Dave Dawson on the Russian Front Part 10

A cold, dirty grey fog hung over the Royal Air Force Depot, at Aberdeen, Scotland, like a soggy blanket just about ready to drop. Ceiling was about eight hundred feet, and visibility was about a third of a mile, if you had good eyes. Far to the east the sun of a new day was dawning. But you would never have been able to tell by looking in that direction.

There was nothing but dirty grey fog stretching out to the four horizons. Only there weren't even any horizons. There was just fog, and more fog.

The state of the weather, however, had not put any damper on plans for R.A.F. activity. At every dispersal point about the Depot field were aircraft of all types being made ready for the day's aerial smash against the Axis forces on the Continent. Planes of every description, ranging from sleek, powerful Supermarine Rolls Royce "Merlin" powered Spitfire Mark V's to the gigantic death dealing Lancaster bombers. And swarming all over them, like so many industrious ants, were the R.A.F.

mechanics. The riggers, the fitters, the armorers, and the countless other members of the ground crews that keep the planes in the air.

Over in one corner of the field, though, was a lone Vickers "Wellington"

bomber. And grouped under one of its huge wings were five airmen dressed for the skies. Three of them wore R.A.F. uniforms, but Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer still wore their U.S. Army Force uniforms, though they were not in the best of condition as a result of the boys' recent experience with three worshipers of Hitler, who wouldn't be around any more.

As a matter of fact, it had been their torn and mud-smeared uniforms that had come close to delaying their arrival at the Aberdeen R.A.F, Depot indefinitely. Following Freddy Farmer's plan of action, they had walked three miles along the Old North Road to a town which did turn out to be Leadburn, just as the English-born air ace had guessed. Patroling Home Guards stopped them, and after considerable argument they were taken to the quarters of the town's Military Commandant. That gentleman was awakened from a deep sleep, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't even like it a little bit. And being that kind of an officer, he felt that the two youths should be tossed into the local clink for the rest of the night, and their case looked at in the broad light of day.

But at that point both Dave and Freddy went to work on him, so to speak, much to the silent amus.e.m.e.nt of the Home Guards. At any rate, they convinced the Commandant that he should phone the Air Ministry. He did, and that changed everything, instantly. The boys couldn't hear what was said at the other end of the wire, but they didn't have to. The sullen annoyance in the Commandant's face changed at once. His eyes widened to saucer size, and his face turned a deep brick red color that went right up into his hair. He almost got his tongue tangled up in his teeth telling the person at the other end of the wire that he would "do that at once." And when he finally hung up, his forehead was dotted with beads of nervous sweat.

And so the boys got action, plus! In less time than it takes to tell about it the Commandant's own car was turned over for their use. And they were given a Corporal, who knew the roads well, to handle the wheel. And that was exactly what the Corporal did, and then some. He was ordered to make the run north to Aberdeen Depot as fast as he could, and hardly had he shifted gears before both boys realized the man planned to do even better than that. He was indeed an expert driver, but even experts break their necks sometimes. And what worried Dave and Freddy as they shot northward through the night was that the driver would not only break his own neck, but theirs as well!

Lady Luck rode with them, however. And in due time they pa.s.sed through the Aberdeen Depot gates, and were conducted over to the Depot Commandant's office. He had been waiting for them, and getting new grey hairs with every pa.s.sing minute. Of course the Flying Scotsman had long since arrived at the station, and when they were not found aboard, the Commandant had more or less taken it as his personal responsibility. And so his joy was great and his relief unbounded when finally the two youths did show up. He took them under his wing at once, and got them a good meal and something hot to drink. Then he chatted with them for a bit, and it was all the two youths could do to stop from grinning in his face. Naturally, the Commandant knew nothing, save the fact that they were to be flown to Moscow, and so naturally he dropped a casual question here and there in an effort to add to his knowledge.

But neither Dave nor Freddy were having any of that. As a matter of fact, if either of them was tempted to give their host a tip as to the nature of their mission, they had only to think of that little business aboard the Flying Scotsman to be easily able to kill such an intention right then and there. If German agents had big ears in London, they would certainly have big ears in Aberdeen. And the conviction that of course there weren't any n.a.z.i agents way up there in Aberdeen was just about the stupidest idea one could have. n.a.z.i agents are like c.o.c.kroaches. You'll find them around, no matter how many you kill, until you've found the nest and burned it out. And the Gestapo nest was in Berlin.

However, the hour or two with the Depot Commandant pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. And then the pilot, navigator, and radioman of the Moscow-bound bomber reported at the Commandant's office. The pilot was a Squadron Leader named Freehill, and the ribbons under his wings proved that he had won his rank the hard way. The navigator was a Flight Lieutenant named Parsons, and he had a ready smile and a hearty handshake that made both Dave and Freddy feel glad that he was going to be along on the flight to Moscow. The radioman was a cheery-faced sergeant named Dilling, who looked as if he should be on the vaudeville stage rather than inside a Wellington bomber. All three of them seemed rather mysteriously tickled about this coming flight to Moscow, but it was not until later, when they were all taking it easy under the Wellington's wing, while the twin Bristols were warming up, that Squadron Leader Freehill explained the reason for their secret joy.

"This aerial taxi business has almost got us down," he said out of a clear blue sky. "But not this trip we're to make with you chaps. You're a blessing, if there ever was one, or two, rather. It should be a bit of all right this time, I'm sure."

"Here's hoping, anyway," Dave said with a grin. "But I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, this trip is to be different?"

"A difference of about two thousand miles, for one thing," the other replied with a chuckle. "And a good chance to see a Jerry or two, for another. Or at any rate, so I hope. You see, most times we're blasted chauffeurs for some war correspondents, or some bra.s.s hats, or political big wigs, headed for Moscow to chat with Stalin and all the lads. Very valuable cargo, you know. And we must get them there without grey hairs, or them getting their feet wet. So we have to fly a course north to within six hundred miles of the Pole, and then around the tip of Norway and down into Russia through Murmansk and Leningrad. Like flying through an ice box. Terribly cold. And no end boring, too. Except for Parsons, here. He's kept pretty busy making sure we don't end up in Greenland or some such other place."

"Quite!" the navigator echoed with a faint chuckle. "Takes me a week to rest my poor brain after one of those thirty-two hundred mile hops. No fun at all, really. You two chaps we are taking across as the crow flies. Wouldn't be at all surprised if a Jerry or two came up for a look at us. They're frightfully worried about R.A.F. planes over their heads these days, you know."

"Don't I hope a few do come up, though!" Sergeant Dilling spoke up with a broad grin. "It's so long since I had a Jerry in my sights I'm worried for fear I won't be able to recognize one of the beggars. It will be wonderful, no end, to spill one of the blighters down in a mess of flames. At least it will give me the feeling that at last I'm doing something to earn my pay."

"Well, we want to get to Moscow all in one piece," Dave said with a little laugh, "but I can't say that I'd be too mad if a couple of Messerschmitts did put in an appearance. How about the weather, Squadron Leader? Does this stuff go very far out?"

The Wellington's pilot grinned, and winked one eye.

"Far enough out," he replied. "According to the latest reports we'll have it all the way to the Norwegian coast. There it's supposed to be visibility unlimited. I certainly hope so. Don't want bad weather to keep the Jerries on the ground."

The Squadron Leader paused and glanced at his wrist watch, and then over at the engine filters climbing down out of the bomber.

"Well, I fancy its about time to get on with it, chaps," he said, and tightened the chin strap of his helmet. "In with you. And a good time for all of us. The dinners will be on me when we reach Moscow."

A couple of minutes later the five were aboard the bomber, and the Squadron Leader was running up the engines for a final instrument check. Then he spoke into his inter-com mike and received an all-set okay from each of the other four. That done with, he kicked off the wheel brakes and started to trundle the giant bomber out onto the field and down to the far end of the take-off runway. He had hardly started taxiing, however, when the Operations Officer in his tower blinked the "Stop" signal with his Aldis signal lamp, and a figure was seen to come dashing out the Depot Office. It was the Depot Adjutant, and he held a sheet of yellow paper in his hand. Dave took a look at the yellow sheet waving around in the wind, and swallowed hard. All of a sudden tiny little b.a.l.l.s of cold lead were beginning to bounce around in the pit of his stomach. Why he should suddenly experience the strange sensation, he had no idea. However, the sight of the running Depot Adjutant, and the sheet of yellow paper he carried in his hand, seemed to strike him as a very definite reminder that this was not to be any joy flight, but rather, a deadly serious mission to be carried out on the wing.

And a moment or two later, when the Adjutant climbed aboard the bomber that Squadron Leader Freehill had braked to a halt, and came back into the bomb compartment where the Yank and Freddy were parked, the lumps of lead in Dave's stomach began to bounce around more than ever.

"For you, Captain Dawson," the Adjutant said, and held out the yellow sheet of paper. "From the Air Ministry, special code. Afraid for a moment that you'd be off before we could decode it. But here you are, anyway."

Dave took the yellow sheet of paper and held it so that he and Freddy could read it together. It had been sent by Air Vice-Marshal Leman, and its contents were not what you could call very encouraging, considering.

It read:

"Reason to believe mission known, and attempts will be made to prevent accomplishment at all cost.

"Placing you in command, and ordering you to use your own judgment whether to continue. However, second part already enroute, and will attempt to carry on alone if necessary. Train incident undoubtedly small indication of coming events. Flight course perhaps known, so suggest that change be made when in air. All decisions left to you and Farmer. Good luck, regardless of what you decide to do."

Dawson read the decoded message through twice, and then looked quietly at Freddy Farmer. The English-born youth returned his look, and there was the glint of grim determination in his eyes. Dave grinned, and nodded.

"Just what I'm thinking, too, pal," he grunted.

"What do you mean?" Freddy wanted to know.

Dave tapped the sheet of yellow paper, and shrugged.

"Mighty nice of him to give us an out, if we wanted one," he said. "But we don't. We still want to see Moscow, huh?"

"Very much," Freddy grinned back at him. "Fact is, I'd be delighted to let the blasted n.a.z.i lads try and stop us. We'll carry on just as the second part is doing."

Dave nodded complete agreement. Of course, the "second part" referred to Agent Jones' trip to Urbakh via the southern route. Jones had left already, and if he didn't contact Dave and Freddy at Urbakh he would attempt to reach Tobolsk by hook or by crook on his own. However, Dawson and Farmer had no intention of letting Agent Jones be forced to do that.

"Check and double check," Dave grunted, and handed the yellow sheet to Squadron Leader Freehill, who had come aft from the pilot's compartment.

The senior officer read the message, looked very unhappy for a moment, and then smiled slightly at Dawson.

"A pleasure to take orders from you, old chap," he said easily. "But what are they? Do we go, or do we stay?"

"We go," Dave said quietly. "And the sooner the better."

"Right you are, Skipper!" Freehill said happily. Then with a faint frown, "But the course?"

Dawson opened his mouth to speak, but on second thought checked the words about to come out of it.

"I'll give you the new course as soon as we are in the air," he said.

Then turning to the Adjutant, he said with a grin, "Thanks for delivering the message. Will you please communicate to the Air Ministry that we are continuing as originally planned, but will make changes in the flight course?"

"Quite, of course," the Adjutant replied, and turned toward the belly door. "Good luck, chaps."

As soon as the Adjutant was clear of the plane, Squadron Leader Freehill went forward and got the Wellington into motion again. Dave went forward with him and dropped into the co-pilot's seat. Neither spoke a word until the bomber was clear of the ground and prop-clawing up through the dirty grey fog. At five thousand it came out into a tunnel of clear air between two layers of overcast. There Freehill leveled off, pointed his aircraft in a general easterly direction, and turned in the seat to look at Dave.

"Well, what's the decision on the course, Skipper?" he asked. "Better let Parsons know as soon as possible, so he can begin plotting for us."

Dave looked across at him and grinned.

"There's no new course, Squadron Leader," he replied. "Hop her along just as you'd planned."

The other's eyes popped a little, and his jaw sagged in befuddled amazement.

"I say, did I hear you?" he echoed. "The original course? But that message from Air Vice-Marshal Leman said that that course might be known. And--"

"And I hope it is, frankly," Dave replied. "It always throws the n.a.z.is out of step when you do _exactly_ what they expect you to do."