Read Ebook: Dave Dawson on Convoy Patrol by Bowen Robert Sidney

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Ebook has 764 lines and 45950 words, and 16 pages

gone in an instant, however.

"Most everything, so I've been told," he said, "I say, you're a Yank, aren't you?"

"R.A.F. for the duration, anyway," Dave replied with a nod. "What was your Lockheed squadron? I know some chaps on Lockheeds up North."

Steffins seemed to hesitate, but perhaps it was only to draw air into his lungs.

"Squadron One Hundred and Twenty," he said. "A fairly new outfit. Squadron Leader Clancy was O.C. But I'm keen to get to Plymouth. Never been there before. And I'm blasted sick of the North Sea, I can tell you. Funny thing, though, about leaving my old squadron. Thought I was set there for good. Then suddenly yesterday the O.C. told me I had been assigned to Seventy-Four at Plymouth. Seemed to hint it was special duty, or something. Wouldn't say a thing, though. Just gave me my traveling papers, and such, and sent me off."

A suddenly liking for Steffins shot through Dave Dawson. Perhaps the lad was on the same kind of a mission as he and Freddy. He started to open his mouth to speak, but at that instant he happened to catch Freddy's eye. The English youth gave a hair width shake of his head, and said the rest in a look. Dave closed his mouth and started again.

"It wasn't like that with us," he lied. "Freddy and I asked for a transfer. Change of scenery, and all that kind of stuff. I guess there's more action off the south coast anyway. For the last two weeks we didn't do anything but use up gas and oil. I hope...."

At that moment all three of them heard the ungodly wail of a plane coming down in an all out power dive. It was not the wail but the sound of the plane's engine that brought them to their feet and diving for the compartment windows. It was not the steady beat of a British or an American engine. It was the throbbing pulsating roar of a German made engine. In fact, the unsynchronized throb of two engines. Even as they reached the window and stared up into the dawn sky they saw that the plane was a long range Nazi Focke-Wulf 187 destroyer plane. The craft was low down and racing in toward the moving train. An instant later the savage yammer of machine gun fire sounded above the beat of the engines.

"Strafing us!" Dave shouted unconsciously. "Why, that tramp! Do I wish I was in a Spitfire or a Hurricane! I'd soon...."

Dave stopped short, half turned and saw Steffins striving frantically to crawl under one of the seats. The man's face was paper white and he was biting into his lower lip hard. Another yammering burst from the strafing plane and jerked Dave's eyes back to the window. He started to duck himself but checked it as he saw that the pilot of the plane seemed to be concentrating on the rear car of the train. He looked at Freddy and saw the veiled contempt in the English youth's eyes. Freddy half jerked a thumb at Steffins still trying to crawl under the seat, and shrugged.

Dave laughed, and called out to Steffins.

"Give it up, Steffins! Those things are bolted to the floor. Besides, the lug isn't shooting our way."

"And also he has gone on his merry way!" Freddy said, turning away from the window. "The blighter just thought he'd have a bit of murdering sport on the way home. If I was in my old Hurricane he'd jolly well get a bellyful of his kind of sport."

Very red of face and twice as sheepish looking, Steffins stopped trying to crawl through bolted wood, and got up onto his feet. He gave Freddy a hard stare, then smiled slowly.

"Sorry I made such a fool of myself," he said with an effort. "Truth is, though, I got peppered a bit by one of those lads back in the September show. Turns my blood cold every time I hear one of the beggars come down. Well, I guess I'd better buzz back to my compartment and get my stuff together. Must be getting near there, now. Nice to meet you two. Hope we see a lot of each other."

"Sure, I guess we will, Steffins," Dave said pleasantly.

"Right you are," Freddy murmured as the pilot slid through the door and closed it shut.

"A nice guy to have around in the clutch," Dave grunted when he and Freddy were alone. "Ask me and I'll tell you the guy is yellow. Hey, why the heavy scowl, pal? What's suddenly on that thing you call a mind?"

"Your nice little friend," Freddy said with a jerk of his head toward the door. "It doesn't quite check. The lad is a bit queer, I'd say."

The opening was too perfect for Dave to let it slip by unnoticed.

"What Englishman isn't?" he cracked.

"I'll remember that one," Freddy growled. Then grave of face, "No, serious, Dave. I wish the devil the lad hadn't come in here. I'd feel better right now. I think I've seen him someplace before, but blessed if I can remember where. And the beggar lied to us, unless I'm completely wrong on my R.A.F. squadrons."

Dave started another smart remark but cut it off at the look on Freddy's face. He hitched forward a bit on the edge of the seat.

"How come?" he asked. "What are you driving at? I didn't notice anything unusual, but I really wasn't listening very hard. What do you mean?"

"No kidding?" Dave exclaimed. Then with a puzzled frown, "But what was the point in the guy lying to us? He.... Say, I had a hunch at first when he came in. Maybe he's on some hush-hush thing like we are."

Freddy scowled hard and pressed both palms against his forehead as though that would help memory to come back. As Dave watched him the tingling sensation came to the back of his neck once again. He sat as a man turned to stone, hardly daring to breathe.

"Well?" he finally got out after several tormenting minutes dragged by.

Freddy shook his head, started to gesture for silence with one hand, and then gasped and sat up straight.

"Got it, of course!" he cried. "Unless I'm completely balmy."

"Could be," Dave grunted. "But spill it anyway."

"Earlier tonight just as we were leaving Adastral House," Freddy said in a strained voice. "You were ahead of me yelling for that cabby, so you didn't see. In the blasted blackout I flew full tilt into a chap. We both went flat. I used my flash to help us both get up. And I got a look at the other chap's face. Dave, I swear to you that the chap was this Steffins. I can see his face now as clear as day!"

"So what?" Dave grunted as a sense of disappointment rippled through him. "The guy was in London to catch this train, and you just happened to collide with him in the blackout. Maybe he didn't get a look at your mug, so didn't recognize you just now."

"Sweet jumping tripe!" Dave breathed softly. "And he pops up again on this train wearing an R.A.F. uniform? Heck, Freddy, you must have made a mistake. It doesn't add up to make sense!"

"Perhaps it doesn't," Freddy said with a shrug. "But I still don't like that chap. And what's more, when we get to Plymouth I'm going to make it my job to find out more about him."

Dave made no reply. He turned his head and stared absently out the car window. For reasons he couldn't possibly explain to himself at the time he suddenly had the feeling that Freddy Farmer had spoken words of truth. That the English youth had looked into the future, seen what the war gods were brewing, and spoken an advance warning for them both. Dave shivered slightly and turned from the window.

"I wonder what it will be like when peace comes to this cockeyed world again," he grunted.

"I wonder how many of us will be around to find out," Freddy murmured as though talking to himself.

With her twin engines thundering out their duet of mighty power, the American built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat patrolled back and forth over the convoy of fifteen merchant ships plowing through the Atlantic swells toward the southwest coast of England. At the controls sat Dave Dawson, and at his side in the co-pilot and navigator's seat was Freddy Farmer. Aft at their respective stations were the three other members of the plane's crew. For seven long hours the flying boat had been escorting the convoy through dangerous waters. And every instant of that time five pairs of R.A.F. eyes had been searching the waters below for signs of a lurking group of Nazi "steel fish," and scanning the heavens for the first glimpse of a Nazi air raider winging out from its base in occupied France.

Nine solid hours of being constantly on the alert, and not so much as a single floating hunk of wood sighted. It was as though the Germans had no idea that valuable cargoes of war material were headed for England. Or else the presence of the Catalina flying boat and the small but heavily armed "Corvette" escort freighter leading the convoy made them decide to leave it alone. At any rate the merchant ships had not received a single scare, and soon they would be through the danger zone and unloading their war stuffs at England's docks.

Taking one hand from the controls, Dave dug knuckles into his tired eyes and sighed heavily.

"If this is the British idea of a joke," he growled, "all that I can say is that it smells out loud."

"Meaning what?" Freddy asked and made a few final marks on his navigation charts. "Mad because all those ships down there are going to get through safely?"

"Nuts, of course not!" Dave snapped and gave him a scornful side glance. "And you know darn well what I mean."

"That's true, I do," Freddy said and scowled out over the nose of the flying boat's hull. "Certainly is funny. Do you think by chance that something's gone haywire?"

"I'm just as much in the dark myself," Freddy grunted. "But somehow I don't think that it was supposed to be this way. I think that something went wrong some place, and Manners had to hold up our special orders. Or perhaps he wanted us to get well acquainted with things. I mean, make it definitely look as though we were just a couple of replacements."

"A regular barbarian, drinking that horrible stuff!" Freddy groaned and adjusted his radio mike. "I swear, we'll never be able to make you a real Englishman!"

"It's still coffee!" Dave said with a grin. "And hurry it along, my little man."

A few minutes later the Catalina flyingboat had left the convoy far behind and safely in the charge of the destroyers. A cup of warm coffee was in Dave's stomach, and he was almost becoming slightly satisfied with the world again. Now, if only about forty-'leven Nazi planes would show up and give them a little action everything would be all to the merry. No hope of that, though, he reflected gloomily. They were too near to Base, and any Jerry lad who showed his nose around Plymouth Base just naturally didn't get back to Germany. The Jerries knew that and so they stayed well clear of that little bit of England.

"And what about the great mystery, Dave?" Freddy suddenly spoke up to break his train of thought. "Do you think we should go to Squadron Leader Hays and tell him our story?"

"Meaning your boy friend, Flying Officer Steffins?" Dave echoed with a frown.

"None other," the English youth replied. "I told you there was something queer about that chap. I really think we should speak to Squadron Leader Hays about him."

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