sake. If we can get enough altitude to give us a fighting chance for
our own hides, then we slam the plane down into the middle of them, and
go up with the whole works. Tough on us, but--but a lot of swell guys
have died for far less, Freddy."
Freddy continued to look at Dawson without speaking. Then presently he
simply smiled, and pushed up onto his hands and knees.
"Let's get on with the blasted thing, Dave," he said with all the
calmness of voice of a man going down to the post office to buy a
stamp. "Always did hate to sit around jawing when there was something
that had to be done. So let's get on with it--one way or the other."
"And it's going to be the way we want, kid!" Dawson whispered as they
stepped out from behind the shrubs, and started walking along the rim
of the field. "I've got the old hunch."
To that Freddy Farmer groaned, crossed two fingers of his left hand,
because he was carrying his gun in his right, and kept on walking.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_Something For Hitler!_
Twenty yards. Sixty feet. Just seven hundred and twenty inches. That
was the distance Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer finally were from the
Flying Fortress at the rear end of that half-circle of bombers. Twenty
yards more to go, but there were two Luftwaffe mechanics between them
and the plane. And at that distance a blind man could see that each of
the mechanics carried a holstered Luger. A Luger that was in a holster
and _not_ in the man's hand. And it was the realization of that that
made Dawson breathe a faint prayer of thanks, and then suddenly snap on
the beam of his flashlight, and walk the last twenty yards at a rapid
pace.
As one the two mechanics spun around, blinked at the light that hit
them in the eyes, and started to open their mouths. But Dave didn't
give them a chance to say anything. He took a page out of Freddy
Farmer's book, and played it for all that it was worth.
"We're Gestapo, sleeping swine!" he snarled at them, fairly throwing
the words in their flat moon-shaped faces. "Is this the way to guard a
plane? We could have killed you both minutes ago, and with ease. What
have you to say, fools?"
One of them opened his mouth again, but Dawson quickly spun him around
and pushed him into the shadow cast by the body of the Flying Fortress.
"Silence, swine!" he rasped, and practically shoved his flashlight into
the mechanic's face. "Stand motionless!"
As Dawson spoke the last he half turned his head to see that Freddy
Farmer was carrying out his end. Freddy had spun the other mechanic,
and was shoving him up against the side of the Fortress.
"This for sleeping swine!" Dawson grated, turning back to his
fear-frozen mechanic.
And with that he whipped up his gun and chopped it down on the
mechanic's head just in back of the left ear. The German went down
without so much as a tired sigh. And no sooner had he sprawled in a
heap on the ground than the other mechanic folded up on top of him.
"Now we move, kid!" Dave whispered, and ducked down and under the
plane toward the little ladder leading up into the belly door of the
aircraft.
He waited there the millionth part of a second, just long enough to
make sure that Freddy was right at his heels, and then he went up the
ladder like a monkey and into the plane. He entered the plane just
forward of the bomb compartment, and was turning toward the steps to
the pilots' compartment when suddenly a figure loomed up in front of
him on the catwalk, and German-spoken words hit him in the face.
"Halt! Who are you? Herr Captain's orders were that no one was to--"
The voice was cut off in a snarling gasp, for the speaker had seen
Dawson's face in the pale glow that filtered into the plane from
outside. But in that same instant, also, Dawson saw the face of the
speaker. It was the thin face of the man called Hans, whom he had last
seen in that apartment living room out near Golders Green in London.
For a split second both gaped at each other. Then Hans' face twisted
with rage, and he dived a hand into the pocket of the flying jacket
he wore. But Dawson did not play the Wild West movie hero. He did not
wait for his opponent to get his gun out and take the first shot. This
was no time for heroics. This was cold-blooded war, with civilization
itself hanging in the balance.
So Dawson simply fired from the hip and saw Hans' head jerk back as
the bullet hit him between the eyes. Almost before the Nazi agent's
body had crashed down onto the catwalk Dawson had leaped over him and
was mounting into the pilots' compartment. Without waiting for Freddy
Farmer to catch up, he slid into the pit, ran anxious eyes over the
instrument panel and other gadgets, and breathed a sigh of relief when
he saw that all was in readiness for the take-off. Then he cast a swift
glance out through the windshield glass. The plane in front, a British
Lancaster, blocked off most of his view, but he saw no running figures
coming his way, so it seemed apparent that his single shot had not been
heard. Countless figures carrying flashlights were walking all over the
field, and there was a large crowd gathered about the leading bomber.
"Boy, what a sitting duck target for our bombers, if only some of them
would come over now!" he heard his own voice mutter. "But ten to one
these rats made sure that neither the R.A.F. or the Eighth Air Force
were headed this way before they so much as lighted a match. Anyway,
so far, so good, for us!"
As he spoke the last he turned his head, expecting to see Freddy Farmer
climbing into the co-pilot's seat beside his. But the seat was empty,
and there was no sign of Freddy Farmer. Cold fear gripped him, and he
impulsively started up out of his seat to go back through the ship.
By the time he was half out of it, though, young Farmer came into the
compartment, panting like a winded bull.
"Take her up, Dave!" Freddy gasped. "Doors all buttoned tight. And I
dumped out both of the blokes. Let's get on with it quickly!"
"_Both_ blokes!" Dawson gulped. "You mean--?"
"A second chap popped up from the rear just as you shot that Hans,"
Freddy said. "I took care of him without using bullets. Afraid I broke
the blighter's neck. Serves him right for trying to interfere. Fancy,
though, meeting that Hans again. Small world as you often say, what?
But don't sit there listening to my chatter, Dave! Take her up, or--or
do something. My nerves won't stand for much more of this thing!"
A nervous and sort of crazy laugh spilled off Dawson's lips as he
turned front.
"Release the wheel brakes, while I gun her, Freddy!" he said in a voice
that he hardly recognized as his own. "Here we go--somewhere!"
By the time the last had left his lips the four engines of the Flying
Fortress were singing a loud song of power, and the huge craft was
moving over the ground and off toward the left so that it cleared the
Liberator just in front. The roar of the engines was loud in Dawson's
ears, but the roar didn't seem half as loud as the mighty pounding of
his heart. Cold sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his
face. His hands gripping the controls became clammy, and his mouth was
so full of "sawdust" that he could hardly breathe.
In the next couple of seconds it seemed as though everybody on the
field carrying a flashlight froze stiff for a brief instant, and then
turned the beam of his light toward that trundling Fortress. To Dave's
strained nerves those barbs of light looked like machine gun, or
aerial cannon flashes, and had a burst of sudden death, in the form of
fatal bullets, come crashing through the windshield or window glass he
wouldn't have been in the least surprised. Inside of him a voice was
screaming wildly that he and Freddy Farmer were doing something that
just couldn't possibly be done. They were suicidal fools to so much
as try it. If die they must, then let them feed the four engines every
drop of high test they would take and taxi the Flying Fortress straight
into the center of that curved line of heavy bombers. But try to get it
in the air? Never! It just couldn't be done!
"Maybe not!" Dawson heard his own voice echo back to him. "Maybe not!
But, by heaven, we're going to give it a try, and how!"
"Dave, look!" Freddy Farmer's voice suddenly screamed wildly in his
ear. "They know something's wrong. Up there at the front of the line.
Troops with machine guns, and they're racing our way. They're going to
try and block the way!"
But Dawson had seen the running troops at the same time as Freddy
Farmer. His lips went back flat against his teeth, and he swerved the
Fortress more to the left, and eased all four throttles forward a bit
more.
"Let them try!" he shouted wildly. "The rats can get out of the way or
be run down, guns and all. We're non-stop until something really stops
us. Hey, Freddy, what about our load? Did you get time for a look? Ye
gods! Wouldn't it be a fine mess if we're not--"
"Don't worry about that!" young Farmer cut him off. "This plane isn't
empty. All bomb racks are filled with those cylinder things such as
you saw being welded. Each is fitted with a detonator bomb. I got a
quick look as I came by. Get us off, Dave. I'm going down into the
bombardier's nook. Cheerio. And if we don't meet again--"
Freddy Farmer didn't finish the rest. He didn't because at that exact
instant he saw what Dawson saw. The running figure of a man, well
out in front of the troops. A tall figure garbed in the uniform of a
colonel in the U. S. Army Air Forces. His face was in a shadow, so
neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer could see his features. But they
didn't have to. The very silhouette of the running figure was enough
for them.
"Herr Baron, the rat!" Dawson shouted wildly. "Look at him wave his
arms for us to stop! If he only knew who was in this ship I bet he'd
throw a fit and drop dead right in his tracks. Nuts to you, Herr Baron
No-Face. You lose again. And this time, by gosh, you really _lose_.
Just a minute, you stinker, and we'll give you something for Hitler.
Yeah! Something for the whole rotten bunch of you. Hang on, Freddy.
Now, we're really going to roll. Tally-ho!"
Shouting the last Dawson swerved the Fortress around until it was
headed west along the take-off runway. Above the thunder of his engines
he could hear bursts of machine gun and rifle fire behind him. In fact
some of it was coming from the right, and he heard the bullets thump
and clunk into the sides of the Fortress. But naval guns trained dead
on him could not have stopped him, then. Shouting and yelling at the
top of his voice, he opened all throttles wide, and thrilled to the
core as the propellers "bit" into the air and started pulling the
Fortress forward faster and faster with every rev they made.
Hunching forward, air clamped in his lungs, hands gripping the controls
with every ounce of his strength, he guided the Fortress forward
straight for the opening between those two western hills that actually
seemed so terribly, terribly close. Seconds whipped by into time's
eternity, but each seemed an hour to Dawson as the Fortress still clung
to the runway, and still hurtled full out toward the end of the runway.
As a matter of fact, though, time as something definite had ceased to
exist for him. It was as though he were in a world of one, himself,
and riding a thundering monster toward the opening between two hills
at the far end of a white-painted cement strip on the ground. If
there was still shooting behind him, he didn't hear it. Or if bullets
were pounding into the Fortress, he wasn't conscious of it. He wasn't
even conscious of the fact that Freddy Farmer was no longer in the
co-pilot's seat at his side. That Freddy had gone halfway down toward
the bombardier nook in the glass nose, and was waiting there until
Dawson got the plane clear. He just wasn't conscious of anything, save
his hands and feet on the controls, and the powerful engines that were
driving the Flying Fortress forward.
And then as though invisible hands had pulled the ground away from
beneath the wheels the Fortress cleared and went mounting up higher
and higher. In a rapid succession of movements Dawson trimmed ship,
adjusted propeller pitch, and re-set engine fuel feed. And then the
crest of a hill was just off each wingtip and the black sky of night
was ahead.
"Chalk another up for us, kid!" he shouted wildly at Freddy Farmer.
But Freddy Farmer wasn't there to reply. He had ducked down into the
bombardier's nook, and was getting set to carry out his share of the
job. And when Dave didn't receive any reply he remembered the inter-com
system. Still climbing at maximum pitch for altitude, he hooked the
inter-com phones over his ears, plugged in the jack and threw the
switch.
"Freddy, Freddy!" he called. "Can you hear me?"
"And about time, too!" came back the instant reply. "Did you just
remember this gadget? But don't waste too much time climbing, Dave.
Three thousand feet is more than enough. No telling what those beggars
down there might do. Can't let any of them get off. Make a diving run,
and we'll pray we can get clear before our own stuff can touch us.
Hurry it up, Dave. The place is ablaze with lights now. I haven't the
faintest idea what they're up to. Hurry it up!"
But Dawson was already banking the big bomber around. For an instant he
got a flash glance down at the hill-ringed field they had just left,
but it looked like no more than an ocean of pale yellow light. Then the
Flying Fortress' nose blocked out the spot, and Freddy Farmer's eyes
alone could see what was going on.
"Dive five hundred, Dave!" came Freddy's order over the inter-com.
"Then level off for a second, and give her all she'll take to get
altitude. Neither of us know what these fire bomb things do when they
hit!"
"You telling me?" Dawson muttered through clenched teeth as he slanted
the Fortress downward. "I only hope that some day we can tell our
grandchildren about it. Okay! Down we go, and--Hey! They're slinging up
flak!"
The last was because the night air off to the right had suddenly become
spotted with two gobs of red and orange flame. They were way off to the
right, so Dawson didn't even hear the sound of their explosion. But
an instant later two more burst off to his left. They must have been
set at zero; Dave heard not only their deep throated bark, but he also
heard bits of shrapnel strike against the sides of the Fortress.
By then, though, he had completed his five hundred foot dive, and
vibration was shaking the mighty bomber from prop to tail.
"Leveling off, Freddy!" he yelled into his inter-com, and eased the
controls back. "Do your stuff!"
It seemed that he had no sooner sucked air back into his lungs than
his earphones rang with the words that are balm to all bomber pilots.
"Bombs away! Let's get out of here!"
Dawson replied to that order instantly. He hauled the nose of the big
ship toward the sky, and hand heeled all four wide open throttles, as
though in so doing he might get even more power out of the engines. And
then suddenly the darkness below became lighted up like high noon. Yet
so blinding was the light that he could see nothing at all. Nothing
but white blinding light that seemed to cover the earth to all four
horizons, and make his eyes ache as he stared down at it.
Then on impulse he leveled off his climb, and banked around toward the
northeast. In that position he could stare down off to his right toward
the ring of hills about the secret flying field. But as his breath
caught in his throat, he saw neither any ring of hills, nor any secret
flying field. The brilliance of the light all around had died down
some, but not where the secret flying field _had_ been. The ring of
hills was just faintly visible, but from their center, that was like a
seething maelstrom of liquid white fire, a great column of flashing and
flickering whiteness towered high up into the sky. Not red flame, nor
orange flame, or even yellow. All was a sort of silverish white that
increased in seething fury and brilliance with every passing second.
No hill-ringed flying field any more. Nothing but a boiling volcano of
white death.
"Good grief, what a way to die, even for Nazis!" Dawson choked out.
"Blast it, it's awful, horrible!" he heard Freddy Farmer speak from
the co-pilot's seat at his side. "Get us away, Dave quickly! I don't
even want to look at it. I--I almost feel sorry for those devils down
there, even though they were planning to do the same thing to England.
Horrible! They were like white water when they hit, Dave. Splashed out
in all directions like waves. Saw some of the devils just fall in their
tracks. Then everything was covered by the stuff. I couldn't look any
more. I can't now. Get us home, Dave. To England. I want to forget this
night. To try and make myself believe that it never happened. It's not
war. It's--it's--"
Young Farmer let the words trail off, sank back in the seat and closed
his eyes. Dawson nodded silently, licked his lips, shuddered a little,
and banked the Flying Fortress around on a course toward the English
Channel, and Britain beyond.
Dawn's light was chasing up out of the east after them when they
reached the English Channel, and Dawson began to let down toward the
ground. Over the radio he called Coastal Patrol, identified himself
and asked for escort to the nearest field. After all Freddy and he had
been through, it would be indeed the irony of fate for a chance Yank or
R.A.F. fighter plane to mistake him for a Nazi, and perhaps shoot him
down. So he played safe by calling Coastal Command, and a moment later
he saw half a dozen Spitfires prop-winding up to meet him.
He turned his head to Freddy Farmer only to see that Freddy was looking
at him, and grinning.
"Well, old thing," Freddy said. "That chap who was to go over tonight
and pick us up will be glad to see us. He won't have to go, now. But
what are we going to say in our reports? Nobody will believe us, I'm
sure."
"Probably not," Dawson grinned back. Then, as his grin faded, "But
we're going to make a report, and all the credit is going to that lad,
Dartmouth, and those four others, too."
"Quite!" young Farmer echoed. "Without his help, we'd--But that's
blasted war for you. The chaps that are really responsible for the
victories never get back to enjoy them."
"And I'm making a report, plus suggestions, to Bomber Command."
Dawson said with a grim nod. "We spoiled that party tonight, but only
yesterday I saw them making those fire bomb cylinders in Farbin Factory
Number Six. Maybe they figured to pull the stunt a second time. Yeah, I
think Bomber Command would be interested to hear about Farbin Factory
Number Six, and a couple of other spots around there."
And Bomber Command definitely was interested. It is a matter of record
that two nights later Duisburg, and Dortmund, too, received the most
devastating aerial blasting of the war thus far!
THE END
BOOKS BY R. SIDNEY BOWEN
Dave Dawson at Dunkirk
Dave Dawson with the R. A. F.
Dave Dawson in Libya
Dave Dawson on Convoy Patrol
Dave Dawson at Singapore
Dave Dawson with the Pacific Fleet
Dave Dawson with the Air Corps
Dave Dawson on the Russian Front
Dave Dawson Flight Lieutenant
Dave Dawson with the Commandos
Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers
Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal
_A Page from_ DAVE DAWSON AT TRUK
Stretching his arms lazily over his head, Dave Dawson drew in a deep
breath, and then let it out in a long drawn out sigh of complete
contentment.
"Some night, hey, Freddy?" he grunted. "Boy, this is sure a swell spot,
war or no war. Me for this place in my old age, and no fooling. After I
make my million in civilian life, of course. How about you, little man?"
There was no answer. He turned, and opened his mouth to repeat his
words, but shut it tight. For a full five seconds he gaped blank-eyed
at the spot where Freddy Farmer had stood by his side. But Freddy
wasn't there any more. He was gone; completely vanished as though the
ground had swallowed him up.
"Hey, Freddy?" he yelled. "Where the heck are you?"
Silence echoed his words, and then suddenly there came the strangled
cry from out of the darkness off to his left.
"Dave! Help! Come quick! Dave--Dave!"
The last died out in a gurgling moan that made Dawson's heart stand
still, and the blood