The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dave Dawson in Libya, by Robert Sydney Bowen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Dave Dawson in Libya Author: Robert Sydney Bowen Release Date: October 25, 2015 [EBook #50309] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA *** Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA by R. SIDNEY BOWEN Author of "DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK" "DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R.A.F." THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I MEDITERRANEAN PATROL 11 II ORDERS FROM G. H. Q. 23 III ACTION ALOFT! 38 IV PILOT'S LUCK 56 V ENEMY MANEUVERS 67 VI DESERT MYSTERY 80 VII FATE LAUGHS LAST 96 VIII BLAZING SANDS 111 IX WINGS FROM TRIPOLI 126 X COURAGE AGAINST FATE 143 XI PRISONERS BY REQUEST 157 XII THE COLONEL'S TRAP 176 XIII DESERT DOOM 189 XIV R. A. F. LIGHTNING 205 XV VULTURE WINGS 216 XVI DESERT WRATH 230 XVII CLAWS OF THE BRITISH LION 246 CHAPTER ONE Mediterranean Patrol It was high noon and the Mediterranean sky was like a vast expanse of blue silk with a golden ball pasted exactly in the middle. Far below, the placid waters of the Mediterranean seemed to catch the blue of the sky, keep some of it and fling the rest up heavenward again. Between the blue sky and the blue water, at eighteen thousand feet to be exact, a lone Blackburn "Skua" of the Royal Air Force, Fleet Air Arm, coasted slowly about in a series of unending circles. At the controls of the combination fighter and dive bomber, powered with a 830 hp. Bristol Pegasus XII sleeve valve engine, sat Pilot Officer Dave Dawson, R.A.F. Behind him, in the gunner-observer's pit, sat his pal and flying comrade, Pilot Officer Freddy Farmer, R.A.F. For the last two hours they had been aloft doing their trick as advance air scout for the H.M. Aircraft Carrier "Victory" and her four escorting destroyers, steaming eastward for a rendezvous with the main unit of the British Mediterranean fleet. Two hours of coasting around high in the air far out in front of the Victory, and keeping their eyes constantly peeled for the first sign of approaching enemy air attackers. Thus far, however, they had seen nothing save the blue sky, the blue water, and the golden ball that was the sun. At regular fifteen minute intervals Dave had made his radio check in code with the flight operations officer aboard the Victory. Each time there had been nothing to report. And each time there had been no special orders from the Victory. Two solid hours of flying, looking, and reporting nothing. And still another whole hour to go before another Skua would be sent aloft to relieve them and they could slide down to a landing on the long flat deck of the Victory. Dave sighed, shifted to a more comfortable position and looked back at Freddy Farmer. "My legs feel like they'll stay bent at the knees for the rest of my life," he said, after removing the "flap-mike" from in front of his lips. "How about you, my little man? How do you like active duty with the Fleet Air Arm, huh?" The English youth shrugged and made a face. "Not even a little bit, so far," he replied. "And, by the by, my lad, let me remind you it was your idea we put in for duty with the Fleet Air Arm. Frankly, I wish we'd stayed with the Fighter Command in England. It's been so long since I've had an air scrap I'm wondering if I still know how to fire my guns." "Stop fishing for compliments," Dave said with a chuckle. "Just do what you always do. Close your eyes, pray, and press the trigger button. If there are enough Jerry or Muzzy ships about, one of them is bound to fly into your bullets." Freddy Farmer scowled darkly and lifted a warning finger. "You seem to have forgotten something, my little American friend," he said in mock reprimand. "Who, me?" Dave echoed. "Impossible! For even suggesting that I'd forget anything, I think I'll challenge you to a duel with cup-cakes at ten paces. But what have I forgotten, anyway?" Freddy Farmer tapped his own chest and closed one eye. "That I happen to be a pilot, too, though I'm serving as your observer on this show," he said. "In other words, one more insulting remark about my shooting ability and I shall be forced to dump you overboard, parachute and all, and finish this patrol alone. You think I can't?" Dave shivered and shook in mock alarm. "Please, kind sir, spare me such a fate!" he cried. "It's a long way down. Besides, you wouldn't want me to be court- martialed, would you, and perhaps be kicked out of the Service?" "I fancy it would jolly well be a good thing for the Service," Freddy came right back at him. "But I'll bite. Why would you be court-martialed?" "For losing one perfectly good Blackburn Skua monoplane fighter," Dave said gravely. "For losing one?" Freddy echoed before he could stop himself. "Sure." Dave nodded and widened his grin. "You'd be at the controls. Same thing, isn't it?" Freddy's eyes snapped fire and the blood rushed into his cheeks. He glared at Dave for a few seconds, and then slowly grinned sheepishly. "Okay, okay," he finally said. "To use your terrible American slang, I walked into that one. But beginning with now, my lad, watch your step. A Farmer always has the last laugh." "You bet, of course!" Dave hooted at him. "After everybody else has got the point of the joke. Kidding aside, though, Freddy, I feel like you do. I mean, it's nice to be down here where it's warm, and the sun shines every day. And a boat ride on an aircraft carrier isn't tough to take, either. But I sure could do with some more war. I feel—well, I sort of feel as if I were cheating." "Cheating?" Freddy murmured. "What do you mean? Or is this another wise-crack of yours? You seem full of them today, for some reason. Was it what you had for breakfast?" "No, I'm talking seriously now," Dave replied. "I feel as though I were cheating the lads we left back in England. You know, sort of running out on them. The Jerries have been giving London and Liverpool, and Manchester, and those other places, a pretty good pasting. It makes me feel pretty punk to think I put in for a transfer to the Fleet Air Arm down here in the Mediterranean, and—well, nothing's happened. See what I mean?" "Yes, I do," Freddy said, and nodded gravely. "Feel a bit that way, myself. However, when we put in for transfer, General Wavell's troops were knocking the Italians forty ways from Sunday in Libya. It's not really our fault we got down here after the show was all over." "No, I suppose not," Dave grunted. Then, frowning slightly, "I've been wondering about that, Freddy." "About what?" "Whether the Libya show really is all over," Dave replied. "Heaven spare me from trying to be a military expert, like those crystal ball gazers you hear on the radio, but I've got a hunch Hitler will do something before he lets General Wavell kick the Italians completely out of Africa. And he sure seems to be doing it." "Quite," Freddy nodded. "And once again I agree with you. If you want my opinion, I think British Middle East Command is jolly well sure that Hitler is going to do something about it. In fact, he already has." "Yeah?" Dave breathed and widened his eyes in interest. "What? And how did you know, or do you?" "As you would say," Freddy replied with a grin, "I get around, pal. I was talking with Group Captain Spencer on the Victory yesterday. He said that there were reports the Germans were flying troops and supplies from Sicily across to the main Italian base at Tripoli. He also said he was sure that there would be an Axis drive against Wavell's troops very shortly." "Flying stuff from Sicily to Tripoli?" Dave exclaimed. "Then what are we doing way over toward the eastern end of the Mediterranean? We should be off Sicily knocking them down as they start over." "That's the way I feel," Freddy said with a shrug. "However, I fancy Admiral Cunningham, of the Mediterranean Fleet, knows what he's doing. There's probably a bigger job to do first. Don't worry, if things get hot in Libya, I fancy the Fleet Air Arm will be called on to do double duty. The first job, though, is to find the rest of Mussolini's navy and put it out of action for keeps." "There's a guy for you!" Dave snorted disgustedly. "Mussolini! Will he give our grandchildren a lot of laughs! What a big bag of wind." "And I'd rather like to puncture it," Freddy added. "I feel sorry for the Italian people. I've always liked them. But Mussolini! What a rotter!" "What a dope!" Dave echoed. "He and that Ciano are a couple of first class—" Dave didn't have a chance to say what Mussolini and Count Ciano were, for at that moment he heard the brisk voice of the operations officer aboard the Victory in his earphones. "Crimson to Patrol! Crimson to Patrol! Over!" Crimson was the code word meaning that the Victory was calling the advance scouting patrol. And "Over" meant for Dave to reply that he was receiving the signals. He quickly turned front and slid his flap-mike up into place. "Patrol to Crimson!" he called. "Patrol to Crimson! Signals clear. Over!" "Crimson to Patrol!" said the voice in the earphones. "Crimson to Patrol. Relief patrol is off. Return to your base at once. Crimson to Patrol! Return to your base at once. Over." Dave impulsively glanced at his instrument board clock and saw that it still lacked forty-two minutes before the patrol trick would ordinarily be through. "Patrol to Crimson!" he spoke into his flap-mike. "Orders received. Coming in, Crimson. Over." "Okay, Patrol!" the earphones said. And then the radio went silent. Dave turned to see if Freddy had had his radio switched on. The English youth had, of course, and he gave Dave a wide-eyed stare of wonder. "What's up, do you think, Dave?" he asked. "Search me," Dave replied with a shrug. "But orders are orders, and so down we go. Hang onto your hats, children." As Dave spoke the last he eased back the throttle and sent the Skua seaward in a long three quarter throttle power dive. He had dropped some five or six thousand feet before he saw the relief patrol climbing up into the blue. He waved a hand in greeting and continued on down. At ten thousand feet he leveled off and banked west. A couple of seconds later he picked up the aircraft carrier Victory. In the golden glare of the sun it reminded him a little of a long narrow flatiron floating upside down in the water. He headed straight for it, then suddenly grinned and turned around to Freddy. "Figured it out yet?" he asked. "Naturally not," Freddy replied. "Have you?" Dave struggled to keep his face straight. "Of course I don't know for sure," he said, "but I think I've got a pretty good hunch. It's Group Captain Spencer. He's a very considerate officer, you know." "Group Captain Spencer?" Freddy echoed unsuspecting. "What has being a considerate officer got to do with it?" "Well, I've got a hunch he likes me," Dave said. "So I suppose he figured that being aloft with a guy named Farmer for three whole hours was just too much to take. Ouch! Hey, lay off! Want me to dive us down into the drink?" The last was because Freddy had moved swiftly forward, unsnapped Dave's helmet strap and tilted the helmet down over his face. He held it there as Dave struggled with his free hand. "Apologize?" Freddy demanded. "Okay, okay!" Dave cried. "I take it all back. Boy! Am I glad I didn't make that crack just as we were sliding in to land." "Oh, I'd have waited a bit, I fancy," Freddy said, and grinned at him. "No sense cracking up a nice airplane just to teach you a bit of manners. Now, my lad, close that pretty mouth of yours and get us down safely." "For two cents," Dave growled as he adjusted his helmet, "I'd—No, let it go. Okay, my fine feathered friend. Watch, and learn." The Victory was now just ahead and steaming straight into the wind. Dave roared by on the port side and took a look at the landing officer (or flag officer) standing in a box-like structure that jutted out to the right of the bridge. The officer held a yellow flag in each hand, and as Dave and Freddy thundered by he signaled with the flags that the deck was clear for a landing. After continuing on a certain distance astern of the carrier, Dave then banked around and headed straight back, one hand on the stick, the other on the throttle, and his eyes fixed steadfastly on the landing officer. Landing on a carrier is not the same as landing on a ground airdrome. When landing on a ground airdrome, the pilot does the whole job. Not so on a carrier, however. There the landing officer tells the incoming pilot exactly what to do. He does this with his signal flags. He signals whether the pilot is too high, or too low; whether he is too much to the left, or to the right; or if his plane is not trimmed correctly. The pilot (if he is a wise pilot) does exactly as the landing officer signals, and does not rely on his own judgment at all. It has been proved time and time again that the incoming pilot who does not obey the landing officer's signals implicitly winds up in a whole lot of trouble, if not in the ship's Sick Bay. And so Dave kept his eyes fixed on that officer with the yellow flags and brought the Blackburn Skua down closer and closer to the Victory's polished flight deck. Finally he caught the signal to cut his throttle way back. He did so, and the plane sank down onto the deck. Almost before the secret arresting gear had pulled it to a full stop, mechanics were rushing out to take over. As Dave and Freddy climbed out and stretched their cramped legs, the deck duty officer came over. "Get out of your duds and get polished up, you two," he said with a grin. "All pilots are to report in the Ready Room in twenty minutes. So hop to it." The deck duty officer was no more than a couple of years older than Dave and Freddy, and his flying rank was the same. His name was Talbert, and he ate at the same mess table as the boys. Dave gave him a searching look, then spoke in a low voice. "You wouldn't know, would you, Tal?" he asked. "I mean, what it's all about?" "Not a blessed thing, Dawson," the other replied with a shake of his head. "Big doings, though, I shouldn't wonder. Group Captain Spencer looks quite hot and bothered. I fancy he isn't collecting us to serve tea. Now off with you. Mustn't clutter up the flight deck, you know." CHAPTER TWO Orders from G.H.Q. Group Captain Spencer was a big man with iron grey hair and a face that made you think of chiseled granite. He had served as a fighting pilot in World War No. 1, and the double row of decoration ribbons under his wings were proof enough that he had served his country well. A bullet scar just over his right eye was a constant reminder of a very close shave with Death. It added to the striking appearance of his broad, square-jawed face. As a matter of fact, Group Captain Spencer had yet to see forty-five years of age, but war had left its stamp on him so that he actually looked well over fifty. He stood straddle-legged on the small platform at one end of the Ready Room while the Victory's fighter pilots, an even thirty-four of them, filed into the room and found seats. When finally they were all seated and silent, Group Captain Spencer cleared his throat and took a step closer to the edge of the platform. "No doubt you lads are pretty fed up with patrolling around and not getting much of a chance to do any shooting," he said, and grinned faintly. "Well, that's because the fleet has been trying to smoke out the Italian navy—that is, what's left of it." The senior officer paused, and a ripple of laughter spread from lip to lip. "It's now pretty plain that Mussolini's sea chaps don't fancy a fight," Group Captain Spencer continued. "They've bottled themselves up in port, and won't come out. In time we'll have to go after them like we did at the Taranto Naval Base last November Twelfth. That kind of fun will have to wait a bit, though. More important things to do first. In short, Hitler is sticking his finger in the African pie—the Libyan pie, to be exact." A murmur of suppressed excitement spread about the room. The pilots sat up a bit straighter and waited expectantly. Freddy looked at Dave and winked. Dave winked back and nodded his head. "I'll give you a picture of what has happened," Group Captain Spencer said abruptly. "Last fall General Wavell, commander in chief of His Majesty's Middle East Armies, had two jobs to tackle, two rather tough nuts to crack. One was the job of pushing Marshal Graziani's Italian forces out of western Egypt and back into Libya. The other was to drive the Italians out of Eritrea and Ethiopia to the south of Egypt. I say they were two tough nuts to crack because General Wavell didn't have the troops, mechanized divisions or the planes he really needed for the jobs. However, as the world knows now, he did what he could with what he had, and did a very fine job, too." The senior officer paused and made a little gesture with his hand that said the pilots could smoke if they wished. As a matter of fact, he lighted up a cigarette himself. "On December Ninth, last year," the group captain went on, "General Wavell started a surprise offensive against Graziani's most advanced forces at Matruh, in Egypt. He caught the Italians completely off guard and they started one of the wildest retreats in military history. By February of this year General Wavell's British, Australian, New Zealand, and South African troops were in possession of Bengazi, in Libya, some eight hundred miles from the starting point of the drive. And what was left of the Italian army was fleeing for its life along the desert shoreline to Tripoli, the main Italian base in Libya, and its capital. That offensive by Wavell will go down in war history as one of the most brilliant ever accomplished. "Now, as soon as the Italians had been thrown back, General Wavell took all the troops, tanks, and planes that he could spare and sent them against the Italians in Eritrea and Ethiopia. In short, he left but a skeleton force occupying the captured Italian positions in Libya. He had to do that because he didn't have enough troops for both jobs. As we know, he did another fine job down to the south. It won't be long now before the whole of Eritrea and Ethiopia will be in British hands. However—" Group Captain Spencer paused, and his face became grim and set. "However," he began again, "while General Wavell has been busy down in Eritrea and Ethiopia, Hitler has stepped in to lend a hand to the Italians in Libya. In short, during the last two weeks or so, German transport planes have been transporting German troops across the Mediterranean from Sicily to Tripoli in Libya. Tanks, guns, and supplies have been sneaked across in Italian ships that race for French Tunisia and then hug the coast of that French African colony and get safely to Tripoli. The British Mediterranean Naval Command has known what was going on, at least to a certain degree. Anyway, steps have now been taken to put a stop to it. However, the naval job out here is a big one, and the first job was to knock out the Italian navy." The senior officer took time out to clear his throat and have a glass of water. "Well, the Italian navy isn't very much, now," he continued presently, "so the next job is to do something about this business of Hitler helping the Italians in Libya. We know that German planes, tanks, and troops are in Libya. We know, also, that a German-Italian, or Axis, drive is soon to be launched against Wavell's forces in Libya. But when, and at what points, and the real strength of the German-Italian forces are three things we do not know. Those three things must be found out, and as soon as possible. To put it bluntly, the Fleet Air Arm is going to try to find the answers for the British Middle East High Command. And to put it even more bluntly, you chaps are going to have first crack at the job." Group Captain Spencer stopped abruptly and turned to a huge map on the wall behind him. Picking up a red crayon, he marked an X on a spot in the Mediterranean. Dave saw that it was a point halfway between the island of Crete and the Libya-Egyptian frontier line. "That is the Victory's position now," the group captain said. "Between now and sundown we will change course several times. When darkness settles down, we will change course again and head for this spot, here—a position about thirty miles off Misurata on the Libyan coast, and some two hundred miles east of Tripoli. We will arrive there at a certain time before dawn tomorrow. At that time one plane, with pilot and observer, will take off and, under the cover of darkness, head inland. The plane will be fitted with extra gas tanks, allowing for a good eight hour flight. It will also be fitted with a special fast action aerial camera. "Now, the job of that pilot and observer will be to patrol the areas east and southeast of Tripoli and make notes, and photos, of everything of interest. And let me say right here, don't pass up a single thing just because it interests you only a little. Get a good look at everything, and a picture of it, if possible. When it is time to return to the Victory, the pilot will head for a certain point that will be made known to him just before he takes off. The Victory will be there to take him aboard. Now, before I carry on, any questions?" Nobody moved for a moment; then Dave Dawson slowly stood up. "Yes, Dawson?" Group Captain Spencer asked briskly. "Why one plane, sir?" Dave asked. "If two planes went out, and there were trouble, perhaps at least one of them would return?" "A good question," Group Captain Spencer said. "And in a way, you're absolutely right, Dawson. However, I'm sending out just one plane for a special reason. First, though, let me explain why the Fleet Air Arm is tackling this job instead of an R.A.F. fighter or reconnaissance unit already based in occupied Libya. It's for this reason: distance! We can get in close under the cover of darkness, and save a good two or three hundred mile flight a plane would have to make from an R.A.F. drome at Bengazi. Also, by going straight south from the coast, we can be over our objectives before they realize we're there. Planes, or even one plane, from the R.A.F. drome at Bengazi would be heard and spotted long before it reached the area we want to study. "We are sending out one plane for this reason. And it's very simple. The enemy spotters might not pay much attention to a single plane wandering about high above them. We're hoping they'll think it some ship that has lost its bearings. There will be no marking at all on the plane. Two planes, however, would definitely arouse the suspicions of enemy spotters. They would know at once that two planes were there for a special reason, and not just lost. Therefore they would open fire, and send up defending aircraft, and the time would be taken up with fighting instead of observing. Does that explain it, Dawson?" "Yes, sir," Dave replied. "You're quite right, sir. It's a one plane job. But it's to be one plane at a time, isn't it, sir?" The group captain nodded and looked very grave. "I hope it won't be," he said quietly, "but for the present we are planning it that way. In short, if the first plane does not return, or if the information it brings back is not of much value, then a second plane will be sent out, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and so on, until we find out what we want to know. Frankly, it is a ticklish job the British Middle East High Command has asked the Fleet Air Arm to perform. And the Fleet Air Arm Command has turned the job over to us. Now, any more questions?" Dave felt Freddy Farmer stiffen at his side, then saw his flying pal stand up. "Yes, Farmer?" Group Captain Spencer asked. Freddy hesitated a brief instant, and then spoke. "It is not a question, sir," he said in a low but clear voice. "Then what is it?" the group captain demanded gruffly. "A request, sir," Freddy replied promptly. "I should like to volunteer to go in the first plane." Freddy's words opened the floodgates of a reservoir of sound. Instantly every other pilot in the room leaped to his feet and shouted the request to be selected for that first plane. Group Captain Spencer grinned happily, then held up both his hands, and shook his head. "Just a minute, you chaps!" he roared. Then, when he had obtained silence, "Just waiting for one of you lads to start it off. And I knew perfectly well that every one of you would fight for the job. That's the kind of spirit that has made the Fleet Air Arm the two-fisted, do-or-die unit that it is. However, we're not going to do it that way. I'm not going to select anybody. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, I don't fancy to be dumped overboard some dark night by some lad I didn't select. I like to wear just trunks when I go swimming, you know, not full dress service uniform." The pilots roared with laughter, and then Group Captain Spencer continued. "No, the way we'll decide that is by drawing lots," he said. "There are thirty-four of you lads here, and in this cap of mine are thirty-four folded slips of paper." The group captain picked up his service cap that had been resting top side down on a table on his right. "Thirty-four folded slips of paper," he said, and put the cap down on the table again. "Thirty-three of them are blank. The thirty-fourth has an X marked on it. Now, you will line up, and each will draw a folded slip of paper from the cap. The one who draws the paper with the X on it will be the pilot of the first plane. Now, to make sure the flight will go off smoothly, so that there'll be no possible chance of friction, the man who draws the marked slip can choose the chap he would like to have along as his observer. Of course you are all pilots, so if anything happens to the lad at the controls the other chap can take over at once. Naturally, I hope nothing will happen. You never can tell, though. As I said, this is a ticklish job, and a mighty important one. It may well prove to be the most important job you've tackled since entering the service. Now, line up and—" Group Captain Spencer cut himself off short and shook his head. "No, half a minute," he said. "There's one other thing I'd better say, though it's probably unnecessary. It is a volunteer job. I mean, the chap who draws the marked slip can decline if he wishes, and that will be that. Also, the chum he chooses to go along with him can decline, too." "Not likely, sir, I fancy!" some pilot at the back of the Ready Room called out. "Not likely at all!" the rest shouted in the same breath. Group Captain Spencer grinned broadly, and the glow of affection and admiration was in his dark eyes. "So be it," he said, and picked up the service cap filled with folded slips of paper. "Right-o, lads, line up. And don't fight for places. Maybe the last chap in line will draw the lucky slip. Anyway, hop to it." The pilots bounded from their seats and hastened to form a line. After a bit of good-natured pushing and shoving they were all in line. Freddy and Dave were together about a quarter of the way down the line. Dave was in front of Freddy, and he turned and grinned at his pal. "If I get that slip it will sure be a problem," he said. "Why a problem?" Freddy asked. "I'll jolly well be tickled pink, I can tell you." Dave nodded and shrugged. "Oh sure, me too," he retorted. "But all these fellows on the Victory are swell. It will be quite a problem to decide whom to take along with me. See what I mean?" Freddy's jaw dropped in amazement, and a faint hurt look came into his eyes. Then suddenly, as he saw the grin on Dave's lips, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and anger took the place of the hurt look in his eyes. "You—you!" he fumed, and stumbled. "You wait, my lad. I'll fix you for that one later. Look! Parks is drawing the first slip!" The two boys snapped their gaze to the front end of the line. So did everybody else, for that matter. A tall, lean-jawed pilot by the name of Parks was on the point of dipping his hand into the service cap. He didn't make it, however. His hand suddenly froze in midair as the inter-ship communication speaker fitted into the Ready Room wall started barking out words. "All out, Fighter Unit! Enemy aircraft sighted! All out, Fighter Unit. Snappy, now! All out, Fighter Unit!" For one brief instant not a man in the Ready Room moved a muscle. Then the place was turned into a whirlwind of action. It was a whirlwind of orderly action, however. Those boys of the Victory's fighter unit were well trained. This was not the first air alarm they had received, nor would it be the last. Each pilot knew just what he was supposed to do, when he was to do it, and where. Group Captain Spencer didn't sing out one word of command. He didn't have to. He knew his boys well. He just tossed his cap full of folded slips back on the table and dived out of the room. The pilots dived out at his heels. In less time than it takes to tell about it the whole group was up on the flight deck and hastening to their planes as they strapped on helmets and Mae West life jackets, and wiggled into parachute harness held out by mechanics. Other mechanics had sprung for the planes at the first word of alarm, and the flight deck shook from the thunder of whirring engines. Group Captain Spencer had received information of the position, types and number of enemy aircraft. He started talking the instant he leaped into his leading ship and plugged in the radio jack of his head-phones. "Twenty thousand feet over Zone CK!" he shouted into all listening ears. "About thirty of them, advance scout patrol reports. Junkers Ju. Eighty-Eights, and some Heinkel One-Elevens. Take off by sections of three and get up there fast. Right-o, lads!" Dave's and Freddy's plane was in the fourth section of planes lined up at the stern end of the flight deck. Faces bright with excitement, they sat motionless while Group Captain Spencer led the first section off. As it went ripping along the smooth deck, mechanics guided the second section into place and sent it off. Then the third. Then Dave's plane and the two other ships in the section moved forward into position. The operations officer on the bridge dropped his flag down and away they went. Holding the ship steady in its take-off run, and keeping well clear of his two companion planes, Dave gave the Blackburn Skua's Bristol Pegasus engine full throttle. The plane seemed fairly to skip along the deck for a very short distance, then it was off and prop climbing toward the clear blue of the Mediterranean sky. CHAPTER THREE Action Aloft! As the deck of the Victory fell away from him Dave cranked up the Skua's wheels to add to its perfect streamline design and thus gain additional climbing speed. Sections One, Two, and Three were well above him and heading westward and slightly to the north. For a second he turned his head and glanced down back at the carrier. Every plane was off and in the air. The escort destroyers were circling the Victory and laying a thick smoke screen into which the carrier could plunge and make herself difficult to see in case the approaching enemy aircraft did break through. As a matter of fact, even as Dave stared downward, the Victory seemed to merge right in with a thick layer of soot black smoke. "Quick work, eh?" he heard Freddy's shout. "Those destroyer chaps are a little bit of all right, eh?" "They're tops, what I mean!" Dave shouted back. "How're you doing, Freddy?" "Right enough!" the English youth said with a grin. "Get some more speed out of her, won't you? Wouldn't like to be left behind, you know." "You old fire horse!" Dave said with a laugh, and turned front. The altimeter now showed fifteen thousand feet of air under the wings, and the Skua was still going up like a skyrocket, keeping perfect pace with the two other planes of its section. Dave's blood danced with excitement, and he hoped hard that the leading sections would not meet and drive the enemy aircraft away before he could get there. It had been some time since he and Freddy had tangled with enemy craft. A little practice in gunnery and combat flying wouldn't do either of them any harm. "Doggone right!" he echoed the thought aloud. "Feel like a bandit taking this last month's pay for doing practically nothing. And I—" He cut himself off short as he suddenly heard Group Captain Spencer's voice in his earphones. "Well, jolly well hurry up, Dawson, and earn some of that pay today!" Dave sat up straight, and gasped. Then as he heard the chuckle in the earphones he blushed to the roots of his hair and grinned sheepishly. For a second he had clean forgotten that every word he spoke into the radio mike went into the earphones of every other Victory pilot in the air, as well as into the earphones of every man at the operations station aboard the carrier. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled. "Just talking rot to myself, and not thinking." "Quite all right, Dawson!" came the cheery reply in his phone. "Get six or seven of these beggars and I'll forgive you. I'll —There they are, Crimson pilots! Dead ahead at twenty-one thousand. Well, well! Quite a mess of them. Spread out and let them go down. Right-o, Crimson pilots. Tally-ho!" Dave gripped the stick tighter and peered hard upward and ahead at the Mediterranean sky. At first he saw nothing but blue streaked by the brassy glare of the sun. Then suddenly he saw the swarm of dots—tiny dots, like a horde of gnats streaking along high up in the heavens. A moment or so later, however, they ceased to be dots that looked like gnats. The leading group nosed down and in almost no time they took on the definite shape and outline of Junker Ju. 88s, the huge long range Luftwaffe bombers powered by twin Daimler-Benz engines, which since tryouts during the winter over England had been changed some so that instead of being confined to level flight bombing they could perform Stuka or dive bombing work as well. Behind them in the second group were Heinkel 111 Ks, medium-sized bombers powered by two Junkers Juno radial engines. Slipping the safety guard off the trigger button of his guns, Dave studied the enemy planes intently. That the Junkers 88s were heading down while the Heinkels stayed at altitude—in fact, were even starting to climb higher—seemed proof enough that a savage Stuka attack was to be made on the Victory while the main body of raiding aircraft swept onward to attack the principal unit of the British fleet a hundred miles or so ahead. At that moment he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Freddy's grinning face close to his. "Almost like a test, isn't it?" Freddy said, and held a hand over his flap-mike. "Test?" Dave echoed and looked blank. "What do you mean, test?" "As if the Fleet Air Arm Command had asked Goering to send some of his lads out from Italy or Sicily to see if we are still in shape," Freddy said. "Those are enemy planes, aren't they? It's been so long, you know." "I think so." Dave grinned. "Tell you what, though, I'll find out for sure. Just sit tight while I fly across in front of one of them. If they shoot that funny look off your face, then we can be sure they're Nazis." "Thank you, no!" Freddy said with a scowl. "Just you get us close, that's all. I can perfectly well find out for myself whether they're my friends or my foes!" "Just wanted to help out a pal, that's all," Dave said, and turned front. In another couple of moments the time for horse play and kidding was all over. The first of the diving Junkers had reached the level of the First and Second sections of the Victory's fighter planes. And those fighter planes tore in like so many steel-clawed eagles gone completely haywire. The air suddenly shook from the yammer and chatter of British and German aerial machine guns. And punctuating the rattle of the machine guns was the deeper and louder note of the air cannon mounted on the German craft. Cannon or not, it made no difference to the pilots of the First and Second sections. As Dave fixed his gaze on them, and jammed his free hand hard against the throttle as if he could get more speed, he saw three of the 88s lose their wings and go cartwheeling off to the side, leaving behind great globs of oily black smoke hanging suspended in the blue sky. Another couple of minutes and two more 88s trying to wheel clear of the Victory's defending planes locked wings by mistake and blew up in a roar of sound that must have been heard all the way back to their home drome, wherever it was located. A couple of more Junkers started running into trouble, but Dave didn't bother to watch how they made out. His section was now within gun range, and each pilot was picking out his Nazi plane to attack. Dave cut off and up toward the belly of an 88 that had zoomed and was trying frantically to get altitude. Dave steadied himself and the ship, got the Junkers square in his sights and then let drive with his four guns. He saw his gleaming tracers smoke up into the under side of the 88 like so many metal fireflies. At the same time four jetting tongues of flame stabbed down at him, and he knew that the Junkers' gunners were not being caught napping. He knew, too, an instant later, when his Skua shook and trembled slightly, that those gunners were not exactly blind men when it came to marksmanship. His bursts, however, were the ones that counted. The firing from the Junkers suddenly ceased, and the craft lunged drunkenly off to the right. Dave held his ship in its zoom until the last moment, and then flung it over on its side. The maneuver left a perfect target for Freddy Farmer in the rear pit. And the young English youth was ready and set. His twin guns spat flame and sound, and even as Dave jerked his head around for a look, he saw a ribbon of flame dribble out from the port engine of the 88, and then sweep back over the wing and along the fuselage to the tail. The Nazi bomber became a roaring ball of flame in an instant, and as Dave cartwheeled away he caught the flash of its bombs falling away. The German pilot had released them so that they would not explode before he and members of his crew could bail out of the blazing plane. It so happened, though, that the Nazi pilot forgot about one bomb, or perhaps the release toggle stuck. At any rate, that section of the sky was suddenly filled with flashing light and a blast of sound that seemed virtually to drive Dave's eardrums deep into his head. He could even feel the concussion of the explosion slap against the Blackburn Skua like a soggy wet blanket, and try to whip it over on its back. It was all Dave could do to hold the plane in its speed gaining dive and prevent it from flopping into a tight power spin. "Nice going, Freddy!" he shouted back over his shoulder. "But next time tell the guys to shake their bombs off first. Boy! Is my head ringing!" "So's mine!" Freddy shouted back. "Right-o, Dave! Let's get another of the beggars. Attack our fleet, will they! Up at the rotters, Dave!" Even as Freddy was shouting the words, Dave had cut the Skua off to the right, then whipped it over and down in a lightning-like half roll. There, directly below his diving nose, was another 88. He opened fire at once, then curved up and away so that Freddy could rake the plane from nose to tail as they raced past. The Nazi craft didn't burst into flame. Instead, it rolled over in the air like a tired bird. For a moment or so it hovered on its back. Then it fell off on one wing, and down. White puffs began to appear off to the side, well below the crippled plane slowly slip-sliding downward to its final end in the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. The white puffs were the parachute envelopes of the pilots and crew members who had bailed out of the helpless craft. Neither Dave nor Freddy, however, gave them so much as a second glance. The first group of the dive-bombing Junkers had been broken up. At least ten of them had been put out of the war for keeps, and the others were beating a hasty retreat to the west. The Heinkels, however, had not come down. They had gone up for more altitude instead, and had tried to race beyond the defending Victory fighters and reach their objectives far to the east. They had tried, yes, but they had not succeeded. The sections in back of Dave's section had climbed swiftly up to meet those Heinkels and by sheer fighting power had forced them to turn off toward the north—that is, all but two of them. Two Heinkels had somehow broken through the barrier of defending Skuas and were now thundering down to level bomb the Victory far below. Nazi though they might be, Dave could not help but feel a certain amount of admiration for the pilots and crews. It was a suicide attack they were about to make, and they obviously knew it. With all hope of reaching the British fleet blasted by the furious defense of the Victory's planes, two of those Heinkel pilots had decided to do what they could against the Victory below. To have continued on eastward would simply have meant a short passing of time before the speedy Skuas caught up with them and shot them out of the air. And so they had elected to do what damage they could to the Victory, and unquestionably they would pay for it with their lives. "You've got to hand it to them," Dave muttered somewhat reluctantly as he sent his Skua hurtling downward. "At least that's two of Goering's guys who have what it takes. Too bad they signed up to play on the wrong team!" A moment later, however, all feeling of sympathy and admiration was gone. The Victory was down there, and the enemy was wing howling down to blow it out of the water, if such a miracle could be performed. There were pals of Dave's down there on that carrier, pals who would risk their lives any day to save him. It was up to him to risk his, now, to save them. The diving Heinkels ceased to be airplanes manned by human beings like himself. They became in his mind two winged machines of death and destruction hurtling down to snuff out the lives of his pals and fellow officers. And so he braced himself in the seat and dropped the Skua's nose down to the vertical. The Bristol engine in the nose screamed out its song of power, and the air rushing past set up a shrill constant whistle. Hunching forward, Dave pressed hard against his safety belt harness, tightened the muscles of his stomach, kept his mouth open and continually swallowed to reduce the air pressure in his ears. But all the time he kept his eyes riveted on the nearest diving Heinkel. It all took up but a few brief seconds, and then he was streaking down on top of the German bomber. Its gunners opened up with everything they had, and the air in front of Dave's nose was filled with the wavy streams of tracer smoke. He did not veer to the left or right for an instant. He held his ship steady until a vital part of the bomber was square in his sights. Then he let out a yell and jabbed his trigger button. The four Vickers guns cowled into the leading edge of the wing, two on each side of the nose, and yammered out their song of destruction. For what seemed an hour to Dave's tightly knotted nerves, the Heinkel continued on down in its dive. In reality it was not longer than it would take you to snap your fingers before smoke and flame belched out from the bomber to envelop it completely. It continued on down in its dive, however. But it slammed straight down into the water a good five miles astern of the zigzagging Victory. The instant Dave saw the smoke and flame spew upward, he cut his fire, started to ease his ship up out of its thundering dive, and cast his eyes about for a glimpse of the second diving Heinkel. He spotted it almost at once off to his left, and as soon as he saw it he realized he didn't have to worry about it at all. Two of the Victory's planes, one of them piloted by Group Captain Spencer, had caught the bomber in a deadly crossfire. Three seconds later and that Heinkel was out of the war and on a one way flight down to a watery grave in the Mediterranean. Dave relaxed in the seat a bit, pulled his plane up onto an even keel and glanced around at the heavens above him. The heavens were filled with flashing wings, but they were all wings made in England. There wasn't the sign of a single German plane. Those ships that had escaped the Victory pilots were by now so far away they couldn't be seen by the naked eye. A moment later Group Captain Spencer's voice came over the radio. "Reform sections, Crimson pilots! Going aboard. Reform your sections, Crimson pilots. I want to count noses!" The last caused Dave's heart to skip a beat. It wasn't until that moment he had realized the possibility that perhaps English as well as German pilots had gone down into the Mediterranean. While he hunted out the two planes of his section and dropped into formation, he tried to count noses himself. But before he had time to make sure of his count, he heard welcome words in his earphones. "Good lads, all of you!" called Group Captain Spencer. "All present and accounted for. Fine! Fancy those beggars can't say the same. Right-o! Aboard you go in sections as you took off. Land by sections in line astern." The last meant that as each section of three planes slid down to be taken aboard the carrier, the left and right planes would drop into line behind the center plane. In other words, instead of three abreast, or in V formation, they would be three in line behind each other, or in line astern. By the time the first section had dropped down to a low altitude, the Victory had moved out of its protective smoke screen and was steaming into the wind. Dave glanced downward to see the escort destroyers circling back and around to pick up all surviving German airmen who might be in the water. Reaction hit him for a second and he shivered impulsively. Lady Luck had flown with him again, else he too might be down there floating around—or perhaps going down for the third time! And then as he switched his attention back to his flying, Lady Luck did desert him, and old man Tough Luck laughed in his face. He yanked the release level that worked the mechanism that lowered his wheels—only the little red light on the instrument board did not wink out. The little red light was the pilot's guide as to whether his wheels were up or down. And the fact that it was on told him that his wheels were still up. He worked the release lever gently a couple of times, but the light did not go out. He banged it hard with his fist, and whipped the nose of the plane up and down in an effort to jar the wheels down. The little red light, however, stayed on. At that moment Freddy leaned forward and rapped him on the shoulder. "The right wheel, Dave!" he cried. "I can just see it from back here. It's stuck a quarter of the way down. I guess a Junkers or Heinkel gunner gave us a souvenir to take home. Cut a retracting gear cable, probably. I think I see the end of one whipping about in our prop-wash." "Okay, thanks," Dave shouted back. "I'll try some more and then radio Operations." Feeding high test gas to his engine, he pulled quickly upward and out of formation. Then, when he was well clear of the other sections drifting down to be taken aboard the carrier, he started kicking the Skua around in a desperate effort to get the right wheel to go all the way down. But it was no use. He could get both wheels back up into the wing sockets, but he could not get the right wheel more than a quarter of the way down. He finally gave up, gave Freddy an apologetic grin and called Operations aboard the carrier. He had been watched all the time, of course, and the orders were given to him at once. "Get your wheels up, and keep them there, Dawson. Come down for a water landing. A crash boat will stand by to take you aboard at once. Land half a mile ahead of us. Good luck!" "Thank you, sir," Dave replied in a voice that shook with emotion. Of course it would be too dangerous for all concerned to attempt what is known as a "belly landing" aboard the carrier —a landing on the belly of the plane with both wheels up in the wings. The slightest skid could end up in a bad crash and quite possibly fire. And fire by accident aboard a carrier at sea is bad enough without asking for it, or tempting it. With that plan of action being out of the question, there were two other things that could be ordered done. One was to land in the water. The other was for Freddy and himself to bail out and let the ship crash. That he had not been given the last order was an unspoken compliment to his flying ability. Operations had faith he could sit down in the water without doing damage to Freddy or himself, or serious damage to the plane. Operations wanted to salvage the plane and repair it aboard, and Operations was counting on him to make it possible to save the ship. For a moment he sat perfectly motionless at the controls, as though afraid that movement would end the thrilling spell through which he was passing. Then Freddy did break it by banging him on the shoulder. "Get to it, my lad!" Freddy shouted. "The blasted water isn't coming up here to us, you know. You can do it in pukka style. We both know that."...