No sooner had Dave stuck the Lockheed's nose up through the top of the cloud layer than he leveled off so that the belly was still in the stuff. At that same instant also he and Manners started searching the sun flooded skies ahead and to the left and right. Having scrambled back aft to his tail turret Freddy Farmer searched the heavens to the rear. There was no cause for sudden action, however, for there wasn't a single sign of a Nazi plane in the air. The Messerschmitt One-Ten had been given the slip, and given it as only a pilot of Dave Dawson's ability can perform such a feat.
"Good work!" Manners grunted and relaxed a bit in his seat. "Now find a hole if you can and spot exactly where we are."
Dave nodded, climbed up another thousand feet, and in a minute or so found a hole in the clouds. He peered down through and grinned happily.
"Not so far wrong at that, sir," he said and pointed. "There's Southampton. And we're about a mile off-shore."
The Air Ministry official took a look and nodded his approval.
"Top hole blind flying, Dawson," he grunted. "Right-o. Bear west and take us to Lands End. Sit down in the field just north of the flying boat basin."
Dave's heart sang a song of joy and the blood began to dance through his veins. At Lands End was the main base of the Catalina flying boats that escorted so many merchant convoys in from their danger filled trips across the broad Atlantic. At Lands End were some of the greatest heroes in the R.A.F. Youngsters no more than a couple of years older than himself who fought weather, Nazis, and everything else day and night that England's bottoms might come safely into port. Twenty or twenty-five hours in the air at a stretch was routine stuff for those lads. And for a single Cat-Boat, escorting a dozen merchant ships and Corvette, to battle ten or a dozen Nazi bombers single handed and drive them off, was something you didn't even mention except in your official flight report. Heroes and aces, every one of them, commissioned and non-commissioned officers alike. High adventure, unbelievable heroism, and death. Those lads at the Lands End Base took all three in stride, and without batting an eye.
"That's an outfit Farmer and I will be mighty glad to serve in, sir!" Dave suddenly blurted out.
"You're not going to serve in it," Air Marshal Manners said bluntly. Then as he stared unwinking ahead, "Fact is, by this time tomorrow, or sooner, every lad at that Base will be hunting for you, and very eager to shoot you down. And their squadron will not be the only one out hunting for your hide. No, you're not going to like your visit to the Lands End Base!"
Dave gulped, and couldn't speak for a moment. On sudden impulse he turned his head and saw Freddy Farmer standing in the compartment doorway. The English youth's eyes were popping out like marbles on sticks and he was swallowing rapidly. Dave looked back at Manners.
"I don't think I get you, sir," he said with an effort.
"You will soon enough," the senior officer grunted. "You're in for a venture that will make this morning's doings seem like a solo flight in a training plane during peace time. But don't get all twisted up, now. The prayers of England will be flying with you, though the pilots of the R.A.F. will be hunting you down. It will be an important part of your job to see that theydon't find you!"
"And how, if they're coming a-gunning!" Dave gulped. "But, sir, what...?"
"Later, at Lands End," Air Marshal Manners stopped him. "I'll.... By George, I must be getting weak in the head, I'm forgetting things so. I'll take over the controls, Dawson. You and Farmer go aft and get out of those uniforms. In the flare box you'll find some civilian clothes. They'll fit. Put them on. Then stuff your uniforms back in the flare box. Stuff them down deep and cover them up with flare cartridges. Beginning with now, Dawson, you're Charles Lanier. And you, Farmer, you're Henry Devoe. You're a couple of aeronautical engineers recently escaped from occupied France. You don't know a dozen words of English, so look blank if anybody speaks to you. Got all that?"
"Yes, sir," Dave managed to get out as a befuddled haze swirled around in his brain.
"Oh, quite, sir," Freddy echoed weakly.
"Good," Manners said and motioned Dave out of the pilot's seat. "Just act dumb French and take your leads from me. I'd tell you my plan, now, but you might possibly give it away by an unconscious action. Now, don't misunderstand, lads. I have absolute faith in you both. However, as they say in your country, Dawson, I'm going to play this one close to the chest. What you don't know now won't hurt anybody. Fact is, it'll probably make it easier for me to play my part in the game. And by the way, if I act just a bit rude to you, don't pay any attention. This is an inspection flight on order of a ranking member in the Government with whom you have connections. I'm supposedly against such a waste of time, but am only obeying the orders of my superior. You understand?"
Though their heads were spinning the two R.A.F. youths nodded instantly.
"Right-o, then," Manners said and gave them a smile. "Get aft and into those civilian clothes. And don't go exploding with curiosity. You'll know all the details in due time. Goodness knows you'll have to be acquainted with them! Now chase."
Dave and Freddy scrambled aft to the flare box amidships and pulled out the assortment of civilian clothing inside. In less than five minutes they were a couple of French civilians, and their much loved and honored uniforms had been stuffed down out of sight. Dave looked at Freddy and grinned broadly.
"Well, your clothes look Frenchie," he said, "but I can't figure the nationality of that face you're wearing."
"Is that so?" Freddy snorted and wrinkled his nose in disgust as he looked Dave up and down. "Fact is I can't place either your clothes or your face. The nearest I can come is a touch of Japanese with just a slight Eskimo resemblance. And, frankly, that's said with apologies to both races. But, seriously, Dave, what in the world do you think we're stepping into this time?"
Dave looked toward the pilot's compartment and slowly shook his head from side to side.
"I just tossed my brain overboard," he said. "I gave up trying to figure out this puzzle. So help me, if anybody had told me I was going to run into this many blank walls since dawn I'd have told them they were nuts. Sweet tripe! Spies, stolen planes, secret orders, a swim in the Atlantic, bullets coming too darn close, mystery planes, French clothing, no speak the English, the R.A.F. after my hide, and.... Pal, that's a mess of fish right there. You cook it. I can't!"
"Well, I gather we're in for some flying," Freddy said with a puzzled sigh. "And that's something."
"Yeah," Dave grunted, and jerked a thumb forward, "unless he comes up with some more cockeyed unfinished business that sends us both to the bug-house for keeps. Oops! We're heading down. Guess we must be getting close. Luck, pal!"
"I'll jolly well double that wish," Freddy breathed and led the way forward along the cat-walk.
Air Marshal Manners had nosed the plane down and as the two youths reached his side and looked down over the nose they saw the southwest tip of England pointed like a crooked finger at the little cluster of Scilly Island and the broad rolling expanse of the North Atlantic beyond. Dave looked at the mooring basin with a dozen or more battle tried Consolidated Catalina flying boats at anchor. There were also two or three Short Sunderland flyingboats. Huge battle wagons of the air that in peace time serve England's Atlantic air lanes just as the mighty Clipper flyingboats serve American ocean travel by air. Just north of the basin was the airfield for land planes and amphibians. The hangar side was lined with twenty or more different types. And as Dave peered intently he saw several planes of American design. Bombers probably ferried from Nova Scotia last night. Right now they were receiving a check inspection before being flown on to England's active service fields for final installations and assignment to the ever growing armada of wings that went hurtling across the Channel day and night to dump thousands upon thousands of tons of bombs down on Adolf's head and his bandit hordes striving to wipe humanity and civilization from the face of the earth.
Lands End Base! The jumping off point for their greatest aerial adventure. The jumping off point for glory, and for perhaps death, too!
"Well, I've seen better dressed Frenchmen, but I guess you look the part."
Air Marshal Manners' outspoken comment brushed the rambling thoughts away inside Dave's head. He glanced at his superior officer and gestured in a polite but blank sort of way.
"Pardon, mon Capitaine?" he murmured. "Ze Eengleesh, I speak no, yes?"
The Air Ministry official threw back his head and laughed.
"Fine!" he exclaimed. "Couldn't be better. Be sure and carry it through no matter what anybody says to you. But I'll take care that nobody says very much. Well, hang on. Here we go down for the next to the last landing on this job, please God!"
Dave and Freddy exchanged muddled glances and steadied themselves as Manners flew the Lockheed across the field and then circled around into the wind and slid down the last couple of hundred feet to a feather-on-velvet landing.
"DoIhope to be able to fly likethatsome day!" Dave breathed without thinking.
"Shut up, youFrenchman!" Manners growled. "But thanks for the compliment just the same. On guard, now. Here they come."
At the sight of a Staff plane with Air Ministry markings landing, the commanding officer of the field and one or two of his junior officers hurried out to greet the new arrivals. The C.O. was a Wing Commander, and the row of ribbons under his R.A.F. wings was proof positive that he had not earned his rank by sitting in an office chair with his feet on the desk. He recognized Air Marshal Manners at once, and with his juniors saluted smartly.
"Well, welcome to Lands End Base, sir!" he said in pleasant surprise. "Had no idea you'd be popping down this way for a bit of a visit."
"Had no idea myself, Otis," Manners said and shook hands. "Not until this noon, anyway. These two with me are the reason. Couple of French aeronautical engineers who got out of France somehow. Seems they were able to pull a few right strings in the Government. Anyway, I was picked to tootle them about the country for a courtesy inspection trip. As if I didn't have a thousand more important things to do! Oh, well, you can't have a war without blasted politics, I suppose."
"Aren't you right!" Wing Commander Otis sighed and gave Dave and Freddy a polite but cold nod. "I take it they don't speak English, eh?"
"Not half a dozen words," Manners replied in a disgusted voice. "And I rue the day I learned to speak French. However, we'll be off your hands by morning. Meantime, you carry on with your work, Otis. I'll herd these two here and there and try to show them as little as possible. Any hush-hush stuff here you think I should steer clear of?"
"There's an experimental job in a flight hangar," Otis replied. "But.... Well, I mean.... That is...."
"That I wouldn't trust them out of my sight," Manners said as the other floundered for words. "You're right. Ten to one they're the real true French, but I'm a bit leery of anything that comes across the Channel these days. You never can tell, you know. Frankly, I raised merry Ned about taking them on this inspection tour, but the word came down from high up, and.... Well, that was that, blast it!"
"A bloody shame!" Wing Commander Otis growled and gave Dave and Freddy a look that wasn't even polite. "I'm free for a short spell, and I'll be glad to lead the parade, if you like. Matter of fact, I wouldn't mind brushing up on my French. I mean, what there is of it."
"Fine, splendid!" Manners cried. "That'll make two pairs of eyes we can keep on them. But first, I guess I'd better make introductions."
Manners half turned to smile at Dave and Freddy, and then went through all the flowery business of presenting them to Otis, and presenting the Wing Commander to them. The two youths bowed and beamed and spouted perfect French at a mile a minute clip. Otis returned the wishy-washy compliments in bad French, and with a pained look in his eye.
And then began two of the most cockeyed hours Dave and Freddy had ever spent in their young but adventure-crammed lives. With Wing Commander Otis leading the way they were taken on a round of inspection of the field and hangars, and then over to the flying boat basin. At every stop interesting details were explained to them in French by either Manners or Otis. And in turn they played up to their part by jabbering out excited comments and compliments. But it was a hard act to play because Manners and Otis exchanged helpless glances every so often. And little by little it was plain to see that Otis wished with all his heart that "these two young Frenchies who talked like lightning had never got out of France." In other words, Dave and Freddy had to almost gag themselves to kill a smile or an outburst of laughter in the wrong place.
Just before they moved on and away from the flying boat basin Manners pointed to a battle grey Catalina flying boat some one hundred yards from shore.
"You see that craft, Gentlemen?" he said in French. "That is the fastest flying boat in the entire Coastal Command. And it has a record of which the entire Air Force is proud. The pilots and crew of that craft have twelve Nazi planes and a U-boat to their credit. It is of American design as you doubtless have noticed. I wish we had ten thousand like her. I've flown her myself, and she is a beautiful craft. Is that not so, Wing Commander Otis?"
"Quite right, sir," Otis replied. "That Catalina is our pride and joy. There isn't a ship here that can touch her for speed, or for standing up in bad weather. And now, perhaps you'd like to see the repair shops?"
Dave and Freddy nodded eagerly, but it was Air Marshal Manners who spoke first.
"You've done your job, Otis, old fellow," he said switching back to English. "Don't you bother with these two any more. I'll carry on with them. You get on back to your office. We'll walk a ways with you, and then see you later at mess. I'll explain to them that duty calls, and all that. They won't mind just so long as there's one of us to lead them around and let them stick their noses in here and in there."
"Sure you don't mind, sir?" Otis murmured. "Matter of fact I am a little behind on my patrol reports."
"Then by all means get on with it, man!" Manners said. Then turning to Dave and Freddy, he explained to them in French.
They let understanding light up their forced blank faces, and then went into a verbal song and dance telling Otis that it was quite all right, and ten million thanks for showing them so much. Otis mumbled some polite words in return, and then the trio walked part way back to the Base office. Finally Otis left them, and hurried away as though scared to death that he might be called back.
"By George, you two should be on the stage!" Manners chuckled when Wing Commander Otis was well out of hearing. "A dirty trick we played on real Frenchmen, because right now I think Otis is one man who hopes the Nazis keep France! He never was very strong for the Tri-Color anyway, but you two certainly finished him for good. The thing to do, though. The word will get around what pests you are, and I don't think you'll be bothered much later on. And that's exactly what I want."
"Why, sir?" Dave asked bluntly, but made gestures with his hands like a Frenchman in case Otis or somebody else might be watching from a distance.
Air Marshal Manners didn't reply at once. He half turned and glanced at the sun that was dropping down over the horizon like a giant ball of livid red flame. Then he glanced at his watch, and then at Dave and Freddy.
"Right-o," he said. "You two have certainly earned the whole story these last two hours. But walk up the shore with me just to make sure we won't be overheard. Take a good look at that sun, though, and let's the three of us pray that by the time it sets again tomorrow you two will have safely accomplished what in my opinion will be the most daring and dangerous feat of the entire war to date and probably in the future, too!"
Neither Dave nor Freddy said anything. They walked along the shore with their eyes fixed on the red ball of fire slowly sinking down out of sight below the Atlantic horizon. And in their hearts and in their very souls was the sacred promise that whether or not they ever saw that sun again they would exert every effort and make every sacrifice to accomplish successfully whatever the mission was that lay ahead of them.
"This is a good place," Air Marshal Manners said when the trio had reached a stretch of sandy beach about half a mile from the Base field. "Let's sit down here, and act as though we're tired. Frankly, that's no lie as far as I'm concerned."
The three seated themselves on the sand and for a moment or so Manners stared thoughtfully out over the Atlantic as though carefully choosing the words he was about to speak. Dave and Freddy waited, but not patiently. Inwardly both were seething with excitement and curiosity. Neither, however, made so much as the beginning of an attempt to get the Air Marshal started. They knew that this was the last time he would force them to wait, so they grimly sat tight and let the torturing seconds tick by.
Suddenly Manners raised his right hand and pointed toward the west.
"Out there some eight or nine hundred miles," he said, "is a convoy of thirty-five British ships. The most valuable convoy ever to set sail for a British port. Its cargo contains tons and tons of war materials most vital to our immediate needs. Food stuffs, raw materials, medical supplies, guns of all kinds, a thousand crated airplanes made in the United States and Canada, oil, gasoline ... everything that we need so badly. I don't need to tell you the staggering losses that Nazi U-boats and surface raiders have already inflicted upon England's merchant marine. The whole world knows the great toll that has been taken. And the whole world knows also that England cannot hope to survive if such losses continue. And better than any country, save our own, Adolf Hitler realizes that truth. For that reason he is going all out, regardless of the cost to his own forces, to force England to her knees and then crush her with no more emotion or pity than he would crush a fly."
The Air Marshal stopped talking, lighted a cigarette but immediately flung it away after a single puff.
"What that convoy is bringing to England," he continued eventually, "is not vital to our needs six months or a year from now. We need it and need it so terribly muchthis week... the verydayit can be unloaded at the docks. It is a large convoy, yes. And a beautiful prize for the Nazis to go after. That is true, too. And we are not fools enough to believe they have no knowledge that it is on the high seas and on its way. Naturally, the ships left different ports on the other side of the Atlantic, and at different times. Every precaution was taken to keep secret their dates of departure, the course each ship was to sail, and the rendezvous point far at sea. We have done everything save circle it with the ships of the entire British Navy. But that we could not do. Yes, every possible precaution has been taken to get that convoy through safely. But we know that every possible precaution is not enough. We know that the Nazis will bide their time and fall upon it when least expected. And so, it is up to us to beat the Nazis at their own game!"
The Chief of the Emergency Command paused again and in turn looked each youth straight in the eye.
"It was my Heaven sent prayer that we would accomplish that very thing this morning!" he suddenly got out harshly. "For several days we have known that the Nazis' fastest and most heavily armed raider, and their most daring and skilled wolf pack of U-boats, was being assembled for an attack on that convoy almost within sight of England's shores. Possessing that knowledge, and also knowing the location of their rendezvous area, we planned a trap for them. A trap with jaws made of British naval vessels and planes. You two were assigned to act as bait and to draw our boats and planes straight to the exact rendezvous point in that same two hundred square mile area. We know now that all our well laid plans went up in smoke. That the Nazis fooled us, and we failed to spring the trap."
Air Marshal Manners stopped once more, and Dave looking at him seemed to see the shadow of increased years steal across the man's face. The Yank wanted to reach out a hand and touch Manners as though to say that he too shared the bitterness of defeat that was in his heart. He checked the urge, however, and waited for the senior officer to continue.
"Yes, we failed miserably," the Air Marshal spoke again. "But even as we were failing, the gods were kind to us. They gave us the opportunity to make a second try. Those code books found in von Khole's flat near Golder's Green. Not until this morning did I have the chance to examine those books. Not until after you had taken off did I realize that a second chance would be ours in case we failed in the first. It's funny, in a way, when you study the situation. The Germans don't know where our fleet is, whether it's with the convoy or not, but they can probably find out. We don't know where the raider and her U-boats are, butnowwe can find out. The winner of this deadly game will be the one who discoversfirstthe locality of the other's prize. And whether England wins or loses depends upon the skill, daring, and enduring courage of you two!"
Silence settled over the sands. There was not a sound save the soft hiss of the waves lapping the shore. Dave stared at them and in an abstract crazy sort of way felt that the sound was countless unseen demons of war and death jeering at Manners' spoken words. He took his gaze off the waves and looked at the Air Marshal.
"I can think of no greater reward, sir, than the chance to play my part no matter what it is, or costs," he said solemnly.
"And I can think of no better way of expressing my own thoughts too, sir," Freddy Farmer said in his quiet, steady voice.
The Air Ministry official smiled, and for a brief moment something seemed to glisten in each eye. Then his face was grave and his eyes stern.
"It may cost you everything!" he said in a hard tone. "But above all you must not fail. I demand it. England demands it. The whole civilized part of this world demands that you be successful. And now, here is the actual part you are to play. Down there somewhere off the coast of France is that raider and her under-sea wolf pack. Sometime tonight she will probably put to sea to maneuver into position to make her surprise attack upon the convoy just before dawn when the light is bad and the convoy's lookouts are staring into a rising sun. Between midnight and dawn you will make contact with that raider and her pack, locate her, and lure her into the waiting arms of British warships. That in a few words iswhatyou will do, and here ishowyou will do it!"
Air Marshal Manners paused again to get his breath and to clear his throat.
"You remember that Catalina flying boat I pointed out to you when we were with Wing Commander Otis?" he said presently. "Well, that is the plane you are going to use. What I said about it is true. It's the fastest and best weather flying boat in the whole Coastal Command. It is completely equipped and ready for flight right this minute. The guns are loaded, bombs are in their racks, and food and supplies are all aboard. I happen to know that because it is a policy of this Station to have all planes ready for action whether they are scheduled for patrol or not. In other words, any one of the flying boats in the basin is all set to take the air, but that particular Catalina is the best of the lot. Sometime tonight you two will sneak out to it in one of the tenders moored to the edge of the basin and get into the air and away as fast as you can."
"Steal it right from under the noses of the guards, sir?" Freddy gasped.
"Just that," Air Marshal Manners said with a short nod. "But that won't be hard. If you noticed, that particular Catalina is farther out toward open water than any of the others. Also, the guards here are stationed at the enemy aircraft detectors instead of being stationed about the basin. You won't need to worry about them. Your toughest job will be to get up anchor, start the engines, taxi out to open water, and get off without a light showing. Searchlights, of course, will go after you, and maybe a couple of land planes or so. However, that will take time, and if you do your job well you'll be completely lost and headed for Lord knows where before any of them can pick you up."
"It's going to be close, darn close," Dave murmured softly.
"Exactly why I'm glad you two are tackling the job," the Air Marshal grunted with a faint gesture. "Yes, it will be close, and beginning with the moment you get her into the air you will be hunted high and low by every plane and flying boat the Station can spare. And by planes and boats from other squadrons, too. I say that because it is instantly going to become known that you are two of Germany's cleverest espionage agents who hoodwinked us completely by posing as French aeronautical experts recently escaped from the occupied zone on the other side of the Channel."
"But, sir!" Freddy objected and then stopped short as the senior officer made a sharp motion with one hand.
"Questions later!" Manners snapped. "Let me finish first. Don't worry; complete information about you will go out over the air to all listening stations. I'll see to that. However, the real reason your daring escape will go out over the air is because we want German radio stations to be sure and pick it up. And most of all, that raider's radio. We want the Nazis to swallow the story, and we think they will. You see, a couple of weeks ago, Intelligence did pick up two notorious German spies. They don't publicize feats like that, and for an obvious reason. When you don't tell the enemy you have one of their agents they naturally assume that the agent is still operating. At least for a certain length of time. Fact is, often when we pick up an enemy agent we send a few useless bits of information through to the Germans in such a way they believe he is still serving them. And oftentimes we get messages in return that lead us to other agents we did not even know existed. It's a tricky game, Intelligence, and dangerous, too. But I don't need to tell you chaps about Intelligence work!"[2]
Air Marshal Manners paused to light another cigarette and to cast a casual glance about to make sure they were not being observed.
"Anyway," he continued at length, "to the English, and to the Germans we most certainly hope and pray, you will be regarded as those two German spies. The fact that you stole a Catalina from this Base will excite the Germans all the more. Particularly the raider's commander, if he picks up our SOS broadcasts, which he undoubtedly will. The Germans, of course know that this Base is in touch with that convoy. Also that planes from this Base will be sent out to meet it at a certain point and escort it in. Therefore they will assume that, having stolen the Catalina from here, you of course must know all the secrets about that convoy. And so, when you contact the raider its commander should fairly leap at the bait ... and, please God, sail right into the arms of the British Navy!"
"You're supplying us with copies of the codes to use, sir?" Dave asked.
"Of course!" the other replied. "I have them right here in my pocket. I'll also give you the exact locations of the various units of the Fleet now at sea. Once you have made contact with the raider and her wolf pack you will feed her as many lies as possible and bit by bit lead her into the arms of one of the Fleet units. But, here is the important thing, and pay strict attention. The Nazis will of course have their own planes out hunting for that convoy, so it will be up to you to contact the raiderfirst, and establish definitely in her commander's mind thatyou know where the convoy is! Mind you! Nazi aircraft will also pick up your signals, and they will all come a-running to that locality. I don't know how much lee-way in time you'll have but during that time, however, you've got to lead the raider and her U-boats close enough to the British Fleet units for them to jump and finish the business. Well, there it is, lads. The toughest assignment I ever gave to any one. Frankly, you've one chance in a hundred of leading that raider into the range of British guns. And, frankly, you've got about one chance in a billion of coming through alive. It's only fair that I should tell you that. The instant you've betrayed the raider, and perhaps even before then, you'll have half the Nazi over-water Air Force on your neck. And that's not to mention the British lads who'll be looking for you right from the start. The only bit of advice I can give you is,keep clear of all aircraft and hide in clouds as much as you can! Oh yes, one more thing. Try first the regular code signals I'll give you, and if you get no response switch immediately to the emergency code. It is possible that von Khole's loss of his code books has been made known to the raider. It's possible but not likely because of the short period of time. Now, any questions?"
"It's really a suggestion, sir," Dave said slowly after a moment's deep thought.
"Then let's have it!" Manners exclaimed impatiently. "After all, it's your necks, you know. What is it?"
"It's about making sure the Fleet units learn the exact location of the raider once we sight her, and are perhaps jumped by enemy aircraft too darn soon," Dave said. "There's a second radio on every Catalina, so why don't we tune it to the directional finder wave-length the instant we spot the raider. Then if anything does happen to us the Fleet units will know her location and be able to circle her before she can head for the convoy in case a real Nazi scouting plane sends her the true location of the convoy."
"That's a good suggestion," Manners said with a frown, "except that...."
"I know what you're going to say, sir," Dave cut in hurriedly. "Except that we're supposed to have stolen a plane, and even the British are hunting us? Well, here's a way to get around that. You, through ways you know best, inform the commander of each Fleet unit tonight that they are to keep their sets open for that directional finder signal and to act the instant they hear it and plot our position. They don't need to know that it's coming from the supposedly stolen plane. Just let them think that you've got real scouting planes out after that raider. In short, the same idea as we tried to work this morning. It's simply to make doubly sure of nailing that raider and her wolf-pack in case Freddy and I run into bad trouble we can't lick."
"I doubt you two not being able to lick anything," the Air Marshal grunted and grinned. "But that is a darn good suggestion, Dawson. I'll do it, don't worry. I'll get word to those Fleet unit commanders in plenty of time. Well, Farmer, have you any suggestions to offer?"
Freddy shook his head and shot a side glance at Dave.
"He does all the talking for us, sir," he said. "He can't help it. A habit he can't break. However, I agree with him completely this time."
"The miracle has come to pass!" Dave chuckled. "The little man agrees with me! The best omen of good luck possible. We can't lose, now!"
Air Marshal Manners smiled, but in his eyes there was the glow of warm and frank admiration. And his heart was bursting with pride. Here indeed was the true expression of the unbeatable spirit of the Royal Air Force. With death awaiting them out over the Atlantic these two youths, with the minds, and skill, and courage of full grown men, were enjoying themselves in a bit of horse-play. Manners swallowed hard, then drew some papers from his tunic pocket and slid them across the sand.
"The codes and the locations of the Fleet units," he said as Dave closed his hand over them. "Well, I guess we'd better be starting back. It's close to mess time. Continue your act, and after mess ease outside whenever you think the time best. Play sleepy and heading for your quarters if you like. You probably won't be noticed, and most certainly not missed. Except by me. And my prayers will be with you every single second of the time. And.... God bless you!"
The Air Marshal's voice was heavy and husky as he finished. He looked the boys straight in the eye for a brief moment, then shook himself slightly and got briskly up onto his feet.
The dark of night had come again to war besieged England, and from the northern most tip of Scotland clear south to the Isle of Wight British eyes and ears were on the alert for any and all surprise moves by Hitler's devilish hordes on the other side of the English Channel and the North Sea. Men stood waiting at their searchlight batteries. Others stood ready at their anti-aircraft guns. And the night flying pilots of the Royal Air Force stood within jumping distance of their swift, deadly fighter planes. A whole nation of some forty five millions of people ready and waiting for the next trick Adolf "Death" would pull out of his bag.
At Lands End Base, however, there were two who were not waiting for "Satan," with his trick mustache and ever drooping lock of greasy hair, to make the next move. On the contrary they were waiting for the right time to make a move themselves. They were blended in with the darkness within a hand's touch of a light small tender tied up at the southwest side of the flying boat basin. They had been there for a good half hour virtually holding their breath every instant of the time, straining their ears for the slightest sound close by, and raking the darkness with their eyes.
"What say, shall we go?" Freddy Farmer presently breathed in Dave Dawson's ear. "There's nobody within a quarter of a mile, and that wind that's freshening may swing the Cat on her mooring line so's we'll have the devil's own job heading out toward open water."
"Okay it is," Dave breathed back and gripped Freddy's arm. "Down on your belly, pal, and into the tender. I've got her free. I'll feather paddle her out Indian style. Right! Here we go!"
Cautiously the two youths wormed inch by inch down over the lip of the basin wall toward the small tender. And then suddenly there came a sound that froze them stiff and turned the blood in their veins to ice. It was the muffled crack of a rifle shot. The muffled bark from a rifle obviously fitted with a silencer. And ages before the echo was gone an angry metal hornet buzzed squarely between them and buried itself in the wall.
In an infinitesimal period of time a million heart shredding thoughts leaped and raced through Dave's brain. The basin guard! They had not fooled the ever watchful guard at all! They had been spotted and a warning shot had been fired right between them. The next shot would find warm human flesh. What to do? Go on and be shot at like a helpless clay pigeon? Go on in the tender and suddenly have every searchlight in the place played squarely on them, and be riddled with British bullets before they could so much as fling up their hands in surrender? Or should they give up, now? Give up and reveal their true identities? Should...?
"No! No, we can't. We've got to carry on. There's everything at stake. We've got to carry on. We promised. We vowed to Manners, to England, and to God. We can't give up now.We can't!"
Dave did not speak the words aloud, but they boomed through his brain with all the roaring thunder of heavy cannon fire. Hardly realizing he was doing so he reached out and touched Freddy's arm.
"Never mind the tender!" he breathed. "We've got to get to that plane by swimming for it. Slide down into the water and swim under water as long as you can. Keep heading straight for the Cat-boat."
"Right!" came the hushed reply. "It's only sixty yards, anyway. But watch the slash going in."
Faint movement told Dave that Freddy was already on his way. He waited a few brief seconds until the English youth slid into the water without causing a ripple and disappeared. Then Dave slid down in with all the silence and swiftness of an eel. Yet a split second before the chilly water closed over him he once more heard the muffled bark of a silencer fitted gun, and a tiny twinge of pain rippled across the instep of his left foot. It was so brief and short in duration that he hardly felt it. Then he was underwater, air locked tightly in his lungs, and swimming straight out from the wall with every ounce of his strength.
With every stroke he took a hundred more maddening thoughts came to torture his brain. Was he heading for the Cat-boat? Where was Freddy? Was he all right? Was Freddy keeping true direction? Would they lose each other, lose the Cat-boat, and flounder about in the dark until they were spotted from shore and shot? Thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts. And each one like the white hot blade of a knife cutting away a part of his brain.
Seconds dragged by, hours, weeks, and years. Finally, his burning lungs were on the point of bursting right out through his ribs. Blinding light danced before his closed eyes, and in his whirling head was the mighty roar of a world coming to an end. With a final desperate effort he pushed his way up toward the surface and got his head above water. For a few precious seconds he was forced to rest there slowly treading water until the blinding light passed away, and the roaring thunder faded down into silence.
Finally, his bulging eyes were back in their sockets and he could see. Dead ahead was nothing but water, and beyond the horizon marked by a few faint glimmering stars. He looked to the right and saw a huge darker shadow looming up. Then suddenly his straining eyes picked out a small object that seemed to be floating motionless on the surface of the basin. It was not five feet away and it was all he could do to refrain from letting out a wild yell. He curbed the urge and faintly breathed the name.
"Freddy?"
The small object on the water moved slightly and a whisper came stealing back to him.
"Right-o! What took you so long? This is it!"
Dave didn't answer. Instead he glided through the water until he was at Freddy Farmer's side. The English youth raised a hand and pointed above and ahead.
"Hull door, it's open," he whispered. "Manners must have slipped out and done that to make it easier for us."
"Well, thanks to whoever did it, anyway," Dave breathed back. "And I guess we've fooled those guards. Boy, does it give you a chill to be popped at by your own kind. Gosh, I...!"
"Tell me later!" Freddy hissed. "This water is what's givingmea chill. Come on, in we go. For goodness' sake, don't lose your hold and fall back into the water. It'll rouse the whole Station!"
"Okay!" Dave growled and pushed Freddy toward the flying boat's hull. "Don't you be greasy fingers either!"
Perhaps it was a minute, or perhaps it was two before the two youths were inside the Catalina flying boat, had the hull door shut and were up forward. Dave slid into the pilot's seat and reached for the engine switches, and starter buttons. He was about to snap and press them when a terrible thought crashed through his brain.
"Man, oh, man, are we starting off fine!" he choked out. "The mooring line, Freddy! Hop down and cast us free!"
"Well, can you beat that?" Freddy gasped and instantly ducked down out of sight and went forward to the gunner's nook in the nose of the hull.
A couple of moments later Dave felt the flying boat ride free. And an instant after that Freddy was back in the seat at his side. He reached for the switches and starter buttons again.
"If you've led a good life, pray hard, Freddy!" he said. "If you haven't, pray hard, anyway!"
No sooner had the last slipped off his lips than Dave whipped up the switches and jabbed the starter buttons. There was an eternity of silence. Then the silence was shattered by the whining grind of the starter gears. Then the port engine roared into life, and a split second later the starboard engine thundered into action. Fingers flying about in the dark, Dave adjusted fuel pressure, oil, propeller pitch and engine synchronization. And at the same time he applied the sea rudder and swung the huge craft a quarter turn and headed out toward open sea beyond the basin breakwater.
All that took but a matter of split seconds, yet to Dave and Freddy a thousand years seemed to drag by. It seemed to them as though the Catalina was not moving an inch seaward; as though invisible hands were holding it back. And all the time the thunder of the powerful engines was enough to wake up the dead in China.
"She's not moving, Dave!" Freddy shouted. "There must be another mooring line we didn't see! There.... Oh, thank the Lord, wearemoving!"
It was true. The huge flying boat had picked up speed and was now kicking frothy spray back up over the compartment window as the snub nose of the hull plowed through mounting rollers. And then, suddenly, as the big craft came up onto the "step," a beam of brilliant white left cut out at them from the right rear and filled the compartment with an eerie shimmering light.
"Now or never!" Dave shouted. "We've got to get off and shake that beam, or we're in for another swim. Work those fuel adjustments, Freddy! The port engine's lagging bad, and we need plenty of take-off speed!"
As Freddy got to work on the adjustments, Dave held the Cat-boat on a course dead ahead. Though the presence of the searchlight was proof positive their escape was now known to the entire base, it helped in guiding the craft by lighting up the waters ahead. A moment later the port engine started doing its full share and the flying boat thundered forward at increased speed. But at the same time a second searchlight beam, this one to the left rear, caught them, and they went roaring out toward open sea pinned perfectly in the crossed beams of light.
Dave waited until the craft had touched maximum take-off speed, then he virtually lifted the Catalina into the air and curved up and around to the east. The two searchlights followed him like two lighted fingers of glue. But a couple of moments later, when he had gained sufficient altitude, he suddenly shoved the flying boat down in a steep dive. No sooner had he dropped out of the searchlight beams than he pulled out of his dive, curved around toward the west and hauled the hull's nose up toward the star dusted sky high overhead. It was a near maneuver, and it was also successful. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the change from brilliant light to inky darkness, Dave turned his head and looked down back. There were three searchlights, now, and they were frantically probing about just off the surface of the open sea.
"Right-o, very neat, my man!" came Freddy's voice. "But stop patting yourself on the back. Get us away from here,nothigh above it! They're bound to send off land planes, you know."
"Sure as shooting," Dave replied in a tone of apology. "What we do need is distance, and not altitude. Okay, my fine feathered friend. What'll it be, South Africa or South America, huh?"
"Further than that will make me feel much better!" Freddy replied. "Jeepers, it gives you the creeps knowing that your own comrades are after you, doesn't it?"
"It sure doesn't make a fellow feel happy," Dave said soberly and took a quick look at the searchlight beams that were fast falling far astern of the flying boat. "Fact is, if you want the truth from me, I don't feel so happy about any of this business."
"What's that, Dave?" Freddy cried sharply and turned his head to stare hard in the darkness. "You mean you don't honestly think there's a chance in the world for us to do the job?"
"No," Dave said. "Not that. We'll do it, or else. What bothers me is that it seems too easy. I mean, it's all cut and dried. We do this and we do that, and such and such happens. Just think back, pal. Did any of the jobs we've tackled ever go off like clockwork according to plan?"
The English youth didn't answer for a moment. He sat peering out the forward window at the star dust far ahead on the horizon.
"Okay, sleep, if you don't feel like talking," Dave growled after the silence had stretched out to over a minute.
"I was just trying to recall, that's all," Freddy said. "No, I can't think of single job that didn't run into a snag before we had it all tucked away."
"Well, that's what I mean," Dave said and automatically trimmed ship a bit finer. "On paper it doesn't look so very tough. True, we may run into a flock of Nazi planes, but we've met Nazis before. And we may hit some weather, or maybe get a plastering from the raider's anti-aircraft guns once she gets wise to us. Then, too, we may stub our toes come dawn, and run smack dab into a mess of British planes out hunting for us. And, boy, I wouldn't like that at all. However, it's not those kind of possibilities that bother me."
"What other possibility is there?" Freddy asked. "Heaven knows you've named enough to bother me, I fancy!"
"The unsuspected possibility," Dave said and banked slightly more out toward the broad bosom of the North Atlantic. "I mean, something that neither of us, or Manners, dreamed would happen, I can't name it. I've just got a hunch, that's all. You know, the old feeling?"
"I say, cut it!" Freddy groaned. "You and your blasted hunches!"
"Well, they've tinkled the bell in the past a few times," Dave said with feeling.
"Exactly why I say, cut it!" Freddy moaned. "Your blessed hunches always turn out to be fact; cold fact, with bullets for trimming! Let's talk about the weather and let the future bring what it will. I...."
"It's brought something already!" Dave shouted and pointed off to the right. "See those twin moving lights way over there? Those lights belong to an airplane, my little man. And between you, me, and the gatepost that plane belongs to the Royal Air Force. And the lad ain't out joyriding, nohow! Hold your hat, I'm going down low just so's he can't spot our moving shadow against the stars. Yes, sir, Manners sure called the turn when he said they'd come a-running and fast!"
"Do I know what a wild duck in hunting season must feel like!" Freddy breathed as Dave throttled the engines to reduce the exhaust plumes to nil, and sent the Catalina sliding down toward the waters of the North Atlantic.
"Pal, you ain't even begun to feel things, yet!" Dave cried. "Know something? If we come through this session alive we'll probably be retired from the Air Force on a pension."
"Not likely!" Freddy said scornfully. "There's loads and loads of chaps who risk their necks just as much as we do. Stop fishing for another medal and a visit to Buckingham Palace!"
"Medal, my eye!" Dave snorted. "I don't mean we'll be retired as a reward for our glorious deeds. Nuts! We'll be retired on account of old age! Don't know about you, but I've already aged twenty years since we dived into the mooring basin. Get what I mean?"
"Oh quite," Freddy said with a chuckle. "And you're lucky. I've added thirty years, I swear! I.... Watch it, Dave! There's some kind of a surface craft right below us. Maybe one of our Channel patrol boats. Better pull out!"
Dave, however, had already seen the moving shadow of something down below them, and even before Freddy had finished shouting he had the Catalina leveled out of its glide and was climbing up and off toward the south. Luck or fast action saved them some tight moments, because a moment later a surface ship broke out its searchlight and started raking the heavens. Dave zig-zagged, however, and kept out of the beam and finally passed on beyond its range.
An hour later they were far at sea and high in the air and just under some patches of clouds. Dave switched on the automatic pilot device, and then took the copies of the Nazi codes and the data of the British Fleet units locations from his pocket. He smoothed them out and trained a single compartment light on them.
"Close to midnight, Freddy," he said. "And we've got some home work to do before we get going in earnest. So dust your brains out and get all this stuff down pat. After all, you've got to work the radio, you know. Besides, your German is twice as good as mine."
"Liar!" Freddy growled. Then with a sigh, "Oh well, just as you say, then. It's happened before. You get all the fun flying, and I get all the dirty work!"
"Brain work, chum!" Dave corrected with a laugh. "Me, I'm dumb. That's why I always have to take you along on these jaunts, see?"
"Next time don't feel youhaveto!" Freddy sighed and started digging into the mess of Nazi code signals.
Dawn sunshine rippled along the broad wings of the American built Consolidated Catalina flying boat, but ominous coal black clouds were beginning to pile up high in the western sky. Even as Dave Dawson stared at them they seemed to fling a dark shadow far out over the rolling swells of the North Atlantic. He gave an angry shake of his head and impulsively took a tighter grip on the controls of the flying boat.
"That storm ahead looks pretty bad, Freddy," he said wearily out the corner of his mouth. "What do you think?"
Freddy Farmer stirred in the co-pilot's seat and glanced haggard eyed at the altimeter. The needle pointed to exactly nine thousand feet.
"We'll just have to hit it on the nose and pray," he said after a moment. "If we climb over it we might just as well go back to port and give up. I'm positive the raider's under it somewhere. Those signals were so weak I couldn't make head or tail of them. All we can do is take a chance we're right this time. If we aren't then...."
Freddy shrugged and left the rest hanging in midair, and bent forward to recheck the radio's adjustments for the umpty-umpteenth time in the last six hours. Dave nodded absently and kept his gaze fixed on the mountainous coal black clouds ahead. There was a dull throbbing in his head, his eyes smarted and ached, and his whole body felt stiff and sore. But what bothered him most was the bitter, empty feeling of helpless despair in his heart.
He and Freddy had been aloft in the Catalina for a good eight hours, and for the last six of those hours they had done everything within their power to make radio contact with the mystery raider and her wolf-pack of U-boats somewhere on the vast expanse of the Atlantic below them. Several times they had received code signals in answer to their call, but because of a static band the signals had been too weak for Freddy to understand. The very fact, though, that they had picked up bits of the same signals several times convinced them both that they had made contact. No definite proof, however, and hour after hour they had cruised about in the dark shrouded sky groping like a blind man in a strange room.
That alone was enough to fray their nerves and put them on edge, but to add to their helpless misery was the fact that they picked up spots of other signals they knew did not come from the raider. Some were in British code, and it was easy to guess that aircraft on the hunt for them were communicating with each other and their shore bases. And then there were signals in German code that were obviously being sent out from Nazi aircraft. Those signals worried them more than the fact they could not establish definite contact with the raider. The same question burned through their brains in letters of fire a foot high. Had scouting Nazi aircraft spotted the all important convoy and were they establishing contact with the raider? And were the raider and her wolf-pack already sneaking into position to pounce upon those precious cargoes destined for England?
Hours of groping blindly about in the dark. Hours when at any minute they might plow headlong into R.A.F. planes searching them out. Hours of heart crushing failure to achieve their all important goal, contact with the raider. Hours during which every tantalizing thought possible rose up to peck at their tired brains like vultures over a dead steer.
And, now, dawn! Dawn and light. Light that would reveal them to the pilots of other planes that might come across them in the air. The eyes of British pilots. And the eyes of Nazi pilots. Dawn and one last hope, a final prayer. That the mystery raider was hugging the area below that storm ahead, and the static created by the storm was the reason they couldn't contact the raider. One last hope. One last fight, not against aircraft, but against the raging fury of an Atlantic storm. If they could not find the raider somewhere in that storm area then their mission was doomed to failure. Time's sands were running out in the glass. If they did not find the raider this time, it would mean that the raider was nowhere about. That it was far away, in contact with a real Nazi scouting plane, and ... and perhaps in the very act of pouncing upon the convoy.
Dave shuddered and wiped sweat from his brow as the last thought whipped across his brain. Then almost instantly he gritted his teeth, got his chin up, and squared his jaw.
"Nuts to that storm!" he muttered. "This Cat-boat can take worse than that. We'll find that darn raider if we have to hunt it out from pole to pole. Got your safety belt fastened tight, Freddy? We're going to get a nice tossing."
"As tight as it'll go," the English youth replied. "I'll be okay as long as the wings stay on."
"They'll stay on," Dave said grimly. "This job is Yank built, and good. Make a check on our course. I want to head into that mess ahead in the direction of the nearest British Fleet unit to our position. The direction signals you last flashed out to the raider. I'm just banking on a hope she caught them and is heading that way, too."
"That would almost be too good to be true," Freddy sighed. "But hold your horses a minute and I'll make a definite check."
Freddy busied himself with his charts and navigation for a moment or so, then straightened up and nodded.
"Keep her as she goes, Dave," he reported. "We're right on the old beam, now. And...."
The English youth didn't finish the rest. He didn't for the plain reason that an invisible express train seemed to come roaring out of nowhere and crash into the right wing. The flying boat heeled over drunkenly to that side, shivered and shook from stem to stern, and then tried to drop by the nose and plunge madly seaward. Dave's face paled and the cords of his neck stood out like taut steel cables as he battled with the controls, and by sheer strength fought the flying boat up onto even keel.
"And that's the starter!" he panted. "Just a puff of air compared to what's coming. But I'm going straight in to the middle and then down as low as we dare. We may find a hole underneath that will give us enough visibility. When we find it, keep your eyes open. Don't close them for a second. And keep working that radio for all it's worth. Try every darn code in the book, including the emergency one. The instant you get a definite contact let me know."
"I'll let you know, never fear!" Freddy Farmer bellowed as a sudden roaring sound closed in from all sides to make the thunder of the engines little more than a murmur. "I'll let you know ... but it may be in the next world!"
Dave hardly heard the last, and he didn't bother to make any comment. He had no strength to waste trying to yell above the world of sound into which they had plunged. Every ounce of strength was needed to hold the controls firm, and keep the crazy crisscross tornado of wind from spinning the huge Catalina up on wingtip as though it were bit of torn paper in the air. The sun was now gone, swallowed up behind them, and the flying boat was rocking, and bucking, and pitching through a swirling world of slate grey and eerie shades of purple. Every so often the roaring of the wind would die away as though by magic. There would be only the powerful roar of their sturdy engines. And the craft would tear forward without so much as a tremor in either wingtip.
And then just as suddenly a coal black mass of cloud would zoom up straight in front of the nose of the hull, and the fury of the weather gods would crash in on them with terrifying force. A wall of slashing rain would fall down upon them, and it would be impossible to see an inch ahead or in any direction. The nose of the hull, where the forward gunner ordinarily sat, would disappear from their view completely. Tossed and heaved this way and that, they would hurtle onward completely blind.
A hundred times the flying boat would give a sharp lurch and Dave's heart would stop cold in fear that something had given way, and that the Catalina was breaking up in midair. Or a hundred times the engine instrument needles would go on a crazy rampage about the dials, and either the starboard or port engine would cough and sputter for a second or two that was a whole lifetime to Dave Dawson's jangling nerves. But always, no matter what, the Catalina kept on valiantly fighting its way toward the center of the storm.
Finally a sudden calm and a flood of grey light told Dave that they had hit the center. He winked sweat from his eyes, sweat that had streamed down off his forehead, and took a look below. He saw an expanse of thin fleecy cloud that was traveling in a slow circle as the result of the whirling movement at the core of the storm. He shot a quick hopeful glance at Freddy, but the English youth had phones clamped to his ears and was working frantically at the radio. His face was grim and set, but there was a dull, defeated look in his eyes.
Dave turned front, throttled the engines slightly and nosed the flying boat down toward the layer of fleecy cloud. He could see gobs of black cloud underneath, but the stuff was not solid, and hope zoomed high in his breast. There were bound to be holes in the stuff. Holes through which he could look down into the calm area under the center of the storm. There, if any place, would be the raider. Stealing along in the calm center while the real fury of the storm protected her on all sides.
Would she be there? Would she be heading in the right direction? For a brief moment Dave was filled with the crazy desire to pull up out of his dive and ride on through the other side of the storm without so much as taking a single look for the raider. Crazy, insane? Sure! But if he did go on down, and the raider was nowhere to be seen, the bitter defeat might be more than his already singing nerves could take.
"Cut it, you dope!" he grated at himself. "If she isn't there, then she isn't there. What are you, anyway? A low down dirty quitter? No nerve to stick your chin out, and take it? Get down there, Dawson, and get down darn fast!"
The sound of his own voice helped. The crazy desire to quit and run faded away into thin air. His grip on the controls tightened and he held the Catalina in its downward plunge. In the matter of seconds he reached the layer of fleecy cloud. There he pulled out of his dive slightly, kept the nose down just a hair, and started circling about. The altimeter read three thousand feet. It was probably correct, but after what the craft had passed through, every instrument on the panel might be all cockeyed. And there were still black clouds below him. For all he knew they might be sitting right on top of the storm swept water. Death would have the last laugh if he should fly the Catalina right down into the wet stuff. No, the thing to do was to circle slowly and drop down foot by foot, and keep both eyes skinned for the first hole in the black stuff below. And, please God, he would be able to find a hole! If not....
He didn't finish the thought. At that instant something hit him a sharp blow on the right arm, and his own name was screamed in his ears.
"Dave, I've made contact! Positive this time. I got the raider's number signal as clear as a bell. She's close by, I'm positive. She wants a repeat on the convoy's location!"
Freddy Farmer's face was flaming red with excitement, and his eyes seemed to shoot out sparks as he yelled at Dave and continued to thump a fist on his right arm. Dave yanked his arm away and scowled.
"Hey, lay off!" he shouted. "But swell, Freddy! Give her direction X Dash M. That will take her out of this storm. She's moving with it now, that's a cinch. And it'll be tough for the navy boats to find her in that sea. The U-boats could scatter and skip away at will. Give her X Dash M direction signal and get her out into open sea. We'll go on back up for plenty altitude and pick her up when she comes out of the storm. Boy, I guess we're tops, huh?"
Freddy grinned like an imp but he didn't say anything. He was hard at work at his set again, sending out the misleading signals to the marauder of the high seas somewhere down there below the storm. For a couple of minutes longer curiosity, burning curiosity, forced Dave to continue circling downward searching for a hole that would give him a view of the surface of the ocean. However, before he could find a hole the sudden realization that he might spoil everything snapped him out of his trance, and made him pull the nose up, feed full fuel to his engines and start climbing the Catalina up through the center of the storm.
"Spoil things, and how!" he echoed the thought aloud. "If that raider should spot us, ten to one her commander would wonder plenty how-come we were so close. Use your head, Dave, and keep using it!"
"I quite agree, though I don't know what you mean," he heard Freddy shout. "A bad sign, though, when a chap starts talking to himself, you know. That tossing around didn't get you, did it?"
The English youth was grinning broadly and there was the old sparkle in his eyes. Gone was the haggard, worn out look. That they had made contact with the raider in their last desperate try had made a new man of Freddy. Dave grinned back at him and felt ten times better himself. Now they had something they could dig their teeth into. No more stumbling around hoping against hope, and meeting with defeat at every turn. Once they reached high altitude and spotted the raider when she came out beyond the rim of the storm, everything would be all to the merry. True, maybe whirlwind action lay just ahead, but that was okay. It would be action with a purpose, not useless unfinished action.
"I'm okay!" he said to Freddy. "I mean, no more goofy than usual. But I do feel tops, now. As soon as we sight that baby send her a course correction and get her headed once again toward that Fleet unit. And once she's on course get set for anything."
Freddy arched an eyebrow and looked puzzled.
"Meaning exactly what?" he asked.
Dave shrugged and made a little gesture with one hand.
"I feel a million times better," he said, "but I've still got that old hunch the unexpected's going to suddenly pop up with a bang. Gosh, Freddy! Just suppose this ship you've contacted isn't the raider at all!"
The English youth paled but almost immediately he shook his head vigorously.
"Impossible!" he said bluntly. "I got her call signals as clear as anything. Don't worry, she identified herself by code. She's the raider, all right. And at least we've got a full hour."
"Full hour?" Dave echoed and looked blank.
"Certainly," Freddy replied. "From the convoy's position I radioed him the commander knows that he can't get within striking distance at least for an hour. So that gives us a full hour to work her dead away from the convoy's route and into the hands of the Navy. If only the Nazi planes don't show up. That's what worries me. That they'll show up, and things will go wrong, and the murdering blighter and her steel fish will still be able to get at the convoy. I don't want to return to port if that happens, Dave."
The two exchanged looks, and Dave impulsively reached out his hand and pressed Freddy's knee.
"Neither of us will be returning to port if things go all wrong, Freddy," he said in a steady voice. "We're armed, and if the Navy and Fleet Air Arm lads don't show up in time, then you and I'll fight the whole lot of them alone ... and keep on fighting to the end. Now, pull up your socks, my lad, and stop thinking crazy things. In another ten minutes we should be taking our first look at her. Hang on, now. We're going to be tossed around a bit, but not as much as before. I'm going to climb up through to the top instead of barging right through to the outside. We'll miss the bad part, I hope."
With a nod for emphasis, Dave gave the Catalina's engines full throttle and steepened his climb up through the comparatively calm area in the center of the storm. Near the top, at an altitude of some fourteen thousand feet, they ran into some rough air. The flying boat bucked and quivered and threatened to fall off on one wing and plunged down. There was a real pilot at the controls, though. An ace pilot, and he fought the mad actions of the plane tooth and nail. And he won! Engines laboring, due to the excess strain, the flying boat finally prop clawed up through the last of the storm clouds and into a world flooded with golden sunlight.
"That's the nice girl!" Dave cried and affectionately patted the controls with one hand. "Manners and Otis weren't shooting any line when they said you were good. You are, and plenty more!"
"Good grief!" Freddy gasped. "Have we actually been down in that stuff?"
Dave turned his head to see Freddy peering downward out the compartment window. He took a look, himself, and unconsciously gulped and swallowed hard. Below was an angry mass of boiling black cloud. It seemed to extend to the four horizons and completely blot out the waters of the North Atlantic underneath. A whirling black mass that changed to brown, then grey, then an eerie purple streaked with lacy white. And then black to a turbulent, seething black mass again.
"Sweet tripe!" Dave breathed in awe. "And the wings are still on? Freddy, don't put that storm in your report, if you ever write one. Nobody would believe you. And you couldn't blame them. Well, we're out of it and above, anyway. So three cheers for us.... I mean, this Catalina. Now, to get more altitude and start eye hunting for that raider. Boy, if our good luck will only continue to hold out."
"It's got to, and it's going to!" Freddy said firmly. "Just don't give it another thought. Just skin your eyes and I'll skin mine. And I'll bet you five pounds I spot her first."
"A bet!" Dave shouted happily and swung the Catalina around toward the west. "I know I'm going to lose, though. Heck, with those sharp eyes you've got, you could read tomorrow's newspaper from here! And I don't mean maybe!"
After that the two youths lapsed into silence, and each bent forward and eagerly fixed his gaze on the western rim of the savage storm and the rain blurred stretches of the Atlantic they could see far beyond. Their spirits were high, and their hearts were light. The job was still to be done. The task was still to be accomplished, yet somehow they felt they had reached the home stretch, and that their goal was almost in sight.
It was a wonderful feeling that filled their fighting hearts and tingled their blood, but somewhere up on high the gods of war shrilled in high glee, for they knew something that neither Dave Dawson or Freddy Farmer or so much as even dreamed. The war gods knew that death was close to those two R.A.F. aces. Close, real close. The matter of only a few feet. And even as they strained their eyes for their very first glimpse of the Atlantic raider, death moved one step closer, and another, and another....