It was high noon and the Mediterranean sky was like a vast expanse of blue silk with a golden ball pasted exactly in the middle. Far below, the placid waters of the Mediterranean seemed to catch the blue of the sky, keep some of it and fling the rest up heavenward again. Between the blue sky and the blue water, at eighteen thousand feet to be exact, a lone Blackburn "Skua" of the Royal Air Force, Fleet Air Arm, coasted slowly about in a series of unending circles. At the controls of the combination fighter and dive bomber, powered with a 830 hp. Bristol Pegasus XII sleeve valve engine, sat Pilot Officer Dave Dawson, R.A.F. Behind him, in the gunner-observer's pit, sat his pal and flying comrade, Pilot Officer Freddy Farmer, R.A.F.

For the last two hours they had been aloft doing their trick as advance air scout for the H.M. Aircraft Carrier "Victory" and her four escorting destroyers, steaming eastward for a rendezvous with the main unit of the British Mediterranean fleet. Two hours of coasting around high in the air far out in front of the Victory, and keeping their eyes constantly peeled for the first sign of approaching enemy air attackers. Thus far, however, they had seen nothing save the blue sky, the blue water, and the golden ball that was the sun. At regular fifteen minute intervals Dave had made his radio check in code with the flight operations officer aboard the Victory. Each time there had been nothing to report. And each time there had been no special orders from the Victory.

Two solid hours of flying, looking, and reporting nothing. And still another whole hour to go before another Skua would be sent aloft to relieve them and they could slide down to a landing on the long flat deck of the Victory. Dave sighed, shifted to a more comfortable position and looked back at Freddy Farmer.

"My legs feel like they'll stay bent at the knees for the rest of my life," he said, after removing the "flap-mike" from in front of his lips. "How about you, my little man? How do you like active duty with the Fleet Air Arm, huh?"

The English youth shrugged and made a face.

"Not even a little bit, so far," he replied. "And, by the by, my lad, let me remind you it was your idea we put in for duty with the Fleet Air Arm. Frankly, I wish we'd stayed with the Fighter Command in England. It's been so long since I've had an air scrap I'm wondering if I still know how to fire my guns."

"Stop fishing for compliments," Dave said with a chuckle. "Just do what you always do. Close your eyes, pray, and press the trigger button. If there are enough Jerry or Muzzy ships about, one of them is bound to fly into your bullets."

Freddy Farmer scowled darkly and lifted a warning finger.

"You seem to have forgotten something, my little American friend," he said in mock reprimand.

"Who, me?" Dave echoed. "Impossible! For even suggesting that I'd forget anything, I think I'll challenge you to a duel with cup-cakes at ten paces. But what have I forgotten, anyway?"

Freddy Farmer tapped his own chest and closed one eye.

"That I happen to be a pilot, too, though I'm serving as your observer on this show," he said. "In other words, one more insulting remark about my shooting ability and I shall be forced to dump you overboard, parachute and all, and finish this patrol alone. You think I can't?"

Dave shivered and shook in mock alarm.

"Please, kind sir, spare me such a fate!" he cried. "It's a long way down. Besides, you wouldn't want me to be court-martialed, would you, and perhaps be kicked out of the Service?"

"I fancy it would jolly well be a good thing for the Service," Freddy came right back at him. "But I'll bite. Why would you be court-martialed?"

"For losing one perfectly good Blackburn Skua monoplane fighter," Dave said gravely.

"For losing one?" Freddy echoed before he could stop himself.

"Sure." Dave nodded and widened his grin. "You'd be at the controls. Same thing, isn't it?"

Freddy's eyes snapped fire and the blood rushed into his cheeks. He glared at Dave for a few seconds, and then slowly grinned sheepishly.

"Okay, okay," he finally said. "To use your terrible American slang, I walked into that one. But beginning with now, my lad, watch your step. A Farmer always has the last laugh."

"You bet, of course!" Dave hooted at him. "After everybody else has got the point of the joke. Kidding aside, though, Freddy, I feel like you do. I mean, it's nice to be down here where it's warm, and the sun shines every day. And a boat ride on an aircraft carrier isn't tough to take, either. But I sure could do with some more war. I feel—well, I sort of feel as if I were cheating."

"Cheating?" Freddy murmured. "What do you mean? Or is this another wise-crack of yours? You seem full of them today, for some reason. Was it what you had for breakfast?"

"No, I'm talking seriously now," Dave replied. "I feel as though I were cheating the lads we left back in England. You know, sort of running out on them. The Jerries have been giving London and Liverpool, and Manchester, and those other places, a pretty good pasting. It makes me feel pretty punk to think I put in for a transfer to the Fleet Air Arm down here in the Mediterranean, and—well, nothing's happened. See what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," Freddy said, and nodded gravely. "Feel a bit that way, myself. However, when we put in for transfer, General Wavell's troops were knocking the Italians forty ways from Sunday in Libya. It's not really our fault we got down here after the show was all over."

"No, I suppose not," Dave grunted. Then, frowning slightly, "I've been wondering about that, Freddy."

"About what?"

"Whether the Libya show really is all over," Dave replied. "Heaven spare me from trying to be a military expert, like those crystal ball gazers you hear on the radio, but I've got a hunch Hitler will do something before he lets General Wavell kick the Italians completely out of Africa. And he sure seems to be doing it."

"Quite," Freddy nodded. "And once again I agree with you. If you want my opinion, I think British Middle East Command is jolly well sure that Hitler is going to do something about it. In fact, he already has."

"Yeah?" Dave breathed and widened his eyes in interest. "What? And how did you know, or do you?"

"As you would say," Freddy replied with a grin, "I get around, pal. I was talking with Group Captain Spencer on the Victory yesterday. He said that there were reports the Germans were flying troops and supplies from Sicily across to the main Italian base at Tripoli. He also said he was sure that there would be an Axis drive against Wavell's troops very shortly."

"Flying stuff from Sicily to Tripoli?" Dave exclaimed. "Then what are we doing way over toward the eastern end of the Mediterranean? We should be off Sicily knocking them down as they start over."

"That's the way I feel," Freddy said with a shrug. "However, I fancy Admiral Cunningham, of the Mediterranean Fleet, knows what he's doing. There's probably a bigger job to do first. Don't worry, if things get hot in Libya, I fancy the Fleet Air Arm will be called on to do double duty. The first job, though, is to find the rest of Mussolini's navy and put it out of action for keeps."

"There's a guy for you!" Dave snorted disgustedly. "Mussolini! Will he give our grandchildren a lot of laughs! What a big bag of wind."

"And I'd rather like to puncture it," Freddy added. "I feel sorry for the Italian people. I've always liked them. But Mussolini! What a rotter!"

"What a dope!" Dave echoed. "He and that Ciano are a couple of first class—"

Dave didn't have a chance to say what Mussolini and Count Ciano were, for at that moment he heard the brisk voice of the operations officer aboard the Victory in his earphones.

"Crimson to Patrol! Crimson to Patrol! Over!"

Crimson was the code word meaning that the Victory was calling the advance scouting patrol. And "Over" meant for Dave to reply that he was receiving the signals. He quickly turned front and slid his flap-mike up into place.

"Patrol to Crimson!" he called. "Patrol to Crimson! Signals clear. Over!"

"Crimson to Patrol!" said the voice in the earphones. "Crimson to Patrol. Relief patrol is off. Return to your base at once. Crimson to Patrol! Return to your base at once. Over."

Dave impulsively glanced at his instrument board clock and saw that it still lacked forty-two minutes before the patrol trick would ordinarily be through.

"Patrol to Crimson!" he spoke into his flap-mike. "Orders received. Coming in, Crimson. Over."

"Okay, Patrol!" the earphones said. And then the radio went silent.

Dave turned to see if Freddy had had his radio switched on. The English youth had, of course, and he gave Dave a wide-eyed stare of wonder.

"What's up, do you think, Dave?" he asked.

"Search me," Dave replied with a shrug. "But orders are orders, and so down we go. Hang onto your hats, children."

As Dave spoke the last he eased back the throttle and sent the Skua seaward in a long three quarter throttle power dive. He had dropped some five or six thousand feet before he saw the relief patrol climbing up into the blue. He waved a hand in greeting and continued on down. At ten thousand feet he leveled off and banked west. A couple of seconds later he picked up the aircraft carrier Victory. In the golden glare of the sun it reminded him a little of a long narrow flatiron floating upside down in the water. He headed straight for it, then suddenly grinned and turned around to Freddy.

"Figured it out yet?" he asked.

"Naturally not," Freddy replied. "Have you?"

Dave struggled to keep his face straight.

"Of course I don't know for sure," he said, "but I think I've got a pretty good hunch. It's Group Captain Spencer. He's a very considerate officer, you know."

"Group Captain Spencer?" Freddy echoed unsuspecting. "What has being a considerate officer got to do with it?"

"Well, I've got a hunch he likes me," Dave said. "So I suppose he figured that being aloft with a guy named Farmer for three whole hours was just too much to take. Ouch! Hey, lay off! Want me to dive us down into the drink?"

The last was because Freddy had moved swiftly forward, unsnapped Dave's helmet strap and tilted the helmet down over his face. He held it there as Dave struggled with his free hand.

"Apologize?" Freddy demanded.

"Okay, okay!" Dave cried. "I take it all back. Boy! Am I glad I didn't make that crack just as we were sliding in to land."

"Oh, I'd have waited a bit, I fancy," Freddy said, and grinned at him. "No sense cracking up a nice airplane just to teach you a bit of manners. Now, my lad, close that pretty mouth of yours and get us down safely."

"For two cents," Dave growled as he adjusted his helmet, "I'd—No, let it go. Okay, my fine feathered friend. Watch, and learn."

The Victory was now just ahead and steaming straight into the wind. Dave roared by on the port side and took a look at the landing officer (or flag officer) standing in a box-like structure that jutted out to the right of the bridge. The officer held a yellow flag in each hand, and as Dave and Freddy thundered by he signaled with the flags that the deck was clear for a landing.

After continuing on a certain distance astern of the carrier, Dave then banked around and headed straight back, one hand on the stick, the other on the throttle, and his eyes fixed steadfastly on the landing officer. Landing on a carrier is not the same as landing on a ground airdrome. When landing on a ground airdrome, the pilot does the whole job. Not so on a carrier, however. There the landing officer tells the incoming pilot exactly what to do. He does this with his signal flags. He signals whether the pilot is too high, or too low; whether he is too much to the left, or to the right; or if his plane is not trimmed correctly. The pilot (if he is a wise pilot) does exactly as the landing officer signals, and does not rely on his own judgment at all. It has been proved time and time again that the incoming pilot who does not obey the landing officer's signals implicitly winds up in a whole lot of trouble, if not in the ship's Sick Bay.

And so Dave kept his eyes fixed on that officer with the yellow flags and brought the Blackburn Skua down closer and closer to the Victory's polished flight deck. Finally he caught the signal to cut his throttle way back. He did so, and the plane sank down onto the deck. Almost before the secret arresting gear had pulled it to a full stop, mechanics were rushing out to take over.

As Dave and Freddy climbed out and stretched their cramped legs, the deck duty officer came over.

"Get out of your duds and get polished up, you two," he said with a grin. "All pilots are to report in the Ready Room in twenty minutes. So hop to it."

The deck duty officer was no more than a couple of years older than Dave and Freddy, and his flying rank was the same. His name was Talbert, and he ate at the same mess table as the boys. Dave gave him a searching look, then spoke in a low voice.

"You wouldn't know, would you, Tal?" he asked. "I mean, what it's all about?"

"Not a blessed thing, Dawson," the other replied with a shake of his head. "Big doings, though, I shouldn't wonder. Group Captain Spencer looks quite hot and bothered. I fancy he isn't collecting us to serve tea. Now off with you. Mustn't clutter up the flight deck, you know."