A continuous roaring thunder that seemed to shake the entire world greeted the new Libyan dawn. The roaring thunder of war on the land, in the air, and on the sea. Thanks to Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer, the British Middle East High Command had been warned in time to call in its outpost forces and concentrate them into a swift mobile force that streaked out to smash hard at the enemy forces stealing in for a surprise attack that never took place.

On land the British forces struck the middle and both flanks of the enemy desert forces and sent them reeling back into the desert scattered and completely disorganized, and suffering terrific casualties. To the west at El Aghelia, and Bengazi, other Nazi-Italian units found nothing but small British rear guard units that made them pay far more for every foot of ground they captured than that foot of ground was worth. It was the same at many other points, too. Instead of being surprised, it was General Wavell's armies that surprised the Axis units. They weren't where the Nazi and Italians had fully expected them to be. They were like ghost armies that faded out of sight, and then suddenly materialized on a Nazi flank to crush a tank company as though they were so many toys, and to spread terror and complete befuddlement in the enemy ranks.

In the air every available R.A.F. plane had been hurled into the battle. Carefully guarded Nazi fuel supply truck units and ammunition trains and armored car columns were blasted into eternity by the rain of bombs and bullets showered down from R.A.F. wings. Nazi and Italian planes were shot down like flies. Numbers made no more difference to the R.A.F. boys on the wing than numbers meant to the brave-hearted, two-fisted fighting British, and Australian, and New Zealand and South African soldiers on the ground. They gave ground, yes, but they left nothing worth the holding. And the Axis forces paid one of the highest prices in history for stretches of useless hot desert land.

On the sea, units of the Mediterranean fleet were doing their share, too. Italian navy ships sent to take part in the surprise Axis attack were caught cold by John Bull's sailors, and were scattered about the blue waters of the Mediterranean like helpless chunks of steel. Not a single Italian naval shell was fired ashore into the ranks of the British troops. The Italians didn't have the chance to fire a single shell. The British sailors caught them in a perfect trap and plastered them from bow to stern with screaming shells. In a couple of hours there wasn't a single Italian ship in sight off the Libyan coast. Those that had not gone down under the waves were scurrying like terrified ducks for the safety of their bases in Naples and in Taranto, leaving behind the British navy in supreme command of Libyan waters.

In one of the R.A.F. planes that roared above the raging war inferno that stretched from El Aghelia in the west to Bardia and Sollum in the east, were Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. They were still caked with sand, and they still wore their tattered uniforms. And they were dead tired and practically all in. But not for all the gold in the world, or all the discipline in the world, would they have remained on the ground inactive during this great conflict in the middle East. The high ranking officers of British G.H.Q. had suggested, begged, and practically demanded that they go to a hospital in Tobruk, and place themselves under a doctor's care at once. But arguments, threats, and demands had simply fallen on deaf ears. In the end, and with frank admiration glowing in his eyes, General Maitland had granted permission for them to take a plane from one of the nearby R.A.F. bases and go aloft for an hour or so to watch the gigantic battle. At the end of an hour, however, they were to fly out to sea to the Victory, whose position had been given to them.

"Five minutes more, Dave!" Freddy shouted above the roar of their engine. "Think we can get just one more Heinkel bomber before we head for the Victory?"

Dave turned in the cockpit, grinned at him, and shook his head.

"Boy, what a hog for air scrapping you are!" he cried. "But nix, no more. We more or less promised the general we wouldn't get too close to the scrapping—just take a look-see around. Instead we tore in and got us a Nazi apiece. But two's enough. I haven't got half a dozen bullets left. Besides, this isn't our show, really. The other fellows deserve their innings. Also, I've suddenly got a yen for the flight deck of the Victory. What say? Shall we let these guys have their fun without us butting in, and buzz home to the Victory?"

Freddy cast a sad glance about the sky swarming with British and Axis planes, then sighed heavily and nodded.

"Right you are," he said. "Guess we've been selfish long enough. Yes, the flight deck of the Victory would be fine. Hurry it up, though. I've got something very important to do. Matter of life or death, you know."

"What?" Dave cried in alarm. "You—?"

"Never mind the questions!" Freddy cut him off. "Just get me to the flight deck of the Victory as fast as you can."

Forty minutes later Dave sighted the aircraft carrier, and ten minutes after that he received word from the operations officer to come aboard. The huge ship looked strangely bare and alone as it steamed into the wind. There wasn't a single plane on deck. All available ships were in the air, either scouting for fragments of the Italian fleet or lending their aid in the battle ashore. Just the same, the long smooth deck looked like home sweet home to Dave as he guided his borrowed two-seater fighting plane downward.

He came in clean as a whistle, and no sooner had the secret arresting gear brought the plane to a halt than Group Captain Spencer seemed to pop right out of thin air and come racing across the deck to greet them.

"The happiest day of my life!" he cried, and reached up a helping hand. "Climb down out of there, you two. Blessed if I don't want to hug and kiss you. Fancy that!"

"First tell us about the others, sir," Dave said as he climbed down onto the deck. "I mean, the other patrols that went out when we didn't return. Did they get back okay?"

"Fit as fiddles, and without a speck of information!" the group captain cried, "But we all know why, now. By George! Is it good to see you two! I suppose you know you helped a little, eh?"

"Well," Dave said with a grin, "I hope we helped at least a little."

"Oh, it was a bit more than that," Group Captain Spencer said with a mocking shrug. "All you did was save half the British army in Libya from walking into a death trap. That, plus making it possible for us to give the Nazis a licking that will slow them up long before they reach Egypt. And when they do reach Egypt, we'll be able to hold them until General Wavell's ready to run them all the way back where they came from. Yes, you two helped some, I guess. And as soon as you're rested up I want the whole story in detail. Don't leave out a thing. I insist.... By George! Farmer, what's the matter?"

Freddy had squatted down on the deck and was tearing off his boots as though his feet were on fire.

"Must get rid of them at once!" he panted, and struggled with his boots. "Die if it touches me any longer. Most terrible stuff in the world. Deadly poison. Absolutely fatal."

Dave's heart looped over as he remembered a squashed scorpion on a Libyan desert rock.

"Freddy, what is it?" he cried, bending over. "What's in your shoes? That stuff you talked about life and death in the plane? Freddy, speak to me! What's in your shoes?"

The English youth got to his feet, picked up his two shoes and hurled them far out over the side of the carrier. When they had hit the water and sunk from sight, he shuddered and heaved a long grateful sigh.

"Sand," he said hoarsely. "Blasted desert sand!"

THE END

A Page from
DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL

Golden sunshine was streaming down on the broad wings of the American built Consolidated "Catalina" flying boat, but ominous coal black clouds were beginning to pile up high in the western sky. Even as Dave Dawson stared at them, they seemed to fling a dark shadow far out over the rolling grey swells of the North Atlantic. He gave a little angry shake of his head and impulsively took a tighter grip on the controls of the flying boat.

"That storm looks plenty bad, Freddy," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think?"

Freddy Farmer, seated in the co-pilot's seat, nodded grimly and glanced at the altimeter. It showed exactly nine thousand feet.

"We'll just have to hit it on the nose, and pray," he said after a moment. "If we climb above it we might just as well go back to port.