"You mean that the other way around, I fancy!" he snapped. "And I warn you, young fellow, this is absolutely your last chance! Mess up this show tonight, and I'll definitely leave you behind in all doings in the future. I'm completely fed up with shielding your mistakes from our superiors each time we go out on a show. Those things in the leading edge of your wings are guns, understand? They shoot bullets. But bullets meant for Nazi planes, not British or Yank or French or Polish or Canadian. Please have sense enough to remember this time. So don't forget! This is your last chance to prove you're the type to tackle big things with me."
"Boy! What a soap box artist you'd make!" Dave cried with a chuckle. "Give that vocation a thought, if you last out this war, Freddy. And right now stop breaking my fingers! What do you think you're doing? Cracking walnuts! Go on! Get into your ship before I break into tears. A tender babe like you, going along on a man's job! There should be a law, or something."
"Rot!" Freddy snapped, but his voice was a little husky. "Well, happy landings, Dave, old thing. See you anon at that cluster of shell-battered barns over in Occupied France."
"I'll be there waiting, sweetheart," Dave said. Then as a parting shot, "And don't forget the rip-cord ring. You have to yank it hard for the thing to open. Very necessary, you know."
"I'll do my best to remember, Dave," Freddy Farmer assured him.
And the two air aces climbed up into their Spitfires.
France! The once brave, fighting nation now helpless in the steel-gloved hands of its ruthless conquerors. Some vowed that treachery in high places had doomed France. Others vowed it had been the vast superiority of the enemy in all things. And others vowed there was some other reason for the swift and devastating defeat of the once proud republic. But what did it matter, the reason, now? Or what would it matter until after the war had been fought and won by the United Nations? The fact was that France was in chains; helplessly, but not hopelessly, enslaved by a gang of war bandits who even insulted their own intelligence, what little there was of it, by referring to themselves as men and human beings.
That was the one fact, the one great truth. And as Dave shoved open his greenhouse and stuck his head out to look down at the carpet of night shadows that was France, a sharp ache came to his heart, and he unconsciously clenched his free hand into a fist of promised vengeance. It had been a long time since he had flown over France. At least so it seemed, so much had happened since then. Last year? No, that couldn't be. Five years ago at the least. Maybe more. But not just last year. It couldn't have been. Yet it was so.[1]
"Keep your chin up, old girl!" he whispered downward. "Maybe this isn't the beginning. Buttheday is coming. It's coming just as sure as the rain grows little apples. Britishers, Yanks, Dutch, Belgians, Canadians, Poles, and your own Free French. That's a promise,La Belle France. Thousands and thousands of them, with all the stuff they'll need to cut Hitler down to snake level. Believe me, old girl!"
With a grim nod for emphasis, he pulled his head in and shoved the greenhouse shut. He was flying Number Two on the right in Green Flight, and Green was on the right of the general squadron formation. The Para-troop transports were a thousand feet below, thirty-five of them drilling steadily along into France. At the coast anti-aircraft batteries had opened up with a savage fire and searchlights had crossed and crisscrossed the heavens. But not for very long. A few squadrons of low flying Hurricane bombers had jumped on the guns and lights, and given their operators too much trouble for them to be able to concentrate very closely on the huge aerial cavalcade passing by overhead.
As for Nazi night fighters, there hadn't been the sign of one so far. Perhaps the bombers earlier had chewed up their dromes and parked planes so that there weren't any in condition to take to the air now. Or maybe, the odds being so much against them, the Nazi pilots were simply executing that well known German military maneuver. In short, never fight unless there are three of you to one of your enemy.
"And then again," Dave continued the thought aloud, "maybe they are waiting until we get deeper in, and near our objective. Then they'll swarm up and dive down to try and do their stuff. Yeah! Maybe they know these are Para-troop planes. And what fun it would be to pick off the poor devils floating down by parachute. Just like shooting fish in a barrel!"
Dave's heart skipped a beat as he thought of that possibility. And on impulse he tilted back his head and stared hard at the still overcast sky. Were there Nazi fighters up in that inky sky? Flocks of Hitler's vultures tagging along on silent wings, ready for the moment to scream down and strike? Dave's heart beat a little faster, and the palms of his hands became cold and clammy. He shook himself and returned his gaze to straight ahead.
"Cut it out, kid!" he growled at himself. "Get back on the beam. You've got plenty of other things to worry about, without wondering about Nazi night fighters tagging along upstairs. Just keep your thoughts on what Freddy and you have ahead of you."
As he spoke his pal's name he turned his head and peered at the next plane on his left. He knew it was Freddy's Spitfire, but he could only see it as a darker moving shadow against the general background. A sudden longing to talk and crack wise with Freddy was his. But, of course, he made no move to speak into his flap mike. Squadron Leader Parkinson would do all the talking. Nobody else was to say anything unless addressed by the Squadron Leader. Not that the Nazis below didn't know that enemy planes were up there in the skies. Their ears told them that. Radio silence had been ordered simply to avoid all chance of an unguarded or thoughtlessly spoken word giving Nazi listening stations a clue as to what was actually taking place.
And so Dave killed the urge to talk with Freddy Farmer, and continued to hold his position in the Flight formation, and keep his eyes skinned for the first glimpse of Nazi night fighters that might suddenly come gun yammering down and in among the Para-troop transports. Seconds ticked by, and became minutes, however, without a single German pilot sticking his nose into the business. Then, presently, as Dave glanced at his cowled dash clock, he saw that the two formations were only one minute away from their objective point in the air. By straining his eyes, and peering hard, Dave could just make out the winding grey ribbon that was the Seine River winding past the city of Rouen. The city, itself, was in total blackout, though a light did show here and there. Staring at them, Dave wondered if brave Frenchmen down there were playing their part in this gigantic undertaking, risking the Nazi death decree by showing lights that might guide the United Nations planes in the air. There were many Frenchmen like that. They mounted up into the thousands—far more than the rest of the world realized, let alone heard about. Steel-hearted men, women, and, yes, children, who fought the Nazi beasts twenty-four hours a day without guns, or cannon, or tanks, or airplanes, but with their hands, and feet, and their brains. They were not people living on the brink of death. They lived in themiddleof death. Night and day, week after week, month after month, and on and on until death, or victory, ended their misery.
Finally, the last minute was over and a part of time history. Dave glanced down and saw the shadows that were troop transport planes opening up wider formation. He imagined, if he didn't see, the tough, painted-faced Commandos stepping out and going down by parachute. He wondered if they were all Americans in that bunch down there. He hoped so, and told himself that was so. It gave him a thrilling feeling to have helped escort those boys over from England. And what they wouldn't do to the Nazi tramps they met on me ground! There was no fighter on earth like a Yank, once he got started. Not even the Australians could get tougher than Uncle Sam's fighting fools. They—
The rest of the thought folded up in Dave's brain. At that instant he heard the savage snarl and yammer of aerial machine guns. And he had only to jerk his head around and look up to see the stabbing tongues of yellow-orange flame etched against the black sky. Nazi fighters were rushing down to enjoy a field day of killing and slaughter. But that's whattheythought! There was good old Two Hundred and Three between them and the Para-troop planes. Two Hundred and Three, that had one of the best records in the R.A.F. for bringing down enemy aircraft.
"So come on down!" Dave grated, and slid his free hand up to twist the firing ring of his trigger button on the stick. "Come on down and get slapped in the face for keeps. We'll—"
"Tally-ho, chaps!" came Squadron Leader Parkinson's cry over the radio. "Company here. Let's entertain the blighters, or make them go home. After them, chaps!"
"And how!" Dave shouted happily, and started to whip his Spitfire around and up toward the part of the night sky etched with streaks of yellow orange. "We'll show—"
The rest died on his lips as common sense suddenly got the upper hand of him, and roughly jogged his memory. Heck, yes, of course! Was he nuts? He couldn't go kiting up there to do battle with those Nazi night fighters. And neither could Freddy Farmer. This was the end of the line for them. This was where they got off and changed trains. They had an exact time schedule of their own. And if they wasted minutes fooling around with those diving night fighters of Hitler's, their whole schedule could very well be thrown completely out of whack.
"But it's like quitting!" Dave groaned as he checked his turn and started to peel off and down toward the south. "Like getting the wind up and running out on the boys. And they're such swell guys. Oh nuts! Would five minutes make any difference? I might smack a couple in five minutes, stop two of them from maybe cutting down through us and spraying those Para-Commandos going down to earth. I—"
He groaned aloud again, for he knew that he was simply talking words that didn't mean anything. He had a job to do. Freddy had a job to do. And Two Hundred and Three had a job to do—without them! Major Barber hadn't kidded around on that point when he'd given Freddy and him the instructions. At the jump off spot, Freddy and he were to peel away from the squadron and get on about their own little job. And that meant peel away no matter if the whole German Luftwaffe dropped down on top of Two Hundred and Three.
"But just let me get back to England!" Dave whispered as he went roaring southward. "Just let me get back so that I can tell those boys, and have them understand how it was we pulled out and left them in the soup. Just let me do that!"
With a savage nod for emphasis, Dave squinted ahead at the searchlight beams that were now cutting up from the city of Rouen, and then looked to the right and to the left. Freddy Farmer's plane was on his right. He could see it quite clearly, now. There was beginning to be quite a bit of light. However, it was red light from explosions on the ground below that reflected upward. And those explosions meant that some of the Commandos had already landed and were going into planned action.
"Give it to them, boys!" Dave shouted impulsively, and shook his free fist. "Give them the works, and not once over lightly, either. Sock it to them where it hurts!"
As though a Nazi anti-aircraft gunner on the ground wanted to help out, a shell exploded with a terrific roar just on the right to punctuate Dave's last sentence. It was close enough to send his Spitfire jumping a bit, and he almost slipped into a spin before he regained control. When he did he spent a couple of very anxious moments waiting to see if shrapnel pieces had done any serious damage. None seemed to have, though, for the Rolls-Royce Merlin in the nose continued to roar out its song of mighty power and pull the Spitfire through the night air at close to four hundred miles an hour.
That single exploding shell, though, was but the first greeting of many. As Freddy and he went clipping across Rouen, and over the twisting Seine, it seemed as though all the anti-aircraft batteries in Europe had opened up on them. And there were so many searchlight beams poking upward and swinging back and forth, and around in circles, that the sky ahead and on all sides was like a shimmering white fishing net. And the searchlight beams certainly werefishingfor the two Spitfires.
A dozen times one caught Dave's plane cold and blinded him for a split second or two. But just as an anti-aircraft battery would take a new sight on him, he would manage to whip out of the brilliance of the "Peeping Tom" and into blessed black sky that hid him from view. And just as many times he saw lights catch Freddy's plane, and make the English-born air ace do his trick dance before getting out of sight again.
As a matter of fact, the closer they came to Evaux the more guns started shooting at them, and the more searchlights sprang into action. The sky was lighted up almost as though it were high noon. There were few "black" spots, and cold sweat trickled down Dave's face as shells seemed to burst right on top of his wings, and even inside the cockpit—which of course they didn't.
"We're going to have to be good!" he muttered, as he dropped the Spit's nose and cut down into momentary concealment. "Plenty good, or they'll see us step off, and start a man hunt by the time we've reached the ground. And that mustn't happen. Those birds down there have got to think we're still in the ships when they see them catch fire. And so—well, it's up to us to make it good."
As he spoke the last he put his lips to the flap mike.
"Better get out of here, Freddy!" he shouted.
It was the signal they had arranged in Major Barber's office, the only words they would speak over the air. But they would mean plenty. Dave's speaking those words was the signal for them both to bail out in the next possible second, after yanking the lever that started the time mechanism of the fire bomb. So the instant the words were off Dave's lips he cut deeper into the dark area in the sky, yanked the fire bomb lever, shoved open the greenhouse cowling, unfastened his safety harness and got up on the seat.
With his foot he moved the stick over to the right to tilt the Spitfire in that direction a little. Then, after bracing himself, he dived out and down, holding his breath for a couple of split seconds for fear he had done it wrong and would get practically cut in two by the Spitfire's tail plane. But he had done it right, and he went spinning end over end down through the night air that grew darker the lower he fell. He counted up to twenty, then tightened his grip on the rip-cord ring and jerked it hard.
"You'd better work," he muttered, "or I'll be plenty sore at the manufacturer!"
For a moment more he went on spinning downward, and then invisible hands hooked onto his body and he was jerked back up toward the night sky. For one awful instant he almost lost his grip on the bundled up German uniform he had grabbed before he bailed out. He managed to hang onto it, however, and presently he was floating earthward, while high above anti-aircraft shells painted the heavens with red and yellow and orange. And the dazzling white beams of the searchlights made a moving, swaying background for the display of war's colors.
"So far, so good," Dave muttered, and impulsively crossed the fingers of his free hand. "Now, if Freddy has bailed out safely, and is on his way down, everything is okay, okay."
"All right, cut out enjoying yourself! There's the ground down there some place. And it's coming up, fast. Pay attention to your knitting, pal!"
Dave wasn't sure whether he had spoken the words aloud, or whether they had simply been spoken in his brain. Anyway, he stopped twisting his head this way and that to admire the display of bursting colors high overhead, and started peering down through the gloom in the direction of the ground. Just as he did that, though, there were two loud explosions in rapid succession. They were to the south and above his altitude, and when he jerked his gaze up that way he saw two huge raging balls of flame arc out across the sky and down, leaving behind long tails of winking sparks.
"Freddy's ship and mine, going up in smoke," he said softly. "Gee! What a rotten end for such a swell pair of planes. Spitfire Mark Fives don't grow on trees, darn it! Too bad we couldn't have used a couple of crates that had seen their best days. Yet that might not have been so hot if we'd run into Nazi night fighters sooner. Well, that's how it goes. Rest in peace, old gals!"
With a half salute toward the blazing Spitfires falling earthward, and followed downward every inch of the way by a couple of dozen Nazi searchlights, Dave switched his gaze toward earth again, and twisted around at the ends of his parachute shroud lines in order to pick out any faint landmarks that might be showing. It took him a couple of seconds before he saw the big loop made by the Seine as it wound past the city of Rouen. When he saw it a happy smile came to his lips, and he felt pleased all over. Unless a low wind caught him and did things with his parachute envelope, he should land practically in the middle of the Seine's loop, the exact spot, where he was to make his rendezvous with Freddy Farmer.
"Nice, very neat!" he grunted. Then with a little laugh, "But you know darn well, pal, that it's just bull luck. You didn't see that river loop when you stepped out, and you know it. But don't be dumb enough to admit that to Freddy when you see him!"
With a grin and a nod for emphasis, he started to bend his knees ready for landing. The night shadow-filled ground was very close, now. As yet, though, the shadows weren't clear enough for him to make out just what they were. Trees, rocks, buildings, or even maybe the cluster of farm barns where he was to contact Freddy again? And so he breathed a silent prayer that there were no trees directly under him, or at least that he'd be able to see them in time. It would be nice, he didn't think, to foul his 'chute on some top branches, and dangle there like a Christmas tree ornament until daylight when some Nazis came by and cut him down, or shot him down! And it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing had happened, either!
"So don't even think about it!" he growled at himself. And with one hand still hanging onto the bundled up German uniform, he reached up both hands and grabbed hold of the shroud lines to ease some of his weight off the harness straps and make the landing that much easier.
Perhaps the gods were watching over him, or perhaps he was just plain lucky. At any rate, there were no trees under him, nor any big rocks, either, that could give him a nice case of twisted or broken ankle. As a matter of fact, there was just a nice patch of fairly soft ground, and he came to earth, and spilled the air out of his 'chute, without any trouble at all.
The instant he was on the ground, and had spilled air, he wiggled out of the harness, gathered up the 'chute and shoved it well out of sight under some bushes.
"Too bad they don't make these things so's you can use them to go on back up again," he murmured with a chuckle. "A parachute pickup! I must give that some thought when I get back to England, and have a little time on my hands. I—"
He cut the rest off short as part of what he had said came echoing back into his brain. "When I get back to England!" A cold shiver rippled down his spine, and his mouth went just a little bit dry at the thought. Here he was in the middle of Occupied France, with nobody knows how many Nazi butchers quite eager to cut his throat from ear to ear if they should find him. In Occupied France—on foot. His Spitfire was now just a heap of smouldering wreckage many miles away. When he got back to England? That would not come to pass until he had captured a Nazi plane and flown it across the Channel. Stealing a Nazi plane was his only avenue of escape. It—
He shook his head to drive away the bothersome thought.
"So what?" he grated at himself. "Freddy's in the same boat. And what you hope to do, you did once before, didn't you? Well, stop sniveling and blubbering around. Just make this the second time, that's all!"[2]
All the time he had been carrying on the conversation with himself he had been changing into the uniform of a NaziOber-Leutnant. To his surprise and delighted satisfaction, he found that it fitted him perfectly. But when he gave that a second thought, why shouldn't it? Sure! Major Barber wasn't the kind of a man who did things hop-skip-and-a-jump style. The Major, of course, had made sure that the uniform would fit.
He stood up and moved around a bit, as though he were in front of a mirror.
"Nice, perfect!" he murmured. "Almost makes mefeellike a Nazi. But not quite, though. Not in the old head, anyway. Now to check a bit, and get started. Mustn't keep Freddy waiting—if he's okay."
Turning slowly, he peered hard in all directions. The anti-aircraft fire had died down considerably, and not so many searchlight beams were sweeping back and forth across the sky. Still, there was enough light of battle toward the north to shed just a faint glow down on the ground. He saw that he was in the clearing of a small woods. Lucky for him to have dropped in so neatly. A glance at his compass gave him north, and after making sure that everything he was leaving behind was well out of sight of chance German eyes, he started forward due north. Unless his rapid calculations were all cockeyed, he had about half a mile to travel before he would reach the cluster of shell-battered farm barns.
Here was a chance to put more of his Commando training into practice, and as he moved forward he made less noise than an Indian stalking game. Every step he took was more or less planned and considered ahead of time. He didn't bump into any trees that loomed up out of the dark. Nor did he stumble blindly over stones and boulders, or go barging into bushes in his path. There was no way of telling whether German patrols were about. That was one detail that Major Barber couldn't give him. From now on his life was in his own hands. What he did, and when he did it, was strictly up to him. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer.
Freddy! The thought of his pal started his brain racing again. Where was Freddy? How was he making out? Had he come down okay somewhere near, and was he now making his own way toward the rendezvous point? Or—A cold chill slashed through Dave, and he refused to let himself finish that thought. If anything should ever happen to Freddy Farmer, he vowed he would spend the rest of his life hunting down Adolf Hitler to take personal vengeance out on the two-legged, mustached animal from another world.
"Listen!" Dave told himself. "Stop worrying about Freddy. If there is one lad who always keeps a date, no matter what, Freddy Farmer is the lad. Don't worry! That guy will get there, even if he has to slip through the whole darn German Army. Just worry about yourself. Just tend to your own knitting!"
Taking what comfort he could from his own words, he kept on moving north, eyes stabbing at the darkness ahead, and ears half tuned to the distant sounds of battle to the north. At the end of fifteen minutes he came to the crest of a small ridge. He flattened himself on the top and peered hard down the other slope. His heart did a little dance of joy, and he silently shook hands with himself. Down there, not more than a couple of hundred yards away, he could just see the dim outlines of the shell-blasted farm barns.
For a couple of minutes he remained glued to the ground, searching for any possible lights, and straining his ears for any sound other than the sounds of battle far away from him. He saw no lights, however, and he heard no sounds. He got to his feet again, bent well forward and went down the far side of the slope with as much noise as though he were in his bare feet and walking on a velvet carpet. At the end of seven minutes by his watch he was hugging the tilting side of the nearest shell-blasted barn, and straining his eyes and ears more than ever.
Again he saw nothing, and heard nothing. But for three long minutes he forced himself to crouch motionless, crouch as motionless as a corpse. Then he started to purse his lips and let out the whistle of a night loon, the signal he and Freddy had agreed upon. But before the first note could reach his lips he heard the low call coming to him through the darkness from off to his left. For a split second, his nerves had been so tensed, it was all he could do to stop from letting out a wild yell of greeting.
But he didn't, of course. Instead he turned left, started moving slowly forward, and answered the loon call. Two, three more minutes ticked by, and then a little bit of the darkness seemed to move out toward him, and he felt Freddy Farmer's hands on his arm. It was so perfect an approach by the English youth that Dave gulped and was violently startled in spite of the fact that he had known Freddy was close. The hand on his arm tightened and he was pulled down onto the ground, or rather down into a small crater left by one of the exploding shells that had wrecked those farm barns earlier in the war.
"What kept you, old thing?" asked the whispering voice in his ear. "Been here for hours, scared stiff something had happened to you. Did you run into any Nazi patrols? There are some of the beggars about. One blighter almost stepped on my hand. Could have finished him easy, but he had some pals along. You all right, Dave?"
"Fit as a fiddle," Dave whispered back. "What do you mean, what kept me? I ran all the way! I didn't come across any Nazis, though. After this, better keep your hands in your pockets, pal. Well, let's have a look at the time. Don't want to be late meeting Jones."
As Dave breathed the last he slid back the little cover that fitted over the radium dial of his wrist watch, and took a quick look at the time. It told him that they had forty-six minutes to cover the two miles to the shelled church rubble where Jones was to meet them. He let Freddy see his watch, and then started to speak, but didn't as the English youth pressed something into his hand.
"A bit of burnt cork I brought along, Dave," the English air ace whispered. "I know we are wearing Jerry uniforms, but until we contact Jones we'd better blackout ourselves a bit, don't you think? There are too many blasted Nazis patrolling around. Better that we don't let them see us, even if we are dressed as Nazi officers. We can rub this stuff off later, if we have to."
"Check, and thoughtful boy!" Dave murmured, and started rubbing the black stuff all over his face. "And look, Freddy, your seeing Nazi patrols starts me thinking. We both want to get through to contact Jones, but at least one of usmustget through. You get what I mean?"
"Quite," Freddy replied. "If we ran into trouble together, why, neither of us might get out of it. Going separately, though, one of us would probably get through to Jones. And if the other didn't show up-well, Jones would just have to team up with the chap who did. Correct?"
"Right on the button," Dave said. "I'd sure like your company, pal. But I think we'd better go it alone from here to that shelled church. Two miles. Let's say we make one mile in twenty minutes. Forty miles to the ruined church, and six minutes to play with, in case we have to. Okay. That's the way it will be. I guess we'd better get going now. Your face all blacked out?"
"Ready," Freddy breathed, and got to his feet. But he suddenly reached out and touched Dave on the arm. "Just had a thought," he whispered. "Might be a good idea for us to contact again halfway. There's an old bit of railroad track just a mile from here. Remember seeing it marked on Major Barber's mosaic maps? What say we meet there again in twenty minutes, twenty-three minutes at the most. Think that would be a good idea?"
"Checks with me," Dave replied. "If we don't meet then, the one who does reach the railroad will know more or less that the other fellow is probably out of the picture for good. Okay, Freddy. I'll be seeing you in twenty minutes, twenty-three at the most. Don't go sticking that nose of yours into any trouble. We'll probably have plenty of that later on."
"And see that you don't, either!" Freddy Farmer whispered right back at him. "I don't want to have to go back looking for you. And I'm afraid I would, you know. That's the trouble with liking a chap so much. Makes one do the barmiest things sometimes."
Dave smiled in the darkness, groped for Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.
"That goes double for me, too, Freddy," he breathed. "But neither of us is going to have to go back looking for the other. We're going to meet in twenty minutes. So long. Be seeing you, pal."
The two youths squeezed hands for one brief instant longer, then parted, and went melting off into the darkness in opposite directions.
A faint sound broke the silence of the black night! Was it the wind in the trees? The echo of the battle far to the north? A night animal stalking its next meal? Or was it one of Adolf Hitler's uniformed killers?
Dave Dawson didn't know. Perhaps it was just his imagination. Perhaps it was just his taut nerves snapping, and his brain playing him tricks. As yet he had not come across a single Nazi night patrol. And perhaps there wasn't a German within miles of him. But maybe there was! Just to make sure, he pressed himself close to the ground, turned his cork-blackened face toward his left wrist, and with his right hand inched up the cuff of his sleeve, and then removed the cover from the radium dial of his watch that was strapped about his forearm halfway to the elbow.
Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes had ticked by already? His watch must be wrong! It must have gone all cockeyed! It must have gained a couple of hours in the last ten minutes. He was dead certain he had looked at it not five minutes before. Yet his watch said it was exactly five minutes of the hour. Just twenty minutes since he had parted company with Freddy Farmer at those shelled barns. Twenty minutes? That meant he was late. Only three minutes left to reach the strip of old railroad track!
He had the feeling that he wasn't very close to it; that he couldn't cover the remaining distance in three minutes, and not make a lot of noise doing it. But—that noise he had heard just now! Was it a Nazi? Or was it Freddy closing in from his left. Had Freddy—?
The black night sky seemed to crash down on Dave's spine. Every muscle went limp, and and every fiber of his entire being seemed to snap like a rubber band. White hot flame cut into his right shoulder, and fingers of steel circled about his neck. There was no air in his lungs, and dazzling white balls of fire spun around before his eyes. So this is how it feels when you are about to die? The thought pounded through his brain as the thunderous roar in his ears seemed to blast his whole body to bits.
It took perhaps a split second, or even less, for all those thoughts and emotions to register within him. And then experience and intensive training came racing to his rescue. He flung up both clenched fists with every ounce of his strength, shoved them between two arms and pried outward savagely. The steel fingers were pulled partly loose from his neck. At the same time as he thrust up his fists, he brought up his right knee with the driving force of a battering ram, and twisted to the left. A gurgle of pain was music in his roaring ears. Air poured down into his lungs and stung like sparks of fire. But strength was surging through him now, and if there was still pain he was too furiously engaged in whirlwind action to be conscious of it.
A grunting, gurgling hulk had half rolled and half fallen off from on top of him. He shot out his left foot, hooked his toes about a booted ankle, then kicked upward and outward. At the same time he twisted back and slammed stiff fingers right down into a puffy moon-shaped face. His palms slapping down over parted lips cut off the scream of pain that would have torn the night air apart if it had escaped. But Dawson had trained for this moment, and he wasn't slipping up on a single trick. Keeping the open mouth gagged with one hand, he streaked the other down to the neck, dug in his fingers and squeezed with every ounce of his strength. The hulking figure under him struggled desperately, arched his body upward, and tried to twist his head. That was the moment!
Quick as a flash Dave crooked a leg under the figure, held his grip on the neck, and dropped the other palm down to the point of the chin. That palm he jammed upward with a savage, vicious movement. No man on earth caught by that Commando trick had a chance. And the heaving hulk under Dawson was no exception to prove the rule. He was strong, though, and for a brief instant he resisted Dawson in a furious effort. Then the strength in him seemed to melt away. His head went flying backward and there was the sickening sound of snapping bone. Instantly the man went limp and still. And quite naturally, too. A man who has had his neck broken doesn't move very much. He can't. And in this case it was impossible, because the man was already dead.
A shudder shook Dave as he untwisted from the man and started to get up onto his feet. Death was a terrible thing to have to deal out, even to a black-hearted Nazi. But this was war, and a man's personal thoughts about things weren't to be considered. He—
The strength was suddenly sucked right out of Dave. He hadn't realized what it had cost him to take care of that hulking German who had stumbled across him in the dark. He tried to regain his balance, but couldn't in time. He went pitching headlong on his face. But that was perfectly okay, at least for a moment or two. He was filled with momentary pain from head to foot. And his lungs felt as though invisible claws were trying to pull them right out through his ribs. And so for two blessed minutes he stayed right where he was, stretched out on the ground, sucking air into his lungs, and letting his heart pump renewed strength through his body.
Then suddenly he remembered that he had only three minutes left. Holy smoke! He'd never make the railroad track now. Freddy would go on without him. Maybe he'd never be able to catch up. He'd—
"Dave! All right, old chap?"
The whisper was no louder than a breath of night wind in tall grass. Yet it seemed to explode in Dave's ears like cannon fire. For a split second he couldn't move, think, or function in any way at all. His brain raced wildly; screamed at his muscles to go into action again. This might be the rest of the German patrol. That was an officer he had just killed. He'd felt the insignia and rank sewn on the man's uniform. Maybe the rest of the patrol was—
Just a split second, and then his thoughts were making sense again. That had been Freddy Farmer, of course! Good old Freddy Farmer. Freddy had come back to look for him, as he had promised. Dave turned his head to the right and stared at the motionless darkness.
"All okay here!" he breathed. "Had a little exercise, but it's okay now. But thanks for coming back, pal."
One of the motionless shadows moved, and Freddy Farmer was at his side.
"Didn't come back," the English youth said, and ran his hands over Dave as though to make sure. "Heard a racket, and guessed you'd stumbled into a blighter. Couldn't tell in the dark. Phew! That must be the biggest Nazi Hitler has!"
"Had," Dave corrected grimly. "And it was closer than I ever want it to be again. Guess I'm a pretty punk Commando. He must have heard me and played dead dog until I passed by. Gosh! I feel as if I didn't have a strip of skin left on my neck!"
"We'll have a look into that, later," Freddy said, and started to help Dave to his feet. "We've got to be getting along. We're behind schedule. Maybe it would be better to stick together, at that. Yes, it would. Come on, old chap. Can't spend the whole night chit-chatting."
"Okay by me," Dave grunted, and was just a little surprised when he found out the rubber had gone out of his legs. "Let's get going. And that's my last dumb idea for a while. Going it alone, I mean. Okay, give me your hand, Freddy. Let's keep contact that way."
"Right-o." The word just managed to drift to his ears. "I'll squeeze if I hear something on my side. You squeeze if you hear or see something on yours. And let's make it as fast as we can."
Dave just grunted faintly. He didn't bother to say anything. For that matter, there wasn't anything to say. Besides, he was too busy feeling and sensing his way forward through the night, and getting more strength back into his still aching body as soon as he could.
Then began a night journey that Dave vowed he would never forget as long as he lived. The closer they approached the area surrounding Evaux, the greater the risks they ran of bumping into Nazi soldiers. It seemed that they would take no more than a couple of steps before they would be forced to drop flat and hold their breath while a squad of German troops went past.
That fact worried Dave not a little as Freddy and he stole forward through the dark night. True, he had expected possibly to meet a few Germans. But not meet so many, so often. The more he thought of it, the more a gnawing little fear worked on his heart. Wasn't it just possible that the Germans were suspecting that an attack of some sort might be made on von Staube's and von Gault's headquarters? Were the Nazi expecting something like that, and so had they thrown out patrols all around the area? And if thatwastrue, what chance would Freddy and he have of capturing the two Nazi big shots even with Jones' help? And what if they didn't meet the U. S. Intelligence officer posing as a German? Supposing something had happened to Jones—and he wasn't there?
The thought made a film of ice coat Dave's heart, and beads of clammy sweat break out on his forehead. After all, maybe Freddy and he were walking with eyes wide open straight into a Nazi trap. There were just too darned many German soldiers about for comfort. No two ways about that. Something was wrong. Or at least the eerie tingling sensation that had come to the back of his neck seemed to warn him that things were not as they should be, or he had hoped they would be.
On sudden impulse he stopped dead, squeezed Freddy's hand, and then melted to the ground close to a thick clump of bushes. The shell-smashed church couldn't be more than a quarter of a mile away now. But he wanted to confab with Freddy before they started down the last lap of their weird, nerve-jangling journey.
"What's up, Dave? Something wrong?"
"Not yet," Dave breathed into his pal's ear. "But that's just what I'm wondering about. Freddy! Did you ever see so many Nazis out on night patrol? The whole area is practically crawling with them."
"I know," the English youth murmured. "A blessed sight more than I fancied we'd be bumping into. What do you think, Dave?"
"In circles, up to now," the Yank-born air ace replied. "I don't know just what to think. Trouble is, I've got a sneaky hunch that the bums figure that something may be in the wind, and are doing something about it, by throwing out so many patrols. Right here is where this whole thing stops looking like a cinch. Supposing Jones isn't there at the wrecked church!"
"I refuse to answer!" Freddy hissed. "It just can't be that way. He's just got to be there. We'd be in a fine flat spin if Jones didn't show up. Don't even think about it!"
"I'm trying not to, but it's plenty hard," Dave murmured. "Well, I guess there isn't much sense, at that, in parking here and trying to hash over something we don't know anything about—yet. Let's get going again. Can't be more than a quarter of a mile more. I've just been wasting time for us."
"Rot!" Freddy grunted. "I was about to stop and talk things over, when you beat me to it. But it does no good to talk. The only thing we can do is get to that shelled church—and find out what's what."
"Yeah," Dave murmured as they got into motion again. "And do I wish my cockeyed thoughts would leave me alone. Oh well! Live and learn, I always say."
Perhaps! But Dave Dawson certainly didn't enjoy living the next ten minutes. For one thing, each minute seemed a year long. And for another, they twice came within a hair's breadth of running smack into a Nazi patrol. And for a third, he felt as though he had died a dozen times over during every minute of those ten. Eventually, though, they reached the dirt road marked so clearly on Major Barber's maps. And but a short time after that they were huddled together deep in the darker shadows of the piled up rubble that had once been a church.
"So what?" Dave heard his own voice suddenly whisper. "Here we are, and—so what?"
"A little patience, I fancy," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Jones probably just wouldn't stand here waiting. It might look too suspicious to all those blighters moving about. Besides, we're several minutes late. Maybe he went for a bit of a walk, and will be back."
"Sure, that's probably it," Dave agreed, but only with his lips.
There was no agreeing with Freddy's words inside his head. A cold clammy thought seemed to fill his entire brain. No, not just a thought. Definite knowledge it was—though of course there was no proof. Just the same, though, he had the steady sickening feeling that the man called Jones was not going to meet them this night, or any other night, for that matter. However, he had agreed with Freddy with his lips, anyway. No sense building up a fear in Freddy that might be absolutely unfounded. Still—
"Steady, Dave!" came Freddy's sudden, cautioning whisper. "I heard footsteps coming along the road. Maybe this will be Jones. Steady until we get a look at the chap!"
Dave was steady enough—outwardly. But inside he was all just so much nervous jelly. His heart tried to slap out through his ribs as he himself heard the sounds of footsteps coming along the road. And the blood raced through his veins, and actually seemed to be trying to force itself out through the ends of his fingers and the ends of his toes. He was filled with the wild insane desire to snap the tension with a laugh, or with a shout. He curbed the impulse, though, and crouched with Freddy in the darkness as the footsteps came closer and closer.
Closer, closer came the footsteps! They seemed to be mysteriously synchronized with Dave's beating heart. One beat, one footstep. One beat, one footstep. Another, and another. Dave stabbed with his eyes at the gloom, but he couldn't see a single moving shadow; couldn't see a single moving thing, even though there seemed to be a sort of pale glow all about from the reflection of raging fires, and exploding ammo dumps up Rouen way to the north. But he couldn't see a thing, and his straining eyes began to smart and water.
Then, suddenly, he felt Freddy Farmer stiffen rigid at his side. And he felt Freddy's steel-like fingers close over his own hand and press hard. And then Dave saw it, himself. Saw the faint outline of a German infantryman walking along the road. He wore a battle helmet, and crooked in his right arm was one of the deadly Nazi sub-machine guns. Jones? The word question streaked across Dave's brain and returned to the center to whirl like a top. Jones, or a real German soldier? There was only one way really and truly to find out.
Dave hesitated, then pressed his lips to Freddy's near ear.
"This is us!" he breathed. "Let's find out."
The English youth didn't make any reply. He simply rose silently with Dave, and together they stepped out of the darker shadows cast by the church rubble and approached the figure in Nazi uniform. They were practically in front of the man before they stopped, and Dave spoke the code words in flawless German.
"Tell me the time, my watch is broken."
The figure in German uniform stopped short and gulped in surprise.
"The time?" echoed a thick, heavy voice. "I do not know. I—"
The voice stopped, and in the next split second Dave swore he could feel every hair on his head turn grey. The man in German uniform snapped on the beam of a tiny flashlight he had taken from his pocket, and the beam hit Dave squarely in the middle of hisstill blacked out face!
For an eternity, it seemed, Dave stood rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. He knew that he and Freddy had made a fatal mistake by forgetting to remove the cork black from their faces. He knew that this man was not Jones. He was a real Nazi soldier. And Dave knew also that in the next split second the German was going to wake up the whole countryside with his wild yells, and the savage yammer of the sub-machine gun in his hands. He knew all that, yet he was powerless to do anything about it. It was as though he didn't have a nerve nor a muscle left in his body. He was just so much frozen bone and frozen blood. This was the end—and he couldn't do a darn thing to save himself. He—
It was a streak of black lightning that he saw moving at his side. Just a streak of black lightning. It had to be, because nothing else could possibly move that fast. But it wasn't black lightning. It was Freddy Farmer's body streaking through the air. Freddy Farmer's body that hit into the Nazi soldier with terrific force. The flashlight dropped to the road and winked out. There was a stifled moan of intense pain, and then the thud of two bodies falling to the ground.
By then Dave had snapped out of his trance. He flung himself forward and down. But he was simply in the way. Commando Freddy Farmer knew his stuff, and there, stretched out on the dirt road, was positive proof. There was now one less German soldier to shoot a gun at Adolf Hitler's bidding.
"Done for, Dave!" came Freddy's whisper. "Got him with his own knife, too. Horrible business, but couldn't be helped. Lend me a hand. We'd better drag him off the road, you know. Might be some more of the beggars come along. And it would be embarrassing."
Admiration and pride rose up to choke in Dave's throat as he bent down and caught hold of the dead German's feet. What a man was Freddy Farmer! A whole doggone army in himself. If it hadn't been for Freddy's lightning action, they both would have been full of German bullets right now. Prisoners, at least. But while he had stood frozen and helpless as an old woman, Freddy Farmer had whirled into action. How many times did this make that Freddy had saved their lives? One hundred? Or was it two hundred? Probably two hundred.
Together they carried the dead German back into the darker shadows of the church rubble, and dumped him down on the ground. Then, by silent mutual agreement, they crouched down beside each other, Dave to try and get his brain working again, and Freddy to get back some of his strength and wind.
"Remind me, Freddy," Dave said, and squeezed his pal's arm. "Remind me to love you for life and six days afterward. That topped anything I ever saw, pal. Thanks a million for keeping your head screwed on tight. Mine went completely haywire. Gosh! That was wonderful. Honest, Freddy!"
"Had to be done," the English youth murmured. "After all, you'd got a blighter earlier. Next turn was mine, so I took it."
"And how you did, thank God!" Dave said fervently. "I still can't realize that I'm not full of slugs, or that a flock of Nazis aren't on our necks."
"Well, forget about it," Freddy murmured. "Both alive, and that's all that counts. Point is, what the dickens do we do now? I've got a horrible feeling, Dave."
"I've had it for several minutes," Dave groaned. "Something went wrong with this Jones fellow. I have a feeling he's not going to show up."
"Man, will that make a mess!" the English youth muttered. "But perhaps if we wait a bit, and—I say, Dave? What's the matter?"
Dawson had suddenly jumped a little and then stiffened rigid. He had put his hands on the ground in back of him to make his arms serve as props for the upper half of his body. But both of his hands had not touched ground. His right hand had come down on a booted foot. And it was not one of the booted feet of Freddy's dead German. He was dumped down behind some of the rubble a good five yards away.
Dave heard Freddy's excited question, but his own tongue was stuck fast against the roof of his mouth. His right hand still pressed down on the booted foot in the darkness behind him. He knew, he could feel that there was a human foot inside the boot. And he also knew that the foot and its owner were dead!
"Dave—?"
"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Get set for another shock. My right hand's on the foot of a dead man. I'm sure of it. A Nazi boot. But—"
Dave had to stop and swallow hard before he could go on.
"But not a Nazi inside," he said with an effort. "I think Jones showed up, Freddy, but—but he isn't going to be of any help to us, pal. We're right behind the eight ball. Right out on the limb, and somebody waiting to saw it off."
As a matter of fact, Dave wasn't conscious of whispering those words to Freddy. He spoke them without thinking as he slowly turned around and felt with both hands to confirm the terrible belief in his brain. Freddy turned too. Their hands touched several times as they explored the stiffened body stretched out on the ground. But neither of them spoke. Neither of them dared to, for fear they wouldn't be able to control their tongues, and start screaming crazy things at the top of their voices.
Eventually, though, Dave thought he could trust his own tongue to say what they both knew, now.
"Jones," he got out. "It must be. A German uniform. Shot in the back. Uniform torn and ripped to shreds. The rats searched him for any secret identification papers he might be carrying. Please God that they didn't find any!"
"Amen!" Freddy Farmer said in almost a sob. "Of course you're right, Dave. It must be Jones, poor devil. Wonder what happened? Wonder how they managed to catch him? Blast this for a fine mess!"
"Another of this war's secrets that will probably never be known," Dave said in a dull voice. "Why, and how, we'll never know, Freddy. But one thing is sure, according to the way I look at it. The Nazis in this area are wise to the fact that something is up. Jones dead, here. All those patrols we had to sneak around. Freddy! I've got a darned strong hunch that this particular spot is the most unhealthy in all Occupied France for us. Maybe they didn't know that Jones was to contact somebody here, but—"
"Butwedon't knowiftheydoknow!" Freddy finished the sentence.
"Right!" Dave whispered, and got up on one knee. "So, unless we want to beg for it, let's get distance from this spot, and get it fast. You with me?"
"Quite!" Freddy murmured, and got quickly to his feet. "I say! How about my beggar's machine gun? Think it would come in handy?"
"No, leave it," Dave replied. "Traveling fast, and light, is our best bet. If we got cornered, the gun wouldn't be much help for long. No, leave the darn thing. But let's get out of here, and—"
The rest froze on the end of Dave's tongue. In that instant he heard sounds of running feet on the road. But the sounds were from more than one pair of running feet. Freddy Farmer heard them, too. Not a word was spoken. No time for words, now. Nor the need. Hands clasped for mutual guidance, the two youths melted across the dirt road to the other side, slid behind some bushes that bordered the road, and then stole forward in a direction parallel to the approaching running feet. When the running feet were almost abreast, the two youths froze stiff, and held their collective breath. As near as they could tell, six Nazi soldiers went pounding past their place of concealment. They heard a few German grunts, but were unable to catch the words that were spoken. As soon as the squad of Nazi troops had pounded by, the two youths struck off at right angles from the dirt road, and travelled swiftly and silently northward until they reached the shelter of a thick woods. They sneaked in past the first fringe of trees, and sank to the soft ground fighting for breath, and to ease off their pounding hearts.
For several minutes they simply lay there stretched out on the ground. Then, as though at some secret inner signal, they sat up and stared brooding-eyed at the darkness about them. It was then that Dave parted his lips to speak, but stopped as they heard the faint shouting of many voices coming from the direction of the shelled church.
"That cooks it!" he spoke aloud. "That shouting means they've come across your Nazi, I think, Freddy. They know now that somebody's around who shouldn't be."
"No doubt about it!" the English youth agreed bitterly. "And it means that we'd better be getting going again. But, good grief, where? They'll be crawling all over the place, now that they know something is definitely wrong. Oh, blast it, what a fine mess we've made of things! I almost wish my parachute hadn't opened. And to lose a perfectly good Spitfire just for this! Enough to make a chap weep!"
Dave leaned over and pushed his fist against his pal's ribs.
"Cut it out, Freddy, old sock!" he growled. "None of that kind of talk from you. Not like you at all. We're not licked, kid, until Saint Peter swings wide the Pearly Gates and invites us in. Get that old chin up, pal!"
"It's up high enough, I fancy!" Freddy muttered. But with a heavy sigh, he added, "But it still makes me want to break down and weep. Should have brought that sub-machine gun along after all. We could at least take some of the beggars along with us."
"Nuts to the patrolling Nazis!" Dave snapped. "We'll let them hunt for us until they're blue in the face. We've got things to do."
The English youth half turned and stared at him hard in the gloom.
"You haven't gone a little balmy, have you?" he demanded. "What have wegotto do, now? Jones is dead. He was to be our big link with the rest of the business. What have we got to do now, save keep clear of those searching for us as long as we can? And it probably won't be any too long, at that!"
"Boy, oh boy, are you sunk!" Dave said with a harsh chuckle. "Your Nazi must have clouted you one on the head that I didn't see. Sure we're getting out of here. In fact, pal, you and I are going to a spot where those shouting bums over yonder wouldn't even think of looking for us, see?"
"No, I don't see," Freddy replied. "Just what are you driving at, anyway?"
"The middle of the enemy's camp, of course!" Dave threw at him. "Sneeze away those brain cobwebs, pal. The H.Q. of von Staube and von Gault, naturally! Aren't they the two birds we came over here to collect, huh?"
Freddy Farmer sat up straight, and even in the bad light Dave could see his popping eyes.
"Good grief!" the English-born air ace choked out. "The H.Q. for von Staube and von Gault, did you say?"
"You heard me!" Dave said firmly. "Look, Freddy. Figure it out. Jones is gone. We're on our own now. So what are we going to do? Let these darned Nazis chase us around Occupied France all night? Or head straight for von Staube and von Gault, and—well, trust to luck that we'll get a break somehow? Me, I'm for direct action, even if it does seem hopeless. Darned if I'm going to stumble around in this darkness a couple of steps ahead of a bunch of Nazis. Jones is gone. So that puts it squarely up to us. I say, let's give it a whirl. Heck, Freddy! That's the only thing wecando! Right?"
"Of course you're right, Dave," Freddy said quietly. "Sorry I acted such a fool just now. No doubt we're mad to think we can accomplish anything. But—well, as you say, let's give it a whirl."
"Atta boy!" Dave murmured, and squeezed Freddy's arm. "But for cat's sake, let's first get this cork black off our faces and hands. It won't help us now. And when I think of that Nazi snapping that light in my face—Boy! I died a thousand deaths in that split second. That's enough for one night. We play strictly Jerry officers from now on. And Jerry officers don't go wandering around with cork black all over them. So let's get it off."
Five minutes later both youths had removed every trace of the cork black with their handkerchiefs and some water from the small canteen fitted to their German army belts. They stood up and studied Dave's compass with its radium-painted needle.
"North and bear a bit left," Dave said, and slipped the compass into his pocket. "We're a good half mile from the shelled church. So we can't be more than a mile from the edge of Evaux where the H.Q. is located. Well, I guess there's nothing to do but get started."
Dave Dawson stole a glance at his watch and saw that there was little more than an hour and a half until daylight. An hour and a half in which to accomplish something which, if things had only gone as planned, should have been cleaned up a good two hours before! He clamped his lips tight to choke back the bitter groan that rose up in his throat, and peered out from behind the thick clump of bushes at the scene that lay before him.
He was hugging the ground on the south side of a small yet billiard table flat field. On the other side, and not two hundred yards from where he lay, was a group of small buildings which marked the beginning of the outskirts of the French village of Evaux. In front of the group of small buildings were half a dozen German Staff cars, motorcycles, a couple of armored cars, and a hundred or more Germans of all sizes and ranks. Busy bee activity was in progress, too. Cars were rushing up a road that led out of some woods, to brake scream to a halt in front of the buildings, where the occupants would leap out and go dashing inside. A dispatch rider would come tearing up on his motorcycle, and practically throw himself from it in his haste to get inside with his dispatches. And twice an Arado army cooperation plane slid down to a landing on the small flat field, and quickly taxied over to join the general hubbub.
For thirty minutes, now, Freddy and he had been hugging the ground out of sight of prying eyes and silently studying the layout before them. And their thoughts were far from happy ones. Somewhere over on the other side of the field, in one of the buildings—and they had a pretty fair idea which one it was—Field Marshal von Staube and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault were receiving reports at the rate of about one every five minutes on the progress of the United Nations Commando raid on the Le Havre area. How that raid was making out, neither Dave nor Freddy could tell. They could hear the distant roar of coastal batteries, the crash of exploding bombs, and the terrific thunder of ammo dumps blowing up. And every once in a while they caught the echo of savage fighting in the air. But what had been accomplished, and what hadn't been accomplished, were two things beyond their knowledge at the moment.
"Thought up any plan yet, Dave?"
Freddy's quietly spoken question caused Dave to start a little. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and then shook his head.
"Not even close to an idea!" he grated. "At least not one that would give us even a Chinaman's chance. How about you?"
"Mind a blasted blank!" the English youth sighed. "Getting von Staube and von Gault away from that crowd over there would be as easy as getting Hitler out of his precious Berlin bomb shelter during an R.A.F. raid. I haven't even seen either of them poke their noses outside yet. And blast it! It'll be daylight soon."
Dave nodded soberly, turned slightly and stared toward the east. He was not looking for the dawn, however. He was looking at the very first thing he had noticed when Freddy and he had arrived at the edge of this field. It was the Dornier Do. Seventeen light bomber resting peacefully on the edge of the east side of the field. There were a couple of Messerschmitt One-Tens, and a single One-Nine, too, but Dave hardly gave them a glance. He stared longingly at the Dornier, and his pounding heart wept bitter tears.
If only Jones had not met his Fate! If only the man had lived, and been able to play his part in this life and death, victory and defeat struggle. If only—But what was the use of thinking about what might have been? The key man was gone. The one main link to success was gone. Whether they won out or failed depended solely upon Freddy Farmer and himself. But what could Freddy and he do now? What possible chance did they have against such overwhelming odds? How in the world could they be expected to perform the absolutely impossible? They were only human. They weren't miracle men who could simply snap their fingers, and,presto, magic was done. They—
For an instant his eyes strayed to one of the Messerschmitt One-Tens. There was an avenue of escape for Freddy and himself. Just a couple of guards watching over those planes over there. They could be taken care of in short order, and Freddy and he could get one of those One-Tens in the air and be on their way back to England before the others realized what was taking place. Sure they could! And they could explain to Major Barber how they'd found Jones dead, how they had been chased all night by Nazi soldiers, and how it would have simply been asking for certain death to attempt to kidnap von Staube and von Gault under such impossible circumstances. Darned right! They'd tell Major Barber—
Dave clamped down hard on his whirling thoughts, and his whole body grew hot with shame. A fine soldier he was! Just about as much courage as a new born rabbit. Just a quitter. Afraid he might get hurt? Afraid he might get killed? My, my, what a pity! Well, never mind. Just go on home, and Major Barber would pat him sympathetically on the back, and say not to worry, and that it was really too much to have asked of any man. Yes, yes. Just go to sleep, my little man. And sweet dreams! Maybe some day somebody else will grab von Staube and von Gault, and then everything will be just dandy!
"Dave! What in the world's the matter with you? Your face is as red as a beet! Don't you feel all right?"
Freddy Farmer's anxious words snapped Dave out of his bitter reverie. He stopped looking at the Messerschmitts and met his pal's gaze.
"Just learning how a guy can get to hate himself," he said evenly. "But skip it. I don't want to talk about it. Freddy?"
"Yes, Dave?"
The Yank-born air ace hesitated and stared for a moment over toward the other side of the field.
"When a fellow can't figure out a plan," he presently said slowly, "the only thing to do is to wade in swinging with both hands, and hope that some kind of a plan will pop up. You agree with that?"
"Quite," the English youth said evenly. "Fact is, I was just going to say that I think it's a bit too late, now, to bother about thinking up a plan. I think we should simply go on over there, and—well, trust to luck, I guess, that we'll meet up with a bit of luck. Maybe it's silly, and stupid, and—"
Freddy paused and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"It is all of that," Dave said, and absently wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "But that's how it is. Me, I'm sick of playing Indians and cowboys, crawling around in the dark, and getting no place. I'm for barging right into the business. And if we get caught on the wrong end of a gun, then—then that'll be that."
"Let's stroll around the west side of the field," Freddy said, and started to get up onto his feet. "A chance those guards by the planes might get a bit curious, you know. I've noticed that none of the others have gone near them."
"Strictly for Staff use, is my guess," Dave grunted as he got up too. "Just in case something pops around here, von Staube and von Gault are making sure they'll get out fast. Makes Nazi generals sore as the dickens to get killed, you know. Can't strut any more, or order women and children hostages shot, or have any kind of fun. They—Jeepers! Holy smokes! That's an idea!"
"What?" Freddy demanded. "Shooting women and children hostages, and—"
"No, heck no!" Dave shot at him as they moved along toward the west side of the field. "Just had a sudden idea. But I've got to mull over it a little before it would make sense. And speaking of sense, good sense—"
"Is there a place for that sort of thing, now?" Freddy asked in a bitter voice.
"Darned right there is!" Dave said. "Let's use our heads before we lose them. Beginning with now, pal, we don't know a word of the English language. We talk strictly German from here in. Right?"
"Absolutely!" Freddy gasped. "Stupid of us, of course. Right you are,mein Herr! German it shall be."
The two air aces lapsed into thoughtful silence, and walked along the edge of the small field, and around the west side toward the cluster of Headquarters buildings. With every step he took Dave's heart was up in his throat, and pounding furiously. They were beginning to meet German soldiers and officers now, and he was filled with the gnawing fear that they would be stopped and challenged. After all, even the boastful, cocksure Nazis don't allow everybody to wander about an H.Q. location.
It so happened, though, that they were not challenged once. Those they met either believed they had a perfect right to be strolling along, or else they were too busy with their own thoughts to notice them. Anyway, they were able to keep right on going, and eventually were part of a group of Germans gathered in front of the center building in the cluster. They stood close together and listened intently to the flow of excited conversation. And what they heard brought happiness to their aching hearts, and made them thrill with pride clear down to the soles of their boots. Obviously the United Nations Commando attack was going very badly for the Nazis. Practically all of Le Havre was in Commando hands. Nazi fortifications there, U-boat repair docks, and stores of Nazi military equipment had been blown sky high. And the Commandos were spreading out to the north, south, and east like the unleashed waters of a flood tide. In addition Nazi air strength had been more or less bottled up and securely corked. Those cursed American bombers! Flying Fortresses, they were called. Nothing seemed able to shoot them out of the air! And their bombs? Something terrible!
It went on and on like that. And Dave and Freddy had all they could do to force grave, worried looks to their faces, when instead they wanted to dance and shout with joy. But though the group of Nazis were worried, and plenty, over the way things were going, they still had that blind dog-like faith in their high ranking officers. From a score of lips Dave and Freddy heard statements that the enemy gains were only temporary at the most. That von Staube and von Gault were simply biding their time, and would strike their counter blows soon. Yes, von Staube had called up powerful reenforcements. They were now on the way to the zone of battle. And von Gault was massing powerful air squadrons, all types.Ja, ja!Germany's swine enemies were fools to believe thatDer Fuehrerhad sent most of Germany's air power to the Russian front. The cursed United Nations forces would soon realize that, as German bombs blew them clear out into the Channel. But of course! Ah! Look! Here comes another courier plane. It is probably good news this time! Yes! See how fast he lands! He must have good news this time, and be eager to report it.
Dave and Freddy watched with the others as another Arado plane came streaking down to a fast landing, and taxied up close at quite a bit of throttle. A figure leaped from the rear cockpit and went dashing in through the door of the center building. Dave and Freddy crowded over to the door with the others. Unfortunately, though, it was slammed shut in their faces. The Germans outside looked sheepishly at each other and moved away a little. Dave and Freddy played their part in the general scene and started to edge around to a point where they might get a quick look in through one of the side windows of the building. After all, they didn't knowfor surethat von Staube and von Gault were inside. They were actually only assuming; taking it for granted that such was the case.
And so, as though by unspoken but mutual agreement, they began to edge away from the general throng and round to the side of the building. But they had barely reached the corner when suddenly a wicked-looking Nazi Major loomed up before them to bar the way. Dave's heart skipped a beat, and when he took a good look at the German his heart skipped a couple of more beats and started sliding down in the general direction of his boots. The Nazi, by the insignia on his tunic, belonged to the same regiment that Dave and Freddy were supposed to belong to. Was there any reason why a Major shouldn't be able to recognize two of his junior officers? There was none, of course. And Dave felt as though he were staring certain death right in the face.
"What are you two doing here?" The words came out like pistol shots. "DidHerrColonel send you? A message for me, perhaps? I am needed back there? I don't know you, so you must be two of those new officers they sent us yesterday. Your names?"
"Ober-LeutnantsKloss and Mueller, Herr Major," Dave heard his voice say. Then wildly grasping at a straw of hope, he went on, "That is true, sir.HerrColonel sent us with his compliments. He wishes that you return as fast as possible."
The Nazi Major scowled and looked terribly angry, and for a long second the whole world seemed to stand dead still for Dave. He felt as if he were walking along a tightrope over a yawning chasm. Only there wasn't any tightrope there. Somebody had yanked it away, and he was simply hovering in mid-air before he went crashing down to his doom. The very next words that came from the Nazi Major's lips might well spell doom for Freddy and for himself. If the Nazi asked questions they couldn't answer—if—
"Very well!" The words were suddenly barked out. "I will do as the Colonel wishes. You two remain here, however. Take this report and see that it is delivered to Field Marshal von Staube the instant he is free to see you. He knows that I am waiting. You will explain that I was needed at the regiment's Headquarters. Simply give him the report, and then return to your posts as fast as possible. This is not a leave you are on, you know. Well? Did they not teach you to salute your superiors at that officer's school? They are sending us merechildrenthese days!"
The Major had jerked a sealed envelope from his tunic pocket, thrust it into Dave's hands, and was standing there glaring at them both. With a tremendous effort Dave and Freddy snapped out of it, clicked their heels, and almost tore their arms off saluting. The Nazi grunted, glared some more, and then went strutting off bellowing a name. The name of his chauffeur, probably.