Lieutenant Petrovski said bitterly. "A little luck has been mine since I
last saw you. I found Ivan Nikolsk, and it was easier than I had dared
hope. There was a certain house I went to, on the east side of the
village. An old woman, too old to interest the Nazis. Nina, her name is.
She used to rock me in my cradle. She made for me my first doll, out of
thin air and a bit of string, almost. She was there at the house. Half
blind, but she knew me at once. She swore that she knew in her heart
that I was coming. Perhaps yes. Who is there to say no? And what is
planned for us on this earth, and what is not planned for us? Who is
there to prove this or that to be wrong, or a miracle?"
The Russian girl suddenly caught herself up and made a little apologetic
gesture with her hands.
"But such mysteries of life are not for us to speak of at the moment,"
she continued. "It is just that Ivan Nikolsk went to Nina for hiding. He
is there. He is there now. I saw him."
"Oh, splendid!" Freddy Farmer burst out excitedly. "Did you speak to
him, Senior Lieutenant? And what did he say to you? By Jove!"
"No." She turned to the English youth with a sad smile. "I have made you
happy only to make you unhappy. I spoke to Ivan Nikolsk, but he did not
speak to me. He is unconscious. He has been so for four days. He has
illness, and a terrible fever. Nina has done what she could. But there
is no doctor, and it would mean her life to go to the Nazis in the
village. Nina says that he has not long to live. And I have seen him,
and so believe her!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
_End of the Beginning_
The echo of Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's words seemed to linger
tauntingly for ages and ages. Nobody else spoke. Nobody could think of
anything to say. The stillness of dawn stole in through the broken and
shattered windows, and lent to the place the atmosphere of a long
abandoned tomb. Dawson tried desperately to think of something to
say--anything that would remove a little of the bitterness that was
stamped all over the Russian girl's face. Not one bit of what had
happened was her fault, but that didn't make any difference to her. She
accepted the fault as her own, and it showed plainly in the bitter look
on her face.
"Well, that just tightens things up a little," the words finally came to
his tongue, and popped off. "We've just got to shift into high gear a
little sooner. The big idea now is to get Ivan Nikolsk to a good Russian
hospital, and get him there fast. Right?"
"True enough," Freddy Farmer grunted, and stared at him hard. "But I
fancy there are one or two little details to be worked out, what?"
"Right!" Dawson shot right back at him. "And that's where you and I can
earn a little of what they pay us. Look, Senior Lieutenant, just where
is this Nina's house? Can you tell me exactly, so I'd recognize it when
I saw it?"
"But of course!" the Russian girl replied, and brightened up a little.
"It was in that mosaic aerial map. You recall those two roads that
formed a Y by those star-shaped fields? You remember speaking about the
shape of those fields, eh? It is that house right there in the top part
of that Y."
"Check!" Dawson cried eagerly, as he instantly pin pointed the spot on
the memory picture of that aerial map in his brain. "Yes! I know just
where it is. Now, another question. Are there many Nazis roaming around
here? I mean, could you and Agent Jones get to this Nina's house without
being stopped and picked up?"
"The Nazis would never see us!" the Russian girl said almost scornfully.
"Too many times have I--"
"Okay, and sorry," Dawson stopped her with a grin. "I didn't mean that
the way you took it. Okay, then. Answer me this, if you will? Could
Farmer and I get to that house without being nailed?"
The Russian girl flashed him a searching look, and then laughed softly.
"What a Russian girl can do, the Captains Dawson and Farmer can
certainly do!" she said. "And much more skilfully, no doubt."
Dawson hesitated the fraction of a second, half expecting a crack from
Freddy. But the situation was too serious for the English youth to
loosen his tongue in a retort.
"Well, that's all I want to know," Dawson finally said with a grin. "Now
look, Senior Lieutenant. You and Agent Jones slide over to this Nina's
house, and get ready to move Nikolsk out of there. You know, wrap him up
in blankets, if there're any around. But, more important, try to check
on the movements of any Nazis who might be around. Meanwhile Farmer and
I--well, we're going to take a little walk. However, we'll join you and
Agent Jones as soon as we can. But it might not be until nightfall
tonight. So don't get worried if we take that long."
"I say, what's up old thing?" Agent Jones broke into the conversation.
"Just what do you and Farmer plan to do? A walk to where, may I ask?"
"Sure, go ahead and ask it," the Yank air ace chuckled. "The answer is
that I am not quite sure, right now. However, the B-Twenty-Five is out
for us, now. So Farmer's and my job will be to dig up some other means
of travel, and dig it up in a hurry. We'll do our darnedest, anyway. And
I promise, we'll both show up at Nina's sooner or later. So is it okay
for us to split forces and get to work? Or has one of you something
better thought up?"
None of the other three seemed to think much of Dawson's suggestion for
action. The looks on their faces showed it. But not one of them could
think of any better suggestion, so no protests or arguments were
forthcoming. Dawson gave them three long minutes to think of something.
Then he nodded, and stood up.
"Okay, time flies!" he said. "The Senior Lieutenant, and Agent Jones,
head for Nina's house, and get Nikolsk ready for travel. And maybe
you'll get a break, Jones. Maybe Nikolsk will come to long enough to
recognize you and do some talking. That's why I think you should go with
the Senior Lieutenant instead of with us, see?"
"But of course!" Jones gasped as his face reddened slightly. "I didn't
think. Naturally. Sorry, Dawson."
"Skip it, pal," the Yank grinned at him. Then, stabbing a finger at
Freddy Farmer, he said, "Boy! On your feet, and come with Papa. And
watch those big feet, too. The less noise, the better our chances."
"Really?" the English youth snorted, and made a face. "Well, if it
wasn't for the situation, and the fact a young lady is present, I'd tell
you, my good man, to--"
"But of course you won't!" Dawson shot at him. "So pipe down,
sweetheart, and let's get going. By nightfall at the latest, you two.
Keep your fingers crossed!"
With a grin and a wave of his hand at Senior Lieutenant Petrovski and
Agent Jones, Dawson turned and led the way out through the slanting
doorway, and sharp left into the thick woods that edged that side of the
house. He kept going until he was a good two hundred yards deep in the
woods. Then he slid to the ground and crawled into some of the heavy
undergrowth. Freddy Farmer crawled in right beside him, and even in the
bad light Dawson could see the library full of questions that gleamed
in his pal's eyes.
"Easy does it, sweetheart," Dave said softly, and held up a restraining
hand. "I know you think I'm nuts, pal. But I couldn't very well explain
everything in there. Besides, I wouldn't be able to explain everything,
because I haven't caught all the angles yet myself."
"Yes, you are quite balmy, or seem so," the English youth replied with a
gesture. "But I've seen you just as balmy in one or two other tight
corners. So I'll wait and listen before I make up my mind one way or the
other. Well, just what is steaming in that head of yours?"
"The word is cooking, not steaming," Dawson chuckled. "But skip it.
Look, Freddy. As I get the picture, the Nazis--Gestapo, or maybe no
Gestapo--have stolen the play from us. Naturally, if they've found the
B-Twenty-Five, as the Senior Lieutenant says, they know for sure that
there is somebody behind their lines. Right? Okay. However, I've got a
feeling that there is one thing they _don't_ know."
"Go on," Freddy Farmer grunted as Dawson paused. "What?"
"They don't know _how many_ of us are here," the Yank replied quickly.
"But the B-Twenty-Five must indicate to them that--!" the English youth
managed to say before Dawson interrupted.
"Sure, but so what? That bomber can mean one of two things to them. That
it brought over a full crew to do something. Or that a couple of guys
flew it over to take _others_ back. And if the Gestapo is mixed up in
this, they must feel sure that the B-Twenty-Five is here to take others
back."
"Which is just about the truth," the English youth grunted gloomily.
"So that's just why we've got to step in and make them change their
minds!" Dawson shot at him. "We've got to make them think that only two
of us came over, and, finding out that our plans were shot high wide and
handsome because the bomber was captured, that we called off the deal
and lit out for home as fast as we could. See?"
"I most certainly don't see!" Freddy Farmer growled, and scowled. "What
kind of raving is this, anyway?"
"Too bad I haven't got a pencil!" Dawson grated. "I could draw you a
picture. Stop thinking of food, and concentrate, will you, pal?"
"I'll take you up on that remark later!" Freddy snapped. "Of course I'm
concentrating. But are you talking sense?"
"I'll try to put it in words of no more than five letters," Dave sighed.
"Now, here it is. We must make them think that only two people came over
in that B-Twenty-Five. Two guys, who planned to make a secret landing at
night and pick up--well, pick up one, or two, or half a dozen other
people on this side. The Nazis can pick their own number from one to
ten. Okay. The bomber is captured by them, so we've got to make them
think we got scared, called off what we had hoped to accomplish, and
beat it back to the safety of the Russian front. Got it, so far?"
"Yes, I think so," Freddy replied. "So far. But how do you propose to
make them think we've given up and gone back? And just how do you plan
for us to go back?"
Dawson jerked a thumb off to the right.
"That very trick airdrome of theirs," he said shortly. "And a couple of
those single-seater Messerschmitt One-Nines. We--"
"But a Messerschmitt One-Ten will carry two!" the English youth
interrupted. "In fact, they carry a radioman, also, which makes three."
"My, how you know your airplanes!" Dawson snapped. "Shut up, and
listen, will you? Two single-seaters will mean to them that only _two_
guys are on their way home. So they'll naturally figure that _only two
guys_ came over in the B-Twenty-Five, see? So, as I was saying, we swipe
two single-seaters from their trick airdrome and high-tail for the
Russian front. And--Now, keep your shirt on, and let me finish! And of
course they come chasing after us. Well, we let them get a good look at
us taking it on the lam. Get--"
"_Lam_, Dave? I--"
"So your education's been neglected, but skip it for now!" the Yank said
quickly. "We let them see us escape. Let them see us get well over
Russian-held ground, so they are forced to turn back. Well, a few
minutes later we do the same thing, see? We've got to work it so it'll
be almost dark by then. Anyway, we breeze back, kill our engines, and
make a dead-stick landing in _that field close to Nina's house_. The
Nazis, thinking that we've given them the slip, will probably relax the
guard on the B-Twenty-Five. So at Nina's house we pick up the others,
sneak back, and rush the one or two guards that have been left with the
bomber. We take care of them, pile aboard, and off we go to a Moscow
hospital with Nikolsk. And who knows? Maybe by then Agent Jones will
have learned everything from the poor devil's own lips. Well? Okay, or
does it smell? And if so, then you tell one, pal!"
"It's all quite mad, of course," the English youth said after a long
moment of silence. "However, it's no more barmy, I fancy, than a few
other things we've tried, and we've always managed to come out on top so
far. There are three big question marks, though. One, can we steal the
two single-seaters? Two, can we land near Nina's house without being
seen, or heard? And three, will they reduce the guard over the bomber so
that we can overpower them quickly enough? After all, we only have an
automatic apiece. However--"
Freddy paused and shrugged. And Dawson nodded, and grinned.
"Check!" he said. "There's only one way we can find out those answers.
That's to take a crack at it."
"And I always did like London at this time of the year," Freddy Farmer
murmured softly with a long sigh.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_Aces Don't Wait_
As though the gods of good fortune, and Lady Luck, were well informed of
what was to take place in the Tobolsk area, and wished to add their bit
of help, dull grey clouds began to form in the western sky shortly after
noon. And by three o'clock the sun was hidden completely, and shadowy,
misty light filled the heavens, and covered the earth like a thin
shroud.
Hugging the ground under a mass of leafy bushes, Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer breathed silent prayers of thanks for the helpful change in the
weather, and in between prayers asked only that four Nazi airplane
mechanics might complete their routine chores, and go elsewhere out of
sight. The four Nazi mechanics were no more than sixty yards from where
the two boys hugged the damp ground, and they were giving their
attention to three Messerschmitt One-Nines, and half a dozen
Messerschmitt One-Tens lined up under a wide spread of overhanging tree
branches that hid them completely from the air. Just beyond the planes,
and to the right, rose a squat, flat-topped hill. Even from where the
boys hugged the ground the hill looked just like that--squat, and
flat-topped. But they knew different. Not only because of what they had
guessed, and heard from Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's lips, but also
from what they had seen with their own eyes!
Just one hour previously they had reached this spot and crouched down to
study the scene, and wait for their big opportunity--if and when it
came. Up until an hour ago they had covered a considerable area of
Nazi-occupied Russian ground. A portion of it, because of the necessity
of changing course to avoid personal contact with Nazi patrols, or
groups of Luftwaffe pilots out stretching their legs after a flight over
the front, and for a few other less important reasons. But a certain
portion of it they had covered on purpose, mainly to have a look at the
guarded B-Twenty-Five bomber. But that look had not added to their peace
of mind, or to their hopes.
They had learned that not only was a heavy guard posted close to the
bomber--which, incidentally, was inspected practically every five
minutes by a new group of Luftwaffe pilots--but a ring of guards had
also been thrown out about the bomber at a considerable distance. In
other words, the Nazis were taking no chances on a surprise rushing
attack. Those whom they were obviously expecting would be forced to
break through two rings of defense to reach the aircraft. No, a good
look from a safe distance at the B-Twenty-Five had not given them cause
to so much as murmur with happiness. If that guard was _not_ reduced,
and by two thirds at the most, they were slated to have one terrific job
on their hands. One terrific job, and a very hopeless one, too.
However, time alone would reveal what was to be, and what wasn't to be.
So they had left the picture just as it was, and gone on about their
"travels." And now they hugged the ground, and kept their eyes fixed on
four Nazi mechanics, and by the very intensity of their stares tried to
make the four square-heads stop fiddling around with the Messerschmitts
and go away.
"Almost as though they knew we were here," Freddy Farmer muttered under
his breath, "and were purposely taking as long as they could. Blast
them, anyway!"
"I can think of a lot of other things to call those tramps!" Dawson
grated softly. "And if you want the truth, I'm having a tough time
fighting down the yen to tear into them, anyway. They don't look like
they're armed."
"But no doubt each one of the blighters has a Luger in his coverall
pocket," Freddy Farmer murmured. "I fancy the Nazis have learned not to
go around unarmed _any_ place in Russia. Quite!"
Dawson started to nod and echo that very truthful surmise, but at that
moment he heard one of the mechanics shout something, and his heart
started pounding furiously against his ribs. He didn't catch the words,
but he didn't have to. Actions told him all he needed to know. The
actions of the four mechanics who promptly quit work, and went walking
over toward the base of the squat, flat-topped hill. A moment or two
later Dawson and Freddy Farmer witnessed for the second time in an hour
a bit of Nazi-made ingenuity. For the second time in an hour, they
witnessed what Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski had told them about.
In short, they watched the four mechanics walk to the base of the hill,
watched a section of "hill" swing outward and upward a little way, and
the four mechanics walk into the hill, and then saw the camouflage
screening drop back into place again. A sudden and quite insane desire
to have a look at all that was inside that hill surged through Dawson.
But, naturally, he killed the urge even as it was born, and simply
promised himself that if he lived through the war, he would come back
for a real inspection of this spot after it was all over.
"Well, don't look right now," he breathed softly, and pushed up onto his
hands and knees, "but I think it's time for us to part company for a
spell. Freddy, old pal, you hop for that first crate, and I'll hop for
the one right next to it. Meet you in the air, kid. And don't wait to
ask permission to take off, see? You won't get it!"
"Not likely!" the English-born air ace grinned back at him,
tight-lipped. "And keep your mind on your own knitting, old thing. A
One-Nine is a bit of all right, but a tricky beggar, you know."
"Yeah, I once read that in a book!" Dave growled. Then, throwing Farmer
a wink, "This is it, pal. And don't spare the horses!"
And that was that. No handclasp, and no last words of planning. There
was no need for either. Each knew exactly how the other felt. And each
knew exactly what the other planned to do, and would do--unless Death
stopped him.
And so, like a couple of bolts of lightning ripping out from the center
of a thunderhead, the two boys ripped up out from under the sheltering
bushes, and went streaking straight across sixty yards of open ground.
To anybody watching them it must have seemed that their feet didn't even
touch the ground; that they were just a couple of cannon shells en
route. And as Dave reached the side of the cockpit of his Messerschmitt
One-Nine, it became instantly evident that somebody had been watching
them, or at least had suddenly spotted Freddy and himself, because there
was the sound of a muffled shout of wild alarm, followed almost
instantly by the heart-chilling chatter of a machine gun. However, Dave
didn't hear the whine of bullets, and he didn't bother to wait to see if
a second burst would come closer. His feet just up and left the ground,
and he practically shot down through the cockpit hatch opening to the
seat.
Even as he landed, hard, his hands were in furious motion. In what was
little more than the continuation of a single movement he whipped up the
ignition switch, snapped on the booster magneto, and punched the
starter button as he rammed the throttle open. One--two--three horrible
seconds dragged by, and then the Daimler-Benz engine in the nose caught
in a mighty thunder of sound. And as it did so he kicked off the wheel
brakes and opened the throttle wide, breathing a prayer of gratitude to
the four mechanics for having tested the engine and thus warmed it up
for him.
Like a race horse leaving the barrier, Dawson's Messerschmitt went
streaking out from under the cover of overhanging branches and down the
flat strip of valley. Out the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of
Freddy Farmer also in motion in the other plane. A song of joy burst out
in his heart, and he impulsively lifted a hand in a derisive gesture at
the machine guns yammering savagely behind him.
"Didn't realize you were guarding the wrong aircraft, did you, tramps?"
he shouted aloud, and pulled the Messerschmitt clear of the ground.
"Well, now, isn't that just too bad! But we'll wait for you, if you
want, hey, Freddy, old kid?"
Of course, the English youth couldn't hear the words, but it wasn't
necessary. As planned, both youths throttled slightly, once they got
the planes up out of range of the machine gun fire. They did so to give
the Nazis plenty of time to race out of the hill hangar and over to the
line of planes. Looking back, Dawson saw them, and a happy grin
stretched his lips. So far, so good! Now to keep just enough ahead of
those bums, and then lose them when well over the Russian front.
"And then Freddy and I will really go to work!" Dawson grunted grimly,
and veered around toward the north. "Wonder what tomorrow will be like?
Yeah! And _if_ I'll see it!"
With a shrug, and a shake of his head, he knocked the thought into
oblivion, and, after glancing over at Freddy on his right, fixed his
gaze on the northern horizon.
A little under an hour later a conglomeration of emotions was surging
through Dawson. Russian-held ground was under his wings now. Russian
ground, and he had only to throttle his Daimler-Benz and slide down to
complete safety. But, of course, that thought didn't even cut a tiny
corner in his brain. It wasn't even born, for the very simple reason
that the job wasn't even half finished. True, they were over Russian
ground, and a couple of minutes before the pursuing Nazis had given up
the chase as a lost cause and swung all the way around to the south, to
be speedily lost to view in the ever approaching shadows of nightfall.
Yes, all that was water under the bridge so far. But half the job, and
the most dangerous half was still waiting to be accomplished.
"So get on with it, as Freddy would say," Dawson grunted, and waggled
his wings just before he banked around toward the south.
The English youth swung around right after him, and in wing-tip
formation they headed toward the southeast. For some five long minutes
they droned along. And then, just as they were passing over the last of
the Russian advance positions on that section of the front, Dawson sat
up stiff and straight in the seat. His eyes had spotted a moving dot
silhouetted against the bleak, cheerless sky of coming night. It grew
bigger and bigger, and finally took on the shape and outline of a
Messerschmitt!
Dawson squinted at it for a second or so longer, and then when the Nazi
craft suddenly veered off to the west, and headed up toward the clouds,
he took a quick look over at Freddy, and started to bark out a signal
burst from his guns.
There was no need for that, however. The English youth had already
spotted the plane, and was hauling his ship around and up after it.
Dawson grinned, and yanked his own One-Nine around and up in Freddy's
wake.
"Leave it to you, Eagle Eyes!" he shouted. "Okay, pal. He sure is our
baby. Hanging around so he can learn things, maybe, and then go tearing
back to tell them all about it. Well, not today, eh, Freddy?"
With a grim nod for emphasis, Dawson jammed the heel of his palm against
the already wide open throttle, and kept his gaze fixed on the third
Nazi plane streaking upward for the clouds. For what seemed like all
eternity the lumps of cold lead bounced around in Dawson's stomach. If
they lost that Nazi there was no telling what might happen. Maybe he was
just some pilot up on a test flight, but his sudden dash for the
seclusion of the clouds didn't bear that out. No. More likely he had
been left aloft to keep watch, and to see if those who had escaped made
any attempt to return. Sure, and maybe that was a very cockeyed view for
Dawson to take, too. However, there was no way of telling one way or the
other. So that left only one thing to do. To knock off that Nazi just in
case he was aloft for no good purpose.
"But in this bum light?" Dawson grated. "Not so good! If he reaches
those clouds, we'll never find him. Five minutes more, and night will be
here in earnest. And we'll--"