Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 17

"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze on the flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully up off North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.

In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighter aircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding all about it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple of moments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped into escort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front to lead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of the city. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid the B-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the Operations Tower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small Administration Building. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath, and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that he had been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way his numbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for over twelve hundred hours.

"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safety harness. "Well, I sure want to give it a look, but not right now. No, sir! For the next thirty-six hours, and maybe longer, all I want is a nice soft bed!"

"Make that two, if you please!" Freddy Farmer added, and put a hand to his mouth to cover the yawn he could no longer hold back. "Just a--Oh-oh! Here comes a high-ranker in very much of a hurry. Now what, I wonder?"

Dawson looked toward the Administration Building and saw a trim major general of the Air Force running toward the B-25. By the time he reached it, Colonel Welsh was out of the plane. The two officers exchanged hasty salutes, and the major general started to take Colonel Welsh by the arm and lead him away. The colonel held back, however, nodded at the bomber and said something. The major general nodded in reply and made a waving motion with one hand. Then the pair turned and hurried over to the Administration Building and disappeared inside.

"Well, how do you like that?" Dawson gasped. "What about that wounded pilot aft?"

"That's why the colonel stopped," Freddy Farmer replied, and poked a finger to the right. "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get back and see if we can lend them a hand. After all, this is his aircraft."

"Right; let's go," Dawson agreed, and pushed his stiff body out of the seat. "The least we can do is wish him all kinds of luck."

They made their way back to the compartment where the wounded pilot was resting on blankets laid out on the floorboards. There was some color in his face, now, and his neck and the upper part of his chest was swathed in bandages. Gathered about him were the members of his crew, each trying to keep from looking at the blanket-covered body of the co-pilot that lay on the far side of the compartment.

Dawson crouched beside the wounded pilot and grinned cheerfully.

"Lucky guy, Captain," he said. "A nice hospital, pretty nurses, and swell food for you. How's for changing places, huh?"

"I'll let you know after I've tried it for once," the other said, and matched the grin. "And, Dawson--"

"Yes, fellow," Dave prompted.

"I'm a dope, Dawson," the pilot said. "I want to apologize for that crack I made about losing a brother in a night torpedoing. It sure turned out different. I didn't know the score, you see, so I thought you were just--Well, I mean--"

"Skip it, fellow, skip it," Dawson smiled, and gently pressed the other's arm. "I didn't know the score myself, so I was just whistling in the dark. But forget it, Skipper! You had a perfect right to think as you did. Now here's the ambulance, so I'll stop talking. Good luck, fellow. And if we can work it, we'll come say howdy to you in the hospital. Good luck, anyway!"

"Yes, a million in luck, old thing!" Freddy Farmer added as he stood smiling down at the man.

"I've already had the million in luck, thanks to you two," the pilot said, as the ambulance medico came climbing into the B-25. "Be sure and come see me, if you can. I want to thank you for bringing the ship through. I'm kind of fond of her, you see, and--Well, you know how it is, eh?"

Both Dawson and Farmer nodded gravely. Being pilots, they knew exactly how a fellow felt about his aircraft. Made of metal, and plastics, and wood, and fabric, to be sure. But to its pilot, it was something human and full of understanding. Something that couldn't be put into words, because there are no words in any language that can adequately describe the feeling a pilot holds in his heart for his plane. Dawson and Farmer simply nodded gravely, and gave a hand in lifting the wounded man out of the bomber and putting him in the ambulance.

"A nice guy," Dave murmured as the ambulance pulled away. "I sure am going to visit him if I get the chance."

"Yes, and me too, if!" Freddy Farmer murmured.

The remark caused Dawson to turn his head and glance sharply at his pal.

"And just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.

Young Farmer shrugged and nodded toward the Administration Building.

"That chap headed our way," he said. "I've a bit of a hunch that something is up."

"Huh?" Dawson gasped. "What--"

He let the rest go as a field orderly came up on the run and saluted smartly. "Colonel Welsh's compliments, Captains Dawson and Farmer," the orderly said. "He asks that you report to him in the commanding general's office in an hour."

"An _hour_?" Dawson choked out, and then caught himself. "Very good, Sergeant," he said hastily. "We'll be there."

The orderly saluted and retreated toward the Administration Building.

Dawson groaned softly.

"One hour, and off we go again! How much sleep can a fellow catch in an hour, I'd like to know?"

"About sixty minutes' worth," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Frankly, I prefer to spend that time eating. Let's go hunt up the Officers' Mess."

Dawson started to speak, thought better of it, and dropped into step with Freddy. One hour, huh? And then what? But he was much too tired and hungry to bother guessing up some answers. What would happen, would happen. And, after all, what was one more hour in this mysterious business?

What was one more hour? The G.o.ds of war on high could have told him.

They could have told him it was just one more hour in which the Grim Reaper could steal closer and make ready to strike a blow that would stun the entire civilized world!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_Goering's Snoopers_

"Anything else I can get you, sir?"

Dawson glanced up at the mess orderly standing by the table, shook his head, and smiled.

"No thanks, Corporal," he said. "I've had all I can hold. How about you, Freddy?"

"I'm finished, too," the English youth said with a contented sigh. "That hit the spot, Corporal. My compliments."

"Thank you, sir," the mess orderly said, and beamed his pleasure.

"Tell me, where is everybody, Corporal?" Dawson asked, and waved a hand at the empty mess room. "Out on patrol?"

"Oh, no, sir," the orderly explained. "This is only a stop-over base for pilots and equipment headed for the front. We don't fly any patrols from here, sir, though a few of the pilots have been taking a whack at Goering's Snoopers, whenever they get close enough."

"_Goering's Snoopers?_" Dawson echoed with a puzzled look. "Do you mean n.a.z.i bombing raids on this place?"

"No, sir," the other replied promptly. "And that's the funny part of it, too. Not one of them has come within gun range of this place. Fact is, only once since they started their funny business three days ago, have we seen them. Then they were so high, they were no more than dots. I heard one of the pilots say, though, that they were long-range Junkers.

Goering's Snoopers, we call them, because they seem to hang around all the time, but do nothing. I wish we did have a regular squadron of fighter planes here, though. Those Junkers get on my nerves. A darn funny business, if you ask me, sir."

Neither Dawson nor Farmer made any comment for a moment. They simply exchanged glances, and each knew what the other was thinking. Thinking of the mysterious flock of Junkers Ju-88's they had seen a hundred miles or so off the coast.

"Phantom ships, eh, Corporal?" Dawson finally spoke. "Any of the pilots who went up after them lucky enough to nail one?"

"Yes, I think so, sir," the orderly replied with a nod. "Day before yesterday they say a P-38 pilot got one of them. It was way inland near Marrakech. I heard the pilot had just enough gas to get back. It's pretty bad country in these parts for forced landing, you know, sir."

"But doesn't the C.O. know where the bombers are based?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "They're not coming here all the way from Tunisia, are they?"