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

"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."

Dave made no comment for a few moments. During these two days at Plymouth Base he had thought a lot of thoughts about the queer acting R.A.F. pilot they had met on the train coming down. And the most important thought was the fact that neither he nor Freddy had so much as set eyes on the man since the moment he had picked himself up off the compartment floor after the Nazi plane strafe and gone forward to his own seat. The man had simply vanished into thin air. He most certainly had not reported at Plymouth Base. Freddy had made sure of that by asking all around. As a matter of fact, nobody at Plymouth Base had even heard of the man. And the bulletin board in the mess had said in so much black type that Dawson and Farmer were the only two replacements posted to Seventy-Four.

"Sorry to wake you up, Dave," Freddy spoke again. "But what do you think about the situation?"

"Pipe down, I was thinking," Dave growled. "But I can't even get to first base. Maybe we should speak to the Squadron Leader, yet that might make us look like a couple of saps. If there's one thing that gets a fellow's goat in this war it's the dizzy unfounded spy scares that pop up every time you turn a corner. And after all, to us he was just a yellow belly who shot off his face and asked a lot of questions. Maybe he was just some bird posing as an R.A.F. officer just for the heck of it. That sort of thing's happened before. You know, some bird wants to make an impression on his girl and he goes calling all dolled up as an officer, when he really should be wearing his private's uniform. No, Freddy, I don't think Squadron Leader Hays would love us extra much if we went to him with such a crazy story."

"I'm afraid you're right," Freddy grunted. "It is just a little bit crazy. But I still swear he's the same chap I bumped into in front of Adastral House."

"Well, maybe that time he was calling on a girl who likes the Army best," Dave chuckled. "Anyway, let's skip it for the time being. There's Base, and here we go down to a stack of warm food, and a little shut eye."

Dave's statement was half truth and half falsehood. They did put away a stack of food, but there was to be no shut-eye for either of them. They had hardly finished their meal when an orderly appeared with word that they were to report at once to Squadron Leader Hays' office. They exchanged looks, grinned happily, and instantly lost all desire for sleep.

"Hot dog!" Dave breathed and pushed back from the table. "Maybe this is it!"

"I'm saying nothing until I'm dead sure," Freddy grunted and got up, too. "The way things are going perhaps we're to be favored with the special honor of washing dishes."

"Boy, can you make a guy feel good!" Dave growled and gave his best pal a playful poke in the ribs.

When they reached the Squadron Leader's their hopes dropped a little for the simple reason that they were not the only two summoned. There were ten other pilots there as well. Squadron Leader Hays waited until Dave and Freddy had settled themselves in chairs and then started to speak.

"Special job for you fellows," he said. "Coastal Command is testing out a new type of plane to be used on short range work. It's the new Fairey "Fulmar" fighter. It's powered with a Bristol Pegasus engine that's been jacked up a bit to give a couple of hundred more horsepower than the ordinary Pegasus. It's a land job, of course, but it's been fitted with extra tanks, and sections of the wings are sealed so that you'll float for quite a bit of time in case you fall down into the drink. Whether these Fulmars will give us the service Coastal Command demands remains to be seen. Anyway, six of them arrived last night, and I've selected you chaps to give them a good testing. If you can find any off-shore Nazi planes then so much the better. However, don't go too far out, and don't get too close to the French coast. You can be sure that the Jerries are just aching to shoot down a Fulmar and get a good look at it. Well, that's all. They're out on the line now, and the mechanics are waiting. You can take off any time you want."

The Squadron Leader made a little gesture with his hand that dismissed the group. Disappointment tugging at their hearts, Dave and Freddy started toward the Squadron Office door, but pulled up short as the Commanding Officer spoke again.

"Oh, Dawson and Farmer!" he called out. "Wait a moment, will you?"

Both youths wheeled around with hope soaring up anew. The Squadron Leader waited until all the others had left, then grimaced and sighed unhappily.

"Darnedest war I ever fought in!" he growled and motioned to the boys to step closer. "There's enough blasted hush-hush stuff to smother the whole Empire. Of course what I told the others was plain rot. We've got Fulmars here, and they are to stay for keeps. This testing idea is all bosh. But orders are orders. So there's nothing I can do about it."

The Squadron Leader made another face and took a sealed envelop from out of his inside tunic pocket. He handed it to Dave.

"Your orders for something or other," he said. "Don't read them until you're in the air. And don't bother asking me questions. I don't know a blessed thing about them. What's more, I don't want to know. This arrived from Air Marshal Manners an hour ago. Here, take it, and get on with your job. Stuff it in your tunic pocket and keep it there until you're in the air. And.... Well, naturally, good luck and all that sort of thing. Now, buzz off, both of you."

Dave and Freddy saluted, executed a snappy about face and walked on air out of the squadron office and over toward the south side of the field where Six Fairey Fulmar fighter planes were lined up with engines ticking over. From the depths of dread and despair they had soared up to a new high. The long awaited event had come to pass at last. The sealed orders in Dave's pocket seemed to turn into a white hot coal that burned right through his clothing to his skin. He couldn't speak because excitement and eager expectation was like a hand of steel clutching at his throat. Sealed orders. For what? For life, or for death? Right now neither of them cared very much. One thing was certain. Those sealed orders meant action, and action was all that mattered to those two fisted, stout hearted, steel clawed birdmen of the Royal Air Force.

It took every ounce of his will-power, but Dave Dawson forced himself to wait until he and Freddy had the Fulmar clear and well out of sight of the Plymouth Base before he took the sealed orders out of his pocket. He turned in the seat so that Freddy could read them at the same time, but he didn't rip open the envelop at once. He held it up and looked at Freddy.

"Let's fool Manners," he said with a straight face. "Let's just toss this over the side and go on down back and land. There's probably nothing in it anyway. What say, huh?"

Freddy's jaw dropped, his eyes popped, and his face turned white as a sheet.

"Good grief, Dave, have you gone mad?" he gasped and grabbed for the envelop. "Don't you dare...!"

The English youth cut himself off short and turned beet red as he saw the grin on Dave's lips. He swallowed hard and balled one hand into a hard fist.

"Some day you'll pull one of your bad jokes just once too often!" he growled. "Open that letter before I throw you out bag and baggage. Phew! What years you took off my life, you ... you...!"

"Naughty, naughty, don't say it!" Dave said with a laugh as Freddy floundered around for a suitable word. "Mama wash your mouth out with soap! Okay, pal. Sorry you almost had heart failure. Guess it is a bum time to pull one like that."

"Shut up and open that letter!" Freddy shouted in a fuming voice.

Dave nodded and tore open the envelop and pulled out two typewritten sheets of paper. He smoothed them out, let the ship fly itself, and then started reading the orders. They read:

Flying Officers Dawson And Farmer

Most important of all she is the fuel ship for a wolf pack of some ten to fifteen Nazi U-boats. They will be close to the ship but will submerge the instant your plane is sighted. You probably will not even see them. So concentrate only on the surface raider.

Even though you are attacked by enemy aircraft do not give battle!

You are to act as though you are lost. As though you are having engine trouble, or are out of fuel. When you sight the raider start down and keep on going down. You are to make a crash landing in the water.

As soon as you have crash landed your signal will stop going out over the air. British naval craft in that area will then head under full draft for the spot. And Fleet Air Arm craft will be launched with torpedoes and bombs. The two units will attempt to trap the raider and her U-boats and blow them out of the water.

When you have landed your job is done, and you are to save your own lives as best you can. This area is believed to be the rendezvous point of the most dangerous raiding pack England has yet battled. It is absolutely essential that this pack be destroyed. And it is hoped ... and expected ... that you will fulfill your orders to the letter. The success of the entire venture depends upon your causing the raider no alarm, keeping your directional finder signal going out over the air all the time ... and creating the impression that you are lost and making a forced landing in the water without being able to send out your position.

Good luck, and God bless you!

Manners Emergency Command

Dave waited until Freddy nodded to indicate that he was through reading, and then took a look at the second sheet. It contained a complete navigation course that led to an area of the Atlantic about seventy-five miles west-south-west of Brest on the coast of occupied France. One glance was enough to tell them both that surface and under-sea raiders working out of that rendezvous area could fan through England's trade lanes with Canada and the United States in the matter of a few hours and then go scooting back to any one of a number of bases on the French coast.

"Well, Manners certainly wasn't kidding when he gave us that little pep talk," Dave finally broke the silence. "Boy, he sure did hand us something sweet, didn't he?"

Freddy didn't reply at once. He swallowed a couple of times and ran a finger around the strap of his helmet as though it had suddenly become a little bit too tight.

"And not a chance to fire a shot!" he groaned. "Blasted clay pigeons, that's what we've got to be."

"Dead ducks, and how!" Dave breathed. "Nope, I don't think it's going to be nice at all sitting in the water with the British navy and Fleet Air Arm lads heaving everything at the raider and her subs. Of course, though, I can still pitch this thing overboard, and we can swear Hays didn't give us a thing."

"Never mind that!" Freddy growled. "As you would say, we stuck our chins out, and we've got to keep them out. Set the course, my little man, and tune in on that wave length. No, wait, I'll do that little thing. Who knows but what you might get Manners on the thing and start offering brighter suggestions. Blast it, though, I hate swimming. Specially in mid Atlantic this time of year."

"Cheer up, pal!" Dave laughed. "I'll save you, my boy!"

"In that case I'm doomed for sure!" the English youth groaned and turned his attention to the radio.

For the next several minutes neither lad spoke. Each was busy with his own thoughts. And be it said they were not pleasant ones. However, they were not unpleasant thoughts simply because almost certain death awaited them out over the Atlantic. That their chances of surviving this assignment were almost nil didn't bother them a bit. What rankled was that they had to go down to whatever kind of doom awaited them without so much as starting to put up a show of resistance. Aerial decoys, that's what they were. Just a couple of lads sent out to act as helpless enemy bait, and when they had done their job probably get blown to atoms forty ways from Sunday. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair. But it was orders, and that was that!

"A penny for your thoughts, Freddy!" Dave suddenly called out. "If they're the same as mine they're not worth that much."

"Matter of fact, I was thinking about that directional finder gadget," the English youth replied as he stared at the radio. "It sure must be something pretty neat. Just think, British war craft know where we are right now. The chaps at the other end can put a dot on their navigation charts marking the spot of water we're over now. What will this war bring out next?"

"Don't ask," Dave grunted and fixed his eyes on the distant horizon. "One thing I hope, though. When we crash land and our signal automatically stops, I hope those boys will get to the spot in a hurry. The Jerries are no dopes. They may smell something fishy. And they sure will once they spot naval craft smoke on the horizon."

"The bombers will be on top of them long before that," Freddy said. "Besides, though Manners didn't say so, it's up to us to delay the raider as long as we can. Ten to one she'll hove to to pick us up. Particularly the plane. This Fulmar is a new job, you know, and it would be a feather in the raider captain's cap to take one back to port."

"Sure, that's true," Dave nodded. Then with a frown, "But the set-up doesn't appeal to me so much. No, I don't mean about our necks. I mean, Manners' hope that the navy and Fleet Air Arm will wipe out the raider and her tin fish children. Seems too much to hope for, the way I figure it. Frankly, I wish we could have talked with Manners instead of only being able to read what he wrote. I've got ideas that...."

"Don't I know it!" Freddy cut in. "But forget them, my friend. You'd have Manners tearing out his hair in two minutes. Don't worry, he's considered this thing from every angle, and picked the best way to do the job."

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