"Save a seat for Hitler, where you're going!" Dave yelled as he pulled his P-Thirty-Eight up and around. "He'll be joining you before very long. And—"
The rest died in his throat, and his heart seemed to zoom up and jam against his back teeth. It was at that moment that he saw Freddy Farmer's plane flip-flopping and half spinning down out of the sky as though either it were completely out of control—or its pilot were dead. And thundering down with blazing guns after Freddy were the two other Messerschmitts.
"No, no, it can't happen!" Dave sobbed wildly, and whirled off his climb and down into a dive. "Freddy boy! What happened? They didn't get you!They didn't get you!"
Those and other words of anguish spilled off his lips as he hammered his Lockheed down in a wing-screaming dive. So great was his excitement, and so great the terror that clutched at his heart, he failed to see that Nazi bullets weren't coming very close to Freddy's plane. As a matter of fact, the Germans were shooting half-heartedly. With the Lockheed headed straight for the North Atlantic, they figured that the finish of their victim was inevitable.
But they hadn't figured on Dave, nor the terrific diving speed of his plane. As a result the "fun" for one of them was short-lived. Though his heart shed tears of blood for Freddy Farmer, Dave's grip on the controls was rock steady, and his eye to the ring sight keen and sharp. A two second burst from his guns was all that was needed. A longer burst would have been sheer waste of ammunition. The Nazi's wing came off as though hacked clean by a knife. What was left spun like so much stiff paper tossed into a whirlpool, and then broke up in a shower of flying wreckage.
One Nazi less, but what of it? Freddy was but a couple of hundred feet from the water now, and still flip-flopping helplessly downward with the remaining German pecking away at him. Stark reality was like white hot knives twisting about in Dave's heart and in his brain. Tears flooded his eyes, and he unconsciously hammered his free fist against the already wide open throttles.
"Dear God, please no!" he sobbed. "Don't take Freddy. Don't take Freddy away. I need him! England needs him. The whole decent part of the world needs him. Please don't...!"
Dave never finished the last, for at that exact instant a miracle seemed to take place right before his startled eyes. Freddy Farmer's plane stopped flip-flopping and spinning around abruptly. As though someone had reached down and stopped it, the Lockheed came up onto even keel. But it did much more than that! It came up past even keel and on up into a power zoom. Its guns yammered out sound and flame, and perhaps for the infinitesimal part of a split second the pilot of the third and last Messerschmitt was the most stunned and bewildered man in the whole wide world.
But only for that flash of time. In practically nothing flat he was no longer capable of thought, and less of action. He was just a dead man hunched over the controls of a diving plane—that is, the bullet-shattered wreckage of a diving plane. Before he had had the chance to blink or move a muscle, Freddy Farmer had pinned him cold to the dawn sky. And, not a little bewildered himself, Dave saw the Messerschmitt fall apart in mid-air, and Freddy Farmer, grinning from ear to ear, come tearing up past him and level off the top of his zoom. Automatically, Dave pulled up out of his own dive and swung around to join Freddy Farmer. The English-born air ace was still grinning, and he was holding up one hand, forming an "O" with thumb and forefinger, and extending the other three straight upward. Dave gaped at him a moment longer, and then shook his head to drive the cobwebs and mist away.
"So, just another Freddy Farmer trick!" he growled, and shook a fist at the English youth. "I might have known that you were simply slipping out of a tight jam. And to think I was beginning to pray for you—you bum!"
Freddy, of course, didn't hear the words, but he saw Dave's moving lips, and probably guessed what they were saying. His mouth opened in silent laughter, and he made a gesture with one hand, which was just the same as his lips saying:
"Weren't getting worried, were you, old chap?"
Like so many huge birds of prey coming home to roost, the twenty-one ferry bombers slid down to a landing on the R.A.F. field at Land's End at the southwest tip of England, and went trundling over to the tarmac line and the waiting mechanics. When the last had touched earth, Dave and Freddy cut their throttles and slid down also. They landed together and taxied that way up to the line. When he reached it Dave cut his ignition, climbed out and hurried stiff-legged over to Freddy's plane.
"What was the big idea of giving me such a case of heart failure?" he demanded of his pal. "Holy smoke! That little business took fifteen years off my life, if it took a day. In future, don't do that to me, see?"
Freddy legged down and pulled off his helmet and goggles.
"You think I was just having sport?" he snorted. "Far from it, my lad. I missed my man completely. A blasted good pilot he was, too. Next thing I knew two of them had me all wrapped up and were ready to send me some place I had no fancy to go to. Much, much too close for comfort, so the only thing I could do was fake being hit and spin the bus downward. That at least threw off their aim a bit. And when I pulled out and up in the last second, they were—"
Freddy paused and grinned broadly.
"Well, the remaining blighter was too surprised to do anything about stopping me," he said. "But thanks for taking care of that other beggar. I might not have surprised both of them. Fact is, I fancy you saved my life again, old thing. I'm grateful."
"You should get tossed in the duck pond for giving me such a scare!" Dave growled, but softened it with a grin. "Well, here's England. Aren't you going to drop down and kiss the ground, or something?Thisis England, Freddy!"
The English youth smiled, and there were stars in his eyes.
"Yes, England again," he whispered softly. "How wonderful to return to it from uncivilized lands where they eat raw things and call them hot dogs, and talk through their teeth, and drive ninety miles an hour even to funerals! Yes, blessed England! It's like being reborn. Like—like—"
"Like waking up from a beautiful dream!" Dave snapped, and waved a hand at the sky that was now overcast. "See? No sun over here! And just thirty minutes off shore we had plenty of it. What have the weather gods got against you English guys, anyway?"
Freddy didn't have time to think up a kidding come-back for that one. They both turned at the sound of footsteps behind them, and saw Major Barber hurrying over toward them. The Commando Chief was grinning from ear to ear, and he looked as if he wanted to hug and kiss them both. He didn't, however. Instead, he grabbed each in turn by the hand and nearly shook his arm off at the shoulder socket.
"I hope some day it will be my chance to return that little favor of life saving!" he cried. "And that goes for everybody aboard the ferry bombers. I had a front seat, and what you two did sure was something to see. You seemed to have a little trouble, Farmer. Hey! You didn't get wounded, did you?"
"Him?" Dave snorted before Freddy could even shake his head. "The Nazis haven't made that bullet yet. No, sir. He just wanted to show you how fancy he could get when there're Messerschmitts around. I've just been telling him that if he pulls that on me again, I'll probably shoot him down myself. But it was pretty cute, wasn't it, Major? He should be given his wings any day now, I say. Practically a fighter pilot."
"Don't mind Dawson, sir," Freddy spoke up. "He's always that way. Pretty cool in a fight, but when it's all over he simply goes to pieces and says the craziest things. No, I wasn't hit, fortunately. I had a close call, though, and had to do a little something extra to get out of it. We're all here, though. And that's that!"
"And it's plenty!" Major Barber said with a grim nod. "It proves this sort of thing can be done on a large scale. That is—"
The Major paused and grinned.
"That is, if we have fellows like you two along," he added. "Well, stick around for a bit, will you? I've got things to do, but I want to talk to you again. There's the mess shack over there. I guess it won't make either of you mad to take aboard some breakfast, huh?"
"Oh, quite, quite!" Dave mimicked at Freddy. "And, of course, a pot of tea, what, old tin of fruit?"
Freddy Farmer groaned and shook his head, and looked helplessly at Major Barber.
"It's so utterly useless and futile, sir!" he sighed. "I mean the way Dawson murders the King's English. Something really should be done about it. Would you suggest gagging him, sir?"
If the Major replied, nobody heard it. At that moment the air raid siren mounted atop the Operations Office let forth with its blood-curdling wail. Without thinking, both Dave and Freddy spun around and dived for their planes. In nothing flat they were in the pits and rocketing their ships across the field. As Dave pulled his clear and went twisting around and upward, he snapped out of his action trance long enough to look at the fuel gauge. A sigh of relief spilled from his lips when he saw that he still had enough high octane for thirty-five minutes of flying.
"And lots of things can happen in thirty-five minutes!" he shouted aloud.
"Quite!" came the sudden and startling voice of Freddy Farmer over the radio. "And there are the blighters! Off there to the southeast. Fancy they got annoyed when they learned the bombers got through, and decided to have a go at a ground strafe. Tally-ho, Dave! And there's the R.A.F. chaps coming up to join in the fun. But we'll get first cracks at the beggars."
"Sure, but remember about last time!" Dave shouted back at him. "No funny business. Get your man this time, and no fooling around. Okay, kid! Up and at 'em!"
As Dave snouted the last he lifted the nose to a steeper angle, and went wing-screaming up toward a group of ten Nazi long range fighters that were bearing down on the Land's End field. Twisting in the seat, he glanced down back at the swarm of R.A.F. Spitfires and Hurricanes that were racing up off the field. A pleasant warmth surged through his body, and there was a glad song in his heart.
"Just like the old days!" he cried happily. "Flying with the dear old R.A.F. again. Yeah, good! Plenty good!"
As though to echo his words, he heard Freddy Farmer's guns blast away. The leading Nazi plane swerved, then dropped by the nose and started down with one engine smoking badly. Dave grunted and ruddered his P-Thirty-Eight a little to bring his sights to bear on another Nazi plane.
"Okay, first blood for you, Freddy!" he sang out. "But it's my turn, now, and how!"
His words were no crazy boast. They were simply a statement of cold fact. And as his guns started hammering out made-in-America doom, his statement was proved. A second Nazi would-be ground strafer seemed to jump straight up in the air. That is, the fuselage went upward. The wings remained at the lower level for a moment, then went slip-sliding away. The fuselage fell over by the nose and went down like a bomb as two objects popped out of it and soon became a pair of Germans going down by parachute.
The swift double kill obviously took some of the lust for battle away from the other Nazi pilots. The formation swerved this way and that, and then broke up into pairs that made half-hearted passes at the ferry bomber-covered field below. But they all should have stayed home. By then the pilots of the locally based R.A.F. squadrons were in the scrap, and their arrival just about settled things for the Germans. A couple of them did linger around a little longer, but that was very stupid of them. They went down like nailed clay pigeons, while their pals went streaking back across the Channel to their temporary homes in Occupied France.
When Dave and Freddy came down out of the air and landed, an orderly was waiting for them.
"Group Captain Farnsworth wishes to see you two officers at once," he told them.
"Guess breakfast waits, pal." Dave grinned at Freddy. "Let's go. I guess Major Barber is with the Group Captain. I don't see him around any place. So maybe this is it."
"Maybe, but I wouldn't be too sure," Freddy murmured.
Dave looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Nothing, I hope," the English youth grunted. "But I believe I've heard of Group Captain Farnsworth. Very much of a stickler for rules and regulations. And—well, after all, this is an R.A.F. field, you know."
"So what?" Dave demanded as he stared, puzzle-eyed. "What's that got to do with it? Hey! What's eating you, anyway?"
Freddy shrugged and started walking toward the Field Commandant's office.
"Let's go and find out," he said. "I could be wrong, of course."
"You could be nuts!" Dave growled, still mystified. "And I think you are!"
The English youth let that one slide. He simply hunched his shoulders once and walked with Dave over toward the office. They reached it in time, knocked, and went inside when a rasping voice told them to do so. Seated at the desk inside was a heavy-browed, red-headed man in an R.A.F. Group Captain's uniform. The decoration ribbons under his R.A.F. wings showed that this was not the first war he had fought in. And they also showed that he had not exactly kept his feet on solid earth all the time in either war. But his eyes were his outstanding feature. They were like frosted cubes of ice that seemed to melt everything that came into their range of vision. Dave looked into those eyes and gulped a little.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer reporting, sir," he heard his own voice say. "You wished to see us, sir?"
"Blasted right I do!" the words came smashing at him. "Just who the ruddy blue blazes do you think you two are? A little special air force all your own?"
Dave was filled with the sudden desire to have the office floor open up and permit him to drop down through out of sight. Those frosted ice cube eyes pinned him in his tracks, and held his own like powerful magnets. He couldn't have turned his head to see Freddy's face if he had wanted to. He gulped and moistened his tongue.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" he managed. "I—"
"Never mind begging my pardon!" the owner of the frosted eyes flung at him. "Just answer my question. Who the devil do you two think you are? Who gave you permission to take off from this field and engage enemy aircraft?"
Dave was too stunned even to begin to think up an answer. Instead, he listened to Freddy Farmer speak for them both.
"I'm afraid we didn't stop to think, sir," the English youth said. "When we heard the alarm siren we simply jumped for our planes. It was like that. I realize we shouldn't have, sir. But—well, I was in the air by that time. And it seemed the right thing to keep on and have a go at the Jerry ships. I'm sorry, sir. We're both sorry, sir."
A touch of sudden anger slashed through Dave, and the words were out of his mouth before he could check them.
"I'm not, sir!" he cried. "I'm never sorry when I get a Nazi, no matter how or where I get him. We saw them coming, and it was our job to do something about it. That's all there was to it!"
The Group Captain stared at Dave and made a solid line with his brows.
"Not sorry?" he barked. "Who said anything about not being sorry? I demand, however, that you apologize to me, and to my fighter pilots!"
"Apologize?" Dave gasped, as he seemed to lose his grip on things. "For what? For knocking off a couple of Jerry planes, for cat's sake?"
The senior officer looked sterner than ever; then the ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of his mouth.
"Certainly, Captain Dawson," he said without so much bite in his voice. "This isourhunting ground. And goodness knows too few Jerries come over our way to make us eager to share them with a couple of wild flying mad-men. So you both owe us an apology for poaching on our game grounds. But we'll take the apologies for granted. Sit down, you two. You deserve a chair at least, I fancy."
Dave came close to missing his chair, he was so surprised and relieved. He looked at the now grinning Group Captain and let his breath out slowly.
"Gosh, sir," he gulped, "I thought you meant it there for a minute."
"I still do!" the other said with a nod and a chuckle. "It wasn't fair of you, at all. According to Major Barber you had your air sport earlier this morning. Not cricket, you know, to horn in on our doings. Congratulations, nevertheless. Fact is, those blighters might have done a bit of damage if you hadn't got at them so soon. My chaps must have been taking cat naps. Well, Farmer? Glad to be back in England?"
"Very much so, sir," Freddy replied, and beamed all over his face. "One of the happiest moments of my life."
For a brief instant shadows crossed the Group Captain's face, and he looked grave and filled with concern.
"I hope there will be many more, equally happy, Farmer," he said presently. "No. Never mind the questions. I have no idea what's in store for you two. But I certainly know you were not brought back over here just to have a spot of leave. You'll doubtless learn soon enough, though. Meantime, I'd better get on with my part of the business—that is, give you the instructions Major Barber left with me."
"Left!" Dave gulped. "You mean, sir, the Major has gone?"
"Quite," the other replied with a nod. "While you two were stealing Jerry planes from us. I believe he had intended to remain awhile, but a call for him came through from your American Headquarters in London. I detailed him a plane, and a pilot to fly him up there."
"And he left orders for us, you say, sir?" Freddy Farmer prompted respectfully.
"Quite correct," the senior officer told him. "You are to remain here until you've had a bit of breakfast and some rest. Then I'm to detail you a two-seater plane. It's as if I were running a blasted aerial taxi company, or something. Anyway, sometime today, when it suits your collective fancy, you are to fly to the Lewes Base, on the South Downs, and report to the commanding officer. Squadron Leader Parkinson is his name. He has a Spitfire squadron. A fine bunch of lads, too. You'll like them all, I'm sure. Well, there're your orders as Major Barber left them with me. Now, how about a spot of food, eh?"
Dave didn't move. He acted as though he had not heard the question. He simply sat staring puzzle-eyed at the Group Captain.
"Report to a fighter squadron, sir?" he murmured presently. "You mean we're back in the R.A.F. again?"
"I don't mean anything of the sort," the senior officer replied with a little gesture, "for the reason that I have no idea whatsoever. That's truth, really. I simply know that you are to report to Squadron Leader Parkinson's base. What happens after that, I haven't the faintest idea."
"A bit queer and very hush-hush, for fair," Freddy Farmer grunted, and scowled at the opposite wall.
"That's the blasted war for you," the Group Captain chuckled. "Nothing means very much until after it's happened. However, much as the R.A.F. would like to have you back in its membership, I do not believe that is to be in your case. As I said, or should have said, neither of you was brought back to England for anything of the usual sort. A blind bloke can see that it's for some very important reason. And certainly most secretive, too."
"You're telling us?" Dave groaned, forgetful for the moment of the other's senior rank. "It's plenty secret, and how! Freddy and I have been guessing our heads off since the start of this business, and neither of us can come up with anything that even seems close!"
"Phew, yes!" Freddy breathed heavily. "We Britishers are very good at the hush-hush business, but the Yanks are certainly going us one better this time. And if I don't get some kind of an inkling soon, I'll be going balmy."
"Well, I wish I could help you out, but I can't," the Group Captain said with a sympathetic laugh. "Sometimes, though, it's best not to know what one's in for—until it happens."
The somber note in the other's voice sent a little icy chill rippling through Dave. True enough, Freddy and he certainly hadn't come over to England just to have a good time. They had come over to take part in some Commando operation. That much Major Barber had admitted. But—and it was a big but—he had said they were to handle an extra, a very special job. What job? What kind of a job? Unfortunately, there just wasn't any answer to that one. The answer would be theirs—in the near future. Perhaps!
"I get what you mean, sir," Dave said to the Group Captain with a faint grin. "And maybe you're right, sir. But—well, just the same I don't go much for this sitting on pins and needles stuff. I think I'd rather know, and get my worrying over with first. As you say, though, that's war."
"Quite," the senior officer grunted, and got up from his chair. "So let's leave it at that, what, and have a bite to eat?"
"Absolutely, sir!" Freddy cried, springing to his feet. "No sense fighting a war on an empty stomach, if you don't have to."
"Just name one time when yours was empty," Dave laughed.
"Right now!" the English youth snapped, and gave him a scornful look.
They followed the Group Captain out and over to the officers' mess. There they ate their fill, and when the senior officer had taken his departure they went outside and started wandering around the field. Their legs were still a little stiff from the Atlantic crossing, so a little exercise wouldn't do either of them any harm. At the end of an hour or so they had had enough. They hunted up a hutment orderly, and were shown a couple of bunks where they could catch up on a little much needed sleep and rest.
It was late in the afternoon when the orderly awakened them. He told them that there had been two raid alarms sounded while they had been asleep. However, no Jerry planes had put in an appearance.
"The Commandant told me to find out when you would be taking off, Captains," the orderly added later. "There're two Spitfires just ferried here from the factory, waiting on the tarmac. The Commandant says as how he would like you to deliver them to the squadron you're going to. Shall I have them revved up?"
Dave dug sleep seeds out of his eyes and looked at Freddy. His pal did likewise, and nodded.
"Might as well," he grunted. "There's nothing more to be learned here. Might just as well get on with it."
"Check," Dave said, and turned to the orderly. "Do that, will you, and thanks."
Half an hour later the two air aces were out on the tarmac, and ready to leave. They were about to climb into their Spitfires when Group Captain Farnsworth came over to them.
"Just wanted to say goodbye," he smiled, "and wish you all kinds of luck."
"Thank you, sir," Dave grinned. "And we're sorry about those two Jerry planes. I promise that next time we won't be so selfish."
"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed.
The Group Captain chuckled and made a little gesture with both hands.
"That's quite all right, chaps," he said. "All is forgiven, I assure you. Frankly, next time—if there is one—I hope you get double the number of blighters. Well, goodbye. Thumbs up, and all that sort of thing. I certainly envy you."
Dave shot him a sharp questioning look, but the Group Captain shook his head firmly.
"No, I really don't know a thing, Dawson," he said. "On my word, I don't. I'm just imagining, that's all. And there's blessed little else a Group Captain can do in this crazy war. Well, on with it, you chaps. And luck, again."
Dave and Freddy thanked him for his good wishes, shook hands, and then legged up into the pits of their Spitfires. They taxied out to the far end of the main runway, and waited there with props idling over for the signal from the Operations Tower. It came, and they gunned their engines together and went rocketing forward.
"Well, here goes for the next stop," Dave grunted as he lifted his Spitfire clear, and nosed up and around toward the overcast sky. "And I sure would like to know what is the next move in this cockeyed arrangement of things?"
He spoke the question aloud, but the gods of war in their high places refused to answer. They simply nudged each other, grinned, and winked.
"This is getting me down, and giving me a sweet pain in the neck!" Dave groaned, and rolled over on the grass. "Do you think that Major Barber has forgotten us?"
Freddy Farmer opened his eyes just to show that he was awake, and sighed contentedly.
"Does it really matter?" he murmured. "Personally, this suits me quite nicely, thank you."
Dave scowled and contemplated jabbing Freddy in the ribs. But his pal looked so perfectly relaxed that he didn't have the heart to. So he simply deepened his scowl.
"Fine guy, you are!" he growled. "A week ago you were as keen as mustard about what Major Barber cooked up for us. And now? Now you're just a lazy bum!"
Freddy opened one eye and glared.
"That's a downright lie, my good man!" he snapped. "I got a Messerschmitt One-Nine yesterday, didn't I? And one of those new Focke-Wulf One-Nineties the day before? What more do you want?"
"Action!" Dave grunted, and stared brooding-eyed at the row of Spitfires on the near side of the field. "I admit it's swell to be serving with an R.A.F. fighter squadron again. It's okay, but—but, doggone it, we didn't come way over here for this! Even Group Captain Farnsworth agreed with that. But it's been a whole week now since we arrived here. I'm beginning not to know what to think, or hope."
"Then don't do either," Freddy commented sleepily. "Terrible strain on the brain, you know. Must confess, though, I've been wondering a little myself, in odd moments. Does seem a bit queer we haven't heard from Major Barber. Could be that the whole show, whatever it was, was called off."
"There you go!" Dave groaned. "Always taking the joy out of life. Me, I've almost talked myself into getting in touch with Major Barber and finding out what's what."
"I wouldn't," Freddy cautioned. "Doubtless you'd be told off quite properly. The Major struck me as that sort of a chap. If and when he wants us, we'll be sure to hear about it, I fancy."
Dave groaned again and sat up straight. A strong feeling of having been cheated out of something was gnawing at him. He knew that he shouldn't feel that way. As a member of an R.A.F. fighter squadron it was his job to concentrate solely on his work, and let all other things go hang. A soldier must be all soldier no matter what his duty, or where he had to perform it.
Yes, sure. That was all very well. But too many intangible things had happened to let his mind stay at rest, and his attention to stick to the daily sweeps across the Channel to Occupied France that he took part in. There had been something big, very big, in the wind. Was it still so? Or had that sleepy Freddy Farmer spoken the truth about the whole business having been called off? It was a tantalizing thought, like a termite in his brain. And the galling part of it all was that there really wasn't a single thing that he could do about it, or should do about it, if he had any sense. Start fishing around Major Barber and he might end up by getting bounced back to the States. It was for him simply to—
The rest was cut off short as the raid alarm rang in the Operations Hut. He and Freddy sprang to their feet as one man, and went tearing over. The rest of the pilots on "stand to alert" reached there at the same time. Squadron Leader Parkinson stuck his head out the door, and barked the orders.
"Five Heinkels sighted coming across! Twenty thousand. Course, north-northwest. Get after the beggars!"
Dave and Freddy wheeled with the others to dash for their planes, but stopped short as the Squadron Leader called them both back.
"Not you two chaps, this time," he told them. "Just received other orders for you. Buzz over to Horsham Commando H.Q. Take one of the squadron cars. You're to report to a Yank Major. Barber is the name. Better hop along at once. He sounded urgent over the phone. Glad to have had you with us for the short spell. Luck, chaps!"
The Squadron Leader ducked back inside to continue with his raid alarm duties. Dave and Freddy just looked at each other, then spun around and tore over to the motor park. They were expected, for the Corporal in charge pointed out a fast R.A.F. Daimler, and swung open the gates for them. Dave dived in beside the wheel, waited just long enough for Freddy to light beside him, and then kicked the engine into life and slipped it into gear. Three minutes later they were on the winding dirt road that eventually finished up in the Southeast English town of Horsham.
"Hot dog!" Dave cried happily, and boosted the speed up another ten miles. "I guess this is really it, this time, pal!"
"It won't be, if you hit a tree!" Freddy cried, and grabbed for a strong hold as Dave took the next turn. "Be careful and stop playing speed demon. Five or ten minutes longer won't make any difference!"
"Will to me!" Dave laughed, and held his speed rate. "Can't wait to find out what the Major has to say to us. Gosh! And I was beginning to think—! Oh well! Everything is wonderful, now. So why bother with the past?"
"Quite!" Freddy snapped sarcastically. "Blast to the past. Just concentrate on this winding road, if you possibly can. I've got enough grey hairs, as it is."
"What do you think it'll be, Freddy?" Dave asked, ignoring his last remark. "I mean, what do you think he'll have to say to us?"
"Haven't the faintest idea," the English air ace replied. "But I have a feeling it won't be all sugar and honey. Everybody's been too deep down serious about things to suit my fancy. Particularly the Major's reference to the little extra job for us. We've been detailed little extra jobs before. Only they weren'tlittle!"
"So what?" Dave laughed. "Wouldn't be getting the wind up, would you, pal?"
"Certainly!" Freddy threw at him. "And your gay eagerness doesn't fool me a bit. You're a little jittery inside yourself."
"And how!" Dave agreed instantly. "The heart's got a swell case of jitters, if you must know. Always like that when things are mysterious and unexplained. But war is no pink tea, hey, Freddy?"
"Not a bit of it!" the English youth replied with feeling. "Our job, though, is to do the best we can—while we can."
"Atta boy!" Dave cried, and took a hand off the wheel to press his friend's knee. "The old fight, always. You're making me feel better, now. Bring on your mysterious assignment! What do Farmer and Dawson care?"
"I'd hate to tell you," Freddy grunted, and lapsed into brooding silence.
In another few minutes the car streaked over the crest of the last hill, and down there in the shallow valley was the town of Horsham. At first glance it was nothing but another town, like any one of thousands of English towns. But on second glance Dave spotted lots of little things that made Horsham just a bit different. Man-made things, to be exact. Woods completely surrounded the town, only not all were woods. Mostly it was perfect camouflaging that concealed from prying Nazi eyes flying above the tremendous amount of activity that was taking place.
It concealed the row upon row of Commando tents. It hid the various groups of Commandos going through attack preparations and practice. It concealed the long lines of motor trucks that would carry them to embarkation points. It concealed a countless number of things. But on second glance Dave saw quite a bit of what was hidden, and his heart started hammering against his ribs, and the blood surging through his veins. If there was a last stop before the great adventure, whatever it was, Horsham must certainly be it.
Fully convinced of that fact, Dave eased off the Daimler's speed a bit, and went down the slanting road and into the town. They had to stop to ask the location of H.Q., but after that they found it with no trouble at all. It was located in a picturesque two story grey stone house on the far side of the town. An armed sentry came forward as Dave braked the car to a halt. He learned their identities, told them to wait, and went inside. He was out again in less time than it takes to tell about it.
"You are to go in, at once," he said, and saluted with his rifle at present arms.
Dave and Freddy climbed down out of the Daimler, and went up the stone steps into the house. A sentry stationed inside pointed at the open door to the right. They stepped through it and snappily saluted Major Barber, who sat half hidden behind a huge desk piled high with maps and what not. He smiled and rose to greet them.
"Leave any rubber on those tires?" he asked, glancing at his wrist watch. "You certainly got over here fast. You were driving, weren't you, Dawson?"
Dave grinned and went pink.
"Guilty, sir," he said. "But I was in a hurry. For a whole week, now—"
"I know," the Major stopped him. "But wars aren't won in a day. I suspected you'd be wondering yourselves sick, but there were other things to take care of first. Sit down, though. Sit down and relax. It's time you learned a few things about when the balloon goes up."
Dave and Freddy seated themselves in chairs, but neither of them relaxed even a little bit. They sat on the edges of their chairs, and fixed their gaze unwaveringly on the U. S. Commando Chief. He let them sit in tingling silence a moment or two while he seemed to collect his thoughts and choose his words. Eventually, he leaned forward on the edge of his desk with his elbows, and locked the fingers of his two hands together. He spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his voice that sent Dave's heart beat mounting upward.
"Tomorrow night we are making a combined United Nations Commando raid on a section of France which, if it is pulled off successfully, will leave the Nazis hanging on the ropes for quite some time to come. In fact, there is every possibility, and hope, that this raid will open the door wide for a general United Nations invasion of the Continent."
The Major paused abruptly, and stared hard at Dave and then at Freddy.
"The attacking force," he continued a moment later, "will total close to fifteen thousand men. They will be men and officers from every branch of the services—air, land, and sea. The objectives to be aimed at total three times the number aimed at, and reached, in the combined Dieppe raid a short time ago. As a matter of fact, it has been all that's happened since the Dieppe raid that prompts us to launch this biggest one of all. The Dieppe raid scared Hitler silly, and his Generals, too. Shortly after the Dieppe raid large reenforcements were withdrawn from other active fronts and rushed to the French coast area. Naturally, United Nations Intelligence here and in France has given us complete details on the moves Hitler has made since Dieppe. One move is proof positive of how the Dieppe raid really affected him. Field Marshal von Staube, of the Army, and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault, of the Air Force, are now in complete charge of operations in the Occupied France coastal zones."
The senior officer paused again, and Dave caught his breath in astonishment at the news. Von Staube and von Gault? If there were two men in all the Third Reich responsible for Adolf Hitler's blood-shedding successes across bowed Europe, those two were the ones. Von Staube and von Gault! The former the brains of the Army. The latter the brains of the Luftwaffe. Oh yes, and quite true! Their names seldom appeared in newsprint, or over the Berlin radio. Other names were featured. Other figureheads such as "Uncle" Goering received the publicity, and the praise for every triumph, big or small. But it was von Staube and von Gault who had made everything possible. And if they had been transferred to France—
"Then Hitler sure is worried, plenty worried!" Dave heard himself speak the thought aloud.
"No doubt about it!" Freddy Farmer echoed. Then, addressing the Major, he asked, "There is absolute proof of this, sir?"
"Absolute proof!" the senior officer replied emphatically, and picked up a small photo off the desk top and held it out. "Take a look. Taken the day before yesterday, and smuggled across to us. The uniforms will tell you which is which, in case you've never seen their pictures before."
It was a picture of two high ranking German officers standing beside the running board of a German Staff car, and obviously in deep conversation. The picture was not any too clear, because it had been taken at a distance with a long range lens. But it was clear enough for Dave and Freddy to recognize, from other pictures they had seen, the thin, cruel, hawkish face of Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault, and the beefy, moon-faced, thick-necked figure of Field Marshal von Staube. Dave handed the photo back without comment. But Freddy had another question.
"It was taken in Occupied France, sir?" he asked.
The Major held the photo up and pointed out the spire of a church that was faintly visible in the background. Part of it was missing as the result of an exploding shell.
"That's the church in the little village of Evaux," he said, "across the Seine River from Rouen. I recognize it, because I've been there many times since that shell struck. Matter of fact, I happened to see that shell do its work. It was a week before Dunkirk. No, don't worry. That picture was taken in Occupied France. And those buildings in back of them, but on this side of the church, are their combined Headquarters."
The Major nodded slightly for emphasis, and dropped the photo on the desk.
"A force of fifteen thousand men," he said a moment later. "Navy men, army men, and airmen. The time schedule has been worked out to the last split second. And the schedule has been checked and rechecked, I might add. At the first show of darkness tomorrow evening, navy vessels will take aboard the ground forces, at designated points along the south coast here. At the right moment the ships will put out into the Channel and proceed toward the French coast. At a designated time bomber flights will go over and blast all strong points for a thirty-five mile radius about the French coastal city of Le Havre. Le Havre will be the pivoting point of the entire raid. All operations will fan out north, south, and east from Le Havre.
"Fighter squadrons, of course, will go across to keep a protective cover over the bombers against Nazi night fighters—if any are able to get off and come up at them. Fighter squadrons will also protect transport planes filled with Commando Para-troops. Needless to say, each unit in the attack has its own time schedule, that dovetails in with the general schedule for the raid. And each unit, whether land, sea, or air, has its own individual objective to take and hold, or, as in many cases, to take and completely destroy. Clockwork is the keynote to the whole thing. Every man knows just what he is supposed to do, and what he's supposednotto do, incidentally. There will be losses, heavy losses, probably. But our losses will be nothing to what the Nazis will lose in man power, war materials—and morale!"
The Major paused for breath, and to think over his next words. It was all Dave could do to stop from squirming about on the edge of his chair. A hundred questions quivered on the tip of his tongue. But he had just enough sense to remain silent and bide his time. Soon enough the Major would tell Freddy and him what fighter flight they were to fly in. As a matter of fact, that bit of information was the next thing that came from the Yank Commando Chief's lips.
"You will go over with the squadron with which you are now stationed," he said. "The Two Hundred and Third Fighters, with Squadron Leader Parkinson in charge. That unit will go over as part of the cover for the Commando Para-troops. Parkinson will be supplied with his own time schedule, and will, of course, acquaint you with all those details later. Well, there you are. That's the general picture of the little surprise we'll have for Adolf Hitler tomorrow night. And if it comes off as we have planned, and as itmustcome off, this world will be a much better place to live in much sooner than most people expect. The Nazi high lords, in particular!"
As Major Barber seemed to pause for the last time, and leaned back in his chair, Dave was thrilling to the thought of so gigantic a raid, and such a devastating blow against the barbaric forces striving to conquer the civilized world. At the same time there was a certain feeling of frustration within him, a feeling of keen disappointment. It was as though he had been built up for a terrific let-down. He sneaked a glance at Freddy's face and could instantly tell from the expression he saw there that Freddy was not exactly one hundred per cent pleased himself. Dave hesitated a moment, and then took the bull by the horns.
"It should be something, and how, sir!" he said enthusiastically. "But back in New York, you mentioned something about a little extra job for Freddy and me. You still have one?"
Major Barber grinned and leaned forward again.
"I was wondering if you had forgotten that bit," he said with a chuckle. "Yes, there's still a little extra job for you two. Butlittleis hardly the word. Your fighter plane unit will go as far inland as the village of Salernes, just north of Rouen. That's where your bunch of Commando Para-troops will step off, and go down. But you will not return to this side with the Two Hundred and Third Spitfires. You two will bear south and across the Seine to Evaux."
"Evaux?" Dave echoed, and gulped. "And when we get there?"
There was no grin on the Major's lips now. Neither was there a smile in his eyes.
"When you get there," he said in a calm, steady voice, "you will kidnap von Staube and von Gault and fly them back here to England.Thatis the little extra job that has been selected for you two to carry out. Think you'll like it, eh?"
For all the gold in the world Dave couldn't have spoken a single word at that moment. His head had seemed to fly up off his shoulders and go floating away. The rest of him was frozen to his chair as solid as Arctic ice. It was impossible for him to move, and doubly so for him to think. Kidnap Field Marshal von Staube, and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault?
It seemed a lifetime to Dave before the ability to think fully returned, and three times as long before the power of speech was once again his. He turned his head slowly and stared at Freddy Farmer. The English youth was sitting like a statue of stone, eyes fixed on Major Barber, and blank amazement spread all over his face. In an abstract crazy sort of way the picture he saw made Dave think of somebody socked by a five pound blackjack loaded with buckshot. Freddy Farmer wasn't exactly out cold. But he might just as well have been.
"Did you hear what I heard, pal?" Dave finally compelled his lips to say.
Freddy jumped a little as though stuck with a pin, and turned to look at him.
"I don't know," he said in a rather vacant tone. "I could be mistaken. This could be just some crazy nightmare."
"It is," Dave grunted, and switched his gaze to Major Barber. "Only the nightmare part hasn't arrived yet. You're—you're not kidding, sir?"
Major Barber grinned and shook his head.
"No, Dawson," he said. "That was straight from the shoulder. But I don't blame you for going into a tail spin. I'll admit it's quite an order to hand out."
"Quite an order, he says!" Dave mumbled, and shook his head. "You wouldn't want us to pick up Adolf Hitler for good measure, would you, Major?"
The senior officer laughed and gestured with his two hands, palms upward.
"That would be nice," he said, "but I doubt that Adolf would ever get that close to possible activity. After all, he has to save himself for the future, you know. If little Yellow Belly, of the trick mustache, should get himself killed, what would become of the world? And he got wounded in the last war, you know. It's in the official German records. A gashed finger opening a can of beans, I think it was. No, we can skip Hitler. I'm not expecting too much of you fellows."
"Thanks," Dave grinned. "For a moment, I thought it was something that was really going to be tough. One question, though. I take it that von Staube and von Gault have agreed? They won't put up any objections when Freddy and I pop into their H.Q. and say, 'Let's go, boys'?"
Major Barber started fishing through his pockets. He finally sighed, stopped, and looked annoyed.
"Darned if I didn't lose that wire I got from them, okaying the whole business!" he said in mock seriousness. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that everything is all arranged. All this kidding aside, though, if you two fellows think—"
"Just a minute, sir!" Freddy spoke up sharply. "That's just the point. I'm not yet back where Icanthink. But if you're imagining that we're refusing thislittleextra job, please dismiss it from your mind at once. Personally, I wouldn't miss it for anything in the world."
"And you can say that again for me, pal!" Dave echoed. Then, looking at the Major, "You just simply threw a curve when we were expecting a high, hard one. Heck, sir! We're all for the idea. Freddy and I have a little motto we try to stick to. It's: We'll try anything once, and maybe twice. So forget it. Count us in. I've heard of tougher assignments, though I don't just remember where, or when!"
The senior officer chuckled and gave them both a look of frank admiration that was almost as satisfying as receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor, or the Victoria Cross.
"Don't worry," he presently said quietly. "I didn't have half a doubt for even a second. I was simply getting a kick out of the way you two received my little bombshell. However, I must be deadly serious about this. It isn't an everyday assignment. You stand one chance of bringing back those two, and nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine chances of not living to see the next sun rise. There is one big thing in your favor, though, as regards pulling off this stunt successfully. It's that nobody but a wild-brained chap like me would ever think of trying it. In other words, the fact that it is practically impossible makes it just that much more possible. If you get what I mean?"
"Close enough, I guess," Dave grunted. "In other words, if and when we do show up at their H.Q., neither of them will think its strictly on the level. And while they are mentally fanning the air trying to get the picture, we'll have the perfect chance to grab them."
"Exactly," Major Barber said emphatically. "You could go in there dressed as Santa Claus and they wouldn't disbelieve you any less. However, I don't plan for you to pop in dressed up as a couple of Saint Nicks."
"Well, that's good news, anyway!" Freddy Farmer got out with a sigh of relief. "To get down to cases, though, sir, just what do you plan for us to do? Perhaps it would be better if we got on with that part of the business."
"Good old Freddy Farmer!" Dave chuckled. "Always has to find out things. Just can't wait."
"Well, I guess there's no sense in his waiting any longer," Major Barber grunted with a grin. "Or you either, Dawson. Yes, I have plans for you. Every move worked out in detail. Before I explain them, let me say this, though."
The Commando Chief paused, and all signs of merriment left his face. It became set and firm, and his eyes grave.
"The old saying about 'the best laid plans of mice and men,' and so forth, applies here very much," he went on presently. "I've plotted out every move you are to make, taking in, I hope, every little thing that might happen to the contrary. But that's exactly the point. I mean, something that I haven't even dreamed ofmayhappen. Andifit does, the chances are that your operating schedule will be knocked forty ways from Sunday, and you'll be strictly on your own, and in the keeping of God."
"That sort of thing has happened before, and we're still here," Freddy Farmer murmured, but with not the slightest trace or hint of boasting in his voice.
"And how!" Dave breathed softly, as for the instant his brain raced backward in memory. "Fact is, nothing has ever worked out exactly as we planned and expected. And I don't think it ever does."
"I'm making that thought unanimous!" Major Barber said grimly. "But we can always hope there'll be a first time. And I'm hoping this will be it. Now, edge up closer to this desk so's you can get a good look at this mosaic reconnaissance map of the area that concerns you two."
The Major waited while the two air aces hitched their chairs closer. Then he picked up a pencil and touched the tip of the sharpened point to the mosaic map.
"Your fighter squadron will cross over the French coast here, at Cany," he began. "It will proceed as transport plane escort, as I said, as far as Salernes on the northern fringe of Rouen. There the Para-troops will bail out and float down to take and destroy an objective assigned to them. Incidentally, it happens to be one of the largest airplane fuel depots in all of Occupied France. Anyway, when the Para-troops have gone down, the transport planes will turn and start back to England, with Parkinson's squadron still acting as escort. You two, however, will pull out and head south across Rouen, and on over the river to Evaux, here."
The Commando Chief put the pencil point on the location of the small French town, and then lifted his eyes to look at Dave and Freddy.
"One point I'd better mention," he said. "Squadron Leader Parkinson has no idea of what's been cooked up for you. Therefore you'll have to use your heads as to how you quit the squadron. You could go down as though shot, and keep radio silence in case he buzzes you as to what has happened. However, it'll still be pretty dark by then, so maybe you can just drop out, and that'll be that."
"We'll manage that part okay," Dave grunted. "Don't worry about that."
"I'm not," Major Barber said. "Too many other tricky things to worry about. Now, when you have crossed to the southern side of Evaux—here, where the Seine makes its biggest loop southward—you will both step out, and head down by parachute. Of course, searchlights may be probing around for you by then. And no doubt there'll be anti-aircraft stuff whizzing up at you. However, it'll be your job to get out of the searchlights and bail out. Before you leave, though, there'll be a little lever in each of your planes that you are to pull. Pulling that lever will touch off a fire bomb that will fire your plane exactly sixty seconds later."
"I get it!" Dave murmured. "So the anti-aircraft gunners will think they've made a couple of direct hits?"
"Right!" Major Barber told him. "Also, that you two have been instantly killed. As soon as your planes burst into flame the searchlights will swing that way, of course. But no pilots bailing out by parachute will be seen. So they'll believe what we want them to believe. Now comes the tricky part, and look closely at this mosaic map. You two should touch ground fairly close together. Ditch your parachutes, of course, check your directions by the compass each of you will carry, and make your way to this cluster of shell-shattered farm barns that you can see right here."
The Major paused while the two youths bent closer and had a good look at the cluster of shell-battered farm barns clearly pictured in the mosaic map.
"That shouldn't be hard, I don't fancy," Freddy Farmer said. "They're right in the center of the U formed by the Seine."
"That's it," Major Barber said with a nod. And then he continued, "When you meet, you will proceed due north for no more than two miles. At the end of two miles you will come to a dirt road. See it pictured there? And see that pile of rubble there? That was once a church until a Nazi Stuka came along in June of Nineteen Forty. There you will meet a German guard."
"And give him the works!" Dave said eagerly, as he thought of those five weeks of intensive Commando training.
"No, don't!" Major Barber caught him up sharply. "That German guard will be an American Intelligence officer posing as a Nazi. He's been in that area for over a month now. That's how long ago we started working out this little job for tomorrow night. He's your connecting link with all that happens from then on. Confound it! I skipped one of the most important items!"
The Commando Chief paused and snapped his finger in vexation.
"I forgot all about mentioning that stowed in your cockpits will be a Nazi uniform with all the insignia and markings of a German regiment stationed in that area," he went on. "Don't forget to take them with you when you bail out. And put them on when you touch ground. They'reOber-Leutnantuniforms, by the way. It'll be better for you to pose as a couple of officers so's you'll have the jump on any rank and file you might possibly bump into.
"Anyway, when you spot this German soldier walk up to him and say, 'Tell me the time, my watch is broken.' He will answer, 'But mine is broken, too.' By that answer you will definitely know that you have met the right man. He is to be known to you as Jones. So if you call him by any name, call him Jones. Anyway, he'll give you a picture of how things stand. He'll tell you exactly where the two Nazi big shots are at the moment. In which building of their H.Q., I mean. He'll tell you how many others are about. And he'll put before you a plan how to pull the others away so that you can make your little surprise visit on von Staube and von Gault. Most important of all, though, he will know the exact location of a Nazi Dornier Do. Seventeen that you two can use to cart your prisoners back here to England. Naturally, there is a small flying field close to the Evaux H.Q. that both von Staube and von Gault use, but not the whole Luftwaffe in general. Jones will have all the dope on that, and of course, he'll do everything he can to make your job easier. He has been groomed for his part to the nth degree. So have no worries that anything will slip up at his end. Once you have nailed von Staube and von Gault—and I suggest right here that you slug them good, and bind them right up with wire you'll be carrying—Jones will run the interference for you. That's a football expression, Farmer. You get what I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Freddy grinned. "Dawson, here, made me go to some of the games when we were in the States. In hot weather, too!"
"They weren't regular games, as I told you," Dave said with a laugh. "Just spring practice and scrimmages. But he knows what you mean, sir."
"Good," Major Barber grunted. "Well, I guess that's about all the points. We'll go over them later, of course. Several times, until you have each little detail down pat. One last thing, though, about arriving back here in England. Try to make Two Hundred and Three's airdrome. There'll be certain parties there to take over your prisoners. And of course, when you cross over English ground be sure and put on all your navigation lights. And keep flashing the letter M with your signal light. That'll stop any anti-aircraft shells from coming up to greet you. Well, I guess that's about it. Are there any questions? Any part of the plan that strikes you as not measuring up to snuff?"
Neither Dave nor Freddy said anything. For the moment they were too busy with their own thoughts to ask any questions. And their thoughts were indeed in high gear. To Dave the whole thing looked easy as apple pie. Every step they would take had been carefully thought out and considered from every angle. It would almost be like acting out a book they had read; knowing exactly what to do next, and how it would all come out in the end.
Yes, it seemed a cinch. But that was exactly the point. Cold, hard common sense, and the memory of experience, told him that it wasn't going to be any cinch. Far, far from it. The eerie tingling sensation that rippled through the back of his neck was all the proof of that statement he needed. Plan, and plan, and plan. It made no difference how much, or how long, you planned. There was always that unknown something, that unexpected something, lingering in the background. It would pop up at you, as sure as man is a foot high. And when it popped—
Dave didn't bother finishing the rest of that thought. He drove it from his mind, and glanced at Freddy Farmer. He could see that their thoughts were very mutual indeed.
"Got anything you want to ask, Freddy?" he said.
The English-born air ace frowned, and then shook his head.
"No, can't think of a question at the moment," he murmured. "It's all expertly cut and dried. All we have to do is follow the instructions. No, I haven't any questions."
"That goes for me, too, sir," Dave grinned at the Commando Chief. "The only thing left, now, is to pull it off. And of course, we'll both pitch our arms off to do just that."
"And, please God, may your arms hold out!" the Major said fervently.
Black night hung like a velvet curtain over the southeast coast of England. As though even the gods had decided to give the United Nations forces a break, not a single star was showing. Sullen dark overcast stretched from horizon to horizon, and just off the coast a thin protective fog hovered above the waters of the Channel. On the drome of the Two Hundred and Third R.A.F. fighters, twenty-one Merlin-powered Spitfires, Mark Fives, stood waiting to be streaked aloft into the night sky. From prop to trimmer flap on the rudder, every plane had been checked and rechecked by skilled mechanics as well as the pilots themselves. Not a nut, bolt, or strand of bracing wire had been overlooked, or taken for granted. Upon those Spitfires, and the steady-eyed eagles who would fly them, depended the lives of many brave men. The Commando Para-troops who would be taken over by transport plane, and then dumped off to go down and do their job of destruction, and later fight their way back to the seacoast and the British Navy boats waiting to take them back to England. In many wars, and before many battles, had elaborate and detailed plans and preparations been made. Never, though, in the history of all the world, had any military operation been as minutely arranged and prepared for as this morale-jolting raid about to be launched against Hitler's blood-letting forces in Occupied France.
For a while Dave and Freddy had gathered together with the other pilots of Two Hundred and Three and hashed and rehashed the part that the squadron was to play in this lightning bolt blow against the two-legged forces of all things dirty and evil in Europe. In time, though, they drifted away from the general gathering and started wandering alone and aimlessly about the field faintly marked out by tiny flares. They had covered quite a bit of ground before Freddy finally broke the silence.
"Gives a chap a bit of a spooky feeling, all this, doesn't it?" he said. "Like sort of sitting around waiting for an unexploded bomb to go off."
"Something like, yes," Dave grunted. "But this'll be more than just a bomb when it goes off. More like an ammo dump, I'd say. And a couple of dozen of them, too. How do you feel, Freddy?"
"Scared stiff, and absolutely pink!" was the prompt reply. "And you?"
"Ditto!" Dave echoed. "My knees are sure getting to know each other, the way they're knocking together. I don't dare sit down for fear they'll freeze solid, and won't let me get up. Boy! I sure wish it was time to get going!"
"Won't be long, now," Freddy murmured with a look at the radium-figured dial of his wrist watch. "But I agree with you. I'll feel much better once we get in the air, and are getting on with the show. Remember all of Major Barber's instructions?"
Dave laughed and then whistled softly.
"Twenty years from now you could ask me, and I'd be able to recite them word for word," he said. "The Major should be a school teacher, or something. He can sure put details in your head, and make them stay there. He's a swell guy, the Major is."
"That he is!" Freddy echoed the statement. "A bit of all right. No doubt his ancestors were English."
"Listen!" Dave shot back quickly. "I said the Major was a swell guy, see? Just skip casting slurring remarks about him, see?"
"As if—!" Freddy blazed, and then saw the grin on Dave's face. "Well, his ancestors didn't come from the Belgian Congo, like one chap's I could mention!"
"Stop talking about yourself!" Dave threw at him. "Besides, we were originally talking about this raid. What do you think our chances are, Freddy?"
The English youth was silent for a moment. He walked a few steps forward, staring unseeing at the ground.
"I don't know," he said finally. "My brain refuses to try and figure the odds. Which is just as well for my nerves, I guess. I'm only hoping it comes off as easily as the planning makes it appear. One thing, though. Selecting me to go along with you is just about the finest honor I ever received."
"Oh, think nothing of it, my friend!" Dave said with an airy wave of his hand. "Back in New York when Major Barber asked me if I thought you were well enough trained to—"
"Rot!" Freddy cut in harshly. "I was being serious, Dave. True, we've seen quite a bit of the war. And we've accomplished an odd job or two here and there. But there are plenty of men older than us, better trained, and far more experienced in this kind of thing. It was a mighty high honor to pick a—well, you might say, a couple of kids like us."
"You've got something there, pal," Dave said gravely. "But as the Major pointed out, age doesn't mean a thing in this war. Kids and grown men alike can turn out to be heroes with the right stuff. And, not to boast, there are a couple of points in our favor. We're pilots, experienced ones. We know that area pretty well from the first year of the war. We also speak German well. And—well, there're a couple of other good points about us, but skip them. The main point is that the Major selected us. As far as that goes for me, it's okay. I don't care about why he picked me as one of the pair. I only hope and pray I live up to the trust he's put in me."
"Quite, and me, too!" Freddy Farmer breathed as though in prayer. "I suppose I feel as I do every time we're handed a tough assignment, but I truly feel that I want to accomplish this job tonight and tomorrow dawn more than I've ever wanted to accomplish anything. It's—it's as though my whole life had been built up to this night. Do I sound crazy?"
"Nope, not at all," Dave told him quickly. "You're simply saying the words I couldn't think up. Say, how long now? I'm getting so jittery to get going that if I wait much longer I won't have the muscle co-ordination to hoist myself up into the pit. How long, Freddy?"
"Twenty minutes," the English youth replied. "Steady on, Dave. Don't let it get you down, old chap. Things will start soon enough. Be like I am, calm, cool, and—"
"A cockeyed liar!" Dave finished with a laugh. "But thanks for the effort, pal. Your voice does have a soothing effect upon me, at times. And note that I said, at times!"
"Gratitude for you!" Freddy snorted angrily. "But of course, I expected that kind of a comment, coming from you. By the way! I hope you checked to see if your Nazi uniform was stuffed in the pit?"
"I did," Dave replied, and laughed. "And my rigger mechanic saw it, too. Made him plenty curious. The bundle, I mean. He couldn't tell that it was a Nazi uniform. I thought it best to offer some kind of an explanation, so I told him that it was an extra uniform in case I got shot down in flames, and burned the one I was wearing."
"Good grief!" Freddy gasped. "What a crazy thing to say! And what did he say?"
"He didn't," Dave chuckled. "He didn't say a thing—to me. He just walked off, muttering something about all Yanks being a little balmy."
"And he wasn't far from wrong!" Freddy Farmer leaped at the opening. "Particularly in your case. But let's start on back to the tarmac, shall we? They should be starting up the engines for a brief warm-up soon. And it isn't good to, give the other chaps the idea that we're trying to snub them."
"Nuts!" Dave snorted. "Those guys are regular. They wouldn't think anything like that, ever. But let's get on back, anyway. I want to give my bus one more check, just for something to do. Oh-oh! There go some of the egg boys. Happy landings, fellows! And smack them plenty, the bums!"
As Dave spoke the last he and Freddy threw back their heads and stared up into the dark sky that was suddenly filled with the roaring thunder of many bombers winging out across the Channel to "lay" their "eggs" as planned. For a couple of minutes both sky and earth trembled from the steady thunder of powerful engines. Then gradually it faded away in the southeast.
"Boy! That was a bunch of them!" Dave exclaimed with a whistle. "The whole raid area will probably be flat as a pancake by the time the Commando troops arrive. Gosh! I hope their eggs don't scare von Staube and von Gault away!"
"Or make the blighters hide in some bomb shelter where we can't find them!" Freddy echoed with a little nervous laugh. "Well, let's buzz over. There's the first of the Merlins starting up. Getting close now, Dave."
Dawson didn't comment. He licked his suddenly dry lips, swallowed hard a couple of times, and hurried with Freddy across the drome to the line of twenty-one Spitfires on the tarmac. Pilots gathered in small groups were breaking up, each man going over to his plane. Dave went over to his, and Freddy to his own which was next to it. Both knew their planes by heart, but from force of habit they each made one last and final check, and found every little thing just as they knew it would be.
Then they met between the two planes and waited for the engine fitters to climb in the pits and kick the Merlins into life. The whole drome, now, was echoing and re-echoing to the roar of Merlin engines. But to Dave and Freddy, and everybody else for that matter, the thunderous roar was the sweetest music on earth.
"Well, have you two got it all straight, eh?"
They both spun around at the sound of the voice shouting above the Merlins' roar. Squadron Leader Parkinson stood there dressed and ready for flight. He was calmly smoking a cigarette, but there was a flashing, eager-to-be-off look in his eyes. Dave nodded and answered for himself and Freddy.
"All okay, sir!" he shouted back. "We go off second with Green Flight. Up to ten thousand, and fly line astern by flights until we pick up the Para-troop transports five miles off shore."
"Right!" the Squadron Leader said with a nod. "Then spread out in top cover. Green right, blue left, Red center, and Purple Flight covering our tails. Right you are, lads. Good luck to you both. If any night Messerschmitts or Focke-Wulfs put in an appearance, don't let the blighters go any place but down!"
"And with flames for company, sir," Dave added with a grin.
"Quite!" the Squadron Leader echoed the statement, and started to turn away. He checked his movement, however, and turned back to give each of the two youths a searching stare.
"I meant that," he said a moment later. "About good luck to you both. I don't know a thing, but I fancy you didn't go over to Commando H.Q. yesterday just to have a spot of tea. Anyway, mighty glad to have you with us—until you have to peel off, and go on your own. Cheerio, until we meet again sometime!"
Without giving either of the boys a chance to say anything, Squadron Leader Parkinson flipped a hand to his goggles in salute and went quickly away.
"Jeepers!" Dave presently ejaculated. "Maybe we should wear signs on our backs, or something! That Parkinson is no dumb bunny, what I mean!"
"Oh, quite," Freddy said. "But after all, old chap, we're not strictly R.A.F. these days, you know. And—well, I fancy it must have struck everybody a bit queer, our just joining up with the Squadron wearing U. S. Army Air Force uniforms. Plenty of Yank squadrons over here, now, for us to be assigned to. And that call from Commando H.Q. would start any chap thinking."
"Yes, I guess that's right," Dave said with a nod. "But here's hoping the birds on theotherside of the Channel aren't so bright. But why should they be? Oh, nuts! I'm just yelling down a rain barrel. Well, Freddy, old tin of herring, Papa will look after you as best he can. But try not to get in my way, and on my neck too much, see? I've got important things to do from now on."
Freddy took the extended hand, and the pressure of Dawson's grip told him all he needed to know.