his canvas seat. Five minutes later Wiggins had made contact with the
rest of his patrol, and had relocated his position. Another ten minutes
and Flight Commander Wiggins turned the controls over to his second
pilot and came aft to Dave and Freddy. He replied to their questioning
glances with a nod.
"Right-o, chaps," he said. "We're at seventeen thousand and about six
miles south of Antwerp. Chubby will cut the engines and take her down
another couple of thousand. A free fall will take you out of the Paul
Prys in case they hear us and start poking around. And many thanks again
for saving the ship. Chubby and I will always think kindly of you, very
much so. Well, good luck again."
"Don't thank us," Dave said, and jerked his head toward the tail. "Thank
your tail gunner for driving off those night flying planes that were
potting at you. What about the rest of the patrol? Did you contact them
by radio?"
"Oh, sure," Wiggins nodded. "One reports getting a Messerschmitt, too.
They've gone on. We'll catch up with them after you chaps have stepped
off into space."
"You're continuing the patrol?" Freddy gasped, and looked forward at
the shattered glass of the cockpit cowling.
Flight Lieutenant Wiggins followed his gaze and chuckled.
"Oh, quite," he said. "That hole's nothing. Besides, the night air will
keep Chubby awake, you know. The blighter's always falling asleep and
making me do all the flying. And also, I couldn't use up gas lugging
these bombs all this distance without dropping them where they'll do the
most good."
"And I hope every one is a direct hit!" Dave said grimly, making sure
that his parachute harness was properly buckled.
"Me too!" Freddy chimed in. "And I'll give you one guess who I hope you
hit right on top of the old bean, too!"
"My, my! What a cold-blooded chap!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said in
pretended horror. "I don't believe he likes the nasty Nazis a single
bit. Well, neither do I, for that matter. Right-o, Chubby! Dig the sleep
out of your baby blue eyes, and slide us down three thousand. Our guests
are leaving us."
The last was shouted forward. Chubby nodded that he had heard and eased
back the throttles until the Pegasus engines were just a rumbling
murmur. The nose of the Wellington dipped gracefully and the bomber slid
gently down through the night sky. Dave and Freddy moved forward to the
belly door that the navigator had opened up. There they waited until
Chubby had pulled the bomber up out of its glide and was prop plowing
along on an even keel. Dave looked at Freddy, and grinned.
"See you, you know where, pal!" he called out. "Watch out you don't
float down on a church steeple. Those things are doggone sharp, you
know."
"And you watch out, too!" Freddy cried as Dave got down and let his legs
hang down through the opening. "And if you get lost, just send me a
postcard. I'll come get you. Happy landings!"
"Ditto to you, Freddy!" Dave shouted, and let his body drop down through
the belly door.
CHAPTER NINE
_In The Enemy's Country_
The instant Dave Dawson dropped away from the belly of the Wellington
black night engulfed him from all sides. He let his whole body go limp
and relaxed save for the fingers of his right hand, which he kept
tightly curled about the rip-cord ring. For a brief moment or so, as his
body turned over and over in that sea of darkness, it seemed as though a
million invisible hands were grabbing at the Belgian peasant clothes he
wore and trying to rip them from his body. Wind whistled shrilling in
his ears, and had he not been wearing goggles he knew that his eyelids
would be fluttering like loose blinds in a gale of wind.
Then suddenly his falling body reached its maximum rate of falling
speed, and the sensation became one of floating on a huge soft black
cloud. He knew he was on his back because he could see the stars
straight above him. He raced his eyes across the sky to the east and
thought he saw the faint flicker of the Wellington's exhaust plumes, but
he couldn't tell for sure. He wondered just where in that star-studded
sky above him Freddy might be. Had Freddy already jumped? A sudden
thought came to him, and a stifled gasp of alarm rose up to his lips.
Supposing something had happened so Freddy couldn't quit the bomber?
Supposing his parachute harness had caught on something, and propeller
wash had wrenched him free, and he was now spinning headlong downward
with a damaged and useless parachute flapping out behind? Supposing--?
He groaned aloud at the torturing thoughts and wished with all his heart
and soul that he had waited and watched Freddy jump first. Then he would
know for sure that Freddy had bailed out all right. But as it was now,
perhaps--
"Watch your own step, sap! Are you going to free-fall forever? Pull the
rip-cord ring, dope!"
Perhaps he shouted those words aloud, or perhaps they were only spoken
in his brain. At any rate he cut off thinking about other things and
gave the rip-cord ring a smart jerk. His body dropped earthward for
another split second or so. Then suddenly giant hands reached down from
above and violently jerked him back up toward the stars. His body spun
around like a top and he was forced to gulp for air. Another few seconds
and he was dangling feet downward at the ends of the parachute shroud
lines and swaying gently back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. He
sucked more air into his lungs, cocked his head and looked downward.
All he could see at first was just one great expanse of utter darkness.
It was like gazing down into a coal mine at the hour of midnight. There
was nothing but darkness and more darkness. Then gradually, as his eyes
became better focussed, he saw not just one great expanse of darkness,
but more of a collection of shadows. Some shadows were darker than
others, and all of them were of different shapes and sizes. Suddenly he
spotted a long snake-shaped shadow. It was almost a dark grey, and he
knew at once that it was the Campine (or Kempen) Canal that extended
eastward from Antwerp.
Reaching up, he grasped hold of the shroud lines, twisted around and
glanced toward the north. He saw a faint cluster of lights that must
mark Antwerp. And he was pretty sure that he could make out the Scheldt
River that served as Antwerp's water outlet to the sea. He relaxed his
grip on the shroud lines, returned his gaze to the shadows directly
underneath him and silently praised Flight Lieutenant Wiggins' flying
and navigating ability. In exact accordance with orders, the British air
ace had dumped them out where they would float down to a point not too
far from Antwerp, and not too close so that they might be seen.
"Dumped _them_ out?" Dave echoed the thought aloud. "Boy, oh boy, do I
hope and pray it _is_ them! And not just him, meaning yours truly.
Freddy, pal, maybe you're right close to me, and perfectly okay, but I
sure wish I could see you and be sure. And how! We hit on all six when
we work as a team. Alone, I've got a hunch I'd be just a foul ball. So,
Freddy--"
He stopped short because his voice suddenly choked up so that he
couldn't speak. He swallowed and clenched his teeth hard.
"Cut the sob stuff, the sentimental junk, Dave!" he told himself
savagely. "There's a job to do whether Freddy's right there with you, or
not. And he'd feel the same way about it, too. So pull up your socks,
chappy, as Freddy would say, and tend strictly to your knitting."
A couple of moments later there was no more time in which to wonder
about this and speculate about that. A sudden change in the mess of
shadows directly beneath him told him that the ground was close, and
coming up fast. Impulsively he brushed one hand across the lenses of his
goggles, as though in so doing he might see objects better. Perhaps that
did help some. At any rate, a split second later he caught a flash
glimpse of a cluster of pointed shadows, shadows that pointed straight
up at him! They were the tops of a clump of trees, and he reacted
instantly to the realization that flashed through his brain.
He shot up both hands and grabbed hold of the shroud lines on the right
and pulled downward with every ounce of his strength. The action
"spilled" air from that side of the silk envelope over his head and
caused the parachute and his dangling body to slip off to the side. The
tree tops were practically touching the soles of his shoes, and he held
his breath for fear he had not side-slipped the 'chute in time. A brief
split second ticked past into time history, or perhaps it was an entire
year. To Dave it seemed an eternity before the tops of the trees moved
away from under him. He quickly jackknifed his knees slightly so that he
could absorb some of the "landing shock" with his legs, and
automatically threw up one arm across his face just in case there were
brambles and shrubs down there. And then the ground rose up and smacked
him.
White pain shot up through his left leg. Something cracked him in the
small of his back. Something else rammed itself against his right shin.
And then something entirely different darted out of the darkness and
rapped him on the jaw. He saw thousands upon thousands of colored stars
dancing around before his eyes. Then suddenly all was dark and peaceful,
and very silent....
When he next opened his eyes, he found himself staring straight up at a
vast expanse of smudgy grey. He had the sensation of looking up at a
poorly whitewashed ceiling. Only it wasn't a ceiling at all. It was the
sky, and it was a sort of dirty grey because the last of night still
lingered and the Goddess of Dawn had not yet wiped the heavens clean
with her veil dipped in sunlight.
For a few moments he continued to stare upward, vaguely conscious of the
fact that he was lying stretched out on dew-drenched ground, but not
caring much about it. Presently a dull pounding in his head awakened
memory. He sat up straight, groaned from the effort, and cradled his
head in his hands. That stopped the aching considerably. He took his
hands away and looked slowly around. It was then he saw what had
happened. Fifty yards away was the clump of trees he had missed by a
whisker, but two feet from him was a jagged stone wall he had not
missed. The silk of his parachute clung to it in shreds, and the shroud
lines were wrapped about jutting rocks like a spider's web. He unbuckled
the harness about him and got painfully to his feet. His left trousers
leg was ripped from the knee down, and there was a nasty scratch where a
point of rock had left its mark. The right shoulder of his coarse jacket
was also torn. And to top everything off, he was smeared with mud and
dirt from head to foot. He looked down at himself and shook his head.
"Gee, if I don't look like a refugee who's been wandering around plenty
long," he breathed, "then there just ain't no such animal!"
He straightened up and looked around again. It was rolling farm country
on all four sides, but one look told the pitiful story. War had
prevented the land from being worked, and acres and acres of ground were
simply going to seed. It was not that fact, however, that caused a look
of disgust to come into his face. It was the stone wall, which was no
more than a hundred yards long and seemed to serve no purpose
whatsoever. There was not another stone wall to be seen in any
direction.
"That's Dawson luck for you!" he grunted aloud. "The only stone wall for
miles around, but me, I'd hit it sure as shooting. Oh well, I could have
broken my neck, I suppose. And at least I don't have to dig a hole to
bury the stuff."
As he spoke the last, he started gathering up the tangle of parachute
harness, shroud lines, and silk. Then, together with the oxygen mask and
tank, that had somehow been twisted clear off his face and around so
that it hung down his back, he carefully stuffed everything under the
bottom of the wall where it undoubtedly would not be discovered for the
next hundred years or so. And probably by that time it would be turned
into dust, anyway, and be completely unrecognizable.
When Dave straightened up again, a very urgent and very familiar feeling
came to him. It struck him square in the stomach. In short, he suddenly
realized that he was as hungry as a wolf. For a brief second fright came
to him again. But when he stuck his hand inside his shirt he grinned and
sighed with relief. Before leaving England, he and Freddy had been
supplied with a small compact case of specially prepared emergency
rations that would last them several days in a crisis. To make sure he
wouldn't lose it, each had strapped the case about his waist under his
shirt. Dave's was still there.
He pulled it out, selected a bar of energy-building chocolate and ate it
hungrily. He was tempted to attack a second bar, but will-power refused
to permit him to do so. He put the case of emergency rations back in
place, fixed his direction from the rising sun and set out across the
fields toward a small hill a mile or two away. The lingering shadows of
night were completely gone when he finally reached the top of the hill
and paused to get his breath. A moment or so later he climbed part way
up a tree and stared hard and long at the surrounding countryside.
Some five miles to the north lay the southern outskirts of the city of
Antwerp, but for the moment he wasn't interested in Antwerp. The land to
the east, and west, and in the direction whence he had come, interested
him most. He hoped against hope that from his look-out post he might
spot a solitary figure making his way across country toward Antwerp, a
lone figure dressed in the clothes of a Belgian peasant refugee. In
other words, he prayed that the miracle might come to pass--that he
might see and recognize Freddy Farmer trudging toward Antwerp.
His prayer was not answered, however, and the miracle did not come to
pass. He saw miles and miles of Belgian countryside, but not the
slightest sign of anyone who might be Freddy Farmer. Oddly enough, he
did not see a single human being; not even a dog, nor a farm animal.
Save for the darkish blur to the north that was Antwerp, he might have
been staring across a completely deserted land. Presently he climbed
down to the ground and stood there fighting grimly with his thoughts.
His thoughts were like so many dancing demons that whirled around inside
his brain and continually jabbed him with the sharp pointed spears they
carried. Where was Freddy Farmer? Had he been able to bail out safely?
Had he landed safely? Was Freddy dead? Had he landed in some trees, by
any chance, and right now might he be lying helpless and crippled only a
short distance away?
The thoughts brought tears of helpless rage to Dave's eyes, and it was
hard to beat them back. He tried desperately to argue with himself. He
tried to point out to that other side of him that it was hours since he
and Freddy had stepped off from the Wellington, and that Freddy was
probably in Antwerp by now and making his cautious way to their meeting
place at Sixteen Rue Chartres. Certainly that was possible. That stone
wall had knocked him out for hours, and he was simply late getting
started. Sure, Freddy had landed safe as could be and was now in Antwerp
waiting for him. Thoughts and arguments! Thoughts and arguments! They
helped one minute, and drove him deeper into the depths of worried
despair the next.
"Well, just standing here won't get you any of the answers!" he finally
grated at himself. "Get the lead out of your pants and start going
places. Don't stand here all day and mope, you fathead!"
The words of self-abuse seemed to help a little. At least they made him
angry at his own momentary weakness. Fists clenched and jaw set, he
wheeled around and went down the north side of the hill and toward
Antwerp. At the end of half an hour he had reached the first of the
outskirt streets, and still hadn't met a living soul. Trudging wearily
along the street, striving hard to act like a peasant lad who was
completely lost and homeless, he kept shooting keen glances at the rows
of houses on either side of the street. A few of the houses bore the
marks of the Nazi air raids which had taken place before the city fell
into enemy hands, but most of them were in fairly good condition. Yet as
Dave peered at the fronts and saw the drawn curtains, and a boarded up
door here and there, he felt pretty sure that that section of the city
had been evacuated.
Street after street was the same. It was like looking at the same
picture over and over again. When he paused, he could hear the faint
rumble of sound from the direction of the city's center, and every now
and then a flight of German planes winged by high overhead. But in the
outskirts of the city all was quiet and still. With each step his wonder
grew, and with each step the fingers of vague worry clutched at him more
and more. For some crazy reason he was tempted a dozen times to wheel
around and retrace his steps in a hurry. But Sixteen Rue Chartres was
like a magnet that drew him toward it and refused to let him retreat.
Then suddenly, as he swung around another corner, a squad of field grey
German soldiers seemed to rise right up out of the sidewalk. A
non-commissioned officer was in charge of them. He was a big man with a
flat and cruel-looking face. In his right fist he clenched a Luger, and
the muzzle of that Luger was pointed straight at the pit of Dave's
stomach.
"Halt!" the German ordered in a savage snarl.
CHAPTER TEN
_Trapped!_
A moment of wild panic gripped Dave Dawson. His first impulse was to
spin around and flee for his life. In the nick of time, however, cold
logic made him realize the utter senselessness of such a move. He got a
quick hold on himself, threw both his hands above his head and faked a
display of mortal terror.
"Don't shoot!" he cried in a high shrill voice. "I have done nothing. I
am lost, and I am hungry. Please do not shoot, _Herr Kommandant_!"
To be addressed by such a title of high rank seemed obviously to please
the German, who held only a corporal's rank. He smiled and puffed out
his chest a bit, and holstered his Luger.
"So, another little vagrant swine, eh?" he leered. "Where do you come
from, boy? What are you doing in this area of the city where it is
forbidden for civilians to go?"
Inwardly Dave longed to lash out with both fists at the flat leering
face, but he had more sense than to ask for a bullet from the German
corporal's Luger. Instead he played his part to the limit. He blinked
and worked his mouth, and looked for all the world as though he were
going to burst out in tears.
"I come from the south, _Herr Kommandant_," he said in a whimpering
voice. "From Rotselner, near Louvain. Our farm, it was destroyed in the
bombardment. I was separated from my family during the evacuation to
Brussels. And when--and when--"
Dave purposely stumbled to a stop and gazed pleadingly at the German
corporal.
"May I please put my hands down, _Herr Kommandant_?" he whined. "I am
very tired. And I have hurt my leg, as you can see. Please?"
The German grunted and nodded his head.
"Put them down, then," he growled. "All you Belgians are babies about
pain, anyway. Well? You went to Brussels? Why did you not stay there
instead of coming up here to bother me, eh?"
Dave gestured miserably.
"The city was filled with refugees," he said. "They would not let any
more inside the city limits. They turned us away, and ordered us to go
elsewhere."
"So?" the German suddenly echoed as a sharp gleam leaped into his beady
eyes. "And when was this? Last week, perhaps?"
Dave was expecting some sort of a trap, so he was prepared, and did not
plunge headlong into it.
"No, _Herr Kommandant_," he said, and shook his head. "It was not just
last week. It was a long time ago, last June. Ever since then I have
been wandering around trying to find my father, and my mother, and my
two sisters."
"And probably stealing all the time, eh?" the German snarled at him.
"Yes, I know your kind. We come and save your country from the English
dogs, and you thank us by stealing everything you can lay your hands
on."
"No, no, I have not been stealing, _Herr Kommandant_!" Dave cried
wildly. "I have been looking for work--any kind of work so I could earn
money to pay for my bed and a little food. But there has not been much
work to find."
"You mean you are too lazy!" the German corporal interrupted harshly.
"You look big enough to work, but I know that you are simply lazy. All
of your kind are lazy. So you decided to come up here to Antwerp and beg
off us? You expected us to put food in your dirty mouth?"
"No, _Herr Kommandant_!" Dave protested with a whimper. "Only if I work
for it. Yes, I am strong. I am willing to work, but there is so little
work to be found these days. Farther south near Malines, I met a very
kind German officer. He was in command of a tank division. He told me
that his comrades in Antwerp would give me work to do. He said they
would be glad to give me work so that I could pay for my bed and my
food."
As soon as Dave stopped speaking, he realized that it had been a mistake
to add the little lie about meeting a German officer. The corners of the
corporal's mouth went down, and sneering disgust glittered in his eyes.
He made a movement with his lips as though to spit.
"So you were told that, eh?" he suddenly rasped out. "Well, that officer
should have tended to his tanks instead of giving foolish advice to
stupid swine. We have enough trouble here in Antwerp. Too many mouths to
feed as it is. You fool Belgians are so stupid. You have to be led
around like cows. Yes, you should have rings put in your noses.
_Himmel!_ I shall be a happy man when my company is ordered elsewhere."
A sudden thought came to Dave, and he tried a new way of getting on the
good side of the surly German corporal.
"You have been in many battles, _Herr Kommandant_?" he asked in a polite
voice. "You have seen much excitement, and fought in many battles?"
It was instantly evident that this was the one wrong thing to ask. One
of the soldiers tittered faintly, and the corporal's neck and face
flushed a beet red. Undoubtedly he had yet to hear a shot fired, and had
been sent to Antwerp for patrol duty long after the city had been taken
by the real fighting forces of Adolf Hitler. He stood glaring, and Dave
inwardly braced himself for the blow he expected to come. In a minute,
however, the German managed to get control of his anger. But the wrong
question by Dave had completely upset the apple cart. He had hoped that
by getting on the good side of the corporal he might persuade the man to
tell him some place to go and ask for work, and would be sent on his
way. Thus he would be able to slip on through the patrol area and
eventually lose himself in the city. But--
The apple cart had been tipped over.
"Fritz!" the corporal barked back over his shoulder. "Take him to the
Central Detention Station and throw him inside. Tell Sergeant Mueller
that I will be in later to make a report on him. Take him in the sidecar
and return at once."
"Very good, Corporal," a voice said.
Then a skinny soldier with bulging eyes stepped forward and rammed Dave
in the chest with the muzzle of his short but deadly field rifle. Dave
whimpered and shrank back and looked appealingly at the corporal.
"But I have done nothing, _Herr Kommandant_!" he whined.
The corporal snorted and made a curt gesture with his hand.
"You were born!" he snapped. "And that was too much, as I see things.
Take him away, Fritz!"
The soldier grinned and prodded Dave again with the barrel of his rifle.
"March in front of me!" he shouted. "Down the street. Try to run away
and I will shoot you for a wild pig. March!"
White anger blazed up in Dave, but he still had sense enough to hold
himself in check. He kept the frightened look on his dirt-smeared face,
let his shoulders droop in cringing defeat, and went trudging along the
sidewalk in front of the soldier. At the end of the block the soldier
stopped him and made him get into the bucket of a sidecar parked around
the corner. The soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder by the strap,
forked the seat saddle and leered sideways at Dave.
"You will be a wise little boy to keep your hands clasped in your lap!"
he barked. "Don't think that you'll have a chance to jump out and
escape. You'll be another dead Belgian, if you try that."
"I shall not try to escape," Dave murmured meekly, and kept his eyes on
his clasped hands.
"Then that will be good!" the soldier grunted, and kicked the engine of
his army motorcycle into life.