The savage fury of the Nazi Luftwaffe was once again raining down upon the brave and stubborn city of London. Wave after wave of German bombers roared in over the city from every possible direction, dumped their tons of life blasting missiles, and then went streaking away toward safety with British searchlights, anti-aircraft shells, and night flying Spitfires and Hurricanes of the R.A.F. hot on their tails. Some made it, but some others were caught by the two fisted hard fighting boys of the R.A.F., and once caught the Nazis didn't stand a chance against such flying skill, daring, and perfect marksmanship. One after another the German planes burst into flame and went hurtling downward to complete destruction. Down on the ground in the city, London's millions squared their shoulders and grimly took the terrific blasting from the night skies. Air raid wardens went about their jobs with a look on their haggard faces that told the whole world that a thousand such raids as this one would not even begin to crack England apart. The gallant fire fighters went about their dangerous tasks with the same expression on their faces, and the same confident belief in their hearts that England would forever survive. In the air raid shelters it was the same. In hotels, too, and apartment buildings, and restaurants, and theatres. All London was one huge fortress that nothing made by man or devil could destroy. And in that fortress the men, the women, and the children stood ready and waiting to take the worst unflinching. In the basement restaurant of the Savoy Hotel were two youths who ate their meal outwardly calm, but seethed inwardly as the faint dull boom of each exploding bomb echoed through the thick walls and ceiling. Both wore the uniform of the Royal Air Force, and both held the rank of Flying Officer which is equal to the rank of First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Corps. One was Dave Dawson, American born, but now offering his life and his all in serving England's cause. The other youth, a year younger, was Freddy Farmer, Dave's dearest friend and squadron pal, and true British from the soles of his shoes all the way up to the top of his head. For several moments they had been eating in silence, each contentedly occupied with his own thoughts. But as a louder roar seeped down into the room, Dave put down his fork and clenched both fists in a gesture of raging helplessness. "I can't eat any more," he said. "Every bite chokes in my throat, I feel such a heel." Freddy Farmer put down his own fork and gave a slight lift of his head to indicate altitude. "Because of the business up there, you mean?" he grunted. "Yes," Dave replied through clenched teeth. "I feel that I should be up there helping the boys dust off the baby killing rats, instead of being down here shoveling food into my mouth." "Feel exactly the same way," Freddy agreed. "But, after all, there's no sense wasting good food, you know. Blessed little of it around these days. Besides, orders are orders. We have to stick right here. So I say eat while the eating is good." Dave grinned and heaved a long sigh. "You and that stomach of yours!" he exclaimed. "It's a darn good thing they've got the ration card system here. Let you loose and you'd have the rest of the country starving in a week. And when you're not eating you're sleeping. What a man, what a man!" The young English youth forced a stern look to his face. He pointed a finger at the blue and white Distinguished Flying Cross ribbon under the wings on Dawson's tunic. "Watch your tongue, my good fellow!" he said. "One more crack like that last one and I'll go straight to the Air Ministry and tell them the truth. Quite right! I'll tell them you didn't do a blessed thing to win that ribbon. That I did all the work, but simply said that you helped a little so's you could get a medal, too. And frankly, that's really the way it was, you know." Dave grinned then put up his hands in mock terror. "Please don't!" he pleaded. "Now that I've got it I want to keep the medal. So help me, you spill a word and I'll tell them how you were always falling on your face in the sand, and that I had to carry you halfway across the Libyan Desert on my back." "Oh is that so!" Freddy cried. "Well, you didn't carry me a single yard, and you know it. In fact, I...." The thunder of a Nazi "egg" striking much much too close for comfort cut off the rest of Freddy's words. They both stiffened slightly, and sat perfectly motionless half expecting to see the ceiling split open and spill plaster and brick down upon them. However, the ceiling was thick and well constructed, and after a brief moment or so the building stopped shaking and trembling. The two youths instantly relaxed but there was hot anger in their eyes. "Bang away, Adolf!" Dave grated softly. "For every one you drop we'll be dropping two on your neck of the woods soon. And that'll be only the beginning." "Check!" Freddy breathed fiercely. "And when that time comes I think I'll ask for a transfer from fighters to bombers. I'd love to dump bombs on Berlin." "Me, too," Dave agreed absently. Then as a frown creased his brows, "What do you make of it, Freddy? You got any ideas? Boy, if anybody can send a fellow's curiosity sky high it's those Brass Hats who run the Air Ministry!" "Meaning what?" Freddy asked with a blank look on his face. "Have I got any ideas about what?" "For you I should draw pictures on paper!" Dave groaned. "What do you think I mean? Why were we suddenly recalled from service with the Fleet Air Arm in the Mediterranean back here to England? Why have we been skipping all over England flying everything from kites to four engined transports? And why when we're only back with our old Fighter Squadron for a day do we suddenly receive mysterious orders to come here to London, and take rooms in this hotel, and stick here day and night until we receive further orders? Answer me those, my pal!" "Simple," Freddy said with a straight face. "Air Ministry just can't believe that a chap like you can actually fly an airplane. But before kicking you out they decided to give you one last chance to prove it. Right now you are waiting for them to decide whether to keep you on, or kick you back to Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A. But don't lose heart, my little man, you may...." "Nuts!" Dave snorted. "You were with me, pal, and...." "And I was simply along to check and make a personal report on your flying ability," the English youth interrupted in an easy voice. "And if you must know, I said that you weren't too bad. A little ragged on the turns, but that you usually do manage to get into a field after shooting for it five or six times." "Then everything will be jake!" Dave breathed in mock relief. "But now that you've got that side splitting humor off your chest, get over on the sane and intelligent side for a change. What do you think it's all about anyway?" Freddy Farmer didn't say anything for a minute or so. He stared thoughtfully down at the last piece of meat. He nudged it a couple of times with his fork, then presently speared it and put it into his mouth. "Next week'll be okay!" Dave growled. "There's no hurry." "We English never talk with food in our mouths," Freddy said after he had swallowed. "But what do I think? Frankly, nothing, Dave." "Well, that's acting natural, for you," the Yank born R.A.F. ace said with a grin. "But I had hoped that a bright idea or two had wormed into that thick skull of yours. At least, that you might have heard a hint dropped here and there. After all, Freddy, it all seems so screwy. Look, a little over five weeks ago we were doing daily patrols off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Since then we've flown everything they've got over here on this island, but not once have we had the chance to take a crack at a German ship. Holy smoke! What are they trying to make out of us? Test pilots, or something? I asked a million questions, but I always got a sweet little blank for an answer. And between you, me, and that dab of mashed potato on your chin, I don't think the birds I asked knew the answers either." "Now that you've confessed," Freddy said and automatically wiped his chin with his napkin, "I might as well admit that I asked a few questions, myself. And like you, got nothing for an answer. No, Dave, I'm afraid I can't help you at all. I'm practically passing out with curiosity, myself. It's been a queer business these last five weeks, and no doubt about it. All that I can even guess at is that Adastral House has something up its sleeve. And we'll not find out until they're darn good and ready to tell us." "It's always like that," Dave grumbled. "Gee, sitting here is driving me bats. For two cents I'd go out and take a walk, and the heck with the bombs. But I...." Dave cut himself off short as he suddenly became conscious of the waiter standing at his elbow. He looked up. "Yes?" he grunted. "Beg pardon, sir," the waiter said, "but would you two gentlemen be Flying Officers Dawson and Farmer?" "Right," Dave said with a nod. "I'm Dawson." The waiter held out a folded slip of paper. "A phone call just received, sir," he said. "The party at the other end said that either of you two gentlemen was to call this number at once. It took a moment or two to find you. The manager thought you might be in your rooms. He tried there first." As the waiter spoke the last he gave the pair a look that seemed to say that men in uniform shouldn't scurry down to the basement just on account of a mere bomb raid. "We would be, but we're hungry," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "Yes, of course, sir," the waiter said as his face got beet red. Then he hastily shoved the paper into Dave Dawson's hand and hurried away. Dave unfolded the paper and looked at the phone number. It was a London exchange but the number was completely unfamiliar. He handed the paper to Freddy. "Any of your girl friends know you're here?" he asked. Freddy glanced at the number, himself, and shook his head. "Clear as mud to me," he said. "I haven't the faintest idea. But we'd better call it before a Jerry bomb flattens the telephone company. There's a booth over there. You want to call it?" "And maybe get one of your girls?" Dave chuckled and shook his head. "And you tell her it was your valet? Nix, pal. You go call her. I'll stand outside and make faces. Boy! Love in an air raid. Now ain't that something!" Freddy blushed slightly but made no return comment. They got up and crossed the dining room to the phone booth built into the wall. The young Englishman stepped inside, closed the door, and put through the call. Dave watching him say his eyes pop, and his jaw drop, and the light of eager excitement leap into his eyes. In less than a minute Freddy was out of the booth and as breathless as though he had just run a couple of miles at top speed. "Guess what?" he gasped. "You just tell me instead," Dave said. "What's up? An armistice been signed?" "That was an Air Ministry number, Dave!" Freddy breathed. "As soon as the All-Clear sounds you and I are to report to Room Five Hundred, Fifth Floor, Air Ministry!" "No kidding?" Dave echoed as the familiar tingling sensation came to the back of his neck. An eerie tingling that had always proved in the past to be an advance warning of action and danger just ahead. "Who has Room Five Hundred?" "The chap who talked to me on the phone just now," Freddy said. "None other than Air Marshal Manners!" "Manners?" Dave gasped. "The man who led the R.A.F. at Dunkirk? Hey, wait a minute! Before we went out for service with the Fleet Air Arm in the Middle East I heard some kind of a rumor that he was going to be put in charge of something very big, and very hush-hush. Boy, oh boy! Do you think, Freddy?" "I'm not thinking," Freddy said and fished in his pocket for money to pay for his meal. "I'm heading for Adastral House right now." "You mean you're following me!" Dave cried and bolted from the dining room. |