"FROM now on, this squadron can expect to be called upon to perform emergency missions," Major Sam Tolliver declared at a midsummer meeting.

The C.O.'s announcement followed upon weeks of study and training in which the members of the Wayfield Squadron had worked unstintingly to ready themselves for any call on their services. It had not been easy, for many of the seniors and all of the cadets had found themselves in a world that was strange to them. Nevertheless, the driving leadership of the officers and the wholehearted enthusiasm of the others had carried the outfit through painstaking hours of practice and rehearsals. Functioning both as a unit and in teams, all hands had tackled the variety of tasks that would face them in any real or simulated mission.

Behind the essential training lay the concept of developing complete teamwork. Over and over again it was stressed that the success of an operation would depend upon each individual meshing his efforts with those of his companions. In turn, every element within the squadron would have to work closely together to support and advance the actions of the organization as a whole. Finally, if engaged in an operation with other squadrons, the Wayfield unit would make its contribution meaningful only by close co-ordination and co-operation with its counterparts.

Gradually, by trial and error, by repetition and drill, the members acquired some understanding of their jobs. Far from learning completely the many ramifications of operations, they merely grasped the basic elements, for in the short time since the establishment of the squadron little more could be done. Yet in preparing themselves they had reached a state of readiness that equipped them to undertake the types of mission likely to confront them. It was the attainment of that status that inspired Tolliver to alert the unit.

Three general types of operations were practiced. First of these was the usual aerial mission, such as the patrolling of forests or of other areas. The second was the ground operation, an example of which was the communications exercise. The third type was the air-ground operation, like a search and rescue mission, in which both flying personnel and ground rescue units are used.

In several instances the squadron received simulated field orders, drawn up by Tolliver but purportedly originating in a higher headquarters, in which directions for setting into motion a particular type mission were contained. In the field orders, all the basic information needed to ensure the successful completion of the assignment was given--maps and charts, a list of the organizations participating, an estimate of the general situation, the specific job assigned to each outfit, tasks for subordinate units and administrative, logistical, command and communications data. Following the mock receipt of the order, Tolliver pulled his staff and their assistants into play. Conferring with all specialists who could provide him with the advice needed, he drew up detailed plans for the particular operation. In all exercises he had to take account of the number and type of planes or vehicles to be used, the proficiency of the crews or teams, the special equipment required, the geography of the area to be covered, the fuel supply needed, the course or routes to be followed, weather factors, communications and many other items.

Each section of the squadron was then assigned specific duties, based upon the plan of operation issued by the commanding officer. And immediately after the assignment of duties, the participants in the operation were briefed as to their projected actions. Here all of the data assembled by the C.O. was issued, and then individuals were given special instructions as to what part they were to play. In the case of flying operations, the job was then left in the hands of the men flying the missions; in other types of exercises, the teams involved were set to work on their own.

As soon as the missions were completed, the participants were questioned so that the success or failure of the operation could be quickly evaluated. Then followed critiques, in which all of the good and bad points were brought out. The results of the critiques were used later in planning the next operation.

The exercises, whether or not they involved actual flying, held the interest of everyone in the outfit. They meant a great deal of extra work for Tom since, in addition to the normal handling of supplies, there was the necessary preparation and issuance of special equipment for the operations, as well as a host of other details. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the challenge of providing the squadron with a smooth-functioning supply system and put all of his spare time and every bit of ingenuity he could muster into the effort. He was especially proud of the scheme he developed whereby packets of materials or pieces of equipment were tagged with different colors to identify them for ready use in certain types of missions. It saved a great deal of time when speed was necessary and drew the approving comments of Tolliver and the other officers.

"I'm beginning to like this supply job," Tom confessed to Red when they were talking things over one evening.

"Wish I could say the same," Red commented glumly. "I'm so far behind in my work that I can't ever seem to catch up."

"Oh, I'm not caught up in my work. It's just that I get a kick out of trying to make the section operate the way I think it should. You know, like building something, or finishing a crossword puzzle."

"Yeah. Just like doing a crossword puzzle, all right," Red said. "But I haven't managed to spell the first word yet."

"Nuts!" Tom exclaimed. "You've done as much in your line as I've done in mine. The only difference is that I deal in things that are easy to see and to handle. When I get in a shipment of materials, or tools and equipment, and things like that, I can touch 'em, stack 'em up, look at 'em. But when you get your records in good shape, nobody knows that except yourself or the one that has to use them."

"I suppose so," Red admitted. "But I still don't feel as though I'm making much headway. There's always something coming up, and I sort of feel useless just plugging away at all those papers."

"But it's just as the C.O. says," Tom insisted. "If any one of us lets down on the job, then the whole outfit suffers. I'll admit that some of the jobs are more interesting than others. A lot of fellows think that mine is pretty dull, for instance. But dull or not, it helps keep the squadron going, and if I were to flub the dub, the boss would be the first one to tell me about it. If he just leaves you alone, you can be sure you're doing all right."

"Well, he has said once or twice that I'm helping to keep the show on the road," Red said with a sly grin.

"There you are! He has his eye on you and knows you're doing okay," Tom said. "And as long as each of us puts out, he knows the outfit's going to be able to perform its missions properly."

"Now you're giving me the old teamwork pep talk," Red jeered.

"But you know," Tom said slowly, "there's an awful lot to that. Until I got this job, I didn't appreciate what teamwork means. It all makes sense now, though, and it kind of makes me feel good when I work together with the other fellows and help to make the outfit operate."

"Even working with Ed Dawson?" Red asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

Tom winced and then said, "You almost had me, Red. But I guess I've got to admit that he's turned out better than I thought. I've been waiting for him to make trouble, but so far he's pitched in like everyone else."

Ed Dawson had done just that. Although he had not been brought into direct contact with Tom's work, he had given every indication of making himself a useful member of the organization. Ralph Cross had obviously been keeping him under his wing; but, even so, the real estate man's son had more than done his part. True, no warmth had grown between him and Tom, but the latter had to admit that there was no reason why there should be any such feeling. Of course, the relationship between their respective fathers hampered any friendly development, however much recent history might be forgotten. For his own part, Tom was determined that neither past events nor the current situation were going to affect his official dealings with Ed. The important thing, he felt, was that, whatever the attitude of the Dawsons might be, they had not interfered with the operation of the squadron.

Not long after his talk with Red, however, Tom changed his mind.

On a humid Saturday morning both the senior and cadet squadrons were alerted for a combined ground-air mission. Sam Tolliver called the staff officers into the squadron briefing room to issue the orders. He was serious and businesslike, and he issued his instructions in a measured tone of voice.

Two youngsters from the town of Welling Falls, about ten miles north of Wayfield, had started out on a fishing trip earlier in the week. They had been expected to arrive home on Thursday, but had not put in an appearance. Late Friday, a small party from Welling Falls had scouted the general area in which the boys were supposed to be camping but had found no trace of them. Early that morning, one of the parents had called Tolliver and had asked if the Wayfield Squadron could help in the search for the two missing youths. Tolliver had immediately agreed to take action.

The operation would involve an aerial search of the county in which the pair was believed to be camping, as well as the dispatch of a ground party to a near-by point. A third element of the squadron would remain at the field, ready to perform normal base services for the two planes that were to make the search.

Tolliver and Crynes, who had been appointed the Commandant of the cadet squadron, were to pilot the planes. Lieutenant Bill Trabue, Assistant Commandant of the cadet squadron, would be in command of the ground party and Lieutenant Gil Cannon in charge of base activities. The operation was to begin at once, with the two ships taking off as soon as they were ready and the truck-borne group departing immediately after loading their vehicle.

The weeks of training now paid dividends, and everyone moved to his job as if the mission were just another practice. Though several members, both seniors and cadets, were missing because of absence from town or for other good reasons, the squadron standard operating procedure was put into effect without delay.

With Lieutenant Ellis out of town, Tom's first job was to go into Wayfield and pick up the light truck which one of the companies there had promised to make available in case of an emergency. Before departing, he met with Doug Montgomery, the cadet supply sergeant, and briefly conferred with him on the matter of issuing the special equipment that was to be used for the mission.

"All you've got to do, Doug, is to assemble the items that are marked with red tags," Tom directed. "Check them out by number as they are issued, pile them up near the hangar door, and when I get back we'll load them aboard the truck. Got it?"

"Right, Tom," Montgomery answered. 'I'll check them against the list for air-ground missions."

Tom's mind was at ease as he left the field with Red at his side, for Montgomery was an efficient helper and had performed the same type duties during the several practices which the squadron had run through. Moreover, Tom was sure that he would be back within a short time and would be able to see for himself that everything was in order.

When he arrived at the office of the Wayfield Construction Company, which was the firm that had promised the use of its vehicle, he found only a bookkeeper on hand. That worthy, though trying to be helpful, could throw no light on the whereabouts of the truck. He did suggest that Tom should go to the garage where the truck was kept and wait for the arrival of the driver. Meanwhile, he promised to phone the latter and tell him to bring the car keys to the garage and turn them over to Tom.

At the garage, Tom and Red ran into their first snag, for the man in charge assured them that the construction company's truck had not been brought in on the previous night. Phoning the company, Tom impatiently asked the bookkeeper for advice as to what to do next. The latter seemed at a loss because he had been unable to reach the driver by phone and had no idea as to where he might be. At Tom's urgent request, he furnished the driver's home address, agreeing that it might be a good idea to go there and see what could be found out.

In a matter of moments, Tom was back in the jeep and headed out toward the home of the company driver. He had little to say to Red, for he was worried about the delay and was trying to decide what he should do if he could not locate the truck.

Just as he was pulling up in front of the address to which he had been directed, he saw a pleasant-faced woman entering the house. She paused at the door as the jeep came to a stop and waited for Tom and Red to approach.

"Does Mr. Gallagher live here?" Tom asked politely.

"He does, but he left a little while ago," the woman answered.

"We're from the CAP squadron, Mrs. Gallagher, and I've come here to see about borrowing the company's truck," Tom explained. "Could you tell us how we might be able to locate Mr. Gallagher or where we might find the truck?"

"So that's where you're from," the woman said. "Well, my husband got a phone call a little while back and he's gone out to the flying field with the truck. He said he thought he'd be able to save you some time by taking the truck right out to the field."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher. That's fine. We'll go straight back," Tom said, his worries disappearing.

"There's always someone who doesn't get the word," Red observed when the two boys were on their way again. "I guess they phoned from the squadron to let the driver know we were coming and he just took off, instead of waiting for us."

"Yeah, but it wasn't the driver's fault. In fact, he's shown us a little hole in our plans. We should have found out whether he'd be willing to bring the truck out to the field instead of us having to come in here after it."

"That would be easier, all right," Red agreed. "I guess maybe the C.O. didn't want to impose on the company too much when he made the arrangements for someone from the outfit to pick the car up."

"Well, we haven't lost too much time. And if Doug has used his head, he'll have the truck loaded by the time that we get there so we can get started right away," Tom said.

Montgomery had not been idle. When Red and Tom arrived, the last pieces of equipment were being loaded into the vehicle. It was Ed Dawson, in fact, who was lifting the final box into the truck under the cadet sergeant's supervision.

"Everything okay, Doug?" Tom asked.

"Right, Tom. Ed and I have brought out everything that you had tagged with the red markers. We've checked each item against your numbered list and the load is all complete.''

Tom climbed into the front seat next to Lieutenant Trabue, who was to drive, and the remaining members of the ground party clambered into the rear of the truck. The two squadron planes, Trabue informed him, had already taken off, and Tolliver was in radio contact with the field. Nick's plane, flying on the search mission with the commanding officer's, lacked radio equipment and would have to make its contact by signals to the ground party, once the latter was in position.

The drive to the forward position took almost two hours. As soon as the truck was located at the crossroads location that had been indicated in the orders, the ground party piled out and set up radio equipment. Contact was immediately made with the base and with Tolliver. Only negative reports of the search came in; the missing campers had not been sighted.

The country over which the search was being conducted was hilly and rough, with several small streams running down from the foothills of the heavily forested mountains in the distance. The fog that had settled down earlier in the morning had lifted, but in its place came oppressive humidity. It was hot, even in the shade, and the damp heat weighed heavily upon the little group that gathered around the radio equipment.

"What do you suppose might have happened to those fellows?" Ned Banks asked.

"Maybe they're just lost and are trying to find their way out," Frank Curtin volunteered.

"Either that, or one of them might be hurt," Tom put in.

"But the other should have been able to make his way out and bring back help," Ned said.

"This is pretty tough country, though. And if they weren't sure where they were, it would be best for both of them to wait till they're found," Curtin declared.

"That's probably what happened," Lieutenant Trabue said. "One of our fellows ought to be seeing some sign of them soon."

"And then it'll be up to us to go in after them," Tom added.

"Boy, I hope we don't have to walk too far! In this heat it'll be terrific," Banks observed.

"Hey, Tom! When are they going to bring the chow up to us?" Frank Curtin asked.

"I've got good news for you, chow hound," Tom answered with a grin. "The jeep is on the way up here now, and some thoughtful gal loaded plenty of lemonade aboard. We got the word a while back by radio."

"That's swell! My canteen's just about empty. I've been wetting my whistle ever since we got here."

While the radio operator, a lanky cadet named Art Webster, sat glued to the mobile set, receiving messages and relaying others both to Tolliver and the base, the rest of the group sat about in the shade, studying the map of the area. An hour passed and still reports continued to be negative.

In the distance, flying its search pattern, could be seen the plane that Nick Crynes was piloting. Further away, a black dot in the clearing skies, Tolliver's plane was barely visible. Occasionally the hum of their motors penetrated the woodland sounds, rising and falling like the chords of a symphony. Then, growing stronger, the steady drone of another motor broke through.

"That must be the jeep," Curtin observed, as the group got to its feet.

"Me for the lemonade," Banks shouted.

Far down a long stretch of the road, the bright red jeep came into view, steadily pounding along the narrow, tree edged road. But just as the vehicle drew near, one of the planes swept overhead, its wings dipping in signal.

"It's Nick? Trabue cried. "Looks like he's going to drop a message."

In the excitement, the arrival of the jeep was overlooked, and everyone gathered on the edge of a small opening in the woods that was to serve as the place for any message drop. Shading their eyes, the group watched Nick bank his plane in a lazy turn and head back toward the crossroads. Now, as it swung around, soaring over the tops of the tall pines, it lost altitude. Just before it roared overhead, a small object, tailed with a long white streamer, was hurled from the cockpit and plummeted toward the ground. It was almost a perfect drop, hitting the cleared space practically dead-center.

Lieutenant Trabue was the first to reach the message container and he opened it quickly. After reading the contents, he announced, "Nick has spotted them. He thinks one of them is hurt because he caught sight of just one. He has given us the map co-ordinates of their position. Tom, get me a compass from the truck. Ned, bring your map over here. Art, call Major Tolliver and tell him that Nick has located the two missing boys and will circle over their position. He'll wait for the major to join him and then return to the field."

As Tom ran toward the truck for the compasses, he felt a glow of pleasure. The flyers had come through on their first real mission, and it remained now only for the ground party to move into the woods and rescue the two lost campers. Everything had gone like clockwork, and he was happy about the part he had played in making the operation successful up to this point.

He found the box, marked with a red tag bearing a large number, without difficulty. Jumping out of the rear of the truck, he hastily tore off the top of the box and reached inside for the compasses. But in their place he found rolls of adhesive tape!

He stood still for a moment, at a loss to explain the error to himself. The numbered box was the one in which the compasses should have been found, he felt sure. However, he quickly pulled his check list from a pocket and ran his eyes down the paper for verification. Yes, number seventeen was supposed to contain compasses. There was no box listed with adhesive tape as the contents. He was sure that he had packed and tagged the equipment properly, for only two days previous he had been working on all of the emergency supplies. In his mind's eye, he could see himself inserting the compasses, tying up the box and marking it with a tag numbered seventeen. The picture was so clear that he was sure he could not be wrong. Nevertheless, something was awry.

Tom climbed back into the truck and hurriedly opened every packet of the same shape and size as number seventeen. In none did he find what he was looking for. Angrily now, he tore into the other containers, but to no avail.

"Hey, where're the compasses?" Ned Banks asked, sticking his head into the vehicle.

"I... I can't find them. Look's like they weren't packed," Tom answered dispiritedly.

Lieutenant Trabue, a map spread out on the ground in front of him and surrounded by the entire party, looked up expectantly as Tom approached. "We've got to move down the road a bit, take a trail into the woods and then follow a compass bearing, Tom. So let me have one of those helpful gadgets and we'll plot our course," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tom said in a crestfallen voice, "but we don't have any compasses. They weren't packed with the emergency equipment."

Trabue frowned. "That'll sure complicate things. Guess we'll have to call on the major to guide us in there. But it's going to slow down the operation. Art," he said, turning to the radio operator, "call Major Tolliver and report to him that . . ."

"Just a minute, sir," cut in Ed Dawson, who had just arrived in the jeep with Red, "I have a compass."

"Good boy!" Trabue exclaimed. "How'd you happen to think of it?"

"Well, I was back in the supply room for something and saw them lying there on a shelf, so I picked one up. I thought it might come in handy up here," Dawson said with a pleased smile as he handed the compass over to the officer.

"Fine! That's using the old bean. Now let's see . . ." While Trabue busied himself with orienting the map, Tom looked at Dawson. In return he received a condescending stare and a supercilious grin, and he seethed inwardly. Sure that he had properly tagged the box of compasses, he could account for his failure to find them in box seventeen only by attributing it to some foolish prank or malicious action on the part of another cadet. His natural suspicions of Ed, plus the fact that the latter had so conveniently produced a compass from his pocket, led Tom to the inescapable conclusion that Dawson was responsible for the whole affair.

"Okay, here's what we'll do. Both the truck and the jeep will go down the road to this point," Trabue announced, pointing to a spot on the map. "If the trail into the woods is wide enough, we'll take only tile jeep from there on as far as it can go. I'll want four cadets to accompany me on foot after we de-jeep. We'll move in, pick up the two campers and use the old two-man carry to bring out the one who's injured--that is, if he is hurt. We'll set up radio communications at the point where we leave the main road. Art, notify Major Tolliver of our plans and then report to base that we're starting out. The rest of you grab sandwiches and fill your canteens. We'll eat on the way."

Before long the entire party was on the move. Trabue, accompanied by Red Martin and Ed Dawson, led the way in the jeep. Tom, at the wheel of the truck, followed with the remainder of the party. They had traveled only a few miles when Tom pulled the truck to a halt as he caught sight of Trabue's signal to stop.

"Tom, you stay here with the truck," the officer ordered, coming alongside. "The trail we'll take is wide enough for the jeep, so we'll go in with it as far as we can. I'll want Ned and Frank to come with us. Keep in touch with Major Tolliver and the base."

There was no reason for Tom to be disappointed at not being chosen to go along with the others on the last leg of the search, but he couldn't help feeling that way. Somehow, he reflected as he watched the jeep churn up the trail, his being left behind was a result of the compass incident. Everyone, Trabue included, had assumed that the fault was his, that he had not prepared the equipment carefully for emergency missions. The confidence that he had built up in his system, the confidence in himself, had been demolished with one blow. It was unfair, he told himself bitterly, for he was certain that the whole business was anything but accidental.

As he waited with Art Webster, disconsolately watching the latter handle his communications chores, Tom went over in his mind once again the steps he had taken with the squadron supplies. Try as he could, he was able to remember nothing that could account for the box of compasses being unmarked. He had not moved nor handled the emergency equipment since the last time he had checked it, and he was sure that at that time the compasses were in their proper container. There was only one explanation for the whole thing: someone had tampered with the arrangements that he had made. And, for the second time that day, he made up his mind that Ed Dawson was responsible for what had happened.

He was still smoldering when Webster informed him that Tolliver and Crynes were on their way back to the field, the former having reported that the rescuers had reached the two campers. Not much later the jeep chugged back along the trail with the two lost youths aboard.

They were little the worse for wear and had suffered very little from exposure. As had been suspected, one of the pair had been hurt, twisting an ankle during a climb along a rock-strewn stream. The other had wisely decided to remain with his companion until help arrived. Both were grateful to the Wayfieldians for coming to their aid and filled with admiration for the organization that had undertaken the search. It was with obvious reluctance that they departed for Welling Falls in the jeep, for they both appeared anxious to learn more about the CAP.

On the way home, Tom was silent as he drove the truck with Red at his side. As soon as they pulled up to a stop in front of the headquarters building, he headed straight for the supply room, turning over to Doug Montgomery the job of unloading the truck and lugging the equipment back to its place.

He found the compasses on a shelf, neatly arranged as if placed there for inspection. There was no container and no sign of any red tag numbered to match his check list. As he stood there, a doubt entered his mind. Perhaps he had not packaged the compasses; perhaps he had imagined the whole thing. Then he shook his head. He was certain that he had. Walking slowly from the room, he told himself that he could have been wrong about only one thing: someone else besides Dawson might have inadvertently opened the box of compasses and placed them on the shelf. More than that he would not admit. Later, after questioning Doug and one or two others who might have had occasion to work in the supply room, he even gave up that idea.

In a subsequent critique of the operation, the significance of neglecting to include the compasses in the emergency equipment was pointed out. Tom simply acknowledged that the responsibility was his; he made no mention of his suspicions that the supplies had been tampered with. But he promised himself that from that moment on, he would guard against any similar incident. He was now convinced that Ed Dawson would go to any lengths to discredit him.