame dart out from the nose of each German plane.
In that instant he acted, and at lightning speed. He tossed the Messerschmitt One-Ten up over on wingtip and pulled it around in a steep bank and headed straight for the three One-Nines. It was obviously not what the German pilots had expected. They had undoubtedly counted on Dave to wheel around the other way and attempt to race away from them. So when, instead, they saw the "victim" plane flash around toward them and open up with a withering fire from the nose guns and two 20-mm. cannon, they broke diving formation at once, and each pilot tried frantically to skid out into the clear.
Two of the planes succeeded in doing just that. The center plane of the formation, however, was doomed. Dave had it square in his sights, and a blind man could not have missed from that distance. His savage fire covered the German plane like a tent. The craft staggered forward a short distance, then suddenly fell off on one wing and went down, leaving behind a long trail of oily black smoke.
"Let that teach you to stay home where you belong!" Dave shouted impulsively, and pulled up for more altitude.
"And you, too, my little Jerry!"
Freddy's words were drowned out by the yammer of his guns. Dave jerked his head around in time to see a second Messerschmitt appear to fly right into an invisible meat chopper. The left wing came off and broke up in a hundred pieces. The fuselage buckled just in back of the cockpit, and the right wing crumpled like so much tin foil. Never had Dave seen a plane come apart so completely in the air, and he gazed pop-eyed at the shower of debris slithering downward.
"Man, oh, man!" he gasped aloud. "What are you throwing at him, Freddy? Naval shells?"
"Wondering, myself!" the English youth called back in an awed voice. "Good grief, that ship must have been made of cardboard!"
"Or maybe china!" Dave added. "Gee, I never—"
The savage chatter of German Rheinmettal-Borsig aerial machine guns didn't give him a chance to finish. The third Messerschmitt One-Nine had cut around in a flash turn and was boring in with all guns blazing. A handful of death slammed into Dave's plane, and he felt the One-Ten shake and shiver under the savage impact of the shower or bullets. He jumped on the left rudder with every ounce of his strength and slammed the plane around in a turn that made a pinkish haze rise up before his eyes. Just the same he held the plane in the turn as long as he dared. Then, just before the terrific turning force would have rolled his eyes back and made him temporarily blind, he eased out and zoomed for altitude. Five hundred feet higher he flattened off at the top of the zoom, banked to the left and looked down and back for a sign of the Messerschmitt One-Nine.
It wasn't there, gun spewing up after him, however, and he swallowed in relief. That surprise attack had come much too close for comfort, and he was positive that had the German followed up his advantage one Dave Dawson, and one Freddy Farmer, would have been in a mighty bad fix right then. Then Freddy's hand rapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't look down, look west, Dave!" the English youth called out. "There he goes, and bad luck to him, I say. The blighter took twenty years off my life. I could have reached out and caught his bullets as they went by."
"Reach out?" Dave echoed, and watched the attacking plane race farther and farther westward. "Boy! If I hadn't ducked Iwouldhave caught them with myhead! Well, it's nice the guy decided he'd had enough, anyway. Now, we can—"
But it suddenly wasn't so nice after all. The German pilot had gone racing away, but he had left his calling card. And the gods of war, wherever they were sitting huddled together, laughed with glee at the unfortunate turn of events. The right engine (right outboard engine) started sputtering out its story that it was all through for the day. Dave instantly cut the ignition and throttle to prevent the possibility of fire. With the right engine gone, the force of the left outboard engine tried to veer the ship around in that direction, and Dave was forced to put on a lot of opposite rudder to keep the plane flying straight.
That, however, didn't help much. With one engine completely dead, the plane began to lose altitude slowly. Even with the left outboard engine running full blast, the Messerschmitt One-Ten became logy in the air, and it was all Dave could do to keep it on an even keel, and stop it from whipping over and down into a spin. Presently, after he had almost lost control a couple of times, he was forced to nose down slightly and keep the nose down. He turned around and shook his head sadly at Freddy's bitter expression.
"This doesn't seem to be our lucky day, either," he said. "We have a little altitude, but not much. In ten minutes or so we'll be down so low we'll have to land. These jobs just won't fly on one engine. Would you like to take a stroll on the nice desert, my little man?"
Freddy groaned aloud and flung a look of hate down at the stretches of desert sand below.
"If I come out of this alive," he declared in harsh tones, "I'll shoot the blighter who even mentions the word, sand, to me. Well, tough luck for us, Dave. Thank goodness, though, that beggar got scared and went barging on home. I fancy he'd be enjoying himself a lot right now, if he had hung around."
"Being a Nazi, he sure would," Dave nodded. "Crippled ships are their favorite dish. It was the same in the First World War, too, I understand. What a race of people! But, darn it, this desert landing burns me up. And I don't mean that as a wise-crack. It's getting to be a habit with me. I probably won't know what to do if I ever see a real airdrome or carrier flight deck again. I wonder how far we are from the British lines."
"A long, long walk over this blasted desert, I'm afraid," Freddy said gloomily. "And we've got to get there long before dawn tomorrow, too, or the information we have won't be worth much. It will take a few hours at least for the British garrisons west of Tobruk, at Derna and Bengazi, to fall back to the main body, or they'll be cut off by the Germans blocking the way at Tobruk."
"That's right," Dave said, and guided the plane downward. "And that's exactly what the Nazis plan to do to make their attack a complete success: smash right through the middle of the British defenses; cut British strength in half, and then mop up a half at a time. But, darn it, we can't let them get away with that even if we have to run all the way to Tobruk, or some British outpost that has a radio. No, darn it, we'll beat those Nazis yet. We're not through, and all washed up."
"Well, we are with this airplane, anyway," Freddy grunted. "Here comes that blasted desert. Oh, how I hate the very sight of sand! But don't think I'm giving up hope and quitting, Dave. Don't crack us up. I'm just talking aloud, you know."
"It'll be a rainy day when you up and quit, Freddy," Dave said with a chuckle. "Don't worry. I feel just the same way. I could chew nails plenty right now. Oh well, hold your hats, children."
Dave cut the ignition of the left outboard engine, leveled off just over the sand, and then let the plane sink down to one of the finest landings he had ever made in his flying career. When he had braked the plane to a stop, he sank back in in the seat and sighed heavily.
"And I'd go and waste a nice landing like that way out here!" he grunted. "Well, I guess—Hey!Hey, Freddy!Look over there! That cloud of sand. What in thunder is it?"
To the right and far ahead, a cloud of swirling sand was moving swiftly toward them. Both boys stared wide-eyed as the approaching cloud seemed to grow bigger and bigger and spread up to the sides. Then suddenly they saw dull colored objects under the cloud and moving over the sand. Freddy found his tongue first.
"Tanks or armored cars heading for us!" he cried. "Blast them, I'm jolly well going to make them pay for taking us prisoners. I won't just walk into their waiting arms this time!"
As the English youth shouted the words, he stood up in the pit and swung his mounted guns around to bear on the rapidly approaching cloud of sand. Dave reached back and grabbed him by the arm.
"Hold it, Freddy!" he cried. "That would be just plain dumb. We've got more than just ourselves to think about. It would be just plain foolish to fight it out. They can blow us right out of the desert without half trying. Then where'd we be? Keep your shirt on, and just keep thinking of the maps and papers you've got stuffed under it."
The English youth's eyes blazed with anger, and he hesitated a moment before he slowly dropped his hands away from the guns.
"Yes, of course you're right," he mumbled. "Getting ourselves killed would simply spoil everything. But, good grief, what I wouldn't give to—"
"Freddy, shut up, and look!" Dave interrupted in a wild voice. "They're armored cars, but they're not German! Take a look! See? See the type? Those are from a British unit. They're English! For cat's sake start waving your arm before they start pegging bullets at us. This is a Nazi plane, you know. And maybe those guys don't feel like taking prisoners today!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath agreeing. He had seen for himself. He popped up onto his feet, as did Dave also. And together they started waving their arms at the most comforting sight they had seen for many long hours—British made and British manned armored cars of the desert!
The British desert patrol consisted of four cars led by a small scout car that flew a Staff pennant from one of the front fenders. The scout car came straight at the landed Messerschmitt, while the patrol cars circled around to the right and the left and came to a halt in a ring about the plane. Two officers were riding in the scout car—a major, and a lieutenant who sat at the wheel. When the car stopped, the major jumped out and ran toward the plane, one hand on his holstered service automatic. He was tall and broad-shouldered and was tanned a deep mahogany from many weeks and months under the blazing desert sun. The decoration and campaign ribbons on his tunic showed that he had served his King in the last war as well as in this one.
"Don't shoot, sir, we're English!" Freddy shouted, and scrambled down from the plane.
The major stopped dead and stared at them, wide-eyed. Then he took a cautious step forward, his right hand still resting on the butt of his gun.
"What the devil?" he gasped. "Infantry officers flying a plane? What's this all about?"
"Pilot Officers Dawson and Farmer from the Aircraft Carrier Victory, sir," Freddy said. "We've just escaped from the Nazis far to the south, and were on our way to G.H.Q. when we were attacked by a trio of Nazi pilots. We got two of them, but the third beggar got our engine and we were forced to come down. Thank God you saw us, sir."
"Thank God we didn't open fire on you," the major grunted. "We don't care much for Nazi planes. But what's this about escaping? Nazis far to the south? That's rot! The desert's bare as can be."
"That's what you think!" Dave cried before he could check his tongue. Then, blushing, "Sorry, sir. I mean, it looks that way, but the desert is practically alive with them. Freddy, let's show the major our stuff, and tell him the whole story. You tell him."
Just about six minutes later the major, who said he was Major Alden, of the 41st Armored Division, was probably the most amazed and dumbfounded person in all Libya, and Egypt as well. He could hardly take his eyes off the maps and papers the boys pulled out from under their shirts and spread out on one wing of the Messerschmitt One-Ten. The other officer in the scout car, a Lieutenant Baxby, joined them, and he too was struck speechless.
"Bless my hat, bless my hat!" Major Alden kept mumbling. "The whole blasted plan of attack. Units, numbers, gun strength, air, navy—everything. Great guns! I'll never be able to believe it!"
"But it's true, sir," Dave spoke up. "That Nazi colonel actually told us what he planned. He was shooting off his—I mean, he was boasting. Like Nazis do, because he thought he had us for keeps. Can you give us a lift to the nearest radio post, sir? The sooner we notify G.H.Q. the better it will be, I think."
"Eh, give you a lift?" the major echoed looking up from the maps and military papers. "I'll jolly well drive you there myself, straight to General Maitland at Tobruk H.Q. We can make it by just before sundown if we hop along now. Great guns! The blighters would have wiped out the lot of us in no time at all. God bless the R.A.F., I say!"
The major gathered up the stuff on the wing and spun around to his junior officer.
"Take over the patrol, Baxby," he ordered. "Ride in Sergeant Tucker's car. Head back to the post at once, and have all other patrols called in immediately. Then move back to Tobruk to await orders. Got it?"
"Right you are, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Then off with you," the major ordered. "Come along, you two R.A.F. lads. Blast it, if this isn't like a cinema thriller!"
Motioning the two boys to climb in back, the major slid in behind the wheel, shifted gears and sent the light, fast scout car careening around and toward the north. The violent movement pitched Freddy and Dave down onto the floor, and by the time they had scrambled up onto the little stools again and were clutching the two mounted machine guns for support, the car was like a brown streak of lightning ripping across the surface of the sand and leaving a swirling trail behind.
"Gosh!" Dave shouted above the roar of the engine. "If we had wings this darned thing would take off!"
"Dashed if I don't think we already have!" Freddy called back. "Look over there to the right, Dave! Look at the color of the sky."
To the east the sky was filled with a dull copperish haze. It spread out to the side for miles and towered high into the heavens. It was as though a huge expanse of copper screen mesh had been spread across the blue of the Libyan sky. At its highest point the sun was perched like a brass ball on the top of a flag pole.
"Maybe it's going to rain," Dave suggested. "Maybe rain clouds are that color in this neck of the woods."
"Rain in March?" Freddy snorted. "The rainy season's long over before then. That's some kind of a desert storm, I think."
Freddy let go of the machine gun mounting long enough to lean forward toward the front seat.
"What's that sky mean off to the right, sir?" He shouted the question.
The major took his eyes off the desert ahead just long enough to flash a snap glance toward the copperish-colored sky to the east. As he saw it, he started slightly, and his sandy-colored brows came together in a frown.
"Sand storm!" he called back over his shoulder. "And if it catches up with us it'll be very nasty indeed. That's a good one, too. Getting close to the time of year when they kick up quite a bit. If we can't outrace it, duck low and stay there. The stuff's like powdered glass. Dash it all! Even the weather's fighting for the Nazi. I—"
The dreaded snarl of aerial machine gun fire cut off the rest of the major's statement. Dave whirled around and stared upward and to the rear. He saw the diving plane at once. It was a Messerschmitt One-Nine. As a matter of fact, he was positive it was the same One-Nine that had quit that last air battle and gone racing off home. Obviously, though, the pilot had come back, sighted the One-Ten on the ground, and the scout car speeding across the desert to the north. He had added things up to get the right answer, and was now making a final effort to prevent valuable information from reaching British headquarters.
"The bum has come back, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and swung one of the machine guns around on its swivel mounting. "He wants some more, so let's give it to him!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath replying. He simply nodded, swung the other gun around and lined up the diving plane in his sights. A split second later both boys were sending savage bursts of bullets up at the diving plane. The Messerschmitt did not swerve off, however, even though Dave could see their tracers slapping right into the plane. The German pilot was determined to do his worst while he lived. He came right on downward, engine howling a song of mighty power, and all of his guns spewing out streaks of nickel-jacketed lead bullets.
"That guy sure can take it!" Dave shouted as he continued to pump bullets up at the plane. "Maybe he's gone nuts and plans to dive right down into us."
"Let him!" Freddy shouted back without taking his eyes off the plane. "It will be the last dive that beggar makes, anyway!"
"And a lot of good that will dous!" Dave cried. "We'll—Hey!"
The speeding scout car had suddenly careened around crazily to the left. The violent movement tore Dave's hands from his machine gun and flung him heavily up against Freddy. He regained his balance as soon as possible, shot a questioning look toward the major at the wheel, let out a bellow of alarm and dived forward.
"Keep at that plane, Freddy!" he shouted, "The major's been hit—and bad!"
It was even worse than that. The major had received a burst of bullets straight through the back of his head. He was stone dead and slumped over the wheel of the car. Bracing himself as best he could, Dave hauled the limp body to the side with one hand and clutched wildly for the wheel with the other, and somehow managed to straighten out the car before the terrific turning motion sent it off balance and spinning over and over across the surface of the sand.
The instant he had the car straightened out, he pushed and shoved the dead major out of the seat and scrambled in behind the wheel himself. In his ears was the continuous yammer of the Messerschmitt's guns, and the retaliating chatter of Freddy Farmer's single gun in back. He didn't dare turn his head for a look, however. He kept his eyes front and made the car zigzag as much as he could to throw off the diving pilot's aim.
Suddenly there came a wild shout of triumph from Freddy Farmer's lips.
"That will teach you, you blasted blighter!" Freddy roared. "Now you can't go back home!"
Hardly had the last reached Dave's ears before he heard the sickening sound that a plane makes when it dives engine full out into the ground—a sickening sound no words can describe. An instant later there was the roar of the gas tanks exploding, and as Dave jerked his head around to risk a quick look, he saw a fountain of flame and smoke that shot upward. Impulsively he eased off the scout car's speed a bit, and took a deep breath.
"Thanks, Freddy!" he called back over his shoulder. "I knew you could do it. Poor Major Alden! What a tough break for him. Gosh! I almost wish he hadn't spotted us. Then this wouldn't have happened to him. Can you lift him in back, Freddy, and then come up front here with me? We'll have to use your pocket compass for a course. I've lost mine, and the burst that got the major raised heck with his dash compass. Can you lift him back, or do you want me to stop and give you a hand?"
"Stop nothing!" Freddy cried in wild alarm. "Drive like blazes, Dave! Look at that sand storm! It's almost on top of us. You keep driving. I'll get him back here all right!"
As Dave turned his head and looked to the east, his heart zoomed up into his throat. The coppery sky had changed to dull black, streaked with shafts of swirling yellowish white. In that instant the whole world seemed to stand still. All sound ceased, save the roar of the scout car's engine. And its sound was twice as loud because of the sudden silencing of everything else.
"Gosh!" Dave whispered in awe as his eyes stayed glued to the hovering menace aloft that seemed ready to spring upon them in the next split second. "Holy smoke! Like the end of the world, or something. It's— Hey, Freddy, what's the humming sound? No, more like a whine, I guess."
Freddy didn't have time to offer his guess. A low hum that seemed to be sweeping across the desert suddenly rose up to a blood-curdling scream that blasted the surrounding silence to the four corners of the earth. The lull and the silence were no more. In the bat of an eyelid the fury of a Libyan desert storm swept down upon the boys in full force. The car shuddered, and rocked, and threatened to roll over on its side from the terrific impact of the wind driven sand clouds slashing against it. Dave bent low and clung to the bucking wheel with every inch of his strength.
Daylight was no more. All about him was a swirling, twisting, screaming inferno of shadowy darkness. Billions and billions of tiny pin points of pain slashed at his face and hands. They even seemed to dart through his uniform and practically scrape the skin from his body. It was impossible to keep his eyes open to see where he was driving. If he did, he would be blinded in the flash of a split second. All he could do was keep his head bent low, his face shielded from the furious onslaught of the desert storm, and hold the wheel as steady as he could and pray that he was steering a northerly course.
As the fury of the storm increased, and the high, shrill scream of the wind seemed like daggers of fire in his ears, he was tempted to swing the car around and race with the storm in the hope of outdistancing it. He checked the urge, however, because of the possible consequences. If they once lost direction in this storm, it would be all over for them. True, they had Freddy's compass and they could always find north. But from where? That was the point. If he tried to run with the storm, he might get so twisted up that he'd be racing back to the south. Then when the storm passed they would be farther than ever from their destination.
No, it was best to hold a general northerly course now, and pray they could live out the storm. At least the swirling sand would not choke up the engine and put it out of commission. That was their greatest fear, and as Dave strained his ears to catch the roar of the engine, and to feel it by the vibration of the wheel, his heart stood still, and the blood was so much sluggish ice water in his veins.
The car's engine, however, had been adequately protected for just such a situation as it now faced. And it kept roaring out its song of power that spun the wheels and sent the car rocketing forward slam bang into the teeth of the storm. Seconds totaled up to minutes, and the minutes mounted up one on top of the other until Dave felt as though he had been plowing through the raging desert inferno since the very day he was born. Wave after wave of stinging pain swept over his body. Every muscle and bone ached. His head felt three times its size and throbbed unmercifully. It was like racing down a long black tunnel filled with roaring thunder, for he dared not open his eyes. He wondered how Freddy was making out. He didn't dare take his hands from the wheel. Nor did he dare open his mouth to call out. His words would not only go unheard, but he would also instantly get a mouthful of stinging wind-swirled sand.
There was just one thing, and one thing alone to do: hang on hard to the wheel to keep the car traveling a straight course to the north.
Swirling sand, screaming wind, and a hundred new aches and pains attacking his body every minute. Dave's mind became a spinning blurr, a blank. Fighting instinct kept him clutching the wheel and guiding the scout car ever northward. Fighting instinct and a will-power of iron refused to permit him to brake the car to a halt and sink exhausted down onto the floor of the car out of the swirling sand and the cutting wind. He lost all track of time. Time even ceased to exist. It was as though the howling, screaming sand storm had always been about him, and always would be. There was no end. Everything would be like this forever and ever.
"Dave! Dave, come out of it! Dave, wake up. The storm's over. It's gone. Dave, look at me. Look at me!"
From a thousand miles away he heard Freddy Farmer's voice droning in his ears. His pal was punching his shoulder, grabbing hold of him and shaking him violently. Through sand-burned eyelids he stared fixedly at a limitless expanse of desert stretching out ahead of him. Suddenly, something seemed to let go of his brain and he realized what it all meant.
The car wasn't moving. The engine had stopped. The desert storm had passed on and was now blotting out the sun in the western sky. The desert was the desert again. He turned his head slowly and stared at Freddy. It was like looking at a ghost. The English youth was covered with fine white sand dust from head to toe. It was caked in his hair, caked on his face, and was sticking like a layer of white glue to his tattered uniform.
"Dave, are you all right?" Freddy gasped, and shook him again. "You've been driving for fifteen minutes as though you were hypnotized, just clinging to that wheel for dead life and staring straight ahead. I had to switch off the ignition to stop the car. You were absolutely deaf to every word I said. Are you all right?"
"Sure, I'm okay," Dave heard his own voice say. "Gosh! Driving with my eyes open? Holy smoke! The last thing I remember was driving blind with my eyes shut and my head ducked down. And, hey, it must be late afternoon. That storm lasted for hours. Wonder where we are?"
"I don't know," Freddy said. "But we're headed north, anyway. The sun's over there on our left, so we must be headed north. Phew! How you were able to keep on driving through that inferno I don't know. I ducked down on the floor, and just didn't have the strength to get up and give you a hand. You must be made of steel, Dave!"
"I sure don't feel as if I were right now," Dave said, and grinned, stiff-lipped. "But let's get going again. The ground seems to rise up quite a bit just ahead there. Maybe we'll see something on the other side. Boy, oh boy, do I hope it's something besides desert."
"If it isn't, I swear I'll go stark raving mad," Freddy muttered. "If I never see a desert again that'll be much too soon."
"You and me both," Dave grunted and started the engine again. "So cross your fingers, Freddy, and pray hard. Here we go for the top of that rise!"
It took ten minutes to reach the top of the high point of desert, but every second of those ten minutes was a lifetime of torturing suspense to Dave and Freddy. Neither of them spoke a word, but the same question stood out in letters of fire in their brains. What was beyond the rise of ground? For the last fifty yards Dave fed every ounce of gas to the pounding engine that it would take, and the car fairly streaked over the sand. Then finally they roared up and onto the crest. Dave slammed on the brakes, and sat motionless, unable to utter a word. Emotion ran riot within him, and the hot tears of inexpressible joy stung the backs of his eyes. Freddy threw both arms about him and hugged him like a long lost brother.
"There it is, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "The good old Union Jack flying from the pole. The British flag. That's Tobruk, Dave. I recognize it from pictures. Tobruk. You hit it on the nose, Dave. Right on the nose!"
"Tobruk!" Dave whispered softly. "Tobruk, and—and I'll never forget how good you look as long as I live. Never!"
"The end of the trail, and in time!" Freddy breathed, and unashamed tears of joy streaked the caked sand on his cheeks.