CHAPTER ONE

_Order For Eagles_

Very much like a little boy who is seeing his first Christmas tree, Freddy Farmer stared pop-eyed out the Clipper's lounge window and down at the man-made magic that was New York City. For a full five minutes he had been gaping at the sight, not moving a muscle, not making a sound, and practically holding his breath all of the time. At his side and with an arm thrown across the English-born R.A.F. ace's shoulders was Dave Dawson, grinning from ear to ear, and getting the kick of his life out of the spell that a first look at Gotham had cast upon his bosom pal, and hard-hitting flying partner.

Finally he couldn't wait any longer to hear what Freddy had to say.

"Well?" he encouraged.

"Well, what?" Freddy murmured in little more than a whisper.

"What do you think of the old town, huh?" Dave asked with a happy chuckle.

The English youth blinked, swallowed hard, and gave a little uncertain shake of his head.

"Unbelievable, incredible!" he finally got out. "Are--are those really buildings down there? The New York skyscrapers I've heard so much about?"

By way of making his question clear, Freddy pointed at the towering heaps of stone that formed the Wall Street and midtown sections of the city. Dave squinted down and grunted.

"Those little shacks?" he echoed. "Why, those are just the little huts where the poor people live. Wait until you see the real buildings. How high are we, anyway? Hope the pilot of this thing stays over three thousand feet. Be tough to smack into a skyscraper, you know."

Freddy Farmer snorted and dug an elbow into Dawson's ribs.

"Oh, come off it, funny lad!" he snapped. "That one wasn't even worth a quiet smile. Point out some of the buildings, will you? The Empire State Building. Where is it, anyway?"

Dawson pointed it out to his friend, and then went on to point out many of the other buildings of Manhattan that were famous the world around.

"But the Empire State tops them all," he said at the end of his little tourist guide speech. "Funny thing about it, though. The Empire State is the tallest building in the world, but it's not the highest. Ever realize that?"

Freddy took his eyes off the view just long enough to give him a quizzical stare.

"The tallest, but not the highest?" he said. "What kind of rubbish is that?"

"It's a fact," Dawson said gravely. "Didn't you know you've got buildings in England higher than the Empire State?"

The English youth sighed and gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

"I always felt there was something funny about America," he grunted. "But I never knew that seeing your homeland affected you Yanks this way. We have buildings in England taller than your Empire State? What utter rubbish!"

"I didn't say taller, I said _higher_!" Dawson chuckled. "Take the city hall out in Denver, Colorado. Denver's a mile above sea level, but New York is just about sea level. Catch on? The Denver City Hall is over four thousand feet _higher_ than the Empire State. Try that on your friends when you get back to England."

"Blasted likely I will!" Freddy snorted. "They'd have me locked up sure for a balmy one. But don't talk about getting back to England. Good grief! I've only just arrived in America. And speaking of coming to America, I'd certainly like to know--"

"Yeah, me too," Dave cut in, and suddenly leaned closer to the window glass. "Hello, Sweetheart!" he cried, and threw a kiss. "Have you been lonesome for me, Sweet? Well, here I am, Precious. And am I tickled pink to see you!"

As Dawson talked and went through the motions of throwing kisses, Freddy Farmer paled slightly and glanced anxious-eyed about the Clipper's lounge to see if any of the other passengers were watching. They weren't, however. They were all too busy filling their own eyes with New York. Finally Freddy turned back to Dave.

"Are you all right, Dave?" he asked. "Not air sick, or anything? Then for pity's sake, stop all this rot! Where in the world do you think you are? On the stage? And what in heaven's name are you acting out?"

"Acting nothing!" Dawson snapped. "The real thing, pal! I'm just saying hello to my girl, my sweetheart. I haven't seen her for a couple of years, you know. There she is down there. See her?"

The English youth looked eagerly out the window again, but his eagerness disappeared at once, and he groaned softly.

"As though you could see anybody from this height!" he growled. "You've just gone plain balmy with joy at being back in your own country. But I'm telling you right now that if you keep it up, I'm going to quit you and go back to England even if I have to swim it. Frankly, I think I must have been a little balmy myself to have come over here with you in the first place. See your girl waiting for you? Rot! Matter of fact, I recall your telling me that you didn't have any girl."

"I haven't," Dawson said with a grin. "Only this lady is very special. She's the sweetheart of every returning American. Always waits in the same place, holding up a torch so you can find your way in. There she is, down there. See her? Over two million Yanks threw goodbye and hello kisses at her in the last war. She was born in France, but she's been Yank ever since the day she came over. Freddy, meet my very special sweetheart. Isn't she something, though?"

Pulling the English youth closer to the window, Dave Dawson pointed a finger down at the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Freddy stared at it long and silently. Then presently he nodded and smiled at Dawson.

"No, I guess you're not so balmy as I thought," he said. "I see what you mean and I quite agree. She is, indeed, the sweetheart of all you Yank chaps. She stands for the most cherished thing in all of your great country: Liberty!"

"Yes," Dave said gravely. "And I hope and pray that before long what she stands for will extend around the world and to each of the Poles."

"Amen!" Freddy Farmer breathed softly. Then, as his young face grew hard and grim: "It will come, Dave. Maybe you, and I, and thousands of chaps like us, may not live to see it. But it will come, just as sure as there is a sun in the heavens by day, and stars by night. I'm not one of those heavy-thinking blokes who can spill out wonderful words by the yard, but ever since this blasted mess started I haven't once had even the tiniest feeling that Hitler and his murderers would win in the end. And now that the United States is in it, I simply feel that victory will be ours just that much sooner."

"Feel the same way," Dave murmured, and stared unseeing out the window. "But it's going to be a scrap, and a tough one. Those dirty Japs got the jump on us. And they're in high gear right now, while Uncle Sam is still shifting into first. But it won't be long before the old guy with the whiskers gets rolling. And when he does, Mr. Jap, and Adolf, and Muzzy the Fuzzy, you're going to catch it from all sides--and plenty! And--Hold everything! I sound like a Congressman dedicating a post office, or something. Let's change the subject. Gosh, Freddy, but you look funny in civilian clothes."

"Oh, do I?" the English youth flared up and flushed. "Well, let me tell you, my little man, you'd never take any prizes at a fashion show for men. You'd--"

"Get down off your ear, pal!" Dave stopped him with a chuckle. "I didn't mean that the way you took it. I mean that I've been so used to seeing you in uniform that it seems sort of cockeyed to see you in civies. They're a swell fit, and you'll knock the ladies of Broadway and Fifth Avenue for a loop. So don't get hot under the collar."

"Well, that's a little better!" Freddy growled. Then, with a sheepish grin: "To tell the truth, I feel just as strange as I must look. It's really a very nice suit of clothes, but I feel all out of place wearing it. That is--"

"I know what you mean," Dave chuckled. "Feel that way, too. As if a Wing Commander, or somebody, were liable to pop up out of nowhere and bawl the pants off me for not being dressed for a rush take-off and a scramble. Well, anyway, never a dull moment for us, hey, Freddy?"

The English youth laughed and shook his head, then ran a fingertip along the bottom of the window and furrowed his brows in a puzzled scowl.

"No, never a dull moment," he said. "But I wish that some of those moments could be explained to us now and then. I--well, I don't mean anything against America, Dave. And I'm certainly willing and anxious to go wherever I'm ordered. But--well, you've got oodles and oodles of pukka pilots over here. Why should we be sent over here to instruct? After the Singapore business, why were we recalled to England and then sent out here? Why not to some other Front? Russia, or Libya, or right where we were in the Far East?"[1]

[Footnote 1: _Dave Dawson At Singapore._]

"_Instruct?_" Dave echoed sharply, and gave his pal a keen look. "What do you mean, instruct? Were you told something I wasn't told? Holy tripe! If they make a darned instructor out of me, I'll wreck every ship until they realize I'm no good at that sort of thing. Instruct? Why, doggone it, I--"

"I say, don't go sailing off your topper!" Freddy cried in alarm. "Nobody told me anything. I simply said instruct, because I'm blessed if I can think of any other reason why the Air Ministry should send us over here."

"Instruct!" Dave groaned and made a face. "Gosh! Have you spoiled my homecoming by bringing that up. But, heck, Freddy! You must be all wet on that idea. Why ship us halfway around the world to teach Yank fledglings how to fly? That doesn't make sense. Why not at least send us straight to Canada?"

Freddy Farmer pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. But there was a very impish look in his eyes that Dave missed completely.

"Well, of course you're very famous," Farmer murmured. "You have quite a record for bringing down Nazi planes. British ones, too. Crashes, and rotten landings, you know. Come to think of it, perhaps it's because of those crashes."

"Crashes!" Dawson cried as his eyes flashed. "Listen, you little wing crumpler! For every crate I've busted up, you've--"

"No doubt Churchill got in touch with your President," the English youth went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "They often talk with each other by trans-oceanic phone, I understand. Perhaps right after Pearl Harbor, Churchill called up and said, 'I say, Mr. President! That chap, Dave Dawson--he's one of you Yanks, you know.' And your President said, 'Oh, yes, Dawson. Has that blighter crashed again, Mr. Prime Minister?' To which Churchill replied, 'Can't say, Mr. President. Haven't looked over the R.A.F. flight reports for the day yet. It's quite likely, though. But what I called about, Mr. President: Now that you're in this war, do you think you could take the little beggar off our hands? Our aircraft production is on the rise, but--'"

Freddy Farmer cut off the last as he suddenly realized that he was only talking to the Clipper's window. He swung around on his heel, gulped, and blushed to the roots of his hair. Dave Dawson and some dozen other passengers of the Clipper were standing there in a group smiling at him.

"It's the altitude, ladies and gentlemen," Dave said loudly. "On the ground he's really quite a nice guy. But go on, Freddy. I didn't mean to interrupt. Sorry."

His whole face on fire, Freddy Farmer took a step forward, fists bunched. Then he quickly relaxed, and grinned.

"Fancy I asked for it," he said. Then, with a grave bow at the other passengers, he added, "It's undoubtedly the truth, though. He has crashed more than any other pilot in the R.A.F. Just look at his face. Nothing but countless crashes could make it look like that. I ask you!"

"Okay, that evens up!" Dave cried, as everybody joined in the laugh. "But you sounded as if you were set for hours."

At that moment the steward came into the lounge and requested the passengers to take their seats while the landing was being made. As Dave dropped into his seat next to Freddy, a tingle of excitement quivered through his body, and his heart started whanging around in his chest like a broken piston rod. Back home! Back home to the good old U.S.A. He still could hardly believe that it was true. It was more like living out a dream--a wonderful, joy-filled dream. He was afraid that almost any second he would wake up and find himself back in his hut at some Royal Air Force Fighter Squadron in England, or Egypt, or India, or the Far East.

"But it's not a dream, it's true!" he heard his own voice mutter softly. "And that's just _why_ it doesn't make sense! Why _should_ it be true? Why _did_ the Air Ministry send Freddy and me over here?"