Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal Part 22

"No land--not a darn sight of it!" he heard himself mumble. "And I had hoped--oh gosh, how I had hoped! Darn it, there _has_ to be land, or we just can't possibly make Port Moresby. And I can't--"

He let the rest trail off and stared bleak-eyed at the limitless stretch of water to the south. He wanted to turn around in the pit and say something cheerful to Freddy Farmer in back. Say any old thing that would take the sting out of what his pal must be thinking, too. But somehow he couldn't turn around. Somehow he couldn't even think of anything to say. He felt absolutely powerless to move. It was as though he were a dead man looking out across a dead world.

And then, suddenly, a bunched fist came down on his left shoulder, and he almost fainted from the pain in his chest as Freddy Farmer's wildly shouted words smashed against his ear drums.

"Dave, look! Off there to port! Dave, look, look, old chap! A lot of s.h.i.+ps. A carrier task force. _It's Jackson's force, Dave! Jackson's!_ There's our task force. Dave! It's a miracle, a blessed miracle! There's the task force!"

For one brief instant more Dawson couldn't move. Then he managed to turn his head, but he could see nothing but swimming lights and shadows. The pent up emotions within him had broken their bonds, and hot tears that he couldn't check filled his eyes and blurred everything. That made him angry at himself, and at everything else. And with angry motions he rubbed and brushed the tears from his eyes. And then when he took another look he saw what Freddy Farmer's sharp eyes had seen first. Far, far off to port, and so low down on the horizon that they looked like no more than a cl.u.s.ter of bugs on the water, were the two carriers, the destroyers and the cruisers and supply s.h.i.+ps of Admiral Jackson's task force. Even though the distance was great, he could recognize them for what they really were. And a happiness such as he had never known flooded throughout his entire body.

"Jackson's force?" he heard himself echo weakly. "But what the heck?

What's it doing over there? That's a night's steaming from the search area! Or--or have we been flying in circles all night long? It's--it's like a dream. A mad, crazy dream! I--"

"Dave, snap out of it, for Heaven's sake!" Freddy's voice cut short his mumbling. "Fly over to them. Fly over to them. _That's our task force!_ Don't you understand, Dave?"

"Sure, sure!" Dawson called back, though every word seemed to burn holes in his lungs. "I see them, and I'm heading over. Just--just taking a couple of minutes out to enjoy life again."

"Wait, jolly well wait until you get aboard!" the English youth yelled.

"Maybe you like being in this confounded aircraft, but I don't. Get us over there, quickly. The sooner we give our report to Admiral Jackson the better it will be for everybody concerned. Man, Dave, just think of it! We found Sasebo's force, and _now_ we've found Admiral Jackson's.

Imagine that!"

"Yeah, imagine that!" Dawson mumbled, as a spell of cold s.h.i.+vers started taking charge of his body. "Just the way you see it happen in the movies. Only--"

He let the rest die because the effort cost him too much, and banked the MK-11 around until it was heading full out for the Yank task force far ahead. And then it was he woke up to a fact that had been in the back of his brain for some considerable time. And what woke him up to the truth was sight of three Navy Grumman Wildcats streaking up off the flight deck of one of the carriers, and coming up and around toward them at top speed.

"Get set to wave and signal those guys somehow, Freddy!" he choked out.

"We're in a _j.a.p plane_, you know. Only those guys _don't_. So stand up and wave, or hold your hands up in surrender, or something. Navy Wildcat pilots don't take chances. They've learned you can't against the j.a.p rats. So, for cat's sake, wave, or do any old thing to get them to hold their fire. Here, I'll help you!"

Dawson started to stand up in his pit of the MK-11, but before he was half-way up invisible steel claws seemed to tear his chest wide open, and he fell back into the seat gasping and choking for air. And countless dancing red and black dots filled his eyes. It seemed years and years before he could get air into his burning lungs, and drive the red and black dots away. By then the first of the three Wildcats was within shooting range, but Freddy Farmer was standing up straight, waving his arms, pointing at his American uniform, and yelling blue murder at the top of his voice.

The leading Wildcat, however, came boring in at terrific speed, and Dawson died a thousand deaths as he expected with each new split second to see the leading edges of the Grumman's wing start spitting out stabbing tongues of flame, and to feel the Wildcat's bullets and air cannon sh.e.l.ls smash and pound their way into the MK-11.

However, the Wildcat pilot did not open fire. Instead he went sweeping past the j.a.p two-seater, staring at it hard. Then he circled around and came tearing up from the other side. As he drew abreast Freddy Farmer practically fell out of the MK-11 in his frantic efforts to signal the truth to the Yank Navy pilot. Dawson managed to lift his right hand, and wave, too. And then the two other Wildcats came up and took up positions close to the MK-11. And Freddy Farmer promptly went into his dance for their benefit, too.

Eventually the Wildcat pilots either recognized Dawson and Farmer, or else they spotted the Yank Air Forces uniforms that the two youths wore, and could see that at least no j.a.ps were wearing them. Or maybe it was for some other reason. At any rate, the section leader nodded his head, motioned for Freddy Farmer to stop trying to throw himself out of the j.a.p plane, and then pointed over toward the carrier task force. That was all Dawson and Freddy wanted, and they both nodded vigorously in acknowledgment. Then, with a Wildcat on each side, and one just behind and a little above, Dawson guided the MK-11 straight for the task force.

As he reached the flanking cruisers and destroyers, he saw the countless upturned faces on the decks, and also the Pom-Pom guns and the "Chicago Pianos" trained dead on the j.a.p plane. He grinned down at them happily, but just the same a nervous s.h.i.+ver or two rippled through his burning and pain-filled body.

And then, finally, Dawson had the MK-11 banked around and sliding down toward the stern of the Carson as the carrier knocked off knots into the wind. That glide downward was the greatest agony of his life. Huge as the Carson was, the confounded thing seemed to dance and skip around before his eyes. Countless times the landing officer, with a signal flag in each hand, blurred right out of his vision. And once he almost fainted with fright when he got the c.o.c.keyed impression that he was heading the MK-11 straight for the Carson's superstructure.

The one thousand years pa.s.sed by, however, and the j.a.p two-seater was down on the flight deck, trundling forward while deck crews hung onto the wingtips. And finally they managed to drag it to a halt. A choking gasp of unbounded relief burst from Dawson's lips. And tears of inexpressible joy made his eyes smart as he caught sight of Colonel Welsh and Admiral Jackson racing across the flight deck toward the j.a.p plane. Laughing and choking in the same breath, Dawson heaved himself up out of the pit, stepped out on the wing but missed his footing and fell sprawling on the wing. He slid off it feet first, so he was standing on the deck when the Colonel and the Admiral came up.

"Here we are again, sir," Dawson cried. "Just like a couple of bad pennies that--that--"

His tongue seemed to stick in his mouth, and the Carson seemed to spin like a top.

"_Dave!_" he heard Freddy Farmer scream. "Somebody--quick--catch him!"

"Here, Dawson, steady!" he heard Colonel Welsh shout.

"Good grief!" cried a third voice. "Look at his chest! Good grief. The man's. .h.i.t bad. Here, somebody...!"

But Dawson didn't hear any more. The Carrier Carson turned upside down and smashed him on the head with its flight deck. Then there was nothing but complete silence and utter darkness.

It was a beautiful pink-tinted cloud that was carrying Dawson through a beautiful world filled with soft and soothing music. Never had he felt so rested, and so comfortable. So much so that he just couldn't be bothered trying to figure out where he was, or what had happened to put him there. Maybe it was Heaven. He didn't know, and he didn't care. If it wasn't Heaven, then it was certainly the next best thing. Whatever it was it suited him perfectly, and he was quite willing to stay where he was indefinitely.

However, that was not to be!

The pink cloud faded away and became a white bunk in some s.h.i.+p's whitewashed sick-bay. And the soft, soothing music faded out, and became the quietly coaxing voice of a human being. In other words, he slowly regained consciousness to find himself staring up into the face of Freddy Farmer, and into the face, also, of Colonel Welsh. And it was the Chief of Combined U. S. Intelligence who was speaking to him.

"Easy does it, son," the colonel was saying. "Try and hang on this time, Dawson. You're all set, son. Everything is fine and dandy. Not a thing to worry about. Just try and relax and be calm, son."

"That's right, Dave, old thing," Freddy Farmer echoed with a catch in his voice. "Gosh, but it's good to see your eyes really clear. You look fine, really. Feel a fair bit better, what?"

Dawson blinked, started to mumble a question, and then gasped as complete memory came flooding back into his brain like water over a broken dam.

"Hey, hey!" he got out. "What am I doing here? What are you doing here, Freddy? Sasebo's task force! Holy smokes, Freddy! Didn't you--?"

Dawson would have said more, but Colonel Welsh gently put a hand over his mouth, and shook his head from side to side.

"Now, now, son," he said with quiet firmness. "Try and realize what I'm telling you. _Everything_ is all right, see? That j.a.p task force is spread all over the ocean, and a good many of its s.h.i.+ps sunk, too. Now, try hard, Dawson, and really get hold of yourself. You've been raving out the complete story of what happened to you and Farmer for two days now. I'm trying to tell you that everything has been taken care of.

Everything is fine!"

Dawson blinked again and tried hard to absorb the full meaning of the colonel's words. But there was one part that just didn't seem possible.

"Two days, Colonel?" he echoed. "You mean that I've been like this, out cold for two days? Jeepers!"

"That's right," the senior officer said, and smiled. "Now, just relax and I'll bring you up to date, briefly. You went cold right after you landed that j.a.p plane on the Carson. So it was up to Farmer, here, to explain everything. When he had told the story we got busy at once. We figured out the course that Sasebo must have followed after you and Farmer took off. Well, our scout-bombers found him. We caught him with his planes on the flight deck. Thanks to you and Farmer, we were able to do a good job on him. One of his carriers sunk, and the other two badly damaged. The last seen of one of them it was on fire. Two troop s.h.i.+ps were sunk, and the rest of the force sent flying for bases where they would be safe. In short, we certainly ruined him for a while. By the time his force can put to sea again there won't be a j.a.p left on Guadalca.n.a.l for him to reenforce. And by the way, _that_ attack went off according to schedule. The Marines landed, and as usual they have the situation in hand. And now you're aboard a cruiser bound for Australia and a good spell in a hospital. Frankly, you haven't any right to be alive, Dawson. Did you know that?"

"And that's definitely true, old thing!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good grief, Dave, why didn't you tell me you had been hit? And to think that all during that terrible night flight I didn't know a thing about it.

You must have suffered something awful!"

"Well, it wasn't very pleasant," Dawson replied in a voice so weak that it surprised him. "I knew that I had caught a good one, but it wouldn't have helped any to tell you, Freddy. There weren't any controls in your pit. And we couldn't have changed seats in that crate. So the only thing I could do was to stick it out. But, boy! I was sure glad to sit down on that carrier. But, hey! How come we b.u.mped into the task force, Colonel?

We were trying to get south to Port Moresby, and--"

"And you were headed in the right direction, Dawson," the colonel interrupted with a nod. "In another twenty minutes you would have sighted land. But you ran across us because we had given up the hunt for the j.a.p force and had steamed full knots for the Solomons to slug it out as best we could _if_ the j.a.p force did show up. It--well, maybe we can call it an act of G.o.d that you sighted us, and gave us the information that we so desperately needed. And--What's the matter, Dawson?"

Colonel Welsh cut himself off short, and anxiously asked the last as Dawson groaned, and made a face.

"Matter?" Dawson echoed. "Plenty! One of the best sea and air sc.r.a.ps there's been in the Southwest Pacific, and I--and I slept through the whole thing! Why, doggone it, I--"

"And that'll be just about enough out of you!" Colonel Welsh said with more sternness in his voice than there was in his eyes. "You and Farmer had done your job, and a magnificent job you did, too, thank G.o.d! It was somebody else's turn to take a crack at the j.a.ps. And, of course, I mean Admiral Jackson's pilots. So stop feeling that you were cheated, you young fire eater. Farmer, here, didn't take part in the sc.r.a.p, either, so you've no complaints. In fact, Dawson, you can give thanks for a miracle every night for the rest of your life. Give thanks for this!"

The colonel paused, slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and took out a gleaming chunk of metal. And that's just about all it was: a gleaming chunk of metal.

"What's that, sir?" Dawson asked.

"All that's left of your pilot's wings," the colonel replied, and twisted the chunk of gleaming metal between his fingers. "It was driven by a Zero bullet right into your chest to within a fraction of an inch of puncturing your left lung."