"The one thing I simply adore about dear old England is the weather," Dawson grunted, and stuck both thumbs toward the ground. "So delightfully refreshing. Now take this perfect spring night. Why, where else in the world could you—?"
"Oh, shut up!" Freddy Farmer growled, and fiddled with the radio-jack of his helmet. "What's a little rain? Besides, it doesn't extend over Europe, the weather blokes assure us."
"Little rain is right!" Dawson snorted. "So little it's practically a falling mist. But it falls, and falls, and falls. Boy, there's going to be two great songs come out of England, but the second one hasn't been composed yet. Too bad I don't know C sharp from a three dollar hat, or I'd compose it myself."
"Well, thank goodness you won't!" Freddy snapped. "Your singing voice is bad enough. But what's the first song?"
"There'll Always Be An England," Dave replied. "And the one that some guy is bound to write before this is over, will be entitled:There'll Always Be Rain In England, Too!"
Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to make a fitting retort to that, but before he could release any words the door opened and an Air Forces lieutenant stepped inside.
"Major Crandall would like to see you in the C.O.'s office, Captains," he said.
"Major Crandall?" Dawson echoed. "He's down here?"
"That's right, Captain," the lieutenant assured him. "And he would like to see you both."
As the officer left, Dawson looked at Freddy and arched an eyebrow.
"Now what?" he grunted. "I thought that neither the major nor Colonel Fraser were going to come down here to see us leave. But maybe there's something he forgot to tell us."
Freddy shook his head and looked at the rain-spattered window of the mess lounge of a certain R.A.F.-Yank Eighth Air Force airdrome located on England's east coast.
"I doubt that," he said. "Up there in London they both told us as much about Duisburg as any two men could possibly know. And there isn't a map or a photo of the place that we didn't see. No, it just can't possibly be that he has anything to add. Most likely he's become a trifle worried about you, and has come down here to see if you'd rather stay behind while I carried out the job alone. And after all, that would be one thing less I'd have to hinder me."
"Listen to the guy rave!" Dave jeered. "Go it alone when he's often admitted that he's been afraid of the dark all his life? Fat chance! Come, little fellow! Take my hand and I'll lead you through the nice rain. And don't fret. There'll be other lights just as soon as we reach the C.O.'s office!"
Freddy made an appropriate face, and drew back his right foot. Dawson frowned sternly, and waggled his finger in warning. But just the same he went out the mess lounge door well in front of his flying pal.
They found Major Crandall alone in the field commandant's office, and the Intelligence officer gave them both a keen, searching look as they entered. He seemed to like what he saw, for his face immediately relaxed in a smile.
"Surprise, surprise!" he said. "But it's not because I was nervous, and just had to see you take-off. Something a darn sight more important to you two than that. Two hours ago I received contact word from one of my agents in the Duisburg area. One that I was afraid was gone for good. True, word that he's still alive was a good ten days in reaching me. And a lot of things can happen to an agent in enemy territory in ten days. There was no message. Just that he was alive and still on the job, but using a different address. Whether that means that Nazi counter-espionage agents got their eye on him, and are watching his old address, I don't know. It may mean that he was captured but managed to escape before he could be tried and shot. However, he is the only one that Colonel Fraser or I have heard from in weeks. So I flew down here in a hurry to tell you, just in case it develops that he can help you."
The major paused for a moment, then moved a step closer to the two air aces, as though he feared that the very walls had ears.
"The address," he said in little more than a whisper, "is Number One-Five-Six Kholerstrasse. Yes, the very same street. He goes by the name of Heinrich Weiden. I can't tell you how he looks now, but he was a big man. A six footer, with straw hair and blue eyes. The fourth finger of the left hand is missing at the first joint. But he may be wearing a fake fingertip. I'd try to get word to him to expect you, but it's too much of a risk. Only the colonel and I know of your mission, and it's safest to keep it that way."
"But he must have a number, or a code name, sir," Dawson spoke up quietly. "And how can we let him know—if we do contact him—that we're okay? After all, you know the uniform we're wearing under our flying suits."
"Don't worry about that," Major Crandall said. "His code name is Dartmouth. Where he went to college. And he will know that you are to be trusted when he hears you speak the words: 'Harvard Nothing.' A few years ago he captained a Dartmouth football team that blanked Harvard in a top-heavy game, so that explains the Harvard Nothing touch. Well, that's all. I'm going to get out of here right away so that your flying mates won't suspect anything strange going on. A million in luck, as I said before. But just one last word of caution."
Major Crandall paused and grinned at both of them.
"If things get hot when the raiding planes reach their target," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "don't forget that you're to fake getting shot down, and bail out. By that I mean, don't get so tied up slapping German fighters down that it will be so light by the time you jump that ground observers will see that you bailed out of Yank planes, and not Nazi ones."
"We'll keep that in mind, sir," Dawson grinned at him. "But if a Jerry should happen to slide into our sights I've got a hunch that we won't just blow a kiss and let him go his way."
"I know darn well you won't!" Major Crandall chuckled. "But just don't waste too much time blowing kisses. Well, God bless you both!"
The major fairly blurted out the words, saluted them smartly, and then ducked out of the commandant's office.
"A nice guy," Dawson murmured. "We can't let him down, Freddy. Or the colonel, either."
"Then why let the thought even enter your brain?" Farmer snapped. "Come on. Let's get out of here. I want to take another check look at my plane."
"Me, too," Dawson grunted, and followed him toward the door. "I wonder if they've got any sponges or towels around here. By now my poor crate must be drenched to the skin. And through it, what I mean!"
But Freddy let that one go without comment, too, and the pair went outside and onto the field.
Some three hours later that part of England's east coast shook and trembled to the thunder of many powerful aircraft engines. On one side of the field R.A.F. and Yank Eighth Air Force bomber pilots were giving final warm-ups to their bomb-laden chariots of the skyways before taking off for the combined operation against Hitler's fast crumbling European fortress. And on the other side of the field R.A.F. and Yank escort fighter pilots were doing the same thing with their fleet, deadly escort aircraft.
Not all the fighter pilots would escort the big fellows to their targets and back, because of the great distance to some of the plotted targets. It was arranged that no one spot in Hitler's fortress would feel the full bomb weight of the planes on this field, or of the planes that would take off from other fields. A dozen targets had been marked up, and, though it must have perhaps puzzled the pilots and crews, the raid upon Duisburg was to be light. Mostly incendiary stuff. The "eggs" were to be dropped at a spot farther on.
How Colonel Fraser and Major Crandall had arranged for the Duisburg raid to be light, without divulging the true reason, neither Dawson nor Farmer knew. And, in fact, neither of them cared. All that mattered to them was that they would fly as a part of the Duisburg escort. Their ships were the new North American P-Fifty-One B Mustangs that had a range that could take them well beyond Duisburg, and back to England. Only they weren't going back to England. At least not in the Mustangs they were about to fly to Duisburg.
"Seems a shame, doesn't it, Freddy?" Dawson murmured as they stood together between their two parked planes, with propellers idling over.
"What does?" young Farmer asked. "Or is it supposed to be more of your warped humor cropping up? If so, forget that I asked."
"No, not funny at all, pal," Dawson said gravely. "I mean, these two planes. Best things ever to have wings. Yet we're going to fly them into Hitler's front yard, and then ditch them and let them dive down to hit the deck. It's going to hurt to see these two babies hit and burst into flame."
"Quite, if either of us can take the time out to look," young Farmer murmured. "However, you're right. It does seem to shame to expend them that way. But what is nice about this war, anyway?"
"What's nice about any war?" Dawson grunted. "But I've got a hunch that this war is just about running out, and—"
"And keep it to yourself!" Freddy cut in. "Right now I want to think only of our private war, Dave. And speaking of this little job ahead, do you think it would help to check over the details together again?"
"No, it wouldn't help a bit, Freddy," Dave said with a firm shake of his head. "We've both talked ourselves blue in the face as to just exactly what each is going to do, or hopes to do. If we haven't got it in the old brain by now, going over it once more won't make any difference at all."
"No, I guess you're right, it won't," Freddy Farmer murmured. "However, in case I haven't mentioned it, old thing, happy landings, and all that kind of rot. I'm quite sure that I'll be frightfully busy, but I'll do my best to look out for you."
"Now I call that right nice of you, neighbor!" Dawson chuckled, and put an arm about Freddy's shoulders and squeezed. "And the same goes for me to you, kid. And double. But we've gone through some tight spots together, and I've got a hunch that we'll get through any tight spots this time, too. And with flying colors."
"If only you hadn't used that blasted word, hunch!" Freddy Farmer groaned. However, the grin on his face belied the tone of his voice.
A moment later signal lights began to flash from the Operation tower, and one by one the big bombers were trundled down to the far end of the runway. The first swung around into position, the pilot received the green light, and the mighty aircraft moved forward, picking up more and more speed until it was hurtling along the flare-marked runway. Hardly had it cleared and began nosing up into the night sky than the pilot of the next bomber in line opened up his throttles. One by one the powerful ships took to the air until only the fighters were left.
A signal blinked for all pilots to get into their pits. Dave reached out and gripped Freddy's arm.
"Be seeing you, kid, at Duisburg," he said. "And have a nice ride. But don't star gaze too much."
"I won't, Dave," young Farmer replied, and pressed Dawson's arm in return. "And you watch out for yourself, too, old thing. A very queer chap at times, you know, but I'm really quite fond of you."
"And I guess you'd do in a crowd, too, little man," Dave said with a gentle gruffness in his voice.
And that was that. The two air aces parted company, and each climbed into his plane. Some seven minutes later Dawson rocketed his Mustang across the field, cleared, and went power climbing up toward the star-hidden heavens. At a certain altitude he leveled off, and then circled slowly until he found, and was in, his formation position. His was the tail cover plane, so a moment later the formation swung eastward and out over the English Channel.
"Well, Duisburg, here we come!" Dawson murmured softly. "And here's hoping you're not too tough a nut to crack."
If the war gods on high heard Dawson's words they must have winked slyly at each other, and then burst out with roaring and hooting laughter! Theyknew! And so did the Grim Reaper, who was already waiting!
After carefully checking the readings of his "black light" instruments, Dave Dawson raised his eyes and scowled out at the ocean of inky darkness that seemed to sweep in on him from all sides.
"Right on course, unless these instruments are haywire, which of course they're not," he murmured. "But just the same, I'd sure like to get out of these darn clouds. The stuff must stretch all the way to China. Anyway, it's not raining. And that's something. But of course, Dawson, old chap, this isn't England, you know!"
As he spoke the words he absently fingered the switch button of his radio flap mike, but when he suddenly realized what he was doing he snatched his hand away as though the thing were red hot.
"Radio silence, at any cost, chump!" he growled at himself. "Not that all of Europe can't hear the racket the raiders are making. But orders is orders. And stop worrying about Freddy Farmer, too. He's right back there in this soup some place. You spotted his plane not over half an hour ago. So take it easy."
Yes, only half an hour ago Freddy Farmer had been right there in back of him, and a little to the left. Sure! But kingdoms have fallen, and nations crumbled in less time than half an hour. Was Freddy still back there in formation position, and was he simply hidden by the clouds? If only he could but speak a few words over the R.T. system, and find out. But he couldn't do that. On this flight he had to observe radio silence, at least until the target had been reached. True, Nazi aircraft detectors had picked them up long ago, and knew just where the gigantic aerial armada was even right now. But that wasn't why radio silence had been ordered. What the Nazis didn't know was that the armada was not heading for simply one target, but several targets. At a given time the armada would split up and follow several different courses. Radio silence, however, had been ordered so that no thoughtless slip of the tongue by anybody would reveal to Nazi ground stations, listening on the same wave band, that more than one target was to be bombed.
Yes, radio silence was the order, yet if anything happened to Freddy Farmer, if Dawson lost contact with his pal, and found Freddy's plane nowhere to be seen, come the first light of dawn, then things would be gummed up right at the start. One definite plan they had made was to stick almost wingtip to wingtip all the way to Duisburg. They planned also to fake being shot down at practically the same time. That way they would bail out close to one another, and it followed that they would not land very far apart on the ground. And just where they planned to land was all planned too. They had decided it after a careful study of the aerial photos of the Duisburg area. And from the detailed information that Major Crandall and Colonel Fraser had been able to give them concerning the sizes and locations of the so-called mystery factories in the Duisburg area. They had chosen the largest factory of the lot, not for its size, but because it stood alone on flat ground, and with a minimum of trees about it on which they might foul their parachutes, and be forced to dangle helplessly at the ends of their shroud lines until somebody came along and cut them down.
But it would be "spot" parachute jumping, and no question about that. Before hitting the silk they would have not only to locate their "objective" but to gauge the wind direction, and speed, and then bail out so that drift would not take them beyond their target, or cause them to drop far short. They had come right down practically on it. At least well within the double ring of guards posted about the place.
"And it's going to take some doing, too!" Dawson breathed, as he thought of the job ahead. "Some doing, and I don't mean perhaps. But that will be only the beginning. Jeepers—!"
He let his voice trail off, and gave a little half worried shake of his head.
"Was I a dope to think that maybe Freddy and I could pull this thing off?" he grunted a minute or two later. "It looked like a swell idea back there in England, but how does it look now? Don't ask, my friend, don't ask!"
With another shake of his head he shrugged off the bothersome thoughts and gave all of his attention to his flying. His watch told him that actually dawn wasn't very far off. And he felt pretty sure that if he were suddenly to fly out of this ocean of clouds into clear air he would be able to see the first faint thread of light on the eastern horizon. But it seemed as though he would never come out of the clouds. That he had been flying through them on instruments for all his life, and that he would go on that way forever.
"Of course it's nice to have this cloud protection against Nazi ground gunners," he told himself, and laughed a little nervously. "But there are a lot of us up here, and not a sky traffic cop in sight. Wouldn't it be sweet if I should suddenly tangle wings with some guy in this muck, and have to hit the silk? Or Freddy! That—Oh, cut it, Dawson! Don't be a jumpy old woman all the time, for cats' sake. After all, you've—"
But Dawson never finished the rest, for at that moment the clouds over Occupied Europe suddenly came to an abrupt end. He streaked out into clear night air, and as he had expected the new day was beginning to dawn far, far to the east. After making sure that he wasn't crowding the tail of the next ship in front of him, he twisted around in the pit, and stared back. Instantly a happy grin curled his lips, and a thin layer of ice slid off his heart and melted away. There to his right rear was the shadowy shape of Freddy Farmer's Mustang cutting along right with him as though the two planes were tied together.
"And me stupid enough to worry about Freddy, the hottest pilot ever to take off any field!" he chuckled. "Boy, would he ride me if I ever let him know about it. Okay, Freddy boy, so far so good!"
Well, maybe it was so far so good, up to that moment. A moment later, though, it seemed as though all the flak guns the Nazis possessed started to hurl up everything, including the kitchen stove. Dawson's formation was riding high ceiling cover, and as he peered down at the bomber formations a good five thousand feet below him the bursts of red, orange, and yellow flak fire gave him the impression of a huge fire-works factory exploding.
"Hitler's welcome!" Dave murmured. "Only I don't mean he's glad to see us. He'll be even less glad when—"
A bursting flak shell right under Dawson's left wing seemed to spew a shower of red and gold straight into his face. The Mustang lurched crazily off to the other side, and for one heart-chilling moment Dawson feared that the aircraft had been hit, and badly crippled. But such was not the case, fortunately. The bursting flak was farther away than it had looked, and it was simply concussion that sent the Mustang sliding off to one side. A touch of stick and rudder, and Dawson had it back into position in no time.
And then the radio silence was broken.
"Bandits ahead at six o'clock, fighter aircraft!" came the escort leader's voice over the air waves. "Same level but starting to dive on the big boys. Green and Blue Fighters go down and engage. Don't let the bums get through. Smack 'em. Other flights hold your altitude and course."
Dawson was flying in Red Flight of the formation, so he obeyed the latter order and held his altitude and course. Just the same it was not with a little envy that he watched Green and Blue Flights peel off and go wing-screaming downward. At first he couldn't pick out the Nazi planes against the eastern sky. But suddenly he did see them and his heart contracted slightly. There were at least a hundred of them, and even in the bad light he could tell that they were Focke-Wulf One Nineties, and the new Messerschmitt One-Nine F's.
"Just sitting up here waiting for us to come along," he grunted. Then, glancing down at the diving Mustangs, he said, "Give them the works, pals. Show them how we do it where we come from."
And as though the Mustang pilots had actually heard him, they pulled up out of their short dive and went thundering in at the Nazis with all guns blazing. And hardly had Dawson seen the silvery paths of tracer bullets cut across the sky before two Nazi Messerschmitts exploded in twin sheets of brilliant red flame that seemed to light up the entire sky for miles and miles around.
"How's that for apples, you mugs?" Dawson shouted spontaneously. "No like, huh? Well, there's more where that sample came from!"
"Down a thousand feet, all escort Flights!" the leader's voice barked in Dawson's earphones. "Number one point ahead. Get down a thousand feet, and stay there. Everybody keep their eyes peeled for bandits."
Dawson's heart skipped a beat, and he unconsciously turned his head and looked back at Freddy Farmer's dawn-blurred Mustang. Number one point ahead was the signal that the first break-up of the huge formation was about to take place. Some bomber formations would go south, and southeast, some would go north and northeast, and the bomber formation of which Dawson was a part of the escort would bang on dead ahead for the incendiary raid on Duisburg, and after that to its bomb target even farther east. And not only did the words, "Number one point ahead" mean the break-up of the gigantic formation, but they also meant that in twenty minutes by his watch Dawson, and Freddy too, would be directly over the Duisburg area.
"Twenty minutes more, and then it starts for keeps!" he breathed as he looked back at Freddy's plane. "Twenty minutes more, and then we show that we're good, or just a couple of bums. Boy, wouldn't I like to ask Freddy how he's feeling, and what he's thinking about just now. It's a cinch, though, he isn't feeling any more jittery than I'm feeling. And probably not half as much, knowing him as I do. Oh well, twenty minutes more."
Yes, twenty minutes more, but each sixty seconds seemed well nigh a lifetime to Dawson as he guided his Mustang eastward. At the end of two of the minutes somebody sang out the alarm that he had spotted another flock of Nazi planes at a higher altitude. And he was not wrong, as Dawson saw for himself a couple of seconds later. At least a hundred Nazi planes were circling about three thousand feet higher up. But as the minutes wore on they made no effort to try and slice down through the fighter umbrella and get at the big bombers. Maybe they saw that the fighters were the deadly Mustangs, and they wanted no part of them. Or maybe they were simply waiting for a more favorable moment in which to start their attack. Or maybe they were even waiting for reenforcements. At any rate they stayed right where they were and tagged the bombers and their Mustang escort eastward.
"Come on down and fight, you rats!" Dawson muttered time and time again. "If you think we're going to leave our big boys unprotected and go up after you, you're nuts. So come on down here, and mix it up, if you dare. Come on!"
Minutes, and a few more minutes, and then as Dawson glanced downward he discovered that they were over the Duisburg area. Because the light was still bad he could not pick out definite landmarks, but the general picture was that of Duisburg across the Rhine River from Krefeld. And even as he looked downward he saw the first shower of incendiary bombs strike and create the impression of a thousand street lights suddenly being switched on.
"This is it!" he heard his own voice cry. "This is the end of the line!"
And as though the Nazi fighters higher up in the sky had been waiting for just that instant, they peeled off and came down with guns blazing!
"Here they come!" rang the voice of the Mustangs' leader in Dawson's earphone. "Don't let a single tramp down through, or you'll hear from me. At 'em, fellows! Shoot their whiskers off!"
Young Farmer saw him look, nodded, and waggled his wings. And then in perfect team formation they hauled their two Mustangs right up on their props and went up toward the diving Nazis. As though by secret signal they fired their guns and air cannon together. Nothing that flies could have withstood that concentrated blast of fire, and the leading diving Nazi ship was certainly no exception to the rule. The plane seemed to stop dead in mid-air, and then broke up into a million flaming bits that went slithering down like the sparks from a spent rocket.
"One, Freddy!" Dawson shouted, though he didn't know whether young Farmer heard him or not. "Now one more to make it one apiece, and then we go to work."
"Right-o, old thing!" came Freddy's instant reply. "The beggar to the left with the blue nose. Give it to him, Dave!"
Dawson had already spotted the blue-nosed Focke-Wulf One-Ninety, and was kicking his Mustang that way. A split second later his guns, and Freddy Farmer's, sang their song of concentrated destruction. This particular Nazi plane didn't blow up, however. It simply lost a wing, and what was left went screaming earthward like ten ton of brick in high gear.
Neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer took time out to watch their second victim hurtle downward. If they had, the Grim Reaper would have tapped them both on the shoulder right then and there. The remaining Nazi pilots, infuriated by the loss of their leader and one of their vulture comrades, veered toward the two zooming Mustangs and let go with everything they had. That is, they started to do that little thing, but that's about as far as they got. By then the other Mustang pilots were up there with Dawson and Farmer, and when they opened up Nazi planes started fluttering earthward like dried leaves in a stiff autumn breeze.
Before the Nazis broke off the fight Dawson and Farmer had nailed one more apiece. By then, though, dawn was coming up fast, and there was no more time left to fool around. With a feeling of deep regret Dave looked at a Nazi plane not over a quarter of a mile away, shook his head, and waggled his wings to attract Freddy's attention. Young Farmer saw him make the wash-out sign with his free hand, and nodded.
"Sure would like to wish you luck over the radio, kid," Dave whispered as he shoved open his glass hatch, and knocked down the catch of his safety harness. "But maybe it's best to keep mum, this time. No telling who might be listening in on the ground. Just the same, pal, a million in luck. A trillion, what I mean!"
With a faint nod for emphasis, and a wave of his hand at Freddy Farmer, Dawson peered over the cockpit rim and carefully studied the shadowy ground below. Recco plane photographs of the area were indelibly stamped on his brain, so it did not take him more than half a minute to spot the exact location of the factory where Freddy and he would touch ground by parachute. As luck would have it, the spot was about a mile off to his right, well on the eastern outskirts of the city, and the drifting flak-burst smoke that still was in the sky told him that the wind direction was just as he wanted it. That knowledge made his heart pound with wild hope.
"Almost as if it had all been made to order!" he breathed softly. "For once the elements are cooperating, and that, at least, is something. Okay, here we go. And don't be far behind, Freddy!"
For a few seconds longer Dawson remained in the pit of his plane, making doubly sure that he would take nothing American-made down with him. From head to toe he was garbed in German uniform, and German flying gear, with even the conventional German Luger automatic at his belt. But rather than take chances he checked the contents of his flying suit pockets, found all of them empty as a matter of fact, and then took a deep breath.
"And this time we mean it!" he grunted.
Slamming the Mustang down in a shot dive, he fired all of his guns at thin air, and then leveled off and jammed open the compensator throttle. The result was that a wrong mixture was fed to the engine, and the power plant started spewing back a long trail of oily black smoke. The instant it showed in the air, Dawson rolled the Mustang over on its back, let go of the stick, and allowed gravity to pull him down into the open air. With the fingers of his right hand curled about his rip-cord ring, he let his body free fall down through the air, and counted slowly.
When he reached twenty he yanked the rip-cord ring and let his body relax. He was upside down then and looking toward the pale heavens, so he saw the pilot 'chute whip up past him, and pull out the silk folds of the main 'chute. And an instant later invisible hands seemed to grab hold of him, spin him over until he was feet first to the ground, and then jerk him slightly skyward. And right after that he was dangling comfortably at the ends of his taut shroud lines, and floating slowly toward the earth.
"Okay, Freddy, where are you, kid?" he murmured, and threw back his head to stare upward.
It was not until that moment that he realized that the Nazi fighters had come whirling back to try again to break through the Mustang umbrella and get at the bombers that were now some distance east of the Duisburg area. There they were, and there were the Mustangs, too, zooming and whirling all over the sky with guns yammering and pounding, and tracer smoke making a crazy crisscross pattern in the dawn air.
No more than a couple of seconds after Dawson stared upward he saw a Mustang explode in a tremendous flash of blood-red light as a dozen Nazi pilots caught it in a withering cross-fire. In nothing flat all that remained of the Yank fighter plane was a shower of bits smoking earthward. Icy fingers curled about Dawson's heart; and he slipped his 'chute this way and that in a frantic effort to get a look at that patch of sky directly above him but blocked out by the spread of his own 'chute envelope. By slipping his 'chute, however, he managed to get a look at it a section at a time. And when he had seen it all his heart seemed to stop beating, and become nothing but a solid chunk of ice in his chest.
For there was not a single sign of Freddy Farmer floating down by parachute anywhere in that tracer bullet and flak burst-filled sky. There wasn't even a sign of a Mustang plunging earthward. His own had struck solid earth by now, but there was no other Mustang, that might be Freddy's plane, diving earthward. There was nothing but the showering debris of that one Mustang he had seen blasted into oblivion with his own eyes.
"Freddy!" he choked out. "Freddy, boy, was that you? Did they nail you as you rolled over to bail out? Oh, dear God, please, no! Please,no!"
Hot tears stung the backs of Dawson's eyes, and for a moment or two everything was just a great swimming blur before him. He ripped up his goggles, brushed both eyes with his hand, and peered at the air above and about him. He saw two Nazi planes, and one more Mustang, go hurtling earthward in a mass of flame, but there was not a soul in the air, save himself, floating earthward by parachute. All the other pilots, Nazi and Yank alike, had been killed in their pits, or so wounded that they were unable to throw themselves clear of their blazing planes.
"Freddy, boy, where are you?"
Dawson's own words echoed back to taunt him. In that moment he felt as though a part of him had actually died. And presently it took all the courage and will power that he would ever possess to stop scanning the heavens for a sign of Freddy Farmer, and give all of his attention to himself. He was close to the ground now, and if he was to carry out his end of the job, and touch earth close to that large factory, he would have to forget all about Freddy Farmer's fate and concentrate on himself.
In spite of his determined efforts to do just that, it was quite impossible. No man on earth could have given every thought to himself, had he been in Dave Dawson's shoes. A memory picture of that single Mustang exploding into bits was constantly before his eyes. In the matter of seconds countless memories of Freddy Farmer paraded across his brain. It all seemed to sap the strength right out of his body; to turn his muscles to rubber, and his bones to jelly.
It was almost as though he were two separate persons. One was striving to slip his 'chute so that he would drift closer to the factory that now stood out in clear detail just a little ahead and below him. And the other person was living over again in memory, heartbreaking memory, the many, many things that Freddy and he had done together. So certain was he that Freddy Farmer had gone to a hero's reward that he was almost overcome by a wild, mad urge to unsnap his 'chute harness and let his body drop straight down like a rock to his doom. Only a fighting heart, and the determination to carry on for Freddy's sake made it possible for him to retain his sanity, and guide his movements.
And then the ground was close, very close. The factory was like a gigantic mountain looming up in his path. He saw figures running toward the spot where he would touch earth. Some were in uniform and some wore the unmistakable clothes of factory workers. There seemed to be quite a number of the factory workers, and in an abstract sort of way he wondered for a moment if it was the rest period, or the changing of factory shifts.
But only for a brief moment did he absently wonder about that. In the next moment, just as his feet were about to touch earth, Fate in the form of a crazy cross wind played its dirty trick. His 'chute seemed to lunge to the left, and drag him with it. As he jerked his head around he caught the fleeting glimpse of a parked truck. Then the crazy cross wind slammed him up against that truck. He flung out both hands to soften the blow, but that action didn't help much.
From out of nowhere something slammed him on the chest. Something else crashed down on his head. And something else hit him a terrific blow in the middle of his back. The side of the truck, seemingly no farther away than the end of his nose, exploded in a mighty display of colored lights, sparkling pin-wheels, and golden rockets. Then as though by magic a black curtain was drawn down over everything—and all was as silent as the grave!
A throbbing drone penetrated Dave Dawson's brain, and slowly stirred him back to consciousness. The first few moments were ones of utter confusion and pain. The throbbing drone developed into the sound of spoken words. Words spoken in both French and English. Despite the pain that seemed to extend throughout his entire body, an inner sense of caution warned Dawson to keep his eyes closed, and to lie perfectly still. He knew that he was propped up in some kind of a padded chair, and that he was in a room filled with people. There was the smell of them in his nose, and there was also the half tangy, half sweet smell of hot oil and grease. In an instant he placed it as the smell one gets inside a factory that is equipped with many machines for working on metal.
A joyous sense of satisfaction flooded through him when he told himself that he had obviously been taken inside the factory to be given first aid. But a split second later, as terrible memory returned in full, there was not one bit of joy left in him. Freddy Farmer! Where was Freddy? Dead or still alive? He hardly dared think that the last could possibly be true. Yet hope does spring eternal within the human breast, and he clung to that tiny hope with all his heart and soul.
And then through his bitter thoughts came the sound of spoken words. Words that registered upon his still slightly stunned brain, and made sense.
"Stand back, you fools!" a voice snarled in German. "Can you not see that he needs air? Stand back! We must do all for this gallant hero of the Luftwaffe."
"Ja, ja!" a second voice echoed hoarsely. "With my own eyes I saw him destroy five of the swine before he was forced to abandon his airplane. Look at him, you French dogs. There is a German hero. After such a thrilling experience he is not hurt at all. Just a bump or two, and a little winded. By this time tomorrow he will again be in his airplane and again destroying those who would war with us. Look at him. See the medals of bravery, and gallant service to the Fuehrer, that he already wears? Five of them, I saw him destroy. With my own eyes!"
"Hold your tongue!" the first voice snarled again. "We all saw it, so you do not need to tell us. Here, make yourself useful and soak this towel in cold water again. He will be conscious in another moment or two. Has anybody heard from the city? Did those swine dogs do much damage?"
"A few fires from incendiaries," Dawson heard somebody reply, "but they are all out, or under control by now."
"Good, good!" the snarling one said. "The swine dogs! But we will show them. Wait and see! Ah! So you have finally brought the towel? Now we will help our Luftwaffe hero."
Dawson sensed movement very close to him, and then suddenly his face felt as though it had been buried in an iceberg. He had, of course, expected a cool towel to be placed on his face, but actually the towel was so icy cold that he gasped in spite of himself, and made as though to brush it away with his hands. The towel was quickly removed and he found himself staring up into the smiling face of a fat, double-chinned German. The man wore civilian clothes, and a badge on the right lapel of his coarse cloth jacket indicated that he was some kind of a factory official.
"Ah, you are better now, yes?" he said, and beamed at Dawson. "You had an accident with your parachute just before you struck the ground. But you are safe now, and in good hands. I personally ordered you to be brought inside and made comfortable. But, my pardon,Herr Leutnant, there is perhaps something you wish?"
The way the man waved his puffy hands, and obviously tried to create the impression that he personally had done a great service to an officer of Hitler's Luftwaffe, instantly typed the man for what he was, as far as Dawson was concerned. Dave sat up straighter in the padded chair he was in and eyed the man coldly. And he also took a brief moment to sweep the faces of the ten or twelve others crowded into what looked like a factory office. He saw some faces that beamed with pride, and even a little awe. Their owners he knew were German.
But there were a few that stared at him practically expressionless. Deep sunken eyes were fixed on his unwinkingly. Deep sunken eyes in faces that had a skin color of a sort of yellowish gray. The faces of men who, though alive in the body, were dead of soul. He did not have to look at them twice to know that they were Frenchmen. Frenchmen uprooted from their native land and transported to Germany to perform slave labor in Hitler's war factories.
Then Dawson brought his cold stare back to the double-chinned man.
"Yes!" he bit off in German, and drew a hand across his eyes. "Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?"
"You do not know?" the puffy-faced one asked in surprise. "Then I will tell you at once. This is the Farbin Factory, Number Six. You are in my office,Herr Leutnant. I am the general manager. I am Herr Kurt Krumpstadt. When I saw that you were in difficulties I at once took personal charge."
Dawson grunted, and then saw that his flying suit had been removed and placed over the back of a nearby chair. He looked at it and nodded again.
"Yes, it comes back to me now!" he said in a harsh voice. "I had shot down several of the swine, and then my guns jammed. Many of them came at me, and I was forced to leave my plane."
"Ja, ja!" Herr Krumpstadt cried eagerly. "We all saw you. It was wonderful. Never have I seen such bravery as you displayed."
"It was good of you to come to my assistance," Dawson said to him in a flat voice. "Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, eh? I will remember that name. I have a friend who is high in the Party. I will tell him how quickly you gave assistance to a member of the Luftwaffe."
Herr Krumpstadt almost wept with joy at hearing those words.
"It was nothing,Herr Leutnant," he said. "It was a duty to be performed, and I performed it. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude thatHerr Leutnantwill be so kind as to mention my little act to his important friend."
"As soon as I meet him, which will be soon," Dawson grunted. Then, with a puzzled frown on his face, he said, "Farbin Factory Number Six? What do you make here, Herr Krumpstadt?"
The German's beam of joy instantly faded, and he looked like some fat, oily creature that is suddenly cornered, and is very much afraid. Dawson glared at him, and snapped his fingers.
"Well, are you deaf?" he barked. "Did you not hear a Luftwaffe officer's question? Or do you make nothing here? Well?"
"Oh, no, no, no,Herr Leutnant!" the German fairly wailed, and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "We used to make treads for the Fuehrer's tanks, but now it is something else. Something special. Something very secret. I do not know if it is permitted for me to tell even a hero of our wonderful Luftwaffe. I do not know."
On impulse Dawson made a quick decision not to press his point. He had a feeling that he was perhaps skating on very thin ice, and that it would be best to "test" out the ice a bit before really getting tough with Herr Krumpstadt. And so, instead, he asked a question that had been on the tip of his tongue since shortly after he had regained complete consciousness.
"Did you see any of my comrades come down with their parachutes?"
Herr Krumpstadt frowned as though deep in thought. A moment later he shook his head.
"No,Herr Leutnant, you were the only one I saw," he said. Then he swung around and snarled at the others. "How about you? Did any of you see one ofHerr Leutnant'sbrave comrades come down by his parachute? Well? Have you tongues? Speak up!"
Almost everybody shook their heads, but Dawson thought he saw a tall Frenchman start to open his mouth as though to speak, then snap it shut and start at Herr Krumpstadt unwinkingly. The double-chinned German turned back to Dawson and shook his head.
"No others were seen,Herr Leutnant," he said. "Only you. And now, can I be of further service? You wish me to drive you to the nearest Luftwaffe field? I would invite you to use the phone, only—only all the phones have been taken out. An order of the Ministry of War Production. But perhaps I can do something for you?"
"Yes!" Dawson snapped, and jerked his head. "Get these others out of here. Is there no work to be performed in this place? Do you all drop your tools, and stare, simply because a Luftwaffe officer comes down with his parachute?"
Herr Krumpstadt shook his head so violently that some of the little beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead flew off like fine rain.
"Oh, no, not at all,Herr Leutnant!" he gasped. "But we were all here at a conference when we saw you descend in your parachute. I will dismiss them at once."
The German played the factory big shot to the hilt. He swung around on the others, and stabbed a thick finger at the door.
"Get out!" he shouted. "We will talk of that matter later. Now I am busy. Get out! Heil Hitler!"
He received a mumbled reply to this vocal salute, and then Germans and Frenchmen alike shuffled out of the office, the last one to leave softly shutting the door. Dawson didn't watch them go. Instead he spread his feet apart a little, hooked his thumbs in his uniform belt, and stared fixedly at the back of Herr Krumpstadt's head. The German presently turned around, a boot-licking, oily smile on his fat lips. But when his eyes met Dawson's steady stare his smile faded, and a worried look crept into his face.
"There is something,Herr Leutnant?" he asked in a strained voice, and swallowed hard.
Dawson nodded coldly.
"Yes, Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, there is something," he said.
And with that he turned his back on the German and walked coolly over to the nearest window. The window looked out on a broad expanse of ground, that had before the war been rather artistically landscaped, but since then had been allowed to go to seed. Withered shrubs sprawled all over the place. The grass was dull brown and at least a foot high. That is, the patches of it that were not trampled flat by truck wheels, and countless feet. A half mile away was a woods, and Dawson could see two German Army cars parked by a road leading into the woods. Helmeted figures stood near the cars. And although Dawson wasn't sure, he thought he saw a machine mounted by one of the cars.
Beyond the woods was the skyline of the City of Duisburg, and three columns of smoke that he saw mounting from it toward the morning sky he sincerely hoped were from burning buildings, and not from other factory chimneys. One thing was certain, however. He was in the middle of a strongly guarded area. The mounted machine gun and the parked Army cars and the helmeted soldiers guarding one of the approaches to the factory were proof enough of that truth. It would probably take more than just bluff to get away from this place, once he had learned its secret,ifhe ever did learn it.
And there was something else, too. Something, heaven forgive him, that was as important to him as the secret of that factory. Freddy Farmer. Freddy's fate. At the thought of his pal Dawson's heart seemed to weep a little, and his whole body felt so weak that he impulsively put out a hand and braced it against the window frame. A moment later he heard the very timid voice of Herr Krumpstadt.
"You do not feel well,Herr Leutnant! I beg you, sit down. Here, at my desk. You will find the chair most comfortable. I bought it long before the war. It is like an old friend. Sit down,Herr Leutnant, and I will get you some brandy. I have been saving it for the victory celebration when our enemies are no more. But who is more entitled to it than a hero of our glorious Luftwaffe?"
"No brandy," Dawson said coldly as he turned from the window. "You may keep it for the victory celebration, Herr Krumpstadt. No, no brandy. I feel perfectly well. Instead, I will ask you a few questions. You have papers of personal identification, perhaps? Let me see them, then."
The German looked dumbfounded, and perhaps even a little angry, but Dawson pretended not to notice. He turned from the man and went over to the huge desk that completely filled one corner of the office, and sat down in the most comfortable chair he had encountered in many a day. When he relaxed with a gruff grunt of approval he turned his head toward Herr Krumpstadt to see the German walking over to him with a folder of papers in his hands.
"Here they are,Herr Leutnant," the man said. "You will find them all in order. I prize them above everything I own. I am a loyal and trusted member of the Party. But, forgive me,Herr Leutnant, I do not understand. Why do you ask me for my—?"
"Is it for you to understandallthe methods of the Gestapo?" Dawson barked at him, and snatched the papers away.
For a brief moment Herr Krumpstadt held his empty hand out in front of him as his face seemed to turn yellow, and then green. Then he clapped his outstretched hand to his mouth for all the world like a man about to become violently ill. And as Dawson saw the terror mount in the man's eyes he knew that he had the fat, puffy-faced German in the palm of his hand!
For several minutes Dawson pretended to study Herr Krumpstadt's papers carefully, though actually he hardly gave them more than a glance. The idea was to make the German sweat it out for a bit, and that's just what the Nazi did do. When Dawson finally tossed the folder of papers on the desk and looked at the man, Herr Krumpstadt was practically dripping sweat from every pore. His face was flushed like a sunset, and he kept "washing" his hands as he stared at Dawson out of very frightened eyes.
"There is something wrong,Herr Leutnant?" he asked in a quavering voice when Dawson simply looked at him and through him. "But I do not understand! What have I done that someone should see fit to report me? I swear that I am a loyal Nazi. Heil Hitler!"
"The report made about you is our affair," Dawson said sternly. Then, with a wave of one hand toward the closed door, he went on, "You were in conference with them? Do you take me for a fool? Several of those who were here in this room are swine French dogs! What is a good German doing talking with Frenchmen? Frenchmen are only for work. A little conference, eh? Perhaps you made a slip-up there, Herr Krumpstadt?"
The German was so eager to talk that the words spilled off his fat lips like flood waters over a broken dam.
"But of course,Herr Leutnant!" he exclaimed. "The swine French are for work only, and that is why they are here in my factory. Over a hundred of them,Herr Leutnant. Sent here by the Ministry of War Production. And it is necessary to hold a conference every now and then to explain the work that I wish them to do. They are swine French, yes, but they are expert welders. And if I am to produce what I have been ordered to produce, then I must have them work for me."
Dawson acted as though he were giving the German's explanation careful thought. His heart was beginning to pound against his ribs, and the blood surged through his veins as he realized that he was very, very close to learning the guarded secret of this mysterious factory. If only Freddy Farmer were there with him. Freddy, among other things, was very clever with words. Freddy would make this fat-faced German talk, without realizing that he was saying a thing. But Freddy wasn't there. For a brief instant, as sharp grief and bitter despair ripped through Dawson like a two-edged knife, he almost lost the grip he had on himself. With a mighty effort, though, he forced thoughts of Freddy Farmer to the back of his brain and once more fixed Herr Krumpstadt with a cold stare.
"French welders, eh?" he murmured. Then, with a sharp ring in his voice, he snapped at the German, "And what are these French welders making for you, Herr Krumpstadt?"
For one fleeting second the German hesitated, and almost made as though to shake his head and refuse to answer. However, the terrible fear that every German has of the Gestapo was too much for him. Perhaps his orders from the Ministry of War Production had been to let no word pass his lips to an outsider. But a member of the Gestapo? That was something very, very different.
"They are making the metal cylinders for the American and British planes,Herr Leutnant," the German finally said. "And they also make repairs on landing gear parts that are shipped to us. They are swine dogs, all of them, but they are expert at welding. If I could get a hundred more of them I could double the output of my factory."
Dave Dawson didn't allow a single change of expression to come into his face, but inwardly he was all on fire. And considerably puzzled and confused, too. Metal cylinders forAmerican and Britishplanes? What in heaven's name had the Nazi meant by that? And the Frenchmen also made repairs on landing gear parts that were shipped to this factory? At the moment it made no sense at all to Dawson, but although a hundred questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, he didn't voice a single one of them. He didn't because once again he knew that he was skating on very thin ice. His little Gestapo act had filled Herr Krumpstadt with terror, but he could very easily overplay his part and plant the seed of shrewd suspicion in the man. After all, as a member of the Gestapo seemingly come to make a check on Herr Krumpstadt, it would be only natural that he would know all about what was taking place in the German's factory. To ask too many leading questions might prove very disastrous.
And then suddenly Dawson was hit by a very bright idea. Instead of asking questions here in Herr Krumpstadt's office, why not take a look for himself, and perhaps obtain the answers to his questions that way? So he nodded curtly, pursed his lips, and stood up.
"I know, Herr Krumpstadt," he said. "I know all about what you are doing here. It is not what you make, but those who make it, that interests me. I have been meaning to pay you a little visit before now, but other things were more important. But now that good fortune brought me down here by parachute, I might as well take care of the matter."
Dawson paused, and for a moment cocked a thoughtful eye at the far wall, then quickly switched his gaze back to the Nazi's face.
"There is one French dog that we want very much," he said. "He probably goes by a hundred different names, but his real name is Pierre Duval. You have perhaps in your records a man by that name?"
"It is not familiar to me,Herr Leutnant," the German said with a frown and a slow shake of his head, "but I will look in my war prisoner file and make sure. One minute, please,Herr Leutnant."
Dawson simply grunted and watched Krumpstadt walk over to a wall filing cabinet and pull open one of the drawers. He studied its contents for several minutes and then turned back to Dawson with another shake of his head.
"No,Herr Leutnant," he said. "I have not one of them listed by the name of Pierre Duval."
"I did not expect that you would," Dave grunted with a shrug. "The dog would naturally not be that much of a fool. The man may even be dead by now. We do not know for sure. But as I am now here I will check them over and make sure. Herr Krumpstadt! Conduct me about your factory and I will take a look at these French swine."
"But of course,Herr Leutnant!" the German beamed. "It will be an honor and a pleasure."
"But one word of caution, Herr Krumpstadt!" Dawson snapped, and leveled a stiff forefinger at the man. "The one you will conduct through your factory is a Luftwaffe pilot shot down in battle. He is your guest, and you are doing him a slight honor. There will be no mention by sign or word of who I really am, or the reason for my little visit here. I hope you understand me, Herr Krumpstadt?"
"Oh, yes, yes,Herr Leutnant!" the German made haste to reply, and bobbed his head violently. "My lips are sealed. Why, I wouldn't dare,Herr Leutnant!"
"I'm sure you wouldn't," Dawson said dryly. "Very well, let us take a look around."
Herr Krumpstadt nodded, beamed, and led the way to his office door.
It was almost two hours later before Dave Dawson found himself back again in that very same office. There was a faint frown on his face, and it wasn't entirely for Herr Krumpstadt's benefit. On the contrary, it actually reflected the turmoil going on within him. In other words, he was more mixed up and confused now than he had been before. The factory was five floors high, and Herr Krumpstadt had conducted him to every floor, and had pointed out every French war prisoner performing slave labor. To keep up his part Dawson had keenly studied each new face, but he actually gave more attention to what each man was doing than to his face. And they were almost all doing spot welding on metal cylinders that varied in size from some that were a foot long and three inches through to others that were six feet long and two feet through. One end of every cylinder was left open. And try as he would to convince himself that Farbin Factory Number Six was turning out bomb casings, Dawson knew that they were not. At least, he was as sure they weren't as he could possibly be sure of anything.
Yes, the French war prisoners were working mostly on the spot welding of varied sized cylinders, but there were a few who were working on aircraft landing gear parts. And it was that work that puzzled and confounded Dawson far more than the cylinder welding. The landing gear parts were all stripped down, but even at that he was quite sure that he recognized certain parts that were definitely of either British or American make. Repairing British and American plane landing gears in Farbin Factory Number Six? The question seemed to hang in Dawson's brain in letters of fire a foot high as he traveled with Herr Krumpstadt from floor to floor. And he would have given anything he ever hoped to possess if he could but have obtained the answers to the questions that crowded his thoughts.
And now he was back in Herr Krumpstadt's office, more confused than ever. And with a sense of frustration that flooded through him like a dank fog. Information; information of goodness knew what value right at his fingertips, and yet he couldn't pick it up without running the risk of falling through the very thin ice over which he was skating. Herr Krumpstadt had regained considerable of his composure, and Dawson could tell without being told that a certain "Gestapo agent" was fast wearing out his welcome at Farbin Factory Number Six. Herr Krumpstadt kept looking at his watch, and there was a faint gleam of annoyance in his close-set pig-like eyes.
"Well, I guess he is not working in my factory,Herr Leutnant," the German suddenly said with an undertone of impatience. "But I did not think so in the first place, as the Ministry of War Production carefully checks every prisoner worker they send to me. And now, is there anything else I can do forHerr Leutnant?"
Dawson scowled in deep thought, and then tried a cold stare or two for Krumpstadt's benefit, but it didn't seem to change anything. Time was running out fast, and Dawson knew that to linger any longer might result in growing suspicion on Krumpstadt's part. The Nazi was over his original fright. Nothing had been charged against him, and some of the arrogance that is a typical German trait was coming back into his manner and speech. And so Dave Dawson made his decision. His decision to get out of Farbin Factory Number Six, and to get out as quickly as he could.
"Did you say you had a car, Herr Krumpstadt?" he suddenly snapped.
"That is so,Herr Leutnant," the Nazi replied. And then, with just the faintest of frowns, "You wish to be driven some place? To your Staffle Headquarters?"
"Yes, but not to my Staffle," Dawson said. "There is one to whom I must report in Duisburg. Order your car, Herr Krumpstadt, and you can drive me there. And I mention it again. My friend who is high in the Party will hear of the courtesy and consideration that you have shown me."
That accomplished what perhaps threats would have failed completely to achieve. Herr Krumpstadt was suddenly all smiles again, and eager expectancy showed in his eyes. After all, it was not every day that one's name was mentioned to one in high authority. All in all it pleased Herr Krumpstadt very much.
"At once,Herr Leutnant!" he said. "And of course I will drive you. No one else here is permitted to leave the area. As you know, there are guards all about. But with me it is different. Holding the position I do, I am permitted to come and go as I wish. No questions are asked of me."
It was all Dawson could do to refrain from heaving one great big sigh of relief. How he would pass through the cordon of guards had been a problem to be faced. But not any more. With Herr Krumpstadt he would obviously sail right on through, and even get saluted on the way by Hitler's soldiers.
"Of course," Dawson said, and even favored the Nazi with his first smile. "Let us leave at once. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!" Herr Krumpstadt fairly screamed, and whacked his arm up in a rigid Nazi salute. "Follow me,Herr Leutnant."
Fifteen minutes later Farbin Factory Number Six, and its ring of guards, were far behind the rear wheels of the Benz touring car that Herr Krumpstadt guided toward Duisburg in the distance. It had been absolutely comical to see the soldiers manning the guard posts to stiffen and salute as the Benz rolled by them. However, Dawson kept his face expressionless, returned each salute in the mechanical Nazi way, and simply smiled inwardly.
"This address where you wish me to drive you,Herr Leutnant?" the Nazi behind the wheel presently broke the silence between them.
Dawson hesitated, and then made his decision.
"Kholerstrasse," he said. "It is on the east side of the city. You can drop me off as soon as we reach it. I will walk to my destination from there."
Dawson was not sure, but he thought that the Nazi stiffened slightly and gave him a quick side glance. But perhaps that wasn't so. Perhaps to Herr Krumpstadt, Kholerstrasse was just the name of a street in Duisburg. Perhaps it meant no more to him that just that.
"Yes, I know where it is," the Nazi replied a moment later. "I will go straight there. And I thank you again,Herr Leutnant, for speaking to your friend."
"I will not forget," Dawson grunted.
And that was that between them until Herr Krumpstadt swung the car into a long, broad street and rolled to a stop at the curb.
"May good luck follow you,Herr Leutnant," the German said as Dawson climbed out. "And may we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. If one by the name of Pierre Duval should come to my factory, I will instantly inform the nearest Police Post. Heil Hitler."
"Good, and a reward will be yours, Herr Krumpstadt," Dawson replied gravely. "Heil Hitler!"
The German smiled, shifted gears and drove away from the curb and on down the street. Dawson watched the car disappear and then slowly took his German cap that he had stuck under his belt and put it on his head. A moment later he turned and started walking along the street. He carried himself like a soldier, but his heart was heavy as lead in his chest. He felt as though he were the last person alive in the world, and it was a battle to keep back the tears when thoughts of Freddy Farmer kept crowding back into his head. Good old Freddy gone! He apparently hadn't bailed out soon enough, and the finger of Death had touched one of the finest persons ever to be born. Freddy gone, and—?
"But it can't be!" Dawson told himself fiercely. "It just can't be. Not Freddy! He wasn't born to go out that way. Yet—!"
He let the rest go unspoken and groaned softly. It was as though his own life were slowly trickling out of him, leaving little more than a dead man to carry on. But that was the thing. Carry on he must, in spite of everything. But how? What next? Getting inside one of the secret factories had seemed so important once. But now? Well, he had been inside Farbin Factory Number Six, and so what? French war prisoners spot welding metal cylinders, and repairing landing gear parts, some of which he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., and in England.
So what? What good was that knowledge to him now as he walked aimlessly along Kholerstrasse? Freddy was gone, and he was alone in Duisburg. The day after tomorrow, by arrangement, a British Recco plane would land at a certain spot and pick him up and take him back to England. The day after tomorrow. But tomorrow was the twenty-fourth of the month. The day when Herr Baron's last agent in England would report to Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse. Or would he? Would Herr Baron change all his plans the instant he learned that he didn't have his little black book any more? And the secret weapon Hans and Erich had toasted with schnapps? What secret weapon? Spot welded metal cylinders, and stripped down landing gear parts? In the name of—!
"I think I'm just going stark, raving nuts!" Dawson breathed, and clenched his two fists helplessly. "It's all mixed up. No part of it makes any sense at all. Oh, dear heaven, if only Freddy were here. If only Freddy were still alive. I can't believe that he is gone. I can't!"