CHAPTER TEN
_Eastward to War_
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 wasabout eight hundred feet, and visibility was about a third of a mile, ifyou had good eyes. Far to the east the sun of a new day was dawning. Butyou would never have been able to tell by looking in that direction.There was nothing but dirty grey fog stretching out to the fourhorizons. Only there weren't even any horizons. There was just fog, andmore fog.
The state of the weather, however, had not put any damper on plans forR.A.F. activity. At every dispersal point about the Depot field wereaircraft of all types being made ready for the day's aerial smashagainst the Axis forces on the Continent. Planes of every description,ranging from sleek, powerful Supermarine Rolls Royce "Merlin" poweredSpitfire Mark V's to the gigantic death dealing Lancaster bombers. Andswarming all over them, like so many industrious ants, were the R.A.F.mechanics. The riggers, the fitters, the armorers, and the countlessother 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 dressedfor the skies. Three of them wore R.A.F. uniforms, but Dave Dawson andFreddy Farmer still wore their U.S. Army Force uniforms, though theywere not in the best of condition as a result of the boys' recentexperience with three worshipers of Hitler, who wouldn't be around anymore.
As a matter of fact, it had been their torn and mud-smeared uniformsthat had come close to delaying their arrival at the Aberdeen R.A.F,Depot indefinitely. Following Freddy Farmer's plan of action, they hadwalked three miles along the Old North Road to a town which did turn outto be Leadburn, just as the English-born air ace had guessed. PatrolingHome Guards stopped them, and after considerable argument they weretaken to the quarters of the town's Military Commandant. That gentlemanwas awakened from a deep sleep, and he didn't like it at all. He didn'teven like it a little bit. And being that kind of an officer, he feltthat the two youths should be tossed into the local clink for the restof 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 amusement of the Home Guards. At any rate, theyconvinced the Commandant that he should phone the Air Ministry. He did,and that changed everything, instantly. The boys couldn't hear what wassaid at the other end of the wire, but they didn't have to. The sullenannoyance in the Commandant's face changed at once. His eyes widened tosaucer size, and his face turned a deep brick red color that went rightup into his hair. He almost got his tongue tangled up in his teethtelling the person at the other end of the wire that he would "do thatat once." And when he finally hung up, his forehead was dotted withbeads of nervous sweat.
And so the boys got action, plus! In less time than it takes to tellabout it the Commandant's own car was turned over for their use. Andthey were given a Corporal, who knew the roads well, to handle thewheel. And that was exactly what the Corporal did, and then some. Hewas 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 manplanned to do even better than that. He was indeed an expert driver, buteven experts break their necks sometimes. And what worried Dave andFreddy as they shot northward through the night was that the driverwould not only break his own neck, but theirs as well!
Lady Luck rode with them, however. And in due time they passed throughthe Aberdeen Depot gates, and were conducted over to the DepotCommandant's office. He had been waiting for them, and getting new greyhairs with every passing minute. Of course the Flying Scotsman had longsince arrived at the station, and when they were not found aboard, theCommandant had more or less taken it as his personal responsibility. Andso his joy was great and his relief unbounded when finally the twoyouths did show up. He took them under his wing at once, and got them agood meal and something hot to drink. Then he chatted with them for abit, and it was all the two youths could do to stop from grinning in hisface. Naturally, the Commandant knew nothing, save the fact that theywere to be flown to Moscow, and so naturally he dropped a casualquestion here and there in an effort to add to his knowledge.
But neither Dave nor Freddy were having any of that. As a matter offact, if either of them was tempted to give their host a tip as to thenature of their mission, they had only to think of that little businessaboard the Flying Scotsman to be easily able to kill such an intentionright then and there. If German agents had big ears in London, theywould certainly have big ears in Aberdeen. And the conviction that ofcourse there weren't any Nazi agents way up there in Aberdeen was justabout the stupidest idea one could have. Nazi agents are likecockroaches. You'll find them around, no matter how many you kill, untilyou've found the nest and burned it out. And the Gestapo nest was inBerlin.
However, the hour or two with the Depot Commandant passed pleasantlyenough. And then the pilot, navigator, and radioman of the Moscow-boundbomber reported at the Commandant's office. The pilot was a SquadronLeader named Freehill, and the ribbons under his wings proved that hehad won his rank the hard way. The navigator was a Flight Lieutenantnamed Parsons, and he had a ready smile and a hearty handshake thatmade both Dave and Freddy feel glad that he was going to be along on theflight to Moscow. The radioman was a cheery-faced sergeant namedDilling, who looked as if he should be on the vaudeville stage ratherthan inside a Wellington bomber. All three of them seemed rathermysteriously tickled about this coming flight to Moscow, but it was notuntil later, when they were all taking it easy under the Wellington'swing, while the twin Bristols were warming up, that Squadron LeaderFreehill explained the reason for their secret joy.
"This aerial taxi business has almost got us down," he said out of aclear blue sky. "But not this trip we're to make with you chaps. You'rea blessing, if there ever was one, or two, rather. It should be a bit ofall right this time, I'm sure."
"Here's hoping, anyway," Dave said with a grin. "But I don't know whatyou're talking about. What do you mean, this trip is to be different?"
"A difference of about two thousand miles, for one thing," the otherreplied with a chuckle. "And a good chance to see a Jerry or two, foranother. Or at any rate, so I hope. You see, most times we're blastedchauffeurs for some war correspondents, or some brass hats, or politicalbig wigs, headed for Moscow to chat with Stalin and all the lads. Veryvaluable 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 towithin six hundred miles of the Pole, and then around the tip of Norwayand down into Russia through Murmansk and Leningrad. Like flying throughan 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 orsome such other place."
"Quite!" the navigator echoed with a faint chuckle. "Takes me a week torest my poor brain after one of those thirty-two hundred mile hops. Nofun at all, really. You two chaps we are taking across as the crowflies. Wouldn't be at all surprised if a Jerry or two came up for a lookat us. They're frightfully worried about R.A.F. planes over their headsthese days, you know."
"Don't I hope a few do come up, though!" Sergeant Dilling spoke up witha broad grin. "It's so long since I had a Jerry in my sights I'm worriedfor fear I won't be able to recognize one of the beggars. It will bewonderful, no end, to spill one of the blighters down in a mess offlames. At least it will give me the feeling that at last I'm doingsomething to earn my pay."
"Well, we want to get to Moscow all in one piece," Dave said with alittle laugh, "but I can't say that I'd be too mad if a couple ofMesserschmitts did put in an appearance. How about the weather, SquadronLeader? 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'llhave it all the way to the Norwegian coast. There it's supposed to bevisibility unlimited. I certainly hope so.
Don't want bad weather tokeep the Jerries on the ground."
The Squadron Leader paused and glanced at his wrist watch, and then overat the engine filters climbing down out of the bomber.
"Well, I fancy its about time to get on with it, chaps," he said, andtightened the chin strap of his helmet. "In with you. And a good timefor 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 theSquadron Leader was running up the engines for a final instrumentcheck. Then he spoke into his inter-com mike and received an all-setokay from each of the other four. That done with, he kicked off thewheel brakes and started to trundle the giant bomber out onto the fieldand down to the far end of the take-off runway. He had hardly startedtaxiing, however, when the Operations Officer in his tower blinked the"Stop" signal with his Aldis signal lamp, and a figure was seen to comedashing out the Depot Office. It was the Depot Adjutant, and he held asheet of yellow paper in his hand. Dave took a look at the yellow sheetwaving around in the wind, and swallowed hard. All of a sudden tinylittle balls of cold lead were beginning to bounce around in the pit ofhis stomach. Why he should suddenly experience the strange sensation, hehad no idea. However, the sight of the running Depot Adjutant, and thesheet of yellow paper he carried in his hand, seemed to strike him as avery definite reminder that this was not to be any joy flight, butrather, a deadly serious mission to be carried out on the wing.
And a moment or two later, when the Adjutant climbed aboard the bomberthat Squadron Leader Freehill had braked to a halt, and came back intothe bomb compartment where the Yank and Freddy were parked, the lumps oflead in Dave's stomach began to bounce around more than ever.
"For you, Captain Dawson," the Adjutant said, and held out the yellowsheet of paper. "From the Air Ministry, special code. Afraid for amoment 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 Freddycould read it together. It had been sent by Air Vice-Marshal Leman, andits 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 quietlyat Freddy Farmer. The English-born youth returned his look, and therewas the glint of grim determination in his eyes. Dave grinned, andnodded.
"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. "Butwe don't. We still want to see Moscow, huh?"
"Very much," Freddy grinned back at him. "Fact is, I'd be delighted tolet the blasted Nazi lads try and stop us. We'll carry on just as thesecond part is doing."
Dave nodded complete agreement. Of course, the "second part" referred toAgent Jones' trip to Urbakh via the southern route. Jones had leftalready, and if he didn't contact Dave and Freddy at Urbakh he wouldattempt to reach Tobolsk by hook or by crook on his own. However, Dawsonand Farmer had no intention of letting Agent Jones be forced to do that.
"Check and double check," Dave grunted, and handed the yellow sheet toSquadron Leader Freehill, who had come aft from the pilot'scompartment.
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. "Butwhat 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 faintfrown, "But the course?"
Dawson opened his mouth to speak, but on second thought checked thewords 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 fordelivering the message. Will you please communicate to the Air Ministrythat we are continuing as originally planned, but will make changes inthe flight course?"
"Quite, of course," the Adjutant replied, and turned toward the bellydoor. "Good luck, chaps."
As soon as the Adjutant was clear of the plane, Squadron Leader Freehillwent forward and got the Wellington into motion again. Dave wentforward with him and dropped into the co-pilot's seat. Neither spoke aword until the bomber was clear of the ground and prop-clawing upthrough the dirty grey fog. At five thousand it came out into a tunnelof clear air between two layers of overcast. There Freehill leveled off,pointed his aircraft in a general easterly direction, and turned in theseat to look at Dave.
"Well, what's the decision on the course, Skipper?" he asked. "Betterlet 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 alongjust as you'd planned."
The other's eyes popped a little, and his jaw sagged in befuddledamazement.
"I say, did I hear you?" he echoed. "The original course? But thatmessage from Air Vice-Marshal Leman said that that course might beknown. And--"
"And I hope it is, frankly," Dave replied. "It always throws the Nazisout of step when you do _exactly_ what they expect you to do."
"Oh yes, quite," the bomber's pilot grunted with a frown. "But I'mafraid, old chap, that I don't quite follow you."
"Well, it's like this," Dave said, and made a little gesture with onehand. "Of course you can guess by now that Farmer and I are on a littlebusiness that would, and does, interest the Nazis plenty. They want usto stay home, but we're not going to. Anyway, in this cockeyed war youcan look for enemy agents any place, and usually find them. By that, Imean that ten to one Nazi agents back at Aberdeen know darn well I got amessage from Air Vice-Marshal Leman. And ten to one they know what was_in_ the message. So, from Leman's warning and suggestion, they arebound to figure that we'll fly a different course. So we just fool them,and don't."
"Good grief!" the Squadron Leader gulped. "You mean, of course, theyknew of our original flight course?"
"I don't know for sure, naturally," Dave replied with a shrug. "I'm justplaying it that way. And besides--"
"Besides, what?" the Squadron Leader prompted when Dave didn't continue.
"I don't like the weather six hundred miles from the Pole," Dawson saidwith a grin. "Also, you fellows are counting on a little Jerry planeaction. Farmer and I wouldn't want to cheat you out of your fun. Norwould we want to cheat ourselves out of it."
The Squadron Leader beamed silently for a moment. Then he gave a littleshake of his head, and an emphatic grunt.
"I don't know a thing about your mission, Dawson," he said. "But thereis one thing I _do_ know. And definitely so!"
"Which would be?" Dawson echoed.
"That you'll accomplish whatever it is," the other replied firmly. "Andwith flying colors. You two are just the type. And your past recordjolly well proves it, too!"
"Thanks," Dave said quietly. And silently wished that at the moment hefelt equally as confident of success.