raised one hand and pointed a quivering finger at Dawson and Freddy
Farmer. His voice was little more than a dry cackle in his throat.
"Mad, insane? Go there--the Duisburg-Dortmund highway. See for
yourselves. Give _your_ lives, but, whatever you do, _stop them_!"
The last word was almost a dry scream. Then something seemed to let go
inside the man. His half raised head fell back. His eyes went glassy,
and then blank. His thin lips quivered, and then they were still
forever.
"Dear heaven, forgive me!" Freddy Farmer whispered brokenly. "Tell him
that I do believe him. That I do!"
"And tell him that we will try, dear heaven!" Dave Dawson breathed as
he brushed tears from his smarting eyes. "If his life was worth the
try, then our lives are, too!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
_We Who Must Die_
As Dawson pushed slowly up onto his feet, with his eyes still fixed
upon the face of the dead man, he felt as though a great weight
were pressing down on his heart. Memory of the words that the Yank
Intelligence agent had spoken whirled and spun around in his brain
until it seemed as though he would never be able to think straight
again. The torch had been flung down to him, and to Freddy Farmer, from
the hands of a dying man. Lips that were actually stiffening in death
had begged them to give their lives that hundreds of others might be
spared, and the world be made a little bit better place in which to
live. But how could Freddy and he accomplish the impossible? _How?_
Where would they begin? How could they possibly--He cut short his
spinning thoughts as he felt Freddy's hand gripping his arm, and heard
his pal's voice.
"There's precious little, if any, time to lose, Dave, old thing,"
Freddy spoke in a tight, emotion-filled voice. "The least we can do is
try--as he did, poor devil."
"Try?" Dawson echoed with a little harsh laugh. "Try what? Try--Hey,
Freddy! You mean--?"
"Quite," young Farmer said, and began peeling off the Luftwaffe uniform
he wore. "Those two Gestapo rats, there. We'll borrow their uniforms,
and their car outside, and go find that ring of hills, and its
camouflaged field. The Duisburg-Dortmund highway is not far from here."
"And when we reach the field?" Dawson said, as he stripped off his own
Luftwaffe jacket. "Then what? Most likely the guards are five deep
around the place!"
"No doubt!" Freddy Farmer said grimly, and for an instant let his gaze
rest on the dead man. "But even if the whole blasted Nazi army is
there, we've got to try to get in there somehow. Perhaps these uniforms
will help us get by the guards. I hope so. But look, Dave, if you
don't--"
"Who says I don't?" Dawson interrupted angrily. "I was only wondering
if you had some kind of a plan."
"None at all," young Farmer replied. "Have you?"
"No," Dawson replied, and went over to one of the unconscious Germans
in black uniforms and heavy boots. "Maybe we can think up one on the
way. Set the place on fire, he said, eh? Of course he must have meant
that fire would touch off the rest of what's there. But, boy! If we
only had a plane. Any kind of a plane, just so long--"
Dawson suddenly let his voice trail off, and an agate gleam leaped
into his eyes as he knelt down beside one of the Germans and quickly
relieved him of his uniform. And that gleam was still in the Yank air
ace's eyes when a few moments later Freddy and he bound the Germans
hand and foot, gagged them, and then stole silently out of the room,
and along the hallway to the front door.
There they paused a moment, eased open the battered door, and peered
out. Duisburg was still in darkness, and there was no sound to be heard
save that of their own breathing. It took Dawson a second or two to
pick out the small Nazi Army car at the curb. When he had, he touched
Freddy lightly on the arm, went out the door, and down the short flight
of steps. Without a word he slid behind the wheel, and held out his
hand to Freddy. Young Farmer nodded and handed over the ignition keys.
A minute later Dawson slid the car away from the curb. And ten minutes
after that he was rolling it along the highway between Duisburg and
Dortmund.
"Have any ideas clicked yet, Freddy?" he presently broke the silence
between them. "I figure we've got about five or six miles to go. Keep
your eyes skinned, because we could very easily slide right by those
hills in the dark."
"No, I haven't the ghost of an idea," Farmer replied. "If only some of
our planes would come over we might be able to signal them to dump some
bombs around. Small chance of that, however. It's close to midnight,
and if any of our planes are out they've jolly well reached their
objectives by now. Good grief! It's almost as though the Devil himself
were watching over the Nazis this night."
"This night, and a lot of other nights, I guess," Dawson said,
tight-lipped. "Look, Freddy, are we awake, or _is_ all this just a
crazy nightmare? I mean, I want to believe that poor fellow ... I mean,
of course, he wasn't off his beam; he told us the truth. But--suffering
catfish! Fire bombs that throw liquid fire for hundreds of yards? And
British and Yank planes flown by German suicide pilots and crews? And
_if_ they succeed, three fourths of our combined air forces in England
will be so much burned out junk? It--well, it just seems almost too
much to believe. It's like stuff you'd read about in a ten-cent blood
and thunder thriller. Doggone it! This is a war with guns, and tanks,
and ships, and planes...."
"And a lot of _other_ things that most of us never dreamed of before
the start of the war, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly, as Dawson
struggled for words. "Radar, for instance. The Nazi rocket gun. And
our own jet-propulsion plane for another. And that's saying nothing at
all about the miracles in medicine that have come out of this war so
far. Yes, I know how you feel, Dave. That it just can't be true. That
it isn't possible. But when you think about it for a moment, you find
yourself asking, why isn't it true, and why isn't it possible? And the
only answer is, that it is, and could be. War knows no limits. And that
goes for the minds of men who create the devilish weapons of war. Or do
I sound silly?"
"No, kid," Dawson said. "It just got me for a moment. The seemingly
fantastic part. No, you're right. Anything _can_ happen, or be cooked
up in an all out total war. And the Nazis are just the breed to cook up
something like liquid fire bombs. But--"
Dawson choked off the rest as at that exact moment a small searchlight
suddenly became visible not fifty yards along the highway in front of
them, and its beam became trained directly on the car. In the side glow
Dawson could just make out the ugly snout of a mounted machine gun, and
the booted feet of the men who operated it. Then a uniformed figure,
with a sub-machine gun hung over one arm, stepped out into the beam of
light and rapidly winked a red-shaded flashlight as a signal for the
car to stop.
"Keep your gun ready!" Dawson whispered between stiff lips as he
slackened the car's speed and applied the brakes. "Here's the first
test, kid. Maybe this is the end of the line, but on the other hand,
maybe we can shoot it out with them and skip off cross-country. Hold
everything until we make sure."
"With you, old chap!" Freddy Farmer replied in a voice so low that
Dawson almost didn't catch it.
A moment later Dawson stopped the car full in the beam of the
searchlight, and rested his hand on his gun on the seat beside him and
watched the uniformed figure carrying the red-shaded flashlight walk
around to his side of the car.
"Show me your--!" the figure said harshly, and then stopped with a
grunt. "Oh, you two, eh? Back again? Very well, proceed. But keep your
speed to thirty miles or the others will open fire on you. The second
turning on the right has been left unblocked. _Gott!_ So many cars
tonight! It is like a parade. It must be nice to be of the Gestapo. You
will probably be given all the schnapps you can drink. All right. Go
ahead. Pass to the left of the light!"
For a split second Dawson was tempted to play his Gestapo part to
the hilt and snarl a few words at the uniformed figure backing away
from the car. On second thought, though, he instantly decided to let
things stand as they were. The unpopularity of the Gestapo with this
particular soldier was none of his affair. He would be a fool to get
tough about it. The one with the sub-machine gun might decide to get
even tougher.
And so, sweating with relief, Dawson meshed gears and tooled the little
Army car around to the left of the searchlight, that winked out as
he went by, and got back into the middle of the night-darkened road
again. It was then that both Freddy and he let the clamped air from
their lungs.
"Jeepers!" Dawson gasped. "I know I've got gray hair now. Praise be
that that dope simply remembered two Gestapo rats in an Army car, but
_not_ what they looked like."
"Amen!" Freddy Farmer whispered. "And may Satan bless the blighter for
telling us about the second turn off on the right. Gosh, Dave! Do you
really think that we'll be lucky enough to--?"
"Don't say it!" Dawson said hoarsely. "It might break the spell, or
something. Just pray, Freddy, that's all. Pray as you never prayed
before. I know we haven't a hope, but--"
"There's the first turn off, Dave!" young Farmer stopped him. "Slow up
a little so we won't miss ... Dave! Look! There ahead to the right.
There's the spot. You can see the tops of the hills. There's a glow of
light, that's why. Dave! Do you hear something? Like the rumbling of
thunder?"
But Dawson didn't reply at once. He couldn't possibly have replied at
that moment, even had it cost him his life not to do so. Every nerve in
his entire system was twanging like a snapped violin string. His heart
was striving to hammer its way out through his ribs, and the blood
surging through his veins was like ice water one instant, and liquid
fire the next. Yes, he could see the tops of the ring of hills, and
the faint glow of orange-yellow light behind them that made them stand
out against the night sky. And above the sound of his own engine he
could hear that other rumbling sound that seemed like thunder to Freddy
Farmer.
Yes, but it was thunder caused by high voltage leaping across storm
skies. It was the thunder of many powerful engines being revved up.
Aircraft engines. And as Dawson leaned forward a little over the wheel
and strained his ears, he knew in a flash that the thunder was from
British and American-made aircraft engines.
"They're revving them up!" he heard his own voice say. "Maybe the
take-off's near. Must be, or they wouldn't show so much light. Yeah!
They've removed the camouflage covering from the place, and that light
is from runway flares, and maybe exhaust plumes. Dear heaven! Let us
get through. Let us get through in time to do something. Don't let this
terrible thing happen, please. I beg of you! Don't--!"
Dawson's voice clogged up in his throat, and his heart seemed to
shrivel into nothing as his own beseeching voice echoed back to mock
him. And then, even as Freddy Farmer touched his arm, his straining
eyes saw the second turn-off. There were three or four uniformed
figures at the corner of the turn-off, and Dawson instantly tightened
up inside. But there was no need of that A flashlight winked on, and
its moving beam signalled for him to make the turn and keep going.
Perhaps the car was recognized, but he doubted that because of the
darkness. It was probably that any car that passed the first barrier
down the road, and there had apparently been many of them tonight, was
being allowed to continue on unchallenged to the secret field hidden
behind the ring of hills.
A great sigh of relief slid off Dawson's lips as he drove by the
signalling flashlight beam and made the turn. A moment later, though,
as he drove along a bumpy dirt road that led straight toward the ring
of hills, his heart leaped up his throat to smack hard against his back
teeth, and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his forehead. He heard
Freddy groan softly, and that groan was echoed in his own heart.
A short distance ahead he could see several cars parked off the dirt
road. Several flashlight beams were moving about, and the road itself
was blocked by several figures in uniform. In the bad light Dawson
could not tell if all carried sub-machine guns, but he saw at least
six, and to him that was six too many. No wonder his car had been
allowed to turn off into the road leading to the secret field!
"No cars allowed on the field, of course, because of the danger of
fire," he muttered. "They're all being ordered to park outside, and
those moving flashlight beams mean just one thing. That everybody is
being checked before he can go the rest of the way on foot."
He swallowed hard, and turned to young Farmer as the parked cars in
front forced him to apply the brakes and slow down.
"It's been nice knowing you, Freddy," he said in a dull voice. "This is
the end of the line, and I mean the end. But I'm going to take some of
the rats with me, that's certain!"
"Cut it, Dave!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Don't be a blasted fool,
old thing. This isn't the end. We can't let it be. I've just got an
idea. It's got to work. Stop the car and get out with me. Stick at my
shoulder, and have your gun in your hand. But for goodness' sake don't
use it. No! No questions. There isn't time. Just do as I say!"
Dawson hesitated a split second, and then shrugged.
"Okay!" he murmured. "That's one more idea than I've got. Lead on.
Freddy!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
_Satan's Wings_
Slipping the car out of gear, Dawson braked it to a final stop, and
automatically switched off the ignition. The moving flashlight beams
were not more than twenty yards ahead now, and even through the rumble
of many aircraft engines beyond the hills he could hear harsh German
voices ordering unseen figures to get out of the cars in front and show
their papers. A great sense of bitter defeat welled up within him, and
he impulsively turned to Freddy. But young Farmer was already getting
out of the car on the roadside and violently motioning to Dawson to
follow him.
"Leave it to me, Dave!" he whispered. "You've got to, old chap!"
There wasn't anything else for Dawson to do but just that.
Throat dry, and heart pounding, but with a sort of reckless,
devil-take-the-hind-most spirit welling up in him, he got quickly out
of the car and took his place beside Freddy. Young Farmer seemed to
pause and breathe deeply. Then he nudged Dave with his elbow.
"Start running with me, but don't say a word!" he breathed fiercely.
"I'll do all the talking. Let anybody that we meet see that you've got
a gun. And try and get a very nasty Gestapo look on that face of yours.
Right-o! Here we go!"
The comment that Freddy had obviously gone stark, raving nuts rose up
to Dawson's lips. But he didn't have time to speak it, even if he had
wanted to. Freddy had broken into a run, had snapped on his flashlight
beam, and was sweeping it back and forth across the road in front of
him. In three swift strides Dawson caught up with his pal, and shoulder
to shoulder they ran straight for a group of shadowy figures standing
in the middle of the road.
At the sound of their approach a couple of flashlight beams were turned
their way, and Dawson's heart seemed to stand still in his chest as the
order rang out in German:
"Halt!"
But by then Freddy Farmer was almost stepping on the toes of the German
who had barked the order. He flashed his light straight in the man's
eyes, and Dave caught a flash glimpse of small close-set eyes, and
lips curled back in an angry grimace. Then Freddy Farmer was barking at
the man and pushing him to one side.
"Stop him, you blockhead! That one ahead! Herr Baron's orders! We have
followed him all the way. We're Gestapo, under Herr Baron's orders. Get
out of the way, you dumb-witted cow. Out of the way, or Herr Baron will
hear of this!"
Dawson's brain was spinning with confusion, and he tried to follow
Freddy's words. But the only thing that really sank in was the fact
that several seconds later Freddy Farmer and he had plowed right
through the group in the middle of the road, left them standing there,
and were racing along in the half darkness at top speed. With every
step he took Dawson expected to hear angry shouts behind, and hear
the bark of guns. Nothing happened, though, and presently Freddy and
he were running through a narrow passage between two of the hills.
And there spread out before them was a sight that caused them both
instinctively to slow down to a stop and gape in horrified amazement.
As far as Dawson was concerned, he might have stood rooted in his
tracks forever staring at the sight. But suddenly Freddy Farmer
grabbed his arm, and pulled him off to the side and behind some heavy
shrub growth. Winded, the two youths sank down onto the ground, and for
a full minute not a word passed between them. Presently, though, Dave
reached over, found Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.
"I won't even say, nice going, pal!" he whispered. "Because I know darn
well that it just didn't happen. Holy smoke! Right smack through the
bunch, and not one of them so much as opened his mouth to stop you!"
"Credit it to the power of the Gestapo," Freddy murmured. "Plus the
fact that a Jerry's mind never moves very fast. I know, though, that
I'll go on being scared stiff for the rest of my life. I'll never get
over these last few minutes. But, Dave! Look! It _is_ all true. Just as
Weiden told us. But--but what can we do, now that we're here?"
Dawson didn't reply to that question. The power of speech failed him as
he peered through the shrub branches, and out across the mile square
area of billiard table flat ground completely ringed by hills. It was
like looking at some weird picture conjured up in the mind of a mad
artist. It just wasn't possible to believe, even though he was staring
at it with his own eyes. The picture of at least one hundred R.A.F.
and Eighth Air Force heavy bombers, complete with insigne and unit
markings. _But_ with German uniformed figures swarming all about them.
It was so fantastic, so utterly unreal, that Dawson impulsively closed
his eyes tight several times, and then opened them quickly, fully
expecting the crazy scene to vanish in thin air.
But it did not. It was still there every time he opened his eyes. The
planes were arranged in a line that extended halfway around the edge of
the field. The first plane in line was poised at the end of a runway
that cut straight through the middle of the huge disc-shaped airdrome
in an east to west direction. And when he looked toward the west side
Dawson saw that the runway pointed straight at a wide opening between
two of the ringing hills. In other words, the heavy bombers taking off
would not have to gain more than usual take-off altitude in order to
clear the ring of hills. That opening was plenty wide enough for them
to pass through. Room to spare, in fact. And in a crazy, abstract sort
of way Dawson realized that completed planes had passed down through
that opening between the hills when the pilots came in for a landing.
"Lancasters, Wellingtons, Flying Fortresses, and even a few
Liberators! And with props ticking over, ready for a take-off. Gosh! I
wonder how they camouflaged this spot during the day? I don't see any
nets, or anything. But they probably used nets, which are now rolled
back against the hillsides."
Freddy Farmer's voice was low, and there was a queer note in it that
made Dawson turn his head quickly and peer hard at his pal in the pale
flickering glow that came from the take-off flares, and, so it seemed,
from at least five hundred flashlights that were moving about all over
the place. Impulsively Dawson reached out a hand and placed it on
Freddy's arm. Freddy was trembling like a leaf, and Dawson didn't have
to be any doctor to realize that reaction to all that had happened was
setting in in Freddy with a vengeance.
"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Take it a bit easy, if you can. You've
been aces, what I mean, pal. And now it's my turn to do some fast and
heavy thinking. And get results like _you_ did. Look, Freddy! Do you
see anything different about those planes?"
"Different?" young Farmer echoed softly, and scowled hard at the scene
before him. "No! And that's what tears me up so inside. Why, this is
just like it is in England. Just before the take-off for a raid on
Germany. But, good grief, Dave! This is Germany, _right here_!"
"I know, kid, I know," Dawson soothed him gently. "But let's skip that
part for a moment. Now look. I don't see any difference either, so that
means that their fire bombs, or whatever they really call them, are
stowed away in the bomb bays just like any TNT eggs. And if so, they
are to be released from the bombardier's nook, just like regular eggs.
Now here's what I mean. They don't plan for any air fighting, so the
chances are that each ship isn't taking along more than, say, three
men. A pilot, a navigator, and a so-called bombardier. Call it four,
and make the fourth a flight engineer. But it's to be a one-way flight,
so maybe a flight engineer isn't going along."
"Yes, yes, you're probably right, Dave," Freddy said with an impatient
nod of his head. "But what difference? It's unimportant to us. The
important thing is, how can we _possibly_ stop them? How in the world
could we start a fire of any kind? The blighters are all over the
place. Even though we did manage to sneak up and fire one of the
planes, that wouldn't mean the lot would go. They must have fire
equipment here, in case of accident. Dave, we're as helpless as Weiden
was. We--"
"Shut up, and let me finish!" Dawson muttered, and pressed Freddy's arm
hard. "Okay. I'll agree that even though we got away with touching off
the gas tanks of one plane, it might not do us any good. I mean, that
those cockeyed fire bombs may have to be dropped, and detonated before
they really do their stuff. Maybe heat doesn't affect them at all,
though I've got my doubts about that. Anyway, just setting one of them
afire is out. Okay, then, we set the whole darn bunch afire! In short,
we wipe out the works. Maybe you and me, too. But we still wipe out the
works."
"Don't, Dave!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "You're talking insane. How can
we possibly wipe them all out? Heaven knows I'd give my life, and
gladly, if there were any way--"
"And I keep trying to get it through your head that there _is_!" Dawson
cut in, tight-lipped. "Look at that end plane, Freddy. Do you see
many of them milling around that ship? No. Only a couple, and they're
mechanics. 'Most everybody is up front, where the goodbyes are being
said, I guess. Gosh! Do you suppose Hitler and Himmler are in that
bunch?"
"Hitler!" Freddy Farmer echoed in a strangled gasp, and started to push
up on his hands and knees. "If I could just get close enough to that
filthy baby killer, I'd--"
Dawson grabbed him and hauled him back.
"Don't go haywire!" he snapped. "Ten to one he's miles from here. But
supposing he was here, and you got close enough for a shot--which you
darn well wouldn't! You'd get nailed, too. And _these planes would take
off_! Stop it, Freddy, and bend an ear. That end plane. That's our
baby, see? You and me! With a couple of good breaks we can roll it down
and onto the runway, and still have room to get off and pass through
the hill opening on the west. It's a Fortress, Freddy, and we know all
about those sweethearts. Well? We've swiped a couple of Nazi planes in
the past, so how about swiping one of our own for a change, huh?"
"If we only could!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely after a long moment
of silence. "If we only could!"
"We can, and we've _got_ to!" Dave said grimly.
"But there may be some of the beggars inside the plane, that we just
can't see," young Farmer said slowly.
"Oh, so what?" Dave snapped. "Use the old brain, Freddy! Are you and
I carrying water pistols? With this rumbling and shouting all over the
place, you wouldn't hear a shot three feet from the ship. Those three
mechanics are our only worry. Then, plus the distance to the plane, and
the little item of getting it off, and getting altitude."
Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked straight into Dawson's eyes.
"Right you are," he said quietly. "Anything to stop them all from
taking off. And even if we can't get enough altitude--"
Young Farmer stopped, then tried to continue, but all he seemed able to
do was swallow rapidly. Dawson forced his own lips to pull back in a
forced grin, and nodded.