Dave Dawson at Truk Part 1

Dave Dawson at Truk.

by Robert Sydney Bowen.

CHAPTER ONE

_On Again, Off Again_

Freddy Farmer shifted his position in the huge leather upholstered chair, decided that it wasn't comfortable enough, and shifted again. He still wasn't satisfied, but he was too bored and too lazy to exert any further effort. He stared gloomily at the torrents of rain slashing against the windows of the Officers' Club lounge, at the San Diego Naval Air Base, and sighed heavily.

"I fancy I'll never learn not to believe a word you say, not ever!" he groaned.

Hunched down in the next chair, Dave Dawson marked with his finger tip the place where he had stopped reading, and turned his head.

"Speaking to me, little man?" he murmured.

"Only because you happen to be the only one present," young Farmer snapped. Then, with a wave toward the rain-swept window panes, he said, "I was remarking that I should know better than ever to believe a word you say. Beautiful California? Good grief! Just look at it!"

"Look at what?" Dawson chuckled. "That slight dew that's falling? Think nothing of it. Good for the crops."

"Dew, he says!" Freddy snorted. And then as a vivid flash of lightning blinded them both for a split second, to be followed by a bellow of thunder that seemed to lift the whole building right up off its foundations, he added quickly, "And that, I suppose, was just some chap out there striking a match?"

"Could be," Dawson laughed. "California's full of things you'd never believe unless you saw them. But don't toss the weather at me, pal. I'm not a native of this state, so you can't get a rise out of me. Anyway, what the heck are you crabbing about? No good weather, no flying. And that gives us a chance to catch up on something or other. Now, take this book I'm reading. I ..."

"You take it, and keep it!" Freddy Farmer growled. "You know, Dave, you amaze me at times. Blessed if you're not as unpredictable as one of Hitler's speeches. Really."

"Yeah?" Dawson grinned at him. "How come? Add a few more words to that, will you?"

"With pleasure!" young Farmer snapped. "Some two or three weeks ago, when we were included in a bunch of pilots and such to be sent from England to America to help train Army and Navy pilots, you just about hit the roof. Why, you were fit to go down to American Air Forces H. Q.

in London and tear the blasted place apart. You train fledglings to fly?

Never, you declared! You belly-ached night and day. Why, when we arrived here and you learned that we'd been a.s.signed to Naval Aviation, you went completely off the deep end. You were an Army flier, a fighter pilot, and all that sort of rot. And now, suddenly, you're as content as a bug in a rug. Blessed if I get it, Dave? Or did the commandant of the base here overhear a few of your remarks, and call you up before him for a blistering?"

"Nope, not that," Dawson said with a chuckle. "That I have calmed down, and am relaxed, is simply the result of another one of my sterling qualities that you have overlooked. I mean, the ability to adjust myself to existing circ.u.mstances."

"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer jeered at him. "Particularly when you know blasted well that you can't do a thing about them!"

"Well, maybe you've got something there, pal," Dawson murmured, and stared at the rain-swept windows. "When I'm posted to some job I don't go for at all, I sound off just as a matter of habit. I really don't kid myself that my objections are going to change anything. You and I have been in this c.o.c.keyed war too long to think that everything is all cut and dried. It isn't. And it never will be. In war anything can happen, and you can bet your last dime that it will, eventually. So I just get the steam off my chest, then say, oh, what the heck, and let it go like that."

"I see what you mean," young Farmer grunted. "And I'll admit that I feel much the same way. Only I keep my thoughts to myself. Commanding officers have big ears, you know. And it would just be the Farmer luck to have my words reach one of those big ears. But this blasted rain!"

"A buck says that there won't be a cloud in the sky at the end of a couple of hours," Dawson said. "California's like that. But now that we're letting down our hair, I gather that you're not so hot for this instructing job, either, huh?"

"Definitely not!" Freddy groaned. Then he added quickly, "Not that I don't think these Navy chaps are top-hole, and all that. A very keen bunch of beggars, and they'll make good pilots, all of them. And you and I have flown enough with the Navy in the past to like it as much as flying with the Army. It's not that, either. It's ... well, frankly, it's because I'm so blasted selfish, I'm afraid."

"Yes, you sure are, when it comes to snagging the odd piece of pie,"

Dawson said with a grin. "That, though, is the fault of that bottomless stomach of yours, and you can't help yourself. Just what do you mean by that last remark?"

"Just what I said, that I'm selfish," young Farmer replied. "Let some other chap have this instructing grind. I want to be on one of the fronts where there's action, and lots of it."

"Freddy, the old fire eater," Dawson chuckled. "But you've also got something there, too. So would I, and how! However ..."

He let the rest slide and emphasized it with a shrug. Freddy Farmer frowned at him in a puzzled manner.

"See?" he eventually cried. "That's what I mean. The way you are now.

Completely licked, you seem like. Blessed if it's like you, Dave. Have you gone sour on something?"

"Heck, no!" Dawson cried, and sat up straight. "And don't get any dopey ideas that I feel licked about anything. I'm just biding my time, that's all. I mean, that something's bound to pop. It always has. It's just that I'm finally getting around to realizing that you can't push things along. You've just got to keep your shirt on when things get slow, and realize that there'll be plenty of fireworks sooner or later."

"Well, well, the chap must be growing up, after all," Freddy Farmer murmured. Then, before Dawson could open his mouth to make a retort, he said, "There must have been at least a hundred of us that came back to the States by Army Air Transport planes, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, more or less," Dawson grunted with a nod. "So what?"

"So what?" young Farmer echoed sharply. "So why?"

"Ye G.o.ds, right back where we started!" Dawson groaned. "The old rotation idea, that's why. A bit of front line service, and then a bit of back home service, pa.s.sing out your knowledge to those who have yet to see action. For Pete's sake, Freddy! What's so mysterious about that? Maybe it is a bit odd that we were stationed at a Naval Aviation base. However, perhaps the idea is to get Army and Navy pilots to know one another better. Too much rivalry between services is just as bad as none at all, you know."

"Well, I do, now that you've explained, sir!" Freddy barked at him. "But you still haven't answered my question. I mean, with the invasion of Hitler's Europe bound to pop any day now, why in the world send a hundred or more seasoned pilots _away_ from England? Answer me that."

The corners of Dawson's mouth twitched in a grin, but Freddy didn't see it.

"I don't know that I've a right to tell you, Freddy," he finally said, and tugged at his chin with a thumb and forefinger.

"A right to tell me what?" young Farmer demanded. "Come off it, Dave!

Stop being so blasted mysterious. You and I've always shared everything, haven't we?"

"Everything, except food," Dawson ribbed him. "You never were anybody's pal when you had the feed bag on. But I guess it's all right to tell you. It's because of what General Eisenhower said."

"To who?" Freddy asked.

"To whom, is what you mean, little man," Dawson said with a straight face. "What he said to _me_ when he called me down to London High Command H.Q."

Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to speak, but a wrathful snort came out of it instead.

"I might have known!" he growled. "General Eisenhower call you to his headquarters? Rot! Pure rot!"

"Okay, then, have it your way," Dawson sighed, and returned his attention to his book.

Freddy glared at him for a few seconds, then gave a little resigned shake of his head, and took a deep breath.

"Very well," he said, "I might as well let you get it all off your chest. And what did General Eisenhower say to you, my good man?"

"For two cents I wouldn't tell you!" Dawson grunted. "But I don't really need the money, so I will. The general told me that we were all being sent back here for a home stay because the invasion of Hitler's Europe is _not_ bound to pop 'most any day, as you have just so glibly remarked."

"Really, Dave?" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Honest? You mean...? Oh, blast you, stop pulling my leg! I know perfectly well that General Eisenhower didn't say a word to you. You didn't even see him!"

Dawson grinned, and opened his mouth. But he closed it when he saw the look on young Farmer's face. Instead, he shook his head gravely.

"No, Freddy," he said. "The general didn't say a thing to me. It's dollars to doughnuts that he doesn't even know I exist. But I put it that way so's you'd catch on."