The sun was a solid red ball of flame balanced perfectly on the western lip of the world, as the Army Air Forces Flying Fortress eased down to a perfect landing at Hickam Field, on the island of Oahu, in the Hawaiians. On the way down, both Dawson and Freddy Farmer took a good look at Pearl Harbor, where on December Seventh of the year before treacherous Jap wings had left their mark of death and destruction. By now, however, practically every visual reminder of that terrible day had disappeared. Sunken and half sunken ships were once again on the surface, or in dry dock, receiving last-minute repairs before steaming out to join the Pacific Fleet and pay back ten times over what they had suffered. And the shambles that had been made of Hickam Field that day was also just a blood-boiling memory. New shops, new hangars, new barracks, and so forth, had sprung up like mushrooms almost overnight. In fact, even to Dawson and Farmer, who had seen that airfield at its worst, it seemed well nigh incredible that it was actually one and the same place. And it was Freddy Farmer who made the first comment.
"Our navigator didn't get us off course, did he, by any chance?" he grunted at Dave, with a gesture of his hand earthward. "I mean, that really is Hickam Field down there, isn't it?"
"It is," Dave grinned back at him. "And some miracle, too, hey, pal? Boy! When they roll up their sleeves around here and get to work, they sure get to work. Last time we saw it a fly couldn't have landed without running into a bomb crater, or a section of blasted hangar, or something. Yup! The Navy and Army boys have sure done a wonderful job here at Oahu. And how!"
"Quite!" the English-born air ace echoed the compliment, and unconsciously braced himself as the Flying Fortress touched ground and trundled forward to a full stop.
A few moments later it had taxied up to in front of the Administration Building, and one of the crew had opened the fuselage door. Dawson winked at Freddy, and grinned.
"Well, so far so good, kid," he said, and pushed up out of his seat. "Just another eight or nine thousand miles, and we'll be there."
"Hardly worth thinking about, what?" Freddy groaned. "Gosh, but the Pacific is a big ocean."
"Yeah, and we've been looking at only thetopof it!" Dave chuckled. "Anyway, there's one thing we can be thankful for. We didn't have to make any War Bond speeches in Frisco. Major General Hawks was a good guy, and got us out of there fast."
"And if we can get away from here just as fast, it'll suit me fine!" Freddy Farmer grunted. "Not that I don't like flying, you understand. But being a blasted passenger really isn't much fun."
"Check with me, too," Dawson said, and groaned softly as he thought of the countless over-water miles they still had to travel before they'd reach Australia, and the countless miles from Darwin to Calcutta, India. "Oh, well, this trip can't last forever."
"For me, it's jolly well lasted that long already!" Freddy sighed, and climbed down out of the Fortress.
Hardly had both of them reached the ground before a headquarters captain came up to them and saluted courteously.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer?" he asked with a smile. "I'm Captain Drake. General Stickney wants to see you right away, please. I've a jeep right over here."
"Fair enough, Captain," Dawson said with a grin and a nod. "Lead the way, sir."
A few minutes later the captain ushered them into the office of the Commandant of the Hawaiian Area. He was a big man, and looked every inch his rank, did General Stickney. As a matter of fact, as the general's coal black eyes bored into his, Dawson had the sudden, crazy sensation that he had done some wrong, and was being dragged up "on the carpet" for punishment. It was just a crazy thought, of course, and was gone almost as it was in his mind.
"Sit down, Captains," the general said, and waved them to chairs. "I've been waiting for you. Received a message from the War Department at Washington. Had it decoded for you, and—well, here it is. It probably makes sense to you two."
The senior officer held out a slip of paper. Dawson took it and leaned over so that Freddy could read it, too. It was from Colonel Welsh, and read:
"Boy friend disappeared. Possible he is wise. Suggest utmost caution. Suggest you alter plans of route. Suggest you keep on constant alert. All Army, Navy, and Air Forces units instructed to give you any help requested. Good luck to destination. Secrecy absolutely essential."
"Boy friend disappeared. Possible he is wise. Suggest utmost caution. Suggest you alter plans of route. Suggest you keep on constant alert. All Army, Navy, and Air Forces units instructed to give you any help requested. Good luck to destination. Secrecy absolutely essential."
Dawson read the decoded message through twice, and experienced the very familiar, and very unpleasant sensation of cold lumps of lead beginning to bounce around in the pit of his stomach. It was easy enough to read between the lines. The Nazi agent had not trailed the colonel back to Washington. And he had obviously shaken off the man trailing him. In short, he had disappeared in thin air. That could mean one of two things. One, that he had given up. And two, that he had not been fooled by the bluff trick, and was somewhere close to Freddy's and his heels.
Yet somehow that last didn't quite seem to check. Nothing had happened during their short stay in San Francisco. Nor had anything happened during the flight down the coast to the emergency field, or during the flight to Pearl Harbor. It seemed just a little crazy to think that the enemy would let Freddy and him get this far without showing their hands. It must be that the colonel had been mistaken about a Nazi agent sticking close to them in New York.
"Maybe, and maybe not!" Dawson grunted softly. "But the colonel's not one to yell wolf unless he feels he has darn good cause."
"Then it is bad news, eh?"
It was General Stickney who asked the question. Dawson looked at him, smiled, and shrugged.
"Not too bad, sir," he said. "But we certainly weren't exactly expecting it."
"Well, I've received those orders mentioned," the senior officer said with a faint frown. "So if you've any requests to make, go ahead and make them. It's obvious that you're on some kind of an important mission, so we'll do all we can to cooperate."
"Thank you, sir," Dawson said. "Right now, though, I can't think of a thing to request. Fact is, sir, I guess the first thing is for Farmer and myself to go into a huddle. To talk things over, I mean."
General Stickney nodded and stood up.
"My office is yours, Captains," he said with a wave of his hand. "Go ahead and talk. And when you've reached some kind of a decision, I'll be waiting in the mess lounge. All right, Captains. I'll leave you to your huddle. Good luck, on whatever it is."
The two air aces saluted smartly and waited for the senior officer to leave. Then they relaxed and looked at each other.
"And what do you make of it?" Dave asked, and tapped the paper still in his hand.
"Don't just know for sure," Freddy Farmer replied with a frown. "But it certainly doesn't make me happy. The colonel's not the one to scare a chap, so I take it that the business is more than just serious. I mean, that that bloke wasn't fooled, and that he's got his eye on us. Yet—"
The English youth came to a halt and gestured helplessly.
"Just what I think, too," Dawson grunted. "If that's true, why did he let us get away out here?"
"Maybe he was forced to," Freddy Farmer murmured, and stared absently out the office window. "Maybe we were a bit too fast for the blighter.Andmaybe his job was turned over to some other chap!"
"Huh?" Dave blinked at him. "How's that?"
Freddy pointed a finger at the message.
"The colonel suggests we alter our route," he said. "There are still such things as secret radios, you know, Dave. But—well, it does seem a little fantastic and story-bookish, doesn't it? After all, the only thing the colonel knows is that the beggar has disappeared."
"Sure," Dawson grunted. "He could have been clipped by a New York taxi, and be in some hospital right now. I wouldn't want to bet on it, though. For my money, I think we'd better take the colonel's warning as real, and act accordingly. Frankly, it would suit me to take off from here and fly non-stop to Chungking, and get it over with."
"In what?" Farmer asked bluntly. "It's only about sixty-five hundred miles from here to the Jap-occupied coast, you know. And several more inland to Chungking!"
"I know, I know!" Dawson growled. "I was only saying what I'd like to do, not what we can do. That's out, of course. Too far, and too many Japs in the way, of course. But we've got to get there somehow, and not by the route we've planned. I—Hold everything!"
"What now?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know.
"The Navy is our best bet, Freddy!" Dawson said as excitement mounted in his voice. "There's a chance that maybe the Navy can make things easy as pie for us. Let's go!"
"Go where?" the English youth demanded. "And what's on your mind, anyway?"
"Later," Dawson snapped, and turned toward the door. "If you should put up an argument, it might convince me that the idea really is dizzy. Besides, I want to mull it over a bit. Come on. Let's get General Stickney to take us to the Navy commandant's office here. He's the one who can make it possible, or impossible. Let's go!"
Freddy Farmer scowled and hesitated, but finally decided that any questions would only fall on deaf ears, and went tagging along after Dawson as the Yank barged out through the office door. And a half-hour later they had the ears and the attention of Admiral Wallace, Naval Commandant for the Area.
"I'm sorry that secret orders forbid us from revealing our destination, or intentions, sir," Dawson spoke for both of them, "but it is essential that we get to the Far East as quickly as possible. And not by way of Australia. Naturally, the trip must be made by air. Can you tell me, sir, if any of your carrier task forces are located at present between here and the China coast?"
The senior naval officer didn't answer directly. He pursed his lips, and quietly eyed the two youths. Then, perhaps, he remembered that he also had received cooperation orders from the Navy Department at Washington. At any rate, he presently sighed, and nodded.
"Yes, two task forces," he said, and pointed at the huge pinpointed map of the Pacific that covered one whole side of the room. "There is one now operating three hundred miles north of Wake Island. And there is another, of lighter strength, west of Jap-held Marcus Island, and just about on the One Hundred and Fiftieth Meridian."
"Perfect!" Dawson cried, and snapped his fingers. "That would be apple pie for one of the Army's North American B-Twenty-Fives. They can land and take off from a carrier."
"What's that?" General Stickney spoke up. "You plan to reach the China coast by hopping from carrier to carrier in a B-Twenty-Five?"
"Not the China coast, sir," Dave told him quickly. "Our hop from the last carrier will be to some spot in the Philippines. There are still spots there that the Japs haven't taken yet. I mean, a couple of our secret emergency fields. We can sit down there for our final refueling."
"Well, I was about to say you'd not have the gas to reach the China coast from that last carrier," Admiral Wallace spoke up. "And you're right, there are still one or two of our emergency fields in the Philippines that the Japs haven't found yet."
"Correct," General Stickney said with a nod. "Received the latest on that matter from MacArthur only this morning. The best one still held by us is just south of Legaspi."
"Fine, sir, fine!" Dawson beamed. "Now, if you'll be good enough to loan us a B-Twenty-Five from Air Forces here? And if you, Admiral, will be kind enough to advise your task force commanders to be on the look-out for us, and to give us fuel, Farmer and I will be getting under way."
"Under way?" General Stickney gasped. "You mean tonight, now? But what about your crew?"
"No crew, sir," Dawson said quietly. "Farmer and I will handle it alone. Don't worry, sir. We'll manage okay."
"Well, you two certainly have the reputation for such things," Admiral Stickney said, and gave them both a hard stare. "But, personally, I'd feel better about this crazy flight, if I knew a little more about what you hope to do."
"Sorry, sir," Dawson said, and smiled.
"Don't worry, didn't expect you to say anything," the other growled. "Orders are orders, and we've both received them. Very well, then. I'll do my part. And you, General, can take care of the rest of it. When do you want to leave, Dawson?"
Dave turned his head and stared out at the shadows of night that had closed down on the Hawaiians.
"Within the hour, if it's possible, sir," he replied, and gave each of the senior officers a questioning look.
They scowled, and seemed not to like it at all, but they finally nodded.
"In an hour, then," General Stickney grunted, and put on his service cap. "I'll go tell Air Forces command to make ready a plane. But you two had better have something at our mess before you take off. You've at least got time for that, haven't you?"
"Oh, quite, sir, and thank you!" Freddy Farmer spoke up before Dawson could open his mouth.
"Then, come along in my car," the Army commandant ordered, and headed for the door.
And it was just five minutes later when it happened!
Just five minutes later when General Stickney was driving them along a dirt road that curved about a dense palm grove. As a matter of fact, the dim shadow of a figure streaked up off the side of the road so fast that Dawson saw the flash of the gun, heard its roar of sound, and felt the white hot spear of pain cut across the top of his left shoulder before his brain could grasp what had taken place. Then, as the gun barked the second time, and the car swerved violently and went hurtling off the road into the ditch, Freddy Farmer, sitting next to Dave, seemed to rise right straight in the air and turn completely over, and his outflung right hand stabbed the darkness with red flame and sharp sound three times in rapid succession. And then the car was in the ditch and flopping over onto its side, as the engine roared in protest, and the rear wheels spun furiously.
A sharp crack on the head had filled Dawson's brain with colored stars and comets. And then the next thing he realized he was sitting on soft ground, and Freddy Farmer was shaking him by the shoulders.
"Are you all right, Dave?" Freddy was demanding. "Did you get hit by that blighter?"
Dawson didn't answer. Reaction brought him up onto his feet fast, and had him reaching for the small automatic he always carried in his tunic pocket. He almost had it out before Freddy Farmer grabbed his arm.
"Years late, old thing," the English youth said quietly. "The dirty beggar is stone dead. Almost got the general, though. You sure you're all right, General?"
"As good as could be expected!" a voice growled close by in the darkness. "Felt the wind of his bullet, though. Confound it! What goes on here, anyway? That would-be killer was one of the Jap farmers from one of the other islands. How the devil did he get over here? And why in thunder was he trying to kill us off?"
Freddy didn't offer an answer, and neither did Dawson. Instead, Dawson walked up out of the ditch, and across the road to where General Stickney, flashlight and gun in hand, was bending over the crumpled and motionless figure of a Hawaiianized Japanese farmer. And three tiny blue holes in his forehead were silent and perfect tribute to Freddy Farmer's deadly marksmanship. Dawson took a good look, was conscious of the slight burning sensation at the top of his left shoulder, and shivered unconsciously.
"Pick out your prize, pal," he grunted at Freddy, as the English youth joined him. "The best is none too good for that kind of shooting. Me, I sure was asleep at the switch."
"Well, it had to be done, so I did it, that's all," Freddy grunted. "A nasty-looking beggar, isn't he, what? Very glad he's dead."
"Well, I've got to look into this right away!" General Stickney snapped. "The man must have gone mad, and escaped, and was running amuck. Darn good shooting, Farmer. Thank God, you got him in time. But why in thunder he came after us—?"
The senior officer finished the rest with just unintelligible sounds in his throat.
"We can walk the rest of the way," he said. "It isn't far to Air Forces H.Q. I'll leave you there, and get right on with this confounded business."
Dawson and Farmer simply nodded, and said nothing as they dropped into step. Perhaps it was all a cockeyed mystery to General Stickney, but it was the handwriting on the wall to them. The confirmation of Colonel Welsh's message, and warning to be on the alert. How that Jap killer had received his orders, and who had given them to him, were two little items that even history would never reveal. But the hows, and the whys didn't matter. The hand of death had reached halfway around the world to get them both by the throat. And only Freddy Farmer's lightning-like action, and perhaps too hasty a trigger finger on the killer's part, had prevented it. But out of the darkness of night the enemy had struck again. Struck to wipe them out, and gain possession of that precious document Chungking-bound.
"And the sooner Freddy and I are air-borne, the better I'll like it!" Dawson echoed the thought softly to himself. "And how! Upstairs, a fellow can at least see what's cooking."
Night was again closing down on the vast stretches of the Pacific Ocean, but this time it found Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer standing on the flight deck of the Yank Aircraft Carrier Tempest cutting into the wind through the long rolling swells some two hundred miles south-west of the Jap-held Marcus Island. The two air aces were waiting for the twin Wright Cyclones of their North American B-Twenty-Five to get well warmed up, and were stretching their legs a bit before taking off on the long flight through the night to a dawn landing on that secret airfield at Legaspi in the central Philippines. Yes, waiting for the B-Twenty-Five's engines to get clicking, stretching their legs, and trying to remember if it had been a few days ago, or a few years ago, when one Soo Wong Kai had given them a gourmet's treat in the dining-room of the Savoy Hotel in London.
"One more landing at Legaspi, Freddy," Dawson broke the five-minute silence. "Then we gas and hop along non-stop to Chungking. Just two more flying laps, kid, and we're in."
"And may that be true!" the English youth breathed fervently. "I'm so sick of water, and carrier decks, I could almost drown myself. Not that your Navy chaps haven't been wonderful to us. But—well, I never was one for long drawn out jobs."
"Nor me, either!" Dawson echoed the words. "Dance in and smack them, and dance right out again. That's the kind of thing I go for. Praise be, there's no scrapping at the North or South Poles, or we'd probably get sent there."
"I fancy this is the longest courier job on record, no doubt," Freddy Farmer muttered. "And—well,it'ssafe, isn't it, Dave? You know what I mean?"
"Could I miss catching on?" Dawson replied with a grim chuckle. "Yup! We've still got it along. But maybe you'd like to nursemaid it for the rest of the trip, kid?"
"No, by all means!" the English youth said sharply. "I want no part of it. Wouldn't sleep a wink. No, you're the hero, old thing. You carry it, and you deliver it. As a matter of fact, it really is much better that way."
"Huh?" Dawson grunted absently.
"For me, in case we should get captured," Freddy Farmer said, and edged along the flight deck toward the B-Twenty-Five. "In that event I can simply tell them thatyou'vegot it, and they'll cut you up in pieces and no doubt leave me alone. At the most, keep me a prisoner for the duration. You see?"
"Just a dear sweet pal!" Dawson growled. "Do that, my little man, and I promise to return to haunt you in your dreams. No fooling!"
"Better think up something worse than that, old bean!" Freddy Farmer shot right back at him. "Right now you haunt me when I'm awake! But let's get on with it, what? The aircraft seems about ready."
"What a tough break I need a navigator!" Dawson growled as they went down deck to the B-Twenty-Five. "If I didn't, I could toss you over the side for that crack, and finish this thing in peace."
"And a jolly, rotten break we're in such a hurry, too!" the English youth got in the parting shot. "It would be amusing to pretend we were lost just to see you sweat—and beg me to locate us."
"That'll be the day!" Dave added one bit more. "And you know what I mean, pal! Begyou, even for the time of day? Nuts!"
Some ten minutes later there was no longer any kidding around between the two air aces. Their North American B-Twenty-Five was clear of the flight deck of the Carrier Tempest, and up in the night-shrouded heavens. As a matter of fact, they could no longer even see the carrier. Just as soon as they had left, with the heartfelt good wishes of every officer and man aboard, the carrier had heeled way over and gone pounding around at full speed and onto a new course that would see her well away from that spot, come dawn.
Yes, the Tempest was far behind them, and Dawson and Farmer were just two steel-hearted eagles winging southwestward through night-shadowed skies, with its canopy of a billion or more twinkling stars high overhead. However, those twinkling stars meant far more than just night diamonds of beauty to Dawson and Farmer. To them they were the sign posts to their objective at Legaspi. They pointed the way along the skyway of the gods that they were to travel. To them they were understandable and tangible things. All else about them and below was darkness; the darkness of the unknown.
Relaxing comfortably in the pilot's seat, but with mind and body ready to spring to the alert at an instant's notice, Dawson fed the twin engines a minimum of high test to maintain desired cruising speed, and held the aircraft dead on the course Freddy Farmer had plotted out. With luck they should sight their objective at the very first sign of dawn light. And even then, it wouldn't be any too soon. This was the longest hop of them all to be made in the B-Twenty-Five. And no matter how careful and frugal Dave was with the fuel aboard, it was going to be close. So close, in fact, that they hadn't even considered a direct flight to China, though the coast line was not much farther away than the Legaspi airfield. But that was exactly the point. A landing on the China coast wouldn't do them any good at all. And it could well do them all kinds of harm. At Legaspi there was a field where they could sit down. There was fuel there, and Yanks to help them with the plane. But on the China coast? No such thing! Even though they managed to land still in one piece, it would be dollars to doughnuts that they'd probably land right smack in the laps of the occupying Japs. So it had to be Legaspi next. Legaspi, or bust.
"You mean drown, kid!" Dawson corrected his own thought. "If you run out of fuel, or overshoot your mark, or Freddy gets us lost, some sharks are going to have a swell meal. And no kidding, either!"
And with that not too pleasant thought he lapsed into silence again, a silence broken only every so often when Freddy gave him a change in course. In between times the seconds piled up to form minutes, and the minutes added up to total one hour, two hours, three hours, and four hours. And then, at the end of four hours, the gods of war seemed suddenly to decide that those two daring young sky eagles had been receiving too many good breaks. At any rate, one of those sudden and unexpected Pacific storms swept down on them. And swept down so fast that the B-Twenty-Five was almost stood up straight on her twin-ruddered tail before Dawson realized what was happening.
True, he did receive a slight warning in advance. An invisible hand seemed to sweep away the stars, and leave a roof of pitch darkness. But it was done in a flash, and as a warning of what was to come it was just about as helpful as seeing the flash of a lightning bolt headed your way. In short, one instant the B-Twenty-Five was rolling along through calm air as nice as you please. And in the next instant invisible forces were trying to tear it apart and throw the pieces all over that section of the Pacific.
Dawson thought he heard Freddy Farmer shout something from his navigator's nook, but he had no time to turn around and yell for a repeat of whatever it was. All the rain in the world seemed to be flooding down on the B-Twenty-Five. And terrific blasts of air were thundering in on it from every conceivable direction. Twice he would have sworn that the aircraft whipped through a full roll. And twice he was as sure as he was that he was over a foot high that the bomber was completely upside down and whanging along on its back. Aches and pains were shooting through every cubic inch of his body, and hanging onto the control wheel, that was whip-sawing back and forth, was just about as easy as trying to hang onto the broken stub of a spinning propeller. In fact, it was all he could do to stop the control wheel from driving back and caving in his chest. It took every ounce of his strength to hold it forward so that the wind-rocketed plane wouldn't go whanging up into a stall. And he was just about spent when Freddy Farmer scrambled forward to lend his strength to the job.
Neither of them spoke a word. In the combined roar of the engines and the raging storm it was all they could do to hear themselves think. Besides, there was no use for words now. Nothing that either of them could say would help any. It was just a question as to whether their strength would outlast the storm,andwhether the strength of the plane itself would last through the terrific beating it was taking from the storm. A question of man, and man-made things, against the raging fury of the storm gods. And while the great struggle went on, time stood still. For Dawson and Farmer time ceased to exist. They were conscious of nothing else save the use of their combined strength to hold the aircraft as steady as they could. Conscious of that, and of their prayers that this night mightnotbe the end of everything for them.
And so it is quite possible that the gods of misfortune looked down from their high places, and were forced to admire the do or die efforts of those two air aces, and were willing to slacken off their fury. Then again, perhaps it was just one of those things that happen to every airman sooner or later. Just one of those freak storms out of nowhere that can not be predicted, or explained after they hit. At any rate, the raging storm was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Dawson's lungs were burning, his head was pounding, and spots were milling around in a red haze over his eyes. And then suddenly the B-Twenty-Five had shot out into calm air, and there overhead was the canopy of twinkling stars again.
"Take a look, Freddy!" Dawson managed to squeak out past his lips. "Those are stars, aren't they? And we're still right side up, huh?"
"Don't ask me!" the English youth gurgled, as he slumped back in the co-pilot's seat. "If they aren't stars, and we're not right side up, then it doesn't matter. Doesn't, because I haven't one ounce of strength left to do anything about it. Good grief! That was all the storms I ever saw rolled into one!"
"You're telling me!" Dave gulped. "Boy! What rain! And what a breeze. But haul it out of here, Freddy. Get back and check on our position, will you? Heavens knows where that storm tossed us. And—Sweet tripe! Look at that dash clock, will you! That thing lasted an hour and forty minutes!"
"Forty years!" Freddy shouted as he went aft to take their position from the stars. "And I know blasted well that I've got a grey hair for every one of them. Be right back, Dave."
Dawson held the plane at low cruising throttle, and on a general southwesterly compass course for the next ten minutes. Then Freddy Farmer came back with his findings.
"Not too bad, Dave," he announced. "It might have been a whole lot worse, considering. The blasted thing blew us about sixty-five miles east of our true course. Here's your new course."
Dave took Freddy's new course instructions with a heavy heart. True, he was glad that they had survived the terrible storm, and that that howling wind hadn't driven them even farther off course. However, it was bad enough as it was. They were still a good two hours' calm weather flying from their objective, and as close as he could figure it, they had just about an hour and three quarters supply of fuel left in the tanks. Perhaps if they eased up gently for altitude they might make that last fifteen minutes with gliding. But it certainly wasn't a chance for even a fool to bet on.
"Oke, and thanks, pal," he said aloud in a cheerful voice. "Be there presently, I figure. We'd both better keep our eyes skinned, now that it's starting to get light. We're in a Jap-infested part of the world now. And if those rats that have taken the northern sections of the Philippines have got any air patrols out, we may have to do a wee bit of detouring."
"That's quite all right, Dave, old thing," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "Don't try to be a liar, old chap, just to make me feel good. I've done a little figuring myself, Dave. Unless we have the good fortune to pick up a tail wind, we're going to have a very touch and go fifteen minutes at the end of this trip."
"But we'll make it, kid," Dave said grimly. "And that's a promise from me to you. Count on it. Sure wish we had a load of bombs along, though."
"A load of bombs?" the English youth echoed. "Why in the world bombs? You plan to blast out a spot to land? Say in the water, if our gas doesn't last?"
"I was thinking of MacArthur's boys on Bataan, and Corregidor!" Dawson said grimly. "I'd certainly give plenty to lay some eggs on the little brown rats pestering those fellows. What a scrap they've put up. History that will never die. And even if the darn Japs do finally push them out, it'll be a mighty hollow victory. I bet it's one big surprise to those pint-sized butchers that the Philippines are no push-over."
"No place would be a push-over with General MacArthur in command, I fancy," Freddy murmured. "He's one of the finest generals of all time."
"Check and double check!" Dawson echoed instantly. "And could we do with a dozen like him. But—Hold it! Hold everything, Freddy! Dead ahead, there. Is that landfall, or just a trick of my eyes?"
"It's land, Dave!" Freddy replied in an excited voice. "Land, just as sure as you're alive. And if these charts and maps they gave us at Pearl Harbor are correct, we've hit it right on the nose. That land is the Catanduanes Islands just north of Legaspi. We'll know for sure in another ten minutes!"
Another ten minutes? In ten minutes nations have fallen into the dust. In ten minutes half the world has changed face. In ten minutes a million and one things can happen which normally should take months or years to come to pass. And so, at the end of ten minutes, Dawson and Farmer were suddenly "treated" to a sight that chilled their blood, and sent their hearts dropping down into their boots.
In the pale light of early dawn they saw a flock of birds come sweeping up from that bit of the Philippines known as Legaspi. Only it wasn't a flock of birds. It was a flock of war birds. A flock of Jap Zeros up on early dawn patrol. True, they had half expected to see at least a Jap plane or two, but to see them come up from the ground on Legaspi was like a mule's kick in the stomach. There was no need to wonder, or to ask each other unanswerable questions. There was only to observe, and realize the terrible truth. The truth that Legaspi had fallen to the Japs during the last forty-eight hours, and that the Yank emergency airfield was unquestionably in enemy hands.
And, as though to add a final touch to horrible reality, the port outboard engine of the B-Twenty-Five began to cough and sputter from the lack of fuel in the tanks. And a couple of seconds later the starboard engine took up that soul-chilling song that no pilot ever wants to hear.
"Would you care to get out and walk the rest of the way, sir?" Dawson asked in a strained voice that belied the crooked grin on his lips.
"No thanks," Freddy Farmer came right back at him, with an equal attempt to crack wise. "Just turn about and take me back to Honolulu, please!"
As a sort of signal to confirm the fast approaching end of the B-Twenty-Five's flight, the starboard engine coughed its rasping note for the last time, and joined the port engine in silence. Dave had already eased the nose down a hair or two to prevent a stall, and like a statue of stone he sat there hunched over the control wheel with his worried eyes fixed first on the Jap Zeros mounting higher into the sky, and then on the stretches of ground below.
The gods had at least been a little kind. The B-Twenty-Five had the necessary height to reach land in a long flat glide. However, there would be little picking and choosing of a suitable place to land. And if the Zeros came tearing in, it would be decidedly a one-sided combat. True, Freddy could work the top turret guns, and he could smack away with the nose guns. But with so much of the bomber left unguarded, it wouldn't be long before Jap bullets and air cannon shells would rip home and pull down the curtain.
"I don't think they've spotted us yet, Dave!" Freddy Farmer suddenly spoke in a low voice, as though he feared the Jap pilots would overhear him. "They seem to be going higher up, and swinging westward toward Bataan."
"I know," Dawson replied in a low voice, too. "Looks that way to me. And here's hoping we're both right. If those tramps only keep out of the way, maybe we'll have a chance. But if they spot us and come a-running, Freddy, it isn't going to be funny."
"Well, if I can get one or two of the beggars," the English youth muttered, tight-lipped, "it won't be so bad. Think I'll go aft and man the turret guns right now."
"No, stick around until you have to," Dave stopped him. "If we're going to crash land, we'd better be up here together. Then one of us can help the other get out, if one of us is—well, you know what I mean."
"Quite," Freddy murmured. "But we haven't crashed yet, so why talk about it?"
"Suits me swell," Dawson said with a dry chuckle. "My error, pal. And, heck, this wouldn't be our first crash. But what we want is for those little brown rats to keep right on going the way they are."
Freddy Farmer echoed the hope with a grunt, and let it go at that. Both boys lapsed into silence, and sat very still as the B-Twenty-Five slid down lower and lower, and the distant flock of Jap Zeros mounted higher and higher into the Southwest Pacific dawn sky. And then when it seemed almost certain that the Japs were completely unaware of the B-Twenty-Five's existence, one of the formation suddenly cut around in a dime turn and came hurtling back down like a red disc-marked bolt of lightning. One look at that fighter plane cutting down across the dawn sky was all that Dawson needed to realize the bitter truth. And all that Freddy Farmer needed, too. The little game of hide-and-seek was all over. The B-Twenty-Five had been sighted. And not only one Zero, but two others, had cut out of formation and were wing screaming down in a power dive.
"The dirty beggars!" Freddy Farmer grated, and started to push up out of his seat. "See you later, Dave."
But Dawson flung out a hand, caught the English youth's arm, and hauled him back down into the seat.
"Waste of bullets, Freddy!" he barked. "We'll be touching ground any second now. Our only hope is to beat them down to the ground. Stick right here. The crash might buckle the fuselage and cut that turret in two. Stick here—and get set, kid!"
As Dave spoke he kept his eyes fixed on the stretch of lush green ground almost directly below. At the very instant he had sighted the first Zero breaking away from formation he had dropped the B-Twenty-Five's nose to increase her glide speed to the limit. And now it was but the matter of a few seconds as to what would happen first. Whether Dawson could get the bomber down onto the ground, or whether the Japs could reach the aircraft with their murderous blasts and send it to earth a raging ball of flame.
From a point that seemed but a couple of feet from his head, Dawson heard the snarl of Jap machine gun fire, and the deeper and louder note of enemy aircraft cannon. But he didn't waste time to jerk up his head for a look. It wouldn't do any good toseethe Japs shooting. His ears told him that they were; that at almost any instant death might chop right through to nail him. Just the matter of a few seconds, that was all. A few seconds in which to fight for his life, and Freddy's, and win—or lose.
"This is it, Freddy!" he suddenly yelled, and hauled back on the control wheel column. "Hang on, hard!"
Maybe he yelled the warning aloud, or maybe he simply spoke it in his brain. But either way, there was no time to repeat. The B-Twenty-Five was dangerously low now, and taking up the last bit of its gliding speed to reach a narrow clearing thickly bordered by tropical growth. Maybe the surface of that corridor-shaped clearing was hard and firm. Or maybe it was a narrow strip of swamp ground. There was no way to tell from the air, and no time to do anything about it, anyway. The few seconds had run their course. Time had run out. The B-Twenty-Five had won its race with those diving Jap Zeros, but a crash landing on an unknown strip of Philippine ground was a certainty.
Dawson hung hard to the control wheel to the very last split second. He saw the nose come up, felt the bomber mush forward and start to falter in the air, and he saw that strip of clearing come zooming up toward the belly of the fuselage. And then the B-Twenty-Five touched ground.
Touchedground? The last ounce of its flying and gliding speed spent, the bomber dropped the rest of the way like ten ton of loose brick. Braced as he was for the jolting contact with the ground, Dawson had the crazy sensation that invisible hands grabbed hold of him and started bouncing him around inside the pilots' compartment like a human rubber ball. Freddy, the instrument panel, the control wheel column, and the compartment's windows seemed to parade past his eyes. And then suddenly the roof fell down on top of him, and the next thing his spinning brain realized his head was resting on one of the rudder pedals, and his legs were up in the pilot's seat. And the figure of Freddy Farmer was sitting astride his stomach like a horseback rider.
For perhaps a full three seconds the two youths blinked stupidly into each other's eyes. Then Freddy Farmer choked out a gasp, scrambled off Dawson's middle, and reached down to twist his legs around and his head up.
"You hurt, Dave?" he managed to gasp.
"Don't know, yet!" Dawson replied hoarsely, and kicked open the compartment door with his foot. "Tell you later. We've got to get out of here, kid. This is a swell target for those rats. Here they come down, now!"
There was no need to inform the English youth of that little truth. The ungodly scream of Jap wings in the wind, and the blood-chilling snarl and yammer of their aerial machine gun and aerial cannon fire was enough to make the very ground shake and tremble. Instinctively Dawson reached up, hooked an arm about Freddy and hauled him down onto the floorboards of the compartment. And there they both crouched, breath locked in their lungs, as the Zeros piled down and raked the crashed bomber from twin rudder to nose. Bullets cut through into the compartment, and made a shambles of what was left of the instrument panel. But it was as though the hand of Lady Luck touched each bullet, because neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer was hit.
And then when there came a lull in the shooting, and the only sound was that of the Zero's engines pounding the planes upward for altitude, Dawson gave the English youth a push and nodded toward the compartment door.
"Wiggle out of here fast!" he shouted. "Then snake across to that jungle growth. Do it fast, kid, before they come down. I'll join you right after their next attack.Snap it up!"
Another and a harder shove closed Freddy's mouth, which was half opened to ask questions. He quickly nodded and went out through the compartment door like a shell from the mouth of a gun. Still hugging the compartment floor, Dave watched his pal streak across the bit of open ground and practically dive head first into the thick border of jungle growth. At that instant Dawson was almost tempted to follow Farmer. But at that instant, also, he heard the change in the sound of the Jap aircraft engines aloft. A sound that told him the Zeros had gained their altitude, and were wheeling over and down for a second strafe on the helpless American bomber.
"Stick around some more, please, Lady Luck!" he breathed, and practically pushed his face through the floorboards.
For the next few seconds the full wrath of war snapped, and barked, and howled, and screamed all about him. But once again Lady Luck, or somebody, guided every one of the Jap bullets and air cannon shells clear of Dawson's body. And then once again he heard the pounding howl of the Zeros power-zooming upward. And in that instant he became a whirlwind of action. He shot his body toward the door opening, and at the same time flung out one hand and grabbed up a Very-Light pistol and fired the flare back over his shoulder. He heard the hiss and sputter as he went out through the door and down into the tall grass. And it seemed he had no more than regained his feet and was plunging for the jungle growth when a part of the world in back of him exploded in a roar of sound.
Hardly realizing what he was doing, he jerked his head around and took a flash glance back over his shoulder. The nose of the B-Twenty-Five was spouting livid red flame and smoke high into the air. The back of the aircraft had broken and buckled right at the gun turret, so that the whole thing looked like some weird prehistoric bird of gigantic size flopped down on the ground in mortal agony. One quick look at that heap of aero-nautical destruction, and then Dawson turned his head front, gasped out a sob of pity and sorrow, and plunged head first into the shelter of the jungle growth just as the three Jap Zeros wheeled off their zoom and started down again.
"Good gosh, Dave!" Freddy Farmer was panting in his ear. "Did they hit the gas fume-filled tanks that last time? I almost passed out in fear that you were a goner."
"Not those rotten Jap shots!" Dawson gasped, and rolled off his stomach. "I smacked a Very-Light flare at one of the split fuel feed lines. Just enough gas in the line to start a blaze. Hope it'll call them off, the bums!"
"Firedthe plane?" Freddy Farmer echoed with a frown. "But why? The thing's a total wreck. The Japs could never make any use of it, Dave!"
"And how they can't!" Dawson grated, and stared sad-eyed at the blazing heap of wreckage. "That wasn't the idea, though. There must be Jap troops close to here. They'll be coming on the run. It won't hurt any for them to think that we burned up inside. See what I mean?"
"Of course!" the English youth replied. "And am I stupid. Smart work, Dave. And by the way, thanks from the bottom of my heart, old thing."
Dawson glanced at him and blinked.
"For what?" he wanted to know.
Before answering, Freddy pointed a finger at the crash landing broken back of the aircraft.
"For not letting me go aft to the guns and take a crack at those Zeros," he said. "It was just as you warned. The thing broke right at the gun turret. But for you, Dave, I'd be in two or more pieces right now."
"Skip it," Dawson grunted, and got up onto his feet. "The thing for us to do is to make tracks away from here, before we both get carved up into small pieces. Now, let's see, which way, I wonder?"
"I suggest south, Dave," Freddy Farmer spoke up quietly. "I think that Zero field is in that direction. Fact is, while I've been here I think I've heard air engines toward the south. So?"
Dawson grinned at him, and winked.
"So we think alike, pal," he grunted. "We haven't got anything to fly now. And it's a long swim, and a long walk, to Chungking from here. Right, Freddy. The least we can do is take a look to see if the Japs can help us out any—without knowing it."
"Yes, it's a hope, though a blasted small one, I fancy," the English youth murmured. "First, though, there's this jungle. Dash it all! I never saw stuff grow so close together. Looks like it would take us days to go a mile."
"Then let's get started," Dawson said, and took one last look back at the burning plane. "Remind me, Freddy, to send Air Forces Command at Hickam Field a letter of apology for washing out their ship."
"Right you are," the English youth promised. Then, with a half-chuckle, he added, "And I'll be delighted to deliver itin person, if you know what I mean?"
"Way ahead of you, kid," Dawson replied. "Youjust remind me to write it,I'lltake care of the delivery angle—I hope!"
With a grin, and a nod for emphasis, Dawson turned toward the south and started to push and squirm and wiggle his way through the dense, steaming jungle growth.
Two year-long hours later Dawson stumbled over a hidden root for the umpty-umteenth millionth time, and let his weary body sink down onto the soft ground. Freddy Farmer, right behind him, sank down too, and for a couple of minutes neither said a word. As a matter of fact, neither had the breath to spare for spoken words. Their uniforms were ripped and torn in half a hundred different places. And there were just about as many tiny cuts on their faces and hands. And to top it all off, they were drenched with jungle swamp water, and plastered with sticky yellow mud from head to foot.
"How about taking turns carrying each other piggy-back, pal?" Dawson finally broke the silence. "And you carry me, first."
"Suits me," the English youth came right back at him, "if I don't have to go more than two or three yards. But, gosh, I am tired. And if you want to know my opinion, Dave, I've had the tiny little fear this last half-hour or so that we've been traveling in a circle."
The half-grin on Dawson's dirty face faded, and a grave, somber light stole into his eyes.
"I know, Freddy," he said quietly. "The sun has touched all four sides of us at least once in the last half-hour. I don't think we made so much as a quarter of a mile in a straight line south. In short, Freddy, you and I are very definitely lost."
"Yes, definitely," the English youth echoed with a faint catch in his voice. "However, there's no use crying over the fact, I fancy. The only thing we can do is to rest up a bit, and then keep pushing on southward. This is the Legaspi area, I'm positive. We're not on one of the smaller islands. So if we keep at it long enough we're bound to—"
A lightning-like warning gesture of Dawson's hand stopped Freddy Farmer cold. Both youths froze stiff, and locked eyes as they listened to the sounds that came to them through the jungle growth to the right—sounds that neither of them understood. But they didn't have to, because the sounds were the sing-song rising and falling intonations of Japs talking with one another.
"Close!" Dave breathed softly into Freddy's ear. "Too darn close for my liking, pal. Got your gun ready?"
The English youth didn't answer. He simply nodded slightly and fixed his eyes on the wall of jungle growth that separated them from the little brown butchers of Nippon somewhere beyond.
As Dawson crouched there motionless at Freddy's side, and listened to the Japanese speaking voices that seemed not to come closer, nor to retreat, a crazy impulse caused him to glance down at his wrist-watch. The crystal had been smashed in the crash, and the minute and hour hands were gone. The second hand was still in place, however, and ticking around its little graduated dial. Yet it seemed to stop and wait after each tick as though that were the last, and there would be no more. Then suddenly it would jump around to the next graduation mark, and pause and wait again.
Of course, it was actually moving all the time, but because of the terrible suspense that held him rigid, his eyes and his brain played him crazy tricks. And then suddenly the grip of Freddy's hand on his arm dragged his half hypnotized attention from the watch. The English youth put a finger to his lips for absolute silence, and then pointed ahead and to the left. Dave bent forward to sight along the pointed finger, and caught his breath sharply. He was staring through a small opening in the heavy growth, and there not more than twenty yards away were five squat, chunky, slant-eyed Japs. Each was armed with one of the deadly Jap sub-machine guns, and the expression on each face was that of the lustful desire to kill, and maim, and torture, for the sheer diabolic pleasure of so doing.
The little group had come to a halt and were all sharing something that one of them portioned out from a bag he carried slung over one shoulder. In a dull abstract sort of way, Dawson guessed it was the daily handful of rice that keeps a Jap soldier going when on the march, or on the hunt. However, it was no more than a half-hearted guess, because his attention was not fixed on what they were doing, but on what they looked like. The uniforms they wore, and the branch of service insignia on their uniforms. And though the uniforms were dirty and shabby, and much the worse for constant wear, he knew in a flash that that little group of Japs were aircraft mechanics.
And an instant later when he twisted his head around to meet Freddy Farmer's eyes, he knew that the English youth had recognized that fact, too. Freddy was grinning, and there was the light of wild hope in his eyes. He leaned forward quickly so that his lips were against Dawson's ear.
"No doubt chaps sent out to inspect the crash, Dave!" he breathed softly but with tingling excitement in every word. "And that they've stopped to have a bit of their blasted rice must mean that they'reon the way backto their field. Right?"
"Dead right!" Dawson breathed back with a grim nod. "Sure wish I knew the Jap lingo. I'd give a lot to know if they think the B-Twenty-Five's crew burned up in her. But we've just got to hope that's so, and trail them back. Okay by you, Freddy?"
"Where they go, we go!" the English youth replied. "Only I hope it isn't far."
"Something tells me that it isn't," Dawson said with a little gesture. "Just a hunch. Okay, we tag along behind. But watch it! Those little tramps have plenty sharp ears, and our guns can't outshoot what they're carrying."
"You watch your big feet, and I'll watch mine!" Freddy assured him. "Don't worry. And—There! They're moving off, Dave. And, say! I can see it, now. The blighters are following a path. Praise the Lord for that. Make it easier to keep up with them. Come along!"
As the English-born air ace spoke the last he got swiftly and silently up onto his feet and began virtually to squeeze his way through the heavy tropical growth. Dawson followed along right at his heels. And just that, too, for it took all of his efforts to keep Freddy Farmer's heels in sight. The English youth was like a shadow, and just about twice as silent, as he melted forward. In fact, Dawson came within a hair's breath of plowing right into his back when Freddy finally reached the narrow beaten path and came to an abrupt halt. Crouching down low with his pal, he strained his ears for sounds ahead. The sing-song jabbering reached his ears in almost no time at all, and after taking into consideration what heavy jungle growth does to the travel of sound, he judged the enemy patrol to be a good hundred yards ahead. Freddy Farmer figured the same distance and formed the words silently with his lips as he looked inquiringly at Dave. The Yank air ace nodded, and then started stealthily along the beaten path.
For almost an hour they followed the winding course of the path through the dense jungle, pausing every so often to hug the soft damp ground and listen to the incessant jabbering of the Jap patrol ahead. The last time they paused they also heard other sounds. Sounds, however, that were not distinct and clear. In fact, it was a sort of rumbling murmur that made Dave think of storm waves pounding against a rock-bound coast. He glanced back at Freddy, but the English youth was equally puzzled by the sounds.
However, a few moments later when Dawson turned around and started forward again, he suddenly felt Freddy's hand grip him by the arm and jerk him down flat. He squirmed around with an angry questioning look in his eyes. But Freddy's finger to his lips, and the brittle glint in his own eyes, checked any words that might have spilled from Dawson's lips. Then Freddy put his lips close and whispered softly.
"Just a little ahead, there's one of them, Dave!" he said. "Left to stand guard, is my guess. So that means we must be near their field. And—Hear that, Dave! That's what the sound is! Aircraft engines being revved up. This darn jungle blankets sound until you're right on top of it."
"Left one behind?" Dawson echoed, as little shivers began to ripple up and down his backbone. "You spotted him, Freddy?"
Young Farmer didn't answer at once. He motioned Dawson up to a half crouching position, and then pointed a stiff finger ahead, and nodded for Dave to sight along his arm. Dawson did that, but for several seconds he could see nothing but the greens, the browns, and the faded orange of jungle foliage. But all the time he could hear the rumbling murmur somewhere ahead. And he realized at once that Freddy's statement was true. The sound came from revving aircraft engines, but it was muffled and dulled in note by the thick jungle.
Suddenly, though, as he strained his eyes at the twisted mass of jungle growth, he saw something move no more than thirty-five yards from where he crouched. Had he not been peering intently he would automatically have taken it for a tree branch or jungle plant leaf being stirred by a puff of air. However, being on the alert both mentally and physically, he told himself at once that there could be no puffs of air in the thick of the jungle. Only heavy pungent smells that hung motionless in space. And then an instant later his eyes picked out the head and shoulders of a Jap. The little brown man was facing off to the left, and his face was in only one quarter profile. But Dave could see the man's jaws champing up and down on the dry rice he had stuffed into his mouth. And by straightening up just a little, Dawson could make out the butt of the deadly sub-machine gun that the Jap held in the crook of his right arm, ready to whip it up and fire at an instant's notice.
For a long minute Dawson studied the "picture", as a hundred and one conflicting thoughts raced through his brain. Was that Jap simply manning his guard post located close to the field? Or had that Oriental discovered that nobody was aboard the crashed B-Twenty-Five, and was that Jap up ahead but one of many posted here and there to be on the look-out for the survivors of the crash? Those two main questions tormented Dawson's brain, for the simple reason that he could only guess at the answers. But one thing was very certain, though. There stood an armed Jap between them and an enemy flying field ahead. If they were to get closer to the airfield ahead, that armed Jap had to be put out of the war for keeps.
That fact uppermost in his mind, Dawson took his gaze off the munching Jap and looked at Freddy. The English youth returned his look, grinned, tight-lipped, and nodded.
"Remember that Commando show in Occupied France, Dave?" he whispered. "Well, Jap or Jerry, it shouldn't make any difference, eh?"[2]
"Same thing, pal!" Dawson chuckled softly, and slowly closed the fingers of one hand into a rock hard fist. "Let's see if we've forgotten any of that sweet technique. Okay, kid!"
With a grin and a nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted around and started along the path again. Compared with their "travel" now, they had been making a noise akin to that of a herd of elephants on the rampage. Like blending shadows, and twice as silent, they eeled and snaked their way forward. Each leaf, or twig, or plant stem was moved cautiously to the side, and held there until they had slid their bodies past. Then, another few inches forward, and another few. Bit by bit creeping closer to the armed Jap, and with no more sound than that caused by the pounding of their hearts.
However, though they advanced completely wrapped in a blanket of silence, the Jap was perhaps possessed of that premonition of danger that science has named the sixth sense. Or perhaps his Nipponese ears were tuned to thumping human hearts. At any rate, when Dawson and Freddy Farmer were but a scant two yards in back of him, the Jap spun around and threw up his sub-machine gun. He was fast, lightning fast, but those two air aces had been trained to throttle lightning on the loose. They both moved even faster.
Dawson's outflung arm was like an iron rod with a ball of steel on the end of it. And that "ball of steel" flew straight to the Jap's Adam's apple to cut off his wind, and paralyze the nerve center at the base of his brain. However, that one blow alone would not have been sufficient, and neither Dave nor Freddy Farmer were counting on it to do the trick. At the same time Dawson slashed down with his gun hand and knocked the sub-machine gun downward. And while that was taking place, Freddy Farmer's flying body caught the Jap across the knees. On the football field that little bit of blocking would have caused the penalty of plenty of yardage. But this wasn't the football field. It was a jungle battle field. And the player to be "taken out" was a ruthless, butchering little brown rat of Hirohito's brood.
And he wastaken out, and very definitely so. When Dawson and Freddy got quickly up onto their feet again, and Dave even had the sub-machine gun in his own hands, there was no need to give the Jap more than a passing glance. He was out! He was not only out of the war, but he was out of his heathen world as well. A broken neck is a broken neck, whether it belongs to a Jap or anybody else!
Dawson looked at Freddy, but didn't say anything. Whatever might be said was said with their eyes. They simply exchanged looks, nodded grimly, and then stared once more along the winding path with ears tuned to the rumbling murmur ahead that grew louder and more pronounced with every foot forward they advanced. And so it was that at the end of ten or twelve minutes of cautious advancing, they finally reached a point where the jungle stopped, and flat, sun-baked ground began.
The pair stopped just a few feet inside the jungle and peered silently out at the sight ahead. It was one that caused wild hope to blossom within them. But it was also a sight that weighed down their hearts with bitterness and angry helplessness. Though Dawson had been suspecting it all along, it was not until he stared out onto that triangular-shaped patch of sun-baked ground that he knew definitely that Freddy and he had finally reached what had no more than forty-eight hours before been a Yank and Filipino-held emergency airfield.
But it was all Jap now. And the only traces that it had once been Yank-Filipino were the fire and bomb-marked wrecks of American planes caught on the ground by overwhelming Jap bombers, and the gutted hangars and buildings that lined one side of the field. And that it was all Jap, now, was obvious from the Nipponese planes of all types that were lined up on the other two sides. Planes, and Jap pilots and mechanics, and ground troops strutting about. A sight to make any Christian's heart weep blood. And the bitterest touch of all to Dawson and Freddy Farmer was the way the planes were lined up. They were not even dispersed about the field. And that could mean but one thing. That there were no more Yank bombers left in the Philippines to roar back and give those little slant-eyed brown men a taste of their own kind of war. No, the bombers that would some day do that little thing were thousands and thousands of miles away. And a great number of them were still just working blueprints in American aircraft factories!
Yes, a sight to make Christians weep, but also a sight to fan the flickering spark of hope and determination into a mounting flame!
"The dirty swine! Blast their rotten hearts! Gosh! What I'd give to lead a patrol of bombers right now! Dash it all! I'd even be willing to settle for Hawker Hurricanes!"
The words spilled softly and tonelessly off Freddy Farmer's lips. His eyes fixed on the captured field were bright and brittle, and he was unconsciously thumping one clenched fist into the palm of the other hand. Dawson glanced sidewise at him, grinned, and nudged his arm.
"Check, and double check, pal!" he whispered. "But wishing for the impossible won't help a bit. Besides, we haven't got time to jaw around on such things. Take a look at that spread of Jap planes, Freddy. Which one do you figure should be our baby, when we get it?"
"Ifwe get it!" the English youth muttered grimly. "Of course, I'd much prefer one of those Zeros. But we couldn't both ride in the same plane. Besides, they don't even carry enough gas to get us across the China Sea, to say nothing of up to Chungking."
"Not a chance in a Zero," Dawson grunted with a shake of his head. "And those Mitsubishi bombers over there are out, too. Take too long to get one of them off. So that brings up the important fact, pal."
"Onlyoneimportant fact?" Freddy Farmer groaned.
"For the present, anyway," Dawson whispered with a grin. "In other words, with what we manage to steal from these little rats, we wouldn't be able to make Chungking non-stop. Our best bet, and the shortest hop possible, is to skip across the northern part of Indo-China, and reach Kunming."
"Suits me perfectly!" breathed Freddy Farmer, his eyes lighting up. "Kunming is H.Q. for those Flying Tiger chaps. We may spot a few of them on patrol to escort us in. Also, to send the Jap johnnies on their way. The ones chasing us, or ones we're bound to run into, I mean."
"Sure, easy as pie!" Dawson snorted. "When we meet Flying Tigers on patrol we simply yell at them that the Jap ship we're in doesn't mean a thing, huh? And they'll catch on, quick? Listen, pal, those Flying Tigers are hot stuff. They don't bother asking Jap pilots for their names and addresses. They just sail in guns blazing. And, bingo! Hirohito has a few less. See what I mean?"
"Well, what doyouplan, then, Master Mind?" Freddy growled.
"Nothing," Dave came right back at him. "Once we're in the air, all we can do is hope that we can outfly the Japs chasing us.Andthat we don't bump into any of the Flying Tiger boys on the prowl. So I guess that baby over there is the one for our money. It's the closest, and those Jap mechanics wheeling that gas dollie away means that it's just been fueled up. What do you think?"
Freddy Farmer peered in the direction of Dawson's pointing finger and silently eyed the plane indicated on the near side of the triangular-shaped field. It was a Mitsubishi "Karigane" MK-Eleven two-place, low wing monoplane fighter. It was powered with an eight hundred horsepower radial engine of copied American design. And it was reputed to be one of the fastest, and longest ranged two-place planes in the Far Eastern theatre of war. And so Freddy had only to take a good look to be satisfied.
"We should just about make Kunming in it, with luck," he said to Dave. "However, there's the small detail of stealing her, you know. There's plenty of Nips standing around over there. And they all look armed to me."
"They are," Dawson grunted. "But this isn't any walking stick I've got in my hands, pal. Seriously, though, Freddy, I think we cansurprisethose bums out of that plane without much trouble. Look at how cocky they're acting, will you? Well, it's my guess a few well placed bursts from this machine gun could throw the place into a panic. You fast on your feet, kid?"
"Fast as you are if I have to be, I guess," Freddy replied gravely. "But just what do you plan to do? Rush them from here? It's sixty yards, if it's an inch."
"You think I'm that dumb?" Dawson growled, and shook his head vigorously. "No, not rush them from here. Getthemto come rushingoverhere!"
"Eh, what's that?" the English youth gasped as his eyes popped and his jaw sagged.
He started to say more, but Dawson stopped him by pointing at the little path that turned sharp right and skirted that side of the airfield, just inside the jungle growth. It had obviously been used by soldiers on guard duty. In short, they had used it to reach their posts, instead of crossing the field in the face of planes landing or taking off. It could also be used during a bombing raid when it wasn't good sense to show oneself out on the open field.
"There's where we run, Freddy," Dawson said. "AfterI've blasted a few burstsbackin the general direction of that Jap sentry we hauled down. My guess, or my hope, is that those over there on the edge of the field will come a-running, figuring his post has been attacked. Well, when they start cutting across the field we'll start down that path, but fast. The jungle growth will hide us, and we can get to a point right behind that two-seater before we'll have to break out into the open. And then—"
Dawson paused, and a tight, hard smile stretched his lips.
"Maybe even then we'll have to knock a few of them off," he said grimly. "But so what? That'll make just less Japs, that's all. Well, okay by you?"
Freddy Farmer shrugged, and gestured with his hands, palms upward.
"Why not?" he grunted. "It's just as insane and foolhardy as anything I could think up. Right you are, then. But let's get on with it. I don't fancy hanging around here any longer than I have to."
"You think I'm in love with the place?" Dawson snorted, and slipped the safety catch off the machine gun's trigger. "Okay, kid. On your mark! Here goes!"
Dawson's last whispered word hadn't even been swallowed up by the jungle silence before he had pointed the sub-machine gun back along the path in the direction of the dead Jap sentry, and pulled the trigger. Three, four silence-shattering bursts leaped out from the gun's muzzle, and a bit of the jungle growth in the line of fire promptly looked as if it had been whizzed through a fine meat grinder. But Dave didn't pause to admire the fire power effect on the jungle target. As the last bullet sped clear, he spun around and snapped a quick gaze out across the field. And for a crazy instant it was all he could do to stop from laughing out loud. Every blessed Jap on the field had frozen stiff, and some of them in the queerest, most unnatural positions.
However, they did not remain that way for long. A high-pitched sing-song voice hit the air, and it was as though many invisible strings had been jerked. The Japs snapped up straight, grabbed for their side arms, or caught up their rifles or machine guns, and came tearing across the field, screaming at the top of their hideous-sounding voices. But by the time the first of them had taken one step, Freddy and Dave had taken two steps along the hidden path. And they kept right on adding more and more driving power to their legs.
In almost less time than it takes to relate it they had covered those sixty odd yards of jungle path, and were directly behind the two-seater Mitsubishi MK-Eleven that they figured on "borrowing." Yes, directly behind it, but they still had some fifteen yards more of open ground before they could reach the plane's cockpit. Just the same they didn't hug the ground and waste time contemplating that final dash across open ground. They simply waited long enough for Dave to sprint in front with the sub-machine gun, and then off they went on the final lap.
Final lap? It was only fifteen yards to that MK-Eleven. Four good running broad jumps would cover the distance easily. But to Dave those fifteen yards seemed more like fifteen hundred. As he had half expected, and half feared, not all the Japs in that corner of the field had gone tearing over to investigate the mystery of the firing machine gun. A half dozen or so of them, all mechanics, had remained where they were. And it so happened that their sharp eyes caught sight of Dawson the very instant he broke out into the open. Blood-curdling screams of rage smote the air, and were instantly punctuated by rifle fire. But also in the same instant Dawson had dropped to one knee and was sweeping his bullet-spitting machine gun to left and right.
A couple of the Japs instantly went flat to the ground, and right out of the war and the world forever. And the others spun around and leaped for the protection of a nearby bomber's fuselage. That was okay by Dawson. It was just what he wanted. He slammed a short burst under the bomber's belly, and yelled to Freddy.
"Jump for it, Freddy!" he cried. "Into the rear cockpit, and be ready to catch this gun and cover me as I pile in. Get going!"
The last two words were quite unnecessary. Freddy Farmer wasn't taking precious split seconds out to do any arguing this time. As a matter of fact, he had already leaped past Dave as the Yank ace shouted the order. And in another couple of leaps he had reached the side of the MK-Eleven and was virtually throwing himself into the rear cockpit. Dawson saw Freddy make it out the corner of his eye, and slapped one more burst to kick up dust under the bomber's belly. Then he sprang to his feet, and dived for the MK-Eleven himself. As he reached its side he threw the sub-machine gun straight at Freddy. The English youth caught it in his hands, and was pumping bullets over at the bomber, behind which the Japs were attempting to hide and fire, in the single bat of an eyelid.
In what was practically a continuation of a wild leap into the pilot's cockpit of that Jap MK-Eleven, Dawson whipped out one hand to knock up the ignition switches, and stabbed the other thumb on the starter button, and kicked off the wheel brakes with his foot. As the Jap-copied American aircraft engine caught on the first time over, and roared up in a full throated song of power, he blessed the odd simplicity of Jap instrument panels and engine gadgets. There were not more than six or seven of them, and though they were printed in Jap sign writing, it was easy enough to guess their uses and functions. And so as the MK-Eleven quivered and trembled for a brief instant and then went rocketing out across the field like a comet gone haywire, he did not jab or pull one wrong thing and put an end to their little bit of war thievery right then and there.