instruments, of course, were all marked in German, but he knew enough of
that language to read them. The altimeter needle was quivering close to
the six thousand foot mark. He decided that was high enough and leveled
off the climb onto even keel. Then he took a moment or so to glance down
at the ground below to try and get his bearings. The first thing he saw
was a small village off to his left. One look at it and his heart leaped
over in his chest. He saw the hill and the single main street along
which trucks and armored cars and motorized units of artillery were
passing in a steady, endless stream. The town of Estalle? It seemed to
be almost directly under him. The truth made him shiver and lick his
lower lip.
If that was Estalle and he was positive it was, he and Freddy couldn't
have traveled more than eight or nine miles toward the north during
their wild flight last night. Maybe twice that number of miles going
around in circles, but certainly not more than ten miles in the
direction they wanted to go.
A rap on his shoulder turned him around in the seat. Freddy was pointing
at the village of Estalle and pursing his lips in a silent whistle. Dave
got the idea and nodded, and wiped make believe sweat from his forehead
with his free hand. Then he turned front and glanced at the sun in an
effort to decide which direction was due west. Of course there was a
compass on the instrument panel but something was obviously wrong with
it. The needle was spinning around the balanced card dial.
That fact didn't worry him in the slightest, though. He remembered a tip
a First World War flying ace had once given him about finding your
direction in Europe when you were lost and your compass was out of
whack. It was very simple, too. In the morning, if you could see the
sun, all you had to do was keep the sun on your tail and you would be
sure to be flying west. And so Dave applied the rudder until the sun
was mostly on his tail, and gave his attention to the spread of ground
ahead.
What he saw made him suck air sharply into his lungs. Rather, it was a
case of what he didn't see. The entire western horizon seemed to be one
huge cloud of dirty grey smoke streaked here and there with tongues of
livid red and orange and yellow flame. It was as though the whole of
Belgium was on fire. Closer to him was a long even-banked river that cut
down across the countryside from the northwest to the southeast. He was
staring hard at it thinking it was a very peculiar looking river when he
suddenly felt Freddy hitting him on the shoulder again.
"That's the famous Prince Albert Canal!" the English youth shouted above
the roar of the engine. "It's very strongly fortified. A sort of Belgian
Maginot Line. The Germans can't possibly have crossed it, yet. If we can
just get by there, Brussels is not very far off. We could land there."
"Germans not crossing it?" Dave yelled and pointed. "Look down there to
the left. They're swarming across it like bees. Gee, there must be a
million pontoon bridges thrown across that canal. And, gosh, look at all
those Stuka dive bombers!"
It was all too true. Hitler's relentlessly advancing forces had smashed
the Albert Canal defenses to smoking rubble, thus forcing the Belgian
army to retreat to the south side of the Canal. And now as German
troops, and their swiftly striking Panzer division were rushing across
pontoon bridges to strike more blows at the Belgians, hundreds of Stuka
dive bombers were blasting death and destruction into the ranks of the
enemy. The sight of it all made Dave's heart turn to ice in his chest.
History, terrible History was being written down there by the Albert
Canal, and his heart was on fire with an even more blazing desire to do
something for the cause of justice and civilization.
But first he had another job to do, and he lifted his gaze and peered at
the smoke and flame filled sky ahead. Besides smoke and flame there were
countless numbers of planes streaking and darting around in all
directions. The air was practically filled with them. There was layer
after layer of planes reaching from low down over the battle grounds
right up to the sun. And insofar as he could tell at the distance not a
single one of them was of Allied design. They were all German.
At that moment Freddy pounded on his shoulder for the third time. And
the voice that screamed in his ear rang with fright and alarm.
"More speed, Dave! Look behind us. There's a plane, a Messerschmitt. I
think it's chasing us. They might even try to shoot us down. What'll we
do, Dave?"
"What'll we do?" Dave echoed and glanced back at the sleek needle shaped
plane with its low monoplane wing. "We'll keep on going. They may not
try to shoot at us. Once we get on the other side of the Canal, we'll be
safe. We'll go down and land."
But even as Dave spoke the words to give good cheer to Freddy his own
heart was pounding with fear. The other plane was drawing up on them as
an express train overtakes a slow freight. He could see now that it was
a Messerschmitt One-Ten. A moment later he saw the gunner-observer in
the rear pit shove back his bullet proof glass cockpit hatch and stand
up and wave signals with both his arms. Those signals plainly said for
them to go down and land at once, but Dave pretended that he hadn't
seen. He rammed the palm of his free hand hard against the already wide
open throttle, as though if in so doing he might get increased speed out
of the plane.
It was no more than a futile gesture, however. In the matter of seconds
the Messerschmitt had pulled right up along side them. Dave turned and
looked across the air space that separated the two planes. His heart
zoomed up his throat so fast it almost bumped up against his back
teeth. The German observer was still sending signals to land, but not
with his arms and hands, now. He was doing it with the aerial machine
gun fixed to the swivel mounting that circled the rim of his cockpit. He
was pointing the gun at them and then tilting it down toward the ground
as he nodded his helmeted head vigorously.
Dave stared at the gun as though hypnotized. The blood pounded in his
temples, and his whole body was on fire one instant and icy cold the
next. There was death staring straight at him, and he could hardly force
his brain to think. He knew he couldn't just keep on flying. He had to
do something or the German would open fire and turn their plane into a
blazing inferno. On the other hand, his fighting heart refused to
surrender and go back and face the ugly wrath of that Colonel Stohl. For
this Messerschmitt had unquestionably been sent out after them at the
Colonel's orders. Who knew? Perhaps Colonel Stohl had been the German he
had seen climb out of the observer's pit of this very Arado he was now
trying to fly to safety behind the Belgian lines. It would have been
very easy for the German to phone the nearest air field and have a plane
sent out after them.
_Tac-a-tac-a-tac-a-tac!_
Jetting tongues of flame leaped out from the muzzle of the machine gun
in the other plane. The savage yammer sound smashed against Dave's ears
even as he saw the wavy trails of tracer smoke cut across in front of
the nose of his plane. The yammer of the gun snapped him into action and
sent his eyes darting to the cowled nose of the Arado. His heart seemed
to cry out when he saw that the plane carried no guns. On impulse he
twisted his head around to Freddy's pit, but there, too, disappointment
mocked him. The plane was not armed! It was probably just a courier
plane used far behind the lines on safe missions only.
As he looked into Freddy's eyes he saw reflected there his own bitter
thoughts. They were completely at the mercy of that Messerschmitt flying
along wing to wing with them. Unskilled and untrained though they were
in aerial combat, it was heartrending not to be able to put up some kind
of a battle for their lives.
"It was a good try, Dave!" he heard Freddy call out. "But I guess it's
no use, now. The beggars have us on the spike for fair. There's nothing
we can do but go down and land, as they want us to."
As though the German in the other plane had actually heard the English
youth's words, a second warning burst of shots rattled out to streak
across in front of the Arado's nose. Unconsciously Dave nodded his head,
and reached out his hand to haul back the throttle. His hand froze in
mid air, instead. At that moment he had glanced down at the ground below
and ahead. What he saw made fierce, frenzied determination explode in
his heart!
They were almost directly over the Albert Canal. He could clearly see
the Belgian troops digging in on the south side, wheeling guns into
position, and throwing out rear guard action units. Not a mile, not even
a half mile from safety. It was too much for Dave. The fighting American
spirit of Lexington and Concord flamed up in his chest. He wouldn't do
it! He wouldn't give in without a try. He'd fool those Germans in the
Messerschmitt One-Ten even if it was the last thing he ever did. Let
them try to shoot him down. Just let them try! There were German planes
all around, now. And that fact alone was to his advantage. The
Messerschmitt gunner would have to take care not to hit one of his own.
"Dave! He means it this time! We've got to turn back!"
He heard Freddy's voice as though it came from a thousand miles away.
But he didn't pay the slightest bit of attention. Didn't so much as
shake his head. His whole body was cold and numb with fear of what he
was about to attempt. But in his brain there was but one thought; one
great overwhelming determination of purpose.
He whipped out his hand and eased back the throttle and let the nose
drop. At the same time he applied stick and rudder as though he was
going to send the plane around and down in a gliding turn that would
take them back east. As the plane started to turn he shot a quick side
glance at the Messerschmitt. His heart was ready to explode with joy.
The German observer had seen the movement of the Arado and wrongly
guessed its meaning! The man nodded his head, and let go of his gun and
sank down on his seat.
The instant Dave saw the German sink down on the seat he belted the
throttle wide open again and shoved the stick forward until the Arado
was prop howling down in an almost vertical dive.
"Hold fast!" he shouted at Freddy without turning his head. "They
haven't got us yet, and they won't get us if I've got anything to say
about it."
Bracing himself against the speed of the dive, and keeping his mouth
open so that his eardrums would not snap and perhaps break, he held
himself hunched forward over the controls, and fixed both eyes on the
flame and smoke smeared ground below. The smoke and flames seemed to
leap up toward him at rocket speed. Out of the corner of his eye he
caught flash glimpses of Stuka dive bombers cutting through the air at
terrific speed. Then from up in back of him he heard the deadly chatter
of German aerial machine guns.
He didn't bother to look back to see if the Messerschmitt was on his
tail. That would be but a waste of effort. Instead he jammed hard on the
left rudder and sent the Arado swerving crazily off to the side. The
guns above him continued to hammer and snarl, but he heard no bullets
snicking past his ears. He could hear only the thunderous roar of his
own B.M.W. engine.
Then suddenly the Prince Albert Canal flashed by under his nose and was
gone from view. He was safely across it and right over the Belgian
troops! However, it was simply a case of roaring out of one danger zone
into another. He completely forgot he was flying a plane with German
markings. Naturally, when the Belgian soldiers saw the Swastika painted
plane streaking down at them they let go at it with everything they had.
Perhaps it was one of those freak things of war, or perhaps the gods
were truly smiling upon Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. At any rate not
a single Belgian bullet hit the diving Arado, and a moment later Dave
hauled the ship out of its mad dive and went streaking along to the rear
of the Belgian lines. But before he had traveled more than a couple of
miles he once more heard the snarl of aerial machine gun fire behind
him. And this time there was more to it than just the sound!
The Arado suddenly bucked and quivered as though it had been smashed by
the fist of some huge invisible giant of the skies. The vicious movement
of the plane tore Dave's hands from the controls and flung him over so
hard he cracked his head on the cockpit rim and saw stars for a brief
instant or so. Then as his senses cleared again and he grabbed hold of
the controls once more, the engine in the nose coughed and sputtered and
shot out a cloud of black smoke ... and died cold.
Realization and action were one for Dave, and so the first thing he did
was to yank back the throttle and cut off the ignition. When that was
done he shoved the nose down and peered hopefully at the ground no more
than five hundred feet below him. A groan of despair rose out of his
throat to spill off his lips. He couldn't see a smooth patch of ground
down there big enough for a fly to sit down on. True there were lots of
fields, but they were pock marked from one end to the other with shell
and bomb craters. There was one spot where he might possibly land
without crashing too badly. But crash he would. That was certain. There
was nothing to do but try it ... and pray!
"A crash coming, Freddy!" he yelled back over his shoulder. "Hold
everything, and hang on hard!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Fighting Hearts_
As Dave glided the crippled Arado down toward the bomb and shell marked
field the icy fingers of fear were curled tightly about his heart. He
had made one or two forced landings in his short flying career, but they
had been like setting down a plane on a gigantic billiard table compared
to the task he now faced. If he under-shot the patch of ground he was
aiming at he would go plowing straight into a battery of Belgian
artillery guns hurling shells across the Albert Canal into the
on-rushing German hordes. And if he over-shot the field or swerved too
much to the right or left he would go crashing into a maze of shell
blasted tree stumps which would tear the plane to shreds and snuff out
his life, and Freddy's, as easily as one snuffs out the flame of a
candle.
His only hope lay in hitting the field in the center and checking the
forward roll of the plane so that when it did slide over and down into
one of the bomb craters the crash impact wouldn't be too violent. In
his heart he knew that he stood but one chance in a thousand of coming
out of the crash uninjured. But there was no other way out, the die had
been cast. The engine had been hit and was dead. There was only one way
to go, and that was down.
On impulse he jerked his head around and looked back. It seemed as
though he had not heard Freddy's voice in a year or more, and sudden
panic swept through him. Was Freddy all right? Had he been hit, and was
that why he had not spoken? In the brief instant it took to jerk his
head around and look back, Dave died a hundred agonizing deaths.
Luck, however, was still riding the cockpits with them. The English
youth was still alive, and very much so, too. His lips were drawn back
in a tight grin even though his face was white, and there was a sort of
glazed, glassy look in his eyes. Being a pilot, himself, Freddy knew
exactly what it was all about. He had sense enough not to try any back
seat driving in the emergency. He was leaving everything to Dave, and
trusting in his friend's judgment. He sat perfectly still in the seat,
his arms half raised and ready to throw them across his face when they
hit in order to protect himself as much as possible.
Sitting still and showing his faith in Dave by the tight grin on his
lips. That realization gave Dave new courage as he turned front again.
The ground was just under his wheels, now. He would not under-shoot the
field, nor would he over-shoot it either. He had proved his flying skill
thus far. The rest was ... was in the lap of the gods!
Ten feet off! Nine feet, eight ... seven ... six! He was hugging the Dep
wheel now all the way back against his stomach to bring the nose up just
a few more inches before the ship stalled and dropped. His whole body
sensed that moment of stalling; that moment when the lift of the wings
was absolutely nil. He sensed it now and instantly let go of the stick,
buried his head in his arms, and let his whole body go limp.
For two seconds, or perhaps it was for two long years, the Arado seemed
to hang motionless in the air. Then suddenly it dropped belly first like
a rock. The wheels hit hard and the ship was bounced back up into the
air again. It hit again, and bounced again. It hit once more and Dave
felt the tail wheel catch on something and send the ship plunging
crazily off to the right. He jammed hard on the left rudder to
counteract the movement, but it was too late. Fate had placed a huge
German bomb crater in the way. The plane slithered over the lip of the
crater and charged dizzily downward.
Memory of a wild ride on a Coney Island roller coaster streaked through
Dave's brain. And then the plane careened up on its side, and half up on
its nose. It swayed there with its tail pointing up at the sky. It
twisted twice around and then fell over on its back with a jarring thud.
An invisible giant reached out a fist and punched Dave hard on the
chest. The air in his lungs whistled out through his mouth, and for
horrible seconds colored lights whirled around in his brain, and the
entire universe was filled with roaring, crashing thunder.
The spell passed in a moment, and he found himself hanging head downward
on his safety harness. His first thought was for Freddy, and he
struggled to twist around and look back, but he couldn't make it.
"Freddy!" he yelled in a choking voice. "Are you all right?"
A heart chilling instant of silence greeted his question, and then came
Freddy's faint reply.
"Not hurt a bit, Dave! But the blasted safety harness broke, and I'm
down here in a beastly puddle of mud. Can you give me a hand?"
Reaction set in and Dave laughed hysterically, and tore at his safety
belt buckles. He got them unfastened and grabbed hold of the sides of
the cockpit before he went plunging down into the muddy bottom of the
bomb crater, himself. He twisted over and landed feet first. It was
then he had his first look at Freddy. The English lad was plopped down
on the seat of his pants in a good eight inches of mud. And there was
mud from the top of his head all the way down. He had obviously landed
square on his head but had managed to squirm around and sit up before
the sticky yellow ooze suffocated him. Right at the moment he was pawing
the stuff off his face so he could see.
Dave plowed around to him and caught him under the armpits, and heaved.
Freddy's body coming up out of the mud sounded like somebody pulling a
cork from a bottle. Still hanging onto him, Dave ducked under a section
of the crumpled wing and hauled and tugged them both up out of the
crater on to firm dry ground. Then he dug a handkerchief from his pocket
and started wiping off Freddy's face.
"Boy, do you look a sight, Freddy!" he chuckled. Then in a more serious
tone, "I'm darn sorry, Freddy. That sure was a rotten landing. I guess I
thought I was too good. I should have let you do the flying."
Freddy snorted and squinted at him out of one eye.
"Rotten landing?" he gasped. "Good grief, they can't fly any better than
that in the R.A.F., Dave. I thought sure we'd both be killed. And
neither of us has so much as a scratch. You couldn't have done it any
better, Dave. Honest!"
"Thanks," Dave grinned. "But it was all luck. And I was scared stiff.
Thank goodness those Messerschmitt guys were such punk shots. Now, wipe
some more off, and we'll...."
Dave cut off the rest short and spun around. A squad of Belgian infantry
men was racing across the field toward them. The bayonets on their
rifles glistened in the sun, and the cries of wild men were bursting
from their lips. The truth hit Dave in the flick of an eye. Those
Belgians took them for two members of the Nazi Air Force, and they were
racing over to get vengeance for what those Stuka dive bombers had been
doing to them. Even as the truth came to Dave one of the running
soldiers threw his rifle up to his shoulder and fired. The bullet cut
past Dave's face so close he could almost feel its heat. He leaped in
front of Freddy who was still wiping his face and flung up both hands.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" he yelled in French. "We're not Germans!
America! England! Don't shoot! _Vive les Allies!_"
The Belgian soldiers rushed up to him and leveled their rifles at his
stomach. They were a vicious looking lot, but they had been made that
way by the fury of war hurled down on them for the last seventy-two
hours or more. Their eyes were bloodshot, and their faces were caked
with dried blood and dirt. Their beards were sodden messes, and their
uniforms were torn and ripped to rags. Their rifles were the only clean
thing about them.
One of them with corporal chevrons on his tattered tunic sleeve stepped
forward until the tip of his wicked looking bayonet was within an inch
of Dave's neck.
"You are Boches!" he shouted and nodded at the wrecked plane. "We saw
you dive down on us. Well, you will not dive again. We shall...."
"Wait, wait!" Dave shouted in wild alarm. "I tell you we are not German.
He's English, and I'm an American. We have just escaped from Germany. We
were prisoners there. We have to get to Allied Headquarters at once. We
have valuable information."
The Belgian corporal hesitated and looked puzzled. His men obviously did
not believe Dave. They made snarling sounds in their throats and
shuffled forward a bit. Dave opened his mouth to explain some more, but
Freddy beat him to the punch. The young English boy suddenly stepped
forward and a stream of words poured from his thin lips. He had lived
many years on the Continent and he knew how to deal with either the
French or the Belgians.
"Listen to me, you lugger heads!" he ranted at them. "My friend speaks
the truth. We have just escaped from Germany, and we have important
information. Take us to your commanding officer at once, do you hear? Do
we look like Germans? Of course not! Where are your heads, your brains?
Have you not seen us risk our lives trying to reach this side of the
lines? Take us to your commanding officer. He may even recommend you for
a medal. You hear me? Take us to your commanding officer or I shall make
a personal complaint to the Commander in Chief of British Army Staff,
General Caldwell. Attention, at once! Take us to your commanding
officer, _now!_"
Grins slowly appeared on the faces of the battle wearied Belgian
soldiers. The corporal chuckled and lowered his bayonet from Dave's
throat.
"The little one spits fire when he speaks," he murmured and nodded his
head. "No, I do not believe now that you are Germans. But you had a very
lucky escape, my two little ones. We do not feel very pleased today. Nor
will we be happy for a long time to come, I am afraid. It looks bad,
very bad. Come! I will take you to my Lieutenant."
"It looks bad?" Freddy asked quickly. "Can't you hold them? Aren't the
British and the French helping?"
The Belgian corporal shrugged and wiped his tired eyes with a dirt and
mud smeared hand.
"It is possible," he grunted. "I do not know. We hear very little except
the guns and those cursed bombs. But, there are no British or French
here. Only Belgians. And we cannot stop them. We have not the men, or
the guns, or the tanks. And planes? Where are all our planes? Look at
the sky! It is filled with nothing but Boche planes. Yes, my little one,
it looks very bad. But we are not afraid to die. No!"
The soldier shrugged again, then nodded with his head and started
trudging back across the field, trailing his rifle as though it weighed
a ton instead of a few pounds or so. Freddy and Dave dropped into step
with the others and went along. Nobody spoke. Nobody but the bombs and
the shells but a few miles away, and rapidly drawing closer. Dave leaned
toward Freddy.
"Boy, can you dish out their language!" he breathed. "But I don't blame
them. They must have been through something terrible. It's a wonder they
didn't shoot and ask questions afterward."
"Yes," Freddy said in a dull voice. "I wonder where the French and the
British are? I hope they can get here in time."