perfectly still if you don't want to die!"
The inside of Dawson's head seemed to explode. He went hot and cold all
over, and it was all he could do not to spin around. But he didn't move
a muscle even though he recognized the voice instantly.
"Freddy!" he said in a soft whisper. "Freddy, boy! For heaven's sake
don't shoot!"
There were tears in Dawson's voice as he whispered. And there were real
tears in his eyes, too. Like a man in a dream he felt the gun muzzle
being removed from the middle of his back; then strong fingers grasped
his arm and turned him around.
"Good gosh, Dave!" Freddy's broken whisper came out of the darkness.
"Why, I--I--"
Young Farmer's voice faltered and stopped. And not for all the money in
the world could Dawson have spoken a single word at that moment. The
two of them just grabbed each other there by the bushes, and simply
hung on, as words utterly failed them. But presently Freddy Farmer
dragged Dawson around in back of the bushes, and down close behind them.
"It's true, Dave, it really is?" he whispered. "I thought you were
dead, old thing. Thought the Jerries had got you. Dave, this has been
the worse day of my whole life. It really has. I mean it!"
"And my worst day, too, kid!" Dawson breathed, as he kept squeezing
Freddy's arm to reassure himself again that it was true, that Freddy
wasn't dead but very much alive. "But what do you mean, you thought the
Jerries got me? I thought they got you, Freddy. I saw a Mustang catch
it square and blow up. I was sure it was you. And I didn't see another
single parachute in the air. I--Gosh, Freddy! You just can't imagine
what this moment means to me."
"Oh yes, I can, because I feel the same way, old chap," the English
youth said in a choked up voice as he lightly brushed the knuckles of
one fist across the point of Dawson's chin. "But about that business
this morning. Just as I was getting set to jump, two or three of the
Focke-Wulf beggars came in at me, and I had my hands full for a few
moments. I managed to get one of them, and broke off action with the
other two. I looked around for you, but there was nothing but burning
planes in the air, and flak bursts. I thought then that you had caught
one, Dave. I jumped anyway, but didn't judge the wind right at all.
Perhaps I should have practiced a couple of times, eh?"
"Then you didn't come down close to that factory we had picked?" Dawson
asked.
"Close?" Freddy whispered in self-scorn. "I didn't come within miles of
it. Landed right in the middle of a little lake, no less. Imagine it!
I ditched my parachute and swam ashore right head on into some German
troops from a nearby camp. They had a car and their officer insisted
on my going along with him. What else could I do? If I had refused to
let them assist me in my drenched condition, they would have become
suspicious. After all, a Luftwaffe officer doesn't go wandering about
town soaked to the skin. So I went with them, and it wasn't until a
few hours ago I got them to drive me into town. I pleaded that I was
meeting my Kommandant at a certain place. Lord! I thought I'd never get
away from those blighters. Their blasted guest most of the day, and
all the time me going near balmy wondering what had happened to you.
Can you imagine such a silly business, Dave? But when I did manage to
get rid of them, I came down here hoping that I might at least contact
Major Crandall's man. That was the only thing I could do, having lost
complete touch with you. I--But here! What about yourself, Dave?"
"A full day, too, and just about as non-productive as yours, Freddy,"
Dawson said. And then he gave his pal a brief report of his own
movements and experiences. "And so there was only one thing left for
me to do," he finished up. "Try to contact Weiden to see if he knew
anything of what's going on. My gosh! To think that we've both been
watching this place for hours, and each of us thinking that the other
had caught his this morning."
"And very unpleasant to think about, too," Freddy murmured. "But we've
had some luck, Dave. At least we've joined up together. And that is a
lot. But that Farbin factory business is certainly devilish queer,
Dave. It just doesn't make sense, I mean."
"You're telling me?" Dawson groaned softly. Then turning his head
and staring at the night-darkened front of Number One Fifty-Six, he
murmured, "And if we can't contact Weiden, or if he can't give us any
more of the picture, _if_ there _is_ a picture, then we will be sunk.
The only thing we can do then is lie low until tomorrow night, and
then make our way to where the British Recco plane is to land early
the next dawn, and go back to England a couple of chumps. Particularly
me, because I was the one with the bright idea that we come on this
wild goose chase in the first place. Boy! Will I feel a fool when I
tell Colonel Fraser that I didn't even get to first base. He thought
the idea was cracked and impossible right at the beginning. Wind-Bag
Dawson, that's me. The guy with the bright ideas--I don't think!"
"Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer breathed at him. "I was just as much for it as
you were. Just simply didn't get the chance to suggest it before you
did. But blast it, let's not do our weeping and grinding of teeth yet.
Maybe Weiden is here, and maybe he does know something that will help."
"Yeah, maybe," Dawson echoed, but not very convincingly. "What do we
do, though? Bang on the front door, or just stay where we are and wait
to see if anybody goes in or comes out? And that last I think is a very
punk idea."
"Both ideas are punk," Freddy told him. "I've been doing a little
snooping around. There's an alley that leads to the back. And the rear
door is open. I really think the only thing for us to do is search
the place, room by room. After all, you played Gestapo with a certain
amount of luck once today. Let's both try it and see if it works a
second time. After all, isn't it a strict Gestapo rule to break in on
people at night, and go thumping and tramping around? At least, if
anybody lives here, he'll be too scared to ask questions. And if we
meet with no luck searching the place, we can simply leave the way we
came."
"Well, it's worth a try," Dawson grunted. "Gestapo or Luftwaffe, what
difference does it make to civilians in the middle of the night? Okay,
lead on, Freddy. Get your gun and flashlight?"
"Both," young Farmer replied. "But don't use your flash until we get
inside. Right you are; follow me. I know the way. And luck, old thing."
"And _how_ we both will need it!" Dawson echoed under his breath.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_The Living Dead_
Making no more noise than a couple of cats walking across a velvet rug,
Dawson and Freddy Farmer slipped down the narrow alley to the rear of
Number One Fifty-Six Kholerstrasse. There at the rear door they paused
for a moment, holding their breath and straining their ears for the
slightest sound inside or outside the house. There was not one single
sound to be heard, however. All of Duisburg seemed truly a city of the
dead. No sound, no light, no anything.
"Eerie spot, isn't it?" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Gives a chap the
creeps."
"Anybody can have my share," Dawson grunted. "Okay, let's go inside."
Young Farmer nodded in the darkness, eased open the rear door, and
slipped inside without making a sound. Dawson went in right at his
heels, pulled the door shut, and for a moment both youths stood there
motionless in the dark. Presently Dawson pressed the button of his
flashlight and sent the beam roaming about a rear entry hallway. Dust
and dirt seemed to be everywhere, and there was a smell in the air that
made Dawson think instantly of Death.
He started to mention it to Freddy when suddenly the beam of his
flashlight came to rest on some brownish red smears on the plaster wall
to his right. He caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and Freddy Farmer
echoed the sound. For a long moment neither spoke, their eyes held by
those reddish brown smears as though by a powerful magnet.
"Bloodstains!" Freddy finally whispered. "Some chap came in here badly
hurt, and he braced his hand against that wall to hold himself up."
"Yeah!" Dawson said, and swallowed hard. Then, as he lowered the beam
of his light, "Look, Freddy! More stains on the floor. Boy! Somebody
was hurt bad. He spilled blood all over the place. Oh my gosh, Freddy!
Do you suppose--?"
Dawson didn't finish. The rest seemed to stick in his throat as he
looked at Freddy. Young Farmer's face was tight and drawn, and the
look in his eyes was proof that he had the same thought. That the man
who had made those blood smears was one Heinrich Weiden. Why they both
thought that, neither youth bothered to question. They just _knew_ it,
and that was that!
"Let's get--" Dawson began, and then cut himself off short as both he
and Freddy went rigid.
They did so for the simple reason that from out in front they heard
the protesting scream of rubber on the pavement as a car was braked to
a violent halt. And almost before the sound had been lost to the echo
there came the sounds of heavy booted feet pounding up the front steps.
And almost no time after that the front door shook and then crashed
open under the impact of somebody hurling his full weight against it.
Split seconds before that door crashed open Dawson and Farmer were
already in action. Dawson killed his flashlight, and the two youths,
without a word to each other, both darted toward a hall closet door,
yanked it open and slipped inside. And not a second too soon, either.
It seemed to Dawson that he had hardly pulled the door to within a
quarter of an inch of being closed when the hallway they had just left
was flooded with light, and a voice spoke hoarsely in German.
"Swine dog! He will not escape us this time. See! There on the wall!
Bloodstains. I knew I had wounded him. He cannot be far. We will try
these rooms first. Be ready with your gun. We will not talk this time.
We will simply shoot the dog!"
The voice seemed to speak almost in Dawson's face, and as he peered
through the crack he saw a black-uniformed and booted figure advance
upon a door directly across the hall. A second black-uniformed and
booted figure was right at his heels. The man in front turned the
doorknob, then shoved the door open, and jumped back a step as he
played the beam of the flashlight in his hand through the door opening.
"Ah, swine dog! So there you are!"
As though from a thousand miles away Dawson heard the German snarl
those words, and they hardly registered on his brain. He was looking
past the two Germans and into the room beyond. There stretched out on a
bed that boasted of only one dirty blanket was the figure of a man who
at first glance looked stone dead. His face was like wax under the dirt
and half dried blood. And his fingers that clutched the single blanket
looked almost toothpick thin. But he was not dead. As the light hit
him in the face he opened eyes that seemed to be sunk two inches in his
head. They glowed for a brief instant in fierce defiance. And the thin
lips twitched as though the man were about to speak.
At that moment, though, Dawson saw one of the Germans raise the
wicked-looking Luger that he held clutched in his right hand. And
Dawson didn't wait to see what would happen next. He jerked back one
hand to give Freddy Farmer the signal for lightning-like action, and
then he went out of that hallway closet like a shell from a naval gun.
In one great leaping stride he crossed the hallway. He kicked up with
his right foot and connected with the German's gun hand. The gun went
spinning from lifeless fingers, but Dawson wasn't watching its flight.
He brought his own gun over and down in a vicious chopping motion. The
barrel practically buried itself in the German's skull, and the man
folded up silent as a mouse and sank to the floor.
Spinning around and ducking down at the same time, Dawson started
to rip his gun upward, but he instantly checked the movement. There
wasn't any second German there to receive that gun under the chin in
more or less brass knuckle style. Not a bit of it. Freddy Farmer had
not been simply an interested spectator. He had "taken care" of the
other German. And in very definite style, too. Dawson hadn't heard so
much as a single sound, but when he looked down he saw Freddy's victim
stretched out cold as an iced mackerel across the threshold!
Without a word both air aces grabbed their respective victim and
hauled him inside the room, and closed the door. Then, shielding his
flashlight so that the beam wouldn't strike the man on the bed in the
eyes, Dawson moved over to him. A great lump was in his throat, and it
was difficult for him to speak.
"Hello, Dartmouth," he said. "I'm right, aren't I?"
The deep sunken eyes stared at him; then the man moved his head from
side to side.
"I do not know what you are talking about," he whispered in German.
Dawson smiled and kneeled down beside the bed. For some unknown reason
he was positive now. The man in the bed was well over six feet tall,
but his hair was not straw-colored. It was almost snow white. But
his eyes were blue, and it was perhaps the eyes that made Dawson so
certain. They were defiant as they stared at him, but in their depths
there seemed to burn a tiny spark of faint hope.
"Harvard Nothing," Dawson said softly. "We're Yanks, Dartmouth. Yank
Air Forces, but trying to do a job for Major Crandall, your chief. He
only got word of your new address yesterday, just before we took off.
It was ten days getting through to him. Look, Dartmouth, you've--"
Dawson stopped speaking as the other's eyes became aglow with a wild
light of unbounded joy, and tears welled out of his eyes and trickled
down through the dirt and caked blood on his face. Then his thin lips
moved, and he whispered words that were like the bells of doom in
Dawson's ears.
"You are too late! Too late! They cannot be stopped now. By dawn they
will be in the air. I tried, but they saw me. I ran, but one of them
shot me. I thought--if I could only get back here. Perhaps a little
rest, and then I could try again. But I lost too much blood. I--I can't
make it now. And--and it is too late--too late...."
The words trailed off into a gurgling sound in the dying man's throat.
His eyes fluttered closed, and a horrible fear curled icy fingers
about Dawson's heart. He turned to speak to Freddy Farmer, but the
English-born air ace was not there in the room. In alarm Dawson started
to his feet, but at that instant Freddy Farmer came slipping through
the door.
"Freddy! What--?"
"Making sure, naturally," young Farmer cut him off, and quickly crossed
over to the bed. "Slipped outside to see if there were others. We could
be caught like rats in a trap in this place. But there were just these
two. They've a small Army car outside. I took the ignition keys, and
straightened the front door as I came back in. How's--?"
Freddy stopped and groaned as he fixed his eyes on the man in the bed.
"It's Dartmouth," Dawson said softly. "He talked for a moment, but
about all he said was that we were too late. That nothing can stop them
now. And that by dawn they'll be in the air. Before I could ask him
what he meant, he passed out. He's dying, Freddy. Look at that neck
wound. It's a miracle that he's lasted this long. He's--Wait! He's
coming to again."
The last was not necessary. Freddy Farmer also saw the eyes flutter
open, and the thin lips move. But no sounds came from between them.
Dawson leaned close.
"You've got to hang on, Dartmouth!" he whispered fiercely. "You've got
to hang on and tell us about it. Maybe we can help. Maybe we can still
lick them. Why can't they be stopped? Who are they? And _what_ planes
in the air by dawn? Hang on and tell us, Dartmouth! Hang on, please."
The sunken eyes stared, and the thin lips continued to move without
making a sound. Dawson clenched both fists helplessly.
"If there were only something we could do for him!" he groaned. "A
couple of sulfanilimide pills, or even a First Aid kit. But we haven't
a darn thing. And I'm afraid it's too late, anyway. Dartmouth! Please!
Hang on, fellow, hang on. You've got to tell us what it's all about."
As Dawson's pleading voice died away to the echo the very silence of
Death seemed to hang in that room. Then, suddenly, sound began to come
from between the dying man's thin moving lips. Both Dawson and Farmer
leaned close so that they would not miss a single word.
"Fire!" the man said. "Fire bombs that destroy everything within a mile
of where they strike. It is true! I--I have seen it with my own eyes.
Flame throwers of the air. That's what they are like. But they are
dropped like bombs. Special chemicals. Nothing can extinguish them.
They must burn themselves out. But--but they explode and spread out
in all directions. It is liquid fire. Nothing can stop it. Nothing
can stop those devils now. Their secret weapon. That devil! That Herr
Baron. He is back in Duisburg again. I know! I saw him. He cannot fool
me, no matter what he does to his face. The twenty-fourth--tomorrow.
Tomorrow they strike, and we will be helpless to stop them. It--it will
not win them the war, no! They will never win. But our planes--our
pilots--our crews. Hundreds--thousands! Three fourths of England's and
America's bombers--wiped out in minutes. It will make the war go on
five years longer. Dear heaven, I was so close. So close to stopping
them!"
The dying man stopped speaking and his eyes became glazed. A hundred
thousand questions sprang to Dawson's lips, and to Freddy Farmer's
lips, too. But neither youth dared to speak them. Death was so very,
very close, now. They could almost smell the Grim Reaper's clammy hand
reaching out. They hardly dared breathe for fear that doing so would
speed the end. They were helpless. The battle had to be fought alone
by that man under the single dirty blanket. No other power on earth
could help him. He would win his own fight, or he would lose, and his
knowledge of the horrible doom poised to descend upon England would be
sealed in his brain.
Tears of helpless agony stung Dawson's eyes, and his lips moved in
fervent, silent prayer. He could feel Farmer's breath on his cheek, and
he knew that Freddy was also praying with all his heart and soul.
And then, as though a curtain had been drawn aside, the glaze vanished
from the dying man's eyes. They were bright and clear as they looked
at Dawson and Farmer. The man drew breath deep into his lungs, and
there was no longer the heart-chilling rattle of death in his throat.
It was as though in his greatest moment of need he had reached out and
received new strength from his Maker.
"Do not speak," he said in a clear voice that made Dawson's heart
leap with joy. "Just listen to me, because I cannot last long. I know
it--inside. I failed, but perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps you will
succeed. You must. Listen to me! Ten miles along the Duisburg-Dortmund
highway there is a little group of hills. They form a ring, and the
valley in the middle is flat as a table. You cannot see it from the air
because it is perfectly camouflaged. The spot has never been bombed
because it is out in the country. Our bombers wouldn't give it a second
look.
"But it _is_ a military objective. The most important this moment in
all Germany. In that camouflaged valley there are a hundred British and
American heavy bombers. Yes! British and American heavy bombers, I tell
you. I have seen them. For months the Nazis have been planning this
blow. They call it their secret weapon. It came out of the mad brain of
the one they call Herr Baron. Who he is no one seems to know. But it is
rumored that he was a famous Luftwaffe pilot shot down in the Battle
of Britain. That he was horribly burned about the face. But he lived,
and became the man of many faces. Some say he was a great actor before
the war. I do not know. But I have seen him many times, and every time
he looked different. Once I was almost able to kill him, but I failed
then, too. To think, if I had only succeeded, this terrible thing might
not be hanging over England, as it is."
The man stopped talking and stark terror gripped Dawson and Farmer
again. But the man only paused to draw breath into his dying body. He
went on speaking again, a wild light flaring up in his eyes.
"A hundred British and American heavy bombers! Some of them those that
were forced down and captured before their crews could destroy them.
But most have been remade from salvaged parts. Think of it! For months
German factories have been repairing and making parts for British and
American planes. _Our_ planes that they will fly against _us_ at dawn.
They will not carry high explosive bombs, but a new liquid fire bomb.
A bomb that floods liquid fire for hundreds of yards, and destroy
everything that it touches. Herr Baron and his men have done their work
well--the devils. They have selected our biggest fields in England.
R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force fields. They know our identification
signals. Heaven help us, they seem to know everything. And tomorrow
at dawn they will take off. All the hundred of them. A suicide pilot
and suicide crew in each bomber. They will fly to England, and give
identification signals as though they really were our own planes
returning. Three of them for each of the thirty-three fields selected.
They will go in low, as though landing, and then dump their terrible
destruction. In the matter of seconds each of the selected air fields
will be flooded by the fire. The devils and their planes will perish,
too. But our loss will be staggering. It will be months and maybe years
before we can replace our losses. Yes, Hitler's secret weapon. A great
victory to give his home front. A long, long lull in the bombing of
Germany. The Nazis do not fight to win the war now. They fight for
time. Time to reorganize, and rearm. If Hitler can stop the bombing of
Germany, then three fourths of his Luftwaffe can be sent to the Russian
Front where he needs air power so desperately. And by this hideous,
devilish blow against us at dawn he can accomplish just that!"
The dying man stopped talking. He fought for breath, and his very eyes
seemed to be on fire. Stunned, Dawson gaped at him in utter disbelief.
The man was mad, raving mad. What he had told them was fantastic,
impossible. It couldn't be true. A hundred American and British heavy
bombers salvaged by the Nazis? Repaired and put in condition to
fly against England? It was the craziest pipe dream that--But what
about Krumpstadt saying that Farbin Factory Number Six was making
metal cylinders for British and American planes? And those landing
gear parts he had seen with his own eyes? Landing gear parts, being
repaired, that he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., or England?
Yes! What about his experience in Farbin Factory Number Six?
"It can't be!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice explode beside him. "It's
mad--insane! You don't know what you're saying, old chap. Why, they
couldn't! They--they wouldn't dare!"
The dying man turned his head and fixed flaming eyes on Freddy's face.
His thin, almost bloodless lips drew back over his teeth, and his thin
fingers clutching the blanket looked as though they would snap.
"Mad?" the man gasped hoarsely. "Insane? It's true, I tell you! With my
dying breath, I swear it is true. Five of us learned the secret, but
four died before they could get word to England. Only I was left alive,
and I had been arrested. I was to be shot, but I escaped. Ten days ago.
I tried to get word through to Major Crandall, to anybody, but only
part of my message must have arrived. The address of this place. Mad?
Insane? Today I learned that Herr Baron and his agents had returned.
They are to celebrate the take-off at dawn. Himmler is expected to be
there. Perhaps even Hitler. No word came to me from England. I watched
the sky for hours, and prayed for our bombers. But none have come. I
went there to that camouflaged field. Mad? Yes, I was mad. I went there
to try and defeat them alone. To start a fire. To do _anything_ that
would destroy what they have here. But I was discovered. It was that
devil, Herr Baron. He was dressed as an American flying officer. His
men fired. Hit me. I escaped and came back here. Perhaps it would not
be too late. Perhaps there would be some word--some help from England.
But they followed me, found me, and--"