For a minute longer the two boys just stood there as though their boots were nailed to the ground. Then they turned and stared at each other, neither quite sure that he wasn't just asleep and going through a crazy dream.
"Don't ever hope for luck again!" Dave finally broke the silence. "We've played out our string, Freddy. Nothing that ever happens from now on could possibly top this. My gosh, my gosh! I'm soaking wet with my own sweat. I thought I was going to fall into a fear faint for sure. And my hair is pure white, isn't it?"
"Grab hold of me, Dave, and hang on hard!" Freddy said hoarsely. "I'm afraid I'll start running and keep running until I'm miles from this spot. Good grief, what luck! All we have to do is wait a bit, and then get invited right in there with them."
"Sure!" Dave muttered. "And then what, pal?"
A lot of the happiness drained right out of Freddy Farmer's face. He slowly sucked air into his lungs, and then promptly sighed heavily.
"Quite!" he murmured. "And then what? The beggars will no doubt have others in there with them. And what in the world can we do about it?"
"I don't know, yet," Dave grunted. "But—but we've got to do something, even if it's letting them have it in cold blood, Freddy. Major Barber wants them kidnapped, but—"
Dave finished the rest with a shrug and a gesture of his hands. Freddy Farmer made a wry face and swallowed quickly a couple of times.
"Yes, of course!" he got out with an effort. "It's war, and war's a beastly business. Still—"
"Me, too, pal," Dave said softly. "I hope with all my heart and soul we can figure some way. But one thing we're pledged to as loyal Commandos, Freddy. Those two go out of the war picture today, one way—or another."
Freddy Farmer didn't make any comment. He simply looked Dave in the eye, and nodded silently.
"If we have to wait any longer, Dave, I swear I'll fly apart in small pieces. This blasted suspense is getting me down something awful!"
Dave grinned at his English pal, and gave him a comforting nudge with his elbow.
"That makes two of us," he whispered. "But it's been only fifteen minutes, you know."
"Fifteen years!" Freddy corrected. "And look at that sun coming up! The more light around here, the tougher it's going to be for us, you know."
"You're telling me?" Dave murmured, and squinted at the first rays of dawn light stealing westward across the face of that part of France. "Swiping one of those Nazi planes in the dark is hard enough. But in broad daylight—well, let's not think about that little item. I sure wish, though, that—"
Dave never finished the rest of that statement. At that moment the door of the center building was jerked open and a fashion plate uniformed Nazi Staff Captain stood framed in the doorway. He swept black, cruel-looking eyes over the officers and men grouped about, and scowled angrily.
"HerrMajor von Kummil!" he cried out in a rasping voice. "HerrMajor von Kummil! Are you out here?HerrField Marshal wants you at once!"
As the Nazi barked the words he jerked his head from side to side like a spectator watching the flight of the ball in a tennis match. Dave hesitated, then nudged Freddy Farmer.
"I think that means us," he whispered. "That's probably the Major who told us to wait. We've got to chance it, anyway. Right?"
The English youth simply nodded, and started pushing through the group outside the door. Dave was right at his heels. They stopped a few steps from the black-eyed captain, and saluted.
"HerrMajor von Kummil was recalled to regimental Headquarters byHerrColonel," Freddy spoke up in perfect German. "He instructed us to wait forHerrField Marshal's pleasure."
The Nazi Captain stared down at them as though they were something the cat had dragged in. Then, as his gaze fell on the sealed envelope Dave held in his hand, his eyes took on a bright gleam. But Dave beat him to the punch.
"Our instructions were to deliver this in person,HerrCaptain," Dave said.
"That is true," Freddy echoed. Then he suddenly added, "And besides,HerrCaptain, I have been ordered to make my own report by word of mouth. It is impossible to put it in writing."
For a split second Dave thought that Freddy's words were simply to make sure that they both were admitted inside. But as he flashed a quick look at his pal and saw the odd look on Freddy's face, his heart looped over and the blood started to pound through his veins. Freddy was up to just more than getting inside that Headquarters building! There was something much, much more important than just that, in Freddy's head. Dave had only time for a quick look, but it was enough to tell him that Freddy was up to something.
"So?" the Nazi Captain suddenly got out in a sneering tone. "Very well, then. Come in, both of you. But do not be too long. Say what you have to say, and don't waste words, you understand?"
Dave nodded meekly, but trust Freddy Farmer to have his little final say! Freddy coldly returned the senior officer's looks, and then put just the faintest touch of sarcasm in his reply.
"But certainly not,HerrCaptain!" he said. "It is not for me to add toDer Fuehrer'sorders!"
"Der Fuehrer?" the Nazi Captain gasped, and stood there with his black eyes popping, and his bird-like mouth hanging open.
Freddy let it go at that. He nodded to Dave and then calmly led the way past the gaping Captain and in through the door. By the time they were inside a short narrow hallway, the Nazi had collected his wits.
"This way," he said, and led them down the hallway, and through double doors that opened off the right.
For some crazy reason the first thing that came to Dave's brain as he was ushered into a fairly big room was the quite unimportant realization that Freddy and he had actually been edging toward the wrong side of the building when they had bumped into that Nazi Major. They would undoubtedly have gained nothing had they been able to peek through the windows on that side.
That thought came and went, and then he was taking notice of other things that really were important. The room was exactly like other Nazi military Headquarters he had seen during his war career. Maps covered with little colored flags. A bank of field phones. Shortwave radio sets. Memos, dispatches, letters and any number of other kinds of military papers scattered all over the place. But the main attraction, of course, was the huge double desk at which sat the two Nazi high rankers who had been personally responsible for ninety per cent of Adolf Hitler's blood triumphs to date.
On one side was Field Marshal von Staube, lumpy, beefy, with a sweating red face, bald head, and neck the thickness of a telephone pole. And on the other side sat Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault, looking like a half starved vulture about to strike. His cruel, hawkish face was absolutely blood chilling to behold, and it was all Dave could do to suppress the shudder that started through him. The Number One and Number Two killers of the Third Reich. Adolf Hitler's two butchers. Himmler, of the infamous Gestapo, acted like a sweet little old lady when his acts were compared with the killing and plunder performed under the command of these two.
Dave looked at them, and his hand twitched as he had the sudden desire to go for the small but deadly automatic he carried in his tunic pocket. Neither Freddy nor he wanted to end it that way. But they would be true to their mutual vow. Though it cost them all the torture the Nazis could inflict upon them, today would be the last day of war for Field Marshal von Staube and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault. These two would never—
"Well, have you lost your tongues? What are you here for? Where is your Major von Kummil? Speak up! Can you two young fools not see that I am busy?"
It was von Staube who spoke the words. Yet that is not quite right. He did not exactly speak them. His voice sounded more like an express train going through a tunnel. Dave stepped quickly forward, saluted with one hand, and held out the sealed envelope with the other.
"HerrMajor von Kummil was recalled,HerrField Marshal," he said. "We were intrusted to deliver this to you."
The German high ranker growled in his throat, snatched the envelope from Dave's hand, stabbed a thick finger under the flap opening and ripped viciously. He took out a fold of papers inside, glanced through them quickly, and then hurled the lot down on the desk.
"Fools!" he thundered. "Swine stupid fools! To tell me this by courier, when it could have been spoken over the telephone an hour ago! What do I care about the condition of your reserves? Should I tell the enemy to wait until we are ready to give them battle? Should I sit here and wait until arms and battle equipment have been issued to every German soldier.Mein Herr!What am I commanding? German armies or packs of fools?"
The German bellowed the questions straight at Dave, and pounded his fat fists on the desk. Beads of sweat flew from his face, and his color mounted to where it seemed impossible that he wouldn't explode in small pieces in the next instant. Dave tried to think of something to say, but the German seemed not to want answers to his questions. He probably didn't even realize that he was looking straight at Dave. He was too busy with thoughts about something, some part of his plans, that had gone higher than a kite.
"Fools, stupid dogs!" he went right on roaring. "I order something, and I get nothing but words by courier! Well, we shall see about that. We shall see. There'll be a few swine heads fall before this day is done. And they will not all belong to our enemies. The—"
Words failed the big fat German Field Marshal. He dropped back into his desk chair mumbling and gurgling sounds that didn't make any sense. Dave noticed that von Gault was watching von Staube closely, but there was just a shade of worry in the Luftwaffe Marshal's cruel eyes. Perhaps von Gault had gone through this thing before, with disastrous results to himself. After all, von Staube was NumberOne. Anyway, the Luftwaffe Marshal was watching his partner in world wide crime closely, and was not looking at all happy.
Suddenly, though, as if a completely different person had sat down in Field Marshal von Staube's chair, the red rage faded from the German's face. He picked up the scattered papers and gave them another look. He scowled, tugged at his lower lip, and massaged his fat chin a little. Then he raised his eyes to von Gault's face.
"Perhaps it will not alter things much," he said. "Von Alder is not one to depend on, anyway. We will use the Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth, instead. All seasoned troops. They will probably do the job much better, anyway. But that von Alder. That one! How he will hear of this!"
The German Field Marshal checked himself as though suddenly realizing that Dave and Freddy were still standing there. He turned and gave them a curt nod.
"Return to your regiment!" he growled.
Dave started to salute and turn to leave, suddenly thankful of the chance to get out of there, and fast. But he didn't go all the way around. First he saw Freddy Farmer still standing at stiff attention. And next he saw the Nazi Captain's black eyes fixed steadfastly and questioningly on the English youth. It was then Dave remembered Freddy's crazy remark to the Captain. His heart stood still, and he impulsively moved his hand a little so that he could get at his pocketed gun that much quicker. Was this the show-down? Was Freddy going to make this the show-down? Would both of them have to blaze away in cold murder—Nazi style?
It seemed to Dave that he lived a thousand years standing there half turned to go out the door. Then von Staube's booming voice exploded through the silence.
"Didn't you hear my orders?" he thundered at the motionless Freddy. "Return to your regiment!"
"Your pardon,HerrField Marshal," the English youth spoke up bold as brass, while ice formed about Dave's heart. "I have a report of my own. It has nothing to do with this other thing. May I ask,HerrField Marshal, if yourpilotshave reported to you?"
Stunned silence spread over the room like a thick heavy blanket. Both von Staube and von Gault stiffened. So did the black-eyed Captain. As a matter of fact, so did Dave Dawson. And he was suddenly filled with the wild desire to catch up Freddy, and sling him over his shoulder, and make a dash for it. Freddy had gone nuts! Maybe a blow on the head when he had taken care of that Nazi soldier back by the shelled church. But Freddy was definitely off his trolley! What in the world did he think he was saying?
"My pilots reported to us?" Field Marshal von Staube echoed. "Of course. Why? Why do you want to know?"
For a second or so Freddy just looked at the German, then switched his gaze to von Gault.
"You know them all personally,HerrLuftwaffe Marshal?" he shot out the question. "You selected them, perhaps?"
The Luftwaffe Marshal looked angry, baffled, and just a little scared. He wet his lips a couple of times before he spoke. And when he did his voice was high and strained, as though it were an effort to get the words out.
"HerrCaptain Kohle andLeutnantvon Stebbins have been the two stationed here for weeks," he replied. "Of course I know them! Of course I appointed them as Headquarters pilots. What is the meaning of this?"
"A precaution," Freddy answered quietly. "Der Fuehrer'sorders, atHerrHimmler's request. It is the Gestapo's eternal job to safeguard the lives of Germans valuable to the Third Reich!"
"Gestapo?" Field Marshal von Staube practically blew up with wrath. "Thisis a war zone. This isArmyHeadquarters. It is for the cursed Gestapo to—!"
The German stumbled to a stop, and just sat glaring at Freddy Farmer, and drumming his fingertips on the desk. For a split second Dave almost wanted to laugh out loud. If all this wasn't so deadly serious, it would be funny. The German Army Staff and Himmler's Gestapo were like two tomcats on a back yard fence. They hated each other, but each knew that the other was very necessary to the German Reich. But of the two it was the German Army Staff who feared the most. Himmler had the inside track with Hitler. He had theFuehrer'sear. And more than one German Staff head had gone rolling into the basket because that high ranker had tried to freeze outHerrHimmler. No, the German Army Staff didn't like the Gestapo one bit, but there was little they could do about it, yet. Just as long asHerrHimmler held Adolf Hitler's trust and confidence, it was well for the generals to watch their step!
And so Field Marshal von Staube choked off what he would like to have said, and just glowered and glared at Freddy.
"So, Gestapo, eh?" he suddenly blurted out with a sneer he couldn't hold back. "I suppose you suspect that spies are members of my Staff, eh?"
But Freddy didn't walk into the trap. He knew perfectly well that a Gestapo member as young as he looked wouldn't knowtoomuch.
"Isuspect no one,HerrField Marshal," he said with stiff respectfulness. "I have only been given my orders to carry out. If you wish to complain toHerrHimmler? There is the phone. He is in his Berlin Headquarters now."
Dave held his breath. Was Freddy begging for death? He must be mad. Hewasmad! What in thunderation was he trying to pull off? What did Freddy think all this insane business was going to get them? Dave didn't have the ghost of an idea. But whatever it was, it was all Freddy's party now. Dave didn't dare speak a word, or do anything. But when he glanced at his pal and saw the typical cold haughtiness of the Gestapo that seemed to surround the English youth, a wild thrill raced through him. Perhaps—just perhaps—Freddy wasn't out of his mind. Maybe he did have something by the tail.
At any rate, the bluff worked. Field Marshal von Staube made no move to reach for one of the many phones. And Dave felt a little as though he had been reborn. No, not reborn. More like a condemned man who has received a stay of execution.
"I will make my complaints at the right time, and in the right places!" the German Field Marshal suddenly boomed. "Well? Whatisyour mission here, anyway? What aboutHerrLuftwaffe Marshal von Gault's pilots? What about them?"
Freddy Farmer made as though to reach into his upper left tunic pocket, but seemed to change his mind.
"Perhaps nothing,HerrField Marshal," he said evenly. "However, there are one or two questions I should like to askHerrCaptain Kohle andHerr Leutnantvon Stebbins. In your presence, of course, sir. And yours, too,HerrLuftwaffe Marshal von Gault. This much I can say. If they speak the truth, their answers to my questions may be very interesting, and enlightening."
Von Staube scowled still more deeply, drummed his fingers on the desk some more, and then looked across at von Gault. He seemed to see something in the other's eyes, though von Gault didn't nod or shake his head.
"HerrCaptain!" von Staube suddenly roared at the black-eyed officer. "Go find the two officers mentioned, and bring them here at once. Just that, mind you! Bring them here, and keep your mouth shut!"
"At once,HerrField Marshal!" the Captain gasped, and went out the door as though he had been kicked.
When the German Captain slammed shut the door behind him, and there were sounds of his footsteps along the hall outside, Dave slowly let locked air from his lungs and stole another glance at Freddy Farmer. The English-born air ace still stood at rigid attention, but there was not even a flicker of fear in his face. His expression was one of perfect coolness and calmness. It was as though he went through this sort of thing every day in the week, and doing it again were just a wee bit boring.
The two German high rankers stared at Freddy in sullen anger. But it was plain to see that neither of them had the desire to exert their supreme authority at the moment. In fact, it was a perfect picture of the Nazi system. The Army Staff vs the Gestapo. And the Gestapo was holding the whip hand because of events which had taken place in the past. Perhaps some day, when the Army Staff was sitting in the saddle, and was Adolf Hitler's favorite for the moment, Gestapo heads would drop like apples shaken from the tree. Right now, though, the Gestapo was the so-called power behind the throne. And so von Staube and von Gault were feeling their way—cautiously.
However, nuts to the German Army Staff! And likewise, nuts to the Gestapo! What was Freddy Farmer's game? What crazy insane goal did he think he was shooting at, anyway? Darn him for not giving out a single hint, or a tip-off. The least Freddy could do would be to shoot him a quick look that would tell him a little something. But, no! Freddy was acting as though he didn't know that Dave existed.
Worry and anger boiled around in the Yank-born air ace. Past friendship and experience told him, or at least tried to tell him, that Freddy hadn't suddenly blown his top; that he wasn't crazy, and knew exactly what he was doing. But if Dave only had some idea, then he would know how to play his part. But this waiting, this nerve-tingling silence! Dave wondered a little if he weren't going crazy himself. He swallowed and pressed his wrist comfortingly against the small gun in his pocket. And he pressed the upper half of his other arm against the hardness of his sheathed Commando knife hanging from his shoulder under his German tunic. If worse came to worse, he—
At that moment Freddy Farmer suddenly had a fit of coughing. He bent over a little and put one hand to his mouth. The two Germans looked at him in a sort of cold delight. But Dave didn't notice their looks. His gaze was fixed on Freddy. And suddenly his heart gave a great leap, and tingling warmth shot through him. Freddy had turned his head slightly, and for the fraction of a second their eyes met. But it was long enough for Dave to catch the quick half wink; to see the second and third fingers of Freddy's other hand quickly cross and uncross.
True, it told Dave nothing of his pal's game. But that didn't matter too much, now. At least he knew for sure that Freddy was playing a wild game, and that he was not completely crazy. There was method in his apparent madness, and he had signalled to Dave to be ready for anything, and to pray hard for a bit of luck.
Freddy had gained control of his coughing when the door opened and the Captain came in with the two Luftwaffe pilots. They were both young, and not bad-looking—for Germans. They clicked their heels and practically jerked themselves apart saluting von Staube and von Gault.
The Nazi Field Marshal simply answered with a grunt, and then fixed his angry eyes on Freddy's face.
"Captain Kohle, and Lieutenant von Stebbins," he said in a voice that was mostly a snarl. "Ask them your questions, but be quick about it. Wesoldiershave still a battle to fight!"
Freddy nodded stiffly, then backed up a few steps to a point where he could get a better look at the two new arrivals. As a matter of fact, he backed up to a point where he commanded an unobstructed view of the entire room. Andalsoa point that put him not two feet from Dave's side.
"Ready, Dave! Gun and knife!"
Had Freddy spoken? Or was it a trick of his imagination? The thought question flashed through Dave's brain. And then he saw the lightning-like movements of Freddy Farmer's hands. A gun appeared in the English youth's right hand, and his Commando knife appeared in his left, perfectly gripped and balanced to be shot forward like a flash of light. In the next instant Dave had his own gun and Commando knife out, and he was listening to Freddy's even voice tossing words at the dumbfounded, stunned quintet of Nazis.
"Not a move, if any of you want to live! We're Commandos! There are others outside. This whole area is surrounded by Commandos. If you want to resist, go ahead. We've been training a long time forthislittle occasion. You! Don't move!"
The last was because the German Staff Captain had half jerked up one arm. It was probably an impulsive gesture of terror. If it wasn't, terror was most certainly on his face a split instant later. Freddy Farmer's left hand shot forward with a twisting, whipping motion. And the Commando knife wasn't there any more. It was a streak of light that went across the room and pinned the sleeve of the German Captain's tunic to the wall. The Nazi looked at it, and almost fainted. The other four gasped in terror.
"Commandos!"
Field Marshal von Staube half choked and half sobbed out the words. Freddy gave him a cold hard stare, then calmly walked around in back of Dave, so as not to block off his Yank pal, and went over to the German Captain and jerked his knife free.
"Yes, Commandos!" he barked at the Field Marshal. "With a job to do, one wayorthe other. Which way is up to you. Dave! There're two of these beggars we don't need. This Captain and the young pilot Lieutenant. Take care of them, will you, while I keep an eye on the others?"
Freddy didn't look at Dave as he quietly spoke the words in English. But he didn't have to. Dave knew exactly what was needed of him. And whether it made sense didn't matter. It was still Freddy Farmer's party, and he had gone through too many war experiences with his English pal to bother asking questions until afterward. And so, careful not to get into Freddy's line of fire, he quickly circled about the room to the German Captain. The Nazi's eyes were glazed with terror, and then they were closing shut as he folded silently to the floor. Dave's swift, neat clip behind the ear with the barrel of his gun would have brought words of praise from any Commando. But Dave wasn't expecting praise, or even thinking about it. He took another step and repeated the little maneuver on the Luftwaffe Lieutenant. As he pulled wire and gags from his pocket, and started to bend down, Freddy stopped him.
"We might need that chap's tunic, Dave. Strip it off, first."
Dave did that little thing. And then, in less time than it takes to tell about it, he bound and gagged both unconscious Germans, and rolled them over against the wall.
"Who's next, Doctor?" he asked, straightening up and grinning at Freddy. "What next?"
The English youth didn't answer. His gaze was riveted on the two German high rankers, and the youthful Luftwaffe Captain. The latter seemed on the point of dropping into a dead faint. Freddy Farmer's little Commando knife trick had obviously drained every drop of courage from his body. It was not so, however, with von Staube and von Gault. True, they were not moving a single muscle, and there was a marked trace of fear in their eyes. Just the same they were trained and seasoned soldiers. They were not completely cowards in the face of death. As Dave snapped a glance their way, his heart turned over, and his mouth went a bit bone dry. The two high rankers seemed to be silently gauging their chances. They seemed to be deciding just what move to make first. Dave gripped his gun tighter, and beat back the revolting thoughts that tried to crowd into his brain. If it was to be cold-blooded murder, then so be it. He and Freddy were Commandos now. And Commandos give no quarter, and ask none. The job is the thing. The method of performing it is secondary!
"You will not leave here alive! You realize that, don't you, you swine Commandos?"
It was von Staube who spoke, but Dave instantly noticed that the Nazi high ranker was careful not to speak in his natural booming voice. He wanted to be brave, but he wantedless—to die.
"Of course we realize it!" Freddy Farmer told him quietly. "We realized that before we even started across tonight. But let me point out something,HerrField Marshal, andHerrLuftwaffe Marshal. You are both seasoned soldiers, so you will understand about men obeying orders. We were ordered to capture you two, and deliver you to our commanding officer who waits not half a mile from this spot. We were ordered to capture and deliver you, or—or to deliverevidencethat you would no longer be of any use to yourFuehrer!"
Silence settled over the room as Freddy finished. The muscles of each German's face twitched, but Dave was quick to see that they weren't quite completely impressed. He saw a part he could play, and he was quick to take advantage of it while the two Nazi Marshals were on the uneasy seat. He stepped forward quickly, and whipped down with his Commando knife. It twanged into the desk top between the third and fourth fingers of von Gault's left hand that happened to be resting motionless on the desk. The Luftwaffe Marshal gasped, but swallowed the cry of fright as Dave's gun came within ten inches of his thin, hawkish nose.
"Your left hand, and his, too!" Dave grated, and jerked his knife free. "You each wear a Nazi Staff ring. Your left hands, still wearing the ring, and the insignia from your tunics, will be evidence enough to convince our commanding officer that we have fulfilled our mission."
"Quite!" Freddy added in a brittle voice. "True, we may be killed as we race to reach our unit hiding in the woods. But that's the chance we take.Theywill reach our dead bodies, at least. And our commanding officer will see the severed hands, and the Staff rings, and the insignia from your tunics. He will know that wehaveperformed our assignment."
"Why waste time?" Dave suddenly asked impatiently, and gestured with his Commando knife. "These two don't fear death that much. They'd never agree to theotherway."
Dave was only making blind shots in the dark, but he prayed that Freddy wouldn't speak. And his prayer was answered. Freddy didn't say a word. He simply kept staring at the Germans and let the torment of silence do its stuff. And it did, right up to the hilt. Dave could almost look inside the skulls of the two Germans, and see the wheels spinning over. It was a case of the shoe being on the other foot, for those two. Hideous slaughter, and death, were part of their training. But it was something thattheyordered, or performed. To torture and maim beyond the point of human endurance was fun for them. They loved it. It was a major part of their rotten lives; their vile existence on earth.
But the shoe was on the other footnow. They were to be on the receiving end of their own type of work. They weren't up against trained soldiers who killed, or captured, and sent their prisoners to a war camp. They were up against a new kind of enemy in this war. The Commando! The Commando trained to fight them at their own kind of battle, but with far, far more devastating effect. The Commando! The very name struck terror these days to any German's heart. Motionless shadows in the night who killed you before you could part your lips to cry out. Black phantoms who came and went like flashes of lightning. Tough men, hard as nails, who pressed triggers andthentook a look to see what they'd bagged. And a good many times they didn't even bother to look. The Commando! The warrior who carried death in either hand, and could let it fly from any angle, and in any spot!
That's what Dave saw those two German high rankers thinking. He saw the fear mount in them. The first signs were a faint twitching of the lips, then throat muscles swallowing, and then fingers quivering slightly. And lastly, beads of sweat becoming too heavy, and trickling downward over the skin of their faces. Yes, the Germans were trained soldiers. They could not be classed as rank cowards. They did have a courage of their own. But this? The shoe was on the other foot,thistime!
"What is the other way?" von Staube suddenly croaked at Dave.
The Yank let him stew a little longer, and then spoke to Freddy without turning his head.
"You tell him," he said. "You're in command here."
"Quite a simple way," Dave heard his English pal say. "You can come with us, if you don't wish us totakethe evidence with us."
Both Germans smiled. They were suddenly very relieved and happy. Dave had a funny feeling in the middle of his stomach, but Freddy spoke again, and the funny feeling went away.
"Pleases you, eh?" the English youth murmured. "Sorry, but it won't work out quite that way. No one will see us leave. That is, I hope not, for your sakes. This rear door—we're leaving that way. If we meet anybody, you will be wise to do nothing. Not a sign or a look. We will be with you, very close. You see these Commando knives? We spent hours sharpening them. Quite a scientific process, you know. And so effective. The blade goes in and up at a slant, just missing the backbone. The needle tip punctures the heart. Not too much, of course. They trained us thoroughly, you know. And—But why should I explain to you two? You know all about that sort of thing, of course. Death comes so slowly—and so frightfully painfully. Worse than a bullet in the stomach, they say. Of course, if thathasto happen, then my comrade and I will have to shoot whoever is in our way—collect our bits of evidence as quickly as we can—and run for it. I fancy we'll make it close enough to the woods to be reached by the others. I hope your other chaps will give us a decent funeral. We're Christians, you know. We're—"
"Enough, enough!" von Staube got out in a strangled voice. "You do not need to paint the picture, you swine. We will do as you say. We are your prisoners.Ja! Ja!Is not that plain enough?"
Freddy didn't answer. He gave them some more of the silence treatment. So Dave played another random shot.
"I don't know." He spoke in German out of the corner of his mouth at Freddy. "I don't trustanyGerman. Why run the additional risks? Besides, taking them back to England simply means that our side will have to feed them. That's wasting good food. I'm all for—"
"No! Not that! We are your prisoners. We throw ourselves upon your mercy!"
The last tiny shred of courage in von Gault had been melted away. The Luftwaffe Marshal was half insane with terror. He was trembling like a leaf, and at the same time striving frantically to still his muscles for fear that he might be maimed and slain on the spot.
"Very well," Freddy Farmer spoke up. "You come with us, then. Watch them a minute, Dave. I have a small job to do. Hands behind your backs, you too. Quick about it!"
The high ranking Nazis instantly obeyed. Freddy Farmer slipped behind them, and as Dave stood guard the English youth bound their wrists with the wire he took from his own tunic pocket. He straightened up and moved close to the Luftwaffe Captain, who had been silent as a tomb and scared stiff as a post all the while. Freddy made a little motion with his gun and Commando knife.
"Come out into the hall with me," he told the quaking German. "In front of me. I'll be right behind. I say, Dave, just keep an eye on those two, will you? Be back in a minute, or less."
And with a quick look, and a wink for Dave, Freddy Farmer herded the Luftwaffe Captain through the door and out into the hallway.
Although Dave kept his face grim, and his eyes fixed steadfastly upon von Staube and von Gault, that did not mean he was all calm and collected inside. Indeed, he was far from that. Out of a clear blue sky Freddy Farmer had popped up with something else that didn't make sense at first glance. What in thunder did Freddy want with that Luftwaffe pilot out in the hall? Matter of fact, why had Freddy spared the youth a crack behind the ear in the first place? Did Freddy—?
Dave caught his breath as a sudden thought came to him. Did this bit of crazy business have something to do with the Messerschmitts and the Dornier Seventeen over at the east end of the field? But just what, and how? True, Dave realized now that it was Freddy's plan to herd their two important prisoners out the back way, and make a dash for the Dornier. But why fool around with the Luftwaffe pilot? Why not just slug him and get going with the prisoners? Why wait? The dawn sky was getting brighter by the minute. Their only hope of making this crazy venture come out right was to do it while there was still some darkness of night on their side. Sure! The instant they got von Staube and von Gault out the back way, they would slug them into peaceful unconsciousness, and carry them like sacks of wheat over to the Dornier—hoping against hope that the bad light would shield them from the other Germans about the field.
But what a bold, brazen, and perfectly executed stunt Freddy Farmer had pulled off so far. Like reaching into a hat and producing miracles. It had taken cold courage for Freddy to go through with his wildcat idea. But it had worked. The very fact that any sane brain would have considered it absolutely impossible had been the one great thing in Freddy's favor. A magnificent bluff so expertly acted out that it had been much too late to do anything by the time its victims had seen through it. If Freddy Farmer never did another single thing in this war, he would still have set an all time high for steel nerves and brazen bravery. That confounded Luftwaffe Captain, though! Where in thunder did he come into the picture? Why get two of them over here, and put only one of them out of the action? It didn't—
A muffled shouting and other sounds in the hall outside the door curled fingers of ice about Dave's heart. He started to turn, but checked himself in the same split second as he saw von Staube and von Gault stiffen.
"Relax!" he told them in their own tongue. "Just hold everything—or else!"
He bounced the Commando knife in the palm of his left hand, and that was all the two Germans needed to kill any sudden decision they might have made. It was more than enough. Dave's gun they didn't mind staring at. But his Commando knife seemed like a swaying cobra's head before their eyes. They couldn't take it, and didn't make another move.
One—two—three minutes dragged by, like a fly crawling through molasses. Dave's nerves strained and twanged inside of him. His heart came up into his throat and stayed there. He watched his two prisoners with one eye, and kept the other on the hallway door. What had happened? Did Freddy need help? Should he leave these two and race out to Freddy's assistance? After all, their luck must be at the snapping point. Everything had gone off too smoothly, too easily. That wasn't the usual way of things in war. Something was bound to crack, and always did. The gods had to have their little laugh. Should he go outside to give Freddy a hand?
Those and hundreds of other questions flew through Dave's brain. He hesitated in soul-searing indecision, and then suddenly the hall door opened and Freddy Farmer came leaping into the room. His face was just a little pale, but there was a brittle gleam in his eyes. He waved a sealed envelope at the two high ranking Germans.
"A dispatch just arrived," he said. "I took it from the chap for you. Sorry, but we've no time for this sort of thing."
And with that Freddy tore the sealed envelope in half, and tossed the two halves on the floor.
"Freddy, that pilot!" Dave asked. "What—"
"Sleeping," the English youth cut him off. "No use for him, now. The dispatch chap is keeping him company. Front door locked, so no one will come in that way."
"Then for the love of Mike let's get going!" Dave cried. "You're wonderful, pal, but don't force your luck. Boy! Will you be snowed under with medals!"
Freddy didn't say anything for a moment. It was as though he hadn't even heard Dave's words. He stood with feet planted apart, and his weight thrown forward on his toes, and his head cocked to one side. Anger blazed up in Dave. He was about to speak again when he thought he heard the sound of aircraft engines. He wasn't sure, and in the next instant he had forgotten all about it. Freddy Farmer had snapped out of his trance and was getting into motion.
"Right-o, Dave!" he said, and advanced on the two Germans. "Take von Gault, Dave. I'll handle the other. Up, you two! Time to move. And remember! A Commando means exactly what he says—or promises. It's a sort of an oath, you know!"
Freddy had slid around in back of von Staube and pricked the back of the Field Marshal's neck with the needle point of his Commando knife. The German felt the pain, and gasped.
"Ja, ja!" he babbled out. "I do as you say. We do as you order. We are your prisoners."
"Quite!" Freddy reminded him in a grating voice. "Now, come along. Through this rear door. If we meet anybody, tell him to return to his office. Only that, remember! He won't see my knife, but you'll feel it, my good man! Never fear! Let's go, Dave!"
Walking on the Field Marshal's right, and a respectful half step to the rear, so that he could keep the point of his knife pressed against the back of the Nazi's tunic, and not have it seen from in front, the English youth guided his prisoner over to the rear door of the room, and opened it. Dave took the same position with his prisoner and sent him forward at Freddy's heels. With nobody saying a word, the party passed through the door, across a room that had once been the kitchen of the house, and out through the outside rear door.
With every step Dave took he was filled with the nerve-tingling sensation that he was walking on TNT charges with the fuses already lighted. With every passing second he felt sure that he and Freddy were just acting out some dream, a crazy nightmare that would explode in a roar of sound at any moment. He told himself that he wasn't afraid to die. That wasn't why he was shivering inwardly, and beads of hot sweat were trickling down his ribs. No, it wasn't fear of death. It was a fear that this really wasonlya nightmare. That it was only a miracle that had never actually happened. You just didn't walk into a Nazi Headquarters and walk out with two of their biggest big shots. You simply didn't do that sort of thing! It just didn't ever happen, not even in those wild blood and thunder war magazines. In fact, you were a little nuts even todreamabout such things!
Yet, all that to the contrary, it was true! It was taking place. They were out in the dawn air now. There was a lot of light to the east. Some shadows of spent night still lingered, but not many. There were some trees in back, on the other side of a seventy foot open space. If they could cross to those trees! They'd be in the shadows, then. They could follow along under the trees and circle around to the east end of the small drome where the Dornier was. They could steal upon the guards, and—
It was then that Dave suddenly was conscious of the fact that there were sounds of revving aircraft engines. He could tell by the throbbing note that they were German engines. German airplanes on the ground. German airplanes at theeast end of the little flying field!
He started slightly, and his knife accidentally went forward a fraction of an inch. It slid through the cloth of von Gault's tunic, and through the clothes he wore underneath. It went all the way through and into his flesh a little. He gasped out a stifled sob.
"Please! No! I beg you!" he moaned. "Please, I am your helpless prisoner! I make no move to escape!"
Dave hardly heard him. His ears were filled with the sound of the revving aircraft engines. There must be other Nazi pilots about! They were getting ready to take the craft up into the air. Perhaps this was a part of some schedule that Freddy and he knew nothing about. Was their only avenue of escape going to fly away? They couldn't hope to march these two Germans to the nearest bunch of Commandos. The nearest point where they would find Commandos was miles away, far over on theotherside of the Seine River.
"Freddy!" he choked out on the spur of the moment.
But that's as far as he could get.
"Quite all right, Dave!" his pal cut him off quickly. "Our chaps warming up the engines as arranged. We'd better put on a bit of speed. Mustn't keep them waiting."
Dave knew that he was prodding his prisoner across the space of open ground at an increased rate. He knew that Freddy and von Staube were speeding up also. He knew that they reached the shelter of the trees without incident of any kind. But they were all bits of snap realization that flipped through his brain. What filled his brain most was a great dawning light which had burst on him at Freddy Farmer's words. Those engines revving up were the Dornier's, of course! And Freddy knew it! He expected it! And—and he had arranged it. But how? Holy smoke! That Luftwaffe pilot he had herded out into the hall? But Freddy certainly hadn't sent that Jerry pilot over to start up the Dornier's engines and get them warm. Freddy had said the Luftwaffe Captain was "sleeping" in the hallway. So—?
The thought was ended right then and there for Dave. At that exact instant there came a roar of anger and blazing rage from around in front of the H.Q. building they had just quit. The roar came a split second after a crashing sound, a crashing and splintering that made Dave's heart quiver and then freeze up solid. He didn't know the true facts, but his guess was good enough for him.
Some of the Germans, maybe an arriving high ranker, had tried the H.Q. front door and found it locked. So the door had been smashed in and Germans knew now that von Staube and von Gault had been swiped right from under their noses. And if they didn't know the exact details, they would as soon as they had ungagged and revived those inside the place. It was the way it always happened! The gods had to have their laugh. Freedom and success were almost within hands' reach, and now suddenly everything seemed about to be wiped clean from the slate.
"Get speed out of that slob, Freddy!" Dave barked, and gave his own prisoner a vicious jab. "Jig's up. Speed's the only thing. Get that slob going, or slice him up. No time to waste words, now!"
Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He simply went into action. His needle pointed knife drew blood from von Staube's back. Perhaps the German's courage returned for a moment. Perhaps he was actually going to turn and throw his wrist-bound body at Freddy, perhaps even cry out. But the knife digging into his back was the breaking of the last straw. The big fat hulk gurgled out a moan of pain, and then tripped and went sprawling to the ground in a dead faint. Unable to check himself or his own prisoner, Dave and von Gault plowed into the pair in front, and everybody went sprawling.
And behind them in the shadows German voices screamed out commands to each other, and the fading night was filled with the snarl and crackle of random gunfire!
For a fleeting instant Dave's head was full of spinning colored lights, and his lungs were full of searing white flame. But the lights and the fire were gone as quickly as they had come. He rolled off the heap made by von Staube and von Gault, and breathed a little crazy prayer of relief that in spilling down he hadn't driven home his Commando knife. Quite unconsciously he must have twisted his hand so that the point of the knife was no longer at the German's back. And in the next instant he realized that Freddy Farmer had likewise been fortunate. Von Staube was still in a faint, and von Gault was rigid with fear, and gasping for knocked out wind. But neither of them was dead.
"Blast!" Freddy almost sobbed. "It was so close, too! I—"
"Shut up!" Dave told him. "It's still close. Grab your guy by the collar, and drag him along. The deeper we get into these trees, the better. I got an idea."
"What...?"
"Save it!" Dave cut his pal off again. "Just grab hold and heave-ho! Those tramps are only shooting at shadows so far. They don't know which direction we took. We can make tracks while there's still time. Deeper into the woods, Freddy."
Though his prisoner was still gasping and choking, that didn't bother Dave in the least. He hooked the fingers of his right hand in von Gault's tunic collar and then hauled the German over the ground and deeper into the strip of woods. Freddy and he had traveled no more than fifty yards when suddenly the English youth lost his footing and went tumbling with his prisoner down into a partially grown over shell crater made in the first year of the war. Dave stopped just in time, and felt like letting out a shout of joy. The gods had laughed, but they were being a little kind to Freddy and him now. Dave slid down into the shell crater, hauling von Gault along with him. By the time he reached the bottom where Freddy was wiggling out from under the unconscious von Staube, von Gault was past the moaning complaint stage. He was having all he could do to get a little air into his lungs and get it out again.
"Nice going, Freddy!" Dave cried softly. "Just what the doctor ordered. Couldn't find a better hide-out than right down here. Now—"
"But, Dave, we've—"
"Pipe down!" Dawson whispered. "Listen! We haven't a chance to reach that Dornier with all these birds tearing about. We'd be bound to stumble into them. These two chumps, their condition, would be a dead give-away. And—and, Freddy, the killing stuff is out, until there isn't asinglehope left."
"Quite, Dave!" Freddy whispered. "I was just talking for their benefit, inside there, you know. Not unless—"
"Okay, okay, we're decided on that point!" Dave cut in. "Now, look! The way to that Dornier has got to be made clear. That yelling pack of wolves has got to be drawn off in the other direction. They've got to be made to think they've got a small sized war on their hands. I think I can arrange that part. You stick here, and see that these two don't let out a peep. If they so much as take a loud breath, crown them. I won't be gone more than ten minutes at the most. Then we'll carry them piggy back the rest of the way to the Dornier. But, hey! The Dornier! Youdidfix it to be revved up?"
"No, my little Commando knife," Freddy replied. "I made that Jerry pilot stick his head out the door and yell to one of his mechanics out there to start up the Dornier's engines. He was too scared to do anything else. Then I pulled him inside, locked the door for good luck, and bashed him into sleep, along with the dispatch rider who had come popping through. But, Dave! You can't!—"
"I can, and will!" Dave snapped angrily. "Look! It's my turn to have a hand in this party. You've done plenty, pal. I've just been playing the outfield with a no hit pitcher in the box. Nix! My turn, now. You stay put with these two. I'll be back in ten minutes, or less."
Dave turned to streak off among the shadows, but turned back to Freddy Farmer once more.
"Give me ten minutes, Freddy," he whispered. "If I don't show up, I'll have at least dragged them off in the other direction. That'll be that much of a break for you. Then you'll have to lug these two one at a time over to the planes, and take care of the guards there. But you've got a gun, and know how to use it. One thing, though. I'd stuff these two in the rear pit of one of those Messerschmitt One-Tens, if I were you. You can kick those babies into life and get off quicker than you can in a Dornier. Quite an order to fill, pal. I hope you don't have to fill it, and that I'll be back. Luck, pal!"
Dave squeezed Freddy's shoulder hard, and without giving his pal so much as a chance to open his mouth, whirled away from the half grown over shell crater and went speeding silently back through the woods toward their starting point. But he didn't go all the way to the starting point. He didn't even leave the woods. He kept well under their shadows until he was almost abreast of the Headquarters building and not a dozen yards from German officers and soldiers milling about in the pale light.
He pulled up to a halt and froze against a tree trunk. It had been his original intention to make for the west end of the field. He had spotted some drums of oil and gasoline there when walking by the spot with Freddy Farmer. But now sight of the Nazis dashing about like so many bewildered chickens was too much to resist. Here was the perfect chance for a trained Commando to do his stuff. Surprise attack, a lightning blow, and an even faster retreat!
He moved slowly away from the tree trunk and toward a slightly hunched over German soldier with a sub-machine gun in his hands who was examining some piled up rubbish in back of the Headquarters building. Dave moved slowly for a moment, and then sprang forward with the speed of a pouncing tiger. The Commando knife he carried in his left hand went home dead true. His other hand chopped down on the sub-machine gun and yanked it from the falling German's hands. So swift and so deadly accurate had the Yank's actions been that he was spraying machine gun bullets to right and left, and in front of him, before any of those Germans near by knew what had happened.
For many the truth came too late. They went over like ten pins and fell sprawling to the ground. The others just leaped forward regardless of what was in front of them. They crashed into each other, into the rear of the building, or just into thin air—and kept going at top speed. A wild blast of concentrated fire in three directions, and then Dave jerked his finger off the trigger and sprinted back under the trees.
"Follow me, men!" he roared out in English. "The west side! Gather there, and we'll mop up. Follow me, men!"
Dave fired a shot burst, and went crashing through some bushes, making as much noise as he could. Then he slowed up a little, swerved sharply to his right, and the sounds he made from then on were no louder than a summer night wind. His feet hardly touched the ground as he dodged tree trunks, twisted past thorny bushes, and went speeding in a half circle around to the west side of the field. There the trees ended and he burst out onto open ground. Two grey clad figures loomed up in front of him. He saw the flash of dawn light on gun barrels. He flung himself flat, squeezing his own trigger as he fell. Three soldiers hit the ground together, but Dave Dawson was the only one of the three who got instantly up onto his feet again.
Clutching the sub-machine gun, he ran body well bent forward and low to the ground. Fifty yards of sprinting took him to the oil and gasoline drums. He skidded to a halt and blazed away at one of the oil drums. The brownish stuff spurted out onto the ground. Dave dropped to his knees and jerked a snap lighter from his pocket. He struck it into flame, dropped it in a pool of oil and started running off to the right at top speed. He had hardly reached the shelter of some woods on that side when the blazing oil reached the gas drums, and started to touch them off. Though he was a good thirty yards away the force of the explosion knocked him flat and almost sent the sub-machine gun flying from his grasp.
He clung onto it, however. And well that he did, too! At that moment, a squad of German troops came tearing toward him. They didn't see him in the light of the raging flame, but they would have in the next split second. Dave, however, didn't wait that next split second. He had swung the sub-machine gun up and was making it spit nickel-jacketed lead. It will never be known, but it is quite possible that not one of those Nazi soldiers knew what hit him. At least, not until he woke up in that other world, and there was Satan inviting him in.
Almost before the last Nazi had dropped, Dave was up on his feet again, and in whirlwind motion. Behind him was a roaring and a shouting that sounded like the whole German Army on his neck. His lungs were aching, and there was pain in his body from head to toe, but that did not stop him from putting more driving power into his legs. He tore blindly forward, not caring so much about direction now as distance. And when presently the roaring and shouting behind him seemed less, he cut sharply to his right toward the west.
He headed west for perhaps two minutes, then veered right again toward the north. All the roaring and shouting was off to his right now, and he had only to jerk his head in that direction to see the reflection of the burning oil and gas through the trees. He sped on by that spot until he came out into the open again and saw the dim shapes of houses in front of him. He swerved to the right for the last time, and went tearing along to the protective strip of woods that ran in back of the Headquarters building.
He was once more almost abreast of it when a figure loomed up in front of him. But loomed is not the correct word. The figure seemed to pop up, as though right out of the ground. He saw the hated grey green uniform, but he had no time to fling up his gun and fire. He was carrying it in one hand with fingers hooked about the trigger guard, while he kept the other hand out in front of him. So there was no time to shift his hold on the gun and shoot. There was only the time to hurl the gun straight out from him with every ounce of his strength. It didn't have far to travel, and it flew true. The gun crashed into the German's face and knocked him over flat, and Dave was forced to leap into the air broad jump style to prevent from stumbling over the fallen figure writhing on the ground in pain and total blindness.
Maybe ten seconds, maybe a half minute ticked by before Dave reached the grown over shell crater, and dived into it headlong. Hands slapped down on him, and steel fingers dug deep. But the pressure was instantly relaxed, and Freddy Farmer's arms were about him and hoisting him up to a sitting position. He heard the mumble of Freddy's words, but there were too many colored lights in his brain, too much of a roar in his ears, and too much white fire in his bursting lungs for him to understand for a few seconds.
"As if half the blasted German Army went tearing past us," Freddy's words began to register on his brain. "We would have plowed right into them, if it hadn't been for your stunt, though! All that noise took five years off my life! Thought sure you had copped a bullet and—"
"Kiss me later!" Dave panted. "Right now we've got to get moving. They're running circles around each other down there. But they may give a thought to the planes any second. Grab your guy, and—Hey! They aren't dead—Freddy?"
Dave gasped the last as he reached down and started to heave von Gault up onto his feet. The German was limp, like a sack of wet wheat.
"Of course not!" Freddy snapped angrily. "Think I'm a blasted Nazi? Just tapped them to make sure they'd kick up no fuss. Better to carry them, anyway. This fat slob, von Staube, wouldn't go half fast enough, anyway. Let's go!"
"Check!" Dave grunted, and heaved von Gault up over one shoulder. "The last lap. Keep your gun in your hand, Freddy. Maybe the mechanics and guards didn't join in the fun."
"We'll find that out!" Freddy panted, and started off with Adolf Hitler's military little Boy-Blue slung over his shoulder.
The quarter of a mile they were forced to travel before they reached the open east end of the small flying field didn't give forth a single Nazi. And fortunately, for them, the noise of the revving engines and the bedlam still in progress at the west end of the field blotted out any sounds they made as they stumbled forward with their heavy burdens. In fact, it was the protection they needed to get them to within twenty yards of the Dornier. When they got that close they saw the lone mechanic standing under the right wing. He stood as though in a trance, his popping eyes fixed on the mounting flames to the west. Dave took one look, then silently deposited von Gault on the ground. He glanced at Freddy, shook his head, and put a finger to his lips.
One shot would take care of that Nazi mechanic, and nobody would have heard it. But Dave couldn't bring himself to do that. The mechanic was unarmed. It would be cold murder, and unnecessary too. And so Dave simply braced himself and then streaked those twenty yards like a cat on velvet. He reached the mechanic, clapped a hand over his mouth, hooked the other arm about his neck, and heaved upward and to the side. The mechanic seemed to do a beautiful swan dive through the flame-tinted air for a moment. Then he fell down on his face, and lay there groaning, and clawing with both hands at his neck.
Dave didn't give him a second look. He knew, from Commando training that it would be minutes before that mechanic would have full use of his body muscles and brain—particularly his brain. He simply sprinted back and hoisted von Gault up again onto his shoulder, and started with him toward the belly door of the Nazi light bomber. In the matter of seconds, the two young Commandos had their prisoners inside the bomber and bound together for "comfort." Then they ran forward to the pilots' compartment. There Dave hesitated, but Freddy shoved him roughly into the pilot's seat.
"You fly, old chap!" Freddy shouted above the sound of the engines. "Never cared much for the heavy stuff, anyway. Get on with it! It's your honor, old thing!"
Dave didn't stop to argue. Besides, he saw grey green clad figures sweeping toward them from the west end of the field. He kicked off the Dornier's wheel brakes and shoved the handle of the double throttle forward. The Daimler-Benz engines roared out their combined song of power and the bomber started forward. It picked up speed at a rapid rate, but its wheels were still clinging to the ground when the on-rushing Nazis veered off to the side and opened up a withering blast of machine gun and rifle fire. A million tiny cracks appeared in the cockpit windshield. And as Dave and Freddy ducked down low they heard the metallic wasps come whining into the cockpit and tear into the partition in back of them. And then, suddenly, the gods of good fortune seem to release the Dornier's wheels. The plane zoomed upward under full throttle, and the flame-spitting machine guns and rifles fell away from the belly of the bomber as it mounted higher and higher into the dawn-filled sky.
"Don't worry, bums!" Dave shouted on impulse. "We're just leaving you for a little while. We'll be back soon. Right! Us, and the whole gang. But you'll like that less!"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed his words. "But keep us going up, Dave. England's thirty minutes away still. Just look at that! That flame and smoke over Le Havre way. I guess the other chaps fulfilled their mission, too. What a mess they made of the whole attack area!"
Dave squinted ahead at the ocean of flame and oily black smoke that towered up above the Le Havre area. It was a horrible sight to see, but just the same it filled him with pride and joy to be a member of a force that could slam into Adolf Hitler's boasted strongholds and make that kind of a mess of things. One look at that flaming, smoking chaos and he knew that the United Nations Commando attack had been a success, in spite of what it may have cost. First Dieppe, now Le Havre. Next time, with luck, it would be all of France! All of conquered Europe!
"Say, Freddy?" he suddenly spoke aloud. "One thing not quite clear. Just why did you have those two Luftwaffe pilots sent for, anyway?"
"Don't tell me you didn't get it!" Freddy echoed with a laugh. "I should think it would be obvious, now. I realize I took an awful chance, but that was the only way I could find out. And, of course, I needed one of them to make the orders to start up the Dornier's engines authentic."
"Hold everything!" Dave cried. "I get that part, sure. But what was it you had to find out?"
"Why, how many pilots were about, of course!" Freddy said with a chuckle and a gesture. "Would have been silly, you know, for us to kidnap von Staube and von Gault, and then have some Jerry pilots fly off in the planes we were going to use. That's why I asked to speak to theirpilots. Plural, see? And—well, thank goodness there were only two at that field. Everybody else was a ground soldier or officer. It would have been frightfully annoying if a dozen or so Jerry pilots had been there. My whole stunt would have gone up in smoke!"
"Jumping catfish!" Dave breathed in awe. "So that was the reason! Ye gods! Supposing there had been more than two? But I don't want even to think of it. And I think you'd better leave that part out of your report, pal. Nobody would believe we hadthatmuch luck. Hey! A mess of R.A.F. Spitfires! Holy smoke! They don't know who we are, and—!"
"So we'd better surrender," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "And about time we did, too, I'm thinking. Hold her level, Dave, while I give the chaps the surrender signal."
Freddy shoved open the greenhouse, stood up on the seat so that he was head and shoulders in the air, and waved both arms in the well known gesture of aerial surrender. The flock of R.A.F. Spitfires swooped down, looked them over cautiously, and then took up escorting positions as the Dornier drilled on out across the Channel toward England.
"That's whatIlike, pal!" Dave cried happily, and motioned toward the Spitfires. "To come home in style. Aerial escort, and everything."
"Frankly," Freddy said as a wistful expression spread over his tired face. "Frankly, I'd like a—"
"I know!" Dave shouted him down. "A nice pot of hot tea! With cream. Well, pal, you're going to get one. Get a thousand. For the first time Dave Dawson is going to buy all the tea he can get. But for you.Strictly for you!There's a limit to any friendship, my friend!"