Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 21

"Dave, Dave! Keep talking, old chap! I'll follow the sound of your voice. Dave, old thing, are you all right? Don't move, Dave! Just keep talking! I'll follow the sound of your voice!"

"I'm okay, Freddy!" Dawson replied as hot tears of inexpressible joy stung his eyes. "And, pal, this is the biggest moment of all, past, present, and future. I'm over this way, kid. I can hear you now. Over here, Freddy! Gosh, oh gosh! Am I glad to--"

He never finished the sentence because at that moment a darker shadow than the night suddenly materialized at his side, and in the next instant the two air aces were hugging and thumping each other and mumbling a lot of things that neither of them heard, much less paid attention to. Finally, though, they ceased the greeting act and calmed down.

"Man, Dave!" Freddy Farmer panted. "I thought I'd never reach you. A thousand times I swore I was lost and heading in the wrong direction.

Phew! What absolutely unbelievable luck! I'll never forget this as long as I live. Not ever, I swear it!"

"You and me both, Freddy!" Dave echoed the statement. "But look! You were trailing those bombers? And it was you who nailed that Messerschmitt right after I started down in a heap, and--But wait! Tell me this, first. Your radio was okay, wasn't it? And you notified Casablanca base, didn't you?"

The air came out between young Farmer's lips in a whistling gasp, and he grabbed hold of Dawson's arm.

"Dave!" he choked out. "Dave! You mean _you_ didn't let them know?"

Dawson was unable to answer for a moment. His whole body seemed to turn into a solid chunk of ice so that he could hardly breathe. It required a tremendous effort to get the words off his lips.

"No, Freddy," he said. "Just as I started to tune in Casablanca, that Messerschmitt bunch gave me the works and shot my set into splinters.

Then--then your radio _was_ out? I tried to raise you several times, but couldn't."

"The blasted thing went haywire after I'd been in the air only fifteen minutes," the English youth replied. "I had half a mind to turn back to Casablanca, but I didn't dare for fear the Junkers might be down my way.

They were. I sighted them coming in over Magador. They were hugging the clouds. I gave them a few miles and then tagged along. I tried to raise you, but I didn't get any answer, so I just carried on. About an hour later I spotted you trailing a Messerschmitt. I tried to rise you again, but still no answer. Then when we got close to here I saw those three Messerschmitts drop down on you. I was above the lot of you, so I saw everything. Man! I thought I'd die when you did nothing, and just let them come down!"

"Dumb ape that I am," Dawson said bitterly, "I was so interested in watching the Junkers that I didn't think to keep an eye on my tail. I heard your call once, Freddy, though I couldn't spot you. You did get one of them, huh?"

"I got both, with a bit of luck," young Farmer said quietly. "But not before one of the blighters had put a bullet through my port engine's oil line. All I could do was force land. I saw your parachute open, and saw your silk foul in a tree near here. I tried to land as close as I could, but messed things up something terribly. A blasted awful landing.

I was lucky not to have broken my confounded neck. I think I was knocked out for a spell. Fact is, I'm sure of it, because it was late afternoon when I collected my senses. I could see this bit of a hill where we are now, so I started out for here. Good grief, what country! The Alps are easier to cross than this bit of ground. When it got dark, it was just three times as bad. But--Well, thank the Lord I finally reached you!"

Dawson said nothing. He simply groped for Freddy Farmer's hand, found it, and pressed it hard.

"That was rotten luck for you, and just plain dumbness on my part," he finally got out in a groan. "Those are the two reasons for our failure.

Gosh! If I had a knife, I think I'd be tempted to cut my throat. When I think how close we came to preventing those bombers from raiding Casablanca, I--"

"But they haven't taken off yet, Dave!" Freddy cried excitedly. "It's still not too late, if that's what you're thinking!"

Young Farmer's words seemed to make Dawson's heart swell up and explode in his chest.

"What?" he gasped. "Haven't left yet? But it's well over the time limit, Freddy! According to schedule, the President's party should have arrived at Casablanca early this evening, and--"

"Maybe it did, but the bombers haven't taken off!" young Farmer interrupted. "While making my way here, I saw their hidden field from some high ground. That was about an hour ago. They had a few oil pot flares burning, and I could see the planes. All props were dead. They haven't left yet, Dave. My guess is that the President's party has been delayed a bit, and _they_ know it! And, Dave! There are more than just Junkers there, too. At least half a dozen Messerschmitt single-seaters, not counting the ones we got, and a two-seater Messerschmitt 110."

"No kidding?" Dawson breathed, and swallowed hard. "Then that checks with the thought I had. I mean, those bombers have a fighter escort to protect their secret base in case a stray plane or two found it--like what happened to us. But I think the big idea of their being here is to sail out to give the bombers a better chance to get through when the big moment comes. They must be 'Number Two Suicide Squad' because they'd never get back here on the gas they carry!"

"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer replied at once. "No doubt of it. When the bombers were sure of their target, they'd radio the Messerschmitts to come on the jump and lend a hand. Dave, old thing, we're not all washed up yet! Don't you understand?"

"And how! I understand!" the Yank air ace said grimly, and got up onto his feet. "Do you know the way to that secret field from here, Freddy?"

"Yes," the other replied. "But it's about two hours of blasted hard going. We've got to be very careful. I think the blighters have patrols out hunting for us. I heard a few Jerry voices while I was making my way here. By the way, that glow over there is your aircraft still burning.

Never knew a plane to burn so long."

"So that's what it is, huh?" Dawson remarked absently. Then, reaching out, he gripped Freddy Farmer's hand. "Let's go, pal," he said quietly.

"Don't ask me if I have any plans, because I haven't a one, yet. But let's get to that field and decide when we get there. One thing is in our favor, anyway. We're both still alive and kicking. If you ask me, that's plenty for a starter!"

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed, tight-lipped. "We're both still alive, so we're jolly well not licked yet!"

"Check, and triple check!" Dawson grunted. "Let's go!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_Vultures' Nest_

Dawn was a faint gray line marking the point where the North African sky met the North African Continent in the east. Just a faint gray line heralding the coming of a new day, though the world was still shrouded in the darkness of night. A new day. A new day of war. A new day--of victory, or utter failure?

The question was like a pin-point white hot flame burning in Dave Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer hugged the hard-packed ground behind a clump of withered desert brush. Just seventy yards beyond the desert brush was a long level strip of desert, flanked on both sides by scrub-covered hills. Hills? They were little more than mounds of rock and sand. As though Nature throughout the ages had thrust them up from the bowels of the earth and covered them with scrub growth for a crazy prank. They looked just about as natural in the middle of the Sahara as a part of the Sahara would have looked in the middle of New York City.

Nevertheless, there they were. Another bit of the mysterious Sahara's phenomena for man to study and wonder about. A desert oasis completely surrounded by hills! Yet there it was for mortal eyes to view.

However, the strange freak of Nature's handiwork held no interest whatsoever for Dave Dawson or Freddy Farmer. What interested them completely were the man-made things on that strip of desert valley. The fifteen Junkers Ju-88's, the six Messerschmitt 109's and the single two-seater Messerschmitt 110, that were pulled way back under perfect camouflage covering on either side of the desert strip--the planes, and the groups of shadowy figures that were walking about among them.

For fifteen minutes the two youths had hugged the ground behind the scrub bush and peered out at the weird yet deadly-looking scene in silence. For one thing there was nothing to say. However, the main reason for silence was that each was close to the point of complete exhaustion and collapse. Not two, but three hours ago they had started toward the spot where they now were. Those three hours had been the most torturing and grueling of their entire lives. Three hours used to cover a distance of but a little over a mile! Simple enough to think about, but how far different the actual execution of that night-shrouded journey. Cuts and bruises on their bodies were countless. Their uniforms were in shreds and tatters, and there was an utter weariness within them such as few men have ever experienced. A hundred times all that kept them going over the rock-studded ground, with thorn-bush barriers every other foot of the way, were their fighting hearts and savage determination to win through in spite of all odds.

And they _had_ won through, but were now forced to stretch out on the ground and fight another battle--the battle for new strength and new energy that would carry them forward to the most terrific struggle of all. Yes, carry them forward to the struggle--and the successful completion of an almost impossible task.

"Freddy, I'm wondering," Dawson suddenly whispered, and touched the English youth's p.r.o.ne body with his hand.

"Yes, Dave?" came back the equally faint whisper. "Wondering about what?"

"If--" Dave began, and paused. "I mean, maybe we're all wet about this business. There's not an engine out there ticking over, and it's darn close to dawn. You'd think they'd be warming them up now, if they expected to go out at a moment's notice. In other words, I'm wondering _if_ Major General Hawker was right. If this bunch _really does_ have any connection with the President's trip to Casablanca?"

"I'm sure it must have, Dave," Freddy Farmer replied after a few seconds of silence. "Everything absolutely adds up to that. In my mind, there's no doubt about it. As for warming up the engines, the blighters are up and about. No doubt they'll start them up any minute now. May be waiting for a bit more light, you know. The point is, what are we--"

The English-born air ace never finished that question. He didn't because at that moment a figure garbed in the uniform of the n.a.z.i _Luftwaffe_ rushed out of a little camouflaged hut on the left side of the desert strip and shouted orders at the top of his voice. He spoke in German, of course, but both Dawson and Farmer knew the language, and so--and so absolute confirmation of the truth was given them.

"All pilots and crews report to _Herr Kommandant_ at once!" the voice bellowed in a note of wild, frenzied excitement. "_Der Tag_ has come!

The signal has just been received from Casablanca. Your targets are approaching there now. The American _Schweinehunds_, and the English ones, too. _Der Tag_ has come! _Heil_ Hitler!"

A brief moment of silence settled over everything. And then a silence-shattering roar came from many throats.

"_Heil_ Hitler!"

Bombs were exploding in Dave Dawson's brain, and his heart was pumping madly in his chest as he pushed up onto his hands and knees.

"Freddy!" he got out in a choking gasp. "This is it! You hear what that bird said? They've received word from some rat in Casablanca, just as Major General Hawker thought they would. Freddy! It's up to us now, or else! Those confounded bombers just _can't_ take off! And that's got to be _that_!"

"Absolutely!" the English youth echoed in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "And just look at the blighters! Like blasted ants crawling all over those planes, and--Dave! Do you see--"