don't you?"

"Very much so!" the English-born ace cracked at him. "Particularly if it's Nazi pilots and observers. I want all I can get of those dirty blighters."

"Well, I guess I'm with you there, pal," Dave chuckled. "The fewer Germans I can leave living in this world, the better I'll like it. Well, let's go hunt up this Captain Jones and get a look at those two winged babies we've got dates with tonight."

CHAPTER FIVE

Dead Man's Wings

A thin pale line of light marked where the eastern horizon met the night sky. Settled comfortably in the pit of his Lockheed P-Thirty-Eight, Dave Dawson nodded his head and half raised his free hand in a form of salute.

"Greetings, dawn," he murmured. "Nice to see that you're with us again. Now if you'll just brighten up enough to let me make sure that that really is Freddy's plane off my left wing, then everything will be pretty okay."

For a little under six hours he had been driving the Lockheed across the cold grey waters of the North Atlantic with only the dark of night, the stars, and an occasional blink of Freddy Farmer's navigation lights for companionship. The take-off at Botwood, and the flight up to now, had been totally without incident or accident. Now, though, dawn was coming up in the east. The light of a new day was spreading across the face of a war-torn world. And in time of war no man can tell what the new day may bring for himself, or for anybody else, for that matter.

"But we should be overtaking the ferry bombers soon," he grunted the thought aloud. "And at least that will be something to break the monotony. Boy! I sure take my hat off to the ferry pilots. Night after night, tooling planes across to England, with nothing to do but sit and let her ride the air. Personally, I'd go nuts. But—Ah, there you are, Freddy, old pal. It really has been you all the time."

He spoke the last as sufficient dawn light spread up out of the east to permit him a good look at the other P-Thirty-Eight that was keeping pace on the left. The two air aces waved to each other, and waggled wings in salute. But neither of them spoke over the radio, for that was the one fixed rule of ferry flying across the North Atlantic. Maintain radio silence at all times, and keep it! Too many Nazi stations were open and waiting to pick up ferry plane radio signals and take a cross bearing on their exact position, and send out their shore-based long range fighters to reduce the number of planes that were heading for England.

And so the two youths simply saluted each other silently, and drew in to closer formation—where they could make faces at each other, and go through the kind of gestures that only airmen understand. After a few minutes of that long distance horseplay, however, they tired of it. And both of them concentrated on searching the brightening skies ahead for their first glimpse of the bombers being ferried over. It wasn't long before Freddy Farmer's eagle eyes scored another "first."

Dave saw him waggle his wings vigorously and point ahead and a bit to the left. He looked in that direction, and just when his straining eyes were about to smart and water he saw the cluster of black dots outlined against the light in the east. He counted them, and heaved a little impulsive sigh of relief when they totalled twenty-one. Twenty-one bombers had taken off from Botwood. He stared at the dots, watched them grow larger and take on their rightful outlines, and wondered in which one Major Barber was riding. He didn't wonder in which ones the advance contingent of Commandos was riding, because he knew that. Every one of the ferry bombers had some of the Commandos aboard.

"And it's up to me and Freddy to see that they reach England in good shape," he grunted aloud. "Well, no reason why we can't see that they do just that. The way I feel now, I'm set to tackle a couple of dozen long range Nazi fighters. And Freddy must feel the same. So that makes a total of forty-eight we could take care of nicely, and I doubt that Goering would send out more than that number. Hold it, kid! Are you trying to get a little vocal cord exercise, or are you trying to prove to yourself you're quite a hot pilot? Why not shut up and tend to your knitting, and let come what will come?"

With a tight grin and a nod for emphasis, he continued flying toward the group of ferry bombers. Presently he waggled his wings at Freddy and signalled with his free hand. The English youth answered with a nod of his head, and the pair took up escort positions above and to the rear of the twenty-one planes winging down the home stretch to England.

Some twenty minutes ticked past, and suddenly Freddy Farmer came swerving in sharply toward Dave's plane. As Dave saw his pal cut in, the back of his neck started to tingle, and his heart started to pound a little harder against his ribs. He knew at once the reason for Freddy's sudden maneuver, but as he swept the dawn-tinted skies ahead with his eyes he was unable to spot anything to justify it. But that didn't stop the tingling at the back of his neck, nor the increased pounding of his heart. Freddy, of course, had sighted enemy aircraft, and that he couldn't see them didn't mean that Freddy was all wet.

Anyway, he stopped peering at the skies ahead and looked at Freddy swinging in to wingtip nearness. Across the short stretch of air space that separated them he saw the flush of excitement in Freddy's face, and he imagined that he could see the bright, brittle light of battle in his pal's eyes. Freddy had shoved open his "greenhouse" and was sticking an arm up through the opening and pointing wildly ahead and a degree or two to the south.

Dave squinted in that direction, and squinted hard. But all he got for his efforts was an ache in his eyes. He could see absolutely nothing but the advance glare of the new sun that was racing up out of the east. True, his imagination caused him to "see" all sorts of other things. But he had only to brush a hand across his eyes, or blink, and the "other things" wouldn't be there any more.

Then, suddenly, he saw them!

Three moving dots, so low down that they were practically in line with the horizon, and completely backgrounded by the yellowish orange rays of the coming sun. The instant he spotted them he pinned them in his vision, and breathlessly waited for the moment when they would take on sufficient outline for him to tell their type. On impulse he bent his lips to the flap mike to ask Freddy the obvious question. But he checked himself in time, and spoke not a word. Radio silence had been the order. And radio silence it had to be, even if the whole darn Nazi Luftwaffe was tearing out for a crack at the ferry bombers.

"They could be R.A.F. planes headed out to give us a hand with the escorting," he murmured.

Even as he spoke the words, however, he knew that he was simply whistling in the dark. If it had been decided for R.A.F. planes to fly out from England and meet them, they would have been informed of that fact before leaving Botwood. No, those three dots weren't R.A.F. planes. So there was only one answer. They were Nazi long range fighters, and Colonel Stickney's words about German Intelligence not being stupid were bearing fruit. Word of this ferry bomber-Commando aerial convoy to England had reached German ears. And there were three Nazi planes tearing out to do something drastic about it.

For a moment or two Dave took his eyes off the three dots rushing up out of the dawn light and glanced at the bomber formation prop-clawing toward England. Ice coated his heart, and his throat became dry and tight. Twenty-one bombers heading for England, unarmed. Twenty-one bombers, each of which carried its crew and a certain number of highly trained Yank Commandos!

"And it's up to Freddy and me to see that they get there!" Dave muttered grimly.

In the next instant a wave of blazing anger swept through him. What did Colonel Stickney