his eyes made Dave just a little bit sorry that he had been so flip with
his reply. This Nazi was obviously the kind of snake who could take so
much, and then would go off the deep end, regardless of the consequences
of his hair trigger temper. However, the German held his boiling rage
under control, and did no more than take a bead with his silencer fitted
revolver on a point squarely between Dawson's eyes.
"Your tongue is begging for your death!" he said in a voice trembling
with suppressed rage. "Speak again that way, and it will be granted!
Now, take your choice!"
Dave Dawson looked straight into the muzzle of certain death, and at the
same time forced a grin to his lips.
"Maybe it's _you_ who has the choice, _Herr_ Stohl," he said slowly and
deliberately. "Your agents have letters and numbers to identify them,
don't they? Well, so do our agents. And if that doesn't mean anything to
you, here's the tip-off. What you want, my pal and I _were not carrying
on us_. H-Sixty-Four had it, see, Stohl? _But_ if anything happened to
us, H-Sixty-Four was to pass it on to a _fourth_ person on that train,
and come to our rescue. That's right! I said _rescue_! In case you don't
know, British Intelligence thinks there are too many of your kind on
this island. They are doing something about it. And so--"
Dawson didn't finish the rest. He had the sudden fear that he had spoken
too much nonsense already. So he left the rest hanging in thin air. The
Nazi bored him with his eyes, and in those eyes Dawson saw clearly the
shadows of worry, doubt, and frank disbelief. And as frank disbelief
gradually blotted out the other two Dawson realized that death was
coming closer and closer. This Stohl was no fool. What Dawson had said
had worried him at first, but now he was beginning to see through it and
recognize it as just so many useless words. Which it was.
"A very good try, _Herr_ Captain Dawson!" the German suddenly barked.
"Yes, of course I know you, and your swine comrade, too. In fact, _I_
know everything. You fools--to think you can keep secrets from the
Gestapo! I know that you were on your way to Aberdeen. I know that at
Aberdeen a British bomber is awaiting you. And I also know that the
bomber is waiting there to fly you to Moscow. But neither you nor your
swine comrade will ever reach Moscow!"
Dawson's heart was a solid lump of ice in his chest. He wanted to
believe that he hadn't heard a single word spoken. He wanted to believe
that it would have been absolutely impossible for Gestapo agents in
London to learn even that much of Freddy's and his mission. He wanted to
believe that he was simply thinking of those things in his mind, and so
shouldn't take the words as having come from the lips of the Nazi,
Stohl.
Sure! He _wanted_ to believe all that. But he couldn't! More than once
in the past had he been in situations where the Nazi Gestapo had learned
things that were believed to be cast iron secrets. More than once had a
supposedly loyal Englishman, or American, in an important post, turned
out to be nothing but a black-hearted Nazi. And so to hear those words
from Stohl's lips did not shock him so much as sicken him and stir up
the bitterness of war within him. What pair of ears in Air Ministry had
heard of this part of the plan, he would probably never know. But that
made little difference now. That is, save for one terrible possibility.
That a Nazi pair of ears had heard _all_ of the plan. That even now
Jones was a prisoner, and--
"But no, you dope!" his brain screamed at him. "Catch hold of something,
and stop going haywire. If the Nazis knew _all_, why should they bother
about Farmer and you? They wouldn't! Agent Jones would be their man,
because Agent Jones is the one key to the success of this whole thing.
He alone is the one to contact Ivan Nikolsk. So snap out of it, and just
let this Nazi go on fishing!"
His thoughts boosted his spirits, and gave him some encouragement and
hope--but not a terrible lot. The fear still lingered that the Nazis
_did_ know all about the Tobolsk business. Yes, the fear that possibly
the Nazi plan was to put Freddy and him out of the picture, just in
case. Right! Just to make _sure_!
Brushing the taunting thoughts from his mind, Dawson eyed the Nazi
coolly.
"All right, have it your way," he said evenly. "So we don't see Moscow.
But _that_ doesn't matter, _now_. Like you, _Herr_ Stohl, we play the
part assigned to us, and let _others_ do the rest. I'm not denying a
thing. You win this round. My pal and I seem to have been put out of the
picture. Okay. In war a man has to take his chances--and trust to luck."
As Dawson finished speaking he half shrugged and made a faint gesture
with one of his hands. But inwardly he was praying hard, and as he
studied the Nazi's face he had the feeling that his prayers were being
answered a little. His complete about-face wasn't setting so well with
_Herr_ Stohl. The German obviously hadn't expected so sudden an
admission of defeat, and it puzzled him not a little. He searched
Dawson's face for some hidden answer, and unconsciously let his gun sag
until it was pointed toward the floor.
That was the moment for which Dave was waiting, to stake all on one
swift lightning-like bit of action. However, the Yank-born air ace, in
his own eagerness to befuddle Stohl slightly and get him off guard for
the moment, had forgotten one very important item. And that item
happened to be Freddy Farmer, in the flesh. Freddy was playing his own
kind of game, too. And even as Dave coiled his muscles for a diving
leap at _Herr_ Stohl's legs, Freddy Farmer was way out ahead of him.
From a man half slouched, down in a chair, the English youth became a
roaring tornado of savage action in nothing flat. Dave had just a split
second in which to see Freddy's arm move like a striking cobra; to see
something sail out of his hand. And then the oil lamp on the table went
crashing off and down onto the floor. Just what else Freddy Farmer did,
Dawson didn't have time to see. He didn't, for the simple reason that
putting his own Commando training and actual experience to good use
required all of his attention.
Like a shot from the mouth of a gun, he hurled himself up onto his feet,
and off the floor, to sail straight forward and low down. He heard Stohl
cry out in alarm and rage. Then Dave's shoulder crashed into his knees,
and the German went over backward and down like a felled ox. But even as
Dave crashed into the Nazi, he kicked outward with his left foot. It was
a case of nailing two birds with one stone, so to speak. And he
succeeded. His booted left foot caught the half stunned Bixby in the
stomach, and doubled him over with pain split seconds before he could
snap out of his trance and make use of the gun he held in his hand.
Then down on top of _Herr_ Stohl crashed Dawson. He tried to protect
himself as much as possible, but his momentum was terrific, and new and
brighter stars began to whirl about as his forehead slammed down on the
boards. Every nerve and muscle in him went limp and jelly-like. He was
sure he heard the faint _pop_ of the Nazi's revolver, and thought he
felt a white hot spear of flame cut across the top of his shoulder. But
he was too stunned to be sure of anything, save the fact that the whole
wide world was now a glowing red, and that acrid smoke was driving every
ounce of air out of his lungs, and burning their walls to a crisp.
In a vague, abstract sort of way he realized that the oil lamp crashing
down onto the floor had sprayed burning oil in all directions, and that
the floor was fast becoming a seething sea of fire. He realized all
that, and even saw it with his own dazed eyes, but his whole body seemed
to be clamped fast in a gigantic vise, so that he couldn't move an inch.
Then suddenly some great weight crashed down on top of him. In the same
instant a gun roared out sound. The weight dropped down on his back,
went limp, and rolled off him onto the floor. The sudden bit of
mysterious action seemed to release a hidden spring within him. Strength
rushed back into his body, and his muscles ceased to be limp any more.
Hardly realizing that he had done so, he scrambled up onto his feet, and
leaped back from a tongue of flame. He crashed into Freddy Farmer, but
the English youth grabbed hold of him and checked him from tumbling down
onto the floor again.
"This way, Dave!" he heard Freddy shout. "Nice work, old chap. I'm sure
he was dead before he even fired his gun. Broken neck, you know. And
good riddance. Come along, pal!"
The words made little sense to Dave, but his aching lungs were too empty
of air to make questions possible. Besides, Freddy Farmer had him by the
arm and was dragging him over to the door of the shack. He had just time
enough to glance back and see the still form of Bixby, with a bullet
hole square in the middle of his forehead, the still, motionless figure
of Stohl with his head twisted around in a horrible position, and the
seething, hissing pool of burning oil that was lapping its way across
the floor boards. Then Freddy Farmer yanked open the shack door, and
they both leaped through and out into the dark night.
"Keep going!" the English youth barked sharply as Dave started to pull
up to a halt. "That whole blasted thing is going to be a torch of flame
in no time at all. And we haven't time to answer questions for a lot of
Air Raid Wardens and Auxiliary Police chaps. We want to get away from
here fast!"
Dave didn't bother to question that because it had all made good sense
on his spinning brain. So he simply gulped night air into his aching
lungs and raced along through the night at Freddy's side. No less than a
thousand times, it seemed, they tripped over tree roots, rocks, and
shrubs, and almost went flat. But somehow they both managed to keep
their feet, and presently they broke through some shrubbery and out onto
the smoothness of a well paved road. There they pulled up to a halt by
silent mutual agreement. And by the same kind of agreement they slumped
down by the side of the road and fought to regain their breath.
Finally Freddy Farmer was able to talk without wheezing out the words.
"Well, that's a score for our team, what?" he said. "A bit risky while
it lasted, though. Anyway, those three dirty blighters will have no more
to do with this war, thank heaven!"
"Me, I say, thank _you_!" Dave corrected. "Sweet tripe! You sure are
learning fast, pal. You were way ahead of me that time. Fact is, I'm
still not sure just what did happen. What about what broken neck? And
who shot that Bixby?"
"Guilty," Freddy Farmer said grimly. "He was just about to have a go at
you when I put an end to his dirty work. I guess you must have stunned
yourself going down on that Stohl. But what a beautiful tackle, Dave!
Don't ever try it on me, even in fun. I wouldn't want my neck broken the
way his was. Just as I got hold of the gun, and was turning around, I
saw him fire. But I'll swear he was stone dead at the time. Well, it
looks like we both had the same thought at the same time, eh? I'd been
playing doggo for what seemed like hours, waiting to have a go at that
oil lamp."
"With what, I want to know?" Dave asked. "I thought I saw something fly
out of your hand. What was it?"
"A rung of the chair they'd pushed me into," Freddy said quietly.
"Rickety old thing, it was. Blessed wonder it held me up. The two of
them were so interested in you, old chap, they didn't even see me work
it loose. Well, they're done with, and we've got to be getting along.
When the Flying Scotsman arrives at Aberdeen without us--"
"It will, anyway," Dave said, and grabbed hold of Farmer's arm, "so one
more question won't change anything. About the gun you said you got hold
of--what one?"
"This one," the English youth, replied and held out a small bore
automatic. "It's that conductor beggar's, of course. When he fell to the
floor this slid out of his hand. Nobody paid any attention to it. But I
did. Oh, quite! That's what I had my eye on all the time. It, and that
oil lamp on the table. And thanks to your bit with _Herr_ Stohl, I had
the chance to dive for it and get it in time. Good gosh! Did you think I
simply planned to fight my way out of that mess with my bare hands?"
Dave Dawson chuckled, gave him a friendly slap on the back, and got up
onto his feet.
"Darned if you couldn't have done that, too, pal," he said. "Like I
always say, just the guy to have along when you get into a jam. And,
Freddy, that _was_ a jam! A tough one. Remind me next time, same which I
hope there won't ever be. Because next time it'll be my turn to be the
fair-haired hero. Yes sir, Freddy! You're something. And I don't mean
maybe!"
"Rot!" the English youth snorted, but his face beamed with pleasure.
"After all, it took the two of us to get the two of us out of it. And,
frankly, I didn't think much of our chances for a while. That--that
double talk of ours didn't make any impression on that Stohl. He's no
fool."
"Was no fool," Dave corrected, and drank in the night air. Then, half
turning, "Boy! See the reflection of those flames. Ugh! A horrible end
for rats, even if they were rats. Let's get going. But heck! Which way?
I haven't the faintest idea where we are."
"I think I know," Freddy Farmer spoke up, and pointed along the road to
his left. "Ahead, there, is a town called Leadburn, unless I'm
completely mistaken. This is the Old North Road, anyway. I'm positive of
that. But let's go off here to the left. It's toward the north, anyway.
We'll hunt up the Military Commandant of the first town we come to, and
get him to loan us a car."
"What a sweet hope!" Dave grunted. "We just ask him and he agrees
to ..."
"Of course not, stupid!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "I say, you _must_ have
got quite a blow on your head, to think I'd try anything that silly."
"Okay," Dave sighed as he dropped into step. "Just what kind of magic do
you intend pulling to get a Military Commandant to loan a car to a
couple of strangers with dirty uniforms, and dirtier faces, too? And in
war time?"
"You just don't know me, that's all," Freddy commented with a chuckle.
"Know you?" Dave snorted. "If _I_ don't, then _who_ does?"
"You!" the English youth shot right back at him. "But don't throw that
brain of yours out of gear wondering, my good fellow. I'll explain. It
will be all very simple. The telephone, see? A telephone call to the Air
Ministry. And if the Air Ministry doesn't clear the fog of doubt and
suspicion over us--why then--"
"Why then we walk to Aberdeen," Dawson interrupted. "But take a bow,
son. You've really got something there, at that. My error."
"Granted," Freddy Farmer said sweetly. Then with profound relief echoing
in every word, he said, "Well, anyway, they took good hold of the bait.
And what's more, we landed them right into the boat. Now we shouldn't
bump into any more trouble until we leave Moscow for Urbakh, and
Tobolsk. If even then."
"Yeah, sure," Dawson said absently. "But me, I've learned never to count
on even a sure bet in this crazy war. Three Gestapo rats are dead and
gone out of the picture for us. But there are lots and lots of other
Gestapo rats still alive and kicking. And between you, me, and this town
I hope we reach darn soon, I've a hunch that we've only seen a little of
the _beginning_ of trouble on this cockeyed mission."
And as the echo of Dawson's comment died away, the gods of war in their
high places of hiding nudged each other, grinned wickedly, and nodded
their heads in complete and absolute agreement with all that had come
off Dave Dawson's lips!
CHAPTER TEN
_Eastward to War_
A cold, dirty grey fog hung over the Royal Air Force Depot, at Aberdeen,
Scotland, like a soggy blanket just about ready to drop. Ceiling was
about eight hundred feet, and visibility was about a third of a mile, if
you had good eyes. Far to the east the sun of a new day was dawning. But
you would never have been able to tell by looking in that direction.
There was nothing but dirty grey fog stretching out to the four
horizons. Only there weren't even any horizons. There was just fog, and
more fog.
The state of the weather, however, had not put any damper on plans for
R.A.F. activity. At every dispersal point about the Depot field were
aircraft of all types being made ready for the day's aerial smash
against the Axis forces on the Continent. Planes of every description,
ranging from sleek, powerful Supermarine Rolls Royce "Merlin" powered
Spitfire Mark V's to the gigantic death dealing Lancaster bombers. And
swarming all over them, like so many industrious ants, were the R.A.F.
mechanics. The riggers, the fitters, the armorers, and the countless
other members of the ground crews that keep the planes in the air.
Over in one corner of the field, though, was a lone Vickers "Wellington"
bomber. And grouped under one of its huge wings were five airmen dressed
for the skies. Three of them wore R.A.F. uniforms, but Dave Dawson and
Freddy Farmer still wore their U.S. Army Force uniforms, though they
were not in the best of condition as a result of the boys' recent
experience with three worshipers of Hitler, who wouldn't be around any
more.
As a matter of fact, it had been their torn and mud-smeared uniforms
that had come close to delaying their arrival at the Aberdeen R.A.F,
Depot indefinitely. Following Freddy Farmer's plan of action, they had
walked three miles along the Old North Road to a town which did turn out
to be Leadburn, just as the English-born air ace had guessed. Patroling
Home Guards stopped them, and after considerable argument they were
taken to the quarters of the town's Military Commandant. That gentleman
was awakened from a deep sleep, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't
even like it a little bit. And being that kind of an officer, he felt
that the two youths should be tossed into the local clink for the rest
of the night, and their case looked at in the broad light of day.
But at that point both Dave and Freddy went to work on him, so to speak,
much to the silent amusement of the Home Guards. At any rate, they
convinced the Commandant that he should phone the Air Ministry. He did,
and that changed everything, instantly. The boys couldn't hear what was
said at the other end of the wire, but they didn't have to. The sullen
annoyance in the Commandant's face changed at once. His eyes widened to
saucer size, and his face turned a deep brick red color that went right
up into his hair. He almost got his tongue tangled up in his teeth
telling the person at the other end of the wire that he would "do that
at once." And when he finally hung up, his forehead was dotted with
beads of nervous sweat.
And so the boys got action, plus! In less time than it takes to tell
about it the Commandant's own car was turned over for their use. And
they were given a Corporal, who knew the roads well, to handle the
wheel. And that was exactly what the Corporal did, and then some. He
was ordered to make the run north to Aberdeen Depot as fast as he could,
and hardly had he shifted gears before both boys realized the man
planned to do even better than that. He was indeed an expert driver, but
even experts break their necks sometimes. And what worried Dave and
Freddy as they shot northward through the night was that the driver
would not only break his own neck, but theirs as well!
Lady Luck rode with them, however. And in due time they passed through
the Aberdeen Depot gates, and were conducted over to the Depot
Commandant's office. He had been waiting for them, and getting new grey
hairs with every passing minute. Of course the Flying Scotsman had long
since arrived at the station, and when they were not found aboard, the
Commandant had more or less taken it as his personal responsibility. And
so his joy was great and his relief unbounded when finally the two
youths did show up. He took them under his wing at once, and got them a
good meal and something hot to drink. Then he chatted with them for a
bit, and it was all the two youths could do to stop from grinning in his
face. Naturally, the Commandant knew nothing, save the fact that they
were to be flown to Moscow, and so naturally he dropped a casual
question here and there in an effort to add to his knowledge.
But neither Dave nor Freddy were having any of that. As a matter of
fact, if either of them was tempted to give their host a tip as to the
nature of their mission, they had only to think of that little business
aboard the Flying Scotsman to be easily able to kill such an intention
right then and there. If German agents had big ears in London, they
would certainly have big ears in Aberdeen. And the conviction that of
course there weren't any Nazi agents way up there in Aberdeen was just
about the stupidest idea one could have. Nazi agents are like
cockroaches. You'll find them around, no matter how many you kill, until
you've found the nest and burned it out. And the Gestapo nest was in
Berlin.
However, the hour or two with the Depot Commandant passed pleasantly
enough. And then the pilot, navigator, and radioman of the Moscow-bound
bomber reported at the Commandant's office. The pilot was a Squadron
Leader named Freehill, and the ribbons under his wings proved that he
had won his rank the hard way. The navigator was a Flight Lieutenant
named Parsons, and he had a ready smile and a hearty handshake that
made both Dave and Freddy feel glad that he was going to be along on the
flight to Moscow. The radioman was a cheery-faced sergeant named
Dilling, who looked as if he should be on the vaudeville stage rather
than inside a Wellington bomber. All three of them seemed rather
mysteriously tickled about this coming flight to Moscow, but it was not
until later, when they were all taking it easy under the Wellington's
wing, while the twin Bristols were warming up, that Squadron Leader
Freehill explained the reason for their secret joy.
"This aerial taxi business has almost got us down," he said out of a
clear blue sky. "But not this trip we're to make with you chaps. You're
a blessing, if there ever was one, or two, rather. It should be a bit of
all right this time, I'm sure."
"Here's hoping, anyway," Dave said with a grin. "But I don't know what
you're talking about. What do you mean, this trip is to be different?"
"A difference of about two thousand miles, for one thing," the other
replied with a chuckle. "And a good chance to see a Jerry or two, for
another. Or at any rate, so I hope. You see, most times we're blasted
chauffeurs for some war correspondents, or some brass hats, or political
big wigs, headed for Moscow to chat with Stalin and all the lads. Very
valuable cargo, you know. And we must get them there without grey hairs,
or them getting their feet wet. So we have to fly a course north to
within six hundred miles of the Pole, and then around the tip of Norway
and down into Russia through Murmansk and Leningrad. Like flying through
an ice box. Terribly cold. And no end boring, too. Except for Parsons,
here. He's kept pretty busy making sure we don't end up in Greenland or
some such other place."
"Quite!" the navigator echoed with a faint chuckle. "Takes me a week to
rest my poor brain after one of those thirty-two hundred mile hops. No
fun at all, really. You two chaps we are taking across as the crow
flies. Wouldn't be at all surprised if a Jerry or two came up for a look
at us. They're frightfully worried about R.A.F. planes over their heads
these days, you know."
"Don't I hope a few do come up, though!" Sergeant Dilling spoke up with
a broad grin. "It's so long since I had a Jerry in my sights I'm worried
for fear I won't be able to recognize one of the beggars. It will be
wonderful, no end, to spill one of the blighters down in a mess of
flames. At least it will give me the feeling that at last I'm doing
something to earn my pay."
"Well, we want to get to Moscow all in one piece," Dave said with a
little laugh, "but I can't say that I'd be too mad if a couple of
Messerschmitts did put in an appearance. How about the weather, Squadron
Leader? Does this stuff go very far out?"
The Wellington's pilot grinned, and winked one eye.
"Far enough out," he replied. "According to the latest reports we'll
have it all the way to the Norwegian coast. There it's supposed to be
visibility unlimited. I certainly hope so. Don't want bad weather to
keep the Jerries on the ground."
The Squadron Leader paused and glanced at his wrist watch, and then over
at the engine filters climbing down out of the bomber.
"Well, I fancy its about time to get on with it, chaps," he said, and
tightened the chin strap of his helmet. "In with you. And a good time
for all of us. The dinners will be on me when we reach Moscow."