_Hero's Homecoming_
Dave made the take-off without any trouble, and less than twenty
minutes after his wheels had cleared the ground he was throttling the
Rolls-Royce engine and sliding gently down toward Eighty-Four's field.
Freddy had landed ahead of him and had mechanics and the "fire wagon"
ready to dash into action in case Dave had trouble sitting down.
It was a precaution not necessary, however. The Yank born R.A.F. ace
put the Mark 5 Spitfire down slick as pie and then taxied slowly up to
the hangar line. There waiting mechanics lifted down the dead man from
his position across the opened cockpit, and placed him gently on the
ground. Dave leaped out to confront the dumbfounded gaze of his fellow
pilots and Squadron Leader Markham.
"What's this all about, Dawson?" the O.C. was the first to break the
silence.
Dave told his story in as few words as possible. Then everybody
stretched his neck to read the sheet of paper.
"Von Peiplow, eh?" Squadron Leader Markham grunted as he straightened
up. "Well, isn't that something!"
"You've heard of von Peiplow, sir?" Dave asked quickly. "Farmer, here,
thought the name sounded familiar to him. You know him, sir?"
The Squadron Leader smiled, but it was a tight smile, and his eyes had
turned cold and hard.
"I've never met the dirty dog in person," he said. "But I know _of_
him, very much. And so do some three hundred and eighty-four thousand
members of the British Expeditionary Force that got away alive from
Dunkirk. You two weren't in Service then, though the world knows you
did a splendid job for England at the time. But it was General Paul von
Peiplow who was in charge of Luftwaffe operations during the Dunkirk
show. Yes, von Peiplow is a very familiar name to most all of us who
were there."[A]
[Footnote A: _Dave Dawson at Dunkirk._]
Markham paused and stared hard at the dead man as though he hoped to
see right into the forever stilled brain and read the man's dying
thoughts. Then suddenly he bent down, squinted hard at the bullet hole
in the forehead, and lifted one of the man's arms, and let it drop back
on the ground. Presently he straightened up and looked at Dave.
"Could be the cold air at altitude, and not genuine _rigor mortis_,"
he grunted as though to himself. "You're sure he was just tossed out,
Dawson? Or do you think he was shot as he tried to go out on his own?"
"He must have been tossed out, sir," Dave answered quickly. "The pilot
dipped the wing so that the gunner would have less trouble getting him
out the cockpit hatch opening, and not have the prop-wash carry him
back into the tail assembly. That's the way it looked to me. Of course,
everything happened pretty fast, but I'm sure he wasn't alive when he
bailed out, sir."
Dave paused and pointed to the sheet of paper.
"He wouldn't be wearing that, would he, sir?" he said. "No, I think he
was shot elsewhere. Perhaps in the plane, and the note was pinned to
him."
"Yes, I guess you're right there, Dawson," Squadron Leader Markham said
with a frown. "I guess he was killed before he was put into the plane.
Yes, they made that flight for the express purpose of dumping him
overboard. Well, I'll get in touch with Intelligence at once. Corporal
Sharron! You and two men take him over to the hospital hut. And one of
you stand guard outside. I'll...."
The C.O. cut himself off and glanced upward as there came the
unmistakable sound to every listening ear of British airplane engines.
The plane was a Bristol Blenheim bomber powered with two Mercury IV 920
h.p. engines. The craft was not on a bombing mission, however. In fact,
it wasn't even attached to the Bomber Command. A single glance at the
markings on the fuselage proved that to all eyes. The plane carried
Staff markings of the Air Ministry.
Squadron Leader Markham glanced at his watch and grunted.
"Hours sooner than I expected," he murmured. Then with a glance at
the pilots gathered about him, he said, "Air Ministry has cooked up a
little job for us, chaps. Don't know what it's all about, but that's
Group Captain Ball come to tell me. Stay around close as he may want to
talk to you. Dawson! And you, too, Farmer. Stay here with me. Perhaps
Group Captain Ball may want to hear the story on this business first
hand. I suggest the rest of you wait in the mess. I'll send for you
later, Corporal Sharron."
The gathering broke up, leaving the O.C., Dawson, and young Freddy
Farmer to greet the Blenheim's passengers. The big craft slid down
to a beautiful landing, was taxied over, and braked to a stop. The
fuselage door opened and two men stepped out. One wore R.A.F. blue,
and the other wore army khaki. The former was Group Captain Ball, and
Dave recognized him immediately. The latter wore the insignia of a full
colonel on his shoulder straps, but he was a total stranger as far as
either Dave or Freddy were concerned.
The pair walked over, and the two pilots and the C.O. saluted smartly.
"Glad to see you, sir," Markham said and shook Group Captain Ball's
hand. "Didn't expect you so soon. You know Flying Officers Dawson and
Farmer, eh?"
The Air Ministry official bored the two lads with a glance and smiled
faintly.
"But, of course," he said. "Fact is.... But that can wait until later.
Markham, this is Colonel Trevor, of Intelligence. Colonel Trevor, I'd
like you to meet Squadron Leader.... Eh? What's the matter?"
The Intelligence officer had suddenly shoved Group Captain Ball to one
side and was down on his knees beside the dead man. He crouched there
motionless for a half minute or so, then got to his feet and fixed
Squadron Leader Markham with a brittle stare.
"How did this man get here?" he asked sharply. "He's been shot through
the head!"
Eighty-Four's senior officer squared his jaw just a bit and returned
the other's hard stare.
"We noted that fact, too, Colonel," he said evenly. "A Messerschmitt
was reported by spotters. My pilots went after it. Dawson, here, made
contact with the enemy aircraft. As he was about to open fire this man
was thrown out with his parachute opened. Dawson shot down the enemy
aircraft, and then noting something peculiar about the man going down
by parachute, he followed him to the ground and landed, Flying Officer
Farmer landed also. They found the man just as you see him. Dawson flew
him back here with the idea of contacting Intelligence. You recognize
him, Colonel?"
The Intelligence officer didn't answer. He turned to Dave, and the Yank
born ace couldn't miss the look of worry and strain that had come
into the man's dark eyes. He seemed on the point of exploding all over
the place, but he didn't. He visibly clamped down hard on his inner
emotions and spoke to Dave.
"Tell me the story in your own words!" he demanded.
The Intelligence officer's harsh tone of voice rubbed Dave's fur the
wrong way. The Yank deliberately looked at Markham, and waited until
the Squadron Leader nodded his head. Then for the third time Dave told
his story. The Intelligence officer listened with a face set hard as
granite. His only expression was in his eyes. And their expression
was that of a man who is helplessly watching the efforts of weeks and
months slip away from his grasp and dissolve in thin air.
"Who is he, sir?" Dave couldn't help blurting out as he finished.
"My brother," Colonel Trevor said with startling bluntness. "And the
good right hand of British Intelligence."
The man emphasized his words with a curt nod, and then looked at Group
Captain Ball.
"This tears it!" he said in a flat voice. "Knocks the blasted props
right out from under the whole thing. He was the main link. Everything
depended on the messages he could get through to me. That he was
caught, and brought back here so that we could confirm his death,
means.... Well, it must mean that they've been onto him for some time.
Perhaps, even, that he sent me information that they _wanted_ him to
send. Blast the Nazis, anyway!"
No one said anything for a moment or two, Markham, Dawson, and Freddy
Farmer being completely in the dark, kept their mouths shut for obvious
reasons. Group Captain Ball didn't say anything because he was deep in
thought weighing Colonel Trevor's words. Presently he stuck out his
lower lip and gave a little half shake of his head.
"Possibly, Colonel," he said and fixed his thoughtful eyes on the
distant horizon. "And then again, possibly not. You forget that we
checked everything through other channels, and found it to be true. I
fancy the Nazis sent him back ... this way ... in the hope that you
would take just that attitude. Would come to that conclusion at once."
The Intelligence officer frowned in perplexity and dragged a thumbnail
along the angle of his jaw.
"Then they don't know how much he sent through, eh?" he murmured,
as though summing it up to himself. "Then this is a trick to make us
believe they've had him under their eye all along, when actually they
only unmasked him in the last day or so?"
"Frankly, yes," Group Captain Ball said. "Consider the matter in this
light, Colonel. If they have known about him for some time, what was
there for them to gain by giving him rope, and letting him send through
all that information? They couldn't possibly guess what our objective
might be, for the plain reason we haven't yet made up our own minds.
No, the risk would be too great, for them. He held too high a position
in the Nazi Gestapo. Once caught the obvious thing would be to shoot
him on the spot. An old Nazi custom, by the way. Certainly, shoot him
and let British Intelligence worry as to what's happened to him. But,
no. They shot him and brought him over here so that we could be _sure_
he was dead. Why? Because they don't _know_ what he was up to. By doing
this they hope to convince us they know all about it. You follow me?"
Colonel Trevor nodded slowly, and a tiny glimmer of hope seeped into
his eyes.
"Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "I guess the shock sent my brain
into a bit of a spin. Right you are. We'll carry on as we planned. Your
squadron office a good place where we can talk, Markham?"
The O.C. of Eighty-Four started slightly at the sudden question popped
at him, then nodded.
"Certainly, Colonel," he said. "My Adjutant's there, but I'll get rid
of him. And ... er, what do you want us to do about your brother,
Colonel?"
The Intelligence officer squared his shoulders and forced himself to
look down at the dead man.
"If you could have him placed in the hospital hut, Markham," he said
softly. "I'll arrange transportation elsewhere, later. Yes, if you
could have him taken to the hospital hut. And, by the way, I don't want
anybody, not even your medico, to touch him. There'll be an ... er,
autopsy performed later."
Markham gave him a shrewd look, and then nodded.
"Just as you wish, Colonel," he said. "I'll give Corporal Sharron
instructions, now, and then we'll go along to my office."
The O.C. of Eighty-Four called over the waiting non-com, gave him his
orders, and then walked away with Colonel Trevor, and Group Captain
Ball. Dave watched them until they were out of sight in the Squadron
office. Then he turned suddenly to Freddy and started whipping his hand
up and down the front of the English youth's tunic. Freddy knocked his
hand away and went back a step.
"You're not my valet!" he cried. "Drop it, my lad. What in the world do
you think you're doing?"
Dave grinned and reached out to whip the front of Freddy's tunic again.
"A game that was all the rage in the States," Dave said. "It was
called, Handy. You make motions with your hands and the others try to
guess what it means. This one is in two words, Freddy. Guess. I'll give
you a tip. It's American slang."
"Good grief, the chap's gone balmy again!" Freddy groaned and beat
off Dave's hand once more. "Stop it, you crazy clown. Rubbish to your
insane Yank games. What do you mean, two words? What two words?"
"What we just got, Freddy," Dave said. "Come on! Be a sport and see if
you can guess it. Then I'll let you try one on me."
"I will not!" Freddy snorted. "Of all the silly rot! But what did we
just get?"
"Okay, if you have to act dumb," Dave growled. "The two words are,
brush off. That's what we just got. The old brush-off. And not with as
much as a thank you kindly. I don't think I like that Colonel Trevor.
Too darn chummy, if you ask me."
"He does sort of spill all over a chap, doesn't he," Freddy said with
a half grin. Then wiping the grin away, "Can't blame him, though, for
being a bit uppish. It must have been a shock, seeing his brother like
that. Poor beggar. But, I say, Dave, did you hear Group Captain Ball
speak of him holding a high position in the Nazi Gestapo? What do you
know about that!"
"Everything, and also absolutely nothing," Dave grunted and looked over
at the hospital hut where Corporal Sharron and his detail had taken
the dead man. "And did you hear him say there'd be an autopsy later,
but sort of stumble over his words? I wonder what he meant by that?
The bullet hole is proof enough how he died. This thing has all the
ear-marks of a Scotland Yard case, or something. Or is that sort of
thing a part of Intelligence routine?"
Freddy Farmer cocked his head to one side and shrugged his shoulders.
"Blessed if I know," he said. "And blessed if I'm going to stay here
looking like some department store window dummy. I just realized that
I'm very hungry. How about you? Shall we have a spot of something or
other before the next scramble alarm sounds?"
"The guy's stomach!" Dave groaned. "Nice juicy mystery on all sides,
and the dope can only think of his _in_sides! Oh, well. Okay! I'd
better go along and see that you leave something for night mess. But
take it easy, Freddy. I heard Markham telling Adjutant Phipps something
about transferring you to bombers for a spell. I think it was your name
he mentioned. Of course, maybe...."
"What?" Freddy gasped in stunned alarm. "Dave! There's a chance I may
be transferred to bombers? You heard that? But.... But, why?"
Dave grinned and jabbed Freddy in the stomach with his thumb.
"That," he said. "If it gets too big to fit into a Spitfire, where else
can it go but into a bomber, huh?"
Freddy Farmer made gurgling sounds in his throat, and lunged. But Dave
slipped away from his grasp and dashed for the mess lounge.