Night had come again to the German city of Duisburg. As yet the air raid sirens had not given their terrifying warning that the R.A.F. was on the prowl once more, but the streets of the city were practically deserted. Many of the inhabitants had gone underground to spend the night there whether there were bombs dropped on Duisburg or not. Only a scattering of soldiers and patrolling guards were to be seen on the streets. One of them, though, was an officer. An officer of the Nazi Luftwaffe, as a matter of fact. At least he was dressed that way, and being a Luftwaffe officer none of the patrols stopped him for questioning. Or if they did they instantly saw his rank, his decorations, and gave him a snappy salute, and a loud "Heil Hitler!" in the very next breath.
All afternoon, and during the early evening, that "Luftwaffe" officer had strolled about the Kholerstrasse section. Every now and then he had stepped into a restaurant for a bit of food. And in Duisburg abitof food was just about all that one could get at a sitting. Whether private soldier, or field marshal, it didn't matter. There just wasn't enough. But after going into several spots Dawson was able to get filled up. Getting filled up, however, was not the entire reason for his many visits to Duisburg restaurants and food shops. Into each one he walked with the burning hope that he might see Freddy Farmer trying to fill that perpetually hollow leg of his. But it was all in vain. There was no sign at all of Freddy Farmer. His English-born flying mate and dearest pal had simply vanished from the face of the earth. Or rather, vanished from the face of a dawn sky where Dawson had last seen him alive.
And now with the darkness of night closed down over Duisburg, he was standing in what was left of the doorway of a bombed out house directly across Kholerstrasse from Number One Fifty-Six. Several times during the afternoon and evening he had passed by Number Sixteen in the faint hope that he might be able to see or hear something that would help him in deciding his next move. Once again, though, his hopes were in vain. From the outside Number Sixteen looked as though it hadn't been occupied since the start of the war. All of the window shades were drawn down, and half of the window shutters had been closed and bolted. The front door, which contained no window, was closed and locked. And not once had Dawson seen a single person go up or down the short flight of stone steps. If Number Sixteen was Intelligence headquarters in Duisburg, one certainly would not guess it from the looks of the outside of the building.
Eventually convinced that he would gain nothing by parading past Number Sixteen, and having finally given up hope of spotting Freddy Farmer in any of the Kholerstrasse section eating places, Dawson had fallen back on his final and last hope. If this hope proved to be false and no good, then he was at the end of his rope. His mission to Germany would end in failure right there on the streets of Duisburg.
And so he was playing his final card. From a good vantage point he was carefully studying the building that was Number One Fifty-Six Kohlerstrasse. The address of Major Crandall's agent, who was believed to reside there under the name of Heinrich Weiden. But did he? That question taunted Dawson as he surveyed the place, and half a hundred times he was tempted to go boldly over there, bang on the door of Number One Fifty-Six and demand of whoever answered that he be shown to Herr Heinrich Weiden's rooms at once. A tiny voice of caution warned against that move. For one thing, after two solid hours of watching the place, he had not seen anybody go in or come out. There wasn't so much as a single crack, of light showing, but of course that was probably due to the strict enforcement of the blackout regulations.
In other words, Number One Fifty-Six was pretty much like Number Sixteen. No sign whatsoever that anybody occupied the place. Just the same, Dawson made no move to go over and find out for himself. He told himself that such a thing was silly. That he could probably wait all night, and not see a single thing of interest. And yet there was something that made him determined not to leave his place of concealment. Silly? Perhaps. But how was he to know if real Gestapo agents weren't watching the place? Ten days ago Heinrich Weiden had sent word through to Major Crandall that his old address was not good, and that he should be contacted at a new one. Ten days ago, but what had happened since?
As a matter of fact, it was a mounting conviction that he was not the only one who was hiding in the darkness and watching Number One Fifty-Six that caused him to stay where he was. No proof. Nothing tangible. It was just that a few times he would have sworn that he saw shadowy movement across the street. Maybe it had been his imagination, the strain on his eyes. But maybe not. It was almost as though he could actually feel somebody over there on the opposite side of the street. And so he remained hidden and watching as another hour dragged itself off into the eternity of forgotten time.
But by the end of that hour he had reached the limit of his endurance. Gestapo agents or no Gestapo agents, he just had to go over there across the street and find out for sure if Number One Fifty-Six was occupied or not. If it wasn't occupied, then—
He gave a little shake of his head in the darkness and wouldn't let himself complete the rest of the sentence.
"It's my only hope!" he whispered fiercely to himself. "As things are now, I'm right up against a brick wall. Weiden'sgotto be living there, andI'vegot to contact him. He's the only one who can possibly help me now. Come on, Lady Luck, give us another little break, please."
For a moment he bowed his head as though in prayer, and then, silent as the very darkness of night itself, he moved out of his place of hiding and started across the street to the other side. When but halfway across the street he heard a faint sound ahead of him that made his heart stop beating, and his hair practically stand up on end. It was just a sound, one of a million different kinds of sounds that anybody might have heard. Maybe it was a door closing, or someone taking a step, or knocking against something accidentally in the dark.
The sound had come and gone before he could even begin to figure what it might have been. But as he froze motionless in the street, with his service Luger clutched tightly in his free hand, he was convinced beyond all doubt that the sound had been made by a human being. There were no stray dogs or cats in Duisburg to go around nights making sounds. They had long since disappeared, and no doubt more than one German housewife, who had stood in front of the butcher shop all day only to learn that there wasn't a scrap of meat left, could tell where those stray dogs and cats had "gone"!
No, the sound had been made by a human form, a human being. And in a crazy sort of way Dawson expected to see the night spurt flame, and to hear the bark of a gun in his ears, expected his body to feel the sting of a bullet from the gun of some Gestapo killer who had mistaken him for one Heinrich Weiden. It was perhaps a completely mad thought, but in that instant Dawson experienced more cold fear than he had in all his life before.
However, no unseen gun spat flame and sound, and presently Dawson got his pounding heart and jangled nerves under control and started moving forward silently again. Then presently he had reached the opposite sidewalk, and the front door of Number One Fifty-Six was not over fifteen feet away. He could actually see the little metal frames made to hold name cards, but there were only the frames, and no name cards. It was obvious that if anybody did reside at Number One Fifty-Six he was not announcing it to the chance passer-by.
And then suddenly, as Dawson moved toward a little clump of scrub bushes that had been planted to take the place of the iron fence that had long since gone into Hitler's melting pot, he sensed rather than heard movement. Movement came from the other side of the bushes. For a fleeting instant his keyed up nerves snapped, and he was undecided whether to take to his heels as fast as he could go, or to jerk up his gun and pump bullets through the clump of bushes.
He didn't do either, however, because in the next moment there was swift movement right behind him and the muzzle of a gun was jammed into his back.
"Not a move, not a sound!" a whispered voice told him. "Just stand perfectly still if you don't want to die!"
The inside of Dawson's head seemed to explode. He went hot and cold all over, and it was all he could do not to spin around. But he didn't move a muscle even though he recognized the voice instantly.
"Freddy!" he said in a soft whisper. "Freddy, boy! For heaven's sake don't shoot!"
There were tears in Dawson's voice as he whispered. And there were real tears in his eyes, too. Like a man in a dream he felt the gun muzzle being removed from the middle of his back; then strong fingers grasped his arm and turned him around.
"Good gosh, Dave!" Freddy's broken whisper came out of the darkness. "Why, I—I—"
Young Farmer's voice faltered and stopped. And not for all the money in the world could Dawson have spoken a single word at that moment. The two of them just grabbed each other there by the bushes, and simply hung on, as words utterly failed them. But presently Freddy Farmer dragged Dawson around in back of the bushes, and down close behind them.
"It's true, Dave, it really is?" he whispered. "I thought you were dead, old thing. Thought the Jerries had got you. Dave, this has been the worse day of my whole life. It really has. I mean it!"
"And my worst day, too, kid!" Dawson breathed, as he kept squeezing Freddy's arm to reassure himself again that it was true, that Freddy wasn't dead but very much alive. "But what do you mean, you thought the Jerries got me? I thought they got you, Freddy. I saw a Mustang catch it square and blow up. I was sure it was you. And I didn't see another single parachute in the air. I—Gosh, Freddy! You just can't imagine what this moment means to me."
"Oh yes, I can, because I feel the same way, old chap," the English youth said in a choked up voice as he lightly brushed the knuckles of one fist across the point of Dawson's chin. "But about that business this morning. Just as I was getting set to jump, two or three of the Focke-Wulf beggars came in at me, and I had my hands full for a few moments. I managed to get one of them, and broke off action with the other two. I looked around for you, but there was nothing but burning planes in the air, and flak bursts. I thought then that you had caught one, Dave. I jumped anyway, but didn't judge the wind right at all. Perhaps I should have practiced a couple of times, eh?"
"Then you didn't come down close to that factory we had picked?" Dawson asked.
"Close?" Freddy whispered in self-scorn. "I didn't come within miles of it. Landed right in the middle of a little lake, no less. Imagine it! I ditched my parachute and swam ashore right head on into some German troops from a nearby camp. They had a car and their officer insisted on my going along with him. What else could I do? If I had refused to let them assist me in my drenched condition, they would have become suspicious. After all, a Luftwaffe officer doesn't go wandering about town soaked to the skin. So I went with them, and it wasn't until a few hours ago I got them to drive me into town. I pleaded that I was meeting my Kommandant at a certain place. Lord! I thought I'd never get away from those blighters. Their blasted guest most of the day, and all the time me going near balmy wondering what had happened to you. Can you imagine such a silly business, Dave? But when I did manage to get rid of them, I came down here hoping that I might at least contact Major Crandall's man. That was the only thing I could do, having lost complete touch with you. I—But here! What about yourself, Dave?"
"A full day, too, and just about as non-productive as yours, Freddy," Dawson said. And then he gave his pal a brief report of his own movements and experiences. "And so there was only one thing left for me to do," he finished up. "Try to contact Weiden to see if he knew anything of what's going on. My gosh! To think that we've both been watching this place for hours, and each of us thinking that the other had caught his this morning."
"And very unpleasant to think about, too," Freddy murmured. "But we've had some luck, Dave. At least we've joined up together. And that is a lot. But that Farbin factory business is certainly devilish queer, Dave. It just doesn't make sense, I mean."
"You're telling me?" Dawson groaned softly. Then turning his head and staring at the night-darkened front of Number One Fifty-Six, he murmured, "And if we can't contact Weiden, or if he can't give us any more of the picture,ifthereisa picture, then we will be sunk. The only thing we can do then is lie low until tomorrow night, and then make our way to where the British Recco plane is to land early the next dawn, and go back to England a couple of chumps. Particularly me, because I was the one with the bright idea that we come on this wild goose chase in the first place. Boy! Will I feel a fool when I tell Colonel Fraser that I didn't even get to first base. He thought the idea was cracked and impossible right at the beginning. Wind-Bag Dawson, that's me. The guy with the bright ideas—I don't think!"
"Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer breathed at him. "I was just as much for it as you were. Just simply didn't get the chance to suggest it before you did. But blast it, let's not do our weeping and grinding of teeth yet. Maybe Weiden is here, and maybe he does know something that will help."
"Yeah, maybe," Dawson echoed, but not very convincingly. "What do we do, though? Bang on the front door, or just stay where we are and wait to see if anybody goes in or comes out? And that last I think is a very punk idea."
"Both ideas are punk," Freddy told him. "I've been doing a little snooping around. There's an alley that leads to the back. And the rear door is open. I really think the only thing for us to do is search the place, room by room. After all, you played Gestapo with a certain amount of luck once today. Let's both try it and see if it works a second time. After all, isn't it a strict Gestapo rule to break in on people at night, and go thumping and tramping around? At least, if anybody lives here, he'll be too scared to ask questions. And if we meet with no luck searching the place, we can simply leave the way we came."
"Well, it's worth a try," Dawson grunted. "Gestapo or Luftwaffe, what difference does it make to civilians in the middle of the night? Okay, lead on, Freddy. Get your gun and flashlight?"
"Both," young Farmer replied. "But don't use your flash until we get inside. Right you are; follow me. I know the way. And luck, old thing."
"Andhowwe both will need it!" Dawson echoed under his breath.
Making no more noise than a couple of cats walking across a velvet rug, Dawson and Freddy Farmer slipped down the narrow alley to the rear of Number One Fifty-Six Kholerstrasse. There at the rear door they paused for a moment, holding their breath and straining their ears for the slightest sound inside or outside the house. There was not one single sound to be heard, however. All of Duisburg seemed truly a city of the dead. No sound, no light, no anything.
"Eerie spot, isn't it?" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Gives a chap the creeps."
"Anybody can have my share," Dawson grunted. "Okay, let's go inside."
Young Farmer nodded in the darkness, eased open the rear door, and slipped inside without making a sound. Dawson went in right at his heels, pulled the door shut, and for a moment both youths stood there motionless in the dark. Presently Dawson pressed the button of his flashlight and sent the beam roaming about a rear entry hallway. Dust and dirt seemed to be everywhere, and there was a smell in the air that made Dawson think instantly of Death.
He started to mention it to Freddy when suddenly the beam of his flashlight came to rest on some brownish red smears on the plaster wall to his right. He caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and Freddy Farmer echoed the sound. For a long moment neither spoke, their eyes held by those reddish brown smears as though by a powerful magnet.
"Bloodstains!" Freddy finally whispered. "Some chap came in here badly hurt, and he braced his hand against that wall to hold himself up."
"Yeah!" Dawson said, and swallowed hard. Then, as he lowered the beam of his light, "Look, Freddy! More stains on the floor. Boy! Somebody was hurt bad. He spilled blood all over the place. Oh my gosh, Freddy! Do you suppose—?"
Dawson didn't finish. The rest seemed to stick in his throat as he looked at Freddy. Young Farmer's face was tight and drawn, and the look in his eyes was proof that he had the same thought. That the man who had made those blood smears was one Heinrich Weiden. Why they both thought that, neither youth bothered to question. They justknewit, and that was that!
"Let's get—" Dawson began, and then cut himself off short as both he and Freddy went rigid.
They did so for the simple reason that from out in front they heard the protesting scream of rubber on the pavement as a car was braked to a violent halt. And almost before the sound had been lost to the echo there came the sounds of heavy booted feet pounding up the front steps. And almost no time after that the front door shook and then crashed open under the impact of somebody hurling his full weight against it.
Split seconds before that door crashed open Dawson and Farmer were already in action. Dawson killed his flashlight, and the two youths, without a word to each other, both darted toward a hall closet door, yanked it open and slipped inside. And not a second too soon, either. It seemed to Dawson that he had hardly pulled the door to within a quarter of an inch of being closed when the hallway they had just left was flooded with light, and a voice spoke hoarsely in German.
"Swine dog! He will not escape us this time. See! There on the wall! Bloodstains. I knew I had wounded him. He cannot be far. We will try these rooms first. Be ready with your gun. We will not talk this time. We will simply shoot the dog!"
The voice seemed to speak almost in Dawson's face, and as he peered through the crack he saw a black-uniformed and booted figure advance upon a door directly across the hall. A second black-uniformed and booted figure was right at his heels. The man in front turned the doorknob, then shoved the door open, and jumped back a step as he played the beam of the flashlight in his hand through the door opening.
"Ah, swine dog! So there you are!"
As though from a thousand miles away Dawson heard the German snarl those words, and they hardly registered on his brain. He was looking past the two Germans and into the room beyond. There stretched out on a bed that boasted of only one dirty blanket was the figure of a man who at first glance looked stone dead. His face was like wax under the dirt and half dried blood. And his fingers that clutched the single blanket looked almost toothpick thin. But he was not dead. As the light hit him in the face he opened eyes that seemed to be sunk two inches in his head. They glowed for a brief instant in fierce defiance. And the thin lips twitched as though the man were about to speak.
At that moment, though, Dawson saw one of the Germans raise the wicked-looking Luger that he held clutched in his right hand. And Dawson didn't wait to see what would happen next. He jerked back one hand to give Freddy Farmer the signal for lightning-like action, and then he went out of that hallway closet like a shell from a naval gun. In one great leaping stride he crossed the hallway. He kicked up with his right foot and connected with the German's gun hand. The gun went spinning from lifeless fingers, but Dawson wasn't watching its flight. He brought his own gun over and down in a vicious chopping motion. The barrel practically buried itself in the German's skull, and the man folded up silent as a mouse and sank to the floor.
Spinning around and ducking down at the same time, Dawson started to rip his gun upward, but he instantly checked the movement. There wasn't any second German there to receive that gun under the chin in more or less brass knuckle style. Not a bit of it. Freddy Farmer had not been simply an interested spectator. He had "taken care" of the other German. And in very definite style, too. Dawson hadn't heard so much as a single sound, but when he looked down he saw Freddy's victim stretched out cold as an iced mackerel across the threshold!
Without a word both air aces grabbed their respective victim and hauled him inside the room, and closed the door. Then, shielding his flashlight so that the beam wouldn't strike the man on the bed in the eyes, Dawson moved over to him. A great lump was in his throat, and it was difficult for him to speak.
"Hello, Dartmouth," he said. "I'm right, aren't I?"
The deep sunken eyes stared at him; then the man moved his head from side to side.
"I do not know what you are talking about," he whispered in German.
Dawson smiled and kneeled down beside the bed. For some unknown reason he was positive now. The man in the bed was well over six feet tall, but his hair was not straw-colored. It was almost snow white. But his eyes were blue, and it was perhaps the eyes that made Dawson so certain. They were defiant as they stared at him, but in their depths there seemed to burn a tiny spark of faint hope.
"Harvard Nothing," Dawson said softly. "We're Yanks, Dartmouth. Yank Air Forces, but trying to do a job for Major Crandall, your chief. He only got word of your new address yesterday, just before we took off. It was ten days getting through to him. Look, Dartmouth, you've—"
Dawson stopped speaking as the other's eyes became aglow with a wild light of unbounded joy, and tears welled out of his eyes and trickled down through the dirt and caked blood on his face. Then his thin lips moved, and he whispered words that were like the bells of doom in Dawson's ears.
"You are too late! Too late! They cannot be stopped now. By dawn they will be in the air. I tried, but they saw me. I ran, but one of them shot me. I thought—if I could only get back here. Perhaps a little rest, and then I could try again. But I lost too much blood. I—I can't make it now. And—and it is too late—too late...."
The words trailed off into a gurgling sound in the dying man's throat. His eyes fluttered closed, and a horrible fear curled icy fingers about Dawson's heart. He turned to speak to Freddy Farmer, but the English-born air ace was not there in the room. In alarm Dawson started to his feet, but at that instant Freddy Farmer came slipping through the door.
"Freddy! What—?"
"Making sure, naturally," young Farmer cut him off, and quickly crossed over to the bed. "Slipped outside to see if there were others. We could be caught like rats in a trap in this place. But there were just these two. They've a small Army car outside. I took the ignition keys, and straightened the front door as I came back in. How's—?"
Freddy stopped and groaned as he fixed his eyes on the man in the bed.
"It's Dartmouth," Dawson said softly. "He talked for a moment, but about all he said was that we were too late. That nothing can stop them now. And that by dawn they'll be in the air. Before I could ask him what he meant, he passed out. He's dying, Freddy. Look at that neck wound. It's a miracle that he's lasted this long. He's—Wait! He's coming to again."
The last was not necessary. Freddy Farmer also saw the eyes flutter open, and the thin lips move. But no sounds came from between them. Dawson leaned close.
"You've got to hang on, Dartmouth!" he whispered fiercely. "You've got to hang on and tell us about it. Maybe we can help. Maybe we can still lick them. Why can't they be stopped? Who are they? Andwhatplanes in the air by dawn? Hang on and tell us, Dartmouth! Hang on, please."
The sunken eyes stared, and the thin lips continued to move without making a sound. Dawson clenched both fists helplessly.
"If there were only something we could do for him!" he groaned. "A couple of sulfanilimide pills, or even a First Aid kit. But we haven't a darn thing. And I'm afraid it's too late, anyway. Dartmouth! Please! Hang on, fellow, hang on. You've got to tell us what it's all about."
As Dawson's pleading voice died away to the echo the very silence of Death seemed to hang in that room. Then, suddenly, sound began to come from between the dying man's thin moving lips. Both Dawson and Farmer leaned close so that they would not miss a single word.
"Fire!" the man said. "Fire bombs that destroy everything within a mile of where they strike. It is true! I—I have seen it with my own eyes. Flame throwers of the air. That's what they are like. But they are dropped like bombs. Special chemicals. Nothing can extinguish them. They must burn themselves out. But—but they explode and spread out in all directions. It is liquid fire. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can stop those devils now. Their secret weapon. That devil! That Herr Baron. He is back in Duisburg again. I know! I saw him. He cannot fool me, no matter what he does to his face. The twenty-fourth—tomorrow. Tomorrow they strike, and we will be helpless to stop them. It—it will not win them the war, no! They will never win. But our planes—our pilots—our crews. Hundreds—thousands! Three fourths of England's and America's bombers—wiped out in minutes. It will make the war go on five years longer. Dear heaven, I was so close. So close to stopping them!"
The dying man stopped speaking and his eyes became glazed. A hundred thousand questions sprang to Dawson's lips, and to Freddy Farmer's lips, too. But neither youth dared to speak them. Death was so very, very close, now. They could almost smell the Grim Reaper's clammy hand reaching out. They hardly dared breathe for fear that doing so would speed the end. They were helpless. The battle had to be fought alone by that man under the single dirty blanket. No other power on earth could help him. He would win his own fight, or he would lose, and his knowledge of the horrible doom poised to descend upon England would be sealed in his brain.
Tears of helpless agony stung Dawson's eyes, and his lips moved in fervent, silent prayer. He could feel Farmer's breath on his cheek, and he knew that Freddy was also praying with all his heart and soul.
And then, as though a curtain had been drawn aside, the glaze vanished from the dying man's eyes. They were bright and clear as they looked at Dawson and Farmer. The man drew breath deep into his lungs, and there was no longer the heart-chilling rattle of death in his throat. It was as though in his greatest moment of need he had reached out and received new strength from his Maker.
"Do not speak," he said in a clear voice that made Dawson's heart leap with joy. "Just listen to me, because I cannot last long. I know it—inside. I failed, but perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps you will succeed. You must. Listen to me! Ten miles along the Duisburg-Dortmund highway there is a little group of hills. They form a ring, and the valley in the middle is flat as a table. You cannot see it from the air because it is perfectly camouflaged. The spot has never been bombed because it is out in the country. Our bombers wouldn't give it a second look.
"But itisa military objective. The most important this moment in all Germany. In that camouflaged valley there are a hundred British and American heavy bombers. Yes! British and American heavy bombers, I tell you. I have seen them. For months the Nazis have been planning this blow. They call it their secret weapon. It came out of the mad brain of the one they call Herr Baron. Who he is no one seems to know. But it is rumored that he was a famous Luftwaffe pilot shot down in the Battle of Britain. That he was horribly burned about the face. But he lived, and became the man of many faces. Some say he was a great actor before the war. I do not know. But I have seen him many times, and every time he looked different. Once I was almost able to kill him, but I failed then, too. To think, if I had only succeeded, this terrible thing might not be hanging over England, as it is."
The man stopped talking and stark terror gripped Dawson and Farmer again. But the man only paused to draw breath into his dying body. He went on speaking again, a wild light flaring up in his eyes.
"A hundred British and American heavy bombers! Some of them those that were forced down and captured before their crews could destroy them. But most have been remade from salvaged parts. Think of it! For months German factories have been repairing and making parts for British and American planes.Ourplanes that they will fly againstusat dawn. They will not carry high explosive bombs, but a new liquid fire bomb. A bomb that floods liquid fire for hundreds of yards, and destroy everything that it touches. Herr Baron and his men have done their work well—the devils. They have selected our biggest fields in England. R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force fields. They know our identification signals. Heaven help us, they seem to know everything. And tomorrow at dawn they will take off. All the hundred of them. A suicide pilot and suicide crew in each bomber. They will fly to England, and give identification signals as though they really were our own planes returning. Three of them for each of the thirty-three fields selected. They will go in low, as though landing, and then dump their terrible destruction. In the matter of seconds each of the selected air fields will be flooded by the fire. The devils and their planes will perish, too. But our loss will be staggering. It will be months and maybe years before we can replace our losses. Yes, Hitler's secret weapon. A great victory to give his home front. A long, long lull in the bombing of Germany. The Nazis do not fight to win the war now. They fight for time. Time to reorganize, and rearm. If Hitler can stop the bombing of Germany, then three fourths of his Luftwaffe can be sent to the Russian Front where he needs air power so desperately. And by this hideous, devilish blow against us at dawn he can accomplish just that!"
The dying man stopped talking. He fought for breath, and his very eyes seemed to be on fire. Stunned, Dawson gaped at him in utter disbelief. The man was mad, raving mad. What he had told them was fantastic, impossible. It couldn't be true. A hundred American and British heavy bombers salvaged by the Nazis? Repaired and put in condition to fly against England? It was the craziest pipe dream that—But what about Krumpstadt saying that Farbin Factory Number Six was making metal cylinders for British and American planes? And those landing gear parts he had seen with his own eyes? Landing gear parts, being repaired, that he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., or England? Yes! What about his experience in Farbin Factory Number Six?
"It can't be!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice explode beside him. "It's mad—insane! You don't know what you're saying, old chap. Why, they couldn't! They—they wouldn't dare!"
The dying man turned his head and fixed flaming eyes on Freddy's face. His thin, almost bloodless lips drew back over his teeth, and his thin fingers clutching the blanket looked as though they would snap.
"Mad?" the man gasped hoarsely. "Insane? It's true, I tell you! With my dying breath, I swear it is true. Five of us learned the secret, but four died before they could get word to England. Only I was left alive, and I had been arrested. I was to be shot, but I escaped. Ten days ago. I tried to get word through to Major Crandall, to anybody, but only part of my message must have arrived. The address of this place. Mad? Insane? Today I learned that Herr Baron and his agents had returned. They are to celebrate the take-off at dawn. Himmler is expected to be there. Perhaps even Hitler. No word came to me from England. I watched the sky for hours, and prayed for our bombers. But none have come. I went there to that camouflaged field. Mad? Yes, I was mad. I went there to try and defeat them alone. To start a fire. To doanythingthat would destroy what they have here. But I was discovered. It was that devil, Herr Baron. He was dressed as an American flying officer. His men fired. Hit me. I escaped and came back here. Perhaps it would not be too late. Perhaps there would be some word—some help from England. But they followed me, found me, and—"
The man choked on his own words. Tears streamed down his cheek as he raised one hand and pointed a quivering finger at Dawson and Freddy Farmer. His voice was little more than a dry cackle in his throat.
"Mad, insane? Go there—the Duisburg-Dortmund highway. See for yourselves. Giveyourlives, but, whatever you do,stop them!"
The last word was almost a dry scream. Then something seemed to let go inside the man. His half raised head fell back. His eyes went glassy, and then blank. His thin lips quivered, and then they were still forever.
"Dear heaven, forgive me!" Freddy Farmer whispered brokenly. "Tell him that I do believe him. That I do!"
"And tell him that we will try, dear heaven!" Dave Dawson breathed as he brushed tears from his smarting eyes. "If his life was worth the try, then our lives are, too!"
As Dawson pushed slowly up onto his feet, with his eyes still fixed upon the face of the dead man, he felt as though a great weight were pressing down on his heart. Memory of the words that the Yank Intelligence agent had spoken whirled and spun around in his brain until it seemed as though he would never be able to think straight again. The torch had been flung down to him, and to Freddy Farmer, from the hands of a dying man. Lips that were actually stiffening in death had begged them to give their lives that hundreds of others might be spared, and the world be made a little bit better place in which to live. But how could Freddy and he accomplish the impossible?How?Where would they begin? How could they possibly—He cut short his spinning thoughts as he felt Freddy's hand gripping his arm, and heard his pal's voice.
"There's precious little, if any, time to lose, Dave, old thing," Freddy spoke in a tight, emotion-filled voice. "The least we can do is try—as he did, poor devil."
"Try?" Dawson echoed with a little harsh laugh. "Try what? Try—Hey, Freddy! You mean—?"
"Quite," young Farmer said, and began peeling off the Luftwaffe uniform he wore. "Those two Gestapo rats, there. We'll borrow their uniforms, and their car outside, and go find that ring of hills, and its camouflaged field. The Duisburg-Dortmund highway is not far from here."
"And when we reach the field?" Dawson said, as he stripped off his own Luftwaffe jacket. "Then what? Most likely the guards are five deep around the place!"
"No doubt!" Freddy Farmer said grimly, and for an instant let his gaze rest on the dead man. "But even if the whole blasted Nazi army is there, we've got to try to get in there somehow. Perhaps these uniforms will help us get by the guards. I hope so. But look, Dave, if you don't—"
"Who says I don't?" Dawson interrupted angrily. "I was only wondering if you had some kind of a plan."
"None at all," young Farmer replied. "Have you?"
"No," Dawson replied, and went over to one of the unconscious Germans in black uniforms and heavy boots. "Maybe we can think up one on the way. Set the place on fire, he said, eh? Of course he must have meant that fire would touch off the rest of what's there. But, boy! If we only had a plane. Any kind of a plane, just so long—"
Dawson suddenly let his voice trail off, and an agate gleam leaped into his eyes as he knelt down beside one of the Germans and quickly relieved him of his uniform. And that gleam was still in the Yank air ace's eyes when a few moments later Freddy and he bound the Germans hand and foot, gagged them, and then stole silently out of the room, and along the hallway to the front door.
There they paused a moment, eased open the battered door, and peered out. Duisburg was still in darkness, and there was no sound to be heard save that of their own breathing. It took Dawson a second or two to pick out the small Nazi Army car at the curb. When he had, he touched Freddy lightly on the arm, went out the door, and down the short flight of steps. Without a word he slid behind the wheel, and held out his hand to Freddy. Young Farmer nodded and handed over the ignition keys. A minute later Dawson slid the car away from the curb. And ten minutes after that he was rolling it along the highway between Duisburg and Dortmund.
"Have any ideas clicked yet, Freddy?" he presently broke the silence between them. "I figure we've got about five or six miles to go. Keep your eyes skinned, because we could very easily slide right by those hills in the dark."
"No, I haven't the ghost of an idea," Farmer replied. "If only some of our planes would come over we might be able to signal them to dump some bombs around. Small chance of that, however. It's close to midnight, and if any of our planes are out they've jolly well reached their objectives by now. Good grief! It's almost as though the Devil himself were watching over the Nazis this night."
"This night, and a lot of other nights, I guess," Dawson said, tight-lipped. "Look, Freddy, are we awake, orisall this just a crazy nightmare? I mean, I want to believe that poor fellow ... I mean, of course, he wasn't off his beam; he told us the truth. But—suffering catfish! Fire bombs that throw liquid fire for hundreds of yards? And British and Yank planes flown by German suicide pilots and crews? Andifthey succeed, three fourths of our combined air forces in England will be so much burned out junk? It—well, it just seems almost too much to believe. It's like stuff you'd read about in a ten-cent blood and thunder thriller. Doggone it! This is a war with guns, and tanks, and ships, and planes...."
"And a lot ofotherthings that most of us never dreamed of before the start of the war, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly, as Dawson struggled for words. "Radar, for instance. The Nazi rocket gun. And our own jet-propulsion plane for another. And that's saying nothing at all about the miracles in medicine that have come out of this war so far. Yes, I know how you feel, Dave. That it just can't be true. That it isn't possible. But when you think about it for a moment, you find yourself asking, why isn't it true, and why isn't it possible? And the only answer is, that it is, and could be. War knows no limits. And that goes for the minds of men who create the devilish weapons of war. Or do I sound silly?"
"No, kid," Dawson said. "It just got me for a moment. The seemingly fantastic part. No, you're right. Anythingcanhappen, or be cooked up in an all out total war. And the Nazis are just the breed to cook up something like liquid fire bombs. But—"
Dawson choked off the rest as at that exact moment a small searchlight suddenly became visible not fifty yards along the highway in front of them, and its beam became trained directly on the car. In the side glow Dawson could just make out the ugly snout of a mounted machine gun, and the booted feet of the men who operated it. Then a uniformed figure, with a sub-machine gun hung over one arm, stepped out into the beam of light and rapidly winked a red-shaded flashlight as a signal for the car to stop.
"Keep your gun ready!" Dawson whispered between stiff lips as he slackened the car's speed and applied the brakes. "Here's the first test, kid. Maybe this is the end of the line, but on the other hand, maybe we can shoot it out with them and skip off cross-country. Hold everything until we make sure."
"With you, old chap!" Freddy Farmer replied in a voice so low that Dawson almost didn't catch it.
A moment later Dawson stopped the car full in the beam of the searchlight, and rested his hand on his gun on the seat beside him and watched the uniformed figure carrying the red-shaded flashlight walk around to his side of the car.
"Show me your—!" the figure said harshly, and then stopped with a grunt. "Oh, you two, eh? Back again? Very well, proceed. But keep your speed to thirty miles or the others will open fire on you. The second turning on the right has been left unblocked.Gott!So many cars tonight! It is like a parade. It must be nice to be of the Gestapo. You will probably be given all the schnapps you can drink. All right. Go ahead. Pass to the left of the light!"
For a split second Dawson was tempted to play his Gestapo part to the hilt and snarl a few words at the uniformed figure backing away from the car. On second thought, though, he instantly decided to let things stand as they were. The unpopularity of the Gestapo with this particular soldier was none of his affair. He would be a fool to get tough about it. The one with the sub-machine gun might decide to get even tougher.
And so, sweating with relief, Dawson meshed gears and tooled the little Army car around to the left of the searchlight, that winked out as he went by, and got back into the middle of the night-darkened road again. It was then that both Freddy and he let the clamped air from their lungs.
"Jeepers!" Dawson gasped. "I know I've got gray hair now. Praise be that that dope simply remembered two Gestapo rats in an Army car, butnotwhat they looked like."
"Amen!" Freddy Farmer whispered. "And may Satan bless the blighter for telling us about the second turn off on the right. Gosh, Dave! Do you really think that we'll be lucky enough to—?"
"Don't say it!" Dawson said hoarsely. "It might break the spell, or something. Just pray, Freddy, that's all. Pray as you never prayed before. I know we haven't a hope, but—"
"There's the first turn off, Dave!" young Farmer stopped him. "Slow up a little so we won't miss ... Dave! Look! There ahead to the right. There's the spot. You can see the tops of the hills. There's a glow of light, that's why. Dave! Do you hear something? Like the rumbling of thunder?"
But Dawson didn't reply at once. He couldn't possibly have replied at that moment, even had it cost him his life not to do so. Every nerve in his entire system was twanging like a snapped violin string. His heart was striving to hammer its way out through his ribs, and the blood surging through his veins was like ice water one instant, and liquid fire the next. Yes, he could see the tops of the ring of hills, and the faint glow of orange-yellow light behind them that made them stand out against the night sky. And above the sound of his own engine he could hear that other rumbling sound that seemed like thunder to Freddy Farmer.
Yes, but it was thunder caused by high voltage leaping across storm skies. It was the thunder of many powerful engines being revved up. Aircraft engines. And as Dawson leaned forward a little over the wheel and strained his ears, he knew in a flash that the thunder was from British and American-made aircraft engines.
"They're revving them up!" he heard his own voice say. "Maybe the take-off's near. Must be, or they wouldn't show so much light. Yeah! They've removed the camouflage covering from the place, and that light is from runway flares, and maybe exhaust plumes. Dear heaven! Let us get through. Let us get through in time to do something. Don't let this terrible thing happen, please. I beg of you! Don't—!"
Dawson's voice clogged up in his throat, and his heart seemed to shrivel into nothing as his own beseeching voice echoed back to mock him. And then, even as Freddy Farmer touched his arm, his straining eyes saw the second turn-off. There were three or four uniformed figures at the corner of the turn-off, and Dawson instantly tightened up inside. But there was no need of that A flashlight winked on, and its moving beam signalled for him to make the turn and keep going. Perhaps the car was recognized, but he doubted that because of the darkness. It was probably that any car that passed the first barrier down the road, and there had apparently been many of them tonight, was being allowed to continue on unchallenged to the secret field hidden behind the ring of hills.
A great sigh of relief slid off Dawson's lips as he drove by the signalling flashlight beam and made the turn. A moment later, though, as he drove along a bumpy dirt road that led straight toward the ring of hills, his heart leaped up his throat to smack hard against his back teeth, and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his forehead. He heard Freddy groan softly, and that groan was echoed in his own heart.
A short distance ahead he could see several cars parked off the dirt road. Several flashlight beams were moving about, and the road itself was blocked by several figures in uniform. In the bad light Dawson could not tell if all carried sub-machine guns, but he saw at least six, and to him that was six too many. No wonder his car had been allowed to turn off into the road leading to the secret field!
"No cars allowed on the field, of course, because of the danger of fire," he muttered. "They're all being ordered to park outside, and those moving flashlight beams mean just one thing. That everybody is being checked before he can go the rest of the way on foot."
He swallowed hard, and turned to young Farmer as the parked cars in front forced him to apply the brakes and slow down.
"It's been nice knowing you, Freddy," he said in a dull voice. "This is the end of the line, and I mean the end. But I'm going to take some of the rats with me, that's certain!"
"Cut it, Dave!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Don't be a blasted fool, old thing. This isn't the end. We can't let it be. I've just got an idea. It's got to work. Stop the car and get out with me. Stick at my shoulder, and have your gun in your hand. But for goodness' sake don't use it. No! No questions. There isn't time. Just do as I say!"
Dawson hesitated a split second, and then shrugged.
"Okay!" he murmured. "That's one more idea than I've got. Lead on. Freddy!"
Slipping the car out of gear, Dawson braked it to a final stop, and automatically switched off the ignition. The moving flashlight beams were not more than twenty yards ahead now, and even through the rumble of many aircraft engines beyond the hills he could hear harsh German voices ordering unseen figures to get out of the cars in front and show their papers. A great sense of bitter defeat welled up within him, and he impulsively turned to Freddy. But young Farmer was already getting out of the car on the roadside and violently motioning to Dawson to follow him.
"Leave it to me, Dave!" he whispered. "You've got to, old chap!"
There wasn't anything else for Dawson to do but just that. Throat dry, and heart pounding, but with a sort of reckless, devil-take-the-hind-most spirit welling up in him, he got quickly out of the car and took his place beside Freddy. Young Farmer seemed to pause and breathe deeply. Then he nudged Dave with his elbow.
"Start running with me, but don't say a word!" he breathed fiercely. "I'll do all the talking. Let anybody that we meet see that you've got a gun. And try and get a very nasty Gestapo look on that face of yours. Right-o! Here we go!"
The comment that Freddy had obviously gone stark, raving nuts rose up to Dawson's lips. But he didn't have time to speak it, even if he had wanted to. Freddy had broken into a run, had snapped on his flashlight beam, and was sweeping it back and forth across the road in front of him. In three swift strides Dawson caught up with his pal, and shoulder to shoulder they ran straight for a group of shadowy figures standing in the middle of the road.
At the sound of their approach a couple of flashlight beams were turned their way, and Dawson's heart seemed to stand still in his chest as the order rang out in German:
"Halt!"
But by then Freddy Farmer was almost stepping on the toes of the German who had barked the order. He flashed his light straight in the man's eyes, and Dave caught a flash glimpse of small close-set eyes, and lips curled back in an angry grimace. Then Freddy Farmer was barking at the man and pushing him to one side.
"Stop him, you blockhead! That one ahead! Herr Baron's orders! We have followed him all the way. We're Gestapo, under Herr Baron's orders. Get out of the way, you dumb-witted cow. Out of the way, or Herr Baron will hear of this!"
Dawson's brain was spinning with confusion, and he tried to follow Freddy's words. But the only thing that really sank in was the fact that several seconds later Freddy Farmer and he had plowed right through the group in the middle of the road, left them standing there, and were racing along in the half darkness at top speed. With every step he took Dawson expected to hear angry shouts behind, and hear the bark of guns. Nothing happened, though, and presently Freddy and he were running through a narrow passage between two of the hills. And there spread out before them was a sight that caused them both instinctively to slow down to a stop and gape in horrified amazement.
As far as Dawson was concerned, he might have stood rooted in his tracks forever staring at the sight. But suddenly Freddy Farmer grabbed his arm, and pulled him off to the side and behind some heavy shrub growth. Winded, the two youths sank down onto the ground, and for a full minute not a word passed between them. Presently, though, Dave reached over, found Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.
"I won't even say, nice going, pal!" he whispered. "Because I know darn well that it just didn't happen. Holy smoke! Right smack through the bunch, and not one of them so much as opened his mouth to stop you!"
"Credit it to the power of the Gestapo," Freddy murmured. "Plus the fact that a Jerry's mind never moves very fast. I know, though, that I'll go on being scared stiff for the rest of my life. I'll never get over these last few minutes. But, Dave! Look! Itisall true. Just as Weiden told us. But—but what can we do, now that we're here?"
Dawson didn't reply to that question. The power of speech failed him as he peered through the shrub branches, and out across the mile square area of billiard table flat ground completely ringed by hills. It was like looking at some weird picture conjured up in the mind of a mad artist. It just wasn't possible to believe, even though he was staring at it with his own eyes. The picture of at least one hundred R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force heavy bombers, complete with insigne and unit markings.Butwith German uniformed figures swarming all about them. It was so fantastic, so utterly unreal, that Dawson impulsively closed his eyes tight several times, and then opened them quickly, fully expecting the crazy scene to vanish in thin air.
But it did not. It was still there every time he opened his eyes. The planes were arranged in a line that extended halfway around the edge of the field. The first plane in line was poised at the end of a runway that cut straight through the middle of the huge disc-shaped airdrome in an east to west direction. And when he looked toward the west side Dawson saw that the runway pointed straight at a wide opening between two of the ringing hills. In other words, the heavy bombers taking off would not have to gain more than usual take-off altitude in order to clear the ring of hills. That opening was plenty wide enough for them to pass through. Room to spare, in fact. And in a crazy, abstract sort of way Dawson realized that completed planes had passed down through that opening between the hills when the pilots came in for a landing.
"Lancasters, Wellingtons, Flying Fortresses, and even a few Liberators! And with props ticking over, ready for a take-off. Gosh! I wonder how they camouflaged this spot during the day? I don't see any nets, or anything. But they probably used nets, which are now rolled back against the hillsides."
Freddy Farmer's voice was low, and there was a queer note in it that made Dawson turn his head quickly and peer hard at his pal in the pale flickering glow that came from the take-off flares, and, so it seemed, from at least five hundred flashlights that were moving about all over the place. Impulsively Dawson reached out a hand and placed it on Freddy's arm. Freddy was trembling like a leaf, and Dawson didn't have to be any doctor to realize that reaction to all that had happened was setting in in Freddy with a vengeance.
"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Take it a bit easy, if you can. You've been aces, what I mean, pal. And now it's my turn to do some fast and heavy thinking. And get results likeyoudid. Look, Freddy! Do you see anything different about those planes?"
"Different?" young Farmer echoed softly, and scowled hard at the scene before him. "No! And that's what tears me up so inside. Why, this is just like it is in England. Just before the take-off for a raid on Germany. But, good grief, Dave! This is Germany,right here!"
"I know, kid, I know," Dawson soothed him gently. "But let's skip that part for a moment. Now look. I don't see any difference either, so that means that their fire bombs, or whatever they really call them, are stowed away in the bomb bays just like any TNT eggs. And if so, they are to be released from the bombardier's nook, just like regular eggs. Now here's what I mean. They don't plan for any air fighting, so the chances are that each ship isn't taking along more than, say, three men. A pilot, a navigator, and a so-called bombardier. Call it four, and make the fourth a flight engineer. But it's to be a one-way flight, so maybe a flight engineer isn't going along."
"Yes, yes, you're probably right, Dave," Freddy said with an impatient nod of his head. "But what difference? It's unimportant to us. The important thing is, how can wepossiblystop them? How in the world could we start a fire of any kind? The blighters are all over the place. Even though we did manage to sneak up and fire one of the planes, that wouldn't mean the lot would go. They must have fire equipment here, in case of accident. Dave, we're as helpless as Weiden was. We—"
"Shut up, and let me finish!" Dawson muttered, and pressed Freddy's arm hard. "Okay. I'll agree that even though we got away with touching off the gas tanks of one plane, it might not do us any good. I mean, that those cockeyed fire bombs may have to be dropped, and detonated before they really do their stuff. Maybe heat doesn't affect them at all, though I've got my doubts about that. Anyway, just setting one of them afire is out. Okay, then, we set the whole darn bunch afire! In short, we wipe out the works. Maybe you and me, too. But we still wipe out the works."
"Don't, Dave!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "You're talking insane. How can we possibly wipe them all out? Heaven knows I'd give my life, and gladly, if there were any way—"
"And I keep trying to get it through your head that thereis!" Dawson cut in, tight-lipped. "Look at that end plane, Freddy. Do you see many of them milling around that ship? No. Only a couple, and they're mechanics. 'Most everybody is up front, where the goodbyes are being said, I guess. Gosh! Do you suppose Hitler and Himmler are in that bunch?"
"Hitler!" Freddy Farmer echoed in a strangled gasp, and started to push up on his hands and knees. "If I could just get close enough to that filthy baby killer, I'd—"
Dawson grabbed him and hauled him back.
"Don't go haywire!" he snapped. "Ten to one he's miles from here. But supposing he was here, and you got close enough for a shot—which you darn well wouldn't! You'd get nailed, too. Andthese planes would take off! Stop it, Freddy, and bend an ear. That end plane. That's our baby, see? You and me! With a couple of good breaks we can roll it down and onto the runway, and still have room to get off and pass through the hill opening on the west. It's a Fortress, Freddy, and we know all about those sweethearts. Well? We've swiped a couple of Nazi planes in the past, so how about swiping one of our own for a change, huh?"
"If we only could!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely after a long moment of silence. "If we only could!"
"We can, and we'vegotto!" Dave said grimly.
"But there may be some of the beggars inside the plane, that we just can't see," young Farmer said slowly.
"Oh, so what?" Dave snapped. "Use the old brain, Freddy! Are you and I carrying water pistols? With this rumbling and shouting all over the place, you wouldn't hear a shot three feet from the ship. Those three mechanics are our only worry. Then, plus the distance to the plane, and the little item of getting it off, and getting altitude."
Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked straight into Dawson's eyes.
"Right you are," he said quietly. "Anything to stop them all from taking off. And even if we can't get enough altitude—"
Young Farmer stopped, then tried to continue, but all he seemed able to do was swallow rapidly. Dawson forced his own lips to pull back in a forced grin, and nodded.
"Yeah, Freddy," he said softly. "The least we can do, for Dartmouth's sake. If we can get enough altitude to give us a fighting chance for our own hides, then we slam the plane down into the middle of them, and go up with the whole works. Tough on us, but—but a lot of swell guys have died for far less, Freddy."
Freddy continued to look at Dawson without speaking. Then presently he simply smiled, and pushed up onto his hands and knees.
"Let's get on with the blasted thing, Dave," he said with all the calmness of voice of a man going down to the post office to buy a stamp. "Always did hate to sit around jawing when there was something that had to be done. So let's get on with it—one way or the other."
"And it's going to be the way we want, kid!" Dawson whispered as they stepped out from behind the shrubs, and started walking along the rim of the field. "I've got the old hunch."
To that Freddy Farmer groaned, crossed two fingers of his left hand, because he was carrying his gun in his right, and kept on walking.
Twenty yards. Sixty feet. Just seven hundred and twenty inches. That was the distance Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer finally were from the Flying Fortress at the rear end of that half-circle of bombers. Twenty yards more to go, but there were two Luftwaffe mechanics between them and the plane. And at that distance a blind man could see that each of the mechanics carried a holstered Luger. A Luger that was in a holster andnotin the man's hand. And it was the realization of that that made Dawson breathe a faint prayer of thanks, and then suddenly snap on the beam of his flashlight, and walk the last twenty yards at a rapid pace.
As one the two mechanics spun around, blinked at the light that hit them in the eyes, and started to open their mouths. But Dave didn't give them a chance to say anything. He took a page out of Freddy Farmer's book, and played it for all that it was worth.
"We're Gestapo, sleeping swine!" he snarled at them, fairly throwing the words in their flat moon-shaped faces. "Is this the way to guard a plane? We could have killed you both minutes ago, and with ease. What have you to say, fools?"
One of them opened his mouth again, but Dawson quickly spun him around and pushed him into the shadow cast by the body of the Flying Fortress.
"Silence, swine!" he rasped, and practically shoved his flashlight into the mechanic's face. "Stand motionless!"
As Dawson spoke the last he half turned his head to see that Freddy Farmer was carrying out his end. Freddy had spun the other mechanic, and was shoving him up against the side of the Fortress.
"This for sleeping swine!" Dawson grated, turning back to his fear-frozen mechanic.
And with that he whipped up his gun and chopped it down on the mechanic's head just in back of the left ear. The German went down without so much as a tired sigh. And no sooner had he sprawled in a heap on the ground than the other mechanic folded up on top of him.
"Now we move, kid!" Dave whispered, and ducked down and under the plane toward the little ladder leading up into the belly door of the aircraft.
He waited there the millionth part of a second, just long enough to make sure that Freddy was right at his heels, and then he went up the ladder like a monkey and into the plane. He entered the plane just forward of the bomb compartment, and was turning toward the steps to the pilots' compartment when suddenly a figure loomed up in front of him on the catwalk, and German-spoken words hit him in the face.
"Halt! Who are you? Herr Captain's orders were that no one was to—"
The voice was cut off in a snarling gasp, for the speaker had seen Dawson's face in the pale glow that filtered into the plane from outside. But in that same instant, also, Dawson saw the face of the speaker. It was the thin face of the man called Hans, whom he had last seen in that apartment living room out near Golders Green in London. For a split second both gaped at each other. Then Hans' face twisted with rage, and he dived a hand into the pocket of the flying jacket he wore. But Dawson did not play the Wild West movie hero. He did not wait for his opponent to get his gun out and take the first shot. This was no time for heroics. This was cold-blooded war, with civilization itself hanging in the balance.
So Dawson simply fired from the hip and saw Hans' head jerk back as the bullet hit him between the eyes. Almost before the Nazi agent's body had crashed down onto the catwalk Dawson had leaped over him and was mounting into the pilots' compartment. Without waiting for Freddy Farmer to catch up, he slid into the pit, ran anxious eyes over the instrument panel and other gadgets, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that all was in readiness for the take-off. Then he cast a swift glance out through the windshield glass. The plane in front, a British Lancaster, blocked off most of his view, but he saw no running figures coming his way, so it seemed apparent that his single shot had not been heard. Countless figures carrying flashlights were walking all over the field, and there was a large crowd gathered about the leading bomber.
"Boy, what a sitting duck target for our bombers, if only some of them would come over now!" he heard his own voice mutter. "But ten to one these rats made sure that neither the R.A.F. or the Eighth Air Force were headed this way before they so much as lighted a match. Anyway, so far, so good, for us!"
As he spoke the last he turned his head, expecting to see Freddy Farmer climbing into the co-pilot's seat beside his. But the seat was empty, and there was no sign of Freddy Farmer. Cold fear gripped him, and he impulsively started up out of his seat to go back through the ship. By the time he was half out of it, though, young Farmer came into the compartment, panting like a winded bull.
"Take her up, Dave!" Freddy gasped. "Doors all buttoned tight. And I dumped out both of the blokes. Let's get on with it quickly!"
"Bothblokes!" Dawson gulped. "You mean—?"
"A second chap popped up from the rear just as you shot that Hans," Freddy said. "I took care of him without using bullets. Afraid I broke the blighter's neck. Serves him right for trying to interfere. Fancy, though, meeting that Hans again. Small world as you often say, what? But don't sit there listening to my chatter, Dave! Take her up, or—or do something. My nerves won't stand for much more of this thing!"
A nervous and sort of crazy laugh spilled off Dawson's lips as he turned front.
"Release the wheel brakes, while I gun her, Freddy!" he said in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. "Here we go—somewhere!"
By the time the last had left his lips the four engines of the Flying Fortress were singing a loud song of power, and the huge craft was moving over the ground and off toward the left so that it cleared the Liberator just in front. The roar of the engines was loud in Dawson's ears, but the roar didn't seem half as loud as the mighty pounding of his heart. Cold sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his face. His hands gripping the controls became clammy, and his mouth was so full of "sawdust" that he could hardly breathe.
In the next couple of seconds it seemed as though everybody on the field carrying a flashlight froze stiff for a brief instant, and then turned the beam of his light toward that trundling Fortress. To Dave's strained nerves those barbs of light looked like machine gun, or aerial cannon flashes, and had a burst of sudden death, in the form of fatal bullets, come crashing through the windshield or window glass he wouldn't have been in the least surprised. Inside of him a voice was screaming wildly that he and Freddy Farmer were doing something that just couldn't possibly be done. They were suicidal fools to so much as try it. If die they must, then let them feed the four engines every drop of high test they would take and taxi the Flying Fortress straight into the center of that curved line of heavy bombers. But try to get it in the air? Never! It just couldn't be done!
"Maybe not!" Dawson heard his own voice echo back to him. "Maybe not! But, by heaven, we're going to give it a try, and how!"
"Dave, look!" Freddy Farmer's voice suddenly screamed wildly in his ear. "They know something's wrong. Up there at the front of the line. Troops with machine guns, and they're racing our way. They're going to try and block the way!"
But Dawson had seen the running troops at the same time as Freddy Farmer. His lips went back flat against his teeth, and he swerved the Fortress more to the left, and eased all four throttles forward a bit more.
"Let them try!" he shouted wildly. "The rats can get out of the way or be run down, guns and all. We're non-stop until something really stops us. Hey, Freddy, what about our load? Did you get time for a look? Ye gods! Wouldn't it be a fine mess if we're not—"
"Don't worry about that!" young Farmer cut him off. "This plane isn't empty. All bomb racks are filled with those cylinder things such as you saw being welded. Each is fitted with a detonator bomb. I got a quick look as I came by. Get us off, Dave. I'm going down into the bombardier's nook. Cheerio. And if we don't meet again—"
Freddy Farmer didn't finish the rest. He didn't because at that exact instant he saw what Dawson saw. The running figure of a man, well out in front of the troops. A tall figure garbed in the uniform of a colonel in the U. S. Army Air Forces. His face was in a shadow, so neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer could see his features. But they didn't have to. The very silhouette of the running figure was enough for them.
"Herr Baron, the rat!" Dawson shouted wildly. "Look at him wave his arms for us to stop! If he only knew who was in this ship I bet he'd throw a fit and drop dead right in his tracks. Nuts to you, Herr Baron No-Face. You lose again. And this time, by gosh, you reallylose. Just a minute, you stinker, and we'll give you something for Hitler. Yeah! Something for the whole rotten bunch of you. Hang on, Freddy. Now, we're really going to roll. Tally-ho!"
Shouting the last Dawson swerved the Fortress around until it was headed west along the take-off runway. Above the thunder of his engines he could hear bursts of machine gun and rifle fire behind him. In fact some of it was coming from the right, and he heard the bullets thump and clunk into the sides of the Fortress. But naval guns trained dead on him could not have stopped him, then. Shouting and yelling at the top of his voice, he opened all throttles wide, and thrilled to the core as the propellers "bit" into the air and started pulling the Fortress forward faster and faster with every rev they made.
Hunching forward, air clamped in his lungs, hands gripping the controls with every ounce of his strength, he guided the Fortress forward straight for the opening between those two western hills that actually seemed so terribly, terribly close. Seconds whipped by into time's eternity, but each seemed an hour to Dawson as the Fortress still clung to the runway, and still hurtled full out toward the end of the runway.
As a matter of fact, though, time as something definite had ceased to exist for him. It was as though he were in a world of one, himself, and riding a thundering monster toward the opening between two hills at the far end of a white-painted cement strip on the ground. If there was still shooting behind him, he didn't hear it. Or if bullets were pounding into the Fortress, he wasn't conscious of it. He wasn't even conscious of the fact that Freddy Farmer was no longer in the co-pilot's seat at his side. That Freddy had gone halfway down toward the bombardier nook in the glass nose, and was waiting there until Dawson got the plane clear. He just wasn't conscious of anything, save his hands and feet on the controls, and the powerful engines that were driving the Flying Fortress forward.
And then as though invisible hands had pulled the ground away from beneath the wheels the Fortress cleared and went mounting up higher and higher. In a rapid succession of movements Dawson trimmed ship, adjusted propeller pitch, and re-set engine fuel feed. And then the crest of a hill was just off each wingtip and the black sky of night was ahead.
"Chalk another up for us, kid!" he shouted wildly at Freddy Farmer.
But Freddy Farmer wasn't there to reply. He had ducked down into the bombardier's nook, and was getting set to carry out his share of the job. And when Dave didn't receive any reply he remembered the inter-com system. Still climbing at maximum pitch for altitude, he hooked the inter-com phones over his ears, plugged in the jack and threw the switch.
"Freddy, Freddy!" he called. "Can you hear me?"
"And about time, too!" came back the instant reply. "Did you just remember this gadget? But don't waste too much time climbing, Dave. Three thousand feet is more than enough. No telling what those beggars down there might do. Can't let any of them get off. Make a diving run, and we'll pray we can get clear before our own stuff can touch us. Hurry it up, Dave. The place is ablaze with lights now. I haven't the faintest idea what they're up to. Hurry it up!"
But Dawson was already banking the big bomber around. For an instant he got a flash glance down at the hill-ringed field they had just left, but it looked like no more than an ocean of pale yellow light. Then the Flying Fortress' nose blocked out the spot, and Freddy Farmer's eyes alone could see what was going on.
"Dive five hundred, Dave!" came Freddy's order over the inter-com. "Then level off for a second, and give her all she'll take to get altitude. Neither of us know what these fire bomb things do when they hit!"
"You telling me?" Dawson muttered through clenched teeth as he slanted the Fortress downward. "I only hope that some day we can tell our grandchildren about it. Okay! Down we go, and—Hey! They're slinging up flak!"
The last was because the night air off to the right had suddenly become spotted with two gobs of red and orange flame. They were way off to the right, so Dawson didn't even hear the sound of their explosion. But an instant later two more burst off to his left. They must have been set at zero; Dave heard not only their deep throated bark, but he also heard bits of shrapnel strike against the sides of the Fortress.