_Nazi Cunning_
IT SEEMED TO Dave that he stood there for hours staring dumbfoundedly at
the man holding the Luger. The man was light-complexioned and had flaxen
hair. His smile was more of a leer, but when he spoke it was perfect
English that came out from between his lips.
“So you did consent to help me _this_ time!” the man said, and broadened
his smile. “That was very nice of you. I had no idea the plane carried
you two, but I had to put up my little trap, anyway. You were much, much
too interested in that Arado. And its pilot hasn’t enough gas to keep
him flying around forever. So! And of course, I am delighted with what
I’ve caught in my trap. Don’t move, either of you, or it will be death
now, and not later!”
Dave heard the man’s words as though they came from a thousand miles
away. His head was spinning. Guns were pounding in his brain, and great
bells were clanging furiously. For a crazy instant he tried to tell
himself that this was all just a weird nightmare, and that he would wake
up in a nice safe bed 'most any minute. A nightmare it was, indeed. But
it was reality, nevertheless--cold, stark, heart-chilling reality. On
what they had believed was an errand of mercy, Freddy and he had flown
right straight into the jaws of death.
Stunned beyond movement, he remained perfectly still while the man with
the Luger slid around behind and removed his service automatic, and
Freddy’s, too. Through eyes that seemed to ache with his own misery, he
glanced down the beach at what he had thought was a crashed Vultee. It
wasn’t a Vultee at all, only a make-believe one fashioned out of strips
of wood with war painted cloth stretched over them to give the desired
effect from the air. Then the man circled around back front and was
facing them again. Dave stared at the almost peaches and cream skin of
the face and hands, and at the flaxen hair.
“The Cub’s pilot!” he heard his own voice gasp out. “You were flying
that Taylor Cub and tried to get us in under those two armed Wacos!”
“Quite true,” the man said, and beamed. “And congratulations on your
gunnery, Captains Dawson and Farmer. Those two fools deserved what they
received. They flew their aircraft like two children. But we mustn’t
waste time here.”
The man gestured with his gun for Dave and Freddy to walk in front of
him. But Dave was still gripped by his trance. He couldn’t move. He
could only stare at the man he had seen across the air space thousands
of miles from this spot, and only a week ago. Less than a week, in fact!
“Walk!” the man with the Luger barked, though the smile remained on his
lips. “Colonel Welsh sent you down here to find out things, didn’t he?
Well, then, let’s find them out. But of course, there’ll be no report
made to the dear Colonel. You American Intelligence men! Such stupid
fools. Every bit as stupid as the British!”
The man leered at Freddy Farmer as he spoke the last. The English youth
regarded him coldly, face expressionless.
“A matter of opinion, Seven-Eleven,” he said quietly. “And that’s who
you are, isn’t it?”
The man with the Luger looked pleased. He lost his sneer for a moment
while he beamed all over the place.
“I like the name the Americans give me,” he said, as though he were
tasting something good. “It is very nice. But in Germany--there, and to
all my agents, I am Captain Karl von Stutgardt. You have heard of _that_
name, no?”
Heard of it? Dave wished he had a penny for every time he had heard the
name, Captain Karl von Stutgardt, mentioned! He’d be a very rich man.
Von Stutgardt was a name as famous, or as infamous, as that of Himmler.
From Norway to Libya, and from Dublin to Bucharest, Karl von Stutgardt
had reaped human lives as a farmer might reap wheat, by the thousands
upon thousands. So this was the ruthless Nazi agent who could well be
Satan’s roommate? Red rage smouldered in Dawson as he eyed the man. And
perhaps some of that rage showed in his face, for von Stutgardt’s eyes
suddenly narrowed slightly, and they took on a vicious gleam.
“If you wish, Captain Dawson,” he said softly, and pointed the Luger
straight at the Yank ace’s heart. “Though you may not realize it, you,
and your swine English friend, have given me much trouble in the past.
It is my personal desire to make you suffer a little before I remove you
from this war forever. However, if you wish to be foolish, then you will
die quickly.”
The words sounded like chunks of ice clicking against each other. Dave
forced a grin to his lips and held the man with his eyes.
“Go ahead,” he said evenly. “Pull the trigger. We both know, _now_, that
it isn’t going to be very long for you, von Stutgardt.”
The Nazi started slightly, and he seemed to shoot a fearful glance out
to sea. But he had control of himself almost instantly. He shrugged,
grinned, and gestured again with the Luger.
“Talk is cheap,” he sneered. “And you came here to see things, didn’t
you? Then let us not waste any more time. Walk ahead of me to that path
leading away from the beach.”
Von Stutgardt pointed toward a beaten path that led off through a break
in the heavy undergrowth that lined the beach. As the two air aces
started walking toward it they saw three figures come out of the
undergrowth at the far end of the beach and trot over toward the faked
airplane crash. In a matter of seconds they had it dismantled, and were
carrying the parts away out of sight.
“Just a couple of babes in arms, we are, Freddy!” Dave murmured
bitterly. “We took it hook, line, and sinker. I could sure kick myself
plenty, right now.”
“All my fault, Dave,” the English youth grunted. “After all, I spotted
it first, you know.”
Dave started to speak, but at that exact moment he caught a flash
glimpse of von Stutgardt’s face out of the corner of his eye. The Nazi
agent was grinning like an ape, and obviously tickled silly over the
mental discomfort of his prisoners. Dave grinned also, but inwardly.
“Well, it doesn’t matter much, Freddy,” he said to his English pal in a
low voice. “When we don’t return X-62 will _know_ that we were right.
And he’ll start the wheels turning at once, of course.”
Freddy Farmer blinked and a blank expression spread over his face, but
only for a brief instant. He either caught Dave’s quick wink, or caught
onto the play of words by himself.
“Yes, that’s true,” he grunted. “Too bad we can’t be in on the climax of
things, but that’s the way with a blasted war, I fancy. However, we did
manage to get our part of the job completed, so that’s something, I
guess.”
“It’s a lot,” Dave said. “In my book, it’s plenty. But it was nice to
have known you, pal. We’ve had some swell times together.”
“Quite!” Freddy Farmer replied. “It was all top-hole while it lasted.
And, who knows? Perhaps it isn’t over yet. For us, I mean.”
Dave nodded, but didn’t say anything. He had sneaked another flash look
at von Stutgardt out the corner of his eye. And there was no longer a
pleased look on the Nazi’s face. On the contrary, the man now wore a
look of sullen rage tempered just a little by a glint of worry in his
eyes.
Then Dave stopped sneaking quick glances at the man, for they had passed
through the rim of underbrush and were approaching a series of man-made
clearings in the tropical trees that covered the island. At first glance
Dave could hardly believe his eyes. And when he took a second look he
was sure that he must be dreaming. But it was not the results of any
dream, or mirage, that he saw spread out before him. Instead, it was the
most perfectly camouflaged flying field he had ever seen in his life, a
flying field that had been built in sections so that enough trees would
be left completely to hide everything from the air.
To be exact, the flying field really consisted of two long runways cut
through the trees, and packed down firm. The runways ran from east to
west across the island, and the take-off end was blocked off by strips
of painted camouflage cloth. The strips of cloth had only to be pulled
to the side and there was an opening that looked right out onto the
beach and the blue Caribbean beyond. At the other end of the two runways
was a group of huts built under the trees. Staring at them, Dave saw
that a couple of them, the fronts being open, were filled with H.E.
bombs of five hundred to a thousand pound size. There were also aerial
torpedoes, and an unlimited quantity of German made incendiary bombs.
All that, however, he simply gave but a sweeping glance. What brought
him up to a dead stop, and caused him to gasp in dumbfounded amazement
was the sight of ten Vultee attack bombers pulled in in line under the
trees. Two of them were still without wings, but a group of bull-necked,
head-shaven men were in the very act of fitting the wings in place. A
couple of other bull-necked figures were busy painting U.S. Air Corps
insignia on the eight other Vultees. And not only that, they were
painting on the Squadron insignia of the Ninety-Sixth Attack Unit, based
at Colon.
“Interesting sight, isn’t it?” Dave heard von Stutgardt’s jeering voice
in his ears. “It has taken us a long time to collect those planes, and
more trouble than I care to talk about. But we have them at last, and so
that is all that matters. Yes, indeed! A most interesting sight. Most
interesting.”
Dave made no comment. He didn’t dare let himself speak. He was pretty
sure that the mystery he and Freddy had been tracking down was no longer
a mystery. There it was in plain view before his eyes. In spite of his
efforts to control his jangled nerves, a shiver ran through him, and von
Stutgardt’s mocking laugh made the blood pound in his temples.
“What a shame you cannot report all this to dear Colonel Welsh, Captain
Dawson!” the German murmured with feigned sadness in his voice. “He
would be _so_ pleased! But as one of you just mentioned, that’s the way
with war. Victory goes to the strongest side. And Germany is the
mightiest nation on the face of this earth. And we shall own all of this
earth in a very short time.”
“That’s taking in a lot of territory,” Dave said to him coldly. “I
wouldn’t bet on it, if I were you. It might backfire in your face. Or
maybe you haven’t caught on--yet?”
The anger and worry flashed in the German’s face again. He stared hard
and long at Dawson. He seemed about to speak several times, but each
time he clamped his lips shut, and said nothing.
“We will talk more of that, later,” he finally did speak out. “For the
present you two can rest, and spend a little time with your thoughts,
which I do not believe will be very pleasant. I have other things to do.
The hour of my greatest triumph is close at hand, and I--”
The Nazi let his words trail off. He just shrugged to convey their
meaning, whatever that might have been. He nodded his head and motioned
with his Luger for Dave and Freddy to walk over toward the nearest of
the huts built in under the trees. They were some twenty-five yards from
it when a figure garbed in the uniform of a Luftwaffe lieutenant pilot
came running out of one of the other huts and up to von Stutgardt.
“The contact plane radioes it must land at once, _Herr_ Captain,” the
man spoke in German. “He asks if it is now safe to approach the secret
landing basin.”
“Perfectly safe, now!” von Stutgardt snapped back at him. “Tell him to
come on in, and see that the men place camouflage over his seaplane the
instant he has landed and has taxied up the inlet.”
Both Dave and Freddy understood the words spoken in the German tongue,
but they only half listened. They were staring agate-eyed at the young
Luftwaffe lieutenant.
“So a lot more is clear, now!” Dave grated impulsively.
“Quite!” he heard Freddy Farmer echo. “And the blighter was right in
front of our eyes!”
The young Luftwaffe pilot turned and regarded them with grinning lips
and hate-filled eyes.
“Your good luck has come to an end at last, you two war-mongering dogs!”
he snarled. “Now it is our turn. When we--”
“That is enough, _Herr Leutnant_!” von Stutgardt cut in harshly. “You
talk too much. Go contact the U-boat’s plane at once!”
The young Luftwaffe pilot gulped, flushed, then saluted stiffly and beat
a hasty retreat back to the hut. Dave stared after him and felt ice cold
anger in his heart. The last time he had seen that youth had been at the
Air Corps Base at Albuquerque, New Mexico. The youth had not been a Nazi
pilot then. He had been a U.S. Air Corps pilot--and the officer in
charge of the check-in booth!
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