_Midnight Madness_
Dave's whole body was trembling from wild excitement and torturing
suspense before Freddy Farmer came to a halt right under the wing of
one of the Messerschmitt One-Tens, and not an inch less than fifteen
feet in back of the armed Nazi guard comfortably slouched in his canvas
chair. For one awful second Dave was afraid that Freddy was going to
attempt to creep right up to the man, but the English youth stopped a
good fifteen feet short.
In the glow thrown by the oil-pot flare Dave had a good look at the
German's profile. It wasn't, however, anything very pleasing to look
at. The man had the hawk like features and weak undershot chin, so
common to Nazi soldiers. His neck was much too small for his head, and
looked like a stick poked up out of a hole formed by the collar of his
cheap cloth tunic with a lump on the top. However, funny and dopey as
the man looked, there was nothing funny or dopey about the rifle in
his hand, or the hand grenades hooked to his belt. Those were certain
death if he were given even a second in which to use them. There was
also a question of the Nazi's mouth. One startled roar and his mates
would undoubtedly come on the run.
Dave scowled in the semi darkness and suddenly wished he'd made Freddy
tell him of the plan. If that Nazi let out a yell, or if he had just
enough time to grab up that gun, it wouldn't be so good. Freddy would
be forced to fire, and the sound of shots would surely bring other
Nazis before they could leap into those planes, kick the engines into
life and get away. Maybe he'd better....
Dave cut off the thought and checked his hand reaching out to touch
Freddy as he saw his pal lift up the Luger and draw a dead bead on the
back of the Nazi's head. A second later the English youth spoke in
German and his voice was like steel hitting against steel.
"Don't move, or you're a dead man, soldier!" the words came off
Freddy's lips. "My gun is pointed right at your head, _schweinehund_!
One move and there'll be a bullet in it, I promise you!"
The Nazi stiffened. The half smoked cigarette dropped from his fingers
to fall into his lap, but he made no move to brush it off. Freddy
Farmer sighed faintly, and then he was away from Dave like a shot
leaving the muzzle of a gun. Dave hardly had time to blink before he
saw the English youth half crouched right in back of the Nazi and with
his Luger pressed against the man's head. Dave leaped to his feet and
dashed out just as Freddy snatched the Nazi's rifle away.
"Boy, that was fast, Freddy!" Dave panted. "Just keep him like that,
while I unhook those hand grenades. Hot dog! Eight of them. Two more
than I counted on!"
While Freddy held the gun hard against the Nazi's head Dave bent over
him and unhooked the eight hand grenades from the man's belt. As he
placed them gently on the ground to one side, the Nazi made a faint
gurgling sound in his throat.
"What is this?" the fear whitened lips gasped. "You are _Englanders_!"
"And plenty homesick!" Dave grunted. "Now out of that chair and down
flat on your face. Hurry, before I kick you out of it. Face down, and
hands behind your back!"
The Nazi didn't need any urging by Dave's foot. He quickly slid out
of the chair and stretched out face down on the ground with his hands
crossed behind his back. The man's belt, his handkerchief, and strips
torn from the canvas chair did the trick. In less than two minutes he
was gagged and tied up tight as a drum.
"Okay, Freddy!" Dave said and gave four of the hand grenades to him.
"Three loud cheers for us. You take the end plane. I'll take the next
one to it. Don't forget our arrangements! And ... and the last one back
to England is a dope. Be seeing you, pal!"
The pair clasped hands quickly, looked deep into the other's eyes, and
then without another word between them turned around and sprinted for
the two end Messerschmitt One-Nines. Dave leaped into his, fumbled
for the safety belt harness in the shadowy darkness and fastened it
securely about him. Then he ran his eyes and hands on the instrument
board and gadgets to familiarize himself quickly with their various
functions. Then he slipped the cockpit set of radio headphones over his
ears, and reached for the throttle and starter button.
He did not press the starter button instantly, however. He rested a
finger on it and turned his head and peered through the bad light at
Freddy Farmer in the next One-Nine. The English youth had apparently
done things at top speed, too, for just as Dave turned his head so did
Freddy, and their eyes met.
"Tally-ho, Dave!" Freddy shouted.
"And how!" Dave roared back.
A split second later the starting gears on both engines whined out
their unpleasant note. And a few split seconds after that both twelve
cylinder liquid cooled Daimler-Benz engines roared into life. The
instant Dave's caught he throttled it slightly and raised a hand to
wave to Freddy to take off first. And at that same instant a savage
blast of rifle fire broke out from somewhere behind. There was the
blood chilling clatter of a machine gun, too. And Dave felt the
Messerschmitt One-Nine tremble slightly as bullets tore into its tail.
He didn't waste time to turn his head and investigate. He simply
snapped a glance to the side to make sure Freddy's plane had started
moving forward, then kicked off his wheel brakes and rammed the
throttle all the way forward. The plane lunged ahead as though tightly
coiled springs had been released. The engine howled out its note of
mighty power, and the yammer and chatter of machine gun and rifle fire
from behind seemed to double in fury. Yet, clear above the inferno of
sound came an unintelligible roar of rage that made Dave's heart start
violently in his chest.
"Ox Face!" he gasped and hunched himself low over the controls. "Has he
got a head of cast iron! He shouldn't be waking up until sometime next
week. Okay, girlie! Off you go!"
As he spoke the last he hauled the stick back, cleared the ground and
went prop clawing straight up toward the night sky. Just off his right
wing and flying in beautiful formation was Freddy Farmer climbing
upward right along with him. Dave grinned and felt a surge of pride in
his breast.
"Good old Freddy!" he whispered. "Gosh! What that lad has done today
would fill a book. A couple of them. He...."
A crash of sound and a blaze of light off to his left cut off the rest
and jerked his head around. The glob of red and orange in the night
sky was a familiar sight to Dave, and he recognized it instantly.
Anti-aircraft gunners on the ground were groping for them in the black
sky. A second glob of red and orange flame appeared in the sky, but
twice as far away as the first, and Dave's heart slid back down out of
his throat.
More anti-aircraft bursts appeared in the sky but as none of them was
close Dave didn't give them a second look. He held his ship steady,
prop-clawing upward and straight westward toward the English Channel.
A couple of minutes later the anti-aircraft fire was far behind and
rapidly giving it up for a bad job. At just about that same time Dave
saw that his altimeter needle was right on the eighteen thousand foot
mark. He automatically leveled off from his climb and turned his head
to see the shadowy blurr that was Freddy Farmer's plane doing the same
thing. For perhaps five seconds the planes roared straight ahead on an
even keel, then Dave saw the exhaust plumes from Freddy's plane wink
out, and the craft start turning around in a wide arc toward the north.
The English youth had killed his engine and was starting the long
silent glide back that would take him over the glider hangar area from
the north. Dave swallowed a lump in his throat, cut off his own engine
and went gently gliding around and to the south.
"Luck, old pal!" he spoke in a husky whisper. "We're going to make it
okay. I've got the old feeling, Freddy. The old hunch. Be seeing you
soon in dear old England. Yup! The home of tea and crumpets!"
Dave grinned in the darkness, and nodded for emphasis, but he couldn't
kid himself. There was an icy emptiness in his chest, and the eerie
tingling sensation at the back of his neck. In fact, for one crazy
moment he was filled with the almost uncontrollable urge to call out to
Freddy over the Messerschmitt's radio and suggest they call all bets
off, and go streaking home to England, instead. He angrily killed the
urge even as it was born in his brain, squared his shoulders and held
the plane in its long flat glide southward and around toward the east.
In spite of it being night he could clearly see the hair pin bend in
the Lille River. And as the Messerschmitt's wings whispered their way
lower and lower down through the air he caught sight of a few lights
spotted here and there on the murky carpet of ground below.
He imagined that one of those lights came from General von Peiplow's
test laboratory, and office, in the patch of woods. He imagined the
Luftwaffe high ranker at the open door and scowling in savage defeat
up at the heavens toward England. He imagined those things, chuckled
softly, and made a face earthward.
"Just stick around, von Peiplow, old sock!" he grunted. "The old
balloon's going up any minute, now. Any minute, now!"
As he spoke the last he squinted at the altimeter dial that was just
faintly visible in the pale glow of the single instrument board light.
The needle had moved down to close to eight thousand feet. That fact
startled him for he felt he had started his downward glide but a couple
of seconds ago. But it had been more than that. And as he took another
look down over the side at the guiding bend in the Lille River, he saw
that he was in correct position to the south of the glider hangar area.
It was time to glide around due north and ease down the last thousand
feet or so before Freddy's signal would come over the radio on the
agreed wave length reading he had tuned at several minutes ago.
Banking gently around and down, he reached out with his free hand
and made sure his four hand grenades were still in an empty map box
where he could reach them without wasted movement. His own safety, and
Freddy's too, rested in their getting rid of those hand grenades fast
and clearing out from over the area twice as fast. If their planes
received the full force of the explosion's concussion, the wings would
be torn off like paper, and....
Suddenly, without the slightest sign of warning, the inky darkness of
night was shattered apart by a thunderous roar of sound and a seething
ocean of red, yellow, and orange flame that seemed to come boiling
upward from the ground below. The plane bucked, and shivered, and
lurched crazily forward. And for one horrible second a mighty invisible
force tore Dave's hands from the controls. Head whirling, and his lungs
seeming to burst right out through his ribs, he fought with every ounce
of his strength to keep the plane from plunging wildly downward out of
control.
Freddy Farmer! Where was Freddy? Did he get through? Was Freddy all
right? The radio! Was it working? Would that signal come through from
Freddy? Darn the blasted thing! Would it never speak?
Those and countless other thoughts spun and raced through his brain.
Then a planet of fire rushed up out of nowhere. It seemed to crash
straight into the nose of the Messerschmitt and explode in a roar that
shook the very heavens apart. Dave felt as though unseen steel claws
were tearing strips of flesh from his bones, and hammering his brains
to pulp. He didn't know what it was. He didn't know what had happened.
He only knew that he was spinning down into a limitless void of roaring
thunder and boiling flame. Down ... down ... down into the raging
inferno of another world.
"Ox Face! Ox Face! Dave! Are you okay? _Ox Face, Dave!_"
Like a half drowned man he faintly heard the voice of Freddy Farmer in
his ear phones. For a split second he thought he was simply hearing
things in his dreams. Thought that he was dead and simply hearing the
echo of Freddy's voice reaching across the great void between life
and the hereafter. But he wasn't dreaming, and he wasn't dead. Far,
far from it, in fact. The Messerschmitt was in a crazy spin, but it
was slowly spinning down through clear night air. High above him the
sky was splashed with red, orange, and yellow fire. And as he snapped
a glance up toward it he realized what had happened. By accident ...
or perhaps Nazi anti-aircraft gunners below had spotted the moving
silhouette of his plane against the faint light of the stars ... the
Messerschmitt had been caught cold in the bracket fire of several
bursts of the famous "flaming onion" type of anti-aircraft shell.
The crazy sea of colored flame, the roar of sound, and the terrific
concussion of the shells exploding practically on the propeller hub had
thrown him haywire, and tossed the plane into its crazy spin.
The Messerschmitt, however, still had plenty of flying in her bones. He
realized that the instant he touched the controls and started to pull
out of the spin. Then out the corner of one eye he caught the flicker
of twin exhaust plumes etched against the darkness of night. And a
split second later came Freddy Farmer's repeated cry in the earphones.
"Are you all right, Dave? Ox Face, Dave!"
"Ox Face, pal!" he roared into his own mike. "Down, and let them have
it!"
Even as the last burst from his lips he kicked the Daimler-Benz into
life again and stuck the Messerschmitt's nose straight down. The engine
screamed out its song of power, and the wings shrilled their high note
as they sliced down through the air. Body hunched well forward, and
every muscle braced, Dave fixed his gaze on the ground below, and held
his breath. Split seconds, infinitesimal periods of time ticked by,
but it seemed as an agonizing life-time to Dave before he clearly saw
the wide expanse of ground hangar camouflage below him. He snapped
a glance at his altimeter and saw that the needle was at the five
thousand foot mark.
"One thousand feet more, Freddy!" he screamed into his radio mike.
"We'll make sure we don't miss with any of them. Luck, pal!"
"Luck, Dave!" came the faint reply in his earphones.
And then the altimeter needle was at four thousand feet! Dave tore
his hands from the controls for a brief instant, grabbed up the hand
grenades, jerked the little strings that freed the detonating pin, and
hurled, the lot over the side. The split instant they left his hands
he grabbed for the controls again and started to haul up out of the
vicious power dive.
The plane jerked and bucked, and fought savagely to stay pointed
downward. But Dave battled with it tooth and nail, and got the nose
to swinging upward. Terrific pressure pressed him down in the seat.
He felt that his neck was going to snap in two, and that his backbone
and ribs were going to be forced right down into his thighs. Glaring
white light filled his brain, and there was the roar of a thousand
Niagaras in his ears. For perhaps ten full seconds he was completely
"blacked-out" by the terrific pressures exerted on his body. Then the
white glare faded away from his brain, there was less roaring in his
ears, and the Messerschmitt was streaking straight forward toward the
west on an even keel. He forced himself up from his half crouch and
glanced to either side for sight of Freddy Farmer's exhaust plumes.
He saw them off to his left rear, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. And
then suddenly it happened ... down below!
There were a half dozen spurts of flame that shot upward from the night
shadowed ground. Then quick as a flash a pool of flame spread out in
all directions. It came spouting upward as though the very earth had
split apart and the raging inferno of flame at the core of the universe
was belching up through. A beautiful and terrifying spectacle of
Satan's fireworks spreading across Occupied France. And then came the
sound of the explosions! There are no words to describe it. It was like
the whole world blowing up. It was like a thousand worlds blowing up at
the same time.
The bellowing blast seemed to drive Dave's eardrums right into his
head though he was thousands of feet up in the air. Wave after wave of
concussion swooped up to catch the Messerschmitt in its grip and toss
and whip it about in the sky as though it were a leaf caught in the
vortex of a tornado. For a moment Dave fought to keep control of the
plane, but he might just as well have put out both hands and tried to
push back those mounting waves of explosion blast. He was forced to let
go of the controls and use both hands to hang on and keep himself in
the seat.
The Messerschmitt danced and spun all over the inferno lighted sky.
Unseen fists pounded and hammered every square inch of his body, and
seemed to drain every drop of blood from his brains. He didn't wonder
if he was going to live or to die, because his brain was too stunned,
too befuddled to even begin to function properly. Like a man bordering
on complete unconsciousness he did what he could to stay with the plane
as it whipped up on its tail, nose pointed straight toward Heaven, one
second, and went spinning drunkenly over on its back the next.
And then slowly the plane stopped banging around the sky. It fell into
a half power dive and stayed there. Invisible giants stopped thumping
Dave's body, and his concussion dulled brain began to work once more.
With a mighty effort he dragged air into his burning lungs, and
clutched hold of the controls and started to get the nose up.
"Freddy!" he mumbled thick tongued into his radio mike. "Are you okay?
Okay, pal?"
Three seconds ticked by, but they were three eternities to Dave. Was
Freddy gone? He had been farther behind. Had the explosion caught him,
and was Freddy dead? The horrible thought made Dave cry tears of blood
in his heart. He jerked both hands from the controls and grabbed the
radio mike between them as though that would help to carry his voice
out over the air.
"Freddy!" he bawled at the top of his voice. "Freddy! Check back to me!
Are you okay? Are you still around?"
"I think so, Dave!" came the voice in the earphones, and tears of joy
streamed down Dave's cheeks. "Yes, I guess I must be. I hear your
voice, see your exhaust plumes, and this bus is still flying. Yes, I
fancy I must still be alive. But, good grief! It was like the end of
the world, wasn't it? And, look down, Dave! It's as if all of France
were on fire!"
Dave had to wipe the tears from his eyes before he could take a good
look. And when he did a shudder ran through him. The ground behind and
below was like a lake of liquid flame. Flames of all colors danced
across its surface, and great columns of dirty white smoke, tinged a
weird pink at the base, reached up high into Heaven.
"The lot of them gone, and good riddance!" Dave heard his own voice
speak out grimly. "Okay, Hitler, think up something else new to toss at
us. And we'll knock that forty ways from Sunday, too!"
"Jolly well right!" came Freddy Farmer's voice over the radio. "But, I
say, Dave! Let's head for home, shall we? This business may bring some
Nazi night fighters for a look, and I think I've had enough excitement
for tonight. How about you?"
"Check, and double check!" Dave shouted. "Give her the gun, pal.
England, here we come!"
A little under an hour later two German Messerschmitt One-Nines dropped
down out of the night sky onto the home drome of the Eighty-Fourth
Squadron of the R.A.F. Fighter Command. A group led by Squadron Leader
Markham rushed out as the wheels touched and the two very battered
looking planes were braked to a halt. When Dawson and Farmer climbed
wearily down from the pits Markham's eyes popped wide, and his jaw
dropped down on his chest.
"Dawson, and Farmer?" he cried in stark disbelief. "You two? Great
guns! Where did you come from? We thought you were dead. Barker
reported that you both had gone down. In an hour we were going to lead
Fifty-Seventh Bombers over there and blast that spot from the face of
France. Barker's pictures didn't show a thing, but we were going to
bomb it anyway, and ... God be thanked! You two are still alive!"
In his great joy Squadron Leader Markham leaped forward and bear hugged
them both before they could do anything about it.
"Now, tell me all about it?" he demanded.
"Could we sit and eat a bit first, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked in an
apologetic voice.
Dave chuckled.
"For once I agree," he said. "It's a good idea, sir."
"Well, blast my eyes for being so selfish!" Markham shouted. "Of
course, of course, chaps. You can talk while you eat."
Some thirty minutes later Dave poured his third cup of tea.
"And so that's how it was, sir," he said. "We were lucky as all get
out. But von Peiplow, that Colonel Ox Face Comstadt, the hired help,
and all that glider and radio stuff, just isn't around any more. I've
got a hunch that Hitler will kind of give that glider idea up as a
flop. You got anything to add, Freddy?"
"Not a thing," the English youth said through a mouthful of food. Then
turning to the Squadron Leader, "But don't believe all that rot about
what I did, sir. It isn't true. Phew! The way Dawson talks you'd think
he was just along for the ride. Just twist all that praise around to
him, and you'll be closer to the truth."
Markham smiled, sighed, and gave a little shake of his head.
"What you two will be doing next!" he grunted. "I don't dare even
guess."
"Well, please count me out," Flight Lieutenant Barker broke in with a
laugh. "I was the one who really just went along for the ride. I could
just as well have stayed home."
"No, I don't think so," Dave said with a grin. "I'm sure that the fact
that you did escape stopped von Peiplow from jumping on us before we
had a chance to get away. Yes. I think you were really his big worry,
Barker. And he held off on us until he could think things over. And his
taking that time out was our lucky break."
"Well, maybe," Barker said with a shrug. "Just the same, I'm serving
notice, old bean. I don't want to be picked for another one of _those_
shows."
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer chimed in. "Don't ask me either. I fancy this
one will last me until long after the war's over."
Dave snorted and dumped some sugar in his tea.
"What do you mean, ask _you fellows_?" he grunted, then grinned. "I
hope to kiss a pig I'm not even going to ask _myself_!"