DAVE DAWSON
IN
LIBYA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE
Mediterranean Patrol

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