[B]Dave Dawson With The Flying Tigers.
[B]Dave Dawson With The Flying Tigers.
For another fifteen minutes Dawson stuck to the course he was flying and battled desperately with the problem ofwhichof the two bad choices he should make. One moment he was in favor of leading the Zeros as close to Jackson's approximate position as he dared, and then jumping them and shooting them down. But in the next moment he would tell himself that that was like hoping for the moon on a silver platter. And what's more, it was a completely nutty idea for the very reason that neither Freddy nor he knew theexactlocation of Jackson's force. They could only figure out approximately where it was. For that reason they might well stumble on it by accident and the Japs sight it just as clearly as they did. And if that should happen,and he should wheel around to shoot them down, they could indeed give him the horse laugh. They had only to bank around and open their throttles wide, and the MK-11 would never catch them in a hundred years.
And so, with that decided, he would promptly consider the second bad choice. That of leading the Zeros in a direction that wouldn't even come close to the Yank aircraft carrier task force, and then sitting down in the water when the fuel was used up. As a matter of fact, the Zeros would be out of fuel long before then. So maybe the choice of leading the Zeros on a crazy wild goose chase out across the vast reaches of the Southwest Pacific was a good one to make.
"But, doggone it, no!" Dawson argued with himself. "Freddy and I knew something that can mean plenty to Colonel Welsh and Admiral Jackson. And to the forces attacking Guadalcanal, too. We've justgotto get that information through, somehow. And that's all there is to it, darn it!"
Yes, that's all there was to it, darn it! Except for the one ever tantalizing word. The wordhow. How to shake off the trailing Jap Zeros? How to find Jackson's task force, wherever it was? How to do this? And how to do that? Dawson groaned in bitter anguish and pressedone clenched fist against his forehead, as though in so doing he might force open some little door in his brain, and find out all the correct answers. It didn't work out that way, however. And then, eventually, he felt Freddy Farmer tapping him on the shoulder and heard his pal's voice in his ear.
"I say, Dave, old thing, I just thought of something. Maybe we can go these beggars one better, in spite of them, and come out on top, you know."
Dawson twisted around in the seat, and made a little impatient gesture.
"Then for cat's sake spill it!" he cried. "I've thought my brain ragged, but no soap. Have you really figured up an idea? Shoot it to me quick, pal."
"It's a wild chance, Dave, but I think we've got to take it," the English youth began. "First place, we can't lead these Zeros to Jackson's force. Also, we just can't lead them any old place until we run out of fuel. That would simply be the end of us, and Admiral Jackson would be none the wiser, see?"
"Of course I see!" Dawson growled as the English youth paused for breath. "I figured all that out for myself years ago. So what? Have you got anything better?"
"I think so," Freddy came right back at him. "Port Moresby in New Guinea, Dave. We still hold Port Moresby. There's a big air base there. And, of course, a radio station. If we can reach Port Moresby we can get them to flash what information we know to Admiral Jackson. At least we can give the alarm that Sasebo's force knows of the Guadalcanal attack, and will probably try to do something about it. That way, at least, the Guadalcanal forces won't be caught by surprise. Also they'll be on the alert in Northern Australia in case Sasebo does go all the way down there. But the big point is, Dave, these Zeros back there couldn't possibly reach Port Moresby with the fuel they carry."
Dawson thought that over for a moment or two. Then he nodded his head and grinned at Freddy.
"Brains the guy really has got!" he cried. "Take a bow, Freddy. I think you've hit the solution right on the old head. It'll be touch and go whether even we can reach Port Moresby from here. But it's a cinch those Zeros never will. Then, too, when they see us head south they may think we're heading for Jackson's force, and figure that Jackson must be on patrol off the New Guinea coast, which he isn't. Yup! Take a bow, Freddy. But it's going to be close.Plenty close. Just the same, though, there's another little thing in our favor. The time of day, Freddy!"
"What's that?" the English-born air ace echoed, and looked puzzled.
"The time of day, or I should say night," Dave told him, and jerked his head westward. "In about an hour it's going to be plenty dark. If we haven't shaken them off our tails by then, we can certainly do it in the darkness. And who knows, maybe then we can change course again and find Jackson sometime around dawn. There's nine hours gas in this air buggy, at least. So maybe everything will be okey-doke after all."
"Well, anyway, turn south, Dave, and let's keep our fingers crossed," Freddy Farmer grunted.
Dave winked, gave Freddy the old two-finger V-for-victory sign, and banked the MK-11 around until he was headed due south. True, his navigation depended only on the compass. And a Jap compass at that. However, he felt sure that if he kept on heading as he was going now he would eventually hit some part of the New Guinea coast. And that would be good enough. He'd find Port Morseby soon afterward, or—
"Or bust a wing in the attempt!" he finishedthe thought grimly.
And so, southward went the Mitsubishi MK-11. And southward, also, trailed the three Jap Zeros no more than two miles behind, and some four or five thousand feet higher up in the air. And for an hour the picture remained the same. There was nothing to be seen below but the rolling endless swells of that part of the Southwest Pacific. And in the air the three Jap Zeros tagging doggedly along. Ten thousand times, at least, Dawson twisted around for a squint at those trailing Zeros. And ten thousand times, too, he glanced at the last glow of the sun's rays that tinted the western heavens, and at the shadows of night racing up out of the east.
Soon, now, night would come with a rush as it always did in that part of the world. Soon darkness would be all about the MK-11, and he and Freddy Farmer could lose those trailing Zeros. Soon—
But at that exact moment he heard Freddy's wild cry of alarm and felt the English youth's fist thump down on his shoulder.
"Here they come, Dave!" Freddy cried. "Here come the blighters, blast them!"
Dawson instantly twisted around in the seat, and just as quickly cold fear clutched at his heart. It was true enough. The three Zeros hadsuddenly speeded up. But, more than that, they were coming down in a dive straight for the MK-11. One look at the way those Zeros were piling down and Dawson knew that one of two guesses was true. And possibly both. The Zero pilots had decided that the two youths planned to shake them off in the darkness, after leading them astray. Or else they figured that the American carrier force was due south, and that they could finish off their "unsuspecting victims" and use the rest of the gas in their tanks to get back to their own carrier. It was one or the other, and maybe both. But down they came, anyway, and a spell of cold, helpless fear was Dawson's.
"Get set with your rear guns, Freddy!" he called out sharply. "I should have figured this. Those rats are tired of playing around, and I've got a hunch they're going to do something about it. Something not so good for us."
"I think so, too!" the English youth called back. "But let them try it, blast them. Frankly, I'm blessed well fed up with being tagged around. So let the blighters come. We'll fight them, if we have to. Jolly well right, we'll fight them!"
The words that poured from Freddy Farmer's lips were better than a tonic to Dawson. The cold fear left him at once, and instead he wasfilled with a fierce determination. Right! Let those Zeros pile down and get tough. He, too, was fed up with being pushed and shoved and tagged around. Doggone it, it seemed years since he had let fly with any bullets at the Japs. The last time had been as that Air Transport Command plane was approaching the Australian coast from India. Heck, yes! Since then they hadn't done a darn thing for their country. On the contrary, they'd been shot up, shot down, and kicked around by the Japs. So okay. If it was to be a scrap, then that would be fine, and nuts to the odds against them!
With a silent savage nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted around and squinted at the Jap Zeros for the umpty-umpth time. They were down almost on a level with the MK-11, and while two of them remained in wingtip to wingtip formation, the third Zero speeded up and came up abreast of the MK-11. Dawson stared at it narrow-eyed, ready to out-maneuver the Jap if he tried any smart stuff. And it was then he saw the helmeted figure in the pit put his radio mike to his lips, and motion with his free hand to Dawson to switch on his receiving set. For a couple of split seconds the Yank air ace stared in amazement. Then he snapped out of his trance and impulsively knocked up the switchof his receiving set in the front pit, and pulled the earphones down over his head.
For a brief instant or two he heard nothing but the hum of the set warming up, and a little blast of static. And then he almost jumped out of the pit with surprise as he clearly heard the voice of the huge Jap who had been their "escort" back on the enemy carrier.
"Turn around and come with us, please!" came the astonishing demand. "Turn around at once, and return with us, please, or we will shoot you down into the water. I am warning you. You cannot escape. Turn around, and come back with us at once, please!"
Dawson turned around, right enough. His head, andnotthe plane. He looked at Freddy, wide-eyed.
"Well, what do you know!" he cried. "And what a hope that guy has. You heard him, Freddy?"
The English youth nodded, and yanked his own headphones off.
"Jolly well right, I heard the beggar!" he cried angrily. "And here's our answer to him. Get set, Dave!"
As Freddy shouted the last he grabbed his rear guns and fired a defiant burst straight over the wings of the Zero. He could very easily haveslammed that burst straight into the Zero, but that would have been Jap stuff, and he couldn't bring himself to sink that low, regardless of the seriousness of the situation.
"There's your answer, you dirty blighter!" he howled as the Jap pilot almost turned his plane inside out in a frantic effort to get away. "There's your answer, blast you!"
The English youth shouted more things, but Dawson didn't wait to listen and admire. He had twisted back front and was sticking the MK-11 through a vicious half-roll to throw off the aim of the two Zero pilots behind flying wingtip formation. And it was the perfect maneuver in such a case, too. He did throw the two pilots off and caused them to open fire a split second too late so that tracers from their guns cleared the top of the twisting MK-11 by several feet.
"Catch them Freddy, catch them, kid!" Dawson bellowed as he hauled the wing screaming MK-11 up out of its mad dive. "Nail one of the tramps, and make it that much less uneven, kid!"
Maybe the English youth heard, and maybe he didn't. Maybe he had that idea all along. At any rate, his guns hammered out their chattering note, and Dawson saw one of the Zerosseem to stagger and stumble in the air. By then he had brought the MK-11 around and up so that he could bring his own guns to bear. He stabbed the electric trigger button, and a great shout of joy burst from his lips as the staggering Zero suddenly became a ball of fire that hung motionless in midair for a split second and then fell down into the water, leaving behind a trail of oily black smoke.
Neither Dave, nor Freddy Farmer, however, took time out to watch the Zero flame downward to its finish. They still had a two to one fight on their hands,andagainst two planes that could fly rings around their MK-11. They had been lucky and had caught one of the Japs with his "flaps down," so to speak, but the other two were not going to be so easy. As a matter of fact, it seemed to Dawson that he had hardly slammed the death burst into that first Jap before one of the others was wheeling in at him broadside, despite the withering fire from Freddy Farmer's guns. The MK-11 shook and trembled as it was hit in a dozen different places. And suddenly Dawson felt as though he had been clipped in the chest by the tip of a spinning prop. Every bit of air was knocked out of his lungs, and black and red spots began to whirl and dance around before his eyes. Then, suddenly, the spots disappeared, and save for a dull ache in his chest he was all right again.
All right? He laughed harshly as that thought flashed through his brain. All right? Sure, except for the minor detail that the two Jap Zero pilots were maneuvering about to "box" the MK-11 in a deadly and fatal cross-fire. Yes, sure, he was all okay save for that minor little detail.
"Give it to them, Dave! Don't let the blighters get away with it! Fly their confounded wings off, blast them!"
The words had come from Freddy's lips, but as far as Dave Dawson was concerned they were just a waste of breath. He was well aware of the two Zeros closing in for a cross-fire attack. And he was well aware of the fact that he'd have to just about fly the wings off the Zeros in order to skip free of this air trap. As a matter of fact, the only thing he could possibly do was to play a long shot; to take a one in a million chance, and pray as he had never before prayed in his life. Take a long shot chance, and pray.
"Hold tight, Freddy!" he shouted. "I'm going to twist this baby plenty. I—"
He cut off the rest of what he was shouting because his chest was filled with sharp pains again, and his lungs felt as though they werebreathing liquid fire. It suddenly seemed to take every ounce of his strength to move the control stick, and to kick on rudder. But somehow he managed it, and he sent the MK-11 curving upward and around toward the Zero on his left. And at the same time Freddy Farmer let fly with his guns at the Zero on the right. Dawson's Jap saw him coming and, rather than chance the full fury of the Yank's fire, he pulled off and upward. In that same split second Dawson steeled himself to the effort, slammed the stick over, booted opposite rudder and brought the MK-11 around and up in the opposite direction. In other words he cut off his expected attack on the first Zero to cut in up at the Zero on the other side. As a result of that double maneuver, which was carried through with split-second accuracy, he not only broke up the two Zero plane attack, but forced each Jap pilot to careen upward and away.
Too late the two Japs realized what was going to happen. Instead of both charging straight in on the MK-11, they both were streaking straight at one another! Both Japs saw that a midair crash was about to take place, and both frantically tried to swerve off into the clear. And perhaps they might have succeeded if it hadn't been for the deadly aim of Freddy Farmer. TheEnglish youth's guns snarled out their song, and one of the Jap pilots was stone dead before he could turn off into the clear. And his failure to do so spilled the beans for the other Jap. He couldn't check his plane in time, and he flew straight into the other faltering Zero.
To Dawson's ears, and to Freddy Farmer's, came the loud crashing sound as the two high speed planes met about three hundred feet above the MK-11. And then the whole sky seemed to be filled with seething flame. Dawson cried out in impulsive alarm and slammed the nose of his two-seater downward. Glancing back up over his shoulder, he saw the mass of exploding flame that enveloped the two Zeros. Then there was even a louder explosion, and the air was filled with falling slivers of flame. Choking and gasping from the effort it caused him, Dawson hauled the MK-11 out of its mad dive at about wave crest height and flew, level while red and black dots danced around before his eyes again, and dull, throbbing pain flowed through his chest.
"Nice, Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer calling to him. "That was the most perfect maneuver I ever saw. Man! Did you fool those two beggars. It was absolutely wonderful."
"I'll just take half the credit, kid!" Dawsonforced himself to call back. "But for that sweet shooting of yours the stunt might not have worked. And—Oh, for gosh sakes!"
Dave gasped out the last as he happened to glance at the instrument panel. One of the bursts of bullets from one of the Zeros had made a shambles of the instrument board. And the compass in particular was just a heap of junk. With the compass gone they would have to depend entirely upon celestial navigation. In other words, any hope they might have of continuing on to find Admiral Jackson's task force was completely gone. Because of the milling around in the fight they had, of course, lost all track of their exact position. And they would have to know their position exactly in order to set a true course for the area where they believed the Yank task force to be. And without the aid of the compass they wouldn't be able to hold to a true course, even if they could plot one. And so there was but one thing to do. They at least could tell the direction of south. And somewhere south of them was New Guinea with the Yank-held base at Port Morseby. So south it had to be, and in no other direction.
"Blast their good shooting!" Dave heard Freddy's voice close behind him, and knew that the English youth was looking at what hadhappened to the compass. "Well, south it is then, Dave. It'll be dark in no time, now. And at least we can tell true south from the stars. But, after all, we're blasted lucky. So I guess we can't kick much, what?"
Dawson nodded, and dragged air into his lungs. The pain of it caused him to wince slightly, silently. But he managed to speak the words.
"Go south, I always say," he grunted. "But keep the old fingers crossed, Freddy. And don't forget the praying, either. We haven't got the Japs to worry about any more, thank God. But we have got an awful lot of ocean to consider. And—yeah—a plane that maybe won't quite make it.
"Rot, Dave!" Freddy snapped at him. "You're talking like an old woman. Come off it. We'll make it, you'll see. Blast it, Dave, we've just got to!"
"Check, kid, check!" Dawson mumbled. "We've just got to make it, and how!"
And with a half-nod for emphasis he unconsciously put his free hand to his throbbing chest.
Darkness, and more darkness, and even more darkness. Constantly, forever, and eternally. And with it all the monotonous, nerve-pounding drone of the engine in the nose of the Mitsubishi. Ten million times it was all Dawson could do to refrain from screaming his head off, and diving right out of the plane into the black night air. It was the same minute after minute, and hour after hour. It was almost more than Dawson, in his condition, could bear. And as the night dragged on and on, tiny little fears began to mount up in the Yank air ace.
It had been but a few minutes after the three to one air scrap when the Southwest Pacific night had arrived with a swoop and a rush, and closed in on all sides. However, as though thegods were favoring those two youths a little, there were no clouds in the night sky. Above and stretching far off to all the horizons was a solid canopy of glittering and winking stars. And so it had been but a simple matter to plot a course south by the stars, allowing for a slight correction either way.
And so they had headed south at cruising throttle, and with a solemn, fervent prayer in their hearts that after the seven hours of darkness in that part of the world would come dawn and the definite knowledge that they were within sight of the New Guinea coast. Both realized that then would begin the most difficult part of the long flight. Though MacArthur's troops and planes were hammering hard at the Japs, the devils from the Land of the Rising Sun still held most of New Guinea. And, frankly speaking, the two youths could expect more trouble before they sat down on the Yank-held base at Port Moresby.
However, they had won out so far, and against great odds, so there was more than a little joy in their hearts as they went winging south. For a long time they chatted back and forth about this and that for no other reason than the pleasure of companionship. Eventually, though, they ran out of words, and save for a short sentencenow and then they both remained silent.
As far as Dawson was concerned, that was perfectly okay. His chest was on fire, and it hurt him to talk. Also, there were little alarming spells of giddiness that came to him every now and then. He didn't dare say anything to Freddy, because that would add just one more worry to the English youth's stock. So he kept his mouth shut, clamped down hard on the knife-like pains in his chest, and flew doggedly southward, praying for dawn as he had never prayed in his whole life before.
But the darkness dragged on and on until Dawson was ready to despair of ever seeing a dawn again. A numbness had settled in his left shoulder, except when he moved it. And when he did by accident, he had to shut his teeth tight to stop from crying out from the pain. A cold clammy sweat formed on his forehead, and the beads kept continually trickling down into his eyes to blur his vision, and caused him to imagine he saw all kinds of crazy things that didn't exist at all a split second after he had brushed the sweat from his eyes. Particularly he was seeing the lights of ships below. Or, at least, certain he was seeing them until he looked again. Of course, every time he "saw" the lights he knew perfectly well that any boat in that partof the Southwest Pacific, Yank or Jap, most certainly wouldn't be showing so much as a speck of light at night. However, what he imagined seemed so real that he was constantly sitting up straight and peering down over the right wing or the left.
If dawn wouldonlycome! If only there would come a thin pale line of light in the east to give him hope, if nothing else! If—
"I say, old chap!" Freddy Farmer's voice cut into his thoughts, and prayers. "Would you mind raising the shade and letting in a bit of light, what? I'm getting blasted fed up with this darkness. I swear we've had a solid week of it. I really do."
"Me, too, pal," Dawson replied, and struggled to keep his suffering out of his voice. "It almost seems as if somebody blew out the doggoned sun. Boy, if—Hold it! Am I right, or am I right, Freddy? Could that be the first grey streak there to the east, huh?"
"It not only could be, but it is!" the English-born air ace shouted happily. "Praise be to Allah! In a few moments now we should be able to get a look at where we are. I bet you anything you like that the New Guinea coast is just ahead of us, and that we'll see it soon."
"No bet!" Dave called back. "That's one betI wouldn't want to win. And how, I wouldn't want to win it!"
As Dawson spoke the last a sudden thought came to him, and he caught his breath. The thought was: What if they didn't sight land within an hour or less after dawn? Supposing their drift during the night hours had been double or even triple what they had allowed for, and they were actually lost somewhere above the broad expanse of the Southwest Pacific? What if they were lost, and remained lost until the engine in the nose sucked up the last drop of high test, and then quit cold? There was a rubber raft in the MK-11, but Dawson knew in his heart that he would never survive a single day drifting helplessly on the sun-flooded waters. Yesterday, sure, or the day before—but not now. Not during this day that was now dawning. And so, please, God! Please!
The silent prayer remained on Dawson's lips as he watched the pale line of light low down in the east grow broader and brighter, until, as though invisible doors in the heavens had been flung open, the light of the new day came rushing westward, driving the shadows of night on ahead of it. In a matter of less than fifteen minutes the two youths had perfect visibility in all four directions. First, though, they peeredsouthward. And to Dawson it was like receiving a mule's kick in the stomach. Nothing but dawn-tinted water as far as the eye could see. Not a sign of land. Not a sign of anything but water; endless rolling swells of it. A great sadness, a great bitterness welled up in him until he could hardly breathe. And there was the sting of hot tears at the backs of his eyeballs.
"No land—not a darn sight of it!" he heard himself mumble. "And I had hoped—oh gosh, how I had hoped! Darn it, therehasto be land, or we just can't possibly make Port Moresby. And I can't—"
He let the rest trail off and stared bleak-eyed at the limitless stretch of water to the south. He wanted to turn around in the pit and say something cheerful to Freddy Farmer in back. Say any old thing that would take the sting out of what his pal must be thinking, too. But somehow he couldn't turn around. Somehow he couldn't even think of anything to say. He felt absolutely powerless to move. It was as though he were a dead man looking out across a dead world.
And then, suddenly, a bunched fist came down on his left shoulder, and he almost fainted from the pain in his chest as Freddy Farmer's wildly shouted words smashed against his ear drums.
"Dave, look! Off there to port! Dave, look,look, old chap! A lot of ships. A carrier task force.It's Jackson's force, Dave! Jackson's!There's our task force. Dave! It's a miracle, a blessed miracle! There's the task force!"
For one brief instant more Dawson couldn't move. Then he managed to turn his head, but he could see nothing but swimming lights and shadows. The pent up emotions within him had broken their bonds, and hot tears that he couldn't check filled his eyes and blurred everything. That made him angry at himself, and at everything else. And with angry motions he rubbed and brushed the tears from his eyes. And then when he took another look he saw what Freddy Farmer's sharp eyes had seen first. Far, far off to port, and so low down on the horizon that they looked like no more than a cluster of bugs on the water, were the two carriers, the destroyers and the cruisers and supply ships of Admiral Jackson's task force. Even though the distance was great, he could recognize them for what they really were. And a happiness such as he had never known flooded throughout his entire body.
"Jackson's force?" he heard himself echo weakly. "But what the heck? What's it doing over there? That's a night's steaming from the search area! Or—or have we been flying incircles all night long? It's—it's like a dream. A mad, crazy dream! I—"
"Dave, snap out of it, for Heaven's sake!" Freddy's voice cut short his mumbling. "Fly over to them. Fly over to them.That's our task force!Don't you understand, Dave?"
"Sure, sure!" Dawson called back, though every word seemed to burn holes in his lungs. "I see them, and I'm heading over. Just—just taking a couple of minutes out to enjoy life again."
"Wait, jolly well wait until you get aboard!" the English youth yelled. "Maybe you like being in this confounded aircraft, but I don't. Get us over there, quickly. The sooner we give our report to Admiral Jackson the better it will be for everybody concerned. Man, Dave, just think of it! We found Sasebo's force, andnowwe've found Admiral Jackson's. Imagine that!"
"Yeah, imagine that!" Dawson mumbled, as a spell of cold shivers started taking charge of his body. "Just the way you see it happen in the movies. Only—"
He let the rest die because the effort cost him too much, and banked the MK-11 around until it was heading full out for the Yank task force far ahead. And then it was he woke up to a fact that had been in the back of his brain for someconsiderable time. And what woke him up to the truth was sight of three Navy Grumman Wildcats streaking up off the flight deck of one of the carriers, and coming up and around toward them at top speed.
"Get set to wave and signal those guys somehow, Freddy!" he choked out. "We're in aJap plane, you know. Only those guysdon't. So stand up and wave, or hold your hands up in surrender, or something. Navy Wildcat pilots don't take chances. They've learned you can't against the Jap rats. So, for cat's sake, wave, or do any old thing to get them to hold their fire. Here, I'll help you!"
Dawson started to stand up in his pit of the MK-11, but before he was half-way up invisible steel claws seemed to tear his chest wide open, and he fell back into the seat gasping and choking for air. And countless dancing red and black dots filled his eyes. It seemed years and years before he could get air into his burning lungs, and drive the red and black dots away. By then the first of the three Wildcats was within shooting range, but Freddy Farmer was standing up straight, waving his arms, pointing at his American uniform, and yelling blue murder at the top of his voice.
The leading Wildcat, however, came boringin at terrific speed, and Dawson died a thousand deaths as he expected with each new split second to see the leading edges of the Grumman's wing start spitting out stabbing tongues of flame, and to feel the Wildcat's bullets and air cannon shells smash and pound their way into the MK-11.
However, the Wildcat pilot did not open fire. Instead he went sweeping past the Jap two-seater, staring at it hard. Then he circled around and came tearing up from the other side. As he drew abreast Freddy Farmer practically fell out of the MK-11 in his frantic efforts to signal the truth to the Yank Navy pilot. Dawson managed to lift his right hand, and wave, too. And then the two other Wildcats came up and took up positions close to the MK-11. And Freddy Farmer promptly went into his dance for their benefit, too.
Eventually the Wildcat pilots either recognized Dawson and Farmer, or else they spotted the Yank Air Forces uniforms that the two youths wore, and could see that at least no Japs were wearing them. Or maybe it was for some other reason. At any rate, the section leader nodded his head, motioned for Freddy Farmer to stop trying to throw himself out of the Jap plane, and then pointed over toward the carriertask force. That was all Dawson and Freddy wanted, and they both nodded vigorously in acknowledgment. Then, with a Wildcat on each side, and one just behind and a little above, Dawson guided the MK-11 straight for the task force. As he reached the flanking cruisers and destroyers, he saw the countless upturned faces on the decks, and also the Pom-Pom guns and the "Chicago Pianos" trained dead on the Jap plane. He grinned down at them happily, but just the same a nervous shiver or two rippled through his burning and pain-filled body.
And then, finally, Dawson had the MK-11 banked around and sliding down toward the stern of the Carson as the carrier knocked off knots into the wind. That glide downward was the greatest agony of his life. Huge as the Carson was, the confounded thing seemed to dance and skip around before his eyes. Countless times the landing officer, with a signal flag in each hand, blurred right out of his vision. And once he almost fainted with fright when he got the cockeyed impression that he was heading the MK-11 straight for the Carson's superstructure.
The one thousand years passed by, however, and the Jap two-seater was down on the flight deck, trundling forward while deck crews hung onto the wingtips. And finally they managed todrag it to a halt. A choking gasp of unbounded relief burst from Dawson's lips. And tears of inexpressible joy made his eyes smart as he caught sight of Colonel Welsh and Admiral Jackson racing across the flight deck toward the Jap plane. Laughing and choking in the same breath, Dawson heaved himself up out of the pit, stepped out on the wing but missed his footing and fell sprawling on the wing. He slid off it feet first, so he was standing on the deck when the Colonel and the Admiral came up.
"Here we are again, sir," Dawson cried. "Just like a couple of bad pennies that—that—"
His tongue seemed to stick in his mouth, and the Carson seemed to spin like a top.
"Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer scream. "Somebody—quick—catch him!"
"Here, Dawson, steady!" he heard Colonel Welsh shout.
"Good grief!" cried a third voice. "Look at his chest! Good grief. The man's hit bad. Here, somebody...!"
But Dawson didn't hear any more. The Carrier Carson turned upside down and smashed him on the head with its flight deck. Then there was nothing but complete silence and utter darkness.
It was a beautiful pink-tinted cloud that was carrying Dawson through a beautiful world filled with soft and soothing music. Never had he felt so rested, and so comfortable. So much so that he just couldn't be bothered trying to figure out where he was, or what had happened to put him there. Maybe it was Heaven. He didn't know, and he didn't care. If it wasn't Heaven, then it was certainly the next best thing. Whatever it was it suited him perfectly, and he was quite willing to stay where he was indefinitely.
However, that was not to be!
The pink cloud faded away and became a white bunk in some ship's whitewashed sick-bay. And the soft, soothing music faded out, and became the quietly coaxing voice of a human being. In other words, he slowly regained consciousness to find himself staring up into the face of Freddy Farmer, and into the face, also, of Colonel Welsh. And it was the Chief of Combined U. S. Intelligence who was speaking to him.
"Easy does it, son," the colonel was saying. "Try and hang on this time, Dawson. You're all set, son. Everything is fine and dandy. Not a thing to worry about. Just try and relax and be calm, son."
"That's right, Dave, old thing," Freddy Farmer echoed with a catch in his voice. "Gosh, but it's good to see your eyes really clear. You look fine, really. Feel a fair bit better, what?"
Dawson blinked, started to mumble a question, and then gasped as complete memory came flooding back into his brain like water over a broken dam.
"Hey, hey!" he got out. "What am I doing here? What are you doing here, Freddy? Sasebo's task force! Holy smokes, Freddy! Didn't you—?"
Dawson would have said more, but Colonel Welsh gently put a hand over his mouth, and shook his head from side to side.
"Now, now, son," he said with quiet firmness. "Try and realize what I'm telling you.Everythingis all right, see? That Jap task force is spread all over the ocean, and a good many of its ships sunk, too. Now, try hard, Dawson, and really get hold of yourself. You've been raving out the complete story of what happened to you and Farmer for two days now. I'm trying to tell you that everything has been taken care of. Everything is fine!"
Dawson blinked again and tried hard to absorb the full meaning of the colonel's words. But there was one part that just didn't seempossible.
"Two days, Colonel?" he echoed. "You mean that I've been like this, out cold for two days? Jeepers!"
"That's right," the senior officer said, and smiled. "Now, just relax and I'll bring you up to date, briefly. You went cold right after you landed that Jap plane on the Carson. So it was up to Farmer, here, to explain everything. When he had told the story we got busy at once. We figured out the course that Sasebo must have followed after you and Farmer took off. Well, our scout-bombers found him. We caught him with his planes on the flight deck. Thanks to you and Farmer, we were able to do a good job on him. One of his carriers sunk, and the other two badly damaged. The last seen of one of them it was on fire. Two troop ships were sunk, and the rest of the force sent flying for bases where they would be safe. In short, we certainly ruined him for a while. By the time his force can put to sea again there won't be a Jap left on Guadalcanal for him to reenforce. And by the way,thatattack went off according to schedule. The Marines landed, and as usual they have the situation in hand. And now you're aboard a cruiser bound for Australia and a good spell in a hospital. Frankly, you haven't any right to bealive, Dawson. Did you know that?"
"And that's definitely true, old thing!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good grief, Dave, why didn't you tell me you had been hit? And to think that all during that terrible night flight I didn't know a thing about it. You must have suffered something awful!"
"Well, it wasn't very pleasant," Dawson replied in a voice so weak that it surprised him. "I knew that I had caught a good one, but it wouldn't have helped any to tell you, Freddy. There weren't any controls in your pit. And we couldn't have changed seats in that crate. So the only thing I could do was to stick it out. But, boy! I was sure glad to sit down on that carrier. But, hey! How come we bumped into the task force, Colonel? We were trying to get south to Port Moresby, and—"
"And you were headed in the right direction, Dawson," the colonel interrupted with a nod. "In another twenty minutes you would have sighted land. But you ran across us because we had given up the hunt for the Jap force and had steamed full knots for the Solomons to slug it out as best we couldifthe Jap force did show up. It—well, maybe we can call it an act of God that you sighted us, and gave us the information that we so desperately needed. And—What'sthe matter, Dawson?"
Colonel Welsh cut himself off short, and anxiously asked the last as Dawson groaned, and made a face.
"Matter?" Dawson echoed. "Plenty! One of the best sea and air scraps there's been in the Southwest Pacific, and I—and I slept through the whole thing! Why, doggone it, I—"
"And that'll be just about enough out of you!" Colonel Welsh said with more sternness in his voice than there was in his eyes. "You and Farmer had done your job, and a magnificent job you did, too, thank God! It was somebody else's turn to take a crack at the Japs. And, of course, I mean Admiral Jackson's pilots. So stop feeling that you were cheated, you young fire eater. Farmer, here, didn't take part in the scrap, either, so you've no complaints. In fact, Dawson, you can give thanks for a miracle every night for the rest of your life. Give thanks for this!"
The colonel paused, slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and took out a gleaming chunk of metal. And that's just about all it was: a gleaming chunk of metal.
"What's that, sir?" Dawson asked.
"All that's left of your pilot's wings," the colonel replied, and twisted the chunk of gleaming metal between his fingers. "It was driven by a Zero bullet right into your chest to within a fraction of an inch of puncturing your left lung."
"Huh, huh, sir?" Dawson gasped out. "You mean—? Holy smokes! Asecondtime?"
"The second time, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said gravely, and placed the twice bullet-battered pilot's wings into their owner's hands. "For the second time they saved your life. Frankly, I'll never tell this story to anybody else because nobody else would believe it. But it's true. And there you are. A war souvenir you couldn't duplicate, not even if you lived to be a billion."
The colonel said some more words, but Dawson was only half listening. He was staring at his bullet-battered wings, and living over in memory all those terrible hours when his chest had been filled with searing flame. Then presently his vision blurred, and without realizing it he slipped off into blissful, contented sleep. And Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh smiled down at his peaceful face, and slipped silently out of the cruiser's sick-bay.
——THE END——
For the umpty-umph time Dawson checked his position and made absolutely sure that he was where he was supposed to be. And for the umpty-umph time countless fears shot through his brain to taunt him and jeer at him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous. His navigation was all cockeyed. He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south. He was—
"Cut it out, fellow, cut it out!" he rasped aloud at himself. "This is a fine time for you to go haywire! You simply got here ahead of time. Your watch tells you that, sap. Freddy was held up, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe—"
Or something? But just exactlywhat? That was the question. Freddy Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of a pilot. It was crazy to say that weather had held up Freddy. No. It was something else, not weather. But what?But what?Why wasn't Freddy Farmer here?
Dawson groaned, and shook his head as though to drive away the tantalizing thoughts. But that didn't do any good. He started stunting his plane all over the empty sky to take his mind off his thoughts. But that didn't do any