DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE
EIGHTH AIR FORCE
_by_
R. SIDNEY BOWEN
The War Adventure Series
CROWN PUBLISHERS
New York
COPYRIGHT, 1944, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_Dedicated to_
Joel Stivers
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I JUNK WINGS 11
II BLITZ SCARS 26
III THE DEAD CAN'T BREATHE 37
IV HERR BARON NO FACE 52
V SATAN'S PAWNS 65
VI WHEN ENGLAND STOOD ALONE! 75
VII UNCLE SAM STEPS IN 91
VIII SIXTEEN KHOLERSTRASSE 108
IX EAGLES TAKE-OFF 124
X NO MAN'S SKY 135
XI WINGED FURY 146
XII WAR'S FLOTSAM 156
XIII THE BLANK WALL 168
XIV SINISTER SILENCE 183
XV THE LIVING DEAD 197
XVI WE WHO MUST DIE 214
XVII SATAN'S WINGS 226
XVIII SOMETHING FOR HITLER 237
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE
CHAPTER ONE
_Junk Wings_
With one eye on the instrument board, and the other on the lookout
for other planes in that area of cloud-filled sky over England, Dave
Dawson hauled the Lockheed Lightning around to the left at a fast
clip, and then deliberately pulled the nose straight up, and let the
fighter plane take the bit in its teeth until it stalled. It did just
that eventually, and at practically the same time the starboard Allison
engine sputtered badly and started to throw black smoke.
"What gives with this heap of junk, anyway?" Dawson grunted, and eased
off the throttles as the Lightning fell off the stall and went whanging
down in a dive to pick up flying speed. "Talk about your cranky crates!
This baby is certainly something. Or maybe it's me. Let's try it again
and see."
Once more he hauled the ship to the left, and then pointed the nose
toward Heaven. The fighter aircraft power climbed to the stalling
point, and then the starboard engine repeated its little performance.
It sputtered and started to throw smoke. And just to make it unanimous,
the port engine started doing the same thing.
"Well, that's that!" Dawson said with a nod for emphasis, and eased
back the throttles again. "Maybe this is a very fine airplane, but I
sure don't want any part of it. No, not even for a joy hop."
And with another nod for emphasis he slanted the plane earthward,
after he had pulled it out of its stall drive, and went coasting down
through the drifting patches of cloud toward the home drome of the Two
Hundred and Fifth Squadron, Fighter Command, U. S. Eighth Air Force.
He got Operations on his R.T., received permission to land, and went
sliding in. After he had braked to a stop he trundled the plane over to
its dispersal bay. His mechanics were there waiting for him, and the
technical sergeant in charge of the group gave him a questioning look
as he killed both engines and legged out of the pit and down onto the
ground.
"Is there a foundry near here, Sergeant?" Dawson asked as he pulled off
his helmet and goggles.
"A what, Captain?" the other echoed.
"A foundry," Dawson repeated, and jerked a thumb back at the plane. "We
could take it down there and have a brass handle fitted on so we'd have
something to hold on to when we throw it away."
The technical sergeant blinked and then grinned.
"Not so hot, eh, sir?" he said.
"Very snafu!" Dawson said with emphasis, using the Air Forces slang
for snarled up. "And you've got me as to what's wrong. Both engines
practically cut out on me as I reach the stall after a power zoom.
Pressure just falls right downhill. There's a bug in both systems
somewhere."
"I know, sir," the technical sergeant said, and shook his head sadly.
"The darn thing just hasn't been right since we got it. I thought maybe
we had got it licked, but I guess not, if she does that. Looks like
she's got to have two new engines."
"More than that, I'm afraid," Dave said. "She's tail heavy, and she
insists on scooting around to the left on her own. She needs a complete
re-rigging from tip to tip."
The technical sergeant groaned and heaved a long sigh.
"I guess she's just an out and out lame duck," he said as he gave the
aircraft a reproachful look. "We've put in more time on her than all
the other ships put together. Just a dud, that's all. One of those
misfits that come along every so often. Okay. Thanks, Captain, for
testing her out. But until we get a replacement plane, sir, I'm afraid
you won't have anything to fly. We haven't got a single spare at the
field."
"Well, that's war for you," Dawson said with a faint grin. "But not a
very good beginning for me. I've been with Two Hundred and Five for
just three days, and now I haven't got anything to fly. Maybe I'm my
own jinx."
The technical sergeant looked at the decoration ribbons under Dawson's
pilot's wings, and chuckled softly.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Captain," he said. "Those ribbons sort of
indicate you've done more than your share."
"Wrong, Sergeant," Dawson said grimly, and stared at the cloud-filled
skies to the east. "Nobody can do more than his share in this mess.
It's--Oh well, let's skip it. Sorry I couldn't tell you that she's
a honey, Sergeant. But she isn't. She's got the misery in lots of
places."
With a nod and a smile the Yank air ace turned and started walking over
toward pilots' mess. His throat was dry, and he wanted a coke. After
he'd had one he'd go to see Major Starke, the C.O., about getting a
replacement plane. He was about halfway there when suddenly he became
conscious of the fact that everybody about the field was staring at a
lone Lightning circling about three or four hundred feet overhead. He
took a look himself, and instantly felt very sorry for the pilot in
that plane. Two of his wheels were down, but the other was still up
in its recess. It was the starboard nacelle wheel that was obviously
stuck, and as the plane circled slowly about Dave could see the pilot
struggling desperately to get his third wheel down. But he wasn't even
beginning to meet with any success. His starboard nacelle wheel was up
in its recess to stay.
"Now there's a sweet thing!" he heard a voice in back of him say. "He
can't get his third wheel down, and he can't get the other two back up
so he can come in on his belly. Tough luck for the guy."
Dawson turned to see one of the ground officers from Operations
standing just behind him. The man was staring at the plane, and
absently speaking his thoughts aloud.
"Who is it up there?" Dave asked.
"A captain by the name of Farmer," the other said without taking his
eyes off the circling plane. "He just joined us a couple of days ago. A
heck of a thing for him to bump into on his first test hop, I'll say."
"Farmer?" Dawson gasped after a moment of stunned silence. "Freddy
Farmer! Boy, are the two of us running in luck, I don't think. Me with
a lame duck, and Freddy with a jammed landing gear!"
"You know him?" the other officer grunted. Then, as he looked at Dave,
"Oh, you're Dawson, his pal, aren't you? Well, cross your fingers,
Dawson. Just now as I left Operations he was pleading with the Old Man
to let him come in on two wheels. But those things come in very hot,
and the Old Man wants him to fly off and hit the silk. Only a screwball
would--"
But Dawson didn't wait to hear the rest of the officer's opinion. He
spun around and went legging it over to the Operations Office. The door
was open and he heard Major Starke talking over the R.T. to Freddy
Farmer in the air.
"I know, Farmer," the C.O. was saying. "You might get away with it, but
it's too risky. Pilots are more valuable than planes to me. So long
as you save your neck, writing off that plane doesn't matter so much.
Head east and get some altitude; then cut your switches and go over the
side, Farmer. I'll send a jeep out to look for you, and pick you up."
"But I've got half an hour of gas left, sir!" came Freddy's voice
through the panel speaker unit. "Give me fifteen more minutes, sir.
Maybe by then I can get the blasted wheels up, and come in on my belly.
She's really a pukka ship, save for the blasted landing gear, sir. I
don't want to have to hit the deck and burn up for a total loss if I
can possibly help it. Just fifteen minutes more, sir?"
Dawson saw the squadron C.O. scowl, bite his lower lip, and then shrug.
"All right, Farmer, if you insist," he spoke into the R.T. "Do what you
can, but only for fifteen minutes. We can always get another Lightning.
But an experienced combat pilot is something else again. Fifteen
minutes, Farmer. And I'm looking at my watch."
"Right you are, sir!" came Freddy Farmer's cheerful voice. "I'll see if
I can't do something with this cranky blighter."
"For _only_ fifteen minutes!" the C.O. had the last word. "And I mean
just that!"
It seemed that Freddy Farmer was content to let his commanding officer
have the last word. At least the English-born air ace made no further
comment. Dawson waited for a couple of seconds, and then stepped back
from the Operations Office door, and fixed his gaze once more on the
plane that was circling the field at cruising speed.
"Don't be a dope, pal!" he breathed softly. "The Old Man wasn't trying
to kid you. Pilots _are_ worth more than planes. And though you
wouldn't catch me telling it to your face, sweetheart, you're worth
more than all the Lockheed Lightnings they ever made. So don't be a
dope, little man. But definitely, don't be a dope!"
Seconds ticked by and became minutes, and the minutes increased in
number, but still two of the Lightning's wheels stayed put in their
down position, while the third continued to stick fast in its recess.
As the end of the fifteen minute period drew near, young Farmer took
his plane up for a little more altitude, and began kicking it about the
sky, no doubt in a last desperate effort to shake loose whatever was
jamming the stuck wheel and get it down into landing position.
"No soap, Freddy!" Dawson grunted, and gave an unconscious shake of
his head. "That crate just doesn't like you, or something. It's stuck,
and--"
At that instant he cut himself off short as he heard the C.O. call
Farmer on the R.T.
"Time's up, Farmer! Too bad, but I guess there isn't anything you can
do. Get altitude to the east of the field, head the plane toward the
Channel, and bail out."
"Yes, sir, very good, sir," Dawson heard Farmer's slightly choked
reply. "I guess the blasted thing still--Wait a minute, sir! The
retractable gear is working. I can get the two wheels up. Can you see
me, sir? They're up, and they're staying up. I can come in on my belly
now, sir!"
It was true. Whatever had jammed the two down wheels was no longer
jamming them. They were up in their recesses, and staying put. Dawson
caught a movement at his elbow and turned his head to see Major Starke
dash out of the Operations Office. The C.O. looked up at the plane, and
seemed to sigh heavily.
"Certainly hates to lose an airplane, bless him!" he grunted. And then
he spun on one foot and dashed back into Operations to speak over the
R.T. "Okay, Farmer, have it your way!" he called out. "Come in on your
belly, but come in on the north side of the field. It's softer there.
Keep clear of the runway, by all means. The metal skin of your ship
might strike sparks and touch off your gas. Come in easy, and--But I
don't need to tell you how to do it. Good luck, Farmer."
"Thanks, sir," Freddy called from the air as he circled his plane
around and into position for his landing run. "Be down there right
away, sir."
"Save your breath, Freddy, and pay attention to your flying!" Dave
Dawson breathed fiercely as he walked toward the north side of the
field. "Just cut the chatter and get that thing down, boy!"
As the crash and fire truck went streaking by him he swallowed hard and
unconsciously clenched both hands tight. It wasn't that he was really
afraid that Freddy Farmer wouldn't make it. He'd seen his English-born
pal in too many tight spots, and seen him get out of them slick as a
whistle. And of course the crash and fire truck was simply routine
precaution. Just in case, so to speak. Still, as he hurried his steps
and watched Freddy come sliding down, a clammy chill seemed to take
hold of his heart, and his mouth and throat went strangely dry.
Was their assignment to the Fighter Command of the Eighth Air Force a
jinx move? Two weeks ago they had completed a very important mission
in North Africa, and they had put in the request for assignment to the
Eighth Air Force based in England. True, it had been mostly Freddy
Farmer's doing. Dawson hadn't cared much where he was sent just so long
as he could keep swinging at either the Japs or the Nazis. But Freddy
longed for a look at his native country again, and so Dawson had agreed
that that was okay by him.
But then trouble seemed to begin to dog them. For four days the worst
spell of weather ever to hit Casablanca kept their Air Forces transport
plane grounded. They had finally taken off on the fifth day, only to
have engine trouble force the pilot of the transport to turn back when
he was only two hundred miles out. It took thirty-six hours to fix the
plane. Then they had taken off again and finally reached England in a
pea soup fog that was forcing even the birds to walk. Luck, plus sweet
beam and instrument flying by the pilot, saved them from hitting the
deck and being washed out of the world and the war right then and
there.
That had been four days ago. The next day they arrived at Two Hundred
and Five and were given the only two replacement planes the Squadron
had. And both had to be fussed with considerably before they could be
taken aloft for test flight. Dawson's had turned out to be a complete
lame duck. And now Freddy Farmer was bringing the other one in on its
belly.
"It must be old age creeping up that lets the jitters get me!" Dawson
muttered as he finally came to a halt close to where he judged Freddy's
plane would touch the ground. "I'm acting like an old woman over a
simple wheels up landing. Easy does it, Freddy, boy. Slide her in sweet
and smooth. You can do it, kid, and--"
He let the rest trail off into silence. Farmer was close to the ground
now, and coming in as slowly as he dared. Without realizing it Dawson
took a deep breath and held it locked in his lungs as there ceased to
be air space between the belly of Freddy Farmer's Lockheed Lightning
and the ground. The Lockheed touched with a sound like that of a giant
slapping the palm of his huge hand on a tin roof. And then it went
rocketing forward, sending up a shower of dirt and dust that almost
completely hid the plane from view. Then suddenly the left wing seemed
to strike something and snag. The Lockheed flat-spun violently on the
ground, crabbed off to the right, and seemed about to buckle and pile
up in a heap of twisted metal. But at the last split second it managed
to shake itself free, and slide forward another few feet, and come to a
dead stop.
By then the crash and fire truck was right along side of the plane, and
Dawson and several others, including Major Starke, were legging out
there as fast as they could go. A panting gasp of relief burst from
Dawson's lips as he saw Freddy push up out of the nacelle pit and climb
down onto the wing, and jump to the ground. That was proof enough that
Freddy hadn't been hurt, and Dawson ran the few remaining yards with a
stinging sensation at the backs of his eyeballs. But when he finally
reached young Farmer, the question popped from his lips just the same.
"You all right, Freddy?"
Farmer turned to him, gave a wry smile, and nodded.
"Quite," he said. "But I certainly made a blasted mess of it, didn't
I? Something caught the left wing, and I couldn't do a thing. Maybe I
should go back to training school. I was certain I could get her down
all right, blast it!"
"Not your fault, Farmer," Major Starke said as he came up. "There was
a little hump in the ground that tripped your wing tip. Hit it once
myself and it practically bounced me off for a take-up. No, not your
fault, Farmer. Thank God you were able to hold her from cartwheeling
and catching fire."
"But look at her, sir!" Freddy cried, almost with tears in his voice.
"She's twisted bad. She'll have to go to the repair depot for quite a
spell before she'll fly again."
"And that'll be all right, too," the C.O. said grimly. Then, suddenly
turning to Dawson, he asked, "What about your plane?"
"No good, sir," Dave replied. "Both engines have a lot of bugs, and the
rest is not much better."
"That's what I was afraid of," the C.O. said with a frown. "I had a
hunch that both were junk ships. Well, we'll send both of them back.
And you and Farmer can go down to Replacement Depot at Kingston, and
each get yourself a new plane."
"Kingston, sir?" Freddy Farmer echoed excitedly. "You mean down beyond
London, sir?"
The C.O. looked at him, grinned, and nodded.
"That's right, Farmer," he said. "You'll pass through London on the way
down there. And if you'd like to stop off for say twenty-four hours,
that will be all right with me. Things are a bit quiet, and I expect
you both could do with a look at London."
"_Could_ we!" Freddy Farmer exclaimed, and grinned happily at Dawson.
Dave sighed and shrugged.
"Okay," he said. "But look, I know the whole history of your wonderful
little village by heart. You've talked of it enough. So just take your
look, and save the comments, huh?"
"Such tastes some people have!" Freddy growled, but his eyes were still
dancing.
CHAPTER TWO
_Blitz Scars_
His face all alight with the joy and happiness of a little boy seeing
his first Christmas tree, Freddy Farmer took in every detail of the
Savoy Hotel dining room. Every now and then he took a mouthful of the
food the waiter had set in front of him, but mostly he let his eyes
roam all over the huge room. He grinned at everyone who happened to
look his way, whether he was a general or a civilian office clerk. In
short, Freddy Farmer's heart was bubbling over, and he didn't care who
knew it.
"Well, have you finally decided?" Dave Dawson presently asked him. "Or
are you simply giving your neck muscles a workout?"
"Eh, what's that?" the English youth echoed, turning his head to look
at him. "Have I finally decided what?"
Dawson waved a hand at the room at large.
"If you've ever been in this place before," he said. "Because you
have, in case you've forgotten, or can't make up your mind. Remember?
And I've got a hunch that we were sitting right at this same table,
too. Remember?"
Young Farmer frowned, and took a moment out to collect his thoughts.
Then suddenly his face lighted up.
"Why, yes, of course!" he exclaimed. "The night we met Soo Wong Kai,
the Chinese Minister of War. That meeting certainly resulted in
something, didn't it!"[1]
[Footnote 1: Dave Dawson With the Flying Tigers.]
"Yeah, and how!" Dawson murmured. Then a shadow seemed to pass across
his sun- and wind-bronzed face as he added, "Right now I'd like to be
feeling as contented with things as I felt that night."
Freddy Farmer stopped a piece of muffin halfway to his mouth and looked
at his flying mate and dearest pal in marked astonishment.
"You mean you don't?" he ejaculated. "Good grief, why not? Why,
everything's much better for the United Nations now than it was then,
and-- say, Dave, old thing, what's up with you? Ever since we arrived
you've acted like you were attending a blasted funeral, or something.
Don't you feel all right?"
Dawson scowled, and then forced his lips to stretch into a smile.
"Sorry, kid, my error," he said. "I'm a heel to spoil your visit to
London. Sure, I feel swell. It's--Oh, skip it, huh?"
"Not by half, I won't!" Freddy said quickly. "Tell it to Pater, old
thing. Just what is bothering you?"
Dawson toyed with his fork for a moment before replying.
"I don't know," he said. Then, with a little shake of his head, he
added quickly, "I mean, I don't know just how to put it in words. I've
just got a funny hunch, that's all."
"Praise be, then!" Freddy Farmer breathed in relief. "For a moment I
thought it was something serious. Just another one of your hunches, eh?
But pardon me for interrupting, my good man. What's the bad, bad hunch
about this time?"
"Okay, I can take it." Dave grinned at him. But the grin quickly
faded. "Maybe it isn't a hunch," he said. "Maybe it's just me. But I'm
wondering if Old Man Jinx isn't catching up to us, Freddy?"
"Rubbish!" the British-born air ace snorted. "Positively ridiculous.
Just because I had a little trouble with that Lightning, and brought
it in for a terrible landing? Why--"
"And my crate couldn't fly for beans!" Dawson interrupted. "Plus the
fact that it took us years to finally get away from North Africa. Plus
the fact that we almost cashed in our chips in that pea soup fog.
Plus--Oh nuts! Don't pay any attention to me. I've just turned into a
wet smack of late. Call me Old Woman Dawson, pal."
"I'd call you a lot of things, only there are ladies at the next
table!" Freddy Farmer said, and gave him the stern eye. "You're just
wound up a bit, Dave. Relax, old thing. Lord knows that's what you've
told me enough times. Look, I've got a surprise, Dave!"
"Hold it!" Dawson cried, and raised both hands in protest. "If you
think you're going to drag me halfway across London to see some
weather-beaten joint where one of your famous kings stopped for tea and
crumpets, you're--"
"The Holborn!" Freddy stopped him. "It's a theatre, and there's a very
funny show playing there. Part American cast, too. I got the tickets
this afternoon without saying anything to you. Well, what about it?
Shall we go, or just sit here and mope about your blasted hunches?"
"Part American cast?" Dawson echoed.
"Yes, but they don't spoil the show too much, I hear!" Freddy snapped
at him. "Well, is it a go?"
"On one condition," Dave said, and gave Farmer a very grave look.
"And that is?" the English youth walked into the trap.
"That you wait until it's over before you ask me to explain the jokes
and tag lines!" Dawson said with a chuckle. Then quickly, "Now, now,
little man! Food's scarce in England. Put down that plate!"
"As if I'd waste a crumb on the likes of you!" Freddy Farmer growled,
but he did release his sudden hold on his plate. "Now if there were a
hammer or a length of lead pipe handy. Oh well, probably neither would
make an impression on your thick skull!"
Dawson laughed at the look on Freddy's face, and as he resumed eating
his meal he suddenly realized that his mood of gloom and depression had
gone. He felt swell; sitting right on top of the world.
As it was still early evening, the two aces took their time finishing
the meal. But finally they settled the check and wandered out into
the blacked out streets of London. As they reached the Strand they
both impulsively paused and peered at the shadowy sky line. It was
a long time since the Luftwaffe had given up the attempt to force
stout-hearted London to its knees, but many scars of those weeks and
months of nightly sky horror were still visible. No, there were not
heaps of bomb rubble all about. On the contrary, Londoners had pitched
to with a will and cleaned up their beloved city. The scars that
Dawson and Freddy Farmer saw were simply the gaping holes where once a
building, or a theater, or a row of shops, had been. In other words, it
was not what they saw that sent their thoughts flying back to the blitz
of London; it was the familiar things that they didn't see. And would
never see again.
"The dirty beggars!" Freddy Farmer said in a low, strained voice. "The
dirty dogs for doing this to London!"
"Yeah," Dawson murmured. "But they're getting paid back, pal. And how
they're getting paid back! Before we're through they'll wish they'd
never been born."
"What a pity," young Farmer grunted.
"Huh, pity?" Dawson echoed sharply. "Because we're smacking them
plenty, and--"
"No," Freddy interrupted. "I mean, what a pity any of them were ever
born in the first place. So help me, I don't believe I'll ever live to
see the day when just hearing the word Nazi won't make my blood boil,
and make me see red."
"And that goes for millions of people, Freddy," Dawson said. "But right
now, nuts to the future. Shall we try to flag a taxi in this sprawled
out coal mine, or is the Holborn near enough to walk?"
"It's not far, so let's walk," young Farmer said. "It will be like old
times, perhaps."
"Okay, Grandpa!" Dawson laughed. "But watch your step, and don't trip
over your beard. And by all means, don't let us get lost, see?"
"Lost?" Freddy Farmer snorted. "Why, you could dump me down in any part
of London, and I'd--"
"Which might not be such a bad idea at that!" Dawson chuckled. "Okay,
my handsome guide, let's get going."
Keeping close to each other, they strolled up the Strand toward Aldwych
Circle and Kingsway. They took their time, which was the best thing
to do in London's blackout. Time and time again they almost bumped
into persons coming their way. And more than once their teeth clicked
as they went down off a curbstone they didn't see until too late.
Eventually, though, they turned into Kingsway and started along toward
High Holborn where the theater was located.
After a couple of blocks, however, they ran into a detour. And after a
block or so the detour ran into another detour. And some ten minutes
after that Dawson nudged his shoulder against Freddy Farmer's.
"I don't want to imply anything, kind sir," he said, "but you do happen
to know where the heck we are, don't you?"
"Of course!" the English youth snapped. "This is Serle Street close by
Lincoln's Fields. Second right and then first left will bring us right
out on High Holborn at Chancery Lane."
"Well, all those names make it _sound_ as if you knew what you're
talking about," Dawson murmured.
"Don't be silly!" Freddy snapped. "Would you get lost in a blackout in
your precious New York?"
"Could happen, could happen," Dawson grunted. "But I'm just hoping it
isn't happening here."
"No fear of that, my little man," Freddy assured him. "Take hold of
Pater's hand, and he'll lead you."
However, Dawson refused to do that. Fifteen minutes later, as the pair
came to a cross street, Freddy Farmer paused and rubbed a hand down the
side of his face.
"Blast it, there shouldn't be a cross street here!" he muttered.
"Oh, oh!" Dawson groaned. "And my mother warned me, too!"
"Oh, shut up!" Farmer growled. "It's probably a new one they've made
since I was here last."
Dawson didn't say anything. A small metal plate on the step post of the
first building of the cross street caught his eye. He moved closer and
snapped on his small pocket flashlight for an instant. When he came
back to Freddy his voice was brittle.
"And how were things in 1810 when you were here last, pal?" he snapped.
"That's when that post plate says that building was built. Made the
street since the blitz, huh? Or was there a blitz in 1810?"
"Oh, good grief, Dave, I'm afraid--!" Freddy Farmer began.
"I'm not _afraid_ we're lost!" Dawson cut in. "I'm dead certain, dope.
Give me a shilling!"
"Why?" Freddy demanded.
"I'm going to toss it," Dawson said. "Heads we go to the right, tails
we go to the left."
"But what about straight ahead?" Farmer asked.
"I've had enough of going straight ahead on this street!" Dawson
growled. "For all you know it may go right off the edge of a cliff. But
okay. If the shilling lands edge up we go straight ahead. Flash your
beam on the sidewalk, Freddy."
Young Farmer did that. Dawson flipped the coin, which made a tinkling
sound as it hit the sidewalk and bounced around. Finally it came to
rest with the King's head showing.
"We turn right," Dawson grunted, and picked up the shilling. "And I'll
just keep this as a little souvenir of the night's travels. Of all
the--!"
"I'm sorry, Dave, blast it all!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "I guess the
London streets aren't what they used to be."
"In more ways than one, pal!" Dave murmured. "But dry your tears,
little fellow. It's okay. Maybe we'll bump into a taxi at the next
corner, or one of your London Bobbies who can give us a bearing and put
us on the beam."
If the two air aces had turned left at that cross street they would
have met a patrolling Bobbie within the next two hundred yards. But
they turned right, and in so doing walked straight into the beginning
of their greatest battle with Death, and Satan's forces of evil and
ruthless destruction!
CHAPTER THREE
_The Dead Can't Breathe_
It was no doubt their imagination, but as Freddy Farmer and Dave Dawson
walked along the street to the right they both felt as though it was
even more blacked out. They could hardly see a dozen steps in front
of them. On both sides the street was lined by a solid row of four or
five story city dwellings, not one of which showed so much as a tiny
pin point of light. Perhaps they were filled with men, women, and
children, but as far as Freddy and Dave could tell they might well have
been lost in the very heart of a completely dead city. They didn't even
meet anybody on the sidewalk. In fact, they didn't meet anything but
darkness, and more darkness. Clouds had crawled across the face of the
sky, so it was only by straining their eyes that they were able to make
out the silhouettes of the building tops. And to add to all that, the
street seemed to go on and on, with not one single intersection.
Finally Dave drew to a halt, and made sounds in his throat.
"Well, I guess we're even now, kid," he said with a groan. "Because if
you didn't lose us before, I sure have lost us now. This doggone street
is like a subway tunnel with no end."
"Quite!" Freddy murmured. "I almost wish the Luftwaffe would come over,
so we could have some light and maybe see something. This is definitely
a mess."
"With all the trimmings," Dawson added. "Look. Let's put it that that
shilling gave us a bum steer. Let's go back and try the other way for a
while. We're not going to meet anything this way, that's a cinch."
"Right-o with me," young Farmer said. Then suddenly he grabbed Dawson's
arm. "Wait a minute!"
"For what?" Dave grunted. "You got to sneeze?"
"Shut up!" Freddy snapped, and exerted pressure with his fingers. "I
thought I heard footsteps back there, coming our way."
They both listened intently and heard nothing but their own breathing.
"You and your big ears!" Dave finally growled. "Footsteps on this
street, my eye! There can't be two _other_ dopes in London tonight.
Let's go, and--"
But Dawson never finished the sentence. At that instant two shadowy
figures seemed to appear by magic right out of the darkness.
"So?" a deep voice growled. "You would try to escape us?"
For a moment Dawson stood like a man struck to stone, his eyes popping,
and his mouth sagging. It had stunned him to see the two shadowy
figures appear out of thin night-black air. And it stunned him to feel
the firm pressure of a gun muzzle against his ribs. But what stunned
him most was to hear the voice _speaking German_!
"What, what?" he finally blurted out in English. "Hey! What's the big
idea? Is this a stick-up?"
"Silence, dogs, both of you!" the voice hissed. "You are fools to try
to make jokes. We have followed you all the way from the hotel. We
_know_! You are stupid to think you could escape us!"
"But see here, you're altogether balmy!" Freddy Farmer spoke the first
words that came to his lips. "We're not trying to escape anybody. We're
lost, and--"
A sharp hard slap cut off the rest of Freddy Farmer's words. Dawson
started to leap forward instinctively, but an arm was hooked about
his neck, and the gun muzzle was practically snapping one of his ribs
in two. For a brief instant colored light spun around in front of his
eyes, and blind rage tempted him to risk a bullet from the gun as he
attempted a Commando trick to rid himself of his attacker. But in the
darkness he couldn't see how Freddy was making out, and there was the
chance that Freddy might pay for the trick with his life. And so he let
his coiled muscles relax, and stood perfectly still.
A moment later the hooked arm was removed from about his neck, but the
pressure of the gun muzzle remained the same.
"That is good," the voice growled in his ear. "My orders are not to
kill you unless I am forced to. So do not be foolish, as I do not feel
patient tonight."
Dawson ignored the man's words and strained his eyes to see the spot
where Freddy Farmer and the other shadowy figure were standing so close
together they looked like the form of one very fat man.
"You okay, pal?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Quite, old thing," Freddy Farmer replied calmly. But to Dawson
Freddy's voice sounded very muffled.
"Silence!" Dawson's "playmate" rasped, still speaking in German. "Not a
word, or a sound, you swine. I warn you. Hans! Make your dog silent so
that he will not trouble me! And then go back and get the car. Hurry."
A cry of instinctive alarm rose to Dawson's lips, but before he could
let it out it was all over. There was blurred lightning-like movement,
then a sickening _thud_, and Freddy Farmer slowly sank to the sidewalk.
Blazing rage flared up in Dawson, but cold, common sense held him in
rigid check. This was no moment to be a blockheaded hero. The odds were
far too great against him. And so he continued to remain perfectly
still as the second shadowy figure faded away to become instantly lost
in the darkness.
Seconds that seemed minutes long ticked by, and an almost
uncontrollable urge to yell at the top of his voice seized hold of
Dawson. He curbed the urge, however, and was suddenly of half a mind
to speak in German to the man cracking his ribs with the gun muzzle.
In fact, his lips moved to speak the words, but he stilled them at
the last split second as something seemed to tell him not to speak in
German.
"I don't know what this is all about, Mister," he said in a low voice,
"but you've got the wrong two guys. Just who do you think I am, anyway?"
"I _know_ who you are, Karl Stoltz!" the other grated. "It is no use.
Nothing you can say or do will help you!"
Dawson started to tell the man to put it in English, as he did not
understand German. But suddenly he realized that Freddy and he had both
plainly shown that they understood German. So to act ignorant would
simply be stupid.
"So I'm Karl Stoltz, eh?" he finally echoed in German. Then switching
to English, he said, "And just who in heck is Karl Stoltz? Reach into
my upper left pocket, Mister, and you'll find all my papers. And you
won't find the name of Karl Stoltz on any of them!"
"Of course not, you stupid fool!" the other retorted. "But we know
who you are. And so does Herr Baron. He will be glad to see you, Karl
Stoltz. _Ja, ja!_ _Very_ glad!"
Dawson started to speak, but at that instant he saw the two slit
headlights of a car coming along the street. It slid up to the curb
with no more than a soft mechanical whisper of sound, and came to a
stop. The door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped out, gathered the
limp Freddy Farmer up in his arms, and dumped the English-born air ace
down onto the floor of the car, as though he were no more than a wet
sack of meal.
"You--!" Dawson began savagely.
But that's as far as he got. A crack on the side of his head sent stars
and comets spinning, and seemed to paralyze his entire body from head
to foot. By the time he was able to shake off the paralytic spell, and
take stock of things, he found himself beside Freddy Farmer on the
floor of the car. A pair of heavy booted feet were resting on the small
of his back, and the car was in motion and pulling away from the curb.
The first thing he did when complete consciousness returned was to move
his head as close to Freddy as he could, hold his breath, and strain
his ears. Almost instantly a great wave of relief flooded through him.
He could hear Freddy Farmer's regular breathing. At least the blow
Freddy had received had not cracked his skull and killed him. He was
just out cold, that was all.
Was that all? It was more than enough. It was too much. And as the car
rolled on almost silently down the pitch dark street Dawson mentally
promised himself that the instant he was given the opportunity he would
pay it all back to these two rats, and with plenty of interest.
However, his flash of silent anger died as various thoughts concerning
the utterly incredible business began to pass through his brain.
Utterly incredible, maybe, but a very definite reality just the same.
That it was a case of mistaken identity was as plain as the nose on
anybody's face. But that the two kidnappers were obviously Nazi agents
right there in London was something you just couldn't laugh off. Nor
could he laugh off the fact that Freddy and he had stumbled into
something that was deadly serious. The reasons, and what have you,
were completely beyond him. He believed that they were being taken to
someone known as Herr Baron. But from there on it was all just a lot of
blanks that no amount of imagination could possibly fill in.
He checked his rambling thoughts as he felt Freddy Farmer stir, and
then heard him groan and mumble.
"Blast the dirty blighter!" young Farmer got out. "Good gosh, my head!"
"Take it easy, Freddy," Dave murmured. "You got clipped good. But if
you can talk, it can't be too bad. Just try--"
The two heavy booted feet clumping down made Dawson feel for an
instant that his spine had been snapped.
"Silence, dogs!" a harsh voice said. "You will have your chance to talk
later!"
Dawson cut short the blistering retort that rose to his lips. Then,
after he had got full control of the seething anger within himself, he
inched one hand over until he could feel Freddy Farmer's right leg.
Then, using a short jab of a finger for a dot, and a longer jab for a
dash, he signalled his pal in International Morse code....
"Chin up, pal. It's all very screwy, but we can't do a thing about it
yet. Just play dumb, and wait for the break."
A couple of moments passed, and then Dawson felt Freddy Farmer
signalling a reply message.
"Right you are. But when and if the break does come, I'm going to give
it to the dirty beggars. I think they are Nazi agents."
"You can say that again!" Dawson signalled. "And a couple of tough
eggs, too. So watch it. Play it their way until we find out what's
what."
Young Farmer signalled back that he would do just that. And then the
two air aces stopped their silent signalling, and grimly waited for
further developments.
However, they had to wait quite a while. A good forty-five minutes
passed before the car's speed was slackened. Then it turned sharp
right, bumped over something, and went down a steep incline, after
which it traveled a short distance on the level before it finally came
to a full stop. From the movements of the car Dawson was pretty sure
that they had turned off a main street into a short inclined driveway
that ended at a garage. And when a moment later he heard the sound of
doors rolling shut he knew that he had figured correctly.
And then a switch was snapped, and the interior of the car was filled
with yellow light.
It blinded him for a moment, even though he was lying down face to
the car floor and away from the light. But as soon as he could adjust
his eyes to the sudden change he turned his head and looked at Freddy
Farmer. Freddy was a little pale around the edges, and there was a tiny
trickle of blood from his nose, but the hard, glittering look in his
eyes indicated that his feelings had been hurt far, far more than his
cracked nose and clipped head.
"Atta boy, Freddy!" Dave whispered softly. "Just hold it that way, but
_hold_ it!"
Young Farmer had only the chance to nod slightly. Before he could
whisper in reply the heavy booted feet were removed from the small of
Dawson's back, and harshly spoken German words filled their ears.
"Get up, and get out, swine! Herr Baron is waiting! Get up, dogs--or
must I help you?"
An altogether fitting comment hovered on Dawson's lips, but he did not
permit himself the satisfaction of saying it. Instead he pushed up onto
his hands and knees, and then up onto his feet and stepped out through
the car door that a pale, thin-faced man was holding open with one
hand. In his other hand was a small but wicked-looking Luger automatic,
the muzzle of which was trained dead on the Yank air ace. And when
Dawson stepped down onto the cement floor of the garage and started to
turn around and give Freddy Farmer a helping hand the man snarled and
jammed the muzzle of the gun against him.
"Step back, swine. Your little comrade is all right. He can get out by
himself!"
Dawson backed up and watched Freddy Farmer get out. There was nothing
about the English youth to indicate that he didn't feel any too steady
on his feet, save his unnatural pallor. His chin was up, and his eyes
set and unflinching as he stepped out of the car. The thin-faced man
gave him a sneering smirk, and motioned him over to stand beside
Dawson. And when the two youths were standing shoulder to shoulder a
bullet-headed, thick-set man came around from the other side of the
car. His small, close-set eyes seemed to glitter like those of a deadly
snake about to strike.
"Well, well!" he growled. "Herr Karl Stoltz, and Herr Paul von Heimmer!
You stupid fools. So you thought that we would not remember, eh? That
we would not try to find you? _Gott!_ So you would be swine traitors to
the Fuehrer? But Herr Baron will teach you about that. Hans! Lead the
way. I will be right behind the dogs!"
The thin-faced man called Hans nodded, turned and pushed open a door.
Dawson saw a lighted stairway leading up, and then a clenched fist
struck him in the back and sent him stumbling toward it. He heard
Freddy Farmer gasp sharply, and then his pal was stumbling into him.
He managed to keep his balance and follow the thin-faced man up the
stairs. At the top the man did not pause. He walked along a narrow
hallway and went up a second flight of stairs. As a matter of fact he
did not come to a stop until he had mounted four flights of stairs.
Just at the top of the fourth flight he stopped in front of a door,
fished a key from his pocket, and put it in the lock. When the door
was opened there was darkness beyond. But the thin-faced man flicked
a switch, and Dawson found himself staring into the foyer of an
apartment. The thick-set man herded Freddy and him inside, through the
foyer, and into a well appointed living room that was heavy with the
smell of stale tobacco smoke and cooking.
"Make them comfortable, Hans," said the thick-set man with a little
hoarse chuckle. "I will telephone the good news to Herr Baron."
The man called Hans echoed his friend's chuckle and waved Dawson and
Farmer to a couple of straight-backed chairs placed side by side.
Dawson hesitated a brief instant, saw the man's fingers on his gun
tighten, and walked over and sat down in one of the chairs. Freddy
Farmer seated himself in the other chair. And as the thick-set man went
through a door leading off into another room, Hans took up a position
about ten feet in front of the two youths and leered at them invitingly.
"If you would like to try to escape, go ahead!" he suddenly spat at
them in German, and made a little gesture with his gun. "No doubt Herr
Baron would be just as pleased to see you dead as alive."
"That is perhaps so!" Dawson shot right back at him in the man's native
tongue. "But he will not be pleased with _you_ whether he sees us dead
or alive. And who is Herr Baron? Herr Baron what?"
A brief flash of doubt showed in the German's eyes. Then he laughed
harshly.
"So you are not Herr Karl Stoltz?" he said with a smirk. "Is that what
you are trying to make me believe, eh?"
"I'm not trying to get anything through your thick head!" Dawson said
evenly. "I'm just wondering who Herr Baron is, because he's in for one
big surprise. And, numbskull, I'm _not_ kidding you!"
As the other's eyes lighted up with a murderous gleam, Dawson instantly
regretted that he had let his tongue run away with him. However, when
the light suddenly died and was replaced by a look of bafflement and
not a little worry, a tingling sense of grim satisfaction rippled
through him.
But not for long. It was now definitely a case of mistaken identity by
the two thick-headed Nazis. But that did not in the slightest alter the
fact that Freddy and he were perched right on the edge of a volcano,
and that at almost any moment they could be toppled off and down into
the middle of complete oblivion as far as living out the rest of their
lives was concerned. They both knew only too well what the Nazis do
with their victims, whether they are the intended victims or just a
couple of other guys.
CHAPTER FOUR
_Herr Baron No Face_
Believing that he had said more than enough, and that to so much
as open his mouth would invite sudden disaster, Dawson ignored the
worried, questioning eyes fixed upon him, and let his own gaze wander
about the room. The first thing he noted was that there were windows on
two sides. Windows that had steel shutters for blackout curtains. They
were so fitted into the sash frame that when drawn they kept out both
light and air. And bullets too, no doubt. But apart from the windows
the room wasn't any different from scores of London apartment living
rooms that he had seen.
But no! There was one big, big difference. Hanging on the wall to his
right was a framed photograph of the lowest form of life ever to be
born. A framed photograph of Adolf (Slaughter the women and children,
too) Hitler. Just to see the photograph made Dave Dawson sick to his
stomach, and he quickly took his eyes from it.
And then the side door opened and the thick-set man came into the room.
"In a few minutes, dog traitors!" he rasped at the two prisoners. "In a
few minutes Herr Baron will be here."
"And after that where will _you_ be, I wonder!" Dawson couldn't keep
himself from saying.
The thick-set man blinked, frowned, and turned to his partner. Hans
frowned, too, and his voice sounded definitely worried as he spoke.
"The swine is trying to make us believe it is all a mistake, Erich," he
said. "But there is no mistake, no?"
The man called Erich switched his beady eyes back to Dawson's face
again. It seemed as though he had a moment of doubt; then it was gone
as his lips slid back in a cruel smile.
"No, there is no mistake!" he said harshly. "Too long were we together
in Herr Himmler's training school not to recognize you at once, even
though you have changed a lot. No, Hans. Do not let what the dog says
worry you. Come, Hans. Let us enjoy some schnapps before Herr Baron
arrives. Keep your eye on them. I will get the bottle and the glasses."
Smiling and rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the drink,
the man called Erich moved across the room to a little wall cabinet and
pulled open the door. Dawson saw Hans' eyes follow the movements, and
he impulsively steeled himself for a leap toward the Luger that was
now pointing not at him but at the floor. At that instant, though, two
things happened simultaneously. Freddy Farmer's knee bumped against his
in a sign of caution, and Hans' eyes and Luger returned their attention
to him. Dawson slowly let the clamped air out of his lungs and stared
absent-eyed up at the ceiling above Hans' head. The Nazi smirked and
then reached out with his free hand to accept the glass of schnapps
that Erich of the bullet head held out. Together they raised their
glasses, gave Hitler the usual Heil, and drank noisily.
"To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, Hans!" Erich said hoarsely, and
refilled their glasses.
"_Ja, ja!_" Hans echoed loudly. "To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, and
death to all enemies of the Third Reich!"
"Prosit!" the bullet-headed one shouted. And once more they drained
their glasses in typical sloppy, noisy German style.
A moment later when Erich was about to refill the glasses again, the
sound of a door buzzer froze him, bottle in hand in mid-air. He made
a gasping sound, snatched Hans' empty glass from him and went swiftly
to the wall cabinet. As he turned from it he swiped the back of his
big hand across his mouth, then hurried to the foyer door. As he went
through, closing it behind him, an electric charge seemed to invade the
room. Dawson could feel, and almost hear, his heart pounding against
his ribs. The blood in his veins seemed like liquid fire, and his mouth
and throat were bone dry.
How many more minutes were Freddy and he to live? The crazy question
cut through his brain like a sword of fire. He tried to shake his head
and drive the maddening thought away, but it kept coming back to taunt
him. Seconds were as years hanging on the edge of nothing. Had Hans
taken his eyes off them for even an instant Dave knew that he would
have hurled himself forward in a frantic, desperate effort to overpower
the man and get possession of that Luger before it was too late. But
Hans' eyes never wavered for a fleeting split second, nor did the gun
in his hand move a fraction of an inch.
Then there came the sound of footsteps and voices outside, and a moment
later the inside door knob was seen to turn. Dawson sat staring at it
as though it were some powerful magnet that his eyes could not resist.
In fact his gaze still clung to it as the door was swung open, and it
was not until he heard Freddy Farmer's half choking gasp that he was
able to tear his eyes from the doorknob and look up.