Dave Dawson at Casablanca

by Robert Sidney Bowen

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  _Fighting Hearts_

  The crazy motion of the bomber knocked Dawson off balance and sent himlurching heavily against the flare rack as he reached the navigator'snook just aft of the pilot's compartment. The air whistled out of hislungs, and balls of colored fire danced before his eyes. Fortunately,though, his outflung hands caught hold of something, and he was able toprevent himself from pitching headlong on his face.

  The B-25 was still flooded by brilliant light, and above the screamingroar of the over-revving Wright-Cyclones, Dawson could hear the chatterof aerial machine guns. He gave no thought to the thing that washappening. He had but one idea in his head, and that was to fight hisway forward to the pilot's compartment. As he dived past the navigator'snook, a hand grabbed him by the arm, and he heard voices, but he couldnot understand the words above the din of other noises. With a savagewrench of his arm he freed himself, and piled forward into the pilot'scompartment.

  One glance gave him a complete picture, and his racing heart seemed tostand still. The glass of the pilot's compartment was shattered to bits.The pilot was slumped over against the Dep wheel, and the weight of hislimp body was pushing the control forward so that the bomber remained inits mad dive. Beside the limp pilot was the co-pilot, flopped overagainst the side of the compartment and looking for all the world like aman dead tired who had simply leaned over to brace himself and catch acouple of minutes of sleep. That is, he looked like such a man exceptfor the crimson blood that gushed from a gaping wound in his neck justbelow the left ear.

  After one look at the hideous sight Dawson flew into action. Bracinghimself behind the pilot's seat, he grabbed the limp figure by theshoulders and pulled him back on the seat. Holding him upright with onehand, he reached around and opened the catch of the pilot's safetyharness. That done, he braced himself again and eased the man to thefloor boards. The pilot's eyes fluttered open, and his lips sprayeddrops of blood as he tried to speak. Dawson didn't have time to listen.He leaped into the pilot's seat, grabbed the control wheel with onehand, hauled back on it steadily, and eased off the throttles with hisother hand.

  Little by little the crazy downward plunge of the B-25 eased off. Theplane began to climb back into the sky. There was still brilliant whitelight all about. It had a silverish tint to it, and Dawson had theimpression that he was flying straight through a phosphorescent ocean.In an abstract way be realized the white light was caused by flares thathad been dropped from high above the bomber and were bringing it out inclear relief for a mysterious aerial night raider.

  "Where is it, and what?" Dawson gasped as he squinted his eyes in thebrilliant glare. "It's just one ship. I can tell it from the guns. Butwhat--"

  He cut the rest off short and heeled the B-25 way over on its wing andbrought it around and up in a climbing turn with the engines wide open.He did so because he had caught a glimpse of a shadow boring in and upat him from the left. Just a shadow, but he knew instinctively that itwas another plane. At the top of its climb, he whipped the bomber overand around in the opposite direction. The bomber was neither a P-40 nora Lockheed Lightning, and his heart seemed to stand still in his throatas he waited for the big craft to come around. With each passing second,he expected to hear the savage yammer of guns blazing away at him.

  As a matter of fact, a moment later he did hear guns, but they came fromthe B-25, not from the other plane. They came from the port side, andimpulsively he jerked his head around in that direction. As he did so,he saw a sight that brought a wild cry of joy from his lips. Silhouettedagainst the brilliant background of light was a Nazi-marked Arada AR-95twin-pontoon seaplane. He could see the silverish disc described by thespinning propeller, but the aircraft seemed to be standing still.Rather, it seemed to be held motionless in the air by twin streams oftracer smoke that reached out to it from the B-25.

  It was motionless for only a moment, and then suddenly a sheet of flamespewed out from under its engine cowling. Fire mushroomed out in alldirections, and in the wink of an eye, the Arada completely disappeared,and there was just a great cloud of fire hanging in the flare-lightedheavens. To Dawson the cloud seemed to hang not for seconds, but forminutes. And then, as though an invisible cable had been cut, the cloudof fire dropped straight downward.

  "Sweet shooting! Pretty!" Dawson heard his own voice yell. "And I've gota hunch that it was good old Freddy who nailed her! If it--"

  He stopped short, as he happened to glance ahead and to the left. By nowthe flares were burning out, and were down close to the water. Becauseof that he was able to see the seven-or eight-thousand-ton tramp steamerthat was leaving a broad, churning wake as it made off at top speedtoward the darkness to the north. The surface vessel flew no flag, andthere was little to distinguish her from any of the thousands of trampsteamers.

  She was no mystery to Dawson, however. One look at her racing away fromthe light of the fading flares was all he needed to know the truth. Thatship was one of the few Nazi sea raiders left, and the Arada seaplanehad come from her decks. By looking carefully he could see a cradle onthe forward deck, and a huge hoisting crane that must have lifted theseaplane over the side.

  "The dirty dogs!" Dawson grated as he glared down at the fleeing vessel."If only we had some bombs or depth charges aboard, what a finish wecould put to that sea murderer! We'd--"

  "Dawson! Thank God!"

  The words seemed to explode in his ears. He jerked his head around andsaw the strained features of Colonel Welsh. The Intelligence Officer'seyes were wide with both anger and amazement. His lips moved silentlyfor a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "That was close! It wouldhave been too close, but for you, Dawson! What's that down--"

  "A Nazi raider that was carrying the seaplane," Dawson cut him off. "Wecan't do anything about her now, though. Even our radio is smashed, sowe can't send out her position. But the pilot and co-pilot, Colonel! Gethelp and get them aft. The pilot is still alive, I think, but thischap--"

  Dawson stopped as he turned and looked at the co-pilot in the seat nextto his. Cold rage filled his heart, and his bitter hatred of all thingsNazi flared up again. Too many times had his youthful eyes looked upondeath not to recognize it now. Nothing in the world could help theco-pilot. He had passed on to join his buddies in the airmen's Valhalla.

  "Better get to work on the pilot behind me!" Dawson said with asharpness he didn't realize was in his voice. "There must be a medicalkit aboard this bomber. I'll stick here and keep us going. Or do youwant to turn back?"

  "No, keep going!" the colonel replied. "It wouldn't do to turn back now.Here, Corporal! Give me a hand with your pilot. Where's the medicalkit?"

  The last words were directed to one of the aircraft's crew who had comeforward into the compartment. Dawson paid no attention to him, for atthat moment the port engine started to kick up a bit, and he had to giveall his attention to getting it to run smoothly again. By then the glowof the flares had faded out, and the B-25 was thundering on through thedarkness of the night. Dawson switched on the small-instrument light sothat he could keep a careful check on engine performance and hold theaircraft to her course across the Atlantic. Only once did he take hisattention from his flying, and that was when the dead co-pilot waslifted from his seat and taken aft. Once again red rage burned withinDave, as it always did when one of his countrymen was killed. He grippedthe control wheel hard to prevent his hands from shaking.

  Presently somebody slid into the co-pilot's seat and touched him on thearm. It was Freddy Farmer.

  "Well done, old thing!" the English youth said in a voice that shookwith feeling. "Fancy we've all got you to thank for saving our hides.Personally, I was too scared to move for hours, and--"

  "Nuts!" Dawson interrupted with gruff affection. "Anybody can haul aplane out of a dive. If it hadn't been for your sweet shooting, that ratmight have nailed us!"

  "Good grief, how did you know?" Freddy gasped. "You couldn't see me fromhere!"

  "I didn't have to look back," Dawson chuckled.
"I simply saw the kind ofshooting it was and knew at once you were behind the guns. How's thepilot making out, or don't you know?"

  "Not too bad, for which he can thank his lucky stars," the Englishyouth replied. "He'll pull through all right, but I guess the chap willbe out of the war for some time. What kind of blasted business was it,anyway, Dave? That beggar was waiting for us right up on top, with hisconfounded flares. We were--well, as you would say, a sitting duck."

  "Yeah, and we were darn near a dead pigeon, too!" Dawson said grimly."But how, and why? Don't ask me, pal! I just haven't got the brains itwould take to figure out this crazy mess. To me it looks like one ofthose little items of fate the colonel was talking about. Unless--"

  "Unless what, Dave?" Freddy Farmer pressed as Dawson fell silent.

  "Unless there's no connection at all," the Yank air ace finallyremarked.

  "I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense to me," young Farmer said."What do you mean, no connection?"

  "Well, figure it this way," Dawson replied. "Say that the President'sforthcoming trip to Casablanca is as much of a perfect secret as ever.That--"

  "But that's silly!" Freddy Farmer cut in. "The fact that this plane wasmysteriously attacked means that some blasted Nazi agent found out whatwas in one of those sealed envelopes. I mean, that the next bomberthrough would have the President aboard."

  "Are you all through sounding off?" Dave snapped. "Or don't you want tohear the rest of what I have to say?"

  "Sorry, and all that!" the English youth snapped right back at him."I'll be still. What were you going to say, Dave?"

  "Figure the President's trip business _out_," Dawson went on speakingagain. "Okay. So for what other reason should we be attacked by amysterious plane from a mysterious raider in the middle of the Atlantic?I can think of only one, and this is it. Take it or leave it. The NaziU-boats aren't doing so hot for Hitler these days. We're sinking hissteel sharks left and right, and he's going to run out of them beforelong. Okay. Where is a lot of our stuff going these days? To NorthAfrica. And a lot of it is being _flown_ over. Okay. The Nazis don'tstand a chance of going after our transports with their planes, likethey can on the supply route to England. So what do they do? They send asea raider out, fitted with a scout seaplane. The sea raider's detectorpicks out one of our planes crossing at night, and the seaplane goes upto high altitude and waits. Maybe those distress signals are part ofthe gag to get our plane to go down for a look. Anyway, the seaplanepilot drops his flares. They light up the target for him and also blindthose aboard the transport plane long enough for the Nazi rat to do hisstuff with his guns. And there you are. Take it or leave it!"

  "Just the point, Dawson," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke in. "I don't know_whether_ to take it or leave it. I certainly don't!"

  "Oh, you there, sir?" Dawson gulped as he turned his head around. "I wasjust--well--"

  "I know, and I'm glad I heard what you said," the colonel interruptedhim. "I was certain that they were laying for us because they believedthe President to be aboard. Yet I swear I don't see how they couldpossibly have found out. I'd stake my life that only we three know thecontents of those sealed envelopes."

  "If I may say so, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up, "I have a feeling thatDawson has come very close to the truth, if he hasn't hit it exactly.Frankly, sir, it was just too perfect for the Nazis to have planned itthis way. There--there just wasn't enough time, I'd say."

  "What do you mean by that last?" the colonel asked him.

  "I mean that if we had been attacked by a land-based plane, we couldtake it that the Nazis had got wind of the truth and had come after us,"the English youth started to explain. "But that aircraft was from asurface ship--a surface ship that was _directly_ in our path. Tell methis, sir, if you will. On the way down, what did you plan to do whenyou reached Trinidad?"

  "Eh?" the senior officer grunted. "Why, see you two, of course, and findout what had happened, if anything. After I had heard what you had tosay, I'd decide what to do next. Why?"

  "Well, there you are, sir!" young Farmer cried. "That proves thatDawson's idea must be right. Don't you see? Even _you_ weren't sure asto where this aircraft would go next. You didn't even give the pilot hiscourse instructions until the very start of the take-off. So how couldthe Nazis possibly have found out and radioed that surface vessel tosail to a point _directly in our path_ in the time it took us to fly outhere from Trinidad? It's--it's silly, if you'll forgive me, sir."

  The colonel said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a long-drawn-outsigh.

  "Yes, I guess you're right, both of you," he said. "The secret of thePresident's trip must still be as safe as ever. Yes, it must be thatway. We just happened to bump into something that any plane flying thisroute would have bumped into."

  "I sure hated to see that sea raider get away!" Dawson grumbled. "Talkabout lucky shots! That first blast got the radio set cold, unless theradio man can fix it up, sir? I saw the shambles it was as I dived bythe navigator's nook."

  "No, no such luck," Colonel Welsh replied. "I asked him quite a whileback, and he said it was hopeless. The navigator, of course, has arecord of the exact position at the time, so we can report it when wereach Casablanca."

  "How's the pilot, sir?" Dawson asked. "Were there any other casualtiesbesides that poor co-pilot?"

  "The pilot will pull through," Colonel Welsh replied. "The only casualtywas the co-pilot. Well, I'll go aft now to see if I can do anything forthe pilot. You two can get us through all right, eh? I mean--"

  "If the engines keep ticking over, we'll make it, sir," Dawson saidquietly. "The tanks were spared, praise be! So I think it will be allgood flying from here in."

  "Then I'll leave you to it," the colonel said. "And--and God bless bothof you!"

  Neither Dawson nor Farmer had a chance to say anything, because theIntelligence officer quickly turned and went aft.

  "Well, you convinced even me with that swell sales talk of yours,Freddy," Dawson eventually broke the silence between them. "I guessmaybe I did hit on the right idea, at that."

  "I think you did," the English youth echoed. Then with a chuckle headded, "But I suppose I'll never hear the end of it from now on!"

  "Now ain't that gratitude for you?" Dawson groaned, and shook his headsadly. "So help me, why I keep getting that food-craving hide of yoursout of tight spots, I'll never understand. I must be nuts, I guess!"

  "And for once," Freddy Farmer laughed, "I won't argue with you!"