_Airman's Courage_
Time seemed to stand still as Dave sat frozen in the Spitfire's pit.
The whole world, and the very heavens, seemed to stop and wait for
the inevitable. Dave's heart tried to push out through his ribs, and
the very air he breathed was like liquid fire in his lungs. To face
certain death, yourself, is soul crushing enough. But to sit helplessly
by while death reaches out for two of your pals is something beyond
words of description. It is like dying inwardly while remaining alive
outwardly.
"Freddy! Barker! Get them! Haul up, and get them. It's your only hope.
The only thing you can do! Freddy ... Barker...!"
As though from a million miles away Dave heard the echo of his own
words that poured from off his stiff lips. In a dazed, abstract sort
of way part of his spinning brain was conscious of the fact that some
of the other Nazis were dropping right down on his unprotected tail.
He even heard the bursts fired past his wing as a signal for him to
surrender and go on down to land. Perhaps in the very next second a
burst from some Nazi's guns might tear right down through the glass
"hatch" over his cockpit, and end up in his body. Perhaps ... but he
didn't give it a thought. What happened to him in the next few seconds
didn't matter in the slightest. He had ears, and eyes, and thoughts
only for Freddy Farmer, and Flight Lieutenant Barker. They were doomed.
In the next moment they would be dead men hurtling down the last few
feet to the ground. Not even the miracle of miracles could save them,
now. The two Messerschmitt One-Nines were too close. A blind man
couldn't miss at that distance....
Miracles? So what? A pilot with the fighting heart and indomitable
spirit that was Freddy Farmer's didn't have to depend on miracles to
get him out of tight corners. No, not that English lad! In his make-up
there was that something extra that so few possess. There is no given
word for it. Perhaps it is best defined as a resoluteness of soul and
heart that cannot be broken in life or in death. At any rate Freddy
Farmer possessed it, and to the nth degree.
Through unbelieving eyes Dave saw the English youth suddenly cut
upward and over so that he was directly over Flight Lieutenant Barker's
plane. Then once in that protective position he hauled up the nose of
his plane and went streaking straight heavenward. Rather, streaking
straight up into the withering fire that was beginning to pour downward
from the guns of the two diving Messerschmitts. It was a suicide
maneuver. An absolute suicide maneuver, yet the very fact that it was
such was the only help Freddy could possibly expect.
His very daring threw the diving Nazis off whack. His very definite
intention of crashing right up into them put the fear of death in their
hearts, and instantly brought the yellow in them to the surface. As
though worked by strings attached to invisible hands high overhead the
two German planes jerked halfway out of their dives, and went careening
off, one to each side. The one who went to the right was the unlucky
one. The nose of Freddy's stalling Spitfire followed him around. The
aerial machine guns and 20-mm. aircraft cannon on the English youth's
plane yammered out sound and flame. And in the next split second the
spot of air the Messerschmitt had occupied was just a cloud of boiling
black smoke.
As for the other Messerschmitt pilot, he was not what you would exactly
call lucky. He skidded off a bit, then tried savagely to haul around
and fire point blank at Barker's plane. In his desperate fury he over
controlled, missed Barker by yards, and was unable to recover from his
dive in the distance left between his spinning prop and the ground. He
went in nose first and completely disappeared in a fountain of flame
and dirty smoke.
"It isn't true! I'm dreaming! I'm seeing things! It just couldn't
happen, that's all!"
That and more came spilling off Dave's lips as he gaped pop eyed at
Freddy Farmer leveling off onto even keel in the air. A mile or so
beyond Freddy, and fast becoming a speck in the distance, was Barker's
plane. There wasn't a Nazi pilot close enough to even stand the ghost
of a chance of overhauling him. Nothing, now, but clear air between
Barker and England. It was simply absolutely impossible, but ... the
absolutely impossible had actually happened.
"Sweet tripe!" Dave blurted out. "Jumping cat-fish! Holy smoke, and ...
Freddy, _Freddy, boy_!"
Dave screamed the last in frenzied alarm as Farmer's plane suddenly
started lurching, and bucking around in the air. Through horrified eyes
Dave saw a good three feet of the right wing tear free and go sailing
away. The Spitfire dropped sharply down on that side, and terror
squashed Dave's heart to a pulp. Hardly realizing what he was doing,
he slammed his own nose down and went tearing across the sky toward
Freddy's bullet crippled ship, as though his very nearness might be of
some help to the English youth.
However, there was still a master pilot riding the cockpit of that Mark
5. With but a few feet to go Freddy somehow managed to get the damaged
wing up and leveled off. His whirling prop slowed up to indicate he had
cut off his ignition. And perhaps it was fate that put a fairly smooth
strip of ground directly in front of the Spitfire mushing sluggishly
forward. At any rate the craft settled, hit hard and bounced high in
the air. It settled to strike again, seemed to hug the earth for an
instant or two, and then sluffed off drunkenly to the damaged side. The
broken section of the wing "crabbed" on the ground. The Spitfire bucked
and stumbled forward. The nose went down and the propeller blades
chewed into the soil. Then the whole thing spun like a top on the
propeller hub, and went sliding forward in a cloud of dust. Presently
it fell over on its back, stopped moving, and Dave saw the tiny ribbon
of fire that started to creep through the wreckage.
The next thing Dave actually realized was that he had his own Spitfire
down on that strip of ground. He braked to a stop, and yanked a knob
that was connected with the mechanism of a small fire bomb installed
in the plane, so that the craft could be destroyed in the event of a
forced landing, and not fall into Nazi hands intact. His actions were
automatic, however. He didn't even know that he had released the fire
bomb as he vaulted from the pit onto the ground. He had thoughts only
for Freddy. And those thoughts were as hot tears flooding his heart.
His legs were working even as his feet touched the ground. He tore
over to Freddy's crashed plane at top speed, ripped and heaved pieces
of broken wreckage to one side, and flew at the safety harness straps
that held the English youth fast in the seat. Waves of hot air from
the burning wreckage closed down on Dave like a blanket. He choked,
coughed, and gagged, and tugged and pulled at the belt snaps with all
of his strength.
Perhaps it was five seconds, or perhaps ten, before he had the last
one free, and was hauling Freddy out of the wreckage and well clear.
To him, though, it seemed a year. And when he finally laid the English
youth gently down on the ground hot tears of rage and bitter sorrow
were coursing down his cheeks.
"Freddy, boy, Freddy, boy!" he sobbed as he bent over his white faced
pal. "Hang on, Freddy. You mustn't die. You can't die, Freddy! You...!"
And then, suddenly, it happened!
Freddy Farmer's eyes flew open. For an instant they stared blankly up
into Dave's. And then they blinked.
"Die?" the word exploded from the English youth's lips. "What crazy rot
are you talking, Dave? What...? Good grief! Where am I, I'd like to
know?"
Dave went back on his heels speechless, and utterly unable to move as
Freddy Farmer sat up and absently straightened his helmet that was
askew on his head.
"I say!" Freddy cried as he gaped at the two Spitfires that were now
two heaps of seething flame. "What in the world...? Wait! I remember,
now. Dave! What about Barker? Did he get away all right? The blighters
didn't get him, did they?"
Dave had to try three times before he could unstick his tongue from the
roof of his mouth.
"No, they didn't get him, thanks to you, Freddy!" he finally said.
"Gosh! That was the finest thing I ever saw in my life. And, gee! When
I saw your bus crash in after losing part of the wing, I.... Boy! I
just don't know how to put it in words. Freddy! You topped anything
that ever happened in this war! Or ever will happen, I'm thinking!"
The English youth blushed, made a wry face, and got up onto his feet.
"Rot!" he snorted. "Only thing to do, wasn't it? Couldn't let the
blighters shoot us both down, could I? Of course not! They didn't
expect me to do anything, so it was easy to fool them. That's all there
was to it."
"Yeah, sure," Dave grunted. "But you're not talking to your best girl
now, pal. I was there, see? I saw it. And if it doesn't get you the
Victoria Cross, then I don't know nothing!"
"Well, you certainly don't know anything about the Victoria Cross!"
Freddy said scornfully. "They don't give those away with each package
of chocolate you buy, you know. It's the most famous decoration in
the whole world. It can only be won on the field of battle. It's never
awarded in peace time, no matter what. Why, since it was instituted
by Queen Victoria on January Twenty-Ninth, Eighteen Hundred and
Sixty-Five, there have been less than a thousand Victoria Crosses
awarded. It...."
"Sure, I know!" Dave interrupted with a grin. "I know that it is a
bronze medal cast from cannon captured in the Crimean War. And that it
is on simple design. A form of Maltese cross with the British Lion and
Crown on it. The ribbon is dark purple, and on the medal it says, 'For
Valor.' Cut the lecture, pal. The point is, that if ever a fellow rated
one, you sure do!"
"You're still talking rubbish!" Freddy snapped, though his eyes were
shining. "I've seen you do better than that a half dozen times. Drop
it, will you? I'm pleased enough just to be still alive!"
Dave stood up and shook his head.
"Well, I'm still not too sure about that," he grunted and reached out
and touched his friend. "I may yet wake up and find it was just a
dream. But maybe you are you, at that. One way to make sure. Are you
hungry, Freddy?"
"Phew, I'm starved!" the English youth exclaimed before he could check
himself.
Dave laughed and took a quick step backward.
"That's proof!" he cried. "It's not a dream. You're still Freddy
Farmer. It all actually happened."
Dave suddenly cut himself off short and glanced upward. The smile died
from his lips and his eyes.
"Well, I guess you'll have to stay hungry, pal," he murmured. "Unless
you can go for the stuff the Jerries call food. Here comes the
welcoming committee! And one of them must be a big shot. Look at all
the fancy German High Command markings on his plane. Wouldn't it be
something if it was Hitler in that ship sliding down our way, huh?"
Freddy Farmer tilted his head and looked up at the four Messerschmitt
One-Nines coasting down and around into the wind, preparatory to
landing. The plane in the lead had Luftwaffe High Command markings on
either side of the fuselage. And as if they weren't enough to signify
that some high ranker sat in the pit, a black and white streamer was
attached to the radio antenna pole.
"If it is Hitler," Freddy murmured, "it'll be the happiest moment
in my life. Among other things about that madman I despise, is that
toothbrush affair he wears on his upper lip."
"It would be like socking so much jelly," Dave said disgustedly. "From
all the pictures I've seen, he looks flabby all over."
"Particularly upstairs!" Freddy added. Then with a heavy sigh, "I
certainly hope and pray that the pictures Barker took back will tell
British Intelligence _some_ things they want to know."
Dave clenched his fists helplessly, and said nothing. The English
youth's words were like a bucket of ice water splashing down over his
spirit. They brought him back to earth and stark realization of the
situation. And it was the most depressing and disheartening picture
he had ever faced. Their special mission had turned out one third
successful. Yet had it? Would the pictures Flight Lieutenant Barker
had taken be of any use to British Intelligence? What had Barker's
camera seen that he, Dave Dawson, had not seen with his own eyes? And
what he had seen had been no more than a tremendous expanse of expert
camouflaging.
True, the very existence of camouflage proved also the existence of
something highly important and secretive. But they had known that
before they even took off from Eighty-Four's field. Sure, this area was
the key to the mystery. The answer to what Hitler was doing to retain
mastery of the conquered countries, and still withdraw large forces of
his occupation troops for service elsewhere. Sure, it was the key to
the mystery. But what _was_ the mystery? What was it all about? Would
Barker's pictures answer that for British Intelligence?
Dave hoped and prayed so with all his heart and soul. But deep down in
his heart he felt different. Deep down in his heart there was gnawing
dread, and doubt. The truth had to be faced. The special mission had
failed. Their only bit of success had been Barker escaping with his
life. And that had been made possible entirely by Freddy Farmer.
Everything else had gone overboard. Face it, Dave! You struck out. You
missed the boat. For all you accomplished, you might just as well have
stayed put back in England. Your first real command, and you didn't
even see the pitch, my boy! It sailed right by, with your bat still on
your shoulder!
"Come on, Dave, buck up!" Freddy Farmer's voice suddenly cut into
Dave's thoughts. "From the look on your face I can guess what you're
thinking. It isn't your fault at all, Dave. We just weren't lucky,
that's all."
"Thanks, Freddy," Dave said with a twisted smile. "But in this league
they only pay off on results. And I flopped bad. It was all my idea,
you know, to make this kind of a patrol."
"Well, it's still a better idea than Group Captain Ball's!" the
English youth said stoutly. Then after a two second look at the four
Messerschmitts sliding down, he added with a puzzled frown, "There's
one thing that's a bit of a mystery to me."
"One thing?" Dave echoed with a bitter laugh. "Boy, you're lucky. I can
think of a million things! But what's the big puzzle to you, Freddy?"
The English youth made a faint movement with one hand to indicate the
surrounding countryside.
"All this business," he said. "All this camouflage stuff. I can't make
head nor tail of it. What do you suppose they're hiding under it? The
top of that patch of swamp ground is a fake if I ever saw one. But I
didn't get a chance to peek at what was underneath. I was too busy with
those Jerries."
"I'll say you were busy!" Dave grinned. Then with a sharp shake of his
head, "But I didn't get a good look, either. That might be camouflage
covering for some underground hangars. I wouldn't want to bet on it,
though. I didn't see any near by strips of flat ground big enough for
take-off runways. But that's not the main thing, the main mystery that
has me scratching my brains."
"What is, then?" Freddy Farmer encouraged as Dave paused and silently
watched the wheels of the first Messerschmitt touch the ground. Then
impulsively taking hold of the Yank's arm, Freddy said sharply, "I
say, Dave! Don't get ideas of making a run for it! We wouldn't stand a
chance. This area is just plain filthy with Nazis. From the air I saw
troops all over the place!"
"Don't worry, pal, I'm not that dumb," Dave calmed his fears. "I saw
them, too. Heck! If I'd thought we stood a chance of getting away on
foot, I wouldn't have stood around gabbing this long. But we wouldn't
have been able to go a hundred yards without bumping into a mess of
them. Bet you anything you want there's a dozen or more Nazi rifles
trained on us right now, only we can't see them."
Freddy swallowed hard and glanced anxious eyes over his shoulder. Dave
saw the look and chuckled.
"Keep your shirt on, pal," he said. "Nobody's going to play target
practice with us."
"What do you mean?" Freddy demanded wide eyed. "Why not, I'd like to
know?"
Dave bit his lower lip and shrugged.
"And so would I," he said. "But the way it strikes me, we're something
very special to these Nazis. They had five million chances to clip us
upstairs, but they didn't fire a shot until you and Barker started to
leave in a hurry. In my book it all adds up that they want us alive.
But why, is something I haven't figured out, yet."
Dave stopped talking abruptly as he saw the worried look that spread
over Freddy Farmer's still slightly pale face.
"Of course, I can think of one answer," he said lightly, "but I don't
know if it's the right one."
"Well, what in the world _is_ it?" Freddy asked sharply when Dave
didn't continue.
"Well," the Yank born R.A.F. ace murmured, and shrugged, "it's maybe
because they got a look at your face up there, and got to wondering if
arms, legs, and a body really went with it. Take it easy, my little
man! You walked right into that one!"
Dave jumped quickly to one side and escaped Freddy's booted foot
swinging up in the general direction of the seat of his breeches. The
English youth quickly recovered his balance and groaned heavily.
"And for this did Lady Luck let me escape from that crash!" he growled.
"Let me escape to die laughing at all your funny remarks, I _don't_
think. A fine time this is for that sort of thing!"
"Well, anyway, it's time for something else," Dave said quickly and
nodded ahead. "Here comes the company. And the big shot. He's....
Holy smoke, Freddy! Take a look. That bird in the lead. I've seen his
picture in the paper. Hey! Hey, isn't he Colonel Comstadt, the chief of
the Gestapo end of the Luftwaffe?"
Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked at the giant of a man in
flying gear striding toward them. The man was huge, gigantic. His
head was the size of a melon, and his face had all the beauty of the
rear end of a truck. His long arms swung at his sides like those of a
gorilla, and his legs were like a couple of telephone poles jointed in
the middle.
"Yes, he must be!" Freddy whispered hoarsely. "There couldn't be two
in the world who look like that. Yes, Dave, he must be that Colonel
Comstadt you hear so much about. Good grief, how in the world does he
manage to squeeze into the cockpit of a Messerschmitt One-Nine?"
Dave didn't bother to answer the question. As a matter of fact, he
hardly heard it. His gaze was rivetted on the huge Nazi striding toward
them, and there was a most unpleasant chilliness in his chest. Next to
Hitler, and Gestapo Chief Himmler, Colonel Comstadt was reported to be
the most brutal man in all the German Reich. Wherever he went, there
also went indescribable suffering, and death on a wholesale scale. And
it wasn't limited to the enemies of Germany, either. Colonel Comstadt
worked within the German Army, and the Luftwaffe, as well as outside
of them. His job was two-fold. To create terror and fear in Hitler's
legions so that every order of the Fuehrer would be blindly obeyed. And
it was also his job to create terror and fear throughout the conquered
countries so that the occupation troops would not be molested.
Of late it had been rumored that the man had been assigned to
the Luftwaffe operating on the Western Front. The sound beatings
administered by the R.A.F. to the Luftwaffe during the Battle of
Britain had thrown Hitler into another of his famous rages. But it
had obviously done considerably more than that. The results of the
Battle of Britain had knocked a lot of the arrogance, conceit, and
cocksuredness out of the Luftwaffe personnel. Originally they had gone
winging across war skies to tackle a foe sneeringly regarded by "Uncle"
Goering as a push-over. Instead, though, they had bumped into a foe who
could knock the stripes off any of them. And, what's more, do it with
one hand tied behind his back.
It had been a terrible shock to the Luftwaffe pilots to discover that
one Royal Air Force pilot was better than any dozen of them. It started
them thinking for the first time since falling under Adolf Hitler's
spell. And that was the one thing Adolf Hitler feared most. That his
human pawns of war might start _thinking_. And so Colonel Comstadt had
been sent to the Luftwaffe to "build up morale" with fear, brutality,
and the firing squad.
And right now Colonel Comstadt was bearing down on Dave Dawson and
Freddy Farmer.
"Easy does it, Freddy!" Dave whispered out the corner of his mouth as
he saw the English youth stiffen and half clench his fists. "He has his
gang with him, and we wouldn't stand a chance!"