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DAVE DAWSON
AT
DUNKIRK
_by_
R. SIDNEY BOWEN
THE WAR ADVENTURE SERIES
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO * NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I HITLER GIVES THE ORDER! 11
II DIVING DOOM 21
III DAVE MEETS FREDDY FARMER 34
IV PRISONERS OF WAR! 45
V IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP 55
VI THEY'LL NEVER BEAT US! 66
VII SHOOT! 77
VIII ESCAPE! 88
IX A DESPERATE MISSION 102
X TRAPPED IN WAR SKIES! 115
XI FIGHTING HEARTS 130
XII IN THE NICK OF TIME 148
XIII BOMBS FOR NAMUR 160
XIV ORDERS FROM HEADQUARTERS 172
XV BELGIUM GIVES UP! 186
XVI FATE LAUGHS AT LAST 199
XVII THUNDER IN THE WEST 215
XVIII WINGS OF DOOM 227
XIX THE WHITE CLIFFS! 241
CHAPTER ONE
_Hitler Gives The Order!_
The first thing Dave Dawson saw when he woke up was the combination
clock and calendar on the little table beside his bed. He stared at it
sleepy eyed and tried to remember why he had put it where he would see
it the very first thing when he opened his eyes. He knew there was some
reason, an important one, but for the life of him he couldn't remember.
He struggled with the problem for a moment or two and then sat up in bed
and glanced about the room. For one brief second the unfamiliar sight
startled him. Then he realized where he was and grinned broadly. Sure
enough! This was his room in the Hotel de Ney in Paris, France. This was
just a little part of the wonderful dream that had really come true!
The "dream" had begun two weeks ago. It had begun with the thundering
roar of the _Dixie_ Clipper's four engines that had lifted Dave and his
father from the waters of Port Washington Bay, Long Island, on the first
leg of the flight across the Atlantic to Lisbon, Portugal. His father
had been sent to Europe on a government mission, and after much coaxing
and pleading had consented to take Dave along. The thrill of a lifetime,
and during every minute of these last two weeks Dave Dawson had been
living in a very special kind of Seventh Heaven.
To fly to a Europe at peace was something, but to fly to a Europe at war
was something extra special. It was a trip a fellow would remember all
the days of his life. It was an adventure that he'd tell his
grandchildren all about some day. The Clipper roaring to a landing at
Bermuda, then on to the Azores, and then farther eastward to Lisbon. The
train journey across Portugal to Spain, then up across Spain and over
the Pyrenees into France. Finally on to Paris and all the beautiful
things that beautiful city had to offer.
Not all of the things, however, had been beautiful. There were lots of
things that were grim looking and made a fellow think a lot. The things
of war. True, the war was a long, long ways from Paris. It was far
eastward between the great Maginot Line of the French and the Siegfried
Line of Adolf Hitler's Nazi legions. There it had remained for eight
months, now, and people were saying that there it would remain. Hitler
would never dare attack the Maginot Line, and eventually the war would
just peter out.
Yes, that was the talk you heard all over Paris, but the grim things
were there for you to see with your own eyes just the same. The
batteries of anti-aircraft guns strategically placed about the city. The
fat sausage balloons that could be sent up to great heights as a
barricade against raiding German bombers, should Hitler ever decide to
send them over. Then too there were the French Flying Corps planes that
patrolled almost constantly over the city day and night. The army
trucks, and small tanks that rumbled through the suburbs day after day.
The lorries filled with solemn eyed French troops going up to battle
stations. And at night ... the black out. No lights on the streets save
the tiny blue flashlights that the people carried. At first it made you
think of a crazy kind of fairyland. Then the faint _crump-crump_ of a
distant anti-aircraft battery going into action, and the long shafts of
brilliant light stabbing the black skies, would remind you that France
was at war, and that danger might come to Paris, though as yet it had
not even come close. But....
At that moment the musical chimes of the French alarm clock cut into his
thoughts. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was exactly fifteen
minutes of seven. He glanced at the calendar, too, and it told him that
the date was May 10th, 1940.
May Tenth! In a flash the elusive bit of memory came back to him. He let
out a whoop of joy and flung back the covers and leaped out of bed. May
Tenth, of course! Gee, to think that he had actually forgotten. Why,
today was doubly important, and how! For one thing, he was now exactly
seventeen years old. For the other, that swell French officer,
Lieutenant Defoe, of the 157th Infantry Regiment, was going to take Dad
and himself on a personally conducted tour of the famous Maginot Line!
The Lieutenant had said he would come by the hotel at seven thirty
sharp. That's why he had put the clock so close to his bed! To make sure
he would hear the alarm, in case his dad in the next room over-slept.
Heck, yes! Seventeen years old, and a trip to the Maginot Line!
He danced a jig across the room to the tall mirror that reached from the
floor to the ceiling and took the stance of a fighter coming out of his
corner for the knock-out round. For a couple of minutes he shadow boxed
the reflection in the glass, then whipped over a crushing, finishing
right and danced back.
"Boy oh boy, do I feel good!" he cried happily and tore off his pajamas.
"Bring on your Joe Louis. Hot diggity, the Maginot Line. Me! Oh boy!"
In almost less time than it takes to tell about it he was bathed and
fully dressed and ready to go. He started for the door leading into his
father's room but checked himself as he saw the camera on the bureau. He
took a step toward it, then snapped his fingers as he remembered
Lieutenant Defoe had said that the Maginot Line was one place where even
the President of France could not take a camera. For a second he was
tempted to take one anyway, but sober judgment quickly squelched that
idea. He knew that Lieutenant Defoe had gone to a lot of trouble to get
permission for him and his father to visit that great string of
fortresses, and it would be pretty cheap to do anything that would get
the Lieutenant in wrong.
So he left the camera where it was, caught up his hat, and went over to
the connecting door and knocked loudly.
"Rise and shine in there, Mister!" he called out. "Big doings today,
remember? Are you up, Dad?"
There was no sound save the echo of his own voice. He knocked again and
shouted, "Hey, Dad!" but there was still no sound from the room beyond.
He hesitated a moment, then grasped the knob and pushed the door open.
"Hey, Dad, get...!"
An empty room greeted his amazed gaze. The bed hadn't been slept in. As
a matter of fact there was not a single sign that the room had been
occupied. There were no clothes in the closet, no toilet articles and
stuff on the dresser, and not even any traveling bags. The sudden shock
made his heart contract slightly, and for a long moment he could do
nothing but stare wide eyed at the vacant room.
"Can I be dreaming?" he heard his own voice murmur. "This is Dad's room.
I said good night to him here last night. But, there's no one here.
Dad's gone, for cat's sake. _Hey, Dad!_"
All that he got for his extra loud shout was a muffled voice protesting
violently in French, and an angry pounding on the floor of the room
above. He closed his Dad's door and went down the stairs three at a time
and straight across the lobby floor to the desk.
"Have you seen my Father?" he asked the girlish looking man at the desk.
The girlish looking man didn't hear. He was talking on the telephone.
Talking a blue streak with his hands as well as his mouth. In fact, in
order to make full use of both his hands the clerk had dropped the
receiver and was giving all of his attention to the mouth piece. He
looked like he was trying to do the Australian Crawl right into it and
down the wire to whoever was at the other end of the line.
Dave grinned and stood watching the clerk. The words came out like a
string of machine gun bullets. Much, much too fast for Dave to line them
up in a sentence that made sense. He caught a word here and there,
however, and presently the grin faded from his face. He heard the name,
_Holland_, and _Belgium_. He heard _Nazi cows_. He heard _Maginot Line_,
and _Siegfried Line_. And a whole lot of the girlish looking clerk's
personal opinions of Hitler, and Goering, and Hess, and Goebbels, and
everybody else in Nazi Germany.
He did not hear a lot, but he heard enough, and his eyes widened, and
his heart began to thump against his ribs in wild excitement. He banged
on the desk and shouted at the clerk, but he might just as well have
shouted at the moon. The clerk was far, far too busy trying to swim down
the telephone cord.
Dave started to yell even louder but at that moment a hand took hold of
his arm and swung him around. He found himself staring into the flushed,
good looking face of Lieutenant Defoe. The French officer was breathing
hard and there was a strange look in his eyes that checked the happy
greeting on Dave's lips.
"Hey, what's wrong, Lieutenant?" he asked instead. "That clerk acts like
he's going nuts. And, say, Dad isn't in his room. Not even any of his
things."
"I know, _mon Capitaine_," Lieutenant Defoe said and held onto his arm.
"Come. First we shall have some breakfast, and then I will explain all."
The fact that Defoe was there, and that the French officer had called
him by the kidding title of My Captain soothed the tiny worry that was
beginning to grow inside Dave.
"Okay, Lieutenant, I am starved at that," he said as the officer led the
way to the breakfast room. "But, that clerk. He was shouting something
about the Germans in Holland and Belgium, and.... Hey, my gosh! Has
Hitler invaded the Lowlands?"
"Early this morning," Defoe said gravely. "Another of his promises
broken, but we expected it, of course. Yes, _mon Capitaine_, now France
will truly go to war. Here, sit there. Let me order. They are perhaps
excited a little this morning, and I will get better results."
Dave waited until the French officer had ordered for them both and put
the fear of the devil in the lumbering and thoroughly flustered
waitress. Then he leaned forward on the table.
"What about Dad, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Is anything wrong? I mean, is
he all right?"
The French officer nodded and wiped beads of sweat from his face with a
huge colored handkerchief. It was then Dave saw how tired and weary the
man looked. His eyes were drawn and haggard. His funny little mustache
seemed even to droop from fatigue. Despite his natty uniform, and the
two rows of shiny medals, the Lieutenant looked as though he had not
slept for days.
"Yes, your father is well, and safe," Defoe finally said through a
mouthful of hard roll. "He is in England."
Dave spilled some of the water he was drinking.
"England?" he gasped. "Dad is in England?"
"In London," Defoe said and crammed more roll into his mouth. "It was
all very sudden. Be patient, _mon Capitaine_, and I shall try to
explain. First, a thousand pardons for not arriving sooner, but I was
delayed at the War Ministry. And there was not one of those cursed taxis
we have in Paris, so I was forced to run all the way. You were surprised
and alarmed to find your father gone, eh?"
"I was knocked for a loop," Dave said with a grin. "But, look, tell me.
Why in thunder did Dad go to London? Because of the German invasion into
Holland and Belgium?"
"No," Defoe said. "Some business with your American Ambassador there.
What, I do not know. We were in the lounge having a good night glass of
wine just after you had gone to bed. A wireless message arrived. Your
father said that he had to leave for London at once. An Embassy car took
him to Calais where he could embark on a destroyer. He said that he
would be gone for three days. You were asleep and he did not wish to
wake you. He asked me to take his room, and to be your companion until
he returned. He said he would write you from London. He said it was just
a quick business trip and nothing for you to worry about."
"Yes, yes," Dave said, trying to keep his voice polite. "But what now?"
Lieutenant Defoe gestured expressively with a butter knife in one hand
and a piece of roll in the other.
"Now, everything is changed, _mon Capitaine_," he said. "In a few hours
you and I shall drive together to Calais. There I shall salute you and
bid you farewell. A British destroyer will take you to Dover. And from
there to London you shall travel by train. Your father will meet you at
the station in London. What you will do then, I do not know. Your father
did not honor me with the information."
CHAPTER TWO
_Diving Doom_
The small but speedy Renault car scooted along the broad dusty French
road like a grey-brown bug fleeing for its life. The ride out of Paris
had both thrilled Dave and depressed him. It was exciting to streak past
the long lines of army cars and troops on the march. It gave him a kick
the way the simple showing of Lieutenant Defoe's military papers cleared
the way through barrier after barrier thrown up across the road. Those
papers were as a magic charm that made officers and men alike spring to
attention and salute. And in a way they _were_ a magic charm. They had
not only been signed by the highest military authorities, but by the
President of France, himself.
Yet with all that it made him a little sad to leave Paris. He felt as
though he were running away in the face of danger. He had had lots of
fun with his Dad and Lieutenant Defoe in Paris. Swell times, and now he
was rushing away from the city. Running away because danger might come
to Paris. True, he was only obeying his father's instructions, yet he
could not rid himself of the feeling that he was running away.
From time to time he glanced at Lieutenant Defoe at the wheel of the
car. The laughter and gaiety had gone from the Frenchman's eyes. His
face was set and grim. He gripped the wheel tight with his big hands,
and every so often he flung an anxious look up into the sun filled blue
sky. Each time Dave followed his look but could see nothing. Eventually,
the question was forced from his lips.
"What's the matter, Lieutenant?" he asked. "You look worried. You think
something's going to happen?"
The French officer shrugged, and for the five hundredth time peered up
at the sky.
"Something going to happen?" he murmured. "Of course not. My neck, it is
a little stiff. It feels better when I move my head, so."
Lieutenant Defoe punctuated his words with a laugh, but that laugh did
not ring true in Dave's ears.
"You're looking for German airplanes, aren't you?" he said straight out.
"And you are worried, too, about how the army is getting along. I saw
you talking with a colonel just before we left. Did you get any news?"
"We are holding the German cows," Lieutenant Defoe said through clenched
teeth. "The English and our gallant troops are now pouring into Belgium
by the thousands. We will throw the Boche back. Yes, he shall be taught
a lesson he will not forget for a long time."
The French officer lifted one hand from the wheel, doubled it into a
rock hard fist and shook it savagely at an imaginary foe.
"This time we shall teach them a lesson, once and for all!" he cried.
"We...!"
The rest died on his lips. Rather it was changed into a cry of both
anger and surprise. At that moment the car had gone spinning around a
sharp bend in the road and there directly ahead was a scene that brought
both Defoe and Dave bolt upright in the seat. The road was black with
men, women, and children. A sea of people, and horses, and cows, and
goats, and dogs was sweeping toward them. There were wagons, and carts,
and even baby carriages piled high with household goods. And above it
all rose a constant unending babble of frightened tongues.
"Good gosh, look at them!" Dave exclaimed.
Lieutenant Defoe didn't say a word. He quickly slipped the car out of
gear and braked it to a stop. Then he climbed down onto the road and
Dave saw him slide his hand toward his holstered gun. The swarm of men,
women, and children advanced relentlessly toward them. Lieutenant Defoe
flung up one hand.
"Halt!" he bellowed at the top of his voice. "What is the meaning of
this?"
Ten thousand tongues answered his question all in the same voice.
"The Boche!" they screamed. "They have broken through. They have taken
everything. They are everywhere. They will slaughter us like cattle, if
they catch us. How far to Paris? We are tired. We have walked for hours.
Yes, for years!"
"Enough!" Lieutenant Defoe roared. "The Boche will not break through.
The soldiers of France will not permit it. You are but frightened fools,
all of you. Go back to your homes. I command you to! Go back to your
homes where you will be safe. The Boche will not harm you!"
An old, old woman clutching a bundle of clothing laughed wildly and
rushed up close to the French officer. She shook a gnarled fist in his
face and screamed at the top of her voice.
"Our soldiers? Where are they? I will tell you. They are in retreat.
There are too many of the Boche. And they have airplanes, and, tanks,
and guns. With my own eyes I have seen them shoot down anybody, and
everybody. I ask you, where is our army? And the English, where are
they? I will tell you, my Lieutenant, the Boche have killed them, killed
them all. Turn this thing around and flee for your lives. That is my
advice to you."
"Silence, old woman!" Lieutenant Defoe thundered. "Enough of such talk!
Spies have filled you with such lies. That is what they wish to do. To
scare you, and frighten you, and to make you leave your homes, and
clutter up the roads this way. Listen to me! I...."
The Frenchman roared with all the power of his lungs, but it was even
less than a faint cry in the wilderness. The long lines of terror
stricken refugees drowned him out. Like a gigantic black wave parted in
the middle they swept by on both sides of the car. The Frenchman's face
turned beet red with fury. He shouted, and ranted, and raved. But it was
all to no avail. His voice and his actions were but a waste of breath
and muscle energy. For a little while Dave tried to help him. He tried
to reason with the mass of terrified humanity sweeping by the car. He
begged, he pleaded, and he threatened, but it was as useless as
thundering at the sun to turn off its light. No one paid him any
attention. It is doubtful if anybody even heard him. Eventually he sank
down on the seat, his voice exhausted and his throat sore.
He looked helplessly at Lieutenant Defoe. The French officer was a
picture of misery, and of burning anger. Tears were in his eyes, and he
was working his mouth though no sound came off his lips. In time he got
back in the car and sank dejectedly behind the wheel.
"I am ashamed of my countrymen!" he shouted at Dave. "I am mortified
that you should see this. But this is the curse of war. The people are
like chickens when war comes. They do not stop to think or reason. They
think of nothing but fleeing for their lives. They ... they are like
children. I am ashamed."
The utter sadness and remorse in the officer's voice touched Dave
deeply. He reached over and took hold of the Lieutenant's arm and
pressed hard.
"That's okay, I understand, Lieutenant," he said. "Forget it. Look,
we'll be stuck here forever if we don't do something. Let's try and get
off to the side. I'll get out and push them aside, and you keep the car
in low gear. Okay, take it easy, Lieutenant."
Some of the anger faded from the Frenchman's eyes and the corners of his
mouth tilted in a faint smile.
"At your orders, _mon Capitaine_," he said. "Yes, you get out and warn
them away, and I shall drive the car to the side of the road."
Dave returned his smile and slid out of the car. No sooner had his feet
touched the road than he felt as though his body had been caught in the
roaring torrent of a rampaging river. Like a chip of wood he was picked
up and swept along, and it was several seconds before he was able to
regain his footing and force his way back and around to the front of the
car. There he put out both his hands and started waving the steady
stream of babbling refugees to the left and to the right.
It was tedious, heartbreaking effort, and a hundred times he came within
an ace of falling flat on the road under the crawling wheels of the
Renault. But for his young strong body pushing and shoving this way and
that Lieutenant Defoe would not have been able to move the car forward
an inch. As it was the car did not travel more than fifty yards in a
good half hour. By then Dave was drenched with his own sweat. His hat
was gone and his clothes were slowly but surely being torn from his
back.
Suddenly he saw Lieutenant Defoe at his shoulder and heard the
Frenchman's voice shouting in his ear.
"It is useless, _mon Capitaine_! It is madness. We will not get any
place with the car. The town of Beaumont is but a few _kilometres_
ahead. There is an army post there. I shall request a military car and
a driver. Ah me, I am desolate that this should happen. Here! Watch what
you are doing! You! Let go of me, my old one! _Attention!_"
At that moment the French officer had been caught in the river of
people. He struggled and he fought but he was relentlessly swept along
and away from Dave's clutching hands. In almost the same moment Dave,
himself, was caught up by the moving mass. It was either a case of
moving along with the stream or stumbling to his hands and knees and
being trampled under foot, or being run over by the heavy wheel of an ox
cart or wagon. It was absolutely impossible, and an act of sheer
suicide, to buck that packed throng.
And so Dave took the only course open to him. He moved along with the
stream of refugees and inch by inch worked his way to the edge of the
stream and into a clear space. There he paused for breath and strained
his eyes for a glimpse of Lieutenant Defoe, but the Frenchman was
nowhere to be seen. He had been virtually swallowed up by the stream of
humanity moving relentlessly and blindly forward. Dave thought of the
troops and the long lines of army cars he and Defoe had passed since
leaving Paris, and shuddered at the thought. When the army and the
populace met what would happen? Who would give way, or would anybody?
In his mind's eye he pictured other French officers like Defoe striving
to force the refugees to abandon their mad flight and return home. It
was not a pretty picture to imagine. It was not a nice situation to
contemplate. Troops with tanks and guns moving forward to meet the enemy
but instead meeting thousands and thousands of their own flesh and
blood.
"Please, God, put sense in the heads of these poor people!" Dave
breathed softly to himself. "Tell them what they should do for the sake
of France, and...."
Dave Dawson never finished that prayer. At that moment there came to his
ears a new and entirely different sound. At first he could think only of
tons of brick sliding down a slanting tin roof. Then suddenly he knew
what it was, and in that same instant the rising hysterical scream of
the passing throngs echoed his own thought.
"_Les Boches! Les Boches!_ Take cover at once!"
Like thousands upon thousands of stampeded cattle the refugees broke
ranks and went scattering madly and wildly in all directions. Carts and
wagons were left where they had come to a halt on the road with their
horses, or oxen, or dogs standing dumb eyed and drooping in their
tracks. Dave stayed where he was for an instant, not moving an inch, and
his eyes fixed upon the cluster of dots streaking down from the blue sky
high overhead. In the twinkling of an eye they ceased to be dots. They
became planes! German planes. Heinkels, and Messerschmitt 110's, and
Stuka dive bombers. Winged messengers of doom howling down upon the road
choked with wagons and carts, and countless numbers of helpless
refugees.
Even as Dave saw them the leading ships opened fire. Tongues of jetting
red flame spat downward, and the savage yammer of the aerial machine
guns echoed above the blood chilling thunder of the engines. Tearing his
eyes from that horrible sight Dave glanced back at the road. It was
still filled with frantic men, women, and children, and at the spot
directly under the diving planes bullets were cutting down human lives
as swiftly as a keen edged scythe cuts down wheat.
His feet rooted to the ground, Dave stared in horror. Then suddenly one
of the diving Stukas released its deadly bomb. The bomb struck the
ground no more than twenty feet from the edge of the road. Red, orange,
and yellow flame shot high into the air. A billowing cloud of smoke
filled with dirt, and dust, and stones fountained upward. Then a mighty
roar akin to the sound of worlds colliding seemed to hammer straight
into his face. The next thing he realized he was flat on his back on the
ground gasping and panting for air while from every direction came the
screams of the wounded and the dying.
The screams seemed to release a hidden spring inside of him and make it
possible for him to set himself into action. He scrambled to his feet,
stared wild eyed up at the diving planes and shook his fist in white
heat anger.
"You'll pay for this!" he shouted. "You'll pay for this if it takes the
Allies a thousand years. And I'll do my share in helping them too!"
As the last left his lips he suddenly saw an old woman, almost bowed
down by bundles, trying feebly to get away from the road and out from
under the roaring armada of diving death. She took a few faltering steps
and then stumbled to her knees. One withered hand was stretched out in
mute appeal to the others to help her up, but no one paused to give her
aid. Stark fear had them all in its grasp and none could be bothered
about the misfortunes of the other.
The old woman was only one in thousands and thousands, but Dave had
witnessed her sad plight and so his movements were instinctive. He
leaped forward and went dashing to her side. With one hand he grabbed
her bundles and the other hand he put under her arm.
"I'll help you, Madam," he said. "Just lean on me. I'll get you to a
safe place. Don't worry."
He had spoken in English and of course the old woman didn't understand
his words. She understood his actions, however, and there was deep
gratitude in the lined and tired face she turned toward him.
"_Merci, Monsieur, merci_," she whispered and started forward leaning
heavily on Dave's arm.
And then down out of the blue it came! Dave heard the eerie sound above
the general din but of course he didn't see the dropping bomb. He didn't
even taken the time to glance upward. He simply acted quickly. He
grabbed the old woman about the waist and hauled her to the scanty
protection of a standing wagon. There he pushed her down and bent over
her so that his body served as partial protection against what he knew
was coming.
It came! A terrific crash of sound that seemed to split the very earth
wide open. Every bone in Dave's body seemed to turn to jelly. The entire
universe became one huge ocean of flashing light and fire. The ground
rocked and trembled under his feet. Unseen hands seemed to grab hold of
him and lift him straight upward to hover motionless in a cloud of
licking tongues of colored flame. Then suddenly all became as dark as
the night, and as silent as a tomb, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER THREE
_Dave Meets Freddy Farmer_
When Dave again opened his eyes it was night. He was lying on his back
under some trees and staring up through bomb shattered branches at the
canopy of glittering and twinkling stars high overhead. For several
seconds he remained perfectly still, not moving a muscle. What had
happened? Where was he? Why was he out here under some trees in the
dark?
Those and countless other questions crowded through his brain. Then, as
though somebody had pulled a curtain aside, memory came back to him and
he knew all the answers. Of course! A Stuka bomb. It had dropped close.
He had been trying to shelter that old woman. Yet, that had been on the
road by a cart, and here he was under some trees. How come? Had the
exploding bomb blown him under the trees? Was he wounded but still too
dazed to feel any pain? Good gosh, it was night now, so he must have
been here for hours!
Thought and action became one. He put out his hands and pushed himself
up to a sitting position. Almost instantly he regretted the effort. A
hundred trip-hammers started going to work on the inside of his head.
The night and the stars began to whirl madly about him. He closed his
eyes tight, and clenched his teeth until things stopped spinning so
fast. That helped the pounding in his head, too. It simmered down to a
dull throbbing ache that he could stand without flinching.
For a few moments he sat there on the grass feeling over his body and
searching for broken bones or any wounds he might have received. There
was nothing broken, however, and his only wound was a nice big goose egg
on the left side of his head. Thankful for the miracle wrought, he got
slowly to his feet, braved a hand against a tree trunk and peered about
him in the darkness.
It was then one more little surprise came to him. He was in a field and
as far as he could tell there wasn't a road any place. No unending
stream of refugees, no wagons, no carts, and no road. It was as though
he had dropped down into the very middle of nowhere. Completely puzzled
by the strangeness of his surroundings, he glanced at the sky, found the
North Star and started walking northward. Way off in the distance there
was a faint rumbling, like thunder far far away, but he knew at once it
was the roar of heavy guns. If he needed any proof he had only to stare
toward the northeast. There the faint glow of flames made a horizon line
between the night sky and the earth.
"But where _am_ I?" he asked himself aloud. "I couldn't have just been
blown away. I haven't even got a sprained ankle. Gosh! I wonder where
the Lieutenant is? And those poor refugees. I sure hope French planes
caught those Germans and gave them some of their own medicine. And...."
He choked off the rest and started running. In the distance off to his
left he had suddenly seen a pair of moving lights. One look told him
that it must be some kind of a car on a road. He would stop it and at
least find out where he was. Perhaps he might even get a ride back to
Paris. He would be crazy to try and reach Calais, now. The best thing
for him to do was to get back to Paris as fast as he could and send word
to his father.
"But how can I?" he gasped as sudden truth dawned on him. "I don't even
know where Dad's staying in London. He was to meet me at the station. I
didn't bother to ask Lieutenant Defoe where Dad was staying!"
The seriousness of his plight added wings to his feet. He raced at top
speed toward the pair of moving dim lights. And with every step he took,
fear that he would not get to the road in time mounted in his breast.
But he had been the star half miler on the Boston Latin High School
track team, and finally he reached the edge of the road a good fifty or
sixty yards in front of the advancing pair of lights. Disregarding the
danger of being run down in the dark he stepped to the center of the
road and waved both his arms and shouted at the top of his voice. The
sound of the car's engine died down, brakes complained, and the car came
to a halt.
"I say there, what's up?" shouted a voice from behind the lights. "I
jolly well came close to running you down, you know. Just spotted you in
the nick of time."
Dave gulped with relief at the sound of an English speaking voice. He
trotted toward the lights and then around them to the driver's seat. It
was then he saw that the car was an ambulance. It was a nice brand new
one, and only a little dusty. Painted under the red cross on the side
were the words ... British Volunteer Ambulance Service.
"I say, do you speak English?" the driver asked as Dave came close.
Dave looked at him. The driver wasn't in uniform. He wore civilian
clothes, and he was about Dave's age. Perhaps a few months younger. In
the faint glow of the dashboard light his face held a sort of cherubic
expression. He wore no hat and sandy hair fell down over his forehead.
His eyes were clear blue, and he had nice strong looking teeth. One look
and Dave knew instantly that he could like this friendly English boy a
lot.
"You bet I speak English," he said. "I'm an American. My name is Dave
Dawson."
"Mine's Freddy Farmer," said the English boy. "I'm very glad to meet
you, America, but what in the world are you doing here? Good grief, look
at your clothes! Did a bomb fall on you?"
"One came mighty close," Dave said with a grin. "I just came to a few
minutes ago, and saw your lights. I'm trying to get back to Paris. Is it
far?"
"Paris?" young Freddy Farmer exclaimed. "Why, it's over a hundred miles
back. This is a part of Belgium. Didn't you know that? What happened
anyway? You say you were bombed? A nasty business, bombing."
For a moment or so Dave was too surprised to speak. This was Belgium?
But it couldn't be! Freddy Farmer must be wrong. He was sure Defoe and
he had not been seventy miles from Paris when they'd met those
refugees. Belgium? Good gosh! Did that exploding bomb blow him over
thirty miles away? But that was crazy.
"Come, get in and ride with me," the English lad broke into his
thoughts. "I can't take you back to Paris but Courtrai is just up ahead.
That's where I'm delivering this ambulance. Perhaps you can get
something there to take you back to Paris. Right you are, America. Now,
tell me all about it."
As gears were shifted and the car moved forward Dave told of his
thrilling experiences since leaving Paris that morning. Young Freddy
Farmer didn't interrupt, but every now and then he took his eyes off the
road ahead to look at Dave in frank admiration.
"Say, you did have a bit of a go, didn't you?" Freddy Farmer said when
Dave had finished. "That was mighty decent of you to try and help that
old woman. I hope she got through, all right. We heard that the Germans
were shooting and bombing the refugees. A very nasty business, but
that's the way Hitler wages war."
"I hope he gets a good licking!" Dave exclaimed. "Those poor people
didn't have a chance. They were helpless. I don't see how he thinks he
can win the war that way."
"Hitler won't win the war," the English boy said quietly. "He may have
us on the run for a bit, but in the end we'll win. Just like we did the
last time. That's part of his plan, shooting civilians on the road. I
heard a major and a colonel talking about it. You see, if his airplanes
can get the civilians to leave their homes and clog up the roads, why
then our troops have a hard time passing through. I saw some of that
sort of thing myself, today. It was awful, I can tell you. I couldn't
make any more than five miles in six hours. And it was all I could do to
stop them from taking my ambulance and using it for a bus. I wouldn't
let them, though."
Dave looked sidewise and saw how tired the English lad was. His cheeks
were slightly pale from fatigue, and his eyelids were heavy. Dave
reached out and touched the wheel.
"I've just had a pretty good sleep," he said with a laugh, "and you look
pretty much all in, Freddy. Want me to take the wheel for a spell? You
can tell me which way to go."
The English boy turned his head and smiled at him, and somehow both
suddenly knew that a deep friendship between them had been cemented.
"Thanks, awfully much, Dave," Freddy Farmer said, "but I'm not really
tired at all. Besides, there isn't far to go now. Only a few more miles,
I fancy. It's nice of you to ask, though."
"It'll still be okay if you change your mind," Dave said. "Have you been
driving an ambulance long? Do you go out and help pick up the wounded,
and stuff? I guess you've seen a lot of battles, haven't you?"
"Oh, No, I'm not really an ambulance driver, Dave. You have to be
eighteen to get in this volunteer service, and I won't be seventeen
until next month. You see, I've been going to school just outside Paris
and my family decided I'd better come home to England. Well, yesterday
several of these ambulances arrived at the Paris headquarters of the
Service. They had been shipped clear to Paris through a mistake. The
French do funny things sometimes, you know. Anyway, they were needed in
Belgium and there were no regular drivers in Paris. Not enough, anyway.
I thought it would be good fun to drive one and then carry on to the
Channel and on home to England. We left Paris at midnight last night,
and soon lost track of each other. It's been fun, though. I'll be sorry
to have the trip end."
"Jeepers, you've been driving since midnight?" Dave exclaimed. "You sure
can take it, Freddy, and how!"
"Take it?" the English boy murmured with a puzzled frown. "I don't think
I know what you mean."
Dave laughed. "That's American slang, Freddy," he said. "It means that
you've got a lot of courage, and stuff. It means that you're okay."
"Thanks, Dave," Freddy Farmer said. "But it really doesn't take any
courage. I'm very glad to do my bit, if it helps the troops any. We've
got to beat the Germans, you know. And we jolly well will, I can tell
you!"
The two boys lapsed into silence and for the next two or three miles
neither of them spoke. During that time Dave stared at the dim red glow
of burning buildings in the distance and thought his thoughts about the
war that had apparently begun in earnest. He was an American and America
was neutral, of course. Yet after what he'd seen this day he was filled
with a burning desire to do something to help beat back Hitler and
defeat him. He knew that there had been a lot of boys his age who had
taken part in the last World War. He was big for his age, too, and
strong as an ox. He decided that when he got to London and found his
father he would ask Dad if there wasn't something he could do to help.
Nothing else seemed important, now. The important thing was to help stop
all this business that was taking place in Europe.
At that moment Freddy Farmer suddenly slipped the car out of gear and
braked it to a stop.
"Yes, Freddy?"
"I'm afraid I've got us into a bit of a mess, Dave," he said. "To be
truthful, we are lost. I really haven't the faintest where we are. You
must think me a fine mug for this. I'm frightfully sorry, really."
"Wait a minute!" Dave cried out. "Here comes a car. It sounds like a
truck. Gee, what a racket!"
A pair of headlights was rapidly approaching along the road that led off
to the right. They bounced up and down because of the uneven surface,
and the banging noise of the engine made Dave think of a threshing
machine. On impulse he and Freddy Farmer moved out into the glow of the
ambulance's lights and began waving their arms. The truck or car, or
whatever it was, bore down upon them and finally came to a halt with the
grinding and clashing of gears.
"Come on, Dave, we'll find out, now!" Freddy said and trotted into the
twin beams of light.
Dave dropped into step at his side, and they had traveled but a few
yards when a harsh voice suddenly stopped them in their tracks.
"Halt!"
The two boys stood motionless, their eyes blinking into the light. Dave
heard Freddy Farmer catch his breath in a sharp gasp. He suddenly
realized that for some unknown reason his own heart was pounding
furiously, and there was a peculiar dryness in his throat. At that
moment he heard hobnailed boots strike the surface of the road. The
figure of a soldier came into the light. On his head was a bucket shaped
helmet, and in his hands was a wicked looking portable machine gun. He
moved forward in a cautious way, and then Dave was able to see his
uniform. His heart seemed to turn to ice in his chest, and his hands
suddenly felt very cold and damp.
He was looking straight at a German soldier!
CHAPTER FOUR
_Prisoners Of War!_
"Good Grief, a German!"
Freddy Farmer's whispered exclamation served to jerk Dave out of his
stunned trance. He blinked and swallowed hard and tried to stop the
pounding of his heart.
"Hey, there, we're lost!" he suddenly called out. "Where are we anyway?"
The advancing German soldier pulled up short and stopped. He stuck his
head forward and stared hard. There was a sharp exclamation behind him
and then a second figure came into the light. The second figure was a
German infantry officer. He kept one hand on his holstered Luger
automatic and came up to Dave and Freddy.
"You are English?" he asked in a heavy nasal voice. "What are you doing
here? Ah, an ambulance, eh? So, you are trying to sneak back through our
advanced lines? It is good that I have found you just in time. Keep your
hands up, both of you! I will see if you have guns, yes!"
"We're not armed, Captain!" Dave exclaimed. "We're not soldiers. We're
just lost."
"I am not a captain, I am a lieutenant!" the German snapped and searched
Dave for a gun. "You will address me as such. Not soldiers, you tell me?
Then, why this ambulance? And why are you here?"
"As you were just told," Freddy Farmer spoke up in a calm voice,
"because we are lost. Now, if you will be good enough to tell us the way
to Courtrai we will be off."
The German officer snapped his head around.
"Ah, so _you_ are English, yes?" he demanded.
"And proud of it!" Freddy said stiffly. "And this chap, if you must
know, is an American friend of mine. Now, will you tell us the way to
Courtrai?"
The German said nothing for a moment or two. There was a look of
disappointment on his sharp featured face. It was as though he was very
sad he had not found a pistol or an automatic on either of them. He
moved back a step and stood straddle legged with his bunched fists
resting on his hips.
"American and English?" he finally muttered. "This is all very strange,
very unusual. You say you don't know where you are?"
"That's right, Lieutenant," Dave said and choked back a hot retort.
"Where are we anyway? And what are you doing here? My gosh! Is this
Germany?"
The German smiled and showed ugly teeth.
"It is now," he said. "But that is all you need to know. I think you
have lied to me. Yes, I am sure of it. I will take you to the
_Kommandant_. He will get you to talk, I'm sure. _Himmel!_ Our enemies
send out little boys to spy on us! The grown men must be too afraid.
But, you cannot fool us with your tricks!"
"Tricks, nothing!" Dave blurted out in a burst of anger. "We told you
the truth. I was on my way to join my father in London...."
"Don't waste your breath, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "I'm sure
he wouldn't understand, anyway."
"Silence, you Englisher!" the German snarled and whirled on the boy.
"You will make no slurs at a German officer. Come! We will go to see the
_Kommandant_ at once!"
"We'd better do as he orders, Freddy," Dave said swiftly. "After we've
told our story to his commanding officer they'll let us go. They can't
keep us very long. If they do, I'll appeal to the nearest American
Consul. He'll straighten things out for us."
"So?" the German muttered and gave Dave a piercing look. "Well, we shall
see. If you are spies it will go very hard with you, yes. Now, march
back to the car in front of me."
The officer half turned his head and snapped something at the soldier
who had been standing in back of him. The soldier immediately sprang
into action. He hurried past and climbed into the front seat of the
ambulance. Dave impulsively took hold of Freddy's arm again.
"Don't worry, Freddy!" he whispered. "Everything, will come out all
right. You wait and see. Don't let these fellows even guess that we're
worried."
"What's that?" the German suddenly thundered. "What's that you are
saying to him?"
The officer had half drawn his Luger and the movement chilled Dave's
heart. He forced himself, though, to look the German straight in the
eye.
"I was simply telling him the American Consul would fix things up for
us," he said evenly.
The German snorted.
"Perhaps," he growled. "We shall see."
Walking straight with their heads up and their shoulders back, the two
boys permitted themselves to be herded back to the car. When they passed
beyond the glow of the headlights they were plunged into darkness and
for a moment Dave could see nothing. Then his eyes became used to the
change and he saw that the car was a combination car and truck. It was
actually an armored troop transport. Steel sheets protected the back and
the driver's seat, and instead of heavy duty tires on the rear wheels
there were tractor treads instead so that the army vehicle could travel
across country and through mud as well as along a paved road.
In the back were some fifteen or twenty German soldiers each armed with
a small machine gun and completely fitted out for scouting work. They
peered down at Dave and Freddy as the officer motioned them to get into
the transport, but none of them spoke. They either did not understand
English, or else they were too afraid of the officer to speak. And so
Dave and Freddy climbed aboard in silence and sank down on the hard
plank that served as a seat. The officer got in beside the driver and
growled a short order.
The engine roared up, gears clanked and crashed, and the transport
lunged forward. It traveled a few yards and swung off the road and
around in the direction from which it had obviously come. That direction
was to the east, and that caused Dave to swallow hard and press his knee
against Freddy's. The pressure that was returned told him that the
English boy had a good hold on himself, and wasn't going to do anything
foolish.
Glad of that, Dave stared ahead over the shoulder of the driver at the
road. At various points the pavement had been torn up by a bomb or by a
shell and the transport's driver was forced to detour around such spots.
Presently, wrecked ammunition wagons, and light field artillery pieces
were to be seen, strewn along the side of the road. They were all
smashed almost beyond recognition, and close by them were the death
stilled figures of Belgian soldiers, and refugees who had been unable to
escape the swiftly advancing German hordes.
Suddenly the sound of airplane engines lifted Dave's eyes up to the
skies. He could not see the planes, they were too high. However the
pulsating beat of the engines told him they were Hitler's night bombers
out on patrol. Impulsively he clenched his two fists and wished very
much he was up there in a swift, deadly pursuit or fighter plane. He had
taken flying lessons back home, and had even made his first solo. But he
had not been granted his private pilot's license yet because of his age.
"But I'd like to be up there in a Curtis P-Forty!" he spoke aloud. "I
bet I could do something, or at least try!"
His words stiffened Freddy Farmer at his side. The English boy leaned
close.
"Are you a pilot, Dave?" he whispered. "Do you fly?"
"Some," Dave said. "I've gone solo, anyway. I hope some day to get
accepted for the Army Air Corps. I think flying is the best thing yet.
There's nothing like it. Hear those planes up there? Boy!"
"They're German," Freddy said. "Heinkel bombers, I think. Or perhaps
they are Dorniers, I can't tell by the sound. I'm crazy about flying,
too. I joined an aero club back in England. I've got a few hours solo to
my credit. When war broke out I tried to enlist in the Royal Air Force,
but they found out about my age and it was no go, worse luck. But, some
day I'm going to wear R.A.F. wings. At least, I hope and pray so. I...."
"Silence!" the German officer's harsh voice grated against their
eardrums once more. "You will not speak!"
"A rum chap, isn't he?" Freddy breathed out the corner of his mouth.
"Sure thinks he's a big shot," Dave breathed.
And then as the transport continued to rumble and roll eastward Nature
took charge of things as far as the boys were concerned. Strong and
healthy though they were, they had been through a lot since dawn. It had
been more than enough to wear down a full grown man. And soon they fell
sound asleep.
The rasping and clanging of gears and the shouting of voices in German
eventually dragged Dave out of his sound slumber. It was still dark but
he could see the first faint light of a new dawn low down in the east.
The motorized transport had come to a stop in the center of a small
village. Dave could see that here, too, shells and bombs had been at
work, but lots of the buildings remained untouched. There were German
soldiers in all kinds of uniforms all over the place. A hand was slapped
against his shoulder and he looked up to stare into the small bright
eyes of the German lieutenant.
"Wake up your friend!" the German snapped, "We are here. Get out, both
of you!"
"Where are we?" Dave asked and gently shook Freddy Farmer who was fast
asleep on his shoulder. "What town is this, Lieutenant?"
The German smiled slyly. Then annoyance flashed through his eyes. He
whipped out a hand and took a steel grip on Freddy's shoulder and shook
viciously.