Dave Dawson with the Commandos Part 5

Then, without waiting for an answer, "Well, those troops are being carried across in the ferry bomber flight that'll take off before you do. Your P-Thirty-Eights make faster time, of course, so the take-off times will be set so that you'll catch up with the flight of ferry bombers a hundred miles or so this side of Ireland. Obviously, it will be part of your job to escort them along the final lap to Land's End, England."

The Colonel paused again and caught the look the two youths quickly exchanged. He grinned faintly.

"No, it's not going to be like that in your case," he said bluntly.

"Your P-Thirty-Eights will be armed to the hilt. I hope you won't have to use your guns, though!"

Dave looked at him and leaned forward a bit.

"You have reason to believe that we might, sir?" he asked quietly.

The senior officer shrugged and plucked at his lower lip.

"No, I haven't," he said after a long pause. "Anything can happen in this c.o.c.keyed war, however. As I said, those Commando troops you just now saw climb from those transports are going across to the other side by air. It will be the first time that ferry bombers have taken troops across in any numbers. Tonight's trip may prove to be the beginning of transporting troops to Europe by air. To date, and contrary to general belief, not one single plane that's been ferried from here to the other side has been lost due to enemy air action. However, as in all things, there has to be a beginning sometime."

Colonel Stickney stopped talking and nodded his head for emphasis.

"The taking of those Commando troops out there to England has been kept as much of a secret as is humanly possible to keep a secret," he said at length. "Right now, not one of them knows that he's going across by bomber tonight. That doesn't mean a thing, though. The n.a.z.is may be women and children killers, but they are no fools. They're every bit as smart as we are, and don't let anybody kid you they aren't. For that reason there is _no_ reason to believe that they haven't found out about this little thing we're trying tonight. Fact is, I'm a.s.suming that they have found out. That's why you two are acting as escort for the ferry s.h.i.+ps. In short, in case some Occupied France-based n.a.z.i planes come out to smash up our aerial convoy. If any do, then it will be up to you to see they don't get to first base. You understand?"

Dave nodded, but Freddy Farmer looked puzzled.

"Get to first base, sir?" he echoed. "Where's that base located?"

The other three suppressed their laughter, but they couldn't help smiling at Freddy's innocent inquiry.

"An American baseball expression, Farmer," Colonel Stickney explained.

"I mean, it's up to you two to see that any n.a.z.i raiding planes don't even get a chance to get close enough for action. Get it, now?"

"Oh, quite, and sorry, sir," Freddy said, and blushed.

"Think nothing of it, Farmer," the other said kindly. "Yank slang is a language all its own. Takes time to learn it. And when you have, the next generation below you is talking an even different jargon. But that's the American kid for you. Well, if you've got it all straight, and there are no questions, I guess that's all I have to say. Are there any questions? You'll be given flight charts and flight signals to use en route later, of course."

"All clear to me, sir," Dave spoke up.

"Quite, sir," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Can't say I hope you get your wish, though, sir."

"Huh? What's that?" the Field Commandant demanded.

"I mean, that we won't have to use our guns," Freddy replied with a smile. "A bit of n.a.z.i action at the end of the trip would suit me fine.

Successful action from our point of view, of course."

"Check, and how!" Dave breathed before he could stop his tongue.

Colonel Stickney tried to give them the hard eye and stern face, but found it too difficult.

"Knowing of the air records of you two," he grunted, "I'm not surprised to hear that from you. Just the same, I hope you _don't_ have to use your guns, either of you. It'll be a mighty big responsibility you'll be flying with tonight, Captains. Don't either of you forget that for a single instant!"

"Quite, sir," Freddy said evenly, and there was no twinkle in his eye now.

"Also, check," Dave grunted, and meant it.

The senior officer glanced at his watch and nodded.

"That's all, then," he said. "Captain Jones, the Field Flight Officer, will show you the two planes you're to fly. Better look him up and test hop the two s.h.i.+ps to make sure they're in condition for the ocean hop.

And in case I don't see either of you again, good luck, both here, and on the other side. I'll be keeping my eye on the communiques."

The two youths thanked him, saluted, and went outside.

"Well, we're going to England," Dave said when they were alone and walking along the edge of the field. "We know that much for sure, anyway."

"Right you are!" Freddy cried happily, and did a little jig to express his feelings further. "Home to dear old England. I can hardly wait...."

"For a pot of that dish water you call tea!" Dave interrupted with a laugh. "Well, there's the Atlantic out there, pal. You can start swimming right now, if you want."

"I don't," Freddy snapped. "The blinking Navy can have the water. I'll take the air. But I wasn't fooling in there, Dave. I really do hope we meet up with a couple of n.a.z.i beggars in Messerschmitts."

"And they call the Germans blood-thirsty!" Dave jeered good-naturedly.

"What a guy! One minute he's singing songs of his dear old homeland, and the next he's saying how he hopes to knock off a brace of Germans on the way. You want everything, don't you?"

"Very much so!" the English-born ace cracked at him. "Particularly if it's n.a.z.i pilots and observers. I want all I can get of those dirty blighters."

"Well, I guess I'm with you there, pal," Dave chuckled. "The fewer Germans I can leave living in this world, the better I'll like it. Well, let's go hunt up this Captain Jones and get a look at those two winged babies we've got dates with tonight."

CHAPTER FIVE

_Dead Man's Wings_

A thin pale line of light marked where the eastern horizon met the night sky. Settled comfortably in the pit of his Lockheed P-Thirty-Eight, Dave Dawson nodded his head and half raised his free hand in a form of salute.

"Greetings, dawn," he murmured. "Nice to see that you're with us again.

Now if you'll just brighten up enough to let me make sure that that really is Freddy's plane off my left wing, then everything will be pretty okay."

For a little under six hours he had been driving the Lockheed across the cold grey waters of the North Atlantic with only the dark of night, the stars, and an occasional blink of Freddy Farmer's navigation lights for companions.h.i.+p. The take-off at Botwood, and the flight up to now, had been totally without incident or accident. Now, though, dawn was coming up in the east. The light of a new day was spreading across the face of a war-torn world. And in time of war no man can tell what the new day may bring for himself, or for anybody else, for that matter.

"But we should be overtaking the ferry bombers soon," he grunted the thought aloud. "And at least that will be something to break the monotony. Boy! I sure take my hat off to the ferry pilots. Night after night, tooling planes across to England, with nothing to do but sit and let her ride the air. Personally, I'd go nuts. But--Ah, there you are, Freddy, old pal. It really has been you all the time."

He spoke the last as sufficient dawn light spread up out of the east to permit him a good look at the other P-Thirty-Eight that was keeping pace on the left. The two air aces waved to each other, and waggled wings in salute. But neither of them spoke over the radio, for that was the one fixed rule of ferry flying across the North Atlantic. Maintain radio silence at all times, and keep it! Too many n.a.z.i stations were open and waiting to pick up ferry plane radio signals and take a cross bearing on their exact position, and send out their sh.o.r.e-based long range fighters to reduce the number of planes that were heading for England.

And so the two youths simply saluted each other silently, and drew in to closer formation--where they could make faces at each other, and go through the kind of gestures that only airmen understand. After a few minutes of that long distance horseplay, however, they tired of it. And both of them concentrated on searching the brightening skies ahead for their first glimpse of the bombers being ferried over. It wasn't long before Freddy Farmer's eagle eyes scored another "first."

Dave saw him waggle his wings vigorously and point ahead and a bit to the left. He looked in that direction, and just when his straining eyes were about to smart and water he saw the cl.u.s.ter of black dots outlined against the light in the east. He counted them, and heaved a little impulsive sigh of relief when they totalled twenty-one. Twenty-one bombers had taken off from Botwood. He stared at the dots, watched them grow larger and take on their rightful outlines, and wondered in which one Major Barber was riding. He didn't wonder in which ones the advance contingent of Commandos was riding, because he knew that. Every one of the ferry bombers had some of the Commandos aboard.

"And it's up to me and Freddy to see that they reach England in good shape," he grunted aloud. "Well, no reason why we can't see that they do just that. The way I feel now, I'm set to tackle a couple of dozen long range n.a.z.i fighters. And Freddy must feel the same. So that makes a total of forty-eight we could take care of nicely, and I doubt that Goering would send out more than that number. Hold it, kid! Are you trying to get a little vocal cord exercise, or are you trying to prove to yourself you're quite a hot pilot? Why not shut up and tend to your knitting, and let come what will come?"

With a tight grin and a nod for emphasis, he continued flying toward the group of ferry bombers. Presently he waggled his wings at Freddy and signalled with his free hand. The English youth answered with a nod of his head, and the pair took up escort positions above and to the rear of the twenty-one planes winging down the home stretch to England.