"Dave, Dave, snap out of it! We're trapped, but let's give the beggars a go for their money. Dave! Wake up!"
Freddy Farmer's screams in the earphone seemed to touch a hidden spring in Dave and release him from his dumbfounded trance. He let out a wild yell, kicked his Spitfire over on wingtip and went whanging around and over to where Farmer and Barker were closing in together. Instinct, and instinct alone had caused him to make the maneuver. The instinct of life preservation.
Individually not one of them stood a chance against the mass of Messerschmitt One-Nines, and One-Tens, cutting down through the air. Individually they would be picked off like helpless clay pigeons. Together as a fighting trio, a fighting unit, they stood some chance of meeting with a little success. That all three would break through that almost solid wall of war wings, and escape back to England, was something that could not possibly happen, miracles or no miracles.
Together as a unit, however, two of them might blast a path through air through which the third could escape. All for one. That was it! All for one, and that one to get on back to England with the pictures he had taken. And, please God, those pictures would tell British High Command at least something of vital importance! Please God, the efforts of the two who remained behind would not be made in vain!
With that prayer on his lips Dave hurtled his plane across the sky and dropped in along side Freddy and Barker. It was then, and then only, he suddenly realized that the swarm of Nazis charging downward had not fired a single shot. As a matter of fact, as he snapped a quick glance upward he saw the leading wave of planes come out of the dive and fly along at even keel. The second wave did the same thing a few seconds later. So did the third, and a fourth wave, until the whole lot were as a tent of wings over the three British planes.
"Come on, you blighters, fight!Fight, blast you!"
The voice was Flight Lieutenant Barker's, and before the echo had died away he hauled up his plane on its tail and blazed away with all guns. It was like throwing rocks at a low ceiling. The bullets had to hit something, and they did. A Messerschmitt One-Nine staggered crazily in the air for a minute, then up-ended on wingtip and came tumbling down out of the sky. Hardly had it started to fall than its place was filled by another Nazi plane. And though Barker's plane reached the stalling point, and fell over sluggishly on wing to present a perfect target for the pilots and gunners above, not a single Nazi sliced down in a dive to pick off the Englishman.
As Barker recovered from the stall and zoomed back up to rejoin formation wild hope flared up in Dave. But he felt also the stinging pain of defeat. The refusal of the Nazis to fight unless forced to could mean but one thing. They were under orders to force the three R.A.F. pilots down onto the ground, and capture them alive. But why? The question burned through the back of Dave's brain, but he gave it no serious consideration for the moment. Another, and perhaps a more heart chilling realization came to him instantly. This was no chance accident, the sudden appearance of these Nazi wings. It had been planned. They had been waiting, probably hiding in the sun or behind the clouds while the four original One-Nines had baited the R.A.F. lads to swoop down low. To swoop down low and lose the precious altitude they would need in order to outmaneuver and fly away from this Luftwaffe armada.
"Like heck we fooled them!" the words burst from Dave's lips. "They've been wise to us all the time. We took it hook, line and sinker! And now we're stuck!"
The echo of his own words seemed to return in his earphones to mock him. But it was all so true, so horribly true. In cold truth they had been "on the spot" from the very moment they crossed over the Channel to Occupied France. Whether the Nazis had actually known they were coming, or whether they had simply suspected things the instant they had sighted them, were two things Dave did not know. Nor did he waste time guessing. The fact remained that there they were more or less pinned to the ground, and there were the Nazi planes forcing them lower and lower.
Biting back a storm of bitter words directed at himself, Dave glanced downward, and groaned. They were less than three hundred feet off the ground. And as for the ground, it was now practically alive with Nazi uniforms. The grey-green clad figures of Hitler's armies seemed to virtually pop up out of holes in the ground. It was almost like looking down into a swimming maze of upturned faces.
"What say, Dawson?" Barker's voice cut through Dave's whirling thoughts. "Are we going to let the blighters push us down onto the sod? Or shall we give a few of them something they'll remember when they wake up in the next world ... or wherever Nazi rotters go to? Me, I fancy that, old thing. Let's get as many as we can, while we can, what?"
Dave didn't answer right off the bat. His brain was battling furiously with the toughest problem he had ever faced in his entire life. As commander of the flight it was in his power to order life or death for Freddy and Barker. He could make it life by surrendering to the hovering Nazi wings and letting the Germans take them alive as they seemed to wish. Or he could make it death by agreeing with Barker's suggestions and attempting to fight through the aerial cordon of Messerschmitts until all three of them went down in flames.
The warrior in him was all in favor of that. Why give up without a fight? Why let these darn Nazis push them around like three rag dolls? What was there to be gained by that? Life in a Nazi prison camp at the most. Sure, life! But was that kind of life worth living? It was not! Better to die, and take some of your conquerors along with you, than to simply fold up without a single show of resistance. Heck! That was a coward's way out! That was....
The other side of Dave, though, refused to accept that as the only solution. On a thousand other occasions, sure. Fight until you could fight no more. But this was something different. This situation was the exception. There was far, far more at stake than Freddy Farmer's life, or Barker's life, or his own life. They had come over to do a definite job. They had failed to accomplish that task. They had failed because the Nazis were ready, and apparently waiting for them. Why didn't the Nazis polish them off; finish them right then and there?
It was that single question that stopped Dave from crying out the order to do battle, and let the Messerschmitts fall where they may. That one question that held back the warrior within him; that brought the leadership in him to the fore. Why did the Nazis let them live? There could be but one answer. For a very definite reason known only to the Nazis. But a very important reason, obviously.
Dave glanced once more down at the ground, then up at the mass of swastika wings that hovered just above his head like a cloud. He could almost feel countless eyes boring holes through the air down at him. Those Nazi wings were Hitler's new secret weapon? No! Those Nazi wings were the answer to the mysterious disappearance of ten Lockheed Hudsons? No? The answers were down on the ground below him. Of that he felt positive. And the Nazis wanted him alive. Okay, they could take him alive. While he had life he had hope. And while he had hope there was the chance of 'most anything happening.
That, however, washischoice. The choice for himself. But he could not make it the choice for Freddy and Barker. In his heart he could not order them to surrender. Neither could he order them to batter their wings against that wall of Nazi guns. But there was a way by which the thing could be solved. True, it might cost him his own life, but if he timed it just right, pulled the surprise at exactly the right moment an avenue of escape would be opened for Freddy Farmer and Flight Lieutenant Barker.
"Close up, fellows!" he called into his flap-mike. "Close up until you're almost touching my wingtips. Keep your engines at three quarter throttle. Follow me around. I'm going to act like I'm leading us down toward that level patch off to the left. But keep your eyes on me! When you see my nose go up, and hear my guns, pull the plug and fly dead straight ahead for all you're worth. Don't even take time to look back. Get flying, and keep flying. I'll take care of these bums, or bust. Got it straight?"
"See here, Dawson!" Barker's voice cried out in the earphones. "I won't let you throw...."
"You will, and shut up!" Dave roared back. "That's an order, Barker! You refused to give the orders, so now you take them and like them!"
"Right-o, old bean!" Barker replied. "But I won't like them, no fear."
"Just do your stuff when I give the signal, and let everything else ride," Dave grunted. "Okay, close up some more. Here we go!"
"Rubbish to your orders!" came Freddy Farmer's voice out of the air. "I think I know what you're planning, and it's silly. Dave, I just won't...!"
"So I've got trouble with you, too!" Dave snarled at him. "Listen, pal! You do as I say, or you're off my list forever. And I mean that, Freddy. This is something bigger than all three of us, and I'm taking a whirl at the only possible way out. I'm not thinking of you, or Barker, or even myself. I'm thinking of Colonel Trevor's brother. We going to let him down? You're darn tooting we're not! Now, button up those pretty lips, Freddy. I mean business, and no fooling!"
"Okay, Dave," came the hoarse whisper over the radio. "Sorry, old thing. And God bless you. I'm ready!"
Dave choked back the lump that rose up into his throat, blinked his eyes hard, and then hauled the throttle back to the three quarter mark, and started to bank around in a slow circle. Sitting tight in the seat, every nerve drawn taut as a piano wire, he scrutinized the mass of planes overhead. It was only his imagination, of course, but the instant he acted as though he were going to lead Freddy and Barker down to a landing it seemed as though every Nazi above him slackened his vigilance and relaxed visibly. But it was not his imagination when he saw three or four of the Messerschmitts drop noses slightly to lose altitude and escort the three R.A.F. pilots right down onto the ground. It was not imagination, it was fact, and wild hope leaped high in Dave's breast.
The four Messerschmitts dropping down left a "hole" in the sky. A hole in the wall of Nazi wings. Quick as a flash Dave shot out his hand and banged his throttle wide open. At the same time he hauled up the nose of his ship toward the hole, and started hammering away with all guns.
"Freddy! Barker! Get going! Get going and keep going! This is your chance. So long, fellows!"
In the thunderous yammer and clatter of his guns his own voice came back to him as an echo from a great distance. He longed to tear his gaze from that hole to see if Freddy and Barker were obeying orders. To see if they were streaking straight forward at top speed, and just off the ground. But he didn't dare look. In the next few split seconds his piloting ability and his marksmanship would mean life or death for Freddy and Barker.
By charging straight for that hole his plane served as a sort of screen for Freddy Farmer and Barker. The Nazis, seeing him gun blasting upward, would instantly guess that the three of them were trying to skip through the hole in the huge formation of German wings. Guessing that, the four pilots that had dropped down would instantly zoom back up to fill the gap. And some of the others would swing in closer to present a wall of fire spitting guns to the onrushing British plane.
It was that for which Dave fervently prayed and hoped, as he went rocketing upward. And his prayer was answered. As though by magic the hole in the sky became filled with German planes. He saw his tracers bite into a One-Ten. Saw the German plane explode in a thousand flaming embers and go slithering earthward. A One-Nine cutting straight down off to his right caught his eye. Fear chilled his heart. The German pilot had suddenly realized that it was all daring bluff, a daring trick. He had seen Farmer and Barker streaking along underneath Dave and right down under the outer edge of the cordon of German planes. He had seen, guessed, and was high tailing down to cut off the avenue of retreat.
"Leave them alone, bum!" Dave howled and jabbed his trigger release button at the same instant he kicked his Mark 5 around in a flash half turn.
The German pilot saw what was coming too late. He made a frantic effort to pull out of his dive and whirl off into the clear, but Dave Dawson's shower of bullets had the greater speed. They hit the One-Nine like a shower of hot sizzling steel and practically blasted it apart in midair. The Messerschmitt's wings fell off, the fuselage buckled, and the whole business burst into flame and went down ... fast.
No sooner did Dave see that his burst was going home than he tore his gaze from the doomed plane and lined up another Nazi Messerschmitt in his sights. However, before he could jab the trigger button the German pilot wheeled his craft to one side, dropped sharply by the nose, and then came zooming up under the Spitfire.
For a split second the finger of Death was pointed straight at the Yank born R.A.F. ace. Then the danger was passed as Dave went right up on wingtip and around in a tight power turn that scrambled his brains, and made his eyes feel as though they were two white hot coals revolving in their sockets. He opened his mouth to relieve the terrific pressure on his eardrums, and braced himself hard against his safety belt harness in a desperate effort to beat back the wave of inky darkness that would "black him out."
Meantime he let his plane slice around in the wing howling turn, and fervently prayed that no German plane would get in the way. If one did it would be just too bad for the Nazi, and for himself. But perhaps Lady Luck was riding the cockpit with him during those few seconds. At any rate the Spitfire did not plow headlong into a Messerschmitt, and presently the black curtain was drawn away from in front of his eyes, and he could see again.
It was then he realized that the Mark 5 had stalled off the tight turn, and was slanting downward at a comet's rate of speed. Impulsively he hauled up the nose, and started to turn back and give battle again to the Nazi pilot striving to cut down past him and attack Freddy and Barker who were now almost in the clear. A wild cry bursting from his lips, he checked the turning maneuver, and went prop-clawing around in the opposite direction, instead. To have caught the Nazis off guard and opened up an avenue of escape for Farmer and Barker, had been to perform a miracle. And to hold off the mass of Nazi wings so that his two pals could get well under way toward safe air, had also been a miracle in itself.
But neither miracle had been enough. The gods of war, and bad luck, had thrown their weight on the side of the Germans. As Dave came out of his tight turn, that had actually become a power dive earthward, he caught sight of two Messerschmitt One-Nines cutting down through the air far off to his right. Cutting straight down on top of Freddy Farmer and Barker who were right down over the tree tops and racing northwestward at top speed.
One look and Dave's world seemed to come tumbling down around his ears. One look and he knew that all his efforts had been in vain. Being at such a low altitude his two pals were unable to flash maneuver out from under those diving Messerschmitts without catching a wing on the ground, and crashing in. To attempt to zoom upward and away would be sheer suicide. They would simply present better targets for those two vultures of Goering's roaring down. Luck, fate, or whatever you wanted to call it. It made no difference. Freddy and Barker had failed in the last few seconds to make good their escape. They were trapped. They were caught cold ... with no choice save the choice of death!
Time seemed to stand still as Dave sat frozen in the Spitfire's pit. The whole world, and the very heavens, seemed to stop and wait for the inevitable. Dave's heart tried to push out through his ribs, and the very air he breathed was like liquid fire in his lungs. To face certain death, yourself, is soul crushing enough. But to sit helplessly by while death reaches out for two of your pals is something beyond words of description. It is like dying inwardly while remaining alive outwardly.
"Freddy! Barker! Get them! Haul up, and get them. It's your only hope. The only thing you can do! Freddy ... Barker...!"
As though from a million miles away Dave heard the echo of his own words that poured from off his stiff lips. In a dazed, abstract sort of way part of his spinning brain was conscious of the fact that some of the other Nazis were dropping right down on his unprotected tail. He even heard the bursts fired past his wing as a signal for him to surrender and go on down to land. Perhaps in the very next second a burst from some Nazi's guns might tear right down through the glass "hatch" over his cockpit, and end up in his body. Perhaps ... but he didn't give it a thought. What happened to him in the next few seconds didn't matter in the slightest. He had ears, and eyes, and thoughts only for Freddy Farmer, and Flight Lieutenant Barker. They were doomed. In the next moment they would be dead men hurtling down the last few feet to the ground. Not even the miracle of miracles could save them, now. The two Messerschmitt One-Nines were too close. A blind man couldn't miss at that distance....
Miracles? So what? A pilot with the fighting heart and indomitable spirit that was Freddy Farmer's didn't have to depend on miracles to get him out of tight corners. No, not that English lad! In his make-up there was that something extra that so few possess. There is no given word for it. Perhaps it is best defined as a resoluteness of soul and heart that cannot be broken in life or in death. At any rate Freddy Farmer possessed it, and to the nth degree.
Through unbelieving eyes Dave saw the English youth suddenly cut upward and over so that he was directly over Flight Lieutenant Barker's plane. Then once in that protective position he hauled up the nose of his plane and went streaking straight heavenward. Rather, streaking straight up into the withering fire that was beginning to pour downward from the guns of the two diving Messerschmitts. It was a suicide maneuver. An absolute suicide maneuver, yet the very fact that it was such was the only help Freddy could possibly expect.
His very daring threw the diving Nazis off whack. His very definite intention of crashing right up into them put the fear of death in their hearts, and instantly brought the yellow in them to the surface. As though worked by strings attached to invisible hands high overhead the two German planes jerked halfway out of their dives, and went careening off, one to each side. The one who went to the right was the unlucky one. The nose of Freddy's stalling Spitfire followed him around. The aerial machine guns and 20-mm. aircraft cannon on the English youth's plane yammered out sound and flame. And in the next split second the spot of air the Messerschmitt had occupied was just a cloud of boiling black smoke.
As for the other Messerschmitt pilot, he was not what you would exactly call lucky. He skidded off a bit, then tried savagely to haul around and fire point blank at Barker's plane. In his desperate fury he over controlled, missed Barker by yards, and was unable to recover from his dive in the distance left between his spinning prop and the ground. He went in nose first and completely disappeared in a fountain of flame and dirty smoke.
"It isn't true! I'm dreaming! I'm seeing things! It just couldn't happen, that's all!"
That and more came spilling off Dave's lips as he gaped pop eyed at Freddy Farmer leveling off onto even keel in the air. A mile or so beyond Freddy, and fast becoming a speck in the distance, was Barker's plane. There wasn't a Nazi pilot close enough to even stand the ghost of a chance of overhauling him. Nothing, now, but clear air between Barker and England. It was simply absolutely impossible, but ... the absolutely impossible had actually happened.
"Sweet tripe!" Dave blurted out. "Jumping cat-fish! Holy smoke, and ... Freddy,Freddy, boy!"
Dave screamed the last in frenzied alarm as Farmer's plane suddenly started lurching, and bucking around in the air. Through horrified eyes Dave saw a good three feet of the right wing tear free and go sailing away. The Spitfire dropped sharply down on that side, and terror squashed Dave's heart to a pulp. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he slammed his own nose down and went tearing across the sky toward Freddy's bullet crippled ship, as though his very nearness might be of some help to the English youth.
However, there was still a master pilot riding the cockpit of that Mark 5. With but a few feet to go Freddy somehow managed to get the damaged wing up and leveled off. His whirling prop slowed up to indicate he had cut off his ignition. And perhaps it was fate that put a fairly smooth strip of ground directly in front of the Spitfire mushing sluggishly forward. At any rate the craft settled, hit hard and bounced high in the air. It settled to strike again, seemed to hug the earth for an instant or two, and then sluffed off drunkenly to the damaged side. The broken section of the wing "crabbed" on the ground. The Spitfire bucked and stumbled forward. The nose went down and the propeller blades chewed into the soil. Then the whole thing spun like a top on the propeller hub, and went sliding forward in a cloud of dust. Presently it fell over on its back, stopped moving, and Dave saw the tiny ribbon of fire that started to creep through the wreckage.
The next thing Dave actually realized was that he had his own Spitfire down on that strip of ground. He braked to a stop, and yanked a knob that was connected with the mechanism of a small fire bomb installed in the plane, so that the craft could be destroyed in the event of a forced landing, and not fall into Nazi hands intact. His actions were automatic, however. He didn't even know that he had released the fire bomb as he vaulted from the pit onto the ground. He had thoughts only for Freddy. And those thoughts were as hot tears flooding his heart.
His legs were working even as his feet touched the ground. He tore over to Freddy's crashed plane at top speed, ripped and heaved pieces of broken wreckage to one side, and flew at the safety harness straps that held the English youth fast in the seat. Waves of hot air from the burning wreckage closed down on Dave like a blanket. He choked, coughed, and gagged, and tugged and pulled at the belt snaps with all of his strength.
Perhaps it was five seconds, or perhaps ten, before he had the last one free, and was hauling Freddy out of the wreckage and well clear. To him, though, it seemed a year. And when he finally laid the English youth gently down on the ground hot tears of rage and bitter sorrow were coursing down his cheeks.
"Freddy, boy, Freddy, boy!" he sobbed as he bent over his white faced pal. "Hang on, Freddy. You mustn't die. You can't die, Freddy! You...!"
And then, suddenly, it happened!
Freddy Farmer's eyes flew open. For an instant they stared blankly up into Dave's. And then they blinked.
"Die?" the word exploded from the English youth's lips. "What crazy rot are you talking, Dave? What...? Good grief! Where am I, I'd like to know?"
Dave went back on his heels speechless, and utterly unable to move as Freddy Farmer sat up and absently straightened his helmet that was askew on his head.
"I say!" Freddy cried as he gaped at the two Spitfires that were now two heaps of seething flame. "What in the world...? Wait! I remember, now. Dave! What about Barker? Did he get away all right? The blighters didn't get him, did they?"
Dave had to try three times before he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
"No, they didn't get him, thanks to you, Freddy!" he finally said. "Gosh! That was the finest thing I ever saw in my life. And, gee! When I saw your bus crash in after losing part of the wing, I.... Boy! I just don't know how to put it in words. Freddy! You topped anything that ever happened in this war! Or ever will happen, I'm thinking!"
The English youth blushed, made a wry face, and got up onto his feet.
"Rot!" he snorted. "Only thing to do, wasn't it? Couldn't let the blighters shoot us both down, could I? Of course not! They didn't expect me to do anything, so it was easy to fool them. That's all there was to it."
"Yeah, sure," Dave grunted. "But you're not talking to your best girl now, pal. I was there, see? I saw it. And if it doesn't get you the Victoria Cross, then I don't know nothing!"
"Well, you certainly don't know anything about the Victoria Cross!" Freddy said scornfully. "They don't give those away with each package of chocolate you buy, you know. It's the most famous decoration in the whole world. It can only be won on the field of battle. It's never awarded in peace time, no matter what. Why, since it was instituted by Queen Victoria on January Twenty-Ninth, Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Five, there have been less than a thousand Victoria Crosses awarded. It...."
"Sure, I know!" Dave interrupted with a grin. "I know that it is a bronze medal cast from cannon captured in the Crimean War. And that it is on simple design. A form of Maltese cross with the British Lion and Crown on it. The ribbon is dark purple, and on the medal it says, 'For Valor.' Cut the lecture, pal. The point is, that if ever a fellow rated one, you sure do!"
"You're still talking rubbish!" Freddy snapped, though his eyes were shining. "I've seen you do better than that a half dozen times. Drop it, will you? I'm pleased enough just to be still alive!"
Dave stood up and shook his head.
"Well, I'm still not too sure about that," he grunted and reached out and touched his friend. "I may yet wake up and find it was just a dream. But maybe you are you, at that. One way to make sure. Are you hungry, Freddy?"
"Phew, I'm starved!" the English youth exclaimed before he could check himself.
Dave laughed and took a quick step backward.
"That's proof!" he cried. "It's not a dream. You're still Freddy Farmer. It all actually happened."
Dave suddenly cut himself off short and glanced upward. The smile died from his lips and his eyes.
"Well, I guess you'll have to stay hungry, pal," he murmured. "Unless you can go for the stuff the Jerries call food. Here comes the welcoming committee! And one of them must be a big shot. Look at all the fancy German High Command markings on his plane. Wouldn't it be something if it was Hitler in that ship sliding down our way, huh?"
Freddy Farmer tilted his head and looked up at the four Messerschmitt One-Nines coasting down and around into the wind, preparatory to landing. The plane in the lead had Luftwaffe High Command markings on either side of the fuselage. And as if they weren't enough to signify that some high ranker sat in the pit, a black and white streamer was attached to the radio antenna pole.
"If it is Hitler," Freddy murmured, "it'll be the happiest moment in my life. Among other things about that madman I despise, is that toothbrush affair he wears on his upper lip."
"It would be like socking so much jelly," Dave said disgustedly. "From all the pictures I've seen, he looks flabby all over."
"Particularly upstairs!" Freddy added. Then with a heavy sigh, "I certainly hope and pray that the pictures Barker took back will tell British Intelligencesomethings they want to know."
Dave clenched his fists helplessly, and said nothing. The English youth's words were like a bucket of ice water splashing down over his spirit. They brought him back to earth and stark realization of the situation. And it was the most depressing and disheartening picture he had ever faced. Their special mission had turned out one third successful. Yet had it? Would the pictures Flight Lieutenant Barker had taken be of any use to British Intelligence? What had Barker's camera seen that he, Dave Dawson, had not seen with his own eyes? And what he had seen had been no more than a tremendous expanse of expert camouflaging.
True, the very existence of camouflage proved also the existence of something highly important and secretive. But they had known that before they even took off from Eighty-Four's field. Sure, this area was the key to the mystery. The answer to what Hitler was doing to retain mastery of the conquered countries, and still withdraw large forces of his occupation troops for service elsewhere. Sure, it was the key to the mystery. But whatwasthe mystery? What was it all about? Would Barker's pictures answer that for British Intelligence?
Dave hoped and prayed so with all his heart and soul. But deep down in his heart he felt different. Deep down in his heart there was gnawing dread, and doubt. The truth had to be faced. The special mission had failed. Their only bit of success had been Barker escaping with his life. And that had been made possible entirely by Freddy Farmer. Everything else had gone overboard. Face it, Dave! You struck out. You missed the boat. For all you accomplished, you might just as well have stayed put back in England. Your first real command, and you didn't even see the pitch, my boy! It sailed right by, with your bat still on your shoulder!
"Come on, Dave, buck up!" Freddy Farmer's voice suddenly cut into Dave's thoughts. "From the look on your face I can guess what you're thinking. It isn't your fault at all, Dave. We just weren't lucky, that's all."
"Thanks, Freddy," Dave said with a twisted smile. "But in this league they only pay off on results. And I flopped bad. It was all my idea, you know, to make this kind of a patrol."
"Well, it's still a better idea than Group Captain Ball's!" the English youth said stoutly. Then after a two second look at the four Messerschmitts sliding down, he added with a puzzled frown, "There's one thing that's a bit of a mystery to me."
"One thing?" Dave echoed with a bitter laugh. "Boy, you're lucky. I can think of a million things! But what's the big puzzle to you, Freddy?"
The English youth made a faint movement with one hand to indicate the surrounding countryside.
"All this business," he said. "All this camouflage stuff. I can't make head nor tail of it. What do you suppose they're hiding under it? The top of that patch of swamp ground is a fake if I ever saw one. But I didn't get a chance to peek at what was underneath. I was too busy with those Jerries."
"I'll say you were busy!" Dave grinned. Then with a sharp shake of his head, "But I didn't get a good look, either. That might be camouflage covering for some underground hangars. I wouldn't want to bet on it, though. I didn't see any near by strips of flat ground big enough for take-off runways. But that's not the main thing, the main mystery that has me scratching my brains."
"What is, then?" Freddy Farmer encouraged as Dave paused and silently watched the wheels of the first Messerschmitt touch the ground. Then impulsively taking hold of the Yank's arm, Freddy said sharply, "I say, Dave! Don't get ideas of making a run for it! We wouldn't stand a chance. This area is just plain filthy with Nazis. From the air I saw troops all over the place!"
"Don't worry, pal, I'm not that dumb," Dave calmed his fears. "I saw them, too. Heck! If I'd thought we stood a chance of getting away on foot, I wouldn't have stood around gabbing this long. But we wouldn't have been able to go a hundred yards without bumping into a mess of them. Bet you anything you want there's a dozen or more Nazi rifles trained on us right now, only we can't see them."
Freddy swallowed hard and glanced anxious eyes over his shoulder. Dave saw the look and chuckled.
"Keep your shirt on, pal," he said. "Nobody's going to play target practice with us."
"What do you mean?" Freddy demanded wide eyed. "Why not, I'd like to know?"
Dave bit his lower lip and shrugged.
"And so would I," he said. "But the way it strikes me, we're something very special to these Nazis. They had five million chances to clip us upstairs, but they didn't fire a shot until you and Barker started to leave in a hurry. In my book it all adds up that they want us alive. But why, is something I haven't figured out, yet."
Dave stopped talking abruptly as he saw the worried look that spread over Freddy Farmer's still slightly pale face.
"Of course, I can think of one answer," he said lightly, "but I don't know if it's the right one."
"Well, what in the worldisit?" Freddy asked sharply when Dave didn't continue.
"Well," the Yank born R.A.F. ace murmured, and shrugged, "it's maybe because they got a look at your face up there, and got to wondering if arms, legs, and a body really went with it. Take it easy, my little man! You walked right into that one!"
Dave jumped quickly to one side and escaped Freddy's booted foot swinging up in the general direction of the seat of his breeches. The English youth quickly recovered his balance and groaned heavily.
"And for this did Lady Luck let me escape from that crash!" he growled. "Let me escape to die laughing at all your funny remarks, Idon'tthink. A fine time this is for that sort of thing!"
"Well, anyway, it's time for something else," Dave said quickly and nodded ahead. "Here comes the company. And the big shot. He's.... Holy smoke, Freddy! Take a look. That bird in the lead. I've seen his picture in the paper. Hey! Hey, isn't he Colonel Comstadt, the chief of the Gestapo end of the Luftwaffe?"
Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked at the giant of a man in flying gear striding toward them. The man was huge, gigantic. His head was the size of a melon, and his face had all the beauty of the rear end of a truck. His long arms swung at his sides like those of a gorilla, and his legs were like a couple of telephone poles jointed in the middle.
"Yes, he must be!" Freddy whispered hoarsely. "There couldn't be two in the world who look like that. Yes, Dave, he must be that Colonel Comstadt you hear so much about. Good grief, how in the world does he manage to squeeze into the cockpit of a Messerschmitt One-Nine?"
Dave didn't bother to answer the question. As a matter of fact, he hardly heard it. His gaze was rivetted on the huge Nazi striding toward them, and there was a most unpleasant chilliness in his chest. Next to Hitler, and Gestapo Chief Himmler, Colonel Comstadt was reported to be the most brutal man in all the German Reich. Wherever he went, there also went indescribable suffering, and death on a wholesale scale. And it wasn't limited to the enemies of Germany, either. Colonel Comstadt worked within the German Army, and the Luftwaffe, as well as outside of them. His job was two-fold. To create terror and fear in Hitler's legions so that every order of the Fuehrer would be blindly obeyed. And it was also his job to create terror and fear throughout the conquered countries so that the occupation troops would not be molested.
Of late it had been rumored that the man had been assigned to the Luftwaffe operating on the Western Front. The sound beatings administered by the R.A.F. to the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain had thrown Hitler into another of his famous rages. But it had obviously done considerably more than that. The results of the Battle of Britain had knocked a lot of the arrogance, conceit, and cocksuredness out of the Luftwaffe personnel. Originally they had gone winging across war skies to tackle a foe sneeringly regarded by "Uncle" Goering as a push-over. Instead, though, they had bumped into a foe who could knock the stripes off any of them. And, what's more, do it with one hand tied behind his back.
It had been a terrible shock to the Luftwaffe pilots to discover that one Royal Air Force pilot was better than any dozen of them. It started them thinking for the first time since falling under Adolf Hitler's spell. And that was the one thing Adolf Hitler feared most. That his human pawns of war might startthinking. And so Colonel Comstadt had been sent to the Luftwaffe to "build up morale" with fear, brutality, and the firing squad.
And right now Colonel Comstadt was bearing down on Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer.
"Easy does it, Freddy!" Dave whispered out the corner of his mouth as he saw the English youth stiffen and half clench his fists. "He has his gang with him, and we wouldn't stand a chance!"
Colonel Comstadt, and the three other pilots of his four plane group, walked up to within a few yards of the two boys. There the big man halted, rested his big hands on his hips and stared at them out of eyes that were like two smouldering coals of fire. Then suddenly his thick lips curled back over his teeth in a sneer.
"Two little boys!" he boomed out in his native tongue. "Himmel!Just two little boys. I thought England hadmenin her army!"
"She has!" Dave shot back at him. "Try to invade England any time, and you'll find out!"
Thunder heads showed in the German's face for a moment. Then he laughed harshly and jabbed a big finger at Dave.
"American, eh?" he roared. "Ah, yes! You must be this Dawson swine I've heard tell about. Am I right?"
"Take five points for it," Dave said. "Who cares?"
"What?" the Luftwaffe morale builder bellowed. "What kind of talk is that?"
"I give up," Dave said. "What kind?"
The Nazi looked both puzzled and angry. The look he gave Dave made the young Yank regret just a little that he had spoken in that manner.
"So, you would make a joke of it, eh?" the Nazi suddenly roared. "I advise you not to. I can crush an infant like you with one hand. What were you three doing over here?"
"Three?" Freddy spoke up before Dave could open his mouth. "What three? There's only the two of us."
"I can see that!" the Gestapo Colonel snarled. "I have eyes, you little fool. There was a third plane. The one thattriedto get away. What were you doing over here, eh?"
Dave's heart skipped a beat. The one thattriedto get away? Did that mean Barker had been caught and shot down?
"Oh, him?" Dave echoed and forced a grin to his lips. "He not only tried to get away, hedidget away. Too bad for you. He was the important man in the patrol."
"So?" the German said with a slow smile. "The important man of your little patrol, eh? Then it is too bad for the ones who sent you out here. He will never return to England. He is dead, the swine!"
"You're a cockeyed liar!" Dave shouted at him with more conviction than he felt. "He left you birds fanning thin air, and he's well over England by now."
The German regarded Dave as though he were some strange species of something or other. Then his big body shook with silent laughter.
"You Americans are a stupid people," he finally said. "You have no sense. You do not realize that you are asking for punishment every time you open your dirty mouths. You have to be taught a lesson,always!"
As the man shouted the last his big hand flashed out with the speed of a striking cobra. Dave didn't even see it coming. He only felt the stunning blow on the side of his head. And the next thing he knew he was flat on his back on the ground, blinking goggle eyed up at the sky. The toe of a boot dug into his ribs.
"Get up, infant swine!" he heard the voice of Colonel Comstadt. "I hardly touched you. So you are the American, Dawson, I have heard about? Bah! You haven't the strength of a chicken. Get up!"
Dave got shakily up onto his feet. Red fire was sweeping through his brain, and white fury was boiling up in his chest. He had just enough sense left, though, to refrain from hurling himself at the big hulk of a Nazi. You can't chop down an oak tree with a straw, and Dave had enough sense to realize it. However, as he met the Nazi's leering gaze he made a silent promise to himself that if the chance ever came...!
"Now, let that teach you to behave, and answer my questions!" Colonel Comstadt growled. "So! What were you three pilots doing over here?"
Dave didn't attempt to answer. A hunch he had had for some time was growing stronger and stronger. Was the reason the Nazis didn't shoot, when they had the chance, because they wondered what Freddy, Barker, and he were doing over the area? They reallydidn't know, or even suspect?
If that were true then there was even greater hope that he and Freddy might get out of this jam. As long as they kept the Germans wondering and guessing the longer the Germans would keep them alive. There was one thing the war had proved about the Nazi breed. They never threw away a man's life until they had drained the last drop of usefulness from his body. And that went double for espionage agents they caught in their traps.
"We were on patrol," Dave answered the question aloud. "We were on our way to contact some of our bombers."
"That's perfectly true," Freddy spoke up, instantly catching onto Dave's line of thought. "What other reason, for heaven's sake? And why such a lot of you chaps? You certainly do believe in superior numbers, don't you? But, then, you must have learned many startling things about the Royal Air Force, eh?"
The Nazi acted as though he had not heard. He ignored the English youth, and kept his gaze fixed on Dave. When he spoke his voice was surprisingly soft. Yet there was a deadly undertone to it.
"You have perhaps heard of Colonel Comstadt?" he asked. "You have perhaps heard of him?"
Dave plucked at his lower lip and screwed up his face in a gesture of deep thought.
"Comstadt?" he mumbled. "Comstadt? No. I can't say that I've heard of him. Who is he? Hitler's valet, or something?"
The German turned purple with rage, and for a second or two Dave feared that the man was actually going to explode in a shower of small pieces. It was a full minute before the Nazi seemed able to find his tongue. He jerked up a clenched fist, and Dave instantly set himself to duck. No blow was struck at him, however. Instead, Colonel Comstadt beat his fist against his own chest.
"Iam Colonel Comstadt!" he thundered. "I am second in command of the Gestapo. In the hollow of my hand I hold the lives of thousands. I have but to close my hand, and they are no more. So, you have never heard of Colonel Comstadt, eh?"
"No, never," Dave lied with a straight face.
The German looked even more disappointed. He actually looked as if he were going to break down and cry. The expression on the man's face, however, struck no funny note in either Dave or Freddy. On the contrary it struck a very chilling note. It was like a file being drawn across their taut nerves. One thing was now definitely sure in their minds. Colonel Comstadt was a madman! He was absolutely insane. Clever, cunning, a great credit to Adolf Hitler, but definitely a crazy man.
"Well, then I will tell you about Colonel Comstadt," the Nazi suddenly said in a friendly and engaging voice. "He has done many great things for Der Fuehrer, and he will do many more. That is as sure as the stars that shine by night, and the sun that shines by day. How, you ask? How has Colonel Comstadt been able to do so much? It is simple. Very simple. I know many ways to make men talk. And when you make a man talk, you learn many things. You understand me, eh? I ask you a question, and you give me a foolish answer. Very well, then. There are many ways to make you talk. And not one of them will be pleasantfor you!"
The Nazi finished talking with a curt nod of his head, and then smiled in cunning triumph.
"You see?" he murmured. "You understand perhaps now, eh? You are not men. You are mere babies. I could break you both with the fingers of one hand. Well?"
Dave looked at those big hands and gulped inwardly. He imagined them at his throat, or breaking off an arm, and gulped again.
"But what can we tell you?" he cried, stalling for time. "What do you want to know? The location of the bombers? Heck! I haven't the faintest idea where they are now."
"I either!" Freddy snapped at him. "Why don't you go up and hunt for them? We've got other things to do. Something very important."
Dave shot a quick side glance at Freddy, and wondered if he, too, had gone nuts. The English youth was practically begging the Nazi to jump on them and beat out truthful answers. Freddy was just plain baiting the madman into action. Yet, looking at Freddy's face, Dave saw only a look of restrained impatience. Colonel Comstadt saw the look, too, and it puzzled him more than added to his rage.
"What do you say?" he demanded. "You have something very important to do?"
"Oh, quite," Freddy murmured, and calmly brushed some dirt off his flying suit.
Colonel Comstadt choked on something unintelligible, then thrust out a hand and took a bear's paw grip on the English youth's shoulder.
"Speak up, swine!" he roared. "What is this important thing you have to do? Speak, at once!"
Pain showed in Freddy's face, but he squared his jaw and looked the Nazi straight in the eye.
"I'll answer that question to your superior," he said with an effort. "To the man who gave you your orders. And, now, let go of my shoulder, please!"
The Nazi was so jolted that he actually did release his grip on Freddy's shoulder, and dropped his hand to his side. For a full ten seconds he gaped wide eyed at the English youth as though he were somebody from another world. Then suddenly he shook himself and thrust his big flat face close to Freddy's.
"My superior?" he bellowed. "What do you mean?"
"You know as well as I do!" the English youth shouted back at him. "Yoursuperior! General von Peiplow, of course. And, you great big over stuffed ox, you'd better take us to him at once. He may tell Hitler on you, and then where'll you be?"
The Nazi choked, sputtered, and tried furiously to get words out of his mouth. When they did come, they came like flood waters pouring over a broken dam.
"You insolent swine!" he raged. "You English dog. I'll teach you to hold your tongue!"
"Freddy, look out!" Dave screamed.
It was too late. The Nazi hit Freddy on the side of the head and sent him spinning across the ground. White fire exploded in Dave's brain and blew common sense to the four winds. He dived forward and swung his fist for the German's jaw with every bit of his strength behind the blow. He felt his hand connect, and it felt like crashing his fist against the side of a brick building. And then the whole world exploded in shattering sounds about his ears. He heard the bellow that came from the Nazi's lips, and then he had the flashing impression that an express train had hit him in the face and not even stopped. After that there weren't any more impressions. That is none, save one. The impression that he was sailing away into eternity on a great big black cloud.
A distant throbbing beat bored its way into Dave's head and jacked him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and stared blankly up at ceiling beams. A musty smell was in his nose. A musty smell mingled with the aroma of horses long since departed. As he stared blankly at the ceiling beams a small part of his brain began functioning. It told him that he was stretched out on some straw. In a deserted stable probably. And when he started to push up to a sitting position stabbing pain in his head and neck told him to take things easy for a little longer.
"Does it hurt much, Dave? I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean it to work quite that way."
Dave steeled himself against the pain and gingerly turned his head to see Freddy Farmer stretched out on the straw a couple of feet from him. There was a spot of dried blood on the English youth's pale face. His eyes were steady, however. And a grin covered up any aftermath pain he might be feeling. Dave made his own lips grin back.
"What happened?" he grunted. "Were we on a ship and got torpedoed? No, wait! I remember, now. You got that guy mad, and he slugged you. I tried to slug him but darn near broke my hand. He slugged me right back, and broke my head, I think. It feels that way. Does it look broken?"
"Not from here, Dave," Freddy said. "You've got a bit of a cut on your jaw, but outside of that you look fit enough. I'm awfully sorry, though, Dave. It seemed rather a bright idea at the time."
Dave slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, and then held his head with his hands until things stopped whirling around. When they stopped he saw that he was in an old unused stable. There was a window on both sides, but too high for him to look out without standing on something. The heavy doors in front had been rolled shut.
"There's an armed guard outside," Freddy Farmer cautioned. "So you'd better not try to open the doors."
"Where are we, anyway?" Dave asked. "I guess you weren't out cold as long as I've been. What time is it...? Holy smoke! Is that red glow a sunset?"
Without waiting for Freddy to answer Dave looked at his wrist watch. The hands said fifteen minutes after five. In the evening, or morning?
"Evening," Freddy said, guessing his thoughts. "We've been here all day. I regained consciousness for a moment as they were throwing us inside, here. That's when I saw the armed guard. Then everything went black again. I woke up just a few seconds before you did, I guess. Hear those plane engines? We must be pretty close to a Nazi airfield."
Dave cocked his ear to the sound of engines being warmed up, and smiled sadly at Freddy Farmer.
"Now I know what they mean when they say, so near yet so far away," he grunted. "But look, Freddy! What was all that crazy business about General von Peiplow, anyway?"
The English youth shrugged and sighed heavily.
"I got to thinking," he said after a moment or so. "I mean, there was no telling what that madman might do next. And he is mad, Dave!"
"You're telling me?" the Yank grunted. "You could almost see the bats flying out of his belfry! He's crazy as a coot, and dangerous as a bushel basket of cobras."
"Exactly!" Freddy agreed. "And I was afraid you were going to sting him into losing his temper completely. So...."
"Me sting him?" Dave echoed with a short laugh. "Little man, you weren't exactly complimenting the guy, you know. He didn't like that great big ox crack even a little bit."
"That was stupid of me, wasn't it!" Freddy grunted with a nod. "But it just popped off my lips. As I said, though, I got to thinking. Realizing that he'd been up there in the air and had made no effort to slaughter us ... that is, until you pulled that stunt to help Barker and me escape ... it struck me that he must have had a good reason. And it struck me right after that, that he must have been under orders to capture us alive. It was a wild guess, of course. So I spoke of General von Peiplow as I did. I thought that might stop him from going haywire, and killing us in his rage. I think it did stop him, Dave. The look I saw in his eyes seemed to me to say that I had struck the nail on the head. I mean, that he really was under orders to deliver us to von Peiplow alive."
Dave grunted and gingerly fingered his aching jaw.
"Well, maybe so," he said. "Maybe you stopped him from going the limit on us. But, boy, he went plenty far enough for me, I can tell you. If he'd belted me twice, I.... But maybe he did. I sure feel as if I were still bouncing."
"Well, I really am sorry for egging him on too much," Freddy said. "But at least it got us rid of him."
"Or him rid of us!" Dave grunted. "But look, Freddy. Think you can get up on your feet and navigate?"
"I can manage it, yes," the English youth said and got slowly up on his feet. "But where do you expect to navigate to?"
"To that old saw-horse in the corner for one thing," Dave said, pointing. "We'll carry it over under the window, there, and take a look outside. I'm curious to get a look at the scenery around here."
"Wait, Dave!" Freddy cried as the Yank started over toward the saw-horse in the corner. "Are you crazy?"
Dave stopped and turned to look at his pal.
"No more than usual," he said. "What's eating you, though?"
"Never trust a Nazi!" Freddy said sharply. "Good grief, haven't you learned that, yet?"
"Huh?" Dave echoed with a frown. "Hey, what the heck are you going to do? Pole vault through the window? It's too small, fellow. You'd never make it."
Freddy Farmer had picked up a weather rusted old pitch fork on the stable floor. He pulled off his helmet and hung it over the prongs of the fork. Then as Dave stared wide eyed he walked over to the window and pushed the helmet up above the window sill level. A split second later there came the crack of a high powered rifle from somewhere outside, and a metallic wasp whined in through the window opening and wentplunkinto a sturdy wall stud on the far side of the stable.
Freddy lowered the pitch fork and looked silently at Dave. The Yank swallowed hard and grinned sheepishly.
"Like I've always said," he murmured, "you're the one guy I like to have around all the time. Thanks, pal. That makes me the dumb bunny."
"I fancy you'll learn, if the war lasts long enough!" Freddy grunted. "Not that you would have been shot. Only to scare you, and stop you from trying to escape through the windows. However, I don't trust Nazis. Particularly their marksmanship. So sit down and rest, Dave. All we can do is wait."
The two youths dropped back on the straw and stared gloomily off into space. Eventually Freddy broke the silence that had settled over them.
"Do you think that's true about Barker, Dave?" he asked. "I mean, what Comstadt said?"
"I don't know, Freddy," Dave replied with a frown. "Maybe he was lying when he said Barker was dead. Maybe he wasn't. The last look I had at Barker he was out in the clear and well on his way. Of course, though, he might have run into some other Nazi ships that I didn't see. There's one thing, though, that we've got to face, Freddy. Or have you thought of it, too?"
"Barker's pictures not telling British Intelligence anything they want to know?" the English youth replied. "Yes, I've thought of that. And I'm just a little afraid, Dave, that it may be true, even if he does get back to England. I didn't see anything with my own eyes that made any sense. To tell you the truth, I think we could take pictures of this area all day long and not snap a blessed thing except their blasted camouflage stuff."
"That's the way I figure it, too," Dave said in a dejected voice. "So, whether or not Barker got back ... and I sure hope like everything that he did ... I don't think it will make any difference. I mean, it looks like it's up to us, Freddy. You and me, and nobody to help us."
"Yes, I fancy you're right," Freddy murmured. "You don't happen to have an idea what we do next, do you?"
"No," Dave groaned. "The old brain's a blank. I guess we've just got to sit here, and.... No! The heck we have! I'll get us some attention, and I'll get it in a hurry, too. Get over by those rolling doors, Freddy. I got a bright idea."
"You tell it to me, first!" Freddy said and didn't move. "Your last bright idea wasn't so bright, you know."
"But this one is!" Dave cried and pulled a clip of matches from his pocket. "Look! We're not dead, are we? No. They didn't shoot us, did they? No. They just put us on ice in here until they get darn good and ready to do something about it. Well, I'm going to make them get good and ready in a hurry. I'm going to set this straw on fire, pal. You wait. They'll come for us in a hurry."
"But maybe they won't!" the English youth protested. "And, besides, this straw is pretty old and damp."
"So much the better," Dave said, and struck a match. "There'll be a lot of smoke, and no fire. Get over by the doors and down low where you won't have any trouble breathing. Heck, Freddy! Somebody's got to start the ball rolling. Why not us? We can't wait here until the darn war's over. Even if it's only Pumpkin Face Comstadt who comes, that'll be better than waiting here chewing our nails off. Stand back, pal! Here goes the match!"
Dave stuck the lighted match down under some straw that looked fairly dry. The flame came down to heat up his fingers, but the straw didn't catch. He dropped the burnt stub and struck three or four matches at the same time. The larger flame did the trick. The straw caught on fire and got going well enough to keep going when it reached the damp straw. Smoke started curling upward, and by the time Dave had joined Freddy over by the door a good cloud of the stuff was beginning to pour out the window on the right.
"Perfect!" Dave chuckled. "There's enough wind coming in the opposite window to keep it going. There! Hear that yelling outside? They've seen the smoke. And, listen! Here they come! What did I tell you, pal?"
"Oh, I expected them to come!" Freddy grunted. "It's when theyget herethat I'm wondering about. I...."
The rest was cut off short as the doors were rolled back and a figure came rushing inside. The figure tripped over the crouching boys, bawled out a frightened curse, and fell flat on his face. A rifle went sailing from his hands to crash against the stable wall. Dave saw it and his first impulse was to leap for it. The impulse died instantly, however, as a group of figures threw its shadow across him. He looked up into a ring of flat faces, and hostile eyes. That is, all save one man. He wore the uniform of a General in the Luftwaffe. He was tall and straight as a steel rod. He was very good looking, and he had soft brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with merriment. Dave knew without asking that he was looking at General von Peiplow, of Dunkirk "fame."
The high ranking Luftwaffe officer suddenly chuckled out loud, and made a gesture with the riding crop he carried in his black gloved hand for the two boys to get up.
"You got tired of waiting, eh?" he spoke in English. "So sorry to have kept you waiting so long. A novel way of attracting our attention, however. Supposing, though, we had not come to investigate?"
"But you did," Dave said. "That's what we figured you'd do."
"You are Dawson?" the General asked. Then pointing his riding crop at Freddy, "And this is the English boy, Farmer? Ah! I see that you both have been promoted in rank. My congratulations!"
"Thanks," Dave grunted. And then not being able to choke off the question, "But how come you knew we'd been promoted?"
General von Peiplow chuckled and slowly closed one eye.
"It is my business to know everything," he said. "And let me compliment you two by saying that the names, Dawson and Farmer, are well known in the German Luftwaffe. Frankly, I am very pleased to be able to meet you at last."
The Nazi smiled as he spoke but there was a chill in Dave's heart. It was almost as though he suddenly saw the real man behind that kind smile and that good looking face. Colonel Comstadt was ugly, and animal from the top of his big head to the bottom of his big feet. His brutality, and his murderous instincts were all on the surface for the whole world to see. But not so, General von Peiplow. He was the polished Nazi. The educated and well mannered type of Hitler henchman. In reality, though, he was three times as deadly and dangerous as the lumpy Comstadt. The Gestapo man slaughtered with his bare hands. General von Peiplow, however, killed men with his brains, his treachery, and his diabolical cunning.
"Didn't figure we were that famous," Dave presently said. "So what?"
"So what?" the German murmured and arched an eyebrow. "So, I think it would be splendid if we all had a little talk, don't you?"
A quiver of excitement shot through Dave but he kept his face a blank.
"Suits us," he said with a shrug. "But I don't know what there is for us to talk about."
"Oh, there are lots of things," General von Peiplow smiled. Then gesturing with his riding crop, "Come along with me where it will be more comfortable. Ah, your pardon, Gentlemen! You are perhaps a bit hungry, eh?"
Dave heard Freddy speak, but he could hardly believe his ears.
"Not at all, thank you," the English youth said politely but coldly. "We're not hungry a bit."
Dave gaped at his pal, then looked at von Peiplow.
"You've got a doctor around here, General?" he grunted.
"Why, yes," the German replied quickly. "You need medical attention?"
"I don't," Dave said. "Just wanted to make sure, in case. Strange things might happen.Ouch!"
"What's the matter?" von Peiplow asked sharply as Dave bent down and rubbed his ankle.
"Fell over my own big feet!" Dave growled, and shot a withering glance at Freddy Farmer's innocent face. "Well, let's have that talk, if you want."
"By all means," the Luftwaffe officer said. "Come with me."
With a nod at the group of younger officers with him, which said plain as day for them to keep a sharp eye on the two prisoners, General von Peiplow turned and led the way across a strip of open ground to a group of one story buildings set well back under the protection of some woods. Dave took one quick look at those buildings and woods, and knew at once it was one of the spots marked on Colonel Trevor's map.
He cast his eyes quickly about and instantly spotted the bend in the Lille River, the hill range and the stretch of swamp ground. He was suddenly relieved to know that their captors had not taken them away from the mysterious area during their unconscious hours. And then as he heard sound, and saw movement over by the stretch of supposedly swamp ground, he stopped dead in his tracks and gasped in bewildered amazement.
His guess up in the air had been correct. The swamp had been drained, and the camouflage covering concealed a nest of partial underground hangars. They were not hangars for planes, however. Underneath the propped up camouflage covering were hundreds ofgliders! Hundreds of gliders with no cockpit as far as he could see. And in the nose of each was fitted a small auxiliary two cylinder engine of perhaps ten or twelve horsepower.
Even as he stared a group of mechanics released a pair of the auxiliary powered gliders. They went skipping along a strip of open ground no wider than a city sidewalk and arced gracefully up and into the air. Noses tilted upward close to the stalling point, the gliders climbed up in the sunset flooded heavens until they were no more than a couple of specks in the sky.
"Jumping cat-fish!" Dave blurted out. "Gliders. Auxiliary powered gliders! Well, what do you know!"
"Ah?" General von Peiplow echoed. "A surprise, eh? Then perhaps our talk will be short and sweet, as they say in your country, Flight Lieutenant Dawson!"
Dave looked at the faint light gleaming in the German's eyes, and would gladly have given an arm and a couple of legs to take back what he had said. It was now plain as day that von Peiplow was worried about just how much Freddy and he knew. To blurt out in amazement at seeing the powered gliders was the same as telling the German they didn't know very much.
The Yank bit his tongue in silent rage. Then suddenly an idea popped into his head. He turned toward Freddy and held out his hand.
"Want to pay it to me, now, or just owe it to me?" he said. "Take a look at those powered gliders. That proves the message wasn't a fake, doesn't it?"
Freddy Farmer looked blank, then caught Dave's quick half wink. He shrugged and made a face.
"I'll owe it to you," he said. "It wasn't a fair bet, though. You know what else the message said."
It was Dave's turn to look blank. He had the sudden feeling that Freddy's last words had been some kind of a tip. That the English youth was trying to call his attention to something else. He took a quick look over at the nest of gliders, but before he could spot anything of additional interest von Peiplow's voice interrupted him.
"A message, eh?" the German murmured. "Very interesting. Well, here we are. Inside, please. Take chairs, and make yourselves comfortable."
Von Peiplow had stopped in front of the door of a square, earth camouflaged building. Its flat roof was covered with cut boughs, even though tree branches were like a tent above it. A few other buildings of the same design close by were also protected in a like manner. It was obvious that the Germans had taken extra precautions that the group of buildings would not be spotted from the air.
"Or by the lens of a camera," Dave said to himself, and stepped in through the door.