The British desert patrol consisted of four cars led by a small scout car that flew a Staff pennant from one of the front fenders. The scout car came straight at the landed Messerschmitt, while the patrol cars circled around to the right and the left and came to a halt in a ring about the plane. Two officers were riding in the scout car—a major, and a lieutenant who sat at the wheel. When the car stopped, the major jumped out and ran toward the plane, one hand on his holstered service automatic. He was tall and broad-shouldered and was tanned a deep mahogany from many weeks and months under the blazing desert sun. The decoration and campaign ribbons on his tunic showed that he had served his King in the last war as well as in this one.

"Don't shoot, sir, we're English!" Freddy shouted, and scrambled down from the plane.

The major stopped dead and stared at them, wide-eyed. Then he took a cautious step forward, his right hand still resting on the butt of his gun.

"What the devil?" he gasped. "Infantry officers flying a plane? What's this all about?"

"Pilot Officers Dawson and Farmer from the Aircraft Carrier Victory, sir," Freddy said. "We've just escaped from the Nazis far to the south, and were on our way to G.H.Q. when we were attacked by a trio of Nazi pilots. We got two of them, but the third beggar got our engine and we were forced to come down. Thank God you saw us, sir."

"Thank God we didn't open fire on you," the major grunted. "We don't care much for Nazi planes. But what's this about escaping? Nazis far to the south? That's rot! The desert's bare as can be."

"That's what you think!" Dave cried before he could check his tongue. Then, blushing, "Sorry, sir. I mean, it looks that way, but the desert is practically alive with them. Freddy, let's show the major our stuff, and tell him the whole story. You tell him."

Just about six minutes later the major, who said he was Major Alden, of the 41st Armored Division, was probably the most amazed and dumbfounded person in all Libya, and Egypt as well. He could hardly take his eyes off the maps and papers the boys pulled out from under their shirts and spread out on one wing of the Messerschmitt One-Ten. The other officer in the scout car, a Lieutenant Baxby, joined them, and he too was struck speechless.

"Bless my hat, bless my hat!" Major Alden kept mumbling. "The whole blasted plan of attack. Units, numbers, gun strength, air, navy—everything. Great guns! I'll never be able to believe it!"

"But it's true, sir," Dave spoke up. "That Nazi colonel actually told us what he planned. He was shooting off his—I mean, he was boasting. Like Nazis do, because he thought he had us for keeps. Can you give us a lift to the nearest radio post, sir? The sooner we notify G.H.Q. the better it will be, I think."

"Eh, give you a lift?" the major echoed looking up from the maps and military papers. "I'll jolly well drive you there myself, straight to General Maitland at Tobruk H.Q. We can make it by just before sundown if we hop along now. Great guns! The blighters would have wiped out the lot of us in no time at all. God bless the R.A.F., I say!"

The major gathered up the stuff on the wing and spun around to his junior officer.

"Take over the patrol, Baxby," he ordered. "Ride in Sergeant Tucker's car. Head back to the post at once, and have all other patrols called in immediately. Then move back to Tobruk to await orders. Got it?"

"Right you are, sir," the lieutenant said.

"Then off with you," the major ordered. "Come along, you two R.A.F. lads. Blast it, if this isn't like a cinema thriller!"

Motioning the two boys to climb in back, the major slid in behind the wheel, shifted gears and sent the light, fast scout car careening around and toward the north. The violent movement pitched Freddy and Dave down onto the floor, and by the time they had scrambled up onto the little stools again and were clutching the two mounted machine guns for support, the car was like a brown streak of lightning ripping across the surface of the sand and leaving a swirling trail behind.

"Gosh!" Dave shouted above the roar of the engine. "If we had wings this darned thing would take off!"

"Dashed if I don't think we already have!" Freddy called back. "Look over there to the right, Dave! Look at the color of the sky."

To the east the sky was filled with a dull copperish haze. It spread out to the side for miles and towered high into the heavens. It was as though a huge expanse of copper screen mesh had been spread across the blue of the Libyan sky. At its highest point the sun was perched like a brass ball on the top of a flag pole.

"Maybe it's going to rain," Dave suggested. "Maybe rain clouds are that color in this neck of the woods."

"Rain in March?" Freddy snorted. "The rainy season's long over before then. That's some kind of a desert storm, I think."

Freddy let go of the machine gun mounting long enough to lean forward toward the front seat.

"What's that sky mean off to the right, sir?" He shouted the question.

The major took his eyes off the desert ahead just long enough to flash a snap glance toward the copperish-colored sky to the east. As he saw it, he started slightly, and his sandy-colored brows came together in a frown.

"Sand storm!" he called back over his shoulder. "And if it catches up with us it'll be very nasty indeed. That's a good one, too. Getting close to the time of year when they kick up quite a bit. If we can't outrace it, duck low and stay there. The stuff's like powdered glass. Dash it all! Even the weather's fighting for the Nazi. I—"

The dreaded snarl of aerial machine gun fire cut off the rest of the major's statement. Dave whirled around and stared upward and to the rear. He saw the diving plane at once. It was a Messerschmitt One-Nine. As a matter of fact, he was positive it was the same One-Nine that had quit that last air battle and gone racing off home. Obviously, though, the pilot had come back, sighted the One-Ten on the ground, and the scout car speeding across the desert to the north. He had added things up to get the right answer, and was now making a final effort to prevent valuable information from reaching British headquarters.

"The bum has come back, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and swung one of the machine guns around on its swivel mounting. "He wants some more, so let's give it to him!"

Freddy Farmer didn't bother wasting breath replying. He simply nodded, swung the other gun around and lined up the diving plane in his sights. A split second later both boys were sending savage bursts of bullets up at the diving plane. The Messerschmitt did not swerve off, however, even though Dave could see their tracers slapping right into the plane. The German pilot was determined to do his worst while he lived. He came right on downward, engine howling a song of mighty power, and all of his guns spewing out streaks of nickel-jacketed lead bullets.

"That guy sure can take it!" Dave shouted as he continued to pump bullets up at the plane. "Maybe he's gone nuts and plans to dive right down into us."

"Let him!" Freddy shouted back without taking his eyes off the plane. "It will be the last dive that beggar makes, anyway!"

"And a lot of good that will do us!" Dave cried. "We'll—Hey!"

The speeding scout car had suddenly careened around crazily to the left. The violent movement tore Dave's hands from his machine gun and flung him heavily up against Freddy. He regained his balance as soon as possible, shot a questioning look toward the major at the wheel, let out a bellow of alarm and dived forward.

"Keep at that plane, Freddy!" he shouted, "The major's been hit—and bad!"

It was even worse than that. The major had received a burst of bullets straight through the back of his head. He was stone dead and slumped over the wheel of the car. Bracing himself as best he could, Dave hauled the limp body to the side with one hand and clutched wildly for the wheel with the other, and somehow managed to straighten out the car before the terrific turning motion sent it off balance and spinning over and over across the surface of the sand.

The instant he had the car straightened out, he pushed and shoved the dead major out of the seat and scrambled in behind the wheel himself. In his ears was the continuous yammer of the Messerschmitt's guns, and the retaliating chatter of Freddy Farmer's single gun in back. He didn't dare turn his head for a look, however. He kept his eyes front and made the car zigzag as much as he could to throw off the diving pilot's aim.

Suddenly there came a wild shout of triumph from Freddy Farmer's lips.

"That will teach you, you blasted blighter!" Freddy roared. "Now you can't go back home!"

Hardly had the last reached Dave's ears before he heard the sickening sound that a plane makes when it dives engine full out into the ground—a sickening sound no words can describe. An instant later there was the roar of the gas tanks exploding, and as Dave jerked his head around to risk a quick look, he saw a fountain of flame and smoke that shot upward. Impulsively he eased off the scout car's speed a bit, and took a deep breath.

"Thanks, Freddy!" he called back over his shoulder. "I knew you could do it. Poor Major Alden! What a tough break for him. Gosh! I almost wish he hadn't spotted us. Then this wouldn't have happened to him. Can you lift him in back, Freddy, and then come up front here with me? We'll have to use your pocket compass for a course. I've lost mine, and the burst that got the major raised heck with his dash compass. Can you lift him back, or do you want me to stop and give you a hand?"

"Stop nothing!" Freddy cried in wild alarm. "Drive like blazes, Dave! Look at that sand storm! It's almost on top of us. You keep driving. I'll get him back here all right!"

As Dave turned his head and looked to the east, his heart zoomed up into his throat. The coppery sky had changed to dull black, streaked with shafts of swirling yellowish white. In that instant the whole world seemed to stand still. All sound ceased, save the roar of the scout car's engine. And its sound was twice as loud because of the sudden silencing of everything else.

"Gosh!" Dave whispered in awe as his eyes stayed glued to the hovering menace aloft that seemed ready to spring upon them in the next split second. "Holy smoke! Like the end of the world, or something. It's— Hey, Freddy, what's the humming sound? No, more like a whine, I guess."

Freddy didn't have time to offer his guess. A low hum that seemed to be sweeping across the desert suddenly rose up to a blood-curdling scream that blasted the surrounding silence to the four corners of the earth. The lull and the silence were no more. In the bat of an eyelid the fury of a Libyan desert storm swept down upon the boys in full force. The car shuddered, and rocked, and threatened to roll over on its side from the terrific impact of the wind driven sand clouds slashing against it. Dave bent low and clung to the bucking wheel with every inch of his strength.

Daylight was no more. All about him was a swirling, twisting, screaming inferno of shadowy darkness. Billions and billions of tiny pin points of pain slashed at his face and hands. They even seemed to dart through his uniform and practically scrape the skin from his body. It was impossible to keep his eyes open to see where he was driving. If he did, he would be blinded in the flash of a split second. All he could do was keep his head bent low, his face shielded from the furious onslaught of the desert storm, and hold the wheel as steady as he could and pray that he was steering a northerly course.

As the fury of the storm increased, and the high, shrill scream of the wind seemed like daggers of fire in his ears, he was tempted to swing the car around and race with the storm in the hope of outdistancing it. He checked the urge, however, because of the possible consequences. If they once lost direction in this storm, it would be all over for them. True, they had Freddy's compass and they could always find north. But from where? That was the point. If he tried to run with the storm, he might get so twisted up that he'd be racing back to the south. Then when the storm passed they would be farther than ever from their destination.

No, it was best to hold a general northerly course now, and pray they could live out the storm. At least the swirling sand would not choke up the engine and put it out of commission. That was their greatest fear, and as Dave strained his ears to catch the roar of the engine, and to feel it by the vibration of the wheel, his heart stood still, and the blood was so much sluggish ice water in his veins.

The car's engine, however, had been adequately protected for just such a situation as it now faced. And it kept roaring out its song of power that spun the wheels and sent the car rocketing forward slam bang into the teeth of the storm. Seconds totaled up to minutes, and the minutes mounted up one on top of the other until Dave felt as though he had been plowing through the raging desert inferno since the very day he was born. Wave after wave of stinging pain swept over his body. Every muscle and bone ached. His head felt three times its size and throbbed unmercifully. It was like racing down a long black tunnel filled with roaring thunder, for he dared not open his eyes. He wondered how Freddy was making out. He didn't dare take his hands from the wheel. Nor did he dare open his mouth to call out. His words would not only go unheard, but he would also instantly get a mouthful of stinging wind-swirled sand.

There was just one thing, and one thing alone to do: hang on hard to the wheel to keep the car traveling a straight course to the north.

Swirling sand, screaming wind, and a hundred new aches and pains attacking his body every minute. Dave's mind became a spinning blurr, a blank. Fighting instinct kept him clutching the wheel and guiding the scout car ever northward. Fighting instinct and a will-power of iron refused to permit him to brake the car to a halt and sink exhausted down onto the floor of the car out of the swirling sand and the cutting wind. He lost all track of time. Time even ceased to exist. It was as though the howling, screaming sand storm had always been about him, and always would be. There was no end. Everything would be like this forever and ever.

"Dave! Dave, come out of it! Dave, wake up. The storm's over. It's gone. Dave, look at me. Look at me!"

From a thousand miles away he heard Freddy Farmer's voice droning in his ears. His pal was punching his shoulder, grabbing hold of him and shaking him violently. Through sand-burned eyelids he stared fixedly at a limitless expanse of desert stretching out ahead of him. Suddenly, something seemed to let go of his brain and he realized what it all meant.

The car wasn't moving. The engine had stopped. The desert storm had passed on and was now blotting out the sun in the western sky. The desert was the desert again. He turned his head slowly and stared at Freddy. It was like looking at a ghost. The English youth was covered with fine white sand dust from head to toe. It was caked in his hair, caked on his face, and was sticking like a layer of white glue to his tattered uniform.

"Dave, are you all right?" Freddy gasped, and shook him again. "You've been driving for fifteen minutes as though you were hypnotized, just clinging to that wheel for dead life and staring straight ahead. I had to switch off the ignition to stop the car. You were absolutely deaf to every word I said. Are you all right?"

"Sure, I'm okay," Dave heard his own voice say. "Gosh! Driving with my eyes open? Holy smoke! The last thing I remember was driving blind with my eyes shut and my head ducked down. And, hey, it must be late afternoon. That storm lasted for hours. Wonder where we are?"

"I don't know," Freddy said. "But we're headed north, anyway. The sun's over there on our left, so we must be headed north. Phew! How you were able to keep on driving through that inferno I don't know. I ducked down on the floor, and just didn't have the strength to get up and give you a hand. You must be made of steel, Dave!"

"I sure don't feel as if I were right now," Dave said, and grinned, stiff-lipped. "But let's get going again. The ground seems to rise up quite a bit just ahead there. Maybe we'll see something on the other side. Boy, oh boy, do I hope it's something besides desert."

"If it isn't, I swear I'll go stark raving mad," Freddy muttered. "If I never see a desert again that'll be much too soon."

"You and me both," Dave grunted and started the engine again. "So cross your fingers, Freddy, and pray hard. Here we go for the top of that rise!"

It took ten minutes to reach the top of the high point of desert, but every second of those ten minutes was a lifetime of torturing suspense to Dave and Freddy. Neither of them spoke a word, but the same question stood out in letters of fire in their brains. What was beyond the rise of ground? For the last fifty yards Dave fed every ounce of gas to the pounding engine that it would take, and the car fairly streaked over the sand. Then finally they roared up and onto the crest. Dave slammed on the brakes, and sat motionless, unable to utter a word. Emotion ran riot within him, and the hot tears of inexpressible joy stung the backs of his eyes. Freddy threw both arms about him and hugged him like a long lost brother.

"There it is, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "The good old Union Jack flying from the pole. The British flag. That's Tobruk, Dave. I recognize it from pictures. Tobruk. You hit it on the nose, Dave. Right on the nose!"

"Tobruk!" Dave whispered softly. "Tobruk, and—and I'll never forget how good you look as long as I live. Never!"

"The end of the trail, and in time!" Freddy breathed, and unashamed tears of joy streaked the caked sand on his cheeks.