privilege to witness something that few war pilots ever see in their
lifetime--in short, a perfect long range shot smacking home. Once in
maybe a billion times a burst of aerial machine gun bullets hit their
mark at the extreme end of their range. All the other times they fly
wide, or spend themselves downward toward earth.
But this was one of those once in a billion times, and the burst of
bullets came from the guns on Freddy Farmer's Messerschmitt. Dawson
hadn't even rested his thumb on his trigger trip because of the
seemingly hopeless distance to the target. However, Freddy Farmer had
taken a bead, and his bit of perfect aerial shooting proved to be in a
class all by itself. The "target" lurched off to the left, as though it
had been sliding along an invisible greased pole, and had slid off. It
dropped right down to the vertical, and then suddenly smoke and livid
red flame belched out and up from its nose. Hardly daring to believe his
eyes, Dawson watched the bit of blazing doom clear down to where it
disappeared from view behind a ridge. And a split second later, a
fountain of flashing orange and red told him that the plane had struck
earth.
"Nope, it didn't happen!" he told himself in a dazed voice. "Things like
that just don't happen. You only read about them in stories. Sweet
tripe! How I love that guy, Freddy Farmer. Compared to him, am I a bum!"
With a vigorous nod for emphasis, he veered over closer to the English
youth's plane and lifted his clasped hands high above his head in the
gesture of a boxer saluting the crowd.
"You for me, sweetheart!" he shouted into the roar of his engine. "Now,
let's go and pull off the last of the miracles!"
The words had no more than left his lips, however, when he happened to
stare toward the east--and swallowed hard. Pitch black storm clouds were
hurtling up out of the east, and swiftly blotting out the last fading
tints of day much as a descending blanket blots out the flickering flame
of a candle. In a matter of minutes, now, Freddy and he wouldn't be able
to spot Nina's house in the darkness, much less make safe landings close
by!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
_Headaches for Hitler_
Dawson glanced impulsively over at Freddy Farmer, and quickly realized
that the English youth had spotted the approaching storm clouds, too,
and obviously had the same thoughts. Because even as their eyes met
Freddy nodded violently, and banked around, and stuck his nose down in
the general direction of the eastern side of the village of Tobolsk,
just out of sight over the horizon.
"Well, there's one thing, anyway," Dawson grunted as he quickly followed
suit with his own plane. "The darker it gets, the better the chances of
Nazi eyes not spotting us. Yeah, sure! But if that storm beats us to it,
there'll be a ground wind that will knock _our_ chances higher than a
kite! And I don't mean maybe!"
That last most unpleasant consideration was uppermost in Dawson's brain
as he and Freddy Farmer went tearing all out toward the southeast. And
with every foot his Messerschmitt cut through the air, doubt and dread
built itself up higher and higher within him. It was almost as though
the gods of good fortune, and Lady Luck, had decided that they had done
enough to help, and had quit cold on the job. Though Dawson's
Messerschmitt was rocketing down across the shadowy sky, the storm
clouds seemed to possess twice his speed. And with each rushing toward
the other, the distance between them just shriveled away like snow in a
blast furnace.
Eyes grim, and jaw set at a determined angle, Dawson hunched forward
over the controls and searched the ground ahead and below. The bouncing
lead came back to the pit of his stomach with a gleeful vengeance, for
the ground was now almost lost in the swirling shadows of the
approaching storm. It was almost impossible to pick out Tobolsk itself,
to say nothing of the location of Nina's house in the Y of the two
intersecting roads.
Suddenly, though, a voice seemed to cry out at him from nowhere; cry out
to look down and to the left. Just exactly what urged him to do that, he
didn't know. But he obeyed the sudden impulse, and his heart started
pounding with wild hope again. Down there to the left he saw the Y
formed by the two roads. He even saw Nina's house, if that pile of
timber and stone could be called a house. And he was able to catch a
fleeting glimpse of the small but apparently smooth field just to the
left of the Y. Just a fleeting glimpse of the field before a moving
sheet of rain cut across his vision. The advance guard of the storm had
arrived. The race had turned out a tie, which to those two fighting
eagles up in the air was just about the same as losing the race.
"But down we go!" Dawson roared out aloud. "Down we go, just the same.
And, please, God, we've _got_ to make it!"
As he gulped out the prayerful plea, he peered over at Freddy Farmer,
who was still hugging close to his right wing tip, storm or no storm. At
the same instant the English youth turned his own head Dawson's way, and
then nodded it violently as though he had read the Yank's thoughts. Dave
nodded back, lifted one hand in brief salute, then turned his face
forward again, and gave every ounce of his undivided attention to his
Messerschmitt.
An hour, a day, or it could have been a year passed before he had
practically pushed the Messerschmitt down and around so that it was
heading for the long way of the field, and into the snarling wind. He
didn't know, and he didn't care, he was too busy working his throttle to
maintain forward speed, and prevent the Messerschmitt from stalling. At
times his forward speed matched the speed of the wind, and his plane
almost stood still in the air just off the surface of the ground. And
then suddenly his wheels touched. The plane bounced wildly, but he
goosed the engine, and checked a disastrous second meeting with the
wind-swept ground. When the wheels touched again, the Messerschmitt
stayed down, and Dawson taxied it at a fast clip straight ahead and then
off to the side to get out of the way of Freddy Farmer right behind him.
As a matter of fact, he had no sooner killed the engine, and leaped to
the ground, while the Messerschmitt still trundled forward, than he saw
the English youth's plane settle. Settle? It started to do just that,
but a savage cross-wind caught it, and the aircraft came down like five
tons of brick dumped off a high building. A wild cry of alarm rose up in
Dawson's throat, but his zooming heart won the race to his mouth and
choked it off. For a lifetime, it seemed, he could only stand rooted
helplessly to the ground while Freddy Farmer's Messerschmitt jumped and
leaped crazily about like a chip of wood on the crest of a raging sea. A
dozen times the aircraft seemed to start over on its back, but somehow
the English youth managed to keep it top side up. True, it skidded
around in half-circles, first one way and then the other. But the wing
tip didn't quite catch and grab on the ground to pile up the whole works
in a heap. And then suddenly something seemed to shoot right out of the
cockpit of the bouncing and dancing plane and down onto the ground.
Dawson blinked twice before he realized that that something was Freddy
Farmer in the flesh, and that the English youth had raced over to where
he stood, while the storm wind gleefully picked up the Messerschmitt and
carried it the rest of the way down the field and smacked it up against
some trees.
"Too bad, even if it is a Nazi plane!" Dawson heard Farmer's gasping
voice. "But I couldn't nurse-maid the blasted thing forever. I had to
let it go. Well, that must be the house, what?"
Dawson didn't bother to reply. Freddy had pulled another miracle out of
the hat, and that part of the show was over. He just nodded quickly,
then spun around on his heel, and went dashing over toward the lone
house with Freddy Farmer at his heels. No lights were showing, but
Dawson didn't even bother to knock. When he reached the front door he
just grabbed hold of the knob, twisted it, shoved open the door and
barged right inside. And both Freddy and he just managed to skid to a
halt as they saw a small, thin figure come at them, and saw the glint of
a gun barrel in the pale glow shed by a single lighted candle on a
nearby table.
"Hey! Hold everything!" Dawson heard his own voice pant.
The last half of it, though, was drowned out by an even sharper cry in
Russian. And before the echo was gone Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had
appeared out of nowhere and leaped between Dawson and the advancing thin
shadow. And a second or so later Dawson saw the tattered clothing, the
wrinkled face, and the snow white hair of the thin "shadow." And then
the Senior Lieutenant was talking to him.
"That was not wise, Captain!" she was saying sharply. "It is lucky I
cried out in time, or Nina might have used that gun."
"Yeah, my error," Dawson grunted. "I was dumb. But in this storm I
didn't figure that our knock would be heard. Besides, Farmer and I were
in a hurry. Look, Senior Lieutenant! From here on we've got to stay in
high gear. I mean, we've got to get going, and keep going. No telling
when Lady Luck may quit on us. I don't think there's much of a guard on
our bomber now. And this storm doesn't exactly hurt the situation,
either. Where're Jones, and Nikolsk? The five of us have got to make
tracks. You lead the way to the bomber, and we'll be right behind you
with Nikolsk. I--Hey! The look on your face! Nikolsk isn't--he isn't--?"
"No, he is not dead, yet," the girl told him quickly. "He was even
conscious for a little bit. And he did recognize Agent Jones. He even
spoke of things a little. But not one millionth enough. And now he is
unconscious again. I have great fear. He may never be conscious again.
But what about the bomber? There is a chance to get him to a Moscow
hospital?"
"What we're going to do!" Dawson told her firmly. "So let's do the
talking later. Lead us to Nikolsk, and let's get going!"
The Russian girl didn't bother with any more words. She nodded for Dave
and Freddy to follow, and led the way through a door to a rear room. The
smell of Death itself seemed to hang in the air, and when Dawson glanced
down at the thin, almost fleshless, and war-ravaged face of the figure
wrapped tightly in blankets, his heart seemed to stop and turn into a
chunk of ice. Ivan Nikolsk looked like a man who had died years before.
"Good grief, you two? Splendid! Thought all the racket was Gestapo lads
breaking in. Now, what do we--?"
"We go!" Dawson broke into the middle of the question, and grinned into
Agent Jones' strained and haggard face. "In the B-Twenty-Five, if luck
is still pitching for our team. Never mind the questions, though. Save
them until we get to Moscow. And we _will_ get there! Okay, Senior
Lieutenant! Please tell your Nina that we will never forget what she has
done, and--But, hey! Do you think she'd like to try and make the trip
with us?"
Before the girl Soviet Intelligence officer could speak, the small,
thin, aged Russian woman appeared in the doorway.
"No, gallant ones," she said in halting English. "Here I have been, and
here I stay. The Nazis do not bother with an old hag, as I am. So here I
remain, and perhaps do more for my beloved Russia. No, go, gallant ones.
And the arms of the Blessed Mother be about you!"
Dawson looked at her, and then, hardly realizing that he was doing so,
he stepped quickly forward and took the old woman in his arms and kissed
her reverently on the forehead. Then, face flaming red, he turned and
went over to the bedside of Ivan Nikolsk.
"Put a part of the blanket over his face, Jones!" he said gruffly.
"Blowing like blazes outside. And put your service automatic where you
can grab it in a hurry. We may bump into trouble, and we may not. Okay!
Take his legs, and I'll take his shoulders and head. Okay, Senior
Lieutenant! This time we are going. And God love you, Nina!"
Dawson didn't realize he had flung the last at the aged Russian woman
until he was outside in the cold driving rain and, with Agent Jones, was
lugging the dying Nikolsk along in the wake of Freddy Farmer and the
Russian girl. And when he did realize it he told himself that he had
meant it with all his heart. Nina was but one of thousands of unknown
heroes and heroines suffering under the steel heel of Hitlerism. No
medals for those such as she. No statues, no anything. But God knew of
each and every one of them, and the complete reward for their services
to mankind would be theirs thricefold some day.
However, Dawson was actually only thinking those things in one tiny
corner of his brain. The rest of his brain was busy with the task of
ordering his legs and muscles to keep going, and keep close to Freddy
Farmer and the Russian girl. But it was like stumbling through the very
bottom of a long forgotten coal mine. Maybe Nasha Petrovski had the eyes
of a cat, and so could see each tree trunk and ditch and stone that came
up out of the rain slashed darkness. But Dawson didn't, and neither did
Agent Jones. And so they stumbled and reeled and lurched forward,
fighting every inch of the way to keep hold of their precious burden.
Twice during the long, long "years" that dragged by, Freddy Farmer
dropped back and insisted on relieving either Dawson or Jones, but both
of them refused the offer.
"Stick with her, Freddy!" Dave panted. "If there's trouble ahead, you
two eagle eyes will spot it sooner. Thanks just the same, pal."
And so it continued on--forever and ever--and seemingly without end. A
thousand times the cold fear that the Russian girl had lost her way
clutched at Dawson's heart. As for himself, he had no idea where in the
world they were. The black of night closed in from all sides. The
wind-driven rain cut and slashed down into his face with the sting of
white hot needle points. And the howl of the storm in his ears was like
some invisible force trying to pry off the top of his head. He wanted to
cry out to the others to stop and rest a moment, but the words just
wouldn't come. And each time he felt that urge he was both relieved and
ashamed when it was gone.
And then suddenly the little party groping cross-country through the
black, stormy night did come to a halt. It was the Russian girl who
brought them to a halt. And her voice came to them through the howl of
the storm almost like a whisper.
"The edge of the woods is but a step ahead!" she said. "Beyond it, the
bomber. I do not think there are many guards, but there must be some.
This, then, is a task for me. Remain motionless, please. But when you
hear three quick shots from my revolver, come as though the entire
German army were right behind you. It will not be long. This is what I
do gladly for my Russia."
A sharp bark of protest came up into Dawson's mouth, but there it died
in silence, for the spot of rain-swept darkness that had held the
Russian girl was only a spot of rain-swept darkness now. She had gone in
a flash, and the three youths could only hold up Ivan Nikolsk as gently
as they could--and wait--each with his own thoughts.
However, there didn't seem to be any waiting period at all--at least not
over thirty seconds at the most. Suddenly, from out of the wind-howling
darkness ahead, came three distinct shots from a revolver! Nobody said
anything. Nobody so much as let out a shout of joy. Dawson, Agent Jones,
and Freddy Farmer simply hoisted Ivan Nikolsk up to a more comfortable
position, and went plunging forward through the black stormy night. And
in practically no time at all there was level ground under their feet,
and they were running over toward the darker blur that was the
B-Twenty-Five bomber.
"Here, to your left!" the voice of Senior Lieutenant Petrovski suddenly
spoke in Dawson's ear. "Here is the bomber door. And watch out for those
dead ones on the ground. There were five, and as I suspected they were
inside the bomber to be out of the storm. They were surprised, and then
they were dead. But here--give me your place. You must get in and start
the engines. The three of us will manage. And may it be His wish that
Ivan Nikolsk still lives!"
"And keeps living. Amen!" Dawson echoed as he shifted his share of the
burden to the Russian girl's strong arms. "But how in the world did
you--?"
"A knife makes no noise!" she cut him off almost harshly. "And the
knives of Russia are very sharp!"
That's all Dawson wanted to know. He leaped past the girl, stumbled over
the feet of some dead Nazi guard, and then ducked through the bomber's
door, and made his way forward to the pilots' compartment. It seemed
that he had hardly dropped into the seat, and was shooting out his hand
for the switches, when Freddy Farmer dropped into the co-pilot's seat
alongside.
"The chap's regaining consciousness again, Dave!" the English youth
cried wildly. "Agent Jones is back there with him, with his notebook.
Get us off, old thing, in a hurry. Blast if we're not going to grab this
one out of thin air, too. What a girl, that Senior Lieutenant!"
"You mean, what an army!" Dawson shouted at him as he jabbed the starter
buttons. "She's a whole doggone army, all by herself. And, boy, can she
think way out in front of a guy, too! She's--"
The most welcome sound in all the world drowned out Dawson's voice at
that moment: the powerful, thunderous roar of the B-Twenty-Five's twin
Wright Cyclones coming to life. For a few precious seconds Dawson let
them roar so that they would warm up as fast as possible. But at the end
of that time he saw spitting flame off to the left and ahead, and the
left side window of the pilots' compartment seemed to blow in on him in
a shower of splintered glass.
"Get going, Dave!" Freddy Farmer cried excitedly.
"Get, nothing!" Dawson roared back. "We're _gone_!"
And even as the first word spilled off his lips he had kicked off the
wheel brakes, forked the throttles wide open and was booting the
B-Twenty-Five around the necessary half-turn to get it headed toward the
far end of the field. And then as the bomber went forward, picking up
speed with every powerful revolution of its propellers, orange, red, and
yellow flame sparked and stabbed the darkness on both sides. Dawson felt
bullets smash into the bomber, and even heard some of them twang off
the engine cowlings, but the twin Cyclones did not miss a single beat,
and the B-Twenty-Five went thundering forward until the wings could get
their teeth in the air, and Dawson was able to lift the ship clear and
nose it upward into the stormy night.
When no more than a couple of thousand feet were under his wings, he
leveled off, checked with the automatic compass, and then swung the
B-Twenty-Five around toward the north.
"Back to your job of navigating, Freddy, old sock!" he shouted at his
pal. "Moscow next stop, and we're in a hurry. So you see to it that we
hit it on the nose, hey, kid?"
"Have I ever missed?" Freddy snapped at him.
"Well, anyway," Dawson grinned back at him, "see that you don't make
_this_ the first time!"
Clear, brilliant sunshine flooded the length and breadth of Moscow. Four
wonderful days Dawson, Agent Jones, and Freddy Farmer had spent in the
fascinating Soviet city. Four swell days of sight-seeing, and banquets
for heroes--themselves. Though the three of them had insisted that the
major share of the glory belonged to Senior Lieutenant Petrovski, who
had as quickly disappeared out of their lives as she had come into them.
As a matter of fact, five minutes after Dawson had landed the
B-Twenty-Five on the Moscow military airport, the pretty-looking Russian
girl was gone, just like that. And Colonel General Vladimir, who was at
the airport to greet them, had explained in a few words, with a
meaningful smile.
"When the war is won, her work will be done," he said. "But the war is
not won, yet. And there are still many things to be done."
And so, just like that, the pretty Russian girl had stepped right out of
their lives, and they had been more or less forced to accept her share
of the glory. But it was not so much the glory as it was the unspoken
prayers of thankfulness in their hearts that really blotted black
memories from their minds, and let them enjoy their short stay in
Moscow. A thankfulness that God had not let Ivan Nikolsk die, but had
shielded his frail body from that final blast of Nazi death as Dawson
had taken that bomber off the Tobolsk field. Shielded Nikolsk's body.
And done even more. Had let him live so that he reached the Moscow
hospital. And given him the strength to tell all of his share of the
secret to Agent Jones, _and_ to no less than Premier Joseph Stalin
himself!
Neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer had been present. Their part of the job
had been done. Besides, they had no real desire to hear a ghost of a man
gasp out words that must first be fitted in with other words already
known to United Nations Intelligence to make any sense. But later, when
Agent Jones had joined them at their suite in the International Hotel,
one look at his face had told them that more than a battlefield victory
had been won. Important, invaluable information about enemy intentions
had been gained. And in war, knowledge of what the enemy plans to do is
a victory already won. So they had been content to keep questions off
their tongues. Besides, Agent Jones' final job was to make his secret
report to his superior, Air Vice-Marshal Leman, and to no one else.
However, as the three youths sat lounging about in their suite, resting
before the final banquet in their honor--for they would leave for
England on the morrow--Dawson stared hard at Agent Jones' good-looking
face for a long minute, and could no longer hold back the question that
had been in his mind ever since that luncheon in Simpson's.
"Your name isn't Jones, but Leman--right?" he practically blurted out.
Agent Jones stiffened and gave him a startled look. Then he grinned
slowly, and sighed.
"A chap can't keep a thing from you, can he?" he said.
"Not when he's got a face as good-looking as his Dad's, who's an Air
Vice-Marshal," Dave replied with a chuckle. "And, boy, _I_ was the guy
who told your Dad that you were probably imagining things, such as being
followed, and your room searched, and stuff! No wonder he practically
blew me down with a look!"
"Oh, so that's why you asked me if something about this chap didn't
strike me, eh?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good gosh! I thought you knew
that for certain. Why, it was obvious, old thing. Anybody--"
"Come off it, pal!" Dawson cried threateningly, and picked up a book.
"Don't give me that. _You_ didn't even guess, until Jones admitted it
just now."
Freddy Farmer made a face, and walked over to the door.
"Rubbish!" he snorted. "We English chaps just keep things like that to
ourselves. Not nosy, like _some_ chaps I know. Well, I'll leave you two
for a spell. A bit of shopping I must do. But I say, Jones--I mean,
Leman--?"
Freddy opened the door, half turned, and grinned wickedly.
"I leave you, Leman, old thing, in honored company, you know," he
chuckled. "Oh, quite! _A gallant soldier all Russia must admire!_"
And then Freddy Farmer leaped out into the hall as the book Dawson had
been holding smacked against the inside of the door where Freddy
Farmer's head had been just a moment before!
THE END
* * * * *
_Page from_
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE FLYING TIGERS
The music was soft and soothing; like no other music ever heard on earth
before. And all about was beauty far beyond the power of words to
depict, or the brush of an artist. Everything was so wonderful, so
perfect, and so--
But through Dawson's throbbing, pounding head slipped a tiny inkling of
the stark, naked truth. There was no soft, soothing music, there was no
breath-taking beauty, and nothing was wonderful, or even approaching
perfection. All was Death. Horrible, lingering, painful death that comes
to a man lost, and unarmed, in the steaming lush jungle of north Burma.
Yes, it was just his brain, and all of his senses playing him tricks
originated by the Devil. Tricks to make him let go, and just relax--and
die. But he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. There was too
much to--
The whine of engines pulled his head up out of the mud and slime. He
rolled half over, gritted his teeth against the pain, and peered up
through the twisted canopy of jungle growth.