Though Freddy Farmer had his doubts about Goering's "little boys," it so happened that they did not come back to London again that night. Bright and early next morning the two boys were up and inspecting what the hotel's valet service had been able to do about their uniforms. It wasn't a bad job of cleaning, but it wasn't a good job either. True, they would pass muster out at their own squadron, but the Air Ministry, where the Royal Air Force "brass hats" prowl about, was something else again.
"If Air Vice-Marshal Saunders is one of those fussy chaps," Freddy said, and fingered a fire-scorched cuff of his tunic, "he'll probably bleat all over the place."
"Well, what the heck?" Dave cried. "We'll just tell him what happened, and add that we didn't have time to get new uniforms."
"Didn't have the cash, you mean," Freddy said with a grin.
"Same thing, isn't it?" Dave shrugged. "Well, we've got to take our chances, that's all, and hope that he is an okay guy. How do you feel?"
"Stiff as a board," Freddy said, and moved his shoulders. "I feel as if I'd been holding up that building all night."
"Know just what you mean," Dave chuckled. "But you're mistaken."
"Mistaken?" Freddy echoed, and glanced up with a puzzled frown on his good-looking face.
"Sure," Dave said with a nod. "About holding up that building. You only held up half of it. My aching joints tell me I must have been holding up the other half. Well, let's go hunt up some chow. Boy! It's a swell day, anyway—for whatever is going to happen."
Dave moved over to the bomb-shattered window and looked out. There was still a thin pall of smoke hovering over London like a grim reminder of what had happened during the dark hours. On high, however, there was not a cloud to be seen. The sky was a soft blue bathed in the golden rays of the rising sun. When you looked up into that sky, it was hard to believe that death had struck just a few hours before, and that right now it was poised and waiting to strike again when darkness returned.
"What a pip of a day for flying!" Dave breathed softly. "I sure hope Air Vice-Marshal Saunders doesn't keep us hanging around for very long. Me, I want to get back to the squadron and get to work. The Jerries are sure to take a crack at us on a day like this. Boy! This is almost as good as the kind of weather we have back home."
"You mean twice as good," Freddy snorted in his ear. "But hurry up and button your tunic, or you'll be spouting poetry in another couple of minutes. I'm hungry."
Dave sighed and shook his head.
"There's a man for you!" he groaned. "Beauty, war, fire, famine, or flood—they don't mean a thing to him! Only his stomach. Well, you're in for a big surprise, my young fellow. There's one thing they don't allow in the R.A.F."
"What?" Freddy demanded as they walked out of their room.
"I won't tell you," Dave grunted, and headed for the elevators. "I think I'll let you find out for yourself. But no, you are a pal of mine, aren't you?"
"Oh, come off it!" Freddy growled. "I'll bite. What is this wonderful ruling I don't know about?"
Dave jabbed him in the stomach with his thumb.
"They don't let you wear a corset in the R.A.F., my friend," he said. "So watch how much you eat. Also, you might get stuck the next time some Messerschmitt pilot makes you bail out. A Spitfire's cockpit isn't any too big, you know."
"Indeed I do know," Freddy grunted, and watched the elevator slide up and come to a stop. "And that's something I've been wanting to ask you, Dave."
"Well, then, shoot," Dave said. "I'll always help a pal out with the correct answer."
Freddy didn't speak directly. He waited until they were in the elevator. It contained two men in civilian clothes and two women. Looks of frank admiration were cast their way, but Freddy pretended not to notice. He stared at Dave, and there was a look of baby innocence and curiosity in his eyes.
"You'll really tell me, Dave?" he asked in a voice just a trifle loud. "You'll really give me the answer?"
"Sure," Dave said without thinking. "Just ask me the question. I'll give you the answer. What?"
"It's your legs, Dave," Freddy said. "I've often wondered. They're so confoundedly long and skinny, just what do you do with them in the cockpit of your Hurricane? Is it true that the mechanics have cut holes in the fuselage so's you can let them hang out over the leading edge of the wing? But what about when you're landing? What touches the ground first, your feet or the wheels?"
When Freddy stopped, Dave's ears, neck and face were a bright red, and there was a look of murder in his eyes. Everybody in the elevator was roaring with laughter. It was all he could do to keep from taking Freddy by the throat and throttling him right then and there. However, he could take kidding as well as dish it out, and by the time the elevator had reached the lobby level he was laughing as loud as anybody.
"Okay, pick up the marbles for that one, sonny boy," he said to Freddy as they headed for the breakfast room. "But next time it's my turn. And, boy, look out, what I mean!"
"Don't worry!" Freddy chuckled, and squeezed his arm. "With you around, a chap has to watch out constantly."
All through breakfast they maintained a steady stream of kidding chit-chat talk. Of course each knew what was really uppermost in the other's mind: one Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Neither of them mentioned it, though, until the meal was over and it was time to go and report at the Air Ministry located but a few blocks from their hotel.
It was Dave who brought the subject up. He slid a tip beside his empty coffee cup, looked at Freddy, and pushed back his chair.
"Well, let's quit stalling and go see what it's all about," he said. "I'm going nuts with worry and wonder, aren't you?"
"Am I!" Freddy breathed, and gave a little shake of his head. "To tell you the truth, I feel exactly like a criminal waiting for the jury to come in with the news of his fate. What do you suppose—?"
"Don't ask!" Dave cut in. "I've been slowly going nuts asking myself the same question over and over again. Oh, heck, let's go. They can't do any more than shoot us!"
They walked the short distance to the Air Ministry in mutual thoughtful silence. Just inside the wide front doors of the building, they gave their names, ranks, and squadron numbers to an officer seated at a desk that was practically covered with rows of bell buttons. When they added that they were reporting on orders to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders, the officer shot a scowling glance at their uniforms. He didn't say anything, however. He simply nodded, wrote something on a card and then jabbed a button and picked up a Husho-Phone. A moment later he hung up and stabbed another button. An R.A.F. staff sergeant seemed to pop down out of the air. The non-commissioned officer saluted smartly. The officer at the desk handed him the card.
"Take these two officers to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders," he said in a crisp voice.
The staff sergeant took the card with his left hand, saluted smartly again with his right, and looked at Dave and Freddy. They nodded. The sergeant clicked his heels, executed a smart about-face and went off down the hall. Dave and Freddy followed.
"Holy smoke!" Dave breathed out of the corner of his mouth. "Did you get a load of all the bell buttons on that desk, Freddy? I wonder if he's got one that'll do it? There sure are enough."
"Do what?" Freddy whispered back. "What are you talking about?"
"A button he can jab to make Hitler pop out of a secret door in the wall," Dave chuckled. "Boy, wouldn't it be something if all those connecting wires should get mixed up! I think I could enjoy myself at that officer's desk some quiet night with nobody around."
"I can just imagine!" Freddy grunted. "And what a madhouse this place would be the next morning! Well, forget it, my lad. There's a chap at that desk twenty-four hours a day, I fancy."
Dave glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the officer reaching out to punch another button. He sighed heavily.
"It's still a swell idea," he murmured. "Well, we're getting close."
The office of Air Vice-Marshal Saunders was at the rear of the third floor. The sergeant turned the two boys over to a smartly uniformed flight lieutenant in the outer office. A moment or two later the flight lieutenant ushered them into the presence of the high ranking Air Force official. As Dave saluted and looked at the tall, well built figure, a strange sense of relief flooded through him. There wasn't any worry in him any more, only wonder. Air Vice-Marshal Saunders had not reached his position of high responsibility through political pull, nor by knowing the right sort of people. You had only to glance at the rows of decoration ribbons under his pilot's wings over the left upper pocket of his tunic to know that. There was the red, blue, and red ribbon of the Distinguished Service Order (the D.S.O.). There was the blue and white ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross (the D.F.C.). And on that ribbon was the small silver rosette, or bar, which meant that its wearer had performed a feat of air valor for which he had been granted the D.F.C. a second time. There was also the Air Force Cross, and the Mons ribbon, denoting that Saunders had been with that valiant British army that had met the Germans at Mons in 1914, in the First World War. And, of course, there were ribbons to show that he had been decorated by many other governments. No, one look at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders' row of ribbons, and Dave knew that here was a real soldier, a real pilot, and a man who had won and deserved the high position he now held.
The vice-marshal smiled and nodded acceptance of their salute.
"At ease, gentlemen," he said, and pointed to some chairs. "Sit down. We'll have to wait a bit. The colonel is delayed, but he'll be here shortly. Ah! You were in London last night, eh?"
Both boys looked blank for a moment. Then Freddy found his tongue.
"Why—why, yes, sir," he stammered. "But how did you guess, sir?"
"And I'll bet five pounds," the senior officer said with a laugh, "that you two have been worrying yourselves sick that I would hit the ceiling, and rant and rave all over the place, eh?"
"Why, yes—sure—I mean—" Dave stumbled and stopped. "I don't think I understand, sir."
The vice-marshal laughed again and pointed a finger.
"Your uniforms," he said. "Souvenirs from Hitler, I fancy. Did a bomb fall on you, or did you go out hunting for one? Knowing you fighter command lads, I'm guessing it was the latter."
The words banished the last of any fears that might have been lingering in the boys' minds. They relaxed completely and laughed.
"It was about halfway between, sir," Freddy explained. "I mean, a couple of them landed close to the hotel, so—well, we went out and took a look, you might say."
"We didn't bring extra uniforms, sir," Dave added. "And this was the best the hotel could do. I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry?" the air vice-marshal echoed. "About a little bit of water-soaked and fire-scorched cloth? Rot! It's not the looks of a uniform that really counts; it's what's inside that matters. I won't push you for information, but I fancy you did more than just take a look. I—Ah! There's the colonel now."
The boys heard the door open in back of them. They both got quickly to their feet, turned around, and stopped dead with their eyes popping in sheer amazement. A big man in civilian clothes was walking into the room. He had a strip of surgeon plaster over his left eye, and his left hand was completely hidden by a bandage. He walked with a slight limp. The two boys watched him, speechless. They stared at him as though he were a ghost, because it was the man who had been trapped under the desk in that bomb-blasted building the night before.
"Ah, good morning, Colonel," they heard Air Vice-Marshal Saunders say. "Had a bit of an accident, eh? Or is this just another of Intelligence's disguises?"
"Not this time, sir," the colonel said with a tight smile. "Caught a bit of trouble during that mess last night, and—Well, bless my stars!"
The injured man had looked at Dave and Freddy for the first time. His eyes grew wide with amazement, and he gave a little shake of his head as though to clear his vision.
"Great guns, you two?" he gasped. Then, turning to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders: "Are these two Pilot Officers Dawson and Farmer—the two I'm supposed to meet?"
"That's right, Colonel Fraser," the air vice-marshal replied. "Why? You've already met them?"
"And jolly well right I have!" the colonel exclaimed. "But for these two chaps, and a fire lieutenant, I wouldn't be here now. I was in my secret office last night with two of my agents, and my secretary, when a bomb caught the place fair and square. We were all trapped under the wreckage. These two lads got us out a split second before the floor gave way and dropped everything down onto the next floor. Great guns, this is a small world. And say, you two, I'm deucedly sorry about last night."
"Sorry, sir?" Dave echoed, and gave him a questioning look.
The man reached up his good hand and touched the strip of plaster over his eye.
"Got a bit of a crack, and it put me off my napper for a spell," he said. "I was pretty much in a daze while you lads were saving our lives. When I came around, I found myself in my regular office in the War Office building. Must have walked all the way there. Everything came back to me clear as day, but you and those fire fighting chaps had left the spot by the time I got back there. But I certainly want to express my heartfelt thanks to you two, now. I certainly owe my life to you."
"We're glad we were of service," Freddy said, as embarrassed crimson seeped up into his cheeks. "How about the others, sir? Are they getting along all right?"
"Coming along fine," the other said. "Miss Trumble, my secretary, will be out of things for a bit, and I'll certainly miss her. Smartest woman in the service. But that's a jolly sight better than losing her completely. By Jove, this is like a cinema thriller, isn't it! My word!"
Dave and Freddy moved their feet uncomfortably and glanced at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. The high ranking officer was grinning broadly and slowly nodding his head up and down.
"So you simply just went totake a look, eh?" he murmured. "Knew perfectly well that it was much more than that. You two certainly have the reputation for chasing after trouble,andwhipping it."[1]
The air vice-marshal suddenly stopped short. The smile faded from his face, and he stared gravely at the two young R.A.F. pilots for a moment or two.
"And that is just why you are here," he said presently. "This officer, as you probably have guessed already, is Colonel Fraser, of British Intelligence. He is the one who wishes to speak with you. I only suggested to him that you two should have first chance to listen to what he has to say. Shall we all sit down? Colonel, are you ready to start?"
The Intelligence officer seemed to have difficulty in tearing his eyes from the two boys. He finally succeeded, and nodded. And as though a curtain had been drawn across his face, he too became grave and unsmiling.
"Yes, of course, sir," he said in a flat voice. "Let's get on with it at once."
As Dave sat down on his chair again, his heart was pounding so hard he feared it would push right out through his chest. His throat was dry with excitement, and there was that familiar tingling at the back of his neck. The tingling was a sure sign that danger and action were waiting for him just ahead. He glanced at Freddy and saw the look in his pal's eyes. That look said that Freddy was thinking and wondering the same things.
It was a few moments before Colonel Fraser of British Intelligence began talking. He sat staring unseeingly down at his bandaged left hand as though he were choosing the words he would speak. Presently, though, he lifted his head and looked at Dave and Freddy.
"Adolf Hitler's greatest goal in life is to crush the British Empire completely," the Colonel began speaking. "No matter what other battles or minor engagements his troops and his air force may win, they are but steps toward his great goal—the defeat of England. However, in order to defeat England, Hitler must invade and conquer these British Isles. He cannot bring us to our knees from across the Channel. He has got to come over here and beat us into submission. Invasion of England! Those words are on the tongue of every German today."
The colonel paused and pulled a battered pipe from his pocket and a pouch of tobacco. He started to fill the pipe, then stopped and glanced questioningly at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. The high ranking R.A.F. officer smiled and nodded his head.
"Certainly, Colonel," he said. "Go right ahead and smoke."
The Intelligence officer smiled his thanks for permission and lighted up his pipe.
"Yes, invasion of England is the German password today," he said when the pipe was going. "And ever since Dunkirk and the fall of France the Germans have been preparing for the great attempt. We have been preparing, too—preparing to meet that invasion and throw it back into the Channel. I do not have to tell you of the preparations we have made. You've seen them countless times from the air, and you have no doubt seen them on the ground. Also, like every other man in uniform in England, you both have been constantly on the alert and ready to answer an invasion attempt alarm. Well, the attempt was not made right after Dunkirk. It was not made in the month of July. Nor was it made during the month of August. Why?"
Colonel Fraser paused to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe with a fingertip.
"Why?" he repeated. He shrugged and made a little gesture with his pipe. "I do not know," he said. "No one in England knows. As a matter of fact, I'm quite sure that only Hitler knows. Of course we can guess at a thousand reasons why the attempt has not been made, yet. But it is possible that they might all be wrong. This much wedoknow. It has not been made, yet. And this is something we can also be equally positive is true. The desire to invade and conquer Englandhas not left Hitler's mind for a single second. The instant he believes that all is ready, he will give his generals the order to invade us. I mean, by that, toattemptto invade us!"
The colonel gave some more attention to his pipe and then continued.
"Naturally, we haven't been so foolish as simply to prepare in every possible way we can, and then sit back and wait for him to strike. The R.A.F. Bombing Command has been blasting away at Nazi invasion bases on the French, Belgian, and Netherlands coasts night after night, as you both well know. The Navy has been on constant patrol seeking for signs of invasion. It is not known by many people, but we have even done a little invading of our own. Small detachments of sapper troops have slipped ashore in France under the cover of darkness, and made short raids as far inland as Lille. And as you two well know, the R.A.F. has made countless photo and reconnaissance patrols over the occupied countries. And lastly, but by no means least, British Intelligence agents have been sent into the occupied countries, and they have been working day and night, too, in an effort to ferret out scraps of information regarding Hitler's invasion plans. Now!"
The Intelligence officer paused for breath, or perhaps for emphasis.
"Now, this is what I'm leading up to," he said. "The raids we've made, the pictures we've taken, the reports of pilots, and the reports of my own Intelligence agents indicate very strongly that the invasion attempt will be made soon. Perhaps in a couple of weeks, and perhaps in a couple of days. This month, September, the tides and the weather will all be in Hitler's favor. Frankly, I would be willing to stake my life that the attempt will be made sometime this month, but I have no idea whether it will be near the first of the month, or near the last, or even in the middle. That date, however, is something we have absolutelygot to find out. And that is why I am now speaking to you two chaps."
A quivering sensation like a charge of high voltage electricity shot through Dave. A thousand questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he held them in check.
"If there is anything I can do, sir," he said quietly, "I most certainly want to do it."
"And so do I!" Freddy exclaimed with deep feeling. "No matter what it is, sir."
"I told you, Colonel," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders spoke up. "I told you you could count on Dawson and Farmer."
The Intelligence officer seemed not to hear. He sat staring at the two youths. Dave had the strange feeling that the man was staring right into his brain and reading the thoughts there. A moment or so later the Colonel gave a short nod of his head and continued.
"No matter what Hitler tries, we'll beat him at it," he said. "If the invasion attempt comes tonight, we're ready, and we'll beat him. That, however, is not the way we want to beat him. We want to beat himbeforehe's hardly got started; to smash himbeforehe's even come within sight of our shores. In order to do that, though,we must know the exact date set for the attempt. That date can be learned. In fact, I almost learned it one day last week. I didn't because a German Messerschmitt pilot shot down and killed the man who was bringing that information back here to me in England!"
The colonel suddenly stopped and seemed to have trouble with his throat. He swallowed a couple of times, then half turned and shot a faint frowning glance at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Dave looked at the R.A.F. officer just in time to catch the glint of deep sympathy and feeling that flickered through his eyes. Then Colonel Fraser went on speaking again.
"I spoke of sending my Intelligence agents to the occupied countries. Well, some of them have been there since the war started. A few of them have been there all their lives—were born there, in fact. Intelligence and Secret Service agents are not always recognized citizens of the country they serve, you know. The agent of whom I speak now is a Belgian. All during the last war he fought side by side with British soldiers to free his country from Germany's grip. He is too old to fight as a soldier in this war, but he is fighting again to free his country from Germany's iron grip—Hitler's iron grip. He is doing his fighting in the dark and under cover, but more often than not that kind of fighting is more dangerous than fighting in the open. Every second of the day and night his life is in danger. He never knows when the hand of the German Gestapo may drop on his shoulder. He does not even expect the courtesy of being captured as a spy, in fact. He fully expects to be shot in the back the moment the Nazis realize who he is. But that constant danger does not stop him fighting for one single instant. He loves Belgium, the real Belgium, and he will gladly give his life to help England free Belgium of the Nazi chains of indescribable tyranny. I could talk all day of the things that man has already done for England's cause, but I won't. Just let me say that he has done enough to win the Victoria Cross a dozen times over."
The colonel took a moment to light his pipe, which had gone out. He puffed smoke toward the ceiling, and smiled faintly.
"That man has gathered more valuable information for me," he said, "than the whole British Intelligence Service put together. And, strange as it may sound, I have never met him personally. I hope some day to have that great honor, but somehow I rather doubt that I will. Anyway, he is the one man who can tell us when the invasion attempt will be made. Now, wait! I can tell from the expression that just this instant came into your faces, that you're wondering why he hasn't sent the information along to me. Well, he has tried to, several times. The last time was only last week. However, though I hate the very thought of the Nazis, I do not consider them as blind, stupid fools. They are ruthless and barbaric, but they are also very brainy, and are cunning and fiendishly clever beyond words. Naturally, they wish to keep their invasion attempt date a secret just as much as we wish to find it out. And so they are leaving no stone unturned to see that it remains a secret. To give it to you straight from the shoulder, five of my best agents have contacted this Belgian, but not one of them has returned to England alive. Every one has been caught in the invisible web the Nazis have thrown about Europe."
A cold lump suddenly formed in Dave's stomach, but he sat perfectly motionless and kept his eyes on Colonel Fraser's face. After a moment the cold lump gradually disappeared. He could guess now why he and Freddy had been summoned to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders' office. There was a job to be done—a job with danger and death constantly hovering about. But after the first start the truth had given him, he no longer felt fright or even slight uneasiness. He felt only the desire to serve humanity and civilization to the last ounce of his strength, and to the last drop of his blood. If the world and civilization went down under Hitler's heel, then life would not be worth the living. He felt that way as he returned the colonel's steady gaze. And the quiet rigidity of Freddy sitting in the chair next to his told him that his English pal felt exactly the same way.
"I can see you two are getting the point," Colonel Fraser suddenly shot at them. "I want to be fair with you, so I ask you this question. Do you want me to continue, or would you rather return to active duty at your squadron?"
"We want you to continue, sir," Dave said, speaking for himself and Freddy.
"Yes, quite," Freddy added. "What can we do to serve, sir?"
The Intelligence officer smiled briefly; then his face became hard and stern, and there was a ringing note in his voice as he spoke.
"There is only one way in and out of Europe, today," he said. "That's by air. This Belgian I spoke of lives in Antwerp. The address is Sixteen Rue Chartres. That street is down by the docks on the right bank of the Scheldt River. He was a marine engineer in his day, and the last I knew he was working for the Germans occupying the city, doing the odd jobs his age would permit. He is close to seventy. He is blind in one eye, and he is not over five feet six inches tall. His hair is grey, of course, and he has a beard. All this I'm saying I'll repeat in detail later. I'm just running over it briefly, now, to give you some picture of the man I hope you can find. Not only hope, butprayyou will find.
"But to get on with this: I am convinced that it is sheer suicide for any of my agents to try and contact this Belgian. Antwerp, like every other occupied city of importance, is policed day and night by the Gestapo and German counter-espionage agents. Therefore a man would create suspicion no matter how well he might be established in the city. And remember, I said the only way inandout is by air. This highly important job has got to be tackled by one or more pilots. Now—and don't take offense, you chaps—a couple ofBelgian peasant boyswould be less likely to be noticed by the Germans than grown men. And if those two Belgian peasant boys couldfly a plane, then so much the better. You follow me, eh?"
"Right with you, sir!" Dave blurted out enthusiastically. "And Freddy and I both happen to speak the languages, too."
Colonel Fraser laughed.
"Don't worry," he chuckled, "I had checked onthatlittle detail before I asked the air vice-marshal, here, to send for you. Yes, you both are boys—though doing the job of men, believe me—and you both are pilots, and you both speak the languages that will be necessary. And, perhaps the most important thing, you have the courage and the spirit that will keep you going until the job is done. Let me say right here, though, I can't spread the danger angle too thick. Itisa mighty dangerous job. To give it to you from the shoulder again, everything will be in the Germans' favor, not in yours. If either of you is caught—well, no power on earth will be able to save you. The Nazis will shoot too quickly for that."
The Intelligence officer stopped speaking in order to let the true meaning of his words sink home.
"We know how to shoot a bit ourselves, sir," Freddy spoke up in a steady voice. "So I guess you might say that evens things up some, you know."
"We'll take our chances against any Nazi with itching trigger fingers," Dave said grimly. "But I suppose you've got a definite plan of action for us, sir? I mean—"
Dave cut himself off as the Intelligence officer nodded his head abruptly.
"Certainly," he said. "As you know, the Bomber Command is making raids deep into Germany night after night. Well, tonight you two will go along in one of our bombers, as passengers, you might say. It will be in a bomber of a formation heading for Berlin. They will head for Berlin on a flight route that will take them close to Antwerp. At a certain point you and Farmer will bail out. You'll be dressed as refugee peasant lads, of course, but as the plane will pass over high, you'll have oxygen masks and chest tanks for the parachute drop. When you land you will bury your parachutes and masks, and make your way to Sixteen Rue Chartres."
Colonel Fraser shrugged and gestured with his pipe, which had long since gone out again.
"That ends the first part of the plan," he continued. "The instant you bail out, you will be on your own. You may even lose touch with each other coming down in the darkness. ButSixteen Rue Chartresis your goal. And the man you are to get in touch with is known as Pierre Deschaud. He will give you the information we must have. He knows the date, I'll—I'll stake my life on that. He will give you the information, and he will do what he can to help you get back to England. There are several air fields at Antwerp. That we know, of course, from daily photos we have taken. We also know that two or three squadrons of the GermanLuftwaffeare stationed there. Pierre Deschaud will help you steal one of the planes for your flight back to England."
Colonel Fraser stopped abruptly, got out of his chair and began to pace the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of them.
"Any questions?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," Freddy spoke up before Dave could open his mouth. "There was one thing you didn't mention. We may know who Pierre Deschaud is when we meet him, but how is he to know whoweare? Isn't there some code word or sign he would recognize? After all, we could be anybody, as far as he's concerned, perhaps even Nazis trying to smoke him out."
The stern look suddenly left Colonel Fraser's face. Beaming, he leaned over and patted Freddy's back.
"Good lad!" he said with sincere feeling. "That's just the question I wanted you to ask. Didn't tell you because I wanted to see if you'd think of bringing it up. Yes, there is a code word. It is Houyet. Remember that.Houyet!That's the name of the little village in which Deschaud was born almost seventy years ago. When he hears you say that, he'll know that you come from me. And now, I've said enough for a while. We'll meet again before tonight and go over every little item in detail. I do, however, want to say this. I am a colonel, and chief of British Intelligence, but it is chaps like you, chaps with your courage, and your will to fight against no matter what odds, who will win this war for England and the rest of the decent part of the world. I salute you for accepting this dangerous mission, and I also salute you because I know in my heart that you will win through. And so, until later in the day, gentlemen."
A minute more and Colonel Fraser had taken his departure. Dave and Freddy stood silently staring at each other; grimly reading each other's thoughts—two separate thoughts that really blended into one. Here was a real chance to serve, and they would not flinch or falter for a single instant.
"Well, Dawson and Farmer," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders suddenly broke the few moments of silence, "England is counting on you again. And like Colonel Fraser, I, too, know that you will come through. I, too, salute you."
Dave's heart looped over with pride as the vice-marshal clicked his heels and saluted smartly. Dave and Freddy solemnly returned the salute, and their hearts were close to bursting with the thrilling joy of that moment.
"And now," the air vice-marshal said as he lowered his hand, "I want to tell you something that may help if the going should get hard. It's something that proves the trust and belief that Colonel Fraser has in you—something that will make you come through, if only for his sake. You recall he spoke of almost receiving that information last week? Of how the man flying it back to England was trapped and shot down by a Messerschmitt pilot?"
"Yes, sir," Freddy said as Dave nodded.
"That man was only twenty years old," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders said, "just a few years older than you chaps. He could fly a plane, but he couldn't serve in the R.A.F., or in any of the active fighting branches of the service, because of physical reasons. He was part cripple. He tried to serve England as an Intelligence agent. He did valuable work for which his memory will long be honored. He gave all he had, his life, for England. His name was Richard Fraser. He was Colonel Fraser's only son. For his sake, as well as for England, you must succeed."
Dave had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could speak.
"Dick Fraser," he murmured more to himself. "That's a swell name, and I bet he was a swell fellow, too. You bet we'll succeed, sir. If it's the last thing we do, we'll find this Pierre Deschaud and come back with the information England needs."
Freddy Farmer cleared his own throat and nodded vigorously.
"You have our word on that, sir," he said evenly. "We won't let you down. We won't let England down!"
"Amen!" Air Vice-Marshal Saunders whispered softly.
Night had come again to England—black night and the throbbing drone of Nazi planes winging inland from the shoreline of the Channel; swarm after swarm of Goering's vultures who would blast helpless men, women, and children with their deadly loads of bombs, and then return to their bases and report the great number of hits they had scored upon strictly military objectives.
Standing on the edge of a night-shadowed field several miles north of London, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer watched the play of searchlight beams, and the glow of burning buildings in the distance. The sound of the bursting bombs was like the dull rumble of thunder far away. But every now and then when the wind changed slightly, they caught the faint chatter of the machine guns of night-flying Spitfires and Hurricane pilots hunting out the raiders high up in the sky.
For several minutes they had been standing there watching the sight and not speaking. There wasn't anything to say except express the desire to be up there doing their bit along with their R.A.F. comrades. And to express such a wish would have been just a waste of breath. Even though it had suddenly been granted, neither of them would have accepted. They had their own job to do. They had pledged themselves to carry it through to a successful end, and neither of them would turn back now even though he were given the opportunity.
One hour ago they had reported to the squadron leader of this Bombing Command unit. He had of course been informed of the flight they were to make, but only up to the point where they would bail out somewhere close to Antwerp. He had welcomed them gravely, but they had not missed the gleam of quiet admiration in his eye. The squadron leader had introduced them to the pilot and crew of the Wellington bomber in which they would make the flight. Flight arrangements had been quietly discussed, and they had been supplied with parachute packs, and oxygen masks and tanks. That done with, the pilots and crews scheduled to make the raid had retired to the Ready-Room for last minute instructions, leaving Freddy and Dave to discuss last minute items between themselves.
There had been nothing for them to discuss, however. Every possible angle of their coming venture had been hashed over and over during a second meeting with Colonel Fraser and Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. A detailed picture of Pierre Deschaud was stamped in their brains. They had poured over a detailed map of the Scheldt River waterfront until they knew it by heart. Every little thing that might help, Colonel Fraser had told them. Ten times, no, a hundred times, they had gone carefully over the whole thing from beginning to end. There was nothing for them to discuss between themselves, now. There was nothing to do but wait until the four plane flight of Wellington bombers, powered by twin 1000 horsepower Bristol "Pegasus" engines, was ready to take off.
"I bet those guys are busting to ask us a million questions," Dave eventually broke the silence between them. "You could see it in their eyes when we were introduced."
"Well, you certainly can't blame them," Freddy replied with a chuckle. "Just look at these duds we're wearing. And by the by, you certainly won't break any girl's heart as a Belgian peasant boy, my pal. Frankly, you look a sight."
"Listen to who's talking!" Dave snorted. "That dizzy-looking get-up of yours is the one thing that has me worried about this flight."
"Ah, so the chapisworried!" Freddy murmured. "I thought so!"
"Darn tooting!" Dave said. "One look at you and both of the Pegasus engines on the bus are liable to up and stop working just like that. And then where'll we be? See what I mean?"
"I doubt if they'll even get us off the ground if you get close to them!" Freddy scoffed. "So be sure and stay well back out of sight. But to be serious, Dave, what do you really think of our chances? Oh, I know we'll go the limit, but what do you really think?"
Dave didn't answer for a moment. He turned his back to the scene of night aerial warfare to the south and stared unseeingly at the four "Wellies" with their propellers slowly ticking over.
"That's a tough question, Freddy," he finally said. "To tell you the truth, I really don't know just what Idothink. As a matter of fact—No, skip that."
"Skip what, Dave?" Freddy prodded earnestly. "What were you going to say? I really want to know."
Dave looked at him and smiled a trifle wryly.
"Maybe I'm getting old too fast, Freddy," he said. "Or maybe I'm just getting too many cockeyed ideas for my age. But from what I've already seen of this war, nothing is absolutely certain. I mean, you can plot and plan how you're going to do a thing until you're blue in the face; get every little thing all set so that it's—well, so that it's in the bag, as we say back home. Then,zingo! Something pops up that knocks all your plans completely haywire. And—Oh, nuts! I guess I'm like a kid whistling in the dark."
"And I feel exactly the same," Freddy said quietly. "But go on. What else, Dave?"
"Oh, skip it!" Dave grunted. "Maybe I'm just getting cold feet at the last minute."
Freddy stepped close to him.
"Would you like me to bash you one, my American pal?" he asked sharply. "Well, just stop talking that way about yourself. Cold feet? What rot! After what I saw you do at the Dunkirk show? Rubbish! No, Dave, don't talk that way tome. Now, what else were you going to say?"
Dave grinned and playfully rasped his knuckles across Freddy's jutting chin.
"One in a million, that's you," he said softly. "One in five million, or name any figure. Well, it's the old hunch business working again, if you must know, Freddy. I mean, everything seems too pat, too cut and dried. I've got the hunch that something we couldn't even dream of is going to pop up and dump us into a mess of trouble before we're back in England again."
"And right you are!" Freddy breathed softly. "I have a feeling just like that, myself. Got it first this afternoon, but I didn't say a word for fear the colonel might take it the wrong way. He might have thought I was hedging and trying to back out. You know, make excuses?"
"Nobody would ever think you were trying to back out of anything!" Dave said loyally. "But what was it that popped into your mind, anyway?"
"Pierre Deschaud," Freddy said.
Dave shot him a puzzled look.
"Huh?" he echoed. "Pierre Deschaud? So what?"
Freddy hesitated a moment and fumbled with the hem of his coarse peasant jacket.
"Sheer rot, probably," he said after a moment. "But a chap is bound to think of things, you know. Colonel Fraser admits that word from Deschaud cannot get through to him except by one of the colonel's agents. He also admits that the last five agents who have gotten in touch with Deschaud have failed to return. They have either disappeared or died, or both. Well, that makes me wonder a lot."
"Well, he said the Nazis were smart and clever guys," Dave pointed out.
"Sure he did," Freddy nodded. "But don't you get the idea, Dave?"
"The old brain has swallowed up so much today, it's a blank," Dave confessed. "What are you driving at, anyway?"
"What proof is there that Pierre Deschaudis still alive?" Freddy asked suddenly.
Dave gasped and went back a step as the real significance of the words came home to him.
"Holy catfish!" he eventually breathed. "Thatisa thought, isn't it!"
"And one worth a lot of consideration, too," Freddy nodded. "As I said, it may all be a lot of rot, but chew on this a bit, Dave. It is possible that the Nazis have trapped and caught this Pierre Deschaud, but aren't saying anything about it. Maybe they are using him, or somebody exactly like him, as bait for the colonel's agents. Don't forget, the last five agents were caught!"
Dave swallowed hard and wiped a hand across his forehead, which had become just a wee bit moist—and not from the warmth of the night air, either!
"Gee, you think of the nicest things!" he muttered. "But you could be right as rain, Freddy, and no fooling. We've got to watch our step. Andhowwe've got to watch it! Pick up the marbles, Freddy. You've got the old brain, and no fooling! Any other ideas?"
"No, that one's enough," Freddy said grimly. "Yes, we've got to watch our step, but—well—that is—I mean, it doesn't make any difference, Dave, does it?"
"Any what?" Dave echoed, and stared at him. "You mean, should we call it off? Hey! One more crack like that, and—Oh, just the old kidder, huh?"
Freddy was chuckling as he grabbed Dave's arms.
"I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "I just couldn't pass the opening. Your face looks so funny when you suddenly get mad. Of course I didn't mean a thing, and I apologize."
"Well, that's better!" Dave growled. Then, grinning slowly: "You did have me going for a second, there. I really thought you were serious, you old tease, you! I must be slipping, not to have got wise at once. I—Uh-uh! I guess this is it, pal!"
The last was caused by the approaching figure of the pilot of the Wellington in which they were to fly. The pilot was Flight Lieutenant Wiggins, and though he wore a heavy flying kit, they knew that the D.F.C. ribbon for air gallantry was under the R.A.F. wings on his tunic. He came up, stopped, grinned, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the waiting Wellington bombers.
"Hitler just called," he announced. "Says the weather is perfect over Berlin, and will we please get it over with? So I guess we'd better get along and please the little fellow, what? You ready?"
"And raring," Dave said with a grin.
"Absolutely fed up with standing on the ground," Freddy added.
The flight lieutenant chuckled and gave them both a keen look.
"I say, drop me a line after it's all over, will you?" he suddenly asked as they started walking toward the planes. "You know my name and squadron address. It should reach me right enough."
"A line about what?" Dave asked in an innocent voice.
"Come off it, my lad!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins snorted. "You know what I mean. The show you two are scheduled to pull off. We've been pulling out our hair wondering what it's all about. That goes for the squadron leader, too. He swears he doesn't know a thing."
"But that's rot!" Freddy exclaimed, and buckled his helmet strap tight. "Didn't Hitler say he phoned, just now?"
"The blighter didn't say a word, except that the weather was wonderful and would we please get on with it?" Wiggins chuckled.
"Well, there you are!" Freddy cried. "He's just a shy sort of chap, you know. Probably was afraid that you'd pull his leg about it."
"Oh, quite," the flight lieutenant said with a gesture. "But just what would I pull his leg about? Of course, if it's a deep secret, and you've sworn to Winston Churchill not to breathe a word, why then—"
"But we thoughteverybodyknew!" Dave said in mock surprise. "Hitler's become fed up. And he's mad at Goering, besides. Goering won't lend him any of his medals any more. So Hitler's mad. He wants to come over here and fight in the British army. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather when King George asked my pal and me to go over there and bring him back."
"So there you are!" Freddy said. "All very simple. Nothing to it, really."
"Sure!" Dave chuckled. "Get a copy of the London Times tomorrow. There may even be pictures."
"Say, I'll jolly well do that!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said with mock excitement. "And some day I'll tell my grandchildren that I shook hands with the two chaps who nurse-maided Adolf Hitler back to England. So I guess I'd better do that, now."
They had reached the side of the nearest Wellington. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins stopped and in turn shook each boy warmly by the hand.
"Happy landings, lads," he said quietly. "Tally-ho, and all that sort of thing, you know. Well, up into her."
A warm and exhilarating glow tingled through Dave and Freddy as they climbed up through the belly door of the Wellington bomber and made their way forward toward the navigator's cubbyhole just in back of the pilot. The kidding with Flight Lieutenant Wiggins had removed a lot of ugly thoughts. That was the old R.A.F. spirit. Perhaps not one of these Wellingtons would return from their dangerous night raids over Germany, but the pilots and the crews didn't talk about that. They didn't even think about it. They were R.A.F., and there was a job to do. And that was that. No fuss and feathers. No back slapping and brass bands. Battling death and beating it at its own game was routine with them, and they took it as such, with a smile and a joke on their lips.
When they were seated on the two small canvas stools, Dave reached over, pressed Freddy's knee and winked at him in the pale glow of the single light bulb fitted to a fuselage bracing strip. Freddy winked back and smiled. A moment later the fuselage light winked out, and there was no light save the pencil beam of the navigator's bulb, and the fused glow of the instrument panel up forward. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins ran up his engines, checked the radio, and then trundled his bomb-loaded ship to the far end of the field and swung it around into the wind.
There he waited with idling engines for the three other planes in the patrol to take up line-astern position. When they were in place and ready, radio orders came from the field's Operations Office for the take-off. Wiggins pushed throttles forward, and the two Pegasus engines roared up in a mighty song of power. The Wellington quivered and trembled for a moment as though it were reluctant to leave the safety of English soil. Then slowly it moved forward down a long line of flares set out on the field. With every revolution of its twin propellers the plane picked up speed. Presently it was bouncing down that line of flares on its wheels with the tail up. A moment or so more and Flight Lieutenant Wiggins pulled back on the controls. The bouncing stopped, and the Wellington went curving up toward the star-dotted night sky.
The instant the wheels were clear and the bomber was mounting up toward Heaven, Dave twisted slightly so that he could peek out the navigator's port and down at the shadowy mass that was England falling away from the plane. For one brief instant stark fright streaked through his heart. It passed, and a tight grin came to his lips. He turned his head and looked past Flight Lieutenant Wiggins and through the reinforced glass nose of the plane—and on into the future.
"Pierre Deschaud, here we come!" he whispered softly to himself.
England was far behind in the darkness. The altimeter on the instrument board in front of Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said twenty thousand feet. Both Dave and Freddy had long since stuck the oxygen tubes in their mouths, as had also Wiggins and the members of his crew. And whenever their heads felt a bit light they took a suck of the energy-restoring air and instantly felt normal again. Dave had to grin whenever he looked at Freddy and the others. In their helmets and oxygen masks, they looked like a group of crazy creatures from Mars.
Presently they ran into a bit of weather. The plane heaved slightly, but Wiggins kept it dead on its course. After another bit of time they ran into high clouds. Dave saw Flight Lieutenant Wiggins speaking into his radio mike and knew that the pilot was ordering the other planes of the patrol to spread out so as to avoid collision while flying blind. The nodding of Wiggins' head indicated that the other pilots were acknowledging the order and obeying it.
For some fifteen minutes the plane flew blind through the clouds, then came out into clear air again. Wiggins and the navigator checked their position. Then Wiggins scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it back to the two boys. They glanced at the short message, which read:
"Tired of looking at your funny faces. Time to make sure your 'chute packs are strapped on tight. You will probably need them on the way down!! Cheeri-o!"
"Tired of looking at your funny faces. Time to make sure your 'chute packs are strapped on tight. You will probably need them on the way down!! Cheeri-o!"
Dave and Freddy grinned at each other, then impulsively they clasped hands warmly. No words were spoken. No words needed to be spoken. They would have been empty and meaningless. The firm pressure of the other's hand had told each far, far more than mere words. The first part of their venture was quickly drawing to a close. In a short time they would dive away from the droning Wellington into the black night that shrouded German-occupied Belgium. In a few minutes—
But fate, perhaps, had suddenly decided not to let it be that way. Above the drone of the twin Pegasus engines came a sharp staccato yammer that made fingers of ice clutch at Dave's heartstrings. An instant later he heard the loud voice of the gunner in the tail.
"A couple of the beggers have picked us out!" he cried. "There go the blinking Paul Prys!"
At that moment the Wellington flew straight into a world of brilliant white light. Nazi searchlights on the ground, or Paul Prys, as the boys of the R.A.F. called them, had picked up the Wellington formation in their revealing glare. Instinctively Dave and Freddy grabbed hold of fuselage girders for support. And not a moment too soon, either. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins had shoved the control stick forward and was dropping the Wellington down into a roaring power dive. A couple of split seconds after he started the dive, he sent the plane careening crazily off to the left. The craft roared out of the searchlight beams and plowed away through black night.
"Sweet going!" Dave heard his own voice shout in praise. "That's showing the guys how good their Paul Prys are. Oh-oh! I had forgotten about those birds!"
The last exclamation was caused by the staccato yammer of aerial machine gun fire coming to his ears once again. And almost instantly the sound of the guns in the tail of the Wellington was added to the chatter. Dave and Freddy hugged their seats and felt very helpless and useless. They were really passengers aboard the plane, and there was nothing they could do but sit tight. Sit tight—and think.
That was the hard part. Thinking! Because their thoughts were far from joyous ones. Dave's hunch had started to come true. In another few moments they should have been floating down toward Belgium soil. But all that was changed, now. Fate had guided night flying German planes to their position in the sky, and those Nazi pilots were doing their utmost to finish them off right then and there.
"Just as though they knew we were coming, and were hiding in the bushes!" Dave muttered to himself as British and German aerial machine guns hammered away at each other. "Just as though—Ye Gods! Could that be true? Do the Nazis know that Freddy and I are—"
He cut off the startling thought short and gulped. Then suddenly the whole night sky seemed to explode right on the tip of the Wellington's nose. Colored light and sound raced back to crash against Dave and Freddy as though they were things actually made of solid substances. Dave braced himself and squinted forward. What he saw brought a sharp cry to his lips, and he came up off his stool as though a coiled spring had been released under him.
"We're hit, Freddy!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Wiggins and the other chap caught some of that anti-aircraft shell."
Twisting past the navigator's cubbyhole, Dave went forward to where Flight Lieutenant Wiggins sat slumped over against the controls. His weight had forced the Dep control stick forward, and the Wellington was now tearing down in a thundering dive. The second pilot had been knocked clean off his canvas seat and was stretched out motionless on the cockpit flooring. Bracing himself, Dave reached out and pulled the unconscious Wiggins back in the seat with one hand. Holding the man there, he reached down and grabbed hold of the Dep wheel and gave it all of his strength. The nose tried to drag itself down to the vertical, but Dave's pull on the stick was too much. Inch by inch the plane's nose came up, and after what seemed like years the craft was climbing upward at a slightly flat angle.
"Help me get Wiggins out of the seat!" Dave shouted to Freddy at his elbow. "I'll take over while you fellows see if they're badly hurt."
"Right you are!" Freddy called out in a clear steady voice. "Here, I'll give you a hand with Wiggins and this other chap."
Together the boys lifted and dragged Flight Lieutenant Wiggins and his second pilot out of the cockpit and back toward the navigator's cubbyhole. The navigator seemed too amazed to lend a hand at first.
"But who'll fly the bus, now?" he gasped when he finally found his tongue.
"If she handles something like a Hurricane, don't worry!" Dave shouted, and vaulted into the seat vacated by Wiggins.
The searchlights had once again picked up the Wellington, and Dave had the crazy impression of flying right straight through the sun as he hunched himself over the controls. A world of brilliant, blinding light smote his eyes, and it was filled with the thundering roar of exploding anti-aircraft shells, and the snarling yammer of death-spitting aerial machine guns. Instinct and instinct alone guided Dave's movements as he struggled to wheel and dive that Wellington out of the dazzling white glare. He couldn't even see the instrument panel in front of him, the light was so blinding. However, you don't need eyes to shove the control stick this way and that. Nor do you need eyes to jump on left or right rudder pedal.
Perhaps the designers of the Wellington bomber would have torn out their hair in anguish at the way Dave Dawson booted their brainchild about the searchlight-stabbed sky over Belgium. But Dave didn't give a thought to that. Perhaps he didn't fly it real pretty like. But a twin-engined Wellington loaded with bombs isn't exactly like a swift sleek Hurricane, so what the heck? The idea was to cut away from those fingers of light that pinned them against the heavens, and that was the only idea. How the heck he brought it about didn't matter. That he could do it was what counted.
And he did succeed. Without warning the Wellington sliced right into a wall of darkness. Dave instinctively reached for the throttles to take strain off the howling engines, but he checked his hand, and let the plane roar deeper and deeper into that blessed sea of darkness. Then presently, when he saw the searchlight beams being frantically swung back and forth across the sky far in back of him, he put the ship in a steady climb and twisted around in the seat.
That is, he started to twist around in the seat, but such movement seemed to make the top of his head fly off. In a flash he realized what was wrong. In the excitement his oxygen mask had slipped down off his face and he could not reach the tube with his lips. Night air was pouring through the shattered section of cockpit glass cowling where fragments of shrapnel had struck, and the sensation was akin to a million icy needles pricking the skin of his face and hands. He let go of the controls, adjusted his oxygen mask and sucked the life giving gas into his lungs. In a second or so he was a new man. He set the controls for level flight, then twisted around in the seat and looked back.
Freddy and the navigator were bending over Wiggins and the second pilot. Even as Dave looked, the flight lieutenant slowly sat up, made a wry face, and put a hand to his head. Dave sighed thankfully.
"Well, he's pretty much okay!" he breathed. "So that's one of them to handle this bus."
He turned forward for a moment to check the instruments, then scrambled out of the seat and went back. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins saw him and smiled thinly.
"Much obliged, old chap," he said, and slowly stood up. "Had a hunch you two knew something about planes. R.A.F., of course."
The flight lieutenant paused and winked.
"But we won't say a word about what we know," he whispered. "Must keep it very hush-hush, what? And, oh yes, I haven't thanked you for saving our blinking hides, have I? Well, I thank you sincerely, and all that sort of thing."
"Forget it," Dave said, and grinned at him. "I was only thinking of my own hide. By the way, how's your pal?"
Dave pointed down at the second pilot, who was also sitting up and holding his head in his hands.
"Who, Chubby, there?" Wiggins echoed. "Oh, never worry about Chubby when he gets hit on the head. There's nothing inside to hurt, you see. On your feet, Chubby. We've got to coast about a bit, and find out just where the devil we are, and what happened to the rest of the patrol, too. Then we'll let these two gentlemen off at their stop. Come along, lad. After we've landed, I'll let you look at the cut onmyhead."
Wiggins tapped his second pilot playfully on the shoulder, and then went forward and took over the controls. The second pilot got to his feet, looked at Dave and Freddy and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of despair.
"And to think I could have flown with dozens of other Wellington pilots," he groaned. "But I had to go and pick a heartless beggar like him. Ah me! Such is life in the R.A.F., lads. All work, and not the slightest bit of appreciation from your superiors. Good luck!"
Dave and Freddy laughed as the second pilot slouched wearily forward to his canvas seat. Five minutes later Wiggins had made contact with the rest of his patrol, and had relocated his position. Another ten minutes and Flight Commander Wiggins turned the controls over to his second pilot and came aft to Dave and Freddy. He replied to their questioning glances with a nod.
"Right-o, chaps," he said. "We're at seventeen thousand and about six miles south of Antwerp. Chubby will cut the engines and take her down another couple of thousand. A free fall will take you out of the Paul Prys in case they hear us and start poking around. And many thanks again for saving the ship. Chubby and I will always think kindly of you, very much so. Well, good luck again."
"Don't thank us," Dave said, and jerked his head toward the tail. "Thank your tail gunner for driving off those night flying planes that were potting at you. What about the rest of the patrol? Did you contact them by radio?"
"Oh, sure," Wiggins nodded. "One reports getting a Messerschmitt, too. They've gone on. We'll catch up with them after you chaps have stepped off into space."
"You're continuing the patrol?" Freddy gasped, and looked forward at the shattered glass of the cockpit cowling.
Flight Lieutenant Wiggins followed his gaze and chuckled.
"Oh, quite," he said. "That hole's nothing. Besides, the night air will keep Chubby awake, you know. The blighter's always falling asleep and making me do all the flying. And also, I couldn't use up gas lugging these bombs all this distance without dropping them where they'll do the most good."
"And I hope every one is a direct hit!" Dave said grimly, making sure that his parachute harness was properly buckled.
"Me too!" Freddy chimed in. "And I'll give you one guess who I hope you hit right on top of the old bean, too!"
"My, my! What a cold-blooded chap!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said in pretended horror. "I don't believe he likes the nasty Nazis a single bit. Well, neither do I, for that matter. Right-o, Chubby! Dig the sleep out of your baby blue eyes, and slide us down three thousand. Our guests are leaving us."
The last was shouted forward. Chubby nodded that he had heard and eased back the throttles until the Pegasus engines were just a rumbling murmur. The nose of the Wellington dipped gracefully and the bomber slid gently down through the night sky. Dave and Freddy moved forward to the belly door that the navigator had opened up. There they waited until Chubby had pulled the bomber up out of its glide and was prop plowing along on an even keel. Dave looked at Freddy, and grinned.
"See you, you know where, pal!" he called out. "Watch out you don't float down on a church steeple. Those things are doggone sharp, you know."
"And you watch out, too!" Freddy cried as Dave got down and let his legs hang down through the opening. "And if you get lost, just send me a postcard. I'll come get you. Happy landings!"
"Ditto to you, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and let his body drop down through the belly door.