Other editions of book Dave Dawson with the Air Corps.

Freddy Farmer scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle down between his fingers as he stared thoughtfully out at the broad expanse of the sky-blue Pacific Ocean. He and Dave Dawson had been granted seven days’ leave from special duty with the U.S. Armed Forces, and they were spending it at Laguna Beach, just a few miles south of Los Angeles, in California. Only three days of swimming and taking it easy in the sun had passed into time history, but Freddy was beginning to get restless. With the whole world at war, somehow he just couldn’t relax and enjoy a well earned and much deserved rest. “Dave, know something?” he grunted presently. “I’ve got a feeling.” The dark-haired, well built youth sprawled face down on the sand beside him didn’t make a sound. He didn’t so much as move a single muscle. Freddy looked at him, made a face, and jabbed him in the ribs with a thumb. “I said, I’ve got a feeling,” he repeated. Dave Dawson groaned, rolled over on his side, and gave his English born pal an exasperated glare.