Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 23

His brain was numbed, his heart was dead, and there was hardly the strength in him to go on living. His tattered tunic was now drenched with blood. Drops of blood fell from his fingers curled about the Messerschmitt's controls. A gray curtain seemed to hover before his eyes, and it took every ounce of effort that he possessed to peer through it and make out the instrument panel.

"Can't be done, can't be done!" He heard his own mumbled voice as though from miles and miles away. "We plastered them for keeps. But--but they got old Freddy. And maybe they got me, too. Oh, dear G.o.d, I'm so tired, so darn tired. I--I can't fly this thing back to Casablanca. I just--I just want to quit now, and go to sleep. What does it matter, anyway?

Freddy's gone. And without old Freddy, I--"

His mumbling voice trailed off, and there was nothing but the continued thunder of the Daimler-Benz engines in his ears. Suddenly he heard another voice. A voice? Or was it something inside of him speaking?

"Quitting, huh? Just like that! You get a couple of scratches, and you want to let down and quit. Isn't that just dandy? So Freddy's gone, huh?

How do _you_ know? You can't tell from here! But, no, you don't even want to _try_ to get back to Casablanca, where maybe he could be saved _if_ he's still alive. No! You just want to quit and make _sure_ that he dies. Okay, quitter! There's hard earth down there. Dive in _and make sure of death_!"

The little voice kindled a spark of anger within him, and it flared up into a bright hot flame. Quitter, huh? The heck he was! Maybe Freddy wasn't dead! Please, G.o.d, let that be true! He'd get Freddy back. Honest he would. He'd get Freddy back, no matter what. This wasn't the end for either of them. Remember how they had once kidded that the n.a.z.i was not yet born who could polish off either of them? Well, that was true. Yes, doggone it, that was _true_! Casablanca? Okay! You bet! It was hard to move, and that darn gray veil made things hard to see. But he'd get through just the same. Casablanca, here we come! Here we--

The wheels of the bullet-riddled Messerschmitt 110 touching hard ground seemed to snap something inside Dawson's head, and drag him back from another world. In a daze he looked about and saw that he was rolling along the Casablanca field. Above him, the air was filled with Allied aircraft. A sharp stab of fear pa.s.sed through his heart when he realized that this n.a.z.i plane had been in the air with those other aircraft. He vaguely remembered they had spotted him way out from Casablanca, closed in, and then dropped into escort position.

And now _he_ was down on Casablanca base! He'd made it, but he hadn't realized it until just now! Could a pilot fly a course while semi-conscious? Maybe he could, because Dave had very little recollection of this flight except for the very start. And--Wait!

_Freddy Farmer!_

As the thought flashed through his brain, he lurched upward out of the seat and looked back. Fresh fear and terror gripped him. Freddy was still slumped lifelessly against the side of the pit. His face seemed even paler, and it was covered with more dots of blood. Dawson started to call out, when he heard the pounding of many running feet. He turned his head in that direction and saw a large group of figures, led by Colonel Welsh, racing toward the plane. He waved frantically with one hand and called out.

"Ambulance!" he shouted. "Get the ambulance at--"

At that exact moment a dark cloud swooped down on top of him. A great roaring started up inside his head. He knew that he was tumbling headlong out of the pit and down onto the wing, but he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Something, probably the wing stub, hit him one last and final smash on the head, and there was nothing but darkness, and utter silence.

Dave Dawson found himself suspended in a world of clear, fresh-smelling and soothing white when he again opened his eyes. It did not puzzle him that all should be white, because his brain was too contented to bother figuring it out. His whole body felt contented, too. A lulling warmth enveloped him, and he did not care whether anything ever changed again.

This lulling warmth and this soothing contentment were all that he could desire.

However, that perfect spell of both mind and body was not long-lasting.

As complete consciousness finally returned, the aches and pains took charge of his body, and his brain awakened fully with a terrible memory.

"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!"

Hardly realizing that his lips had gasped out his pal's name, he struggled to push himself up. But even as he started the effort, other hands were placed upon him and he was gently pressed down to his original position. A position that he then realized was flat on his back in a hospital bed. And then the face of the owner of those gently pressing hands came into his vision, and he recognized Colonel Welsh.

"Don't, son," the Intelligence Chief said softly. "Just let yourself go, boy, and relax completely. Farmer is all right. Shot up a little, just as you were, but he'll pull through with flying colors."

"You're sure, sir?" Dawson choked out. "You mean it? You wouldn't kid a--"

"My word of honor," Colonel Welsh stopped him. "He's weak, yes, from the loss of blood, just as you are. But he'll be all right, just as you'll be all right after a period of mending and resting. And if you'll promise to get another good sleep, I'll have you moved into Farmer's room so that you can be together. And, son--"

"Hey!" Dawson blurted out, as the thought suddenly came to him. "The President's party, and--"

He would have said more, but Colonel Welsh put a hand to his lips.

"Don't waste strength talking, son," he admonished with a smile.

"Believe me, everything is perfect. The war conference is under way right now. And never mind giving me a report, either. Both you and Farmer have babbled it all in the two days since you've been here. I don't know what to say, Dawson. Wonderful isn't half the word that's needed. I can only say that it is another great debt that civilized man owes to you two. But for what you did, just you two alone, there's no telling what terrible changes there might have been in this war. We caught the n.a.z.i agent here who sent the signal of the President's coming to that secret base. He was one of von Steuben's men my agents had been watching, hoping he would lead them to bigger fish. But it turned out _he_ was the big fish here at Casablanca. We caught him at his hidden radio, but the message had already gone through. He admitted it, even boasted about it, saying that it was too late for us to do anything. No matter how many planes we put in the air, some of those Junkers would get through in time. That was no lie. Some of them, and maybe all of them would have gotten through, because _we_ had no idea from which direction they would come to deliver their attack. Or when, so that we would be ready. But you and Farmer--"

Colonel Welsh stopped talking, blinked his eyes, swallowed hard, and smiled.

"All I can say," he finally got out, "is that I thank G.o.d from the bottom of my heart that you two are fighting on our side. And, son--"

The Chief of U. S. Intelligence was about to add that the President of the United States had said that he wished to see Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer before he left Casablanca and personally decorate them for their brave and gallant service above and beyond the call of duty. But Colonel Welsh decided to wait until another time, because what use is it to tell a fellow anything when he is fast asleep with a happy and thoroughly contented smile on his face?

---- THE END ----

_A Page from_

DAVE DAWSON WITH THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE

After carefully checking the readings of his "black light" instrument dials, Dawson raised his eyes and scowled out at the ocean of inky darkness that seemed to sweep in on him from all sides.

"Right on course, unless those instruments are haywire, which of course they're not," he murmured. "But just the same, I'd sure like to get out of these clouds. The darn stuff must stretch all the way to China!"

As he spoke the words he absently fingered the switch b.u.t.ton of his radio, but when he suddenly realized what he was doing he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away as though the thing were red hot.

"Radio silence at all cost, chump!" he growled at himself. "And stop worrying about Freddy. He's somewhere right back there behind you. You saw his s.h.i.+p as clear as could be only thirty minutes ago! So take it easy."

Yes, only thirty minutes ago Freddy Farmer had been right there at his right rear in the other plane. Sure! But kingdoms have fallen,