and four at a time. They dashed through the vacant lobby, out the front
door, and along the short court that led out onto the Strand. There
they turned left and headed for a fire lieutenant directing his men at
work trying to put out the fire in the bomb-hit building. Dave grabbed
him by the arm, and pointed up.
"There are some people trapped on the fourth floor, sir!" he shouted.
"We heard their screams from our hotel room. Fourth floor, rear."
The fire lieutenant looked at them, saw their uniforms, and wiped an
annoyed look from his tired face.
"Fourth floor, rear?" he shouted above the noise of his fire fighting
apparatus. "Thought everybody in that place would be in the shelters.
How many, do you figure? Can't spare any of my boys, here, so I'll have
to go it alone."
"Don't know how many!" Dave shouted back. "But you're not tackling it
alone. We're coming with you. Let's go."
The fire lieutenant grinned.
"The good old R.A.F. every time!" he cried. "Right-o! But wait a bit. No
sense risking things bashing you on the head, you know."
The fire lieutenant jumped over to his car in the street and pulled out
a couple of tin helmets. He tossed them to the boys.
"Put those on!" he shouted. "Right-o! Fourth floor, rear, eh?"
Sticking close to the fire lieutenant's heels, the two boys followed him
into the burning building. It was like rushing through the open door of
a furnace, and for a second or so the heat seemed almost to knock them
off balance. Thick smoke swirled about them like a fog, and the smell of
things burning filled their noses and mouths and made them choke and gag
for breath.
As though the fire lieutenant had lived in the building all his life, he
went straight to the stairs completely hidden by the smoke, and started
up. He paused for a second, half turned and stretched out one hand to
Dave.
"Give me your hand," he said. "And you take your pal's hand. That way
we'll stick together and not get lost. Right you are, now. Up we go!"
There was less smoke on the second floor of the building, and still less
on the third. On the third floor, however, they ran straight into
trouble. The stair wall had been knocked loose by the exploding bombs,
and the stairs were covered by a ton or so of split beams, plaster,
brick, and other kinds of debris. The Fire Lieutenant stared at it with
a scowl.
"Like climbing the blooming Alps to get over that stuff," he said
dubiously. "It might give way under our weight and bury the three of
us."
"Look!" Dave suddenly cried, and pointed up toward the fourth floor.
"See there on that hall wall? A fire bucket, and a coil of rope. Look,
I'll go up and sling down the other end of that rope, after making my
end fast. Then you two can work your way up along the rope."
"No, I'll go up!" the fire lieutenant said. "I say--"
Dave was already scrambling spider-like up the debris-piled stairway.
With each step forward he seemed to slide back two steps. He'd grab the
shattered end of a beam for support, and it would start to pull out and
dislodge chunks of plaster and brick. Plaster dust filled his eyes and
his throat so that his breath came in rasping gasps. When he was halfway
up he heard the fire lieutenant cry out in alarm.
"Watch it, lad!" the man shouted. "That section of wall to your left is
starting to go!"
Dave had just time enough to dart a quick glance to his left. A section
of wall left standing was bulging out as though a giant were pushing
against it from the other side. He took that one quick glance and then
scrambled upward for dear life. There was a crash of sound in back of
him, and the air was thick with plaster dust. He had flung himself flat
on the debris and was clinging to a post of the well railing on the
fourth floor by no more than the tips of his fingers.
"Are you all right, Dave?" he heard Freddy's voice from below.
He didn't answer for a couple of seconds. He was too busy pulling
himself up onto the solid fourth floor landing. There he turned and
looked down through the cloud of plaster dust.
"Made it okay!" he shouted down. "Stand by to receive the line!"
He went over to the fire bucket and took it down off the hook, along
with the coil of stout rope. Then, returning to the head of the stairs,
he splashed some water down into the cloud of plaster dust.
"Trying to lay that stuff a bit!" he shouted. "Okay! Here comes your end
of the rope."
He sent the free end of the coil spinning downward, then knelt down and
fastened his end tight about the base of the railing post.
"Got it!" he heard the fire lieutenant's voice, and felt a jerk on the
rope at the same time.
At the end of three or four minutes Freddy and the fire lieutenant were
on the floor landing with him. The fire lieutenant reached out and
squeezed his arm.
"Stout fellow," the man said. "But you're R.A.F., so of course you'd do
it. Right-o. This is the fourth floor. The rear, you said? Don't hear a
sound. And there doesn't seem to be much fire up here. Guess just the
front of this place is burning. Try the doors, lads, but be careful as
you push them open. Do it easy like, you know. If the room's burning and
the windows are closed, opening the door will be like opening a stove
flue. Hold your breath until you're sure. Let's go."
The three of them started down the hall toward the rear, carefully
opening doors and glancing into rooms as they went along. Not a light
was burning in the building, but the glow of the flames seemed to bounce
back from the walls of nearby buildings and light up all the rooms. Dave
and Freddy had tried some six or seven rooms when suddenly they looked
into a room that made them stop short and catch their breath.
The room was a complete wreck. It was as though that one spot had
received the full impact of the exploding bomb. All four walls were
completely knocked down. Ribbons of plaster hung from the ceiling, and
there weren't any windows, just gaping holes through which streamed the
crimson reflection of the flames of another burning building a good two
blocks away.
It was not the sight of all that, however, that gave them such a start.
It was the sight of the four figures trapped under the pile of debris.
Three were men, and one was a woman. Two of the men, and the woman, lay
limp and motionless. The fourth man, white with plaster from head to
foot, was struggling furiously to wiggle out from under an overturned
desk that pinned him to the floor. And all the time he was muttering
hoarsely under his breath. He saw Dave and Freddy about the same instant
they saw him. He stopped struggling instantly.
"Come in, chaps, and get this blasted thing off my back, will you?" he
called out.
Dave waited just long enough to shout to the fire lieutenant and then
dashed forward. It took every bit of their combined strength for Freddy
and him to lift the desk clear. They succeeded, however, and the pinned
man was able to crawl free. He got to his feet and swayed drunkenly.
Dave gave him a hand.
"Steady does it, sir," he said. "I'll lead you out into the hall."
The trapped man looked at him out of dazed eyes, mumbled something, and
nodded. Dave led him out into the hall and then went back into the room
again. Freddy and the fire lieutenant were lifting ceiling and wall
beams off the woman. He pitched in and gave them a hand. The woman had
an ugly cut on the side of her head, and one arm was obviously broken.
She was breathing evenly, however. They placed her in the hall, then
went back in for the other two men. Both of them were still alive but
badly hurt.
No sooner had they carried the last man out into the hall than there was
a rumbling sound like a New York subway train coming along the tunnel to
a station. The fire lieutenant let out a yell and grabbed wildly for
Dave, who was the last to step out of the room.
"Feared this!" he shouted. "Jump!"
Dave jumped instinctively. Then he started to speak, but didn't. It was
not necessary for him to ask the fire lieutenant what it was all about.
As he turned, he saw the floor of the room he had just left split
straight through the middle from hall door to outer wall. The floor
cracked open, and then the two halves dropped downward like the two
halves of a hinged trap door. Broken furniture, plaster, brick, and
everything else went crashing down into a room on the third floor. The
rumbling roar ceased abruptly, and a great column of smoke and plaster
dust fountained up from the floor below.
Dave gulped and wiped sweat from his face.
"Gosh, I don't like it that close!" he breathed.
"Great guns!" a voice gasped in his ear. "If you chaps hadn't arrived
when you did--Good heavens!"
It was the trapped man they had rescued who spoke. He stood peering
through the door opening with eyes that were like dinner plates. Plaster
dust still covered him from head to foot, and the red reflection of the
flames gave him a weird and eerie appearance.
"Yes, plenty close, sir," Dave said, and then turned to the fire
lieutenant. "We'd better get these people down," he said. "Wonder if
there are some back stairs here. Have you got stretchers outside?"
"Yes," the fire lieutenant replied. "And there are back stairs, too. I
spotted them a minute ago. These people need hospitalization at once.
That woman is hurt bad. I'll go down and get help, and take this one
chap who can walk along with me. He's had a nasty shock, and I'd better
get him out of here. Might go off his topper, or something. You two lads
mind watching over the others?"
"No, go ahead," Freddy said for both of them.
The fire lieutenant nodded, then stepped over and took the arm of the
plaster-covered man, who still stared glassy-eyed in through the doorway
at the collapsed floor. The fire lieutenant spoke, and the man turned
and stared at him vacantly. Then his wide eyes wandered over to Freddy
and Dave. A strange light glowed in them for a brief instant. He started
to open his mouth as though to speak, but closed it slowly, instead. The
fire lieutenant tugged on his arm, and then led him along the smoky
hallway as he might lead a little child.
"He must have caught a good smack," Dave grunted. "He sure doesn't know
what the score is right now. He--My gosh!"
"What's the matter?" Freddy asked quickly. "What's up?"
Dave pointed a finger upward and grinned.
"No guns any more," he said. "The raid's over. Guess you can't hear the
All-Clear up here. Gee, do our uniforms look like a couple of wrecks!
Wonder if we can get them cleaned at the hotel. Air Vice-Marshal
Saunders will heave us out for a couple of bums if we report to him
looking like this."
Freddy looked back into the room and gulped.
"And he'll never know how close we came to never reporting to him at
all!" he breathed. "Say, I wish that fire lieutenant would hurry up with
those stretchers. This woman's coming around a bit. Must be in pretty
bad pain. Blast Hitler, anyway!"
"Check!" Dave said grimly. "And if I ever get the chance to _blast_ him,
how I'll do it, and how I'll love it!"
At that moment the fire lieutenant returned with several of his men. And
some fifteen minutes after that the three injury cases were safely in
an ambulance that had arrived in the meantime, and on their way to a
nearby hospital receiving station. The fire was practically out, and the
heroic soot and grime-smeared firemen were getting ready to go elsewhere
in the city and continue their valiant work. Guns were silent, and the
long probing beams of the searchlights no longer pierced the sky. There
was not even the drone of planes in the distance. Death had come to
strike at London, and was now gone. Behind, it had left more wrecked
buildings, more smouldering ruins, and more dead and dying. But it had
also left behind something that Adolf Hitler and all of his followers
would never be able to understand, and never be able to defeat. That was
British courage, the superb fighting courage of the high and the low who
now were fighting on a common ground shoulder to shoulder. London had
once again been hurt, and she was bleeding. But London would never die,
just as England would never die.
Those thoughts trickled through Dave Dawson's brain as he stared up at
the flame-tinted heavens. And once again he was thrilled to the very
depths of his soul to be able to be a part of all this; to do his
share, and fight and fight and fight until the war-thirsty dictators
were no more--until they were nothing but an evil and ugly memory.
"I say, you chaps! Blessed if I even know your names. You certainly
deserve recognition for tonight's bit. Tell me your names, and I'll see
that the Air Ministry hears of what you did."
Dave lowered his gaze to see the fire lieutenant standing at his elbow.
He looked at Freddy, and they both shook their heads.
"We're glad we were able to help," Dave said. "Let's let it go at that.
You and your men are the real heroes of London, sir. Freddy and I just
happened along."
"But that's silly!" the fire lieutenant protested, and wiped his smoke
and soot-blackened face with a handkerchief that was just about as
black. "This isn't your regular job, you know. And for you two to pitch
in and give us a hand, why--"
"Rot!" Freddy grunted. "I was scared pink every second, and know
perfectly well I was only in your way."
"Me, too," Dave nodded. "Let's just leave it that way. Where did that
chap go--that man you led out?"
"My word, lad!" the fire lieutenant gasped, and looked wildly about.
"I'd plain forgotten all about him. Told him to wait and go along to the
hospital with the others. Guess he must have wandered off. Well, I must
be toddling along. More fires, you know. Good luck, you two. By George,
you R.A.F. chaps are certainly right as rain, I say! Well, cheerio!"
"Thumbs up!" the two boys chorused, and watched the fire lieutenant
drive off up the street.
When the car had turned the corner of a block, Dave grinned at Freddy.
"Well, shall we make that black-out inspection tour you were yipping
about?" he asked.
"The one we've made is enough for tonight!" Freddy grunted. "Besides,
we've got to do something about these uniforms, because tomorrow we have
to--"
"Yeah, I know," Dave cut in with a worried sigh. "We have to report to
Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Okay, let's see what we can do about these
duds, and then hit the hay."
"If Goering's little boys will let us," Freddy murmured as he dropped
into step. "And I doubt it very much."
CHAPTER FIVE
_Air Vice-Marshal Saunders_
Though Freddy Farmer had his doubts about Goering's "little boys," it so
happened that they did not come back to London again that night. Bright
and early next morning the two boys were up and inspecting what the
hotel's valet service had been able to do about their uniforms. It
wasn't a bad job of cleaning, but it wasn't a good job either. True,
they would pass muster out at their own squadron, but the Air Ministry,
where the Royal Air Force "brass hats" prowl about, was something else
again.
"If Air Vice-Marshal Saunders is one of those fussy chaps," Freddy said,
and fingered a fire-scorched cuff of his tunic, "he'll probably bleat
all over the place."
"Well, what the heck?" Dave cried. "We'll just tell him what happened,
and add that we didn't have time to get new uniforms."
"Didn't have the cash, you mean," Freddy said with a grin.
"Same thing, isn't it?" Dave shrugged. "Well, we've got to take our
chances, that's all, and hope that he is an okay guy. How do you feel?"
"Stiff as a board," Freddy said, and moved his shoulders. "I feel as if
I'd been holding up that building all night."
"Know just what you mean," Dave chuckled. "But you're mistaken."
"Mistaken?" Freddy echoed, and glanced up with a puzzled frown on his
good-looking face.
"Sure," Dave said with a nod. "About holding up that building. You only
held up half of it. My aching joints tell me I must have been holding up
the other half. Well, let's go hunt up some chow. Boy! It's a swell day,
anyway--for whatever is going to happen."
Dave moved over to the bomb-shattered window and looked out. There was
still a thin pall of smoke hovering over London like a grim reminder of
what had happened during the dark hours. On high, however, there was not
a cloud to be seen. The sky was a soft blue bathed in the golden rays of
the rising sun. When you looked up into that sky, it was hard to believe
that death had struck just a few hours before, and that right now it was
poised and waiting to strike again when darkness returned.
"What a pip of a day for flying!" Dave breathed softly. "I sure hope Air
Vice-Marshal Saunders doesn't keep us hanging around for very long. Me,
I want to get back to the squadron and get to work. The Jerries are sure
to take a crack at us on a day like this. Boy! This is almost as good as
the kind of weather we have back home."
"You mean twice as good," Freddy snorted in his ear. "But hurry up and
button your tunic, or you'll be spouting poetry in another couple of
minutes. I'm hungry."
Dave sighed and shook his head.
"There's a man for you!" he groaned. "Beauty, war, fire, famine, or
flood--they don't mean a thing to him! Only his stomach. Well, you're in
for a big surprise, my young fellow. There's one thing they don't allow
in the R.A.F."
"What?" Freddy demanded as they walked out of their room.
"I won't tell you," Dave grunted, and headed for the elevators. "I think
I'll let you find out for yourself. But no, you are a pal of mine,
aren't you?"
"Oh, come off it!" Freddy growled. "I'll bite. What is this wonderful
ruling I don't know about?"
Dave jabbed him in the stomach with his thumb.
"They don't let you wear a corset in the R.A.F., my friend," he said.
"So watch how much you eat. Also, you might get stuck the next time some
Messerschmitt pilot makes you bail out. A Spitfire's cockpit isn't any
too big, you know."
"Indeed I do know," Freddy grunted, and watched the elevator slide up
and come to a stop. "And that's something I've been wanting to ask you,
Dave."
"Well, then, shoot," Dave said. "I'll always help a pal out with the
correct answer."
Freddy didn't speak directly. He waited until they were in the
elevator. It contained two men in civilian clothes and two women. Looks
of frank admiration were cast their way, but Freddy pretended not to
notice. He stared at Dave, and there was a look of baby innocence and
curiosity in his eyes.
"You'll really tell me, Dave?" he asked in a voice just a trifle loud.
"You'll really give me the answer?"
"Sure," Dave said without thinking. "Just ask me the question. I'll give
you the answer. What?"
"It's your legs, Dave," Freddy said. "I've often wondered. They're so
confoundedly long and skinny, just what do you do with them in the
cockpit of your Hurricane? Is it true that the mechanics have cut holes
in the fuselage so's you can let them hang out over the leading edge of
the wing? But what about when you're landing? What touches the ground
first, your feet or the wheels?"
When Freddy stopped, Dave's ears, neck and face were a bright red, and
there was a look of murder in his eyes. Everybody in the elevator was
roaring with laughter. It was all he could do to keep from taking Freddy
by the throat and throttling him right then and there. However, he
could take kidding as well as dish it out, and by the time the elevator
had reached the lobby level he was laughing as loud as anybody.
"Okay, pick up the marbles for that one, sonny boy," he said to Freddy
as they headed for the breakfast room. "But next time it's my turn. And,
boy, look out, what I mean!"
"Don't worry!" Freddy chuckled, and squeezed his arm. "With you around,
a chap has to watch out constantly."
All through breakfast they maintained a steady stream of kidding
chit-chat talk. Of course each knew what was really uppermost in the
other's mind: one Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Neither of them mentioned
it, though, until the meal was over and it was time to go and report at
the Air Ministry located but a few blocks from their hotel.
It was Dave who brought the subject up. He slid a tip beside his empty
coffee cup, looked at Freddy, and pushed back his chair.
"Well, let's quit stalling and go see what it's all about," he said.
"I'm going nuts with worry and wonder, aren't you?"
"Am I!" Freddy breathed, and gave a little shake of his head. "To tell
you the truth, I feel exactly like a criminal waiting for the jury to
come in with the news of his fate. What do you suppose--?"
"Don't ask!" Dave cut in. "I've been slowly going nuts asking myself the
same question over and over again. Oh, heck, let's go. They can't do any
more than shoot us!"
They walked the short distance to the Air Ministry in mutual thoughtful
silence. Just inside the wide front doors of the building, they gave
their names, ranks, and squadron numbers to an officer seated at a desk
that was practically covered with rows of bell buttons. When they added
that they were reporting on orders to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders, the
officer shot a scowling glance at their uniforms. He didn't say
anything, however. He simply nodded, wrote something on a card and then
jabbed a button and picked up a Husho-Phone. A moment later he hung up
and stabbed another button. An R.A.F. staff sergeant seemed to pop down
out of the air. The non-commissioned officer saluted smartly. The
officer at the desk handed him the card.
"Take these two officers to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders," he said in a
crisp voice.
The staff sergeant took the card with his left hand, saluted smartly
again with his right, and looked at Dave and Freddy. They nodded. The
sergeant clicked his heels, executed a smart about-face and went off
down the hall. Dave and Freddy followed.
"Holy smoke!" Dave breathed out of the corner of his mouth. "Did you get
a load of all the bell buttons on that desk, Freddy? I wonder if he's
got one that'll do it? There sure are enough."
"Do what?" Freddy whispered back. "What are you talking about?"
"A button he can jab to make Hitler pop out of a secret door in the
wall," Dave chuckled. "Boy, wouldn't it be something if all those
connecting wires should get mixed up! I think I could enjoy myself at
that officer's desk some quiet night with nobody around."
"I can just imagine!" Freddy grunted. "And what a madhouse this place
would be the next morning! Well, forget it, my lad. There's a chap at
that desk twenty-four hours a day, I fancy."
Dave glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the officer
reaching out to punch another button. He sighed heavily.
"It's still a swell idea," he murmured. "Well, we're getting close."
The office of Air Vice-Marshal Saunders was at the rear of the third
floor. The sergeant turned the two boys over to a smartly uniformed
flight lieutenant in the outer office. A moment or two later the flight
lieutenant ushered them into the presence of the high ranking Air Force
official. As Dave saluted and looked at the tall, well built figure, a
strange sense of relief flooded through him. There wasn't any worry in
him any more, only wonder. Air Vice-Marshal Saunders had not reached his
position of high responsibility through political pull, nor by knowing
the right sort of people. You had only to glance at the rows of
decoration ribbons under his pilot's wings over the left upper pocket of
his tunic to know that. There was the red, blue, and red ribbon of the
Distinguished Service Order (the D.S.O.). There was the blue and white
ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross (the D.F.C.). And on that
ribbon was the small silver rosette, or bar, which meant that its wearer
had performed a feat of air valor for which he had been granted the
D.F.C. a second time. There was also the Air Force Cross, and the Mons
ribbon, denoting that Saunders had been with that valiant British army
that had met the Germans at Mons in 1914, in the First World War. And,
of course, there were ribbons to show that he had been decorated by many
other governments. No, one look at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders' row of
ribbons, and Dave knew that here was a real soldier, a real pilot, and a
man who had won and deserved the high position he now held.
The vice-marshal smiled and nodded acceptance of their salute.
"At ease, gentlemen," he said, and pointed to some chairs. "Sit down.
We'll have to wait a bit. The colonel is delayed, but he'll be here
shortly. Ah! You were in London last night, eh?"
Both boys looked blank for a moment. Then Freddy found his tongue.
"Why--why, yes, sir," he stammered. "But how did you guess, sir?"
"And I'll bet five pounds," the senior officer said with a laugh, "that
you two have been worrying yourselves sick that I would hit the
ceiling, and rant and rave all over the place, eh?"
"Why, yes--sure--I mean--" Dave stumbled and stopped. "I don't think I
understand, sir."
The vice-marshal laughed again and pointed a finger.