Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 22

"Right!" Dawson cut in, and gripped his arm. "That Messerschmitt 110.

They're not touching it yet. Must be the _Kommandant's_ plane. Probably going to tag along and watch the slaughter, but keep out of the way."

"Yes, yes!" Freddy said excitedly. "But we--"

"My idea all along, pal!" Dawson breathed fiercely. "That's not the rat _Kommandant's_ baby, that's _ours_, Freddy! If we can only get it off before they get us, we can pin the rest of those crates on the ground like n.o.body's business. But, Freddy!"

"Yes, Dave, yes?" the English youth asked impatiently. "What now?"

"Just a thought," Dawson said in a quiet, steady voice that surprised himself. "We'll get that baby off, and we'll raise merry heck with these birds, even if it's the last thing we do. That's the idea! Maybe it _will_ be the last. I have a funny feeling that we've had more than our share of luck already. So--Well, if you'd rather we tried to swipe a single-seater Messerschmitt apiece, so that--"

"Rot!" young Farmer snapped angrily. "So that one of us might get away?

Meaning me? Not a bit of it, Dave! We started the balmy business together, and by the Lord Harry we'll _finish_ it together, one way or the other. So stop your silly talk, and let's get on with things. You have your gun, of course?"

"Right in my hand, kid," Dawson a.s.sured him. "And you're a pretty nice guy, Freddy, if I haven't ever mentioned it before. Okay, together it is. Keep low, and run like the d.i.c.kens. If somebody gets in our way--well, it will be just too bad for him. They're going half nuts out there, now, so maybe we'll get the breaks and not be seen. Set, Freddy?"

"Set, old thing," the English youth replied, and pressed Dawson's arm.

"Luck to us both!"

"We don't count," Dawson said, and pressed young Farmer's arm in return.

"Luck to the Casablanca war conference, please G.o.d! Right! Here we go!"

Dawson pressed Freddy Farmer's arm once more, then wheeled around, bent way over almost double, circled the scrub bush, and went streaking out onto the desert strip at top speed toward the Messerschmitt 110 parked a good eighty yards away. Farmer bolted right after him.

Perhaps it was Dawson's spinning imagination, or perhaps it was an actual fact, but it seemed that no sooner was he out from behind the scrub bush than the amount of light thrown forward by the swiftly approaching day was tripled in intensity. He had the sensation that he and Farmer stood out as clear and as huge as a couple of runaway horses, and that every German eye was fixed upon them. In fact, had a hundred machine guns suddenly opened up on them, he would not have been the least bit surprised. With every racing stride he took, with every split second that skipped by, he expected just that.

However, there were no screams of alarm, and there were no blasts of yammering machine-gun fire as the two youths covered forty yards in their headlong dash and reached the first of the parked bombers. At that point, Dawson swerved sharply to the left in order to avoid all notice if possible. Then he swerved back to the right again without checking his speed for a single instant. They had to pa.s.s four more bombers with mechanics and pilots swarming all over before they reached the Messerschmitt 110. They accomplished it in a matter of split seconds, but to Dawson's high-pitched nerves and whirling brain, it seemed a thousand years. It seemed as though he was only crawling over the ground, and in slow motion at that.

But the crazy thoughts he had were far from the truth. He was traveling so fast that he virtually ran into the side of the Messerschmitt and was bounced back, to b.u.mp up against Freddy Farmer's plunging body. They caught hold of each other in an effort to maintain their balance. They succeeded, but no sooner had they regained their balance and were turning to scramble up into the plane than two uniformed n.a.z.is came running around the tail of the aircraft.

The two n.a.z.is saw Dawson and Farmer. Their jaws dropped, and they skidded to a halt and reached for their holstered Lugers. But they might just as well have tried to jump over the stars and drop straight down on the two air aces. Dawson's gun barked once, so did Freddy Farmer's, and there were two less Germans in the world.

Before either of the dead Germans had hit the ground the two air aces had whirled and had thrown themselves into the Messerschmitt's c.o.c.kpit.

Though nothing had been decided between them, Dawson impulsively leaped into the pilot's pit, and Freddy Farmer piled into the gunner's pit aft. It was one of those unspoken agreements, and as Dawson landed in the seat, his hands shot out for the engine switches, throttles, and starter b.u.t.tons. Two seconds later, the grinding of the starter gears sounded like the loudest noise in all the world, and Dave's heart pounded in wild fear that their two shots were bringing a horde of other n.a.z.is on the run. However, he didn't waste time looking about. He hunched forward in the pit and concentrated every bit of his attention and all his prayers on getting the two Daimler-Benz engines started.

One second, one minute, one hour, or maybe a thousand years dragged by before the two engines "caught" and roared in a mighty earth-shaking duet of power. Dawson's heart leaped with wild joy, and for five precious seconds he forced himself to let the engines run to warm up a little before the take-off. At the end of five seconds, he eased off the throttles, kicked off the wheel brakes, and let the Messerschmitt trundle forward out of line with the other aircraft. No sooner was he in the open and swerving left toward the long way of the field, than the chattering yammer of a machine gun rose above the general roar, and he heard the deathly whine of bullets pa.s.sing overhead. He also heard a wild yell from Freddy Farmer's lips, but he didn't dare twist around in the seat and look back. He didn't because he was pointing the long way of the desert strip now, and was ready to ram his throttles wide open.

In front of him was a milling ma.s.s of Germans. He was that a furious attempt was being made by a Messerschmitt 109 pilot to trundle his single-seater out of line and onto the desert strip to block the way!

Stark terror gripped Dave's heart as he saw the nose of that single-seater moving out toward the line of his take-off. He had impulsively rammed both of his throttles wide open, and his aircraft was leaping forward like a sh.e.l.l leaving the mouth of a cannon. Whether or not he would pa.s.s that moving 109 in time was something that was in the lap of the G.o.ds.

Touch and go, and it was instinct more than sane thought that gave him a new lease on life. As the Messerschmitt 110 rocketed forward toward the milling ma.s.s of n.a.z.is and the Messerschmitt 109 rolled out into his path beyond, Dawson jabbed the electric trigger b.u.t.ton of the ME's guns and punched the air-cannon firing k.n.o.b. Instantly the plane bucked and jumped madly as the guns yammered and pounded, and it was all Dawson could do to hold it on its straight take-off line.

"Gangway, b.u.ms, or take it!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Leap for your lives, or else!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_Eagles Come Through_

Words, crazy, insane words poured from Dave Dawson's lips as he held the Messerschmitt 110 as steady as a rock and guided it forward at full throttle. Perhaps his actions were as crazy and insane as his words. For every German his guns sent spinning to the ground, two more seemed to come bounding out of nowhere with blazing sub-machine guns in their hands. The Messerschmitt 109 that was being rolled out to block his path loomed up larger and larger with every split second until it seemed to fill the entire desert valley almost directly in front of his prop.

Yes, perhaps crazy, perhaps insane, and perhaps totally and hopelessly mad. Dawson didn't have time to wonder about that, or to give it a single thought. The only thought he held in his swirling brain was that he had to get the Messerschmitt off and into clear air. If he didn't, all was doomed. And the point was that getting the aircraft into the air was but the beginning of things!

"Up, up with you! Come on! Get off, _get off_!"

Shouting the commands at the plane, he hauled back on the controls, held his breath, and shut his eyes, as though that would help a little. An eternity of suspense dragged by. At the speed he was traveling now, there wasn't a hope in the world that Freddy or he would survive a crash with that other German plane. It was now, or never. All, or nothing but instant death. With the fate of the entire civilized world hanging in the balance, was it life, or was it--

A mighty upward surge of the Messerschmitt caused Dawson's heart to swell with joy. He opened his eyes and instinctively ducked because his left wing and the nose of the Messerschmitt 109 seemed to be touching one another. But not quite, thank G.o.d, and the 110 went prop-clawing up close to the vertical. Prop-clawing upward as the withering fire of enraged vultures below spewed up after it.

"Made it, made it!" Dawson choked out, and instantly kicked the Messerschmitt over on wingtip and pulled it around in a screaming turn.

"Freddy, we--"

He cut short his words as sudden memory of Freddy Farmer's wild yell came back to mind. It seemed as though he lived and died a hundred deaths in the time it took to turn his head and glance back at the rear c.o.c.kpit. What he saw sent a flood of joy into his pounding heart. Freddy Farmer was still alive and kicking. And very much so, too. He had his rear guns swung around and down and was blazing away at the ground. One of his bursts of bullets had already nailed one of the Junkers 88's, and livid red flame was shooting upward from the giant aircraft.

"First blood for you, Freddy!" Dawson screamed into the thunder of his twin Daimler-Benz engines. "First blood for you, and how! Let's go, kid!

They think they've got a date at Casablanca. The heck they have, I'll say! Here, you, a kiss from Casablanca!"

As Dawson roared out the last, he dropped the nose of the Messerschmitt like a rock and went piling down toward the row of parked planes. He saw two Messerschmitt 109's taking off, but they were past his line of fire, so he couldn't do anything about them. Nor could he do anything about the ocean of ground fire that swept up toward him. Maybe their 110 would be "drowned" in that ocean of machine-gun and rifle fire, but not before Freddy and he had made that secret desert airdrome a shambles of burning aircraft that would block off all other attempts to take off.

With every cubic inch of air seemingly filled with death-whining bullets from the ground guns, Dave rocketed the 110 recklessly downward and let go with all his guns and air cannon. One, two, three huge Junkers 88's seemed to crab sideways and then break out into flame before he was forced to pull up out of his mad dive, or go roaring in to his doom. His heart was smashing against his ribs, and his face was bathed in hot sweat as he pitted every ounce of his strength against the downward momentum of the Messerschmitt. Then, with but half a second to spare, he got the nose up and went engine-howling for the dawn gray sky.

"Dave! They are--"

Whatever Freddy Farmer had to say was drowned out in a tremendous thunder of sound. Sound that billowed up from the ground directly under the power zooming plane. Sound that seemed to envelop the Messerschmitt, to grab it with many hands and fling it cartwheeling end over end out across the North African dawn. All the fireworks in the world popped and crackled in Dawson's head. A thousand steel fists. .h.i.t against his body from every conceivable angle. The nose of the Messerschmitt and the instrument panel started spinning until all he could see was a whirling blurr. The air that he sucked into his lungs was as liquid fire, and it seemed to dry up every drop of blood in his body. In a crazy, abstract sort of way he knew that some of the Junkers bombs had let go before he had been able to zoom out of range, and concussion had caught the Messerschmitt to make it as helpless as a dried leaf in a cyclone.

"Dave! Man your guns! Two planes got off! There they come down. From in front--_from in front_!"

Freddy Farmer's screaming voice seemed to tear away the blurred veil that covered Dawson's eyes. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see the two Messerschmitt 109's streaking down at him from in front. Freddy Farmer's guns were already blazing away, but the angle was bad, and the tracers were smoking well above the diving planes.

Even as Dawson looked up and spotted the two planes, he was pulling up the nose and fumbling for the electric trigger b.u.t.ton on his control stick. He found it, only to have his fingers slide off. When he looked down, he saw that his hand was red and glistening from his own blood.

The sight stunned him for a second because he felt no pain. That is, no acute pain. From head to foot his entire body felt numb and weak, but there was no sense of pain whatsoever. He was even more astonished when he saw that the front of his ripped and torn tunic was stained with blood, too.

One glance, however, was all he could take--one glance to see, realize the truth, and be dumbfounded. Then he snapped his eyes upward, tapped right rudder just a little to bring one of the diving planes into his sights--and fired!

The result? He saw what happened with his two eyes, but he did not know whether his bullets and air cannon sh.e.l.ls, or n.a.z.i panic, caused it. It seemed that he had hardly jabbed the electric trigger b.u.t.ton when the plane in his sights swerved violently off to the right. Maybe his burst hit it and kicked it that way, or perhaps the unthinking n.a.z.i pilot swerved purposely to throw Dawson off his aim. But whether no or yes, the 109 swerved violently to its right, and went side-slashing into the other diving 109. One second there were two planes hurtling downward, and the next they had locked wings, crumpled about each other like wet paper, and then completely disappeared in an exploding ball of flame and oily black smoke.

"Good gosh, no!" Dawson gasped, and hurled the no over and around to avoid the flaming inferno as it went plunging past. "Did I get him, or did the guy go haywire? Hey, Freddy! Did you see that?"

Silence greeted his question, and terror was his again as he twisted around in the seat. What he saw brought no yell of joy to his lips. On the contrary, it brought a sob of alarm, because Freddy Farmer was slumped over like a sack of wet meal against the side of the c.o.c.kpit.

One upstretched hand still clung to the trigger guard of the rear guns, but the English youth's face was deathly pale, save where it was spattered with drops of blood. His eyes were closed.

"Freddy!" Dawson shrieked. "Freddy! Speak to me, pal! Oh, dear G.o.d, _no_! Please, oh, please! Freddy! Freddy, boy!"

Dawson's voice faltered, and the only sounds he made were dry sobs that struggled up out of his throat. He turned front, and hot, stinging tears fell from his eyes. On the ground was a sight that should have brought shouts of joy to his lips and filled him with wild, surging happiness.

The secret desert-oasis field was now completely covered by clouds of dirty black smoke that were slashed every few seconds by the bright red and orange flames of newly exploding bombs. Each time a flash of flame slashed its way up through the clouds of dirty smoke, bits of plane wreckage came hurtling up after it.

Yes, Goering's Snoopers were doomed. They would never fly to Casablanca, or to any other place, for that matter. But that wonderful, thrilling realization left Dawson untouched. Somehow, he was beyond all feeling.