"I think Dawson has done more correct figuring in the last seven seconds," he said, "then we of Intelligence have done in the last seven days. But that's the way it is at times in this game. A bloke is so busy digging up the mysterious that the obvious passes him right by. Yes, I believe Dawson has got hold of something. And that brings us up to the work you've been doing, Group Captain. Does Dawson's remark change anything?"
The Air Ministry official scratched the side of his jaw and squinted off into space for a moment or so before giving voice to his thoughts.
"I don't know," he said, "but I doubt if it does. I've studied those photos until I know every dot and shadow on them by heart. True, we weren't looking for any signs of aeronautical activity, and for that reason perhaps something slipped past us. I doubt it, though. However, the point is, Colonel, as we both agreed, that as of the Twenty-Fifth all photos of Zone K Dash Twenty-Four are obsolete. So I think we can just plain forget them."
Colonel Trevor nodded, and said nothing. Dave waited for perhaps three seconds, and then he couldn't stand being in the dark any longer.
"What photos, Group Captain Ball?" he blurted out. "And where is Zone K Dash Twenty-Four located? I don't believe I've ever heard of that zone, sir?"
The Air Ministry official grunted and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
"Well, you're going to hear about it now," he said with a quick side glance at Squadron Leader Markham. "Through a slight mistake a certain order of mine was sent to this Squadron instead of the Squadron for which it was originally intended. However, I regard that as a bit of good fortune, rather than bad, because when Squadron Leader Markham told me of the mistake over the phone I suddenly realized that I would much rather have this Squadron tackle the job. Just a minute, now, while I light my pipe."
As the Air Ministry official produced pipe, tobacco, and matches, Dave noticed that Squadron Leader Markham looked far from happy. As a matter of fact, the O.C. of Eighty-Four looked downright annoyed at Group Captain Ball. However, he said nothing and watched in silence while the senior officer lighted up his hand carved "stove."
"There we are!" Group Captain Ball said and tossed the fourth or fifth burnt match into the ash tray on Markham's desk. "Now, about those photo patrols. Well, when we learned that Jerry had developed some new secret weapon that could guard Europe's coastline from the tip of the Netherlands to the south of France, we got to work to find out what it could be. Naturally, the first step was to take pictures from the air. Pictures, and more pictures, until we had found some kind of a clue. Then we would concentrate upon that particular area, and try to learn more.
"Well, under my direction, at least thirty picture patrols a day were made to various points along the entire coastline. Light bombers and reconnaisance planes took the pictures. And a fighter unit or two went along as escort and protection. There were air scrambles, of course, on every patrol. We suffered a slight loss in pilots and planes, but we did get our pictures. Well, for the first few days those pictures told us absolutely nothing that we didn't already know. Then it suddenly became very apparent that there was something going on in Zone K Dash Twenty-Four. That Zone, for your information, extends from Dunkirk to Ostende, to Calais, to Boulogne, to Dieppe. In other words, the strip of Occupied France shoreline closest to the British Isles. There the photos told us that changes were being made every day. Pictures taken on two successive days simply didn't match up with each other at all. Gun implacements were different, ammo depots and the like were all changed around, anti-aircraft battery posts, and signs of troops and motorized unit movements were different. In other words, the whole blasted length of shoreline, and inland for fifteen miles or more, was a different kind of a jumble from day to day."
The Air Ministry official paused, frowned at his dead pipe, and pulled out some more matches. Dave started to ask a question, hesitated a second, and Freddy Farmer beat him to it.
"That sounds like the Jerries were on to you, sir," he said quietly. "I mean, that they mussed up things on purpose so that you couldn't make out head nor tail of what was going on in that Zone."
Group Captain Ball blew a cloud of thick smoke toward the ceiling, smiled at Freddy, and nodded.
"Good lad, Farmer," he said. "That's exactly the way we figured it. We decided definitely that they were playing a bit of a game with us. Pulling our leg, you know. And then we got pictures on the Twenty-Fifth. That was three days ago. They were the most mystifying of the lot. Every blessed one of them showed definite signs that the Zone had been completely evacuated. Yes, sir! Completely evacuated. Even the pilots taking part in the picture patrol reported they saw no signs of occupancy. True, they were at altitude, and the Jerry planes, of course, were there to give them trouble. But what little opportunity they did have to observe the terrain below resulted in nothing of value. Eye witnesses and photographs assured us that the German forces had just up and cleared out."
The Air Ministry office made a faint motion with his hand, and snorted softly.
"Naturally we suspected some kind of a trick at once," he continued in a moment. "We knew, perfectly well that Hitler wasn't going to up and walk away from ground that had cost him so much in men and guns. No, not that greedy one! No, it was obvious that they had simply dug places where they could hide during the day, and did their work, whatever it was, during the night. And so we made arrangements to top them on that little game."
Group Captain Ball cut off the last short and stared fixedly at his pipe. It had gone out again, but it was plain that he was not even conscious of the fact. His thoughts were on something completely removed from his hand carved stove. To Dave and Freddy the senior officer's face seemed to suddenly age a dozen years or more. His shoulders sagged slightly, and his lips were pressed tightly together in a grimace of bitter self-reproach. Then presently he lifted his head and got his shoulders back.
"I'd give my life if I could recall that order," he said in a husky voice. "The order was for the light bomber-photo planes to go over at night, as though on a bombing mission. When they were over their objective they were to release the new powerful magnesium flares used nowadays for night photography. They were to dive, catch those on the ground by surprise, and take their pictures."
"The pictures still showed evidence of complete evacuation, sir?" Freddy Farmer put the question when the Air Ministry official stopped and didn't go on.
"There were no pictures," the man said harshly.
"No pictures, sir?" Dave echoed. Then as a wild guess, "Oh, you mean the patrol was washed-out?"
Group Captain Ball turned his head and stared at him out of eyes filled with sorrow.
"I mean that the patrol waswiped out!" he said in a heavy voice. "Not a single plane or pilot returned to base. Ten Lockheed Hudsons and not a one of them has been heard from since. They all just completely disappeared!"
The senior officer stopped abruptly and a tingling silence settled over the interior of the Squadron Office. Dave wanted to say something, but he could not think of the right words. A lump of lead was rolling around inside his stomach, and the palms of his hands had suddenly become strangely hot and clammy. Ten Lockheed Hudsons roaring out over the Channel, and on into complete and utter oblivion? It wasn't a pleasant thought. It was the sort of thing that seemed to drain the blood from a fellow's body, and dumped ice cubes on his brain, no matter how many times he had personally battled with death. The known you could always take. It was the unknown, the eerie, and the mysterious that cut your heart up into small pieces, and clawed your nerves to shreds.
"No report at all on what happened, sir?" Dave presently asked, though he knew full well what the answer would be.
"No, none at all," Group Captain Ball replied without looking at him. "The patrol took off, and never came back."
"I might add," Colonel Trevor spoke up quietly, "that Intelligence H.Q. contacted every one of its agents in the Occupied Zones. That is, all whom it was possible to contact. Not one of them could give us a satisfactory explanation."
"I say!" Freddy Farmer suddenly gasped, and then instantly subsided into silence.
Group Captain Ball swiveled around in his chair and shot the English youth a keen look.
"You say, what?" he demanded. "You've just thought of something?"
Freddy started to shake his head, and then to Dave's surprise he shot a guilty look at Squadron Leader Markham. Eighty-Four's O.C. took the look with a puzzled frown.
"What now, Farmer?" he asked. "Your face has a bit of a telltale expression, you know. Spoke out of turn, eh?"
"In a way, sir, I guess," Freddy said with an apologetic smile. "Never thought I'd mention it, but.... Well, after all that's been said, perhaps I'd better mention it."
"If it has a bearing on our present problem," Group Captain Ball said sharply, "I'm giving you an order to mention it! And jolly well right now!"
The English youth stared at him and nodded meekly.
"Of course, sir," he said. Then, "It was two nights ago ... Tuesday night ... the photo patrol took off and never returned?"
"That's correct," the Air Ministry official said with a curt nod. "Tuesday night."
"That Zone covers quite a bit of ground, sir," Freddy said next. "Naturally, the patrol didn't expect to photo the entire area. Do you happen to know what their main objective was? I mean, the exact location?"
"Certainly I do!" the Group Captain snapped in an annoyed tone. "The area between Boulogne and Lille. Day to day changes there had attracted our interest the most. We.... Now what? What the devil, Farmer? You're turning pale as a blasted ghost. For Heaven's sake, what's on your mind, lad?"
Freddy gulped, swallowed hard, and shot another guilty look at Squadron Leader Markham.
"You won't like this, sir," he said, "but I'd better tell it now. Last Tuesday night I took up one of the night flying planes for a little test hop about the field. You remember, sir?"
"I do," the Squadron Leader said, and fixed him with a hard stare. "You were up almost three hours. Matter of fact, I've been meaning to tell you to make your night test hops shorter in future. I know that was a special plane with extra tanks to permit lengthy practice. But three hours is too long. Yes, I remember. So what about it?"
"I did not make my test hop within sight of the field, sir," Freddy said as his face turned a bit red. "Fact is.... Well, I sort of went hunting for trouble. I mean.... Well, I came across a flight from our Bomber Command on its way over to Naziland. I tagged along hoping that a Jerry night fighter or two would come up once they reached the other side of the Channel."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Squadron Leader Markham breathed as Freddy faltered. "Remind me to make an example of you to the rest of the Squadron, my lad. Lots of pilots have been jolly well broken out of Service for less."
"Yes, I know, sir," Freddy said in a crestfallen tone. "I was a perfect idiot."
"You were completely balmy!" the Squadron Leader growled. "But never mind that for the present. Did night fighters come up after the bombers?"
"No, sir!" Freddy said, brightening a little. "There wasn't a single bit of action. Not even anti-aircraft guns or searchlights. I tagged the patrol a bit farther inland, and then turned back and headed for home. I had almost reached the Jerry side of the Channel when there was what seemed to be a terrific explosion to my southeast. The whole earth seemed to explode fire and smoke. It was miles from my position yet the glare actually blinded me for an instant. Then the light died down to a reddish glow in the distance. But, I didn't go and investigate, sir."
"Blessed wonder you didn't!" Squadron Leader Markham said, and hid a faint smile by wiping his mouth with his hand. "You figured the spot where the explosion occurred, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," Freddy replied instantly. "From my own position I judged it to be about half way between Boulogne and Lille. I didn't go and investigate because I assumed that it was the bombers I had tagged blasting some Jerry ammo dump, or something. So I just came on back home, and landed. Sorry, sir, but.... Well, I thought it best I tell you, considering."
"Well, fessing up may help you a little," Markham grunted. "Doesn't excuse your being a crazy idiot, though."
Freddy started to apologize again, but checked it as Colonel Trevor leaned toward him.
"The location of that explosion, Farmer!" he said sharply. "You are sure of it? Positive?"
"Oh quite, sir," the English youth assured him. "Fact is, the blinking glare lighted up some landmarks that I recognized easily. But, as I say, it was probably those bombers of ours giving a Jerry ammo dump, or rail-head, a good drubbing."
"It wasn't!" Group Captain Ball cut in with a violent shake of his head. "The Bomber Command received very definite orders not to send a single unit over that area Tuesday night. It was to be left strictly alone so that the photo patrol planes would be able to work unhindered. No, none of our bombers were over that point Tuesday night."
"By the way, Farmer," Colonel Trevor got in quickly. "Did you happen to note the time of the explosion, by any chance?"
The English youth pursued his lips and squinted his eyes at the office wall in a mannerism of deep and concentrated thought. After a moment he sat up a bit straighter and nodded.
"Yes, of course, I did, sir!" he replied. "I distinctly remember glancing at the instrument board watch. I remember because I was flying with all dash lights out, and the glare of the explosion was bright enough for me to see the time. It was exactly twenty-seven minutes before midnight, sir!"
Colonel Trevor slowly let clamped air from his lungs, leaned back in his chair and looked at Group Captain Ball. The Air Ministry official returned the look and slowly nodded his head up and down as though it were hinged in the middle.
"Yes," he said as though talking to himself, "that time would just about put the photo patrol over their first objective. Yes, that explosion, or whatever it was ... must have been the end of those brave chaps. Blast this war! Blast me for issuing that order!"
No one said anything for a moment or two after the senior officer stopped speaking. Then Colonel Trevor spoke to Freddy again.
"You'd better go into detail on that little off the record night flight you made, Farmer," he said. "Did anything else happen? See anything else that didn't seem quite right to you?"
The English youth went into his thinking act again, and came out of it shrugging his shoulders.
"No, sir," he said. "Can't say, that there was anything else. It did seem a bit strange, though, that Jerry ground gunners and searchlight lads didn't do anything about that bomber flight passing over. And, of course, there wasn't a thing done about me when I returned back over the Channel. Quiet as could be, and twice as dark below. Fact is, I don't recall spotting a single light on the ground. But, of course, that's not unusual. Jerry knows quite a bit about black-out technique, too."
Colonel Trevor nodded, said nothing, and fell to studying his fingernails some more. Dave waited for somebody to say something, and when the silence continued he offered his suggestion to Group Captain Ball.
"If it hasn't already been made, sir," he said, "why not have a daylight photo patrol made over that area?"
"I thought of that," the Air Ministry official replied with a nod. "In fact I had arranged for a patrol to be made. Only...."
The senior officer paused and smiled at Squadron Leader Markham.
"Only the arrangements went haywire," he said. "My orders came here instead of going to another Squadron. However, as I've already said, I consider that fortunate rather than unfortunate. Frankly, I'd rather have Eighty-Four tackle the job."
"There's nothing particularly hard about escort work, sir," Markham spoke up quietly. "In my opinion any squadron in the Fighter Command is just as good as the next."
"Don't be modest, Markham!" Group Captain Ball said with a chuckle. "I appreciate your desire to keep your squadron working as a unit. However, the job I have in mind is not exactly a routine affair. True, nothing out of the way may happen. On the other hand it is possible that Jerry may be planning something very special, knowing full well that the photo planes are over there to try and find out what happened to the missing patrol. You see?"
The Squadron Leader nodded and smiled faintly.
"I didn't expect you to let us out of it, sir," he said and broadened his smile. "Just the old hen looking out for her chicks, if you understand what I mean, sir. Rather fond of my lads, and want to keep them around as long as I can. However, I have a suggestion to make."
"By all means, Markham!" the senior officer said quickly. "By all means. What is it?"
"Make it a voluntary affair, as stated in your orders, sir," Eighty-Four's O.C. said, "but permit the entire Squadron to volunteer. I know every one of my chaps will be eager to go along. And if there is trouble, and I fancy there will be, then the more escort pilots there are along the safer it will be for the photo planes."
"Splendid, Markham!" Group Captain Ball cried. "A splendid idea. Of course, that means you want to lead the Patrol?"
"Yes, sir," Markham replied. "Naturally, I wouldn't want to ... er, miss any of the fun."
"I suspected as much," the Adastral House official said with a chuckle. "Very well, then, Markham. We'll tackle it on that basis. I'll inform the Fifty-Fifth Bomber Command Squadron that you will serve as their escort. We'll schedule the patrol for first thing at dawn tomorrow, and...."
"Why not today, sir?" Markham interrupted with an apologetic gesture. "We've got all afternoon, and the sooner you get those pictures, the sooner you may be able to find out something ... I hope."
"True," Group Captain Ball said. "Quite true, Markham. On the other hand, delaying things another day may give Jerry the idea we're no longer interested in that Zone. Sort of catch him off guard, you might say. It's a chance worth taking. We jolly well might profit from it."
"Yes, I see your point, sir," Markham said with a nod. "And, after all, we've got a little preparing to do. Checking planes, engines, and all that sort of thing. Right you are, sir. Tomorrow morning at dawn it is."
"Good!" Group Captain Ball said. Then turning toward Dave and Freddy he continued, "And now I have a bit of a surprise for you two chaps. In recognition of your...."
The Air Ministry official stopped short and stared hard at Dave Dawson, who seemed not to be listening. The Yank born R.A.F. ace was gazing out the Squadron Office window with a look on his face that seemed to indicate his thoughts were a million miles away.
Group Captain Ball cleared his throat, and reached out a hand and tapped Dave on the knee.
"Day dreaming, Dawson?" he asked sharply. "All this sort of bores you, eh?"
Dave jumped as though he had been shot, swallowed hard, and went beet red to the roots of his hair.
"No, sir, of course not!" he said hastily. "I was.... Well, I was just thinking, sir."
"Really?" the senior officer murmured. "Mind telling us about what, Dawson?"
Dave turned even a shade redder, and avoided Group Captain Ball's steady gaze.
"About the photo patrol you're planning, sir," he finally said after a couple of false starts. "It seems to me.... That is.... Well, I mean sir, I...."
"Come, come, Dawson!" the Adastral House official jacked him up as he stumbled. "Just what do you mean, anyway?"
Dave hesitated, then took a deep breath, and sort of squared his shoulders.
"Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but I'm not in favor of your plan at all. Frankly, I don't think you'd gain any more from it than you have from the others. To tell the truth, I've got a hunch it would be a waste of time, and perhaps a loss of pilots and planes!"
Had a Nazi Stuka come plowing down through the Squadron Office roof and lighted on Markham's desk the stunned amazement of the others would not have been any greater. Freddy gulped and looked actually scared stiff. Markham, Group Captain Ball, and Colonel Trevor sat up a bit in their chairs and gaped pop-eyed at each other. It was the Air Ministry official who first found his tongue.
"Well, bless me, rather!" he breathed. "In my time I've been told a thing or two right to my face, but.... Well, I must say, Dawson, that once you get started you get right to the point. So my plan is a bit of a wash-out in your mind, eh?"
At that moment Dave would have given a lot if a great big hole had opened up in the floor so that he could jump into it and disappear completely. However, no hole opened up, and so he stuck to his guns.
"Yes, sir," he said doggedly. "I know I'm speaking out of turn, but you asked me, sir. So I gave you a truthful answer."
"The truth is always welcomed, of course," Group Captain Ball said a bit stiffly. "Supposing, though, instead of wasting time defending yourself, you explain why there would be no sense in carrying out such a stupid mission?"
"Just a minute!" Dave said as his cheeks got hot. "I didn't say the mission was stupid, sir. I didn't say, either, that carrying it out would be a waste of time. I meant that carrying it outas plannedwould be a waste of time, in my opinion."
"Why?"
It was Colonel Trevor who shot out the single word. He had leaned farther forward in his chair, and was regarding Dave not out of hostile eyes, but out of eyes that showed frank curiosity, and an earnest desire to learn the truth.
"Because of what's already happened, Colonel," Dave replied. "Look at it this way. Countless photo patrols were made over the terrain of Zone K Dash Twenty-Four. Each time Jerry planes were encountered and there was a scramble or two. At first the pictures didn't show anything of interest. Then suddenly they showed a lot of crazy changes in a certain area. Finally, the pictures gave every indication that that certain area had been completely evacuated. And lastly, a photo flight that went over at night failed to return. You follow me, sir?"
"Yes," the Intelligence officer grunted. "But you're only giving a case history of what's happened. We know all about that."
"Why did it happen?" Dave shot right back at him. "If you want my opinion I think it's because the Nazisknew all the timewhat we were up to. They saw our bombers upstairs, but no eggs were dropped. They saw our bombers circling around over the area day after day, and still no bombs came down. The Jerry fighter pilots tangled with our fighters, and the photo ships still stuck to their job. What in the world do you think the Nazis on the ground were imagining? That we were practicing formation flying or something? The heck they did! They knew darn well that we were taking pictures, and more pictures. And not being exactly dumb, they did the logical thing!"
The ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of Colonel Trevor's mouth. Even Markham and Group Captain Ball were having trouble keeping a straight face. The straight from the shoulder honesty of the young Yank was not exactly an every day occurrence in British Army life, and they were a bit more amused than they were shocked.
"And what was the logical thing for the Nazis to do?" the Intelligence officer eventually asked quietly.
"Kid us along, of course!" Dave cried, warming up to his subject. "Pull the old razzle-dazzle on us, so that we wouldn't know where we were from a three dollar hat. Don't you get me?"
"I was quite a while in the States," Colonel Trevor said with a chuckle, "but I'm afraid I didn't quite pick up all of your American slang expressions. What do you mean by what you've just said, Dawson?"
Dave grinned, and blushed slightly.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "I sort of shoved into high gear without realizing it. I mean, I ... well, anyway, I'm sure Jerry knew what we were up to all the time, so he purposely made things all the more confusing. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised but what he kidded us along step by step hoping that we would send over that night patrol."
"What?" Group Captain Ball exploded in a loud voice. "Led us along? What in the world do you mean by that? I think you've gone balmy, my lad. Of all the rot!"
"Maybe so, sir," Dave said evenly and held up two fingers. "But there are two thingswedon't know. One, what the new Nazi secret weapon is all about. And, two, what happened to that night picture patrol. Correct, sir?"
"Unfortunately, yes," the other grunted backing down a little. "But what's that got to do with what the Nazis did? I mean, all this kidding along, as you express it."
"You're pinning me down kind of tight, sir," Dave said with a half grin. "That part is just a hunch that sticks in my craw. I mean, I've got the hunch that there was one thing theNazis didn't know. For certain, I mean."
Group Captain Ball groaned and threw up his hands.
"My word!" he cried. "More blasted riddles! Come to the point, Dawson. What in the worlddoyou mean?"
Dave hesitated a moment and then gave it to them straight.
"The new Nazi secret weapon," he said. "The Jerries were not certain how successful it would be against an air invasion. So theytried it out!"
As Dave's echo faded away into silence not a man uttered a sound. Not a man hardly so much as breathed. The exploding verbal bomb shell had driven home a possible truth that not one of them had even so much as considered. Not even so much as suspected of existence.
"By George!" Group Captain Ball finally breathed in an awed tone. "The chap has hit upon something. No doubt about it at all. It's quite possible, this hunch of his. Quite, indeed. The blasted Nazis have been playing games with me to serve their own purpose. Dawson! I apologize for being a bit rude awhile back. You're quite right. I'm afraid we have been wasting our time. And would waste more to make another photo patrol. Blast it, though, we just can't sit back and twiddle our thumbs."
"Perhaps you've got an answer to that one, Dawson?" Colonel Trevor asked.
Dave didn't reply at once. He pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully off into space.
"The original patrols weren't entirely a waste of time," he said presently. "I mean, if for no other reason than the fact we learned that something very mysterious is going on in the area over which the photo patrol was lost. We can be pretty sure there's something there that needs further investigation."
Dave held up a hand as Group Captain Ball scowled and opened his mouth to interrupt.
"Just a minute, please, sir," he shut off the high ranker. "I know what you're going to say. Get along with it! Okay. Here it is. A night patrol, such as the last, is out. Too much of a risk. A day patrol of bomber-photo ships and escort planes is out, too. Sight of us in the sky would simply tell Jerry that we were still ... well, suckers for punishment.Buttwo or threefighter planespassing over probably wouldn't create any interest at all. And certainly no suspicions. And if there happened to be a couple of Jerry planes in the air to scramble with, then so much the better. Or isn't that clear?"
"As mud!" Group Captain Ball said with a sad shake of his head. "You'd better not ever run for Parliament, Dawson. You'd befuddle the issue. Your colleagues wouldn't know what in the world you were talking about, I'm afraid."
"Then that makes me a swell bet for Congress," Dave grinned. "Seriously, though, sir. Three Spitfires fitted with special cameras could slide over the mystery area and look like they were just passing by. Now, if Jerry fighter planes came up, we could scramble with them, and a couple of us could act like we were going down. Shot down, or the engine quitting, and a forced landing necessary. We could even fake engine trouble without Jerry planes being around. The point is, though, a couple of us could get real low down and snap pictures that would bring out a lot of stuff that the camera wouldn't catch at high altitude. Also, in fighter planes we could cover a whole lot more ground than the slower bomber jobs. But the main thing is, the Nazis wouldn't be wise to what we were doing."
Group Captain Ball expelled air through pursed lips, and gave a little half shake of his head.
"What blasted use I am at Air Ministry, I jolly well don't know!" he exclaimed. "I think you and I should swap jobs, Dawson. Only I'd be a frightful wash-out at yours. You're absolutely correct, though. You've hit upon the only way possible to get a good look at what's going on over in that cursed Zone. Right, Colonel? Right, Markham?"
"Seems that way to me," the Intelligence officer said slowly. "Dawson has at least convinced me that our original plan is no good at all. And the only alternative that seems any good, is his plan."
"I knew it wouldn't be long before Dawson and Farmer were off again on some special mission," Squadron Leader Markham grunted. "But he's quite right. His plan's the best bet. Only one thing I hope doesn't happen, though. Two things, matter of fact."
"Eh?" Group Captain Ball murmured.
"One that they don't run into a couple of squadrons of Jerry planes," Markham said. "And reallygetshot down. And two, that this blasted secret weapon doesn't work in the day time. But one can't be sure of everything, I suppose."
"No, of course not," Group Captain Ball said with a shrug. Then turning to Dave, "Well, naturally, you're elected for one of the trio. Who else? Farmer for one?"
The eager look on Freddy's face was too much for Dave to let slide. He scowled dubiously, and rubbed his chin in mock deliberation.
"Why, yes, I guess so," he said finally. "That is, if he promises not to go off on any little night flying jaunts."
They all laughed. Freddy with them. But the look he flashed at Dave clearly said, "Wait 'til I get you alone, my friend. Just wait!"
"Well, who else?" Markham asked the question.
"I'd like the third one to be Flight Lieutenant Barker, sir," Dave said. "He's tops as a pilot in my opinion. And he can shoot rings around anybody I ever saw in the air, with maybe the possible exception of Farmer, here."
"And yourself, Dawson," Markham added with a smile. "Right you are, then. You, Farmer, and Barker. You take command, and...."
"That's something I wanted to speak about, sir," Dave interrupted hastily. "I happened to think up the idea, but that doesn't rate my being placed in charge of the show. After all, Barker has had more R.A.F. experience than either Freddy or I. He's been in it from the very start. Then, too, sir, the matter of rank. Barker is a Flight Lieutenant, and as such...."
"So are you and Farmer!" Group Captain Ball cut in.
Dave's jaw dropped, and his eyes popped.
"Come again?" he blurted out. "What was that you just said?"
The Air Ministry official chuckled and pulled some papers from his inside tunic pocket.
"That you and FarmerareFlight Lieutenants, too," he said, and tossed the papers on Markham's desk. "That's the surprise I was about to mention awhile back. In recognition of your services on that convoy patrol job, Air Ministry has promoted you both to the rank of Flight Lieutenants. It'll appear officially in the London Gazette tomorrow. Meantime, there's confirmation for your files, Markham. Well, Dawson, and Farmer, let me be the first to congratulate you. It's a promotion well earned, and doubly deserved."[2]
For the next couple of minutes neither Dave nor Freddy had any idea what they were doing. They were completely swallowed up in a beautiful rosy cloud, and their little world was the nicest thing ever created.
"And so, you don't need to feel any qualms about difference in rank, Dawson," Group Captain Ball's voice finally brought Dave's feet back on earth. "Strictly speaking, he still is your senior, but I'm placing you in command of this mission. And that's that. Now, of course your Mark Fives can't be fitted with cameras in time for you to make the patrol today. But do you think you could be ready by dawn?"
"Yes, sir," Dave answered promptly. "And.... Well, there's one more suggestion, if it ... if it won't drive you crazy, sir."
"I think I can stand just about one more," the Adastral House official said with a faint grin. "Shoot, as you Yanks term it!"
"I think it might be a good idea for a flight of bomber planes to be sent over the area before we arrive," Dave said. "Not right over the area. Have them pass over well south, as though they were headed for some objective farther inland. Then when we appear later Jerry will think that we're just tootling over to meet the bombers and escort them back home. So maybe they won't give us a second glance."
"Right," Group Captain Ball said. "I'll arrange with Bomber Command to do just that. Now, any more suggestions, eh?"
"I guess not, sir," Dave said with a chuckle.
"Then let's all have a spot of tea, or something," the Air Ministry official said, getting to his feet. "We can talk things over again later. Meantime I'm parched, and hungry as a wolf."
Dave shot a glance at Freddy Farmer and saw instantly that his English pal was five hundred per cent in favor of the Group Captain's idea.
The dawn sun was still out of sight far down below the eastern lip of the world. Not even the first faint glow of its coming could be seen in the sky. On the tarmac of Eighty-Four's field three powerful Mark 5 Spitfires were being warmed up and mothered by mechanics as though they were infant babes in arms. Off to one side, Dave Dawson, Freddy Farmer, Barker, and Squadron Leader Markham, stood waiting and talking of everything under the sun except the special patrol that was soon to get underway.
That was a taboo subject with them. It was for the simple reason there wasn't anything else to discuss. All the plans and preparations had been made. Special high speed cameras, that could be operated from the control stick, had been fitted in the planes. The cameras had been tested and found to be in perfect working order. Each pilot had taken his plane aloft and tested it until he was thoroughly satisfied with every beat of the engine, and every single response to a touch on the controls. Everything that could be done, had been done. There was nothing to do now but wait for the engines to be warmed up ... and then get on with the job.
"Say, Barker," Dave suddenly broke a minute's silence. "Meant to speak to you about this, but we've all been pretty busy. I mean.... Well, darn it, you're still senior officer, and I'm perfectly willing for you to take over command of this show. Fact is, I think it would be a sensible idea. I...."
"Oh, no you don't, Yank!" Barker cried and laughed. "Decent and mighty sporting of you, old bean. And I like you a lot for saying it. But I've been in command of special shows before. Not at all to my liking. Hate responsibility, you know. I'm always getting things messed up something terrible."
"Yeah, I can guess!" Dave snorted. "He's won the Distinguished Flying Cross,andbar! And he says he'd mess things up? Nix on that line, friend. But I really am serious about your...."
"Don't be!" Barker said firmly. "I refuse, flatly. No, my lad. I'm going to tag along obeying orders on this show. And love it, I fancy."
"Then you won't...?" Dave started again and hesitated.
"No!" Barker repeated. "Absolutely not. If it's a success then you get perhaps the Victoria Cross, my lad. If it's not, then you get Squadron Leader Markham onyourneck.Idon't! See what I mean, old thing?"
Dave grinned and looked at his commanding officer who was shaking with laughter.
"Don't mind Barker, Dawson," the O.C. said. "He's an awful one for juggling the truth. Frankly, I've never so much as spoken a harsh word to him since he's been in the squadron."
"But, what you'vethought, sir!" Barker said and laughed. "Just the same, Dawson, this is your show. And in my opinion you certainly deserve to have command."
"Well, I still don't know about that," Dave said with a shrug. "But.... Hold everything! That's a ship coming down to land, isn't it?"
All eyes were turned on the star studded sky overhead whence had come the sudden sound of airplane engines. An instant later the sound died down to a purr. And a brief moment after that the darkness was cut by the twin beams of the incoming plane's landing lights.
"Can't see for those darn lights," Dave grunted. "But she sounds to me like a Blenheim."
"It is!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "I can see her, now. I say! That's the same bus Group Captain Ball, and Colonel Trevor, came down in from London. I wonder if they're coming back."
"I wonder, too!" Squadron Leader Markham echoed. And Dave thought he caught just a faint trace of hopefulness in the O.C.'s voice. "Maybe they've decided to wash-out the patrol. Maybe something else has popped up."
As Dave watched the shadowy blur slide down toward the surface of the field, then level off and settle gently, a conglomeration of mixed emotions surged through him. One instant he experienced the familiar eerie tingling at the back of his neck that was always an advance warning of danger just ahead. Then in the next instant a sense of disappointment would flood through him. As though that plane was bringing word that the flight over occupied France had been called off. Then again he was filled with the strange excited feeling of more mystery being added to what already existed. A jumble of emotions and crazy thoughts that plagued him as he waited for the pilot of the Air Ministry Blenheim to taxi up to the line.
When the plane stopped, and the door was popped open, only one man jumped down onto the ground. That man was Colonel Trevor, and he hurried over to the group with a look of marked relief quite visible on his face in the pale glow shed by the two or three flare lights set about on the tarmac.
"Thank heavens, you haven't taken off yet!" the Intelligence officer cried. "Didn't want to waste time trying to get you on the phone. Raid on in London, anyway, and the phone service isn't so good at such times. No, not a hot raid. Just a few Jerry ships up there. And our lads are handling them very nicely. Anyway, I dashed out to Croydon in the blasted black-out and commandeered Ball's plane. I've got a bit more information for you, Dawson. By the way, do you know that terrain between Boulogne and Lille?"
"Fairly well, sir," the Yank R.A.F. ace replied. "I've done quite a bit of flying over that section, now and again. Why, sir?"
The Intelligence officer didn't answer at once. He fished a hand into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Smoothing it out he held it to the light so that all could see. A map had been roughly drawn in pencil on the paper.
"A map of a three square mile spot of ground exactly seven miles west of Lille," Colonel Trevor said, and started pointing things out with his finger. "See this? A hill range. Here is the Lille River that flows into the Somme farther south. See this sharp bend in the river? Well, the ground there is thickly wooded, and to the east ... the southeast, rather ... is quite an expanse of swamp ground. Now, just a shade east of the edge of that swamp land is a tiny French village. You can't even find it on a map, but its name is Fleurville. Somewhere in that area, Dawson, is the secret weapon that Hitler plans to use against us. The weapon, I am sure, that destroyed those Lockheed Hudson bombers last Tuesday night."
Dave didn't say anything as the Intelligence officer stopped speaking. He stared hard at the pencil drawn map in an effort to stamp every little detail on his mind. Squadron Leader Markham, however, was not so interested in the map as he was in what Colonel Trevor had said.
"Why do you say that, Colonel?" he asked. "And where did you get this map?"
"I traced that map from one you could only see under a microscope," the other said. "From a map originally drawn almost pin head size by my brother."
Dave jerked his head up, eyes wide.
"Your brother, sir?" he gasped. "But your brother's dead! You mean another communication came through just the same? That he'd sent it on its way before he was captured?"
"No," Colonel Trevor said quietly. "My brother brought it with him. Remember my not wanting anybody to touch the body? Remember my saying something about an autopsy? Well, naturally, I did not plan for any autopsy to be made on my brother. The cause of his death was clear enough. However, in Intelligence every agent has a special way of hiding secret messages in the event he is captured. Some use false fingernails with the message printed underneath too small for the human eye to read. Others conceal the message under a false patch of hair glued to their scalp. And so on. There are a hundred and one different ways of hiding information you've gathered. However, each man's method is a secret between himself and the Chief of Intelligence. Therefore I didn't allow your medico to touch my brother. I wanted to communicate with my Chief first."
Colonel Trevor paused for a moment, squared his jaw a bit, and then continued.
"My brother did bring back information," he said. "His method of hiding messages on his person was by means of a hollowed out false tooth that not more than one dentist in a hundred would detect. In that hollow tooth was a postage stamp size original of this map, and some instructions."
"Dope on the secret Nazi weapon, sir?" Dave asked eagerly as the Intelligence officer paused again.
"Some," was the quiet reply, "but not nearly enough. To be perfectly truthful, my brother still didn't get complete details. He only learned that somewhere in this area covered by the map the Nazis have installed this new weapon, and...."
Colonel Trevor cut himself off short and nodded at Dave.
"Your hunch was a good one, Dawson," he said. "According to my brother's report, the Nazis have installed the weapon there for the purpose of experiments and tests. As I said, he did not knowwhatthe weapon is. He was only able to find out that it is to be used primarily against aircraft."
"Not against troops?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Then how do they expect to beat off an invasion attempt. They...! That's rather silly of me, isn't it?"
"What, Farmer?" Squadron Leader Markham asked with a puzzled frown.
"The question, sir," the English youth replied and blushed faintly. "I suddenly realized that the answer is obvious. This war has proved that the side that has control of the air is the side that comes out on top. So, if the Nazis are able to maintain control of the air over Occupied Europe, all the invasion troops in the world wouldn't of much use to us."
"Right, Freddy!" Dave said with a grin. "Go to the head of the class, my boy. Did you learn anything else, Colonel?"
"Sorry, but that's all, Dawson," the Intelligence officer replied. "But it should help you a little. At least you won't have to waste time buzzing around over the entire area. Concentrate on the spots covered by this map. Here, better take my copy along with you. Well.... Well, good luck, chaps. And God speed back home again."
Colonel Trevor didn't thrust out his hand, or stiffen to attention and salute the three R.A.F. aces. He did nothing but look at them each in turn. That was plenty. His eyes said far more than his lips could have said. Expressed far more than any firm hand shake or slap on the back.
"Thanks, sir," Dave said for the three of them. "You can depend on us to bring back the pictures ... or else."
"Never mind the, or else, Dawson," Squadron Leader Markham grunted. "Just make sure all three of you come back! And, Dawson?"
"Yes, sir?" Dave murmured.
Squadron Leader Markham didn't speak for a few seconds. He stood staring Dave straight in the eye. Then suddenly he raised a cautioning finger.
"In case things don't turn out as you hope," he said eventually. "In case the patrol looks like a complete wash-out, don't get too many of those hunches of yours, will you? There'll always be a tomorrow in this blasted war, you know. Don't try to win it in a few hours, though goodness knows you and Farmer could probably make a fairly good go at it."
"Don't worry, sir," Dave chuckled and tightened the strap on his helmet. "I'll watch my step, and try not to lead with my chin. But if I should get out of line you can count on Barker and Farmer to throw a halter on me."
"Oh, quite!" Flight Lieutenant Barker echoed. "I don't fancy to step out of this war for quite some time, if ever. Don't worry, sir, Farmer and I will keep an eye on this wildman from the States."
"And a good grip with both hands, too, sir!" Freddy added. "But, I've handled the balmy blighter before, and I can do it again."
"Shucks!" Dave said in mock disappointment. "Then what's the sense of my going along, if I can't have fun?"
"Personally, I wish there was no sense in any of you going along," Squadron Leader Markham said gravely. "However, war's war, and that's that. I guess it's time for you to be off. The very best, lads! And happy landings ... onthisfield!"
The trio hesitated a moment, looked at each other, and then as one man turned and walked over to their planes. As Dave climbed into his pit a soothing calm flowed through his body. The calm before the storm, perhaps. But for the moment the excitement of the occasion, the tingling, eager anticipation of things to come, and the myriad little inner fears and doubts, were banished. It was as though he were climbing into his Mark 5 to take it aloft for a joy hop, or a bit of gunnery practice on the field's ground target. That soon he would be leading Freddy Farmer and Barker deep into mystery skies over occupied Europe was as something as far removed as the sun.
A sense of peace and contentment were his as he settled himself in the pit, and made a last minute check of everything. But perhaps the war gods were perfectly willing that he should feel that way for a spell. They knew it would not last long. They knew what awaited those three stout hearted aces of the R.A.F. They knew what was waiting, and what was going to happen. And they clapped their hands and nudged each other in high glee.
"Well, there'll always be an England," Dave murmured and reached for the throttle. "So, I'll be seeing you soon!"
Five seconds later three Spitfire Mark 5s thundered out across the field, cleared, and went zooming up to lose themselves quickly in the shadowy sky. Back down on the tarmac Squadron Leader Markham stood like a carved statue, his eyes still turned upward toward the half night, half dawn sky. He saw nothing but murky shadows, but the drone of three powerful Rolls-Royce engines was still in his ears. He listened until the sound faded away in the distance. Then slowly he clenched both fists and turned to look at Colonel Trevor.
"If they don't come back," he said in a strained voice, "I fancy you and Group Captain Ball had better catch the first boat for South Africa!"
"Amen!" the Intelligence officer said softly.
Comfortably settled in the pit of his Mark 5, but with every nerve and muscle set for instant action, Dave veered slightly more toward the southeast, and fixed his gaze on the yellow splashed horizon ahead. The shadows of night were now far behind him. And so were England, and the Channel. The Nazi defiled ground of Occupied France was under his wing, and the blinding glare of a new day's sun was directly ahead.
Employing a trick first used in World War Number One, he closed one eye and raised a thumb to a point some three inches in front of the other eye. The ball of his thumb covered the sun and made it possible for him to see around it. In a way it was like making a total eclipse of the sun, and the light that splashed out from behind this thumb was comparable to the solar corona of a total eclipse of the sun. In short, it made it possible for him to search the sun flooded sky ahead without staring straight into the blinding rays of the sun.
The action gained him nothing, however. If per chance there were Jerry planes lurking up there in the sun, he didn't see them. He saw nothing but golden sky marked by golden clouds. Nothing more. The heavens seemed to be still asleep. And when he lowered his gaze and peered at the ground below it struck him as though the earth were asleep, too. True, he was flying at some twenty one thousand feet and the ground below looked little more than a crazy quilt of a million different shades. However, he could detect no signs of movement. No tongues of flame spurting up toward him. And no rumblingcrunch-crunchof anti-aircraft shells dirtying the clean air with their explosions and black globs of smoke.
"Maybe they're not interested in small fry like us," he grunted to himself. "Or maybe those photos Ball studied weren't kidding. Maybe Jerry has evacuated this neck of the woods."
"And maybe you should stop mumbling to yourself, what?" spoke Freddy Farmer's voice in his earphones. "Spot anything yet, Dave?"
Dave chuckled and put his lips closer to his flap-mike.
"Me?" he echoed. "When I've got you along? Look, pal, I'm expecting you to earn your fare for this buggy ride. You're Little Sharp Eyes, you know. We're counting on you, see? Isn't that right, Barker?"
"Oh, quite!" Barker's voice replied in the earphones. "After all, if the chap can see to find his way over here and backat night, then it should be simple for him with all this light."
"All right, drop it!" Freddy shouted angrily. "Knew blessed well I'd never hear the last of that. But what could I do but confess to Markham?"
"Lots of things, my dear fellow!" Dave said sternly. "For one, you could have learned long ago that we've got discipline in this man's air force. And for youngsters to take airplanes up at night and try to do things that grown up pilots wouldn't even...."
"Listen to who's talking!" Freddy snorted. "Why I remember one time when he...!"
"Save it!" Barker's voice cut in excitedly. "What's that about five miles to the northeast? Do I see something moving, or is it just spots in front of my eyes?"
All idea of further horse-play instantly bailed out of Dave Dawson's mind. He turned his head sharply and peered hard in the direction indicated. There was nothing to see, however. That is, as far as he was concerned. Nothing but sun tinted dawn sky, and sun tinted patches of cloud. For a second, though, he thought he did catch a glimpse of something moving. Like a group of small dots that appeared and disappeared in practically the same instant. But when he blinked hard and took another look, the dots weren't there.
"Thought I saw something, too, Barker," he called into his flap-mike. "But I guess they must have been spots in front of my peepers. How about you, Freddy?"
There was no reply from the English youth. Dave turned and glanced over at Freddy's plane to see his pal staring fixedly toward the northeast. Several seconds ticked by and still no reply from Freddy Farmer.
"Hey, Freddy!" Dave called out again. "See anything, pal?"
"Shut up! Just a minute! I don't know, yet!"
A full minute did tick by before the English born R.A.F. ace spoke again.
"You chaps were wrong!" he shouted. "They're not just spots. Four Messerschmitts. One-Nine Fighters, I think. Yes, they're One-Nines. In formation, and heading due west. See them?"
"If you're kidding us!" Dave growled, and stared until his eyes ached from the strain. "I'll.... Pick up the marbles, pal. I see them, now!"
"So do I!" Barker cried out. "Let's go after the beggars. There are only four. It should be jolly, eh?"
"It should be, but nix!" Dave snapped into his flap-mike. "They're way off our course. And we're supposed to be making a rendezvous with some bombers, you know."
"See?" Barker called out and chuckled. "Remember my saying I'd make a mess of things? Right you are,sir! Quite right. We hold her as she goes, eh, old bean?"
"Cut it out!" Dave growled, but he was smiling. "But we'll let the lugs go. It would be nice, though, if they should comeafterus. I don't count much on just faking engine trouble and going down as though to force land. Jerry knows darn well we make good engines. However...."
"Looks like you get your wish, Dave!" Freddy Farmer's excited voice interrupted. "Guess they've sighted us. They're wheeling around in our direction."
It was true. Dave saw it was true the instant he whipped his eyes around toward the planes again. The four Messerschmitts had changed course abruptly and were headed in their direction and gaining altitude steadily. Dave took one quick look at them and then turned front and peered ahead and down. A night ground mist was fast being "melted" away by the dawn sun, and landmarks were beginning to stand out in clear relief. His heart leaped as he sighted the Lille River, the hill range, and the spread of swamp ground, and woods, marked on the map he carried in his pocket.
Dead ahead, and perhaps two minutes by air, was the mysterious area in Zone K-24. Dead ahead was the sky "graveyard" of ten Lockheed Hudsons. Dead ahead was the testing ground of Adolf Hitler's newest weapon of unrestricted warfare. Dead ahead, life and victory? Or failure, and death?
Those and countless other thoughts whipped and raced through Dave's brain as he stared hard at the "objective" of their special patrol. At the same time he automatically slid the safety catch off the red trigger button on the control stick, and placed one finger lightly against the trigger lever for the high speed camera attached to the belly of the plane.
"Hold her steady, fellows," he spoke into his flap-mike. "Carry right on as though we didn't see them. Let them get altitude, if they want. We should worry. But the instant they start pumping lead start the fancy business. Okay?"
"Right you are!" Barker replied.
"Who fakes being hit first?" Freddy Farmer called out. "That's one thing we forgot to decide."
"I didn't," Dave grunted. "I elected myself. When I go down, start down after me as though for protection. But don't put yourself in a jam to help me."
"That depends," Freddy said.
"Depends, nothing!" Dave barked. "Them's orders, Mister! Keep your own eye on the ball. It's pictures we want, no matter who gets them. Fake all you want to, but don't get behind the eight-ball so's you can't take your own pictures. And one more thing."
"Good heavens!" Barker groaned over the radio. "Hasn't everything been decided?"
"Not this item," Dave replied. "If things get hot, each of us is to hike for home the instant he's used up all his film. Get that? Never mind what's happening to the other two! As soon as you've run out your film, head for home, and in a hurry."
"Cheerful beggar, isn't he!" Barker said. "Right you are, though, Dawson! Home it is when the photo job's finished. And, here they come! In a bit of a hurry, too!"
Dave jerked his head around to see the four German Messerschmitt One-Nines prop-clawing through the air at top speed. The Nazi craft were a good three thousand feet higher up, and as the seconds ticked by Dave expected to see the four planes drop noses and come down in a gun chattering attack.
No such thing happened, however, and a disagreeable empty sort of feeling came to his stomach. Both hands gripping the stick, and every nerve tingling for action, he watched the Nazi ships roar right up to them, but still keeping their superior altitude. Not even when they were directly above did any of them wing over and come streaking down. Instead, the flight of four ships banked slightly and started circling around in the air as though they were riding escort on a flight of their own bombers.
"Come down, you bums!" Dave grated through clenched teeth. "Come down and let's get going!"
It was just a waste of breath, however. The Nazi planes stayed right where they were, neither gaining or losing altitude. The empty feeling in Dave's stomach started to spread throughout his body. And he felt the familiar eerie tingle at the back of his neck. In a crazy sort of way he imagined the Nazi pilots just sitting up there aloft and laughing at him. Laughing at him while he helplessly awaited the attack that would make it possible for him to spin down low and get close up shots of the mystery terrain below.
"Those chaps are the yellowest Luftwaffers I ever met, I swear!" Barker's voice broke the radio silence. "Altitude, and everything, yet the beggars don't make a move. What say, Dawson? Shall we climb up and mix it with the blighters? We're not getting anywhere buzzing along like this, you know."
Dave didn't answer at once. He took his gaze off the Messerschmitts overhead and looked down at the ground. The mystery area was well under his wing, now. As a matter of fact, in a couple of more minutes the area would be well astern of his tail. If they didn't work it now to go down for pictures they would be forced to turn back and reappear over the area. And that wouldn't seem like an accident to even a Nazi. On the contrary it would be a dead give away that the three Royal Air Force planes just weren't passing by en route elsewhere. It would be proof positive that the British lads had simply over-shot their objective.
"Yet, if we go up after those Jerries," Dave argued with himself, "it may look kind of funny, too. Or would it? Nuts! Supposing we were en route to pick up some of our bombers? It wouldn't look too out of line for us to start a scramble on the way. Heck, no. It.... Nuts! We've got to do it, whether it looks funny or not."
With a nod for emphasis he swung the stick from side to side to waggle his wings.
"Tally-ho, fellows!" he bellowed into his flap-mike. "They don't seem to want company. So they get it. Up and at 'em, and do your stuff!"
The last had hardly flown off Dave's lips before he hauled the Spitfire's stick back into his stomach and went ripping straight up at the vertical. The terrific force of the zoom tried to drive him right down through the floor of the cockpit. The muscles of his chest and stomach were tied into knots, and for a couple of seconds or so a sea of rippling grey light clouded over his eyes. It faded away, however, and he saw the belly of a Messerschmitt One-Nine dead ahead of his nose.
Instinctively he started to jab his trigger release button, but checked himself in time.
"Nix!" he muttered angrily. "Pick him off and the other three may scram. The idea is to get them to tangle with you, and makeyouhead for the ground. Darn it, though! What a perfect target that lug's ship makes!"
Dave groaned sadly, and booted right rudder slightly so that the plane above slid out of his sights. Then he jabbed the trigger button and sent a two second burst of machine gun and 20-mm. aircraft cannon shells whanging upward into empty space. As he cut his fire and started to level off at the top of his zoom, he heard the chatter of Farmer's and Barker's guns going into action. And the deeper note of their aircraft cannon. But as he anxiously snapped his gaze at the four Messerschmitts that were now cutting capers in the air he saw at once that Freddy and Barker had also purposely missed.
"You guys will never know how lucky you are!" he shouted at the Nazis. "By rights there should only be one of you up here, now. But, come on. Give us the old razzle dazzle. Mix it up! We've got work to do, and we're in a hurry."
"No use!" Barker's voice sang out over the radio. "Look! The blighters are running away. Four to three, and they won't even take a chance. Of all the blasted scared rabbits I ever saw! Can't help it, Dawson! I've got to settle one of the beggars."
Before Dave could open his mouth, Barker's plane spun around like a top and dropped right down on the tail of one of the Messerschmitts now all diving full out toward the ground below. The leading edges of Barker's guns spurted flame and sound. Tracer smoke cut paths across the air and became lost to view in the fuselage of the Messerschmitt One-Nine. Less than a split second later the German plane shot out crazily to the side as though it had glanced off an invisible guard rail in the heavens. For perhaps fifty feet it slid through the air, then as though by magic the fuselage broke in two right in back of the cockpit.
The two halves of the plane started to fall away from each other. Then smoke and flame belched out of the engine half. In the swirling black smoke Dave saw the figure of the pilot push up out of the cockpit and dive over the side. The German was like a bound up bundle of cloth tumbling down through the air. Then white puffed upward, was caught by the air, and mushroomed out into a parachute envelop.
"Hey! Look out, Jerry!"
The wild cry burst impulsively from Dave's lips, but even though the parachuting Nazi had heard him there was nothing he could have done. One of the other Messerschmitt pilots, apparently rocketing his plane earthward in terror, plowed straight into the parachute silk of his Luftwaffe comrade. The whirling propeller chewed the silk to shreds, and sliced through the tangle of shroud lines like a knife. By a miracle the blades missed the Nazi pilot. But that didn't help him any. His body turned over once in the air, and then fell like a rock straight down.
"One less, poor guy!" Dave grunted and dropped the nose of his own plane. "But I guess that's the kind of a chance you take when you fly with yellow-bellies. Look at them skip for it!"
Dave spat the last out in disgust as the three remaining Messerschmitts continued racing earthward as fast as their whirling props could take them. Not a single German had fired a shot. Freddy, Barker, and he had done all the attacking, and all the shooting. And now the Nazis were diving downward for dear life.
"A break for us, anyway, fellows!" Dave shouted the thought aloud into his flap-mike. "It's more or less what we wanted. Stick with them but don't pick them off too soon. Okay? Got your camera trigger fingers ready."
"Right-o!" came Barker's voice in the earphones.
"And itching!" Freddy chimed in.
Dave nodded and swept the ground below with his eyes. The altimeter still showed some fourteen thousand feet of air space below him, but objects on the ground were becoming clearer by the minute. With a start of wild excitement he saw that the patch of woods was more than just that. There was something down under the branches of the trees. Several "somethings" in fact, though he could not see clear enough to tell just what.
And as he moved his gaze a bit to the south the swamp ground seemed to look just a bit strange. He didn't know just why. Perhaps it was just a crazy hunch, or his imagination playing him tricks. Or the terrific diving speed of the plane doing things to his eyes. Yet, nevertheless, the expanse of swamp ground suddenly didn't seem to look just right.
There was also something about the hill range to the east that caught his eye. There were three or four blackish smudges on the western slopes. However, as he stared at them the truth leaped into his brain, and the icy fingers of fear began to curl around his heart.
"The Lockheed Hudsons!" he whispered hoarsely. "Those smudges are burnt timber and ground. They probably mark the spots where the Lockheeds crashed and burned up!"
The possibility that such was the truth caused something to snap in his brain, and a film of red rage to steal over his eyes. He braced himself in the seat, and lined up one of the diving Messerschmitts in his sights.
"One more won't change anything!" he grated. "And it will pay back a little for those lads!"
As he spoke the last he jabbed the trigger release button and held it pressed for three long seconds before the sane side of him could force him to quit it. The three second shower of bullets and aircraft cannon shells was more than enough. Though history will never be able to relate it, it is quite possible that the Nazi pilot in Dave's sights never knew what struck him. One instant he was diving for his life, and the next he was still diving, but his life was gone.
"Steady, Dave!" Freddy's voice cried out in his earphones. "What's wrong, old thing? You all right?"
"Much better, now!" Dave snapped back. "Muchbetter. Okay! spread out, and each head for the objective nearest him. But get down low, right on top of it before you start working the camera trigger finger. This is what we came for! Let her rip, fellows!"
Without giving the two remaining Messerschmitts so much as another snap glance, Dave jumped on rudder and whipped the stick over a shade and sent the Spitfire Mark 5 skidding crazily far off to the right. When he was directly over the center of the stretch of swamp ground, he pulled out onto even keel and throttled back to the three quarter mark.
Less than five hundred feet of air space separated the underneath side of his wings from the ground. He clamped the camera trigger lever tight against the stick, held the plane steady, and stared at the ground. It was then he saw why the expanse of swamp ground had sort of changed appearance during his dive earthward. Now he could tell that it wasn't swamp ground below him. True, perhaps there was swamp groundunderneath, but on top was a covering of perfect camouflage. A camouflage covering that completely hid the swamp ground, and which seemed to be suspended above it at a height of several feet.
"Hangars?" Dave choked out the chance guess. "They've drained that swamp, and those are underground hangars down there?"
He didn't have the chance to even guess at an answer to that one. He didn't because at that precise instant came Freddy Farmer's wild cry of alarm in the earphones.
"Dave! Dave! Up above you! The whole blasted Luftwaffe!"
He jerked back his head, looked upward, and a startled shout burst from his lips. The sky above him was literally black with Nazi swastika marked wings. He didn't even try to guess how many planes there were up there. In fact, he didn't even think of guessing. His brain for the moment was too stunned to function. His heart was a cold lump of ice that zoomed upward to clog in his throat. He sat staring frozen eyed at the horde of Nazi wings that came swooping down toward him like a blanket of doom.