why shouldn't we be just as lucky this time?"
"No reason at all," Colonel Fraser said. "Only you put it wrong when
you speak of luck. With you two luck plays only a minor part. Very
well, then, let's get down to thinking out this thing, and planning
the operation right down to the minutest detail. I have here all the
latest maps and Recco plane photographs of that area."
The sun had long since burned through London's early morning overcast
when Lieutenant Faintor drove Dawson and Farmer to a hotel and secured
rooms for them. He hung around until they had downed a good breakfast
and were tucked away in bed. Then he grinned, gave them the V salute
and went his way.
"Well, did I win my bet, or did I win my bet, pal?" Dawson yawned, and
pulled the covers up around his neck.
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer mumbled. "Oh! That we wouldn't go to Kingston, or
back to the Squadron, because the colonel had something in mind for us?
Well, you lost it!"
"What do you mean, lost it?" Dave demanded.
"Quite!" Freddy said sleepily. "It was you who had something cooking
for us, not the colonel. And now that we're alone, old thing, let me
say that you are definitely mad, and absolutely balmy. But I'm quite
used to that side of you by now. So don't feel hurt. And go to sleep,
will you?"
Maybe it was intentional, or maybe not, but the comment Freddy Farmer
received on his words was a gentle snore.
CHAPTER NINE
_Eagles' Take-Off_
"The one thing I simply adore about dear old England is the weather,"
Dawson grunted, and stuck both thumbs toward the ground. "So
delightfully refreshing. Now take this perfect spring night. Why, where
else in the world could you--?"
"Oh, shut up!" Freddy Farmer growled, and fiddled with the radio-jack
of his helmet. "What's a little rain? Besides, it doesn't extend over
Europe, the weather blokes assure us."
"Little rain is right!" Dawson snorted. "So little it's practically a
falling mist. But it falls, and falls, and falls. Boy, there's going to
be two great songs come out of England, but the second one hasn't been
composed yet. Too bad I don't know C sharp from a three dollar hat, or
I'd compose it myself."
"Well, thank goodness you won't!" Freddy snapped. "Your singing voice
is bad enough. But what's the first song?"
"_There'll Always Be An England_," Dave replied. "And the one that some
guy is bound to write before this is over, will be entitled: _There'll
Always Be Rain In England, Too!_"
Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to make a fitting retort to that, but
before he could release any words the door opened and an Air Forces
lieutenant stepped inside.
"Major Crandall would like to see you in the C.O.'s office, Captains,"
he said.
"Major Crandall?" Dawson echoed. "He's down here?"
"That's right, Captain," the lieutenant assured him. "And he would like
to see you both."
As the officer left, Dawson looked at Freddy and arched an eyebrow.
"Now what?" he grunted. "I thought that neither the major nor Colonel
Fraser were going to come down here to see us leave. But maybe there's
something he forgot to tell us."
Freddy shook his head and looked at the rain-spattered window of the
mess lounge of a certain R.A.F.-Yank Eighth Air Force airdrome located
on England's east coast.
"I doubt that," he said. "Up there in London they both told us as much
about Duisburg as any two men could possibly know. And there isn't
a map or a photo of the place that we didn't see. No, it just can't
possibly be that he has anything to add. Most likely he's become a
trifle worried about you, and has come down here to see if you'd rather
stay behind while I carried out the job alone. And after all, that
would be one thing less I'd have to hinder me."
"Listen to the guy rave!" Dave jeered. "Go it alone when he's often
admitted that he's been afraid of the dark all his life? Fat chance!
Come, little fellow! Take my hand and I'll lead you through the nice
rain. And don't fret. There'll be other lights just as soon as we reach
the C.O.'s office!"
Freddy made an appropriate face, and drew back his right foot. Dawson
frowned sternly, and waggled his finger in warning. But just the same
he went out the mess lounge door well in front of his flying pal.
They found Major Crandall alone in the field commandant's office, and
the Intelligence officer gave them both a keen, searching look as
they entered. He seemed to like what he saw, for his face immediately
relaxed in a smile.
"Surprise, surprise!" he said. "But it's not because I was nervous, and
just had to see you take-off. Something a darn sight more important
to you two than that. Two hours ago I received contact word from one
of my agents in the Duisburg area. One that I was afraid was gone for
good. True, word that he's still alive was a good ten days in reaching
me. And a lot of things can happen to an agent in enemy territory in
ten days. There was no message. Just that he was alive and still on
the job, but using a different address. Whether that means that Nazi
counter-espionage agents got their eye on him, and are watching his old
address, I don't know. It may mean that he was captured but managed to
escape before he could be tried and shot. However, he is the only one
that Colonel Fraser or I have heard from in weeks. So I flew down here
in a hurry to tell you, just in case it develops that he can help you."
The major paused for a moment, then moved a step closer to the two air
aces, as though he feared that the very walls had ears.
"The address," he said in little more than a whisper, "is Number
One-Five-Six Kholerstrasse. Yes, the very same street. He goes by the
name of Heinrich Weiden. I can't tell you how he looks now, but he was
a big man. A six footer, with straw hair and blue eyes. The fourth
finger of the left hand is missing at the first joint. But he may be
wearing a fake fingertip. I'd try to get word to him to expect you, but
it's too much of a risk. Only the colonel and I know of your mission,
and it's safest to keep it that way."
"But he must have a number, or a code name, sir," Dawson spoke up
quietly. "And how can we let him know--if we do contact him--that we're
okay? After all, you know the uniform we're wearing under our flying
suits."
"Don't worry about that," Major Crandall said. "His code name is
Dartmouth. Where he went to college. And he will know that you are to
be trusted when he hears you speak the words: 'Harvard Nothing.' A few
years ago he captained a Dartmouth football team that blanked Harvard
in a top-heavy game, so that explains the Harvard Nothing touch. Well,
that's all. I'm going to get out of here right away so that your flying
mates won't suspect anything strange going on. A million in luck, as I
said before. But just one last word of caution."
Major Crandall paused and grinned at both of them.
"If things get hot when the raiding planes reach their target," he said
with a twinkle in his eye, "don't forget that you're to fake getting
shot down, and bail out. By that I mean, don't get so tied up slapping
German fighters down that it will be so light by the time you jump that
ground observers will see that you bailed out of Yank planes, and not
Nazi ones."
"We'll keep that in mind, sir," Dawson grinned at him. "But if a Jerry
should happen to slide into our sights I've got a hunch that we won't
just blow a kiss and let him go his way."
"I know darn well you won't!" Major Crandall chuckled. "But just don't
waste too much time blowing kisses. Well, God bless you both!"
The major fairly blurted out the words, saluted them smartly, and then
ducked out of the commandant's office.
"A nice guy," Dawson murmured. "We can't let him down, Freddy. Or the
colonel, either."
"Then why let the thought even enter your brain?" Farmer snapped. "Come
on. Let's get out of here. I want to take another check look at my
plane."
"Me, too," Dawson grunted, and followed him toward the door. "I wonder
if they've got any sponges or towels around here. By now my poor crate
must be drenched to the skin. And through it, what I mean!"
But Freddy let that one go without comment, too, and the pair went
outside and onto the field.
Some three hours later that part of England's east coast shook and
trembled to the thunder of many powerful aircraft engines. On one side
of the field R.A.F. and Yank Eighth Air Force bomber pilots were giving
final warm-ups to their bomb-laden chariots of the skyways before
taking off for the combined operation against Hitler's fast crumbling
European fortress. And on the other side of the field R.A.F. and Yank
escort fighter pilots were doing the same thing with their fleet,
deadly escort aircraft.
Not all the fighter pilots would escort the big fellows to their
targets and back, because of the great distance to some of the plotted
targets. It was arranged that no one spot in Hitler's fortress would
feel the full bomb weight of the planes on this field, or of the planes
that would take off from other fields. A dozen targets had been marked
up, and, though it must have perhaps puzzled the pilots and crews, the
raid upon Duisburg was to be light. Mostly incendiary stuff. The "eggs"
were to be dropped at a spot farther on.
How Colonel Fraser and Major Crandall had arranged for the Duisburg
raid to be light, without divulging the true reason, neither Dawson
nor Farmer knew. And, in fact, neither of them cared. All that mattered
to them was that they would fly as a part of the Duisburg escort. Their
ships were the new North American P-Fifty-One B Mustangs that had a
range that could take them well beyond Duisburg, and back to England.
Only they weren't going back to England. At least not in the Mustangs
they were about to fly to Duisburg.
"Seems a shame, doesn't it, Freddy?" Dawson murmured as they stood
together between their two parked planes, with propellers idling over.
"What does?" young Farmer asked. "Or is it supposed to be more of your
warped humor cropping up? If so, forget that I asked."
"No, not funny at all, pal," Dawson said gravely. "I mean, these two
planes. Best things ever to have wings. Yet we're going to fly them
into Hitler's front yard, and then ditch them and let them dive down to
hit the deck. It's going to hurt to see these two babies hit and burst
into flame."
"Quite, if either of us can take the time out to look," young Farmer
murmured. "However, you're right. It does seem to shame to expend them
that way. But what is nice about this war, anyway?"
"What's nice about any war?" Dawson grunted. "But I've got a hunch that
this war is just about running out, and--"
"And keep it to yourself!" Freddy cut in. "Right now I want to think
only of our private war, Dave. And speaking of this little job ahead,
do you think it would help to check over the details together again?"
"No, it wouldn't help a bit, Freddy," Dave said with a firm shake of
his head. "We've both talked ourselves blue in the face as to just
exactly what each is going to do, or hopes to do. If we haven't got
it in the old brain by now, going over it once more won't make any
difference at all."
"No, I guess you're right, it won't," Freddy Farmer murmured. "However,
in case I haven't mentioned it, old thing, happy landings, and all that
kind of rot. I'm quite sure that I'll be frightfully busy, but I'll do
my best to look out for you."
"Now I call that right nice of you, neighbor!" Dawson chuckled, and put
an arm about Freddy's shoulders and squeezed. "And the same goes for
me to you, kid. And double. But we've gone through some tight spots
together, and I've got a hunch that we'll get through any tight spots
this time, too. And with flying colors."
"If only you hadn't used that blasted word, hunch!" Freddy Farmer
groaned. However, the grin on his face belied the tone of his voice.
A moment later signal lights began to flash from the Operation tower,
and one by one the big bombers were trundled down to the far end of the
runway. The first swung around into position, the pilot received the
green light, and the mighty aircraft moved forward, picking up more and
more speed until it was hurtling along the flare-marked runway. Hardly
had it cleared and began nosing up into the night sky than the pilot
of the next bomber in line opened up his throttles. One by one the
powerful ships took to the air until only the fighters were left.
A signal blinked for all pilots to get into their pits. Dave reached
out and gripped Freddy's arm.
"Be seeing you, kid, at Duisburg," he said. "And have a nice ride. But
don't star gaze too much."
"I won't, Dave," young Farmer replied, and pressed Dawson's arm in
return. "And you watch out for yourself, too, old thing. A very queer
chap at times, you know, but I'm really quite fond of you."
"And I guess you'd do in a crowd, too, little man," Dave said with a
gentle gruffness in his voice.
And that was that. The two air aces parted company, and each climbed
into his plane. Some seven minutes later Dawson rocketed his Mustang
across the field, cleared, and went power climbing up toward the
star-hidden heavens. At a certain altitude he leveled off, and then
circled slowly until he found, and was in, his formation position.
His was the tail cover plane, so a moment later the formation swung
eastward and out over the English Channel.
"Well, Duisburg, here we come!" Dawson murmured softly. "And here's
hoping you're not too tough a nut to crack."
If the war gods on high heard Dawson's words they must have winked
slyly at each other, and then burst out with roaring and hooting
laughter! They _knew_! And so did the Grim Reaper, who was already
waiting!
CHAPTER TEN
_No Man's Sky_
After carefully checking the readings of his "black light" instruments,
Dave Dawson raised his eyes and scowled out at the ocean of inky
darkness that seemed to sweep in on him from all sides.
"Right on course, unless these instruments are haywire, which of course
they're not," he murmured. "But just the same, I'd sure like to get
out of these darn clouds. The stuff must stretch all the way to China.
Anyway, it's not raining. And that's something. But of course, Dawson,
old chap, this isn't England, you know!"
As he spoke the words he absently fingered the switch button of his
radio flap mike, but when he suddenly realized what he was doing he
snatched his hand away as though the thing were red hot.
"Radio silence, at any cost, chump!" he growled at himself. "Not that
all of Europe can't hear the racket the raiders are making. But orders
is orders. And stop worrying about Freddy Farmer, too. He's right back
there in this soup some place. You spotted his plane not over half an
hour ago. So take it easy."
Yes, only half an hour ago Freddy Farmer had been right there in back
of him, and a little to the left. Sure! But kingdoms have fallen, and
nations crumbled in less time than half an hour. Was Freddy still back
there in formation position, and was he simply hidden by the clouds?
If only he could but speak a few words over the R.T. system, and
find out. But he couldn't do that. On this flight he had to observe
radio silence, at least until the target had been reached. True,
Nazi aircraft detectors had picked them up long ago, and knew just
where the gigantic aerial armada was even right now. But that wasn't
why radio silence had been ordered. What the Nazis didn't know was
that the armada was not heading for simply one target, but several
targets. At a given time the armada would split up and follow several
different courses. Radio silence, however, had been ordered so that no
thoughtless slip of the tongue by anybody would reveal to Nazi ground
stations, listening on the same wave band, that more than one target
was to be bombed.
Yes, radio silence was the order, yet if anything happened to Freddy
Farmer, if Dawson lost contact with his pal, and found Freddy's plane
nowhere to be seen, come the first light of dawn, then things would
be gummed up right at the start. One definite plan they had made was
to stick almost wingtip to wingtip all the way to Duisburg. They
planned also to fake being shot down at practically the same time.
That way they would bail out close to one another, and it followed
that they would not land very far apart on the ground. And just where
they planned to land was all planned too. They had decided it after a
careful study of the aerial photos of the Duisburg area. And from the
detailed information that Major Crandall and Colonel Fraser had been
able to give them concerning the sizes and locations of the so-called
mystery factories in the Duisburg area. They had chosen the largest
factory of the lot, not for its size, but because it stood alone on
flat ground, and with a minimum of trees about it on which they might
foul their parachutes, and be forced to dangle helplessly at the ends
of their shroud lines until somebody came along and cut them down.
But it would be "spot" parachute jumping, and no question about that.
Before hitting the silk they would have not only to locate their
"objective" but to gauge the wind direction, and speed, and then bail
out so that drift would not take them beyond their target, or cause
them to drop far short. They had come right down practically on it. At
least well within the double ring of guards posted about the place.
"And it's going to take some doing, too!" Dawson breathed, as he
thought of the job ahead. "Some doing, and I don't mean perhaps. But
that will be only the beginning. Jeepers--!"
He let his voice trail off, and gave a little half worried shake of his
head.
"Was I a dope to think that maybe Freddy and I could pull this thing
off?" he grunted a minute or two later. "It looked like a swell idea
back there in England, but how does it look now? Don't ask, my friend,
don't ask!"
With another shake of his head he shrugged off the bothersome thoughts
and gave all of his attention to his flying. His watch told him that
actually dawn wasn't very far off. And he felt pretty sure that if he
were suddenly to fly out of this ocean of clouds into clear air he
would be able to see the first faint thread of light on the eastern
horizon. But it seemed as though he would never come out of the clouds.
That he had been flying through them on instruments for all his life,
and that he would go on that way forever.
"Of course it's nice to have this cloud protection against Nazi ground
gunners," he told himself, and laughed a little nervously. "But there
are a lot of us up here, and not a sky traffic cop in sight. Wouldn't
it be sweet if I should suddenly tangle wings with some guy in this
muck, and have to hit the silk? Or Freddy! That--Oh, cut it, Dawson!
Don't be a jumpy old woman all the time, for cats' sake. After all,
you've--"
But Dawson never finished the rest, for at that moment the clouds over
Occupied Europe suddenly came to an abrupt end. He streaked out into
clear night air, and as he had expected the new day was beginning to
dawn far, far to the east. After making sure that he wasn't crowding
the tail of the next ship in front of him, he twisted around in the
pit, and stared back. Instantly a happy grin curled his lips, and a
thin layer of ice slid off his heart and melted away. There to his
right rear was the shadowy shape of Freddy Farmer's Mustang cutting
along right with him as though the two planes were tied together.
"And me stupid enough to worry about Freddy, the hottest pilot ever to
take off any field!" he chuckled. "Boy, would he ride me if I ever let
him know about it. Okay, Freddy boy, so far so good!"
Well, maybe it was so far so good, up to that moment. A moment later,
though, it seemed as though all the flak guns the Nazis possessed
started to hurl up everything, including the kitchen stove. Dawson's
formation was riding high ceiling cover, and as he peered down at the
bomber formations a good five thousand feet below him the bursts of
red, orange, and yellow flak fire gave him the impression of a huge
fire-works factory exploding.
"Hitler's welcome!" Dave murmured. "Only I don't mean he's glad to see
us. He'll be even less glad when--"
A bursting flak shell right under Dawson's left wing seemed to spew
a shower of red and gold straight into his face. The Mustang lurched
crazily off to the other side, and for one heart-chilling moment Dawson
feared that the aircraft had been hit, and badly crippled. But such was
not the case, fortunately. The bursting flak was farther away than it
had looked, and it was simply concussion that sent the Mustang sliding
off to one side. A touch of stick and rudder, and Dawson had it back
into position in no time.
And then the radio silence was broken.
"Bandits ahead at six o'clock, fighter aircraft!" came the escort
leader's voice over the air waves. "Same level but starting to dive on
the big boys. Green and Blue Fighters go down and engage. Don't let
the bums get through. Smack 'em. Other flights hold your altitude and
course."
Dawson was flying in Red Flight of the formation, so he obeyed the
latter order and held his altitude and course. Just the same it was
not with a little envy that he watched Green and Blue Flights peel
off and go wing-screaming downward. At first he couldn't pick out the
Nazi planes against the eastern sky. But suddenly he did see them and
his heart contracted slightly. There were at least a hundred of them,
and even in the bad light he could tell that they were Focke-Wulf One
Nineties, and the new Messerschmitt One-Nine F's.
"Just sitting up here waiting for us to come along," he grunted. Then,
glancing down at the diving Mustangs, he said, "Give them the works,
pals. Show them how we do it where we come from."
And as though the Mustang pilots had actually heard him, they pulled up
out of their short dive and went thundering in at the Nazis with all
guns blazing. And hardly had Dawson seen the silvery paths of tracer
bullets cut across the sky before two Nazi Messerschmitts exploded in
twin sheets of brilliant red flame that seemed to light up the entire
sky for miles and miles around.
"How's that for apples, you mugs?" Dawson shouted spontaneously. "No
like, huh? Well, there's more where that sample came from!"
"Down a thousand feet, all escort Flights!" the leader's voice barked
in Dawson's earphones. "Number one point ahead. Get down a thousand
feet, and stay there. Everybody keep their eyes peeled for bandits."
Dawson's heart skipped a beat, and he unconsciously turned his head and
looked back at Freddy Farmer's dawn-blurred Mustang. Number one point
ahead was the signal that the first break-up of the huge formation
was about to take place. Some bomber formations would go south, and
southeast, some would go north and northeast, and the bomber formation
of which Dawson was a part of the escort would bang on dead ahead for
the incendiary raid on Duisburg, and after that to its bomb target even
farther east. And not only did the words, "Number one point ahead" mean
the break-up of the gigantic formation, but they also meant that in
twenty minutes by his watch Dawson, and Freddy too, would be directly
over the Duisburg area.
"Twenty minutes more, and then it starts for keeps!" he breathed as he
looked back at Freddy's plane. "Twenty minutes more, and then we show
that we're good, or just a couple of bums. Boy, wouldn't I like to ask
Freddy how he's feeling, and what he's thinking about just now. It's a
cinch, though, he isn't feeling any more jittery than I'm feeling. And
probably not half as much, knowing him as I do. Oh well, twenty minutes
more."
Yes, twenty minutes more, but each sixty seconds seemed well nigh a
lifetime to Dawson as he guided his Mustang eastward. At the end of
two of the minutes somebody sang out the alarm that he had spotted
another flock of Nazi planes at a higher altitude. And he was not
wrong, as Dawson saw for himself a couple of seconds later. At least
a hundred Nazi planes were circling about three thousand feet higher
up. But as the minutes wore on they made no effort to try and slice
down through the fighter umbrella and get at the big bombers. Maybe
they saw that the fighters were the deadly Mustangs, and they wanted no
part of them. Or maybe they were simply waiting for a more favorable
moment in which to start their attack. Or maybe they were even waiting
for reenforcements. At any rate they stayed right where they were and
tagged the bombers and their Mustang escort eastward.