_The Dead Speak_
The dawn sun was still out of sight far down below the eastern lip of
the world. Not even the first faint glow of its coming could be seen
in the sky. On the tarmac of Eighty-Four's field three powerful Mark
5 Spitfires were being warmed up and mothered by mechanics as though
they were infant babes in arms. Off to one side, Dave Dawson, Freddy
Farmer, Barker, and Squadron Leader Markham, stood waiting and talking
of everything under the sun except the special patrol that was soon to
get underway.
That was a taboo subject with them. It was for the simple reason there
wasn't anything else to discuss. All the plans and preparations had
been made. Special high speed cameras, that could be operated from the
control stick, had been fitted in the planes. The cameras had been
tested and found to be in perfect working order. Each pilot had taken
his plane aloft and tested it until he was thoroughly satisfied with
every beat of the engine, and every single response to a touch on the
controls. Everything that could be done, had been done. There was
nothing to do now but wait for the engines to be warmed up ... and then
get on with the job.
"Say, Barker," Dave suddenly broke a minute's silence. "Meant to speak
to you about this, but we've all been pretty busy. I mean.... Well,
darn it, you're still senior officer, and I'm perfectly willing for
you to take over command of this show. Fact is, I think it would be a
sensible idea. I...."
"Oh, no you don't, Yank!" Barker cried and laughed. "Decent and mighty
sporting of you, old bean. And I like you a lot for saying it. But I've
been in command of special shows before. Not at all to my liking. Hate
responsibility, you know. I'm always getting things messed up something
terrible."
"Yeah, I can guess!" Dave snorted. "He's won the Distinguished Flying
Cross, _and_ bar! And he says he'd mess things up? Nix on that line,
friend. But I really am serious about your...."
"Don't be!" Barker said firmly. "I refuse, flatly. No, my lad. I'm
going to tag along obeying orders on this show. And love it, I fancy."
"Then you won't...?" Dave started again and hesitated.
"No!" Barker repeated. "Absolutely not. If it's a success then you get
perhaps the Victoria Cross, my lad. If it's not, then you get Squadron
Leader Markham on _your_ neck. _I_ don't! See what I mean, old thing?"
Dave grinned and looked at his commanding officer who was shaking with
laughter.
"Don't mind Barker, Dawson," the O.C. said. "He's an awful one for
juggling the truth. Frankly, I've never so much as spoken a harsh word
to him since he's been in the squadron."
"But, what you've _thought_, sir!" Barker said and laughed. "Just
the same, Dawson, this is your show. And in my opinion you certainly
deserve to have command."
"Well, I still don't know about that," Dave said with a shrug. "But....
Hold everything! That's a ship coming down to land, isn't it?"
All eyes were turned on the star studded sky overhead whence had come
the sudden sound of airplane engines. An instant later the sound died
down to a purr. And a brief moment after that the darkness was cut by
the twin beams of the incoming plane's landing lights.
"Can't see for those darn lights," Dave grunted. "But she sounds to me
like a Blenheim."
"It is!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "I can see her, now. I say! That's the
same bus Group Captain Ball, and Colonel Trevor, came down in from
London. I wonder if they're coming back."
"I wonder, too!" Squadron Leader Markham echoed. And Dave thought he
caught just a faint trace of hopefulness in the O.C.'s voice. "Maybe
they've decided to wash-out the patrol. Maybe something else has popped
up."
As Dave watched the shadowy blur slide down toward the surface of the
field, then level off and settle gently, a conglomeration of mixed
emotions surged through him. One instant he experienced the familiar
eerie tingling at the back of his neck that was always an advance
warning of danger just ahead. Then in the next instant a sense of
disappointment would flood through him. As though that plane was
bringing word that the flight over occupied France had been called
off. Then again he was filled with the strange excited feeling of more
mystery being added to what already existed. A jumble of emotions and
crazy thoughts that plagued him as he waited for the pilot of the Air
Ministry Blenheim to taxi up to the line.
When the plane stopped, and the door was popped open, only one man
jumped down onto the ground. That man was Colonel Trevor, and he
hurried over to the group with a look of marked relief quite visible
on his face in the pale glow shed by the two or three flare lights set
about on the tarmac.
"Thank heavens, you haven't taken off yet!" the Intelligence officer
cried. "Didn't want to waste time trying to get you on the phone. Raid
on in London, anyway, and the phone service isn't so good at such
times. No, not a hot raid. Just a few Jerry ships up there. And our
lads are handling them very nicely. Anyway, I dashed out to Croydon in
the blasted black-out and commandeered Ball's plane. I've got a bit
more information for you, Dawson. By the way, do you know that terrain
between Boulogne and Lille?"
"Fairly well, sir," the Yank R.A.F. ace replied. "I've done quite a bit
of flying over that section, now and again. Why, sir?"
The Intelligence officer didn't answer at once. He fished a hand
into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Smoothing it out he held it to the light so that all could see. A map
had been roughly drawn in pencil on the paper.
"A map of a three square mile spot of ground exactly seven miles west
of Lille," Colonel Trevor said, and started pointing things out with
his finger. "See this? A hill range. Here is the Lille River that flows
into the Somme farther south. See this sharp bend in the river? Well,
the ground there is thickly wooded, and to the east ... the southeast,
rather ... is quite an expanse of swamp ground. Now, just a shade east
of the edge of that swamp land is a tiny French village. You can't even
find it on a map, but its name is Fleurville. Somewhere in that area,
Dawson, is the secret weapon that Hitler plans to use against us. The
weapon, I am sure, that destroyed those Lockheed Hudson bombers last
Tuesday night."
Dave didn't say anything as the Intelligence officer stopped speaking.
He stared hard at the pencil drawn map in an effort to stamp every
little detail on his mind. Squadron Leader Markham, however, was not so
interested in the map as he was in what Colonel Trevor had said.
"Why do you say that, Colonel?" he asked. "And where did you get this
map?"
"I traced that map from one you could only see under a microscope," the
other said. "From a map originally drawn almost pin head size by my
brother."
Dave jerked his head up, eyes wide.
"Your brother, sir?" he gasped. "But your brother's dead! You mean
another communication came through just the same? That he'd sent it on
its way before he was captured?"
"No," Colonel Trevor said quietly. "My brother brought it with him.
Remember my not wanting anybody to touch the body? Remember my saying
something about an autopsy? Well, naturally, I did not plan for any
autopsy to be made on my brother. The cause of his death was clear
enough. However, in Intelligence every agent has a special way of
hiding secret messages in the event he is captured. Some use false
fingernails with the message printed underneath too small for the human
eye to read. Others conceal the message under a false patch of hair
glued to their scalp. And so on. There are a hundred and one different
ways of hiding information you've gathered. However, each man's method
is a secret between himself and the Chief of Intelligence. Therefore I
didn't allow your medico to touch my brother. I wanted to communicate
with my Chief first."
Colonel Trevor paused for a moment, squared his jaw a bit, and then
continued.
"My brother did bring back information," he said. "His method of hiding
messages on his person was by means of a hollowed out false tooth
that not more than one dentist in a hundred would detect. In that
hollow tooth was a postage stamp size original of this map, and some
instructions."
"Dope on the secret Nazi weapon, sir?" Dave asked eagerly as the
Intelligence officer paused again.
"Some," was the quiet reply, "but not nearly enough. To be perfectly
truthful, my brother still didn't get complete details. He only learned
that somewhere in this area covered by the map the Nazis have installed
this new weapon, and...."
Colonel Trevor cut himself off short and nodded at Dave.
"Your hunch was a good one, Dawson," he said. "According to my
brother's report, the Nazis have installed the weapon there for the
purpose of experiments and tests. As I said, he did not know _what_
the weapon is. He was only able to find out that it is to be used
primarily against aircraft."
"Not against troops?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Then how do they expect
to beat off an invasion attempt. They...! That's rather silly of me,
isn't it?"
"What, Farmer?" Squadron Leader Markham asked with a puzzled frown.
"The question, sir," the English youth replied and blushed faintly. "I
suddenly realized that the answer is obvious. This war has proved that
the side that has control of the air is the side that comes out on top.
So, if the Nazis are able to maintain control of the air over Occupied
Europe, all the invasion troops in the world wouldn't of much use to
us."
"Right, Freddy!" Dave said with a grin. "Go to the head of the class,
my boy. Did you learn anything else, Colonel?"
"Sorry, but that's all, Dawson," the Intelligence officer replied. "But
it should help you a little. At least you won't have to waste time
buzzing around over the entire area. Concentrate on the spots covered
by this map. Here, better take my copy along with you. Well.... Well,
good luck, chaps. And God speed back home again."
Colonel Trevor didn't thrust out his hand, or stiffen to attention and
salute the three R.A.F. aces. He did nothing but look at them each in
turn. That was plenty. His eyes said far more than his lips could have
said. Expressed far more than any firm hand shake or slap on the back.
"Thanks, sir," Dave said for the three of them. "You can depend on us
to bring back the pictures ... or else."
"Never mind the, or else, Dawson," Squadron Leader Markham grunted.
"Just make sure all three of you come back! And, Dawson?"
"Yes, sir?" Dave murmured.
Squadron Leader Markham didn't speak for a few seconds. He stood
staring Dave straight in the eye. Then suddenly he raised a cautioning
finger.
"In case things don't turn out as you hope," he said eventually. "In
case the patrol looks like a complete wash-out, don't get too many of
those hunches of yours, will you? There'll always be a tomorrow in
this blasted war, you know. Don't try to win it in a few hours, though
goodness knows you and Farmer could probably make a fairly good go at
it."
"Don't worry, sir," Dave chuckled and tightened the strap on his
helmet. "I'll watch my step, and try not to lead with my chin. But if
I should get out of line you can count on Barker and Farmer to throw a
halter on me."
"Oh, quite!" Flight Lieutenant Barker echoed. "I don't fancy to step
out of this war for quite some time, if ever. Don't worry, sir, Farmer
and I will keep an eye on this wildman from the States."
"And a good grip with both hands, too, sir!" Freddy added. "But, I've
handled the balmy blighter before, and I can do it again."
"Shucks!" Dave said in mock disappointment. "Then what's the sense of
my going along, if I can't have fun?"
"Personally, I wish there was no sense in any of you going along,"
Squadron Leader Markham said gravely. "However, war's war, and that's
that. I guess it's time for you to be off. The very best, lads! And
happy landings ... on _this_ field!"
The trio hesitated a moment, looked at each other, and then as one
man turned and walked over to their planes. As Dave climbed into his
pit a soothing calm flowed through his body. The calm before the
storm, perhaps. But for the moment the excitement of the occasion,
the tingling, eager anticipation of things to come, and the myriad
little inner fears and doubts, were banished. It was as though he were
climbing into his Mark 5 to take it aloft for a joy hop, or a bit of
gunnery practice on the field's ground target. That soon he would be
leading Freddy Farmer and Barker deep into mystery skies over occupied
Europe was as something as far removed as the sun.
A sense of peace and contentment were his as he settled himself in the
pit, and made a last minute check of everything. But perhaps the war
gods were perfectly willing that he should feel that way for a spell.
They knew it would not last long. They knew what awaited those three
stout hearted aces of the R.A.F. They knew what was waiting, and what
was going to happen. And they clapped their hands and nudged each other
in high glee.
"Well, there'll always be an England," Dave murmured and reached for
the throttle. "So, I'll be seeing you soon!"
Five seconds later three Spitfire Mark 5s thundered out across the
field, cleared, and went zooming up to lose themselves quickly in the
shadowy sky. Back down on the tarmac Squadron Leader Markham stood like
a carved statue, his eyes still turned upward toward the half night,
half dawn sky. He saw nothing but murky shadows, but the drone of three
powerful Rolls-Royce engines was still in his ears. He listened until
the sound faded away in the distance. Then slowly he clenched both
fists and turned to look at Colonel Trevor.
"If they don't come back," he said in a strained voice, "I fancy you
and Group Captain Ball had better catch the first boat for South
Africa!"
"Amen!" the Intelligence officer said softly.