DAVE DAWSON ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT
_by_ R. SIDNEY BOWEN
_Author of_: "DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK" "DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A.
F." "DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA" "DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL" "DAVE
DAWSON, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT" "DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE" "DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET" "DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS" "DAVE
DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS"
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1943, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MYSTERY MAN 11
II ROOM 1200 20
III FATE LAUGHS 31
IV EAST OF DARKNESS 42
V DOUBLING FOR DEATH 53
VI EAGLES FOR MOSCOW 63
VII YOU CAN'T SEE DEATH 72
VIII NAZI LIGHTNING 85
IX TNT TWINS 98
X EASTWARD TO WAR 114
XI MOSCOW MAGIC 129
XII THE LIVING DEAD 144
XIII HIGH STAKES 158
XIV SUCCESS OR SUICIDE? 171
XV LAND OF THE DEAD 187
XVI SATAN IS GLEEFUL 199
XVII END OF THE BEGINNING 212
XVIII ACES DON'T WAIT 222
XIX HEADACHES FOR HITLER 234
CHAPTER ONE
_Mystery Man_
"Okay, okay!" Dave Dawson growled, and rolled over to a more comfortable
position in the hotel bed. "It's dear old England. A wonderful country,
a great place. And you're tickled silly to be here. Okay, I agree with
every word you say. God save the King, and there'll always be an
England. _Now_, will you let a guy get some sleep?"
"But you don't understand what it means to me, Dave." Freddy Farmer
spoke through the darkness from the other bed. "This is my native land,
my home, and I've--"
"Gone completely screwy!" Dawson snapped. "Sweet tripe! You were here
only two days ago. Two days you've been away, and you're sounding off as
though you'd been away for a million years. Just a two day jaunt over to
France, and the guy starts flag waving. My pal, much as I like you, you
are a pain in seventeen different places at the same time. Go to sleep,
you bow-legged Commando!"[1]
[Footnote 1: _Dave Dawson With the Commandos._]
"Just what I've said quite often," Freddy said placidly. "It takes an
Englishman to really appreciate his homeland. Two years or two days,
what does it matter? The joy that is his upon arriving back home is
always the same. Do you see what I mean, Dave?"
Dawson groaned, sat up in bed, and switched on the table lamp. But as he
did so he took a quick automatic glance at the room windows to make sure
that the blackout curtains were drawn and securely fastened. Then he
hunched around in bed and glared at his closest and dearest friend in
the world.
"The day will come!" he snarled. "So help me, the day will come!"
The English-born air ace blinked, and looked blank.
"Eh?" he echoed. "What say, Dave?"
"Just that the day will come, so help me!" Dawson answered, and leveled
a stiff forefinger. "The day will come when I'll forget I like you, and
will up and bust you right on your snoot. For cat's sake, Freddy! You're
worse than a woman, from what I hear of them. Don't you ever shut up?"
Freddy Farmer propped a hand under his head and grinned.
"But I don't feel sleepy," he said. "I want to talk. Don't you? Now,
really, you're not sleepy, are you, Dave? After all, we haven't had much
time to talk since we got back from that Commando show in Occupied
France. We've--I say! What's the matter, old fellow?"
The last was because Dawson's hands had come up in an attitude of
prayer, and his lips were moving soundlessly.
"Just calling for strength," he told his pal. "For a second there I
almost wished that you had been left behind, you doggone phonograph
record. Look, pal, see these lines on my face? And these pouches under
my eyes? Well, that's not from age. Just because I'm tired."
Freddy Farmer stared hard, and his face flooded with sympathy. However,
there was a very wicked gleam in his eyes.
"I say, Dave, old thing!" he murmured. "I'm frightfully sorry, no end. I
thought--well, as you Yanks say, that you could take it. I didn't dream
that little Commando show in Occupied France would do you in so much.
Put out the light, you poor fellow, and try to get some sleep. Want me
to send down to the chemist shop for something to make you sleep?
Drugstore, you call it in the States, don't you?"
Dawson carefully settled himself in a sitting position, and then,
clasping his hands in his lap, he started to count.
"One--two--three--four--five--!"
"I say, Dave, what's up?" Freddy Farmer cried in alarm.
"When I get to ten, you'll find out!" Dawson barked. Then, with a heavy
sigh, "Okay, okay, you want to talk, so what chance have I got? I
couldn't sleep, now, if I were hit by a truck. But just one thing,
Freddy Farmer: keep this night in your memory, always!"
"Why, Dave?"
"Just never mind, sweetheart!" Dave grunted. "Skip it for the present.
As you were saying?"
"Oh, so you want to talk, old thing?" the English youth echoed, and
grinned maliciously. "Splendid! It is nice to be back in England, isn't
it?"
"I could answer that, but my folks brought me up to act like a
gentleman!" Dawson snapped. "What else, Edison?"
"Edison?"
"The inventor of the phonograph," Dawson said. "Turn the record and put
in a new needle!"
"Well, I was wondering--" the English youth murmured, as he let the
wisecrack sail right over his head--"I was wondering what next, Dave?"
"More loss of sleep," Dawson flung at him, "because of more useless talk
at three in the morning from a certain nit-wit. And, I do mean you!"
"And the same to you, sir!" Freddy came right back at him, and made a
face. "But I am still wondering what's going to happen next?"
"Who cares, so long at it's action against those dirty Nazis," Dawson
said.
"Quite!" the English youth murmured. "But you're a very tired little
fellow. Go on back to sleep. I'll tell you about it in the morning.
That'll be time enough. Good night, Dave. Or rather, good morning."
Freddy reached a hand toward the table lamp between the twin beds, but
Dave grabbed hold of it in time.
"Nix!" he said. "That look on your face makes me suspicious, young
fellow. You've got something important on your mind. I can tell. Come
on, now. Let's have it, pal."
"Oh, I fancy it will keep until morning," Freddy Farmer said with a
wicked grin. "Go get your beauty sleep. After all, it arrived after you
had gone to sleep. So what's the difference?"
By now Dawson was wide awake, and as he swung his legs out from under
the covers there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Stop right there, pal!" he grunted, and leveled a finger. "What came
after I'd gone to sleep? Do you tell me, or do I toss you through that
window, blackout curtains and all?"
"Oh no you don't!" the English youth cried as he leaped out of bed on
the far side. "Calm down, young fellow, and I'll tell you. Stay put, or
not a word will I tell you!"
Dawson relaxed and sank back on his bed.
"Okay, but it had better be good!" he growled through a yawn. "Okay,
what's the big mystery?"
"It was a phone call," Freddy Farmer said with a jerk of his head toward
the instrument on the wall. "From the Air Ministry. We are to report at
Room Twelve Hundred at eight o'clock in the morning."
"Hey, they can't do that to us!" Dave cried. "We're supposed to be on
leave. We--Did the chap at the other end say what it was all about?"
Freddy Farmer shook his head and slid back into bed.
"Not a word," he said. "Naturally, I asked questions. But that's all the
good it did me. The chap was very brusque. Report at eight, and that's
that."
Dawson sighed and gave a sad shake of his head.
"Not that I don't want to do my part in trimming the Nazis," he said,
"but, my gosh, I could do with at least a couple of days leave. Why, I
haven't even had time to see a movie in months. Oh, well, maybe it's for
something unimportant."
"I doubt it," Freddy Farmer said emphatically. "I guess you've forgotten
Room Twelve Hundred at the Air Ministry, Dave."
"Huh?" Dawson echoed, jerking his head up. "Room--? Holy smoke! That's
Royal Air Force Intelligence! But it doesn't make sense, Freddy. We're
not in the R.A.F. now. We're with the Yank forces!"
"Quite!" the English-born air ace grunted. "But I fancy Air Ministry
wouldn't have phoned that order if they hadn't first obtained permission
of Yank G.H.Q. But what difference does it make, anyway, if it's Yank
G.H.Q. or the Air Ministry? Either of them could detail a job to us.
But the important thing to me is, what is it this time?"
"The fellow on the phone didn't give you any kind of a hint?" Dawson
persisted.
The English youth shook his head.
"Not the faintest," he replied. "We'll just have to wait and find out,
I'm afraid."
Dawson groaned and glanced at the clock on the night table. The hands
showed him it was exactly sixteen minutes to four. Just four hours and
sixteen minutes to wait!
"Nuts!" he sighed, and slid down under the covers. "I wish I hadn't made
you tell me, pal. Now there's a fat chance that I'll get any more sleep!
You don't happen to have a deck of cards around, do you? We could kill
time with some two-handed rummy."
"Sorry," Freddy Farmer said. "Not a card. But I'll sing to you, if you
like."
"Never!" Dawson cried out in mock protest. "Spare me that, please, sir.
Besides, I don't want to have the authorities piling in here to arrest
you for impersonating the air raid sirens. Nix! I'll permit you to sing
over my dead body. I'll--Oh, darn it! What do you suppose they've got
cooked up for us in Room Twelve Hundred at the Air Ministry?"
"How I wish I knew!" Freddy Farmer breathed solemnly. "But if past
experience means anything, there's one thing we can bank on, no doubt."
"Which would be?" Dawson grunted.
"A messy job of some kind," the English youth opined. "They seem to save
that sort of thing especially for us."
"Check and double check!" Dawson murmured. "You've got something there,
pal. And how!"
And with that both boys lapsed into silence, and stared thoughtful and
scowlingly up at the hotel room ceiling.
CHAPTER TWO
_Room 1200_
Any period of time will pass if you'll just wait long enough, and so
eventually it was eight o'clock in the morning, and the two air aces had
paused before Room Twelve Hundred at the Air Ministry. They had paused
by unspoken mutual consent. And now as their eyes met they both grinned,
and lifted their right hands with the middle fingers crossed over the
indexes.
"Here's for luck, or something," Dave Dawson murmured with a wink.
"Quite," Freddy Farmer echoed. "At least, I hope it won't be _bad_
luck."
For a couple of seconds more the two youths hesitated, and then Dave
Dawson took a deep breath, turned the door knob, and pushed the door
open. He entered the small outer office with Freddy Farmer right at his
heels. A Flight Lieutenant seated at the small desk took one swift look
at their American Air Force uniforms and recognized them at once.
"Good morning, Captains," he said with a smile. "I'll tell Air
Vice-Marshal Leman, and Colonel Welsh, that you are here."
Both Dave and Freddy instantly stiffened and went wide-eyed. It was
Dawson who found his tongue first.
"What's that, Flight Lieutenant?" he got out. "Did I hear you say
Colonel Welsh? You don't mean Colonel Welsh, chief of the U.S. Armed
Forces Intelligence?"
"That's exactly who I mean," the Flight Lieutenant replied. "He arrived
in England by bomber yesterday. Just a moment, please, and I'll let them
know you're here."
The Flight Lieutenant went over to a huge solid oak door, knocked on it,
and then stepped through and closed it behind him. Dave and Freddy chose
that moment to gape puzzle-eyed at each other.
"Well, what do you know!" Dawson finally breathed. "Colonel Welsh, who
had us hauled out of the R.A.F. in the first place!"[2]
[Footnote 2: _Dave Dawson With The Pacific Fleet._]
"I know," the English youth echoed. "Fancy, meeting him here in London.
Well, I guess that certainly means that something new has been cooked
up for us. Good grief! His name was the farthest from my mind!"
"You and me both!" Dawson said with a nod. "And it sure does mean that
plenty's on the fire, if Colonel Welsh is over here. But it'll be good
to meet him again. He always rated tops with me."
"Quite!" the English youth murmured.
And that's as far as he got. At that moment the Flight Lieutenant opened
the huge solid oak door, and motioned for them to come into the inner
office. They did, with Dawson leading the way, and so it was his hand
that was grasped first by the thin-faced officer in the uniform of a
U.S. Infantry Colonel.
"Well, Dawson, I'm certainly mighty glad to meet you again!" the Colonel
greeted him. "And you, too, Farmer. Neither of you has changed a bit."
"Thank you, sir," Dawson smiled back at him. "And it's good to meet you
again. This is certainly one big surprise."
"Quite, sir," Freddy echoed as he, too, shook hands with the Colonel. "I
hope you had a nice flight across."
"A perfect hop," the senior officer said. "But I'm forgetting my
manners. Air Vice-Marshal Leman, let me present Captains Dawson and
Farmer. But perhaps you've already met?"
The good looking Air Force officer, who had sat smiling behind a desk
that seemed to fill half the room, got up instantly and came around it
with his hand outstretched.
"No, but I've certainly heard no end of things about you two," he said
as he shook hands with both boys. "But who hasn't, for that matter?" he
continued with a chuckle. "Including Adolf Hitler, of course. There,
have chairs, Gentlemen. I can see it in your faces that you are
wondering no end what this is all about. Well, Colonel, I fancy you'd
better do the talking for us, eh?"
The senior American officer smiled, nodded, and then waited until
everybody was comfortably seated in chairs.
"I've a job for you," he presently told the two youths bluntly. "And I
want to say right here that it is probably the toughest assignment you
ever received. Feel like taking a crack at something _really_ tough?"
Dave Dawson leaned forward on the edge of his chair, and nodded eagerly.
All thoughts of leave were gone from his brain now. Just the sight of
Colonel Welsh had changed everything all around. He was more than ever
anxious for action.
"The tougher it is the better I'll like it, sir," he said with a grin.
"Speaking for myself, of course."
"Oh, you're jolly well speaking for me, too!" Freddy Farmer spoke up
quickly. "Besides, you'd have to have me along to watch out for you, you
know."
Everybody chuckled at that remark, and then Colonel Welsh's thin face
became very grave and serious.
"I really meant that, just the same," he said with a grim nod. "This one
is really tough, and your chances of pulling it off successfully are
about one in six million, roughly speaking."
"The odds have been pretty big against us in the past, sir," Dave said
quietly. "But where are we heading this time, or shouldn't I ask yet?"
"You may, and I'll answer it," Colonel Welsh replied. "This time it's
Russia."
That brought both youths up stiff and straight on the edges of their
chairs.
"Russia?" Dave gasped out.
"Russia?" Freddy Farmer echoed incredulously. "Good grief!"
"That's right, Russia," Colonel Welsh repeated. "But just where in
Russia, the good Lord Himself alone knows. To be perfectly frank, it's
quite possible that I'm sending you after no more than a handful of
Russian air. That's why I say the odds against your success are about
one in six million. However, if by any possible chance you do pull this
one off, why then--"
The American Intelligence Chief paused and made a little gesture with
his hands.
"Why then," he continued a moment later, "Civilization will owe you a
far bigger debt of gratitude than it does now, even."
Neither of the boys said anything. They just sat quietly, with their
eyes fixed on the senior officer, and waited for him to continue.
However, when the Colonel spoke again it was not to the boys. He
addressed himself to Air Vice-Marshal Leman.
"On second thought, sir," he said, "perhaps you'd better tell your part
of it first. Then I'll take it up from there."
The senior R.A.F. officer shrugged and nodded.
"Very well, if you like, Colonel," he said. And then, turning to the two
air aces, he began, "This all started back in the summer of 1939, just
before Hitler started into Poland. Of course, anybody with half an eye,
or half an ear, could have both seen and heard things that would have
left no doubt of what the Nazis had up their sleeves. We of Intelligence
knew perfectly well that no amount of appeasement would change Hitler's
plans one single bit. We knew that the man was no more than a mad dog,
and that only a bullet in the brain could stop him. However, the
Government in power at the time thought otherwise, and tried to--Well,
all that blasted business of the Munich meeting is dead history now. So
it doesn't help anything to bring it out into the light again."
The R.A.F. Intelligence chief paused for breath and to clear his throat.
Then he made a little gesture with one hand and continued.
"What I'm trying to bring out," he said, "is that though there was hope
in certain quarters that something could be done to stop Hitler at that
time, and without bloodshed, we of Intelligence were carrying on as
though we were actually at war. Or at least on the brink of war, which
of course we were. Anyway, our agents were all over Europe gathering
every bit of information possible, and making underground contacts that
might prove useful when, and if, the guns started firing. Well, one of
my agents--and we'll call him Jones for the moment--had a rare bit of
luck. It was one of those things that happen say once in a hundred
years. It happened as a result of no effort of his part, either.
It--well, it was simply a bit of absolutely lucky coincidence.
"This Jones, having completed a small mission in Prague, in
Czechoslovakia, was on his way by train to Krakow, Poland, when right at
the borders of Germany, Czechoslovakia, and Poland, the train was
wrecked. Split rails caused the wreck, and some sixty odd persons were
killed. Fortunately, Jones was in one of the three cars that remained on
the track, and he received no more than a severe shaking up. Well, it so
happened that a Nazi trade mission on the way to Moscow was aboard the
train, and two of its members were killed. That, of course, made it more
than just an ordinary train wreck. According to Jones the whole place
was alive with Nazi officials in no time at all. Actually the exact
location of the wreck was a good mile within the Polish borders, but
that didn't bother the Nazis any. They regarded it as German ground and
took complete charge of everything at once. The Polish officials
objected, but that's all the good it did them. Incidentally, the thing
did not appear in the public prints, but as a matter of record that
wreck was the first of the so-called border incidents that terminated
with the Nazi invasion, and slaughter, of Poland."
Air Vice-Marshal Leman paused again, and sat staring off into space as
though choosing the words he would speak next. And when he did speak
again there was just the faintest trace of bitter disappointment in his
voice.
"Whether the wreck was an accident, or was deliberately planned," he
continued, "will never be known. However, the Nazis instantly took it as
an act of sabotage and, in true Nazi fashion, started arresting people
left and right. They arrested people who were actually on the train, as
well as a lot of the male inhabitants of a small village that bordered
that stretch of track. And anybody who even so much as offered a single
word of protest was immediately clubbed half to death, and definitely
regarded by the Nazis as one of the perpetrators of the so called crime
against the Third Reich. Well, you can imagine what a madhouse that
place was, with passengers dead and dying, others trying to do what they
could for the injured, and the Nazi brutes pounding roughshod over
everything and everybody. It was indeed a perfect pre-view of what was
to come on a much more gigantic scale.
"Well, Jones, being no more than shaken up a bit, joined those who were
doing what they could to help the injured. He came upon one man who was
pinned under the shattered end of one car. The man was conscious, but he
was bleeding at the mouth, and his chest was horribly crushed. Jones
took him for a German, but that didn't make any difference at the time.
He started trying to get the pieces of the shattered car off the man and
drag him free in case fire broke out. It was a pretty hopeless task. The
slightest movement made the pinned man's face go grey with pain, and
finally he begged Jones--and in perfect English, mind you--just to let
him stay where he was. The intense pain of being rescued was too much
for him. And no sooner had he spoken the plea than the surprising thing
happened. The injured man whispered for Jones to bend close, and listen
to what he had to say. Jones did just that, and the man said that he was
a Russian by birth but had lived most of his life in Germany. He said
that he had discovered a horrible plot to wipe the Soviet Republic from
the face of the earth. That he had learned every detail of Hitler's mad
plan to conquer and enslave the entire world!"
The R.A.F. officer stopped short and smiled almost apologetically.
"I know what you must be thinking," he said to the two air aces, who sat
motionless and just a little bit wide-eyed. "You're thinking that
perhaps I've gone a bit balmy, or that I'm reciting a bit from one of
those crazy war stories that are being so widely read these days. But
that's not true. All this actually _did_ happen. In short, over a month
before the war actually started, one man pinned under a wrecked railroad
train just inside the Polish border knew every detail of Hitler's entire
war plan. And what's more, he gave _half_ of that invaluable information
to the British Intelligence agent I've called Jones!"
CHAPTER THREE
_Fate Laughs_
The echo of Air Vice-Marshal Leman's last words seemed to hang in the
air for long seconds. And then suddenly the echo faded out and the room
was filled with a silence in which a pin could have been heard to drop.
Dave Dawson gulped softly as he let the clamped air from his lungs, and
inched forward on the edge of his chair.
"Only half the information, sir?" he questioned. "So it didn't do Agent
Jones any good?"
The senior R.A.F. officer smiled sadly, and seemed to emphasize his
feelings with a soft sigh.
"Let me continue with the story, and I think your question will be
answered, Dawson," he said. "Yes, the injured man gave Jones only half
the information he had collected. But even that half didn't help any.
You see, this man had written down everything that he had learned.
According to Jones he must have done it with a needle point pen, and
under a magnifying glass. It filled two sheets of ordinary manuscript
paper, on both sides. It was sewn in his coat, and he got Jones to take
it out for him. And then the man tore the two sheets in half and gave
half to Jones. Then he tore his half to bits, put them in his mouth and
swallowed them!"
"Well, for cats' sake!" Dave Dawson blurted out before he could check
himself.
"Quite!" the Air Vice-Marshal said with a faint smile. "It was quite a
mad thing to do, considering. But we must suppose that the poor chap was
probably half mad from the pain he was suffering. And of course, Jones
had naturally not revealed his true identity. Well, anyway, this man
told Jones to get away from the spot as soon as he could, and reach the
village of Tobolsk as soon as he could. Tobolsk doesn't appear on any of
the maps, but it is a tiny village situated about eighty miles west of
Stalingrad on the Volga. He told Jones to deliver his half of that
precious information to a farmer who lived in Tobolsk. And--well, that's
where the real hard luck began to set in."
"Beg pardon, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured as the senior officer suddenly
lapsed into silence and sat scowling darkly down at the top of his
desk. "You mean, sir, that Agent Jones wasn't able to contact this
farmer in Tobolsk?"
"I mean much more than that!" the other replied with a grimace. "I mean
that everything simply went from bad to worse. To begin with, Jones was
unable to catch the name of the man he was to contact in Tobolsk. He
asked the injured man to repeat it, but it wasn't repeated. The man had
become unconscious. Jones had no chance to try to revive him, or to wait
for the man to regain consciousness either, for at that moment a party
of Nazis swept down on him, thrust him to one side and started getting
the injured man out from under the wreckage. It seems that they had
suddenly decided that the poor devil had had an active part in causing
the wreck. I know that sounds incredible. But I ask you, is there
anything sane about the Nazi mind, let alone their actions?"
"Not the ones I've run up against," Dawson grunted with a shake of his
head.
"Definitely not!" Freddy Farmer agreed. "But what rotten luck for Agent
Jones!"
"And only the beginning!" Air Vice-Marshal Leman growled in his throat.
"As Jones stood there quite helpless, the Nazis hauled that poor chap
out from under the wreckage and whisked him away, just like that. There
was absolutely nothing Jones could do about it without getting into
trouble himself. After all, he certainly couldn't take any chances of
being arrested. Himmler, of course, knew full well that we had our
agents all over Europe, and with war just around the corner it would be
all up with any of the poor chaps who were caught. War or no war, we'd
certainly never hear from them again. And we couldn't very well admit
that they were agents of ours and ask the German Government to release
them. Once an agent goes out on a mission he is absolutely on his own.
If he gets into a tight corner it's up to him to get himself out of it.
To assist him would simply tip our hand, and unquestionably disrupt our
entire espionage system. And--"
The R.A.F. Intelligence officer stopped short with a little laugh.
"But I'm a fine one to be telling that to you two chaps, who have
actually experienced the situation more than once," he said. "Of course
you understand what Jones was up against. His hands were tied, and he
simply couldn't make any move without walking straight into the clutches
of the Nazis. However, his very good judgment didn't gain him a single
thing. He _was_ arrested by the Nazis!"
"Arrested?" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Good grief! What for?"
"For the same reason other passengers aboard the train were arrested,"
the Air Vice-Marshal replied. "Simply for no good reason at all, other
than the fact that the Nazis figured they weren't functioning according
to plan unless they made some arrest. Anyway, Jones was presently
arrested along with the others, perhaps because he was seen talking to
the injured man. At any rate, they arrested him and herded him into one
of the several police vans that had mysteriously appeared out of
nowhere. Just picture what must have been going on in his mind! Stuffed
down in one of his pockets were two halves of sheet paper containing
data on Hitler's war plans for ultimate world conquest. And there he was
in a Nazi prison van under guard, and being driven _back into Germany_."
"Not so good!" Dawson grunted impulsively. "Right behind the old eight
ball, and how!"
"Eh?" the R.A.F. Intelligence chief echoed with arched eyebrows.
"An American expression, sir," Colonel Welsh spoke up with a chuckle.
"Dawson means that Jones was certainly between the devil and the deep
blue sea. Right out on the end of the limb, so to speak."
The Air Vice-Marshal blinked just a little at that string of descriptive
adjectives, but decided to let them ride without further explanation.
"Yes, Jones was very much in a bit of a spot," he said with a nod. "He
had the two halves of paper, but of course he'd had had no time to
examine them yet. Fact is, he had no way of knowing whether what he'd
heard was true or not. Perhaps those torn halves of paper in his pocket
with all the minute writing didn't mean a thing to anybody. In short, it
might be best to wad them into a ball and toss them unseen over the side
of the police van, and forget the whole thing. Whether they contained
things of importance or not would certainly make no difference to the
Nazis should those blighters find them on him. The Nazi beggars are
thorough, if nothing else. As you say in America, they don't overlook a
single bet. They do things automatically, and take care of the
questioning part of it later."
"And lots of times they don't even bother with the questioning part!"
Dawson spoke up, with a knowing nod. "They may be butchers and
murderers, but they aren't anybody's fools."
"Far from it," the Air Vice-Marshal agreed instantly. "So it was very
touch and go with Jones. Should he get rid of the stuff and pay
attention to saving his own skin? Or should he risk everything until he
had a chance to make what he could from the writing on his two torn
halves of paper? Well--well, permit me to say that he was a British
Intelligence officer, so the decision he made is obvious. He took the
chance on keeping the two halves. And for once luck was with him. Unseen
by the guard on the van, he managed to wad the two halves of paper--they
were very thin sheets--into a ball and hide them in his left armpit
under a patch of gummed skin tissue that all agents carry--as you two
chaps well know."
The senior officer stopped talking as though waiting for the two air
aces to nod. And then he continued on.
"Well, Jones, and those with him, were taken to the town of Opelln
inside Germany, and thrown into jail. For thirty hours they had neither
food nor water, and four unfortunates died. Or perhaps they were
fortunate in being able to die, considering what the others suffered
later. Anyway, Jones was unmolested for thirty hours. And you can be
sure he made full use of them. He borrowed a pair of thick lens glasses
from one of the other prisoners, and using a lens as a magnifying glass,
he read what his two halves of paper contained. And I will say right
here that it was the most exciting bit of reading that Jones or any
other man ever perused. Before his eyes was revealed a good part of what
Hitler intended to do. _And_, mind you, exactly what he _has_ done since
the start of the war! Of course, with only half of it there, Jones was
unable to learn definite details. He could only read what he could read,
and guess at what the other half contained. But had Jones been able to
turn his newly gained knowledge over to us, the--well, I can tell you
that the history of this war thus far would have been completely
different from what it has been."
"You mean he didn't turn it over to you, sir?" Freddy Farmer blurted out
on impulse.
"He didn't have the chance, worse luck!" the other replied, and rubbed
one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. "But he did do the
only thing he could do. During those thirty hours he was left unmolested
he not only read every one of the unfinished sentences, but he memorized
every single word before destroying and disposing of the two torn halves
of paper. However, Fate, you might say, was still giving him a black
look. At the end of the thirty hours the prisoners were herded into the
prison head's office and questioned. Questioned, and knocked about from
here to there when they didn't, or couldn't give answers that satisfied
their captors. Jones was no better off than any of the others. In fact,
it developed that he was worse off. An answer he gave to one question
didn't please the Nazi overlord, who lost his temper and struck Jones in
the face with his fist. Jones, to save himself from toppling over
backwards, flung up both hands, and his right hand unfortunately whacked
one of the lesser Nazi officials in the face. And that tore it, of
course. Jones wasn't questioned any more. He was promptly jumped on,
half beaten to death, and then chained hand and foot, and sent off to a
Nazi internment camp."
The senior R.A.F. officer stopped short. His lips stiffened, his two
hands bunched into rock hard fists, and there was the bright glint of
cold steel in his eyes.
"I need not describe to you the things Jones went through, and suffered,
after that!" he finally grated out through clenched teeth. "The
so-called routine of a Nazi internment camp is well known all over the
world by now. But I come to the end of my part of this story. Six days
ago, Agent Jones arrived back in England. He was the mere shadow of the
man I sent into Europe over three years ago, but the British spirit,
like the American spirit, knows no such thing as defeat. He never gave
up. He tried to escape three times, and was caught. He himself says that
he'll never know how he managed to go on living from one attempt at
escape to the next. But the fourth time he made it. His escape is a
hair-raising story in itself, but it's unimportant here, so I won't
bother with it. But he did return to England six days ago, and he was
able to put down on paper every one of those words he had memorized."
"Stout fellow!" Freddy Farmer cried enthusiastically. "He certainly
deserves the Victoria Cross, if ever a chap did. So now all that
invaluable information is ours!"
Air Vice-Marshal Leman smiled sadly and shook his head.
"No, Farmer, it isn't," he said slowly. "We only have half of it. And
the half we have is practically useless without the other half. Like
Jones when he first read it, we can only guess at what the other half
reveals. We don't _know_. And guesses in war are quite often as useless
as no information at all."
"But, my gosh!" Dawson cried. "You mean, sir, he went through all that
for nothing? That he might just as well have tossed the whole thing
overboard in the first place?"
"No, not quite, Dawson," the Air Vice-Marshal said. Then, looking over
at Colonel Welsh, he added, "I guess you'd better tell the last half of
our story, sir."
CHAPTER FOUR
_East of Darkness_
As one man, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer swiveled around in their
chairs and stared expectantly at the chief of the American Intelligence
services. He did not return their look for a moment or two, however. As
Air Vice-Marshal Leman had done once or twice, he scowled silently off
into space as though thinking up the exact words he wanted to say.
Eventually, he seemed to decide on them, and leveled grave eyes at the
two youthful airmen.
"Just as Air Vice-Marshal Leman has said," he began slowly, "what little
we know of all this Tobolsk business is practically useless without the
other half of it. It was the worse kind of luck for Agent Jones not to
catch the name of the man he was supposed to contact in Tobolsk. True,
Tobolsk is well behind the Nazi lines at the moment. And also, it is
quite possible that he may be dead. As a matter of fact, we have every
reason to believe that this unnamed man is dead, or at any rate, that
he no longer lives in Tobolsk."
"And what do you mean by that, sir?" Dave wanted to know when the other
didn't continue at once.
"From certain developments that have recently come to light," the
Colonel replied. "From--well, from the American angle of this crazy,
mixed up mystery. Contrary to general belief, Yank Intelligence was more
than a little active long before the Japs pulled the knife on Pearl
Harbor. We knew just as sure as the earth grew little apples that Uncle
Sam would be in this war up to his ears before very long. So we did what
we could, short of causing the State Department to come down on us with
both feet. And--well, to use an expression that groans with age, it
certainly is a small world. And there is nothing so baffling, or so
helpful, as coincidence. It pops up in the darnedest places, if you get
what I mean?"
"I can guess close enough, I think, sir," Dave said with a grin.
"Tobolsk again?"
"Take a bow, son," Colonel Welsh grinned back at him. "You just about
hit that nail right on the head. Tobolsk again is correct. One of my
agents was working with Russian Intelligence until a few days ago. He
was actually on the lease-lend end of the business, on the look-out for
sabotage along the supply routes leading up through Iraq and Iran from
the Red Sea. Well, to get on with the actual story, he was on his way
from Baku to Moscow by air when the plane he was in ran smack into a
storm, came out of it nobody knew just where, and bumped head on into a
flock of German Messerschmitts. And the plane--it was a Russian
craft--got shot down. My agent was the only one who came out of the
crash alive. He must have been born under a lucky star, because he
didn't so much as receive even a goose egg on his head, or a scratch any
place.
"The aircraft crashed just before dark, and my agent didn't have the
faintest idea where he was, save that he was in the middle of some
woods. Anyway, he used his head and put as much distance as he could
between himself and the crashed plane. But after a while it got so dark
that he couldn't tell but what he might be just going around in circles.
At least he realized that he was still in the woods. So he sat down to
wait out the night. And lucky for him he did. When daylight came again,
he saw to his horror that he was less than a hundred yards from the end
of the woods, and an equal distance from a German panzer division
obviously camped and resting up from recent action at the front.
Naturally, he realized then that he was well behind the Nazi lines. But
he still didn't know at what part of the front."
Colonel Welsh paused and smiled grimly.
"There he was smack in the middle of the Germans, and wearing a suit of
clothes he had bought in Moscow a month before," he continued presently.
"It so happened that he didn't have any money. Nor did he have a gun of
any kind. All he had on his person were identification papers that would
have slapped him up against a firing squad wall five seconds after the
Nazis got their hands on him. So his first job was to destroy all his
identification papers. And his second job to make sure the Nazis didn't
lay hands on him. Well, we can skip the next few days. He spent all of
them, nights included, dodging Nazi patrols, and getting out from under
the hand of Death reaching for him. And then came the night of
coincidence, we'll call it.
"He was groping his way northward across a field, with the idea of
somehow slipping through the Nazi positions to the Russian side, when
suddenly the ground seemed just to drop out from underneath him. One
instant he was groping his way along, and the next he was out cold as an
iced fish. When he opened his eyes again he found himself in the cellar
of a bomb and shell blasted farm house. He was stretched out on a smelly
mattress, and a couple of thread-bare blankets were over him. He took
stock of what was what and realized instantly that he wasn't in Nazi
hands. Nazis don't give blankets to prisoners they pick up at night.
Anyway, my agent decided to stay right where he was, and wait for
whatever was to happen next. And a body full of aches and pains helped
him a lot to decide to do just that."
The Chief of U.S. Intelligence let his words come to a halt, and it was
all Dawson and Freddy Farmer could do to refrain from telling him to
hurry up and get on with the rest. They held their tongues, however, and
waited with pounding hearts and tingling nerves.
"An hour or so later," Colonel Welsh finally continued, "an old man came
down into the cellar holding a chipped bowl of some steaming liquid. It
proved to be a bitter kind of tree root broth, but just the same it
tasted mighty good to my agent. He accepted it, and drank it down
without a word. Then he took a good look at this man and saw that he
wasn't so old after all. He was no older than my agent, but war had made
him look three times his true age. My agent's first questions were
concerning what had happened to him, and how he had come to be there. My
agent, of course, spoke Russian, but it developed that this man with the
root broth spoke English, too. The long and short of it was that in the
dark my agent had simply stepped down an uncovered, abandoned well. Why
he hadn't broken his neck is something that nobody will ever be able to
explain. Anyway, this man, who said he was a Russian, and named Ivan
Nikolsk, said that he had found my agent at the bottom of the well. And
that he was about to shovel dirt in on top of him, thinking him to be a
Nazi, when he saw that my agent's clothes were Russian made. So he
hoisted my agent up out of the well and took him down into the cellar.
And that was that. Nikolsk simply believed that he was saving the life
of a brother Russian. And he'd hide him from the Nazis, who were all
about, at least until he'd found out more about the man whom he had
pulled from the abandoned well."
The Colonel paused to shrug slightly, and make a little
this-probably-sounds-nuts gesture with one hand.
"Well, the two of them started talking back and forth, of course," he
resumed his story presently, "and my agent learned a few things about
his lifesaver. One, that Nikolsk had been born in Moscow but had lived
most of his life in Germany. And two, that Nikolsk had almost lost his
life in a railroad train wreck just before the invasion of Poland. And
three, that--"
"Good grief!" Freddy Farmer interrupted with a gasp. "The same chap that
Agent Jones met!"
"One and the same," Colonel Welsh admitted with a nod. "He told my agent
how he had been arrested by the Nazis and thrown into prison, where he
almost died as the result of his train wreck injuries. But he survived,
somehow. He survived the questioning and beatings he received. And, like
Jones, he refused to let a Nazi internment camp finish him off for good.
He managed to escape almost three years later and make his way out of
Germany, and across German-occupied Poland and German-occupied Russia to
the little village of Tobolsk. There he hoped to meet a life-long
friend. But he never met him. When Nikolsk finally arrived, his friend,
and most of the village's inhabitants, had simply disappeared from the
face of the earth. But--"
Colonel Welsh leaned forward slightly and tapped a forefinger on the
desk top.
"Ivan Nikolsk had survived things that you could not even put into
words, for there are no words in any language to describe them
adequately," he said. "But though he came out of it all with his life,
he came out of it with only part of his brain. It didn't take my agent
long to see that Nikolsk went off the beam completely every now and
then. He would be making sense, when suddenly his speech would start
rambling all over the place. And even then, almost a year later, he had
the certain belief that his friend would return to Tobolsk, and he would
be able to see him."
"Did he tell your agent _why_ he wanted to see his friend?" Dawson asked
eagerly.
"No," Colonel Welsh replied. "That's one of the questions he wouldn't
answer, though my agent asked it more than once as he heard more and
more of the strange story. It's funny, but though Nikolsk had saved my
agent's life, and believed him definitely on Russia's side, he couldn't
get it out of his head that my agent might rob him of his great secret.
Yes, you're guessing it. Nikolsk's secret knowledge of the Nazi war
plan that he had learned while in Germany. Oddly enough, he told my
agent every detail of his meeting with Agent Jones. Of how he had torn
the secret information in half, given half to Jones, and destroyed the
half that he kept. He told my agent all that, but he wouldn't tell him
_one word_ of what the information was about. And do you know _why_?"
"Didn't trust your agent, obviously," Freddy Farmer spoke up.
"Yes, that's my guess, too," Dawson added.
"No," Colonel Welsh said with a vigorous shake of his head. "True, he
didn't tell my agent what his half of the information was because he was
afraid of being betrayed. But he wouldn't reveal anything about the
other half--_because he had forgotten it_!"
"Forgotten it, for cat's sake!" Dawson exploded. "But--?"
"Just what I am about to explain," Colonel Welsh cut in. "He swore blind
that what he knew was of no use at all without the half that he had
given to Jones. And to get it all together he had to see either Jones or
his friend. He felt that Jones was dead, but--but he still held to the
crazy belief that his friend would return to Tobolsk one day, and that
together they would place in Joseph Stalin's hands something more
valuable than a hundred armored divisions, or a thousand squadrons of
aircraft!"
As the echo of the last died away, a tingling silence settled over the
room. Dawson had the insane urge to pinch himself hard just to make sure
he wasn't sleeping through a very cockeyed dream. He knew, and had seen
for himself, many of the upside down things that come out of war. But
this dizzy tale was a new high for everything. When he tried to mull it
over, and gain some sense from it, it simply made his brain hurt.
"This is certainly something, sir," he mumbled, and gave the Colonel a
searching look. "And you are going to say that your agent didn't learn a
darn thing, and had to leave it that way? Gosh! I think I would have
slung Nikolsk over my shoulder and high-tailed to Moscow as fast as I
could, and counted on Joseph Stalin, himself, getting him to talk."
"Don't worry," the Colonel said, with a grim, smile, "my agent thought
of that idea, too. But, of course, it was impossible. He even suggested
the idea, but Nikolsk would have no part of it. He insisted that what
little he might be able to tell Stalin wouldn't help at all. He _had_
to wait for either his friend, or Agent Jones, to turn up. And he was
going to park right there in Tobolsk, keeping out of the way of the
Nazis, until either of those things happened."
"So I would say," Freddy Farmer spoke up as though talking to himself
aloud, "that this friend was the _third_ man who possessed part of the
original information. Either that, or Nikolsk had sent another copy of
all of it to him, in case something should happen to him. And Jones
showing up with a torn half would prove to the friend that Nikolsk was
finished. And--"
"No doubt the truth of the matter, Farmer," Air Vice-Marshal Leman took
up the talking. "This friend was in the know about some of the business,
if not all of it, no doubt. But Moscow had received not one single word,
which proves what we fear. Namely, that Nikolsk's friend is dead, and
will never return to Tobolsk."
"But there is still Agent Jones!" Dawson cried eagerly.
Colonel Welsh and Air Vice-Marshal Leman exchanged a long look. And it
was the R.A.F. Intelligence chief who finally spoke.
"Yes," he said softly. "There is still Agent Jones."
CHAPTER FIVE
_Doubling for Death_
For a long, long minute Dawson waited for Air Vice-Marshal Leman to
continue. But the R.A.F. officer seemed to have said his bit, and that
was that. He lapsed into silence and stared fixedly down at his hands
folded on the desk. Dave started to put the obvious question, but before
his lips could form the words Colonel Welsh broke the silence.
"Yes, there is still Agent Jones," he said. "But it isn't so simple as
all that. I mean, it isn't just a question of flying Jones over to
Tobolsk and letting him get together with Nikolsk. Ivan Nikolsk has done
the disappearing act again. And in addition, we have the very strong
hunch that friend Himmler's Gestapo has entered into the picture."
"He's disappeared, sir?" Freddy Farmer choked out. "What blasted rotten
luck! But isn't there something that can be done? I mean, have you any
idea where Nikolsk might be? And--?"
"One thing at a time, Farmer," Colonel Welsh said with a chuckle, and
held up his hand. "Not so fast, son. The thing's a mess right at the
moment, but we have hopes."
"Sorry, sir," Farmer said, as the red rushed up his face to the roots of
his hair. "But it was a bit of a let-down after getting all warmed up,
you know."
"Well, that's the way with war," the American Intelligence chief said
with a smile. "But to get on with my story. Just now I jumped ahead. So
I'll go back to my agent in Tobolsk. Well, he stayed there in Nikolsk's
cellar for four days. By the end of four days he had all his strength
back, and falling down the empty well shaft was just an unpleasant
memory. During those four days and nights Nikolsk was constantly with
him, for the reason that a lot of Germans moved into the village. And
from what Nikolsk could see they were there for some mysterious reason.
I mean, they didn't camp, and they didn't have much equipment with them.
Fact is, they were mostly Gestapo men in uniform.