resentment toward the Nazis flamed up in his brain. Then he suddenly
realized that Freddy was creeping forward on all fours, so he dropped to
the ground himself and followed. At the end of a few yards they came to
a break in the trees that gave them a view of a large field in the
distance. Three light German tanks were parked in the field. A helmeted
figure, probably an officer, was standing up in the gun turret of each.
Some sixty yards in front of the tanks two German soldiers were bending
over a motionless figure on the ground. It was now too dark for Dave to
get a good view of the crumpled figure on the ground. But he knew he
didn't need a clear view. That Belgian Sergeant would never drive them
to Namur, now.
"The dirty rotters, the swine!" he heard Freddy's hoarse whisper at his
side. "Three light tanks against one poor Belgian sergeant. He was a
decent chap, too. Blast Hitler, I say!"
"The same for the whole bunch of them!" Dave breathed angrily. "Boy, I
wish I had a machine gun right now. I'd give them plenty!"
"Not against tanks, I fancy," Freddy said. "Well, that cooks it. We've
got to go it alone. Look! They're starting off again. Now, if they just
head...!"
The English youth let his voice trail off, but he didn't have to finish
the sentence as far as Dave was concerned. He had the same thought. If
the tanks turned off to the right the scouting car would not be
discovered and they could continue their journey in it. But if the tanks
turned to the left, toward the woods in which they crouched, it would be
good-bye scouting car. The tanks would spot it for sure, and blow it to
bits with their armor piercing guns if they didn't take it for their own
use.
Dave's heart seemed to stop beating, and he held his breath, as the
tank engines clattered up into life and the metal clad ground bugs
started to move forward. Then suddenly he wanted to yell with relief.
The farthest tank from them wheeled around on its treads to the right.
The second tank in line followed suit, and then the third. Making a
racket that echoed and reechoed back and forth across the war swept
countryside, the squadron of tanks moved out of the field, rumbled down
over the lip of a slope in the ground and were soon lost to view. Dave
let the air out of his lungs and whistled softly.
"Boy, is that a break for us!" he grunted. "We can use that scouting
car, now."
"You're jolly well right we can!" Freddy cried and leaped to his feet.
"It's a Renault, too, and I've driven Renaults lots."
"Then you're elected," Dave said. "So let's go!"
In less than a minute they were back in the scouting car and Freddy was
kicking the engine into life. The instant it roared up he shifted into
gear and sent the car rolling around to the left in the direction the
dead Belgian Sergeant had indicated.
"I hope he knew what he was talking about!" Freddy yelled above the
sound of the clashing of gears. "After that crazy ride I'm not sure at
all where we are. But, I'll recognize that Namur road when we come to
it. One of the few decent roads in Belgium. Well, we're off!"
The English youth punctuated the last by ramming the car into high and
stepping on the gas. Dave's head snapped back and he grabbed wildly for
a hold and found one.
"Gosh, you and that Sergeant!" he gasped. "But, it's okay, now. Let her
rip, Freddy. Say! It's plenty different riding in the front seat of one
of these things, isn't it?"
It was different, too. It was much easier on the bones and tender spots
of the human body. Though the car was racing across a rough uneven
surface, Dave didn't get half the bouncing around sitting up front. But
suddenly when a group of trees came rushing at them and Freddy yanked
down on the wheel and swerved past with but a couple of feet to spare,
Dave felt his hair stand up straight on his head.
"It's fun driving one of these things!" he heard Freddy shout. "A
Renault's a good bus. My father has one."
"Sure, but I'm the passenger, don't forget!" Dave shouted back. "How
about some lights? It's getting pretty dark."
"I guess we'd better," Freddy replied and flicked up a switch on the
dashboard.
Two pale beams of light swept out in front of the car. They helped some,
but they were considerably dimmed so as not to be easily spotted from
the air. And they most certainly didn't put Dave much at ease. Dark
objects continued to whip into view and then go slipping by as Freddy
skillfully wrenched the wheel this way or that. And then suddenly they
bounced out of a field onto a dirt road. They had actually turned on to
the road and were tearing along it toward the west before Dave realized
they were on it.
"Holy smokes, you're good, and no fooling!" he cried. "You sure know how
to drive. Well, the Sergeant was right about this road anyway. Wonder
how far it is to the main road? Hey, what's the idea of stopping?"
Freddy had suddenly slammed on the brakes, swung to the side of the
road, and switched off the lights.
"Planes," he said. "Hear them? They might see our lights. Thought so.
They're German, and low, too!"
"And coming right toward us!" Dave said as he twisted around in the
seat. "Gee, you've got ears, too!"
Throbbing, pulsating thunder was rolling toward them out of the sky. The
planes were not more than a couple of thousand feet up in the sky, and
from the sound there were at least a couple of squadrons of them. The
two boys squinted up at the now dark sky, and then suddenly they saw
the armada of wings sweeping forward against the stars. They showed no
lights, but it was easy to pick them out by the bluish glow of the
engine exhaust plumes trailing backward.
"Gee, there's a hundred of them, at least!" Dave breathed. "They look
like Heinkels to me. Wonder where they're headed? Gosh, look at them,
Freddy. Aren't they something?"
Freddy didn't reply. He sat peering up at the death armada as it winged
by, and Dave suddenly saw the frown on his friend's face.
"What are you frowning about?" he asked.
"I'm wondering," Freddy replied. "Unless I'm mistaken those chaps are
heading for the same place we are. Namur. Yes, I'm almost sure of it!"
"So what?" Dave murmured.
"So I fancy there'll be very little of it left," Freddy said. "I'll bet
you five pounds they know Belgian G.H.Q. is at Namur, and they're going
over there to knock it out. Well, all we can do is keep on going, I
guess."
The roar of the bombers was fading away to the south. Freddy started the
car again and switched on the lights. At the end of five minutes or so
they suddenly came upon a well paved broad highway.
"That poor Belgian Sergeant was right, bless him!" Freddy shouted
happily and turned south on the road.
"Yes, but look!" Dave yelled and pointed ahead. "Look at that red glow
way down there. Gee, it looks like the whole horizon is on fire. And,
hey! Hear that? Hear those sounds. I bet that's those planes dropping
bombs."
"And I bet that's Namur!" Freddy cried and speeded up the car. "Blast
it, we're too late I'm afraid, Dave. Belgian H.Q. has probably cleared
out long ago. We'll never find them there, if that's Namur!"
For the next few minutes neither of the boys spoke. They both sat tense
in the seat staring at the ever increasing red glow that mounted higher
and higher up into the horizon sky. A red glow that was mixed with
streaks of yellow, and flashes of vivid orange. And all the time the
_br-r-ump! br-r-ump! br-r-ump_ of detonating high explosive bombs came
to them above the roar of the scouting car's engine. In a weird sort of
way it reminded Dave of a movie he had once seen. He couldn't remember
the title but it was a movie about the world coming to an end. The
scenic effects had been like what he was witnessing now. Only they
hadn't been half so vivid nor so heart chilling as this. That had been a
movie. This was real war. Way off there in the distance a city was
probably dying. The bombs of war-making maniacs were smashing a living
city into powdery ruins. It was like a horrible nightmare. And it was,
because it was true!
Freddy suddenly slowing down the car made Dave tear his eyes from the
terrifying spectacle in the distance. He looked at his friend in sudden
alarm.
"What's the matter, Freddy?" he asked.
The English youth pointed down the highway.
"Lights coming our way," he said. "We'd better pull over and see what's
what. I was going to stop, anyway. There's something strange about this,
Dave."
"Yes, and I know what you mean, too!" Dave said as he suddenly realized.
"The highway's been empty ever since we came onto it. We haven't passed
a thing, or met anything."
"Right you are," Freddy nodded. "I've been wondering about that. But,
we're meeting something, now. I say, that's not a car. The lights aren't
together. They must be motorcycles."
"They are!" Dave said. "Hear their motors? Boy, are they stepping
along."
"Phew!" Freddy suddenly cried out. "Supposing they're German? We'd
better hop out and...."
"Too late, now!" Dave cried as the lights swerved toward their side of
the road. "They've seen our lights. And, here they are, too!"
The last word had no more than left Dave's lips than two army
motorcycles roared up beside the car and brakes screamed to a halt. Dave
saw two shadowy figures vault from the saddles and then the white beam
of a flashlight flung straight into his face blinded him. The blood
running out of his face felt like cold water. He tried to shout that
they were not soldiers but the words would not come. Then he almost
sobbed aloud as a sharp voice spoke in French.
"Who are you? What is this? _Nom de Dieu!_ Two boys in a scouting car.
Well, have you lost your tongues? What is all this, I ask?"
"We are trying to reach General Boulard's headquarters," Freddy said
before Dave could open his mouth. "We have important information. Will
you please take that light out of my eyes? We are not armed, as you can
see."
The bright light was lowered but it was several seconds before the boys
could adjust their eyes to the sudden change from brilliant light to
almost pitch darkness. Then they saw two Belgian corporals with dispatch
rider brassards fastened about the left sleeve of their tunics. Each had
his army pistol drawn and held ready for use.
"General Boulard?" one of them grunted. "Why do you wish to see him,
eh? And what are you doing in this scouting car? So you stole it, yes?
And I suppose you were planning to take it to your family and fill it
with your family's furniture? Well...."
"Nuts!" Dave suddenly yelled at them. "We're not Belgians. He's English,
and I'm American. We've escaped from Germany with valuable information.
A Belgian lieutenant gave us this car, and with a sergeant to drive it.
He's back there dead. We almost bumped into three German tanks, and...."
"German tanks?" one of the dispatch riders broke in excitedly. "Where?"
"Back over there a ways," Dave said and pointed in the general direction
from whence they had come. "Is General Boulard's headquarters still in
Namur?"
The dispatch riders didn't answer at once. They looked at each other,
shrugged, and looked quite alarmed.
"If these infants saw Boche tanks," one of them murmured, "then it must
be a flanking movement to cut us off from Brussels. We must continue on
at once!"
"At once!" his partner agreed and turned to his motorcycle.
"I say there, wait!" Freddy shouted angrily. "Is General Boulard at
Namur?"
"There is nothing at Namur, except death and the cursed Boches!" one of
the dispatch riders shouted. "We go to the General's new headquarters,
now. Follow us and we will show you the way. But, hurry! If you did see
tanks where you say, then we are practically surrounded by the swine.
There is not a moment to lose, unless you care to be shot or at best
taken prisoner by the butchers!"
As though to give emphasis to their words the dispatch riders vaulted
onto their saddles and opened up their motorcycle engines in a roar of
sound that seemed to bounce clear up to the stars and back again. They
were off like a shot and over a hundred yards ahead before Freddy could
turn the small scouting car around. But once he had it turned around the
young English youth didn't waste any time. He fairly flew after the two
motorcycles while Dave clung fast to the side of the car and silently
marveled some more at Freddy's masterful driving.
The Belgians roared a mile up the road, then swerved off to the left
onto a road that led toward the northwest.
"They're heading for Brussels, I'm pretty sure!" Freddy shouted as the
wind howled past the car. "That Sergeant was right when he said it looks
bad. It not only looks, but _is_!"
"The Germans sure must be pretty deep into the country," Dave agreed.
"They.... Hey, Freddy! Gosh ... look! The whole road is exploding!
_Freddy_...!"
The road ahead had suddenly burst open to spout a sea of blinding light
and crashing sound. The two dispatch riders seemed to melt into it and
disappear. Invisible hands grabbed hold of the small scouting car and
tossed it straight up into the air. From a million miles away Dave heard
Freddy screaming his name. Then he had the feeling of spinning end over
end off through space that was filled with white hot fire and billowing
thick black smoke. A hundred million wild, crazy thoughts whirled around
in his brain, and then everything turned black, and became as silent as
the grave.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Orders From Headquarters_
It was a kindly face, and the smile was warm and friendly, yet somehow
Dave Dawson couldn't keep it in focus. It would be close to him one
moment and seem very real. Then a cloud would pass across in front of it
and the face would fade out completely. He felt as though he had been
trying to hold that face in his vision for years and years. He knew that
the mouth was talking to him, too, but he couldn't hear a word.
Everything was so still and quiet about him, and so white. Everything
that his eyes could see was white ... except that kind looking face.
He'd stare at it hard, trying to bold it in focus, and then his eyes
would become so heavy, and his brain would become so sleepy. He guessed
that was the trouble; why he couldn't keep seeing that face for very
long at a time. He'd fall off to sleep.
Or was he actually asleep all the time and was this a dream? But why was
he sleeping? He shouldn't be sleeping. He remembered, now! He and
Freddy were following those two Belgian dispatch riders toward General
Boulard's headquarters. Something funny, though, had happened. What
could it have been? Surely he hadn't just fallen off to sleep while
Freddy stuck to the wheel. _No_, of course not! More of it was coming
back! There had been a terrific explosion in the road ahead, and the two
dispatch riders had disappeared right into it. Yes, he remembered now
what had happened. But, where was he? Why was everything white? Why was
that kind looking, smiling face fading away from him so often? And why
couldn't he hear those words the moving lips were saying? Was he dead?
Was this what it was like when you died? And Freddy! Where was his pal,
Freddy Farmer? He tried to find suitable answers in his brain, but his
head ached so, and looking at that fading face made him so sleepy ... so
sleepy....
And then after a long time the face suddenly stopped fading away into
the depths of foggy mist. It stayed right where it was, and when the
lips moved he actually heard what they said.
"How do you feel, my lad?" they said. "Does your head hurt very much?"
His head? Why should those lips ask if his head hurt? His head didn't
hurt at all! As a matter, of fact, nothing about him hurt. He felt
fine. He felt swell. What was going on, anyway? Holy smokes! He was in a
bed. Under sheets and blankets, and everything. He pushed himself up on
his elbow as easy as pie, and looked around. He saw that he was in a
hospital. There was a long line of beds down each side of the huge room
painted so white it almost hurt your eyes. And there was a man, a
soldier in every bed because he could see the uniforms hanging on the
hooks on the wall. And that face! It belonged to a captain in the
British Army. The medical corps! The insignia was on the lapels of his
tunic.
"Steady, my lad!" the officer cautioned in a soothing voice. "Tell me,
how's the head feel? The pain gone, sonny?"
Dave blinked and was somehow a little startled to realize that he could
talk. He vaguely remembered something about trying to talk a little
while ago but being unable to utter a word.
"My head's okay, sir," he said. "I feel great. Where am I, anyway? And
what's it all about? This is a hospital, isn't it?"
The medical officer let out a great sigh as though he had been holding
his breath for a long time.
"Good, splendid!" he finally said. "You're out of it at last. You'll be
all right, now, my lad. But you jolly well had a close one, I can tell
you! Might have remained in a coma for weeks, and months. A ticklish
thing, concussion shock. Want something to eat?"
"Sure, sure," Dave replied absently. "But, hey, I remember, now. Where's
my pal? Where's Freddy Farmer? He was with me when that road exploded!"
"Road exploded, eh?" the medical officer said and raised an eyebrow. "A
land mine, probably. So your friend's name is Freddy Farmer? An English
lad, isn't he?"
"And the very best!" Dave said with feeling. "But where is he? Gosh,
sir, please tell me! I've got to know. He's ... he's all right?"
The officer leaned down and patted his shoulder.
"Your little friend's quite all right," he said and pointed to Freddy
Farmer asleep in the next bed. "He came out of it for the last time a
few hours ago, but he started raving about a lot of crazy things, so I
gave him something to make him sleep some more. He'll be fit as a fiddle
when he wakes up. Now, what about this land mine ... or the road
exploding, as you say?"
"I don't know exactly," Dave said. "Freddy was driving the Belgian
scouting car, and we were following a couple of dispatch riders to
General Boulard's headquarters. We had just turned off the Wavre-Namur
road, I guess it was, when _blamm_! Everything went dark. But how'd we
get here? Somebody picked us up last night? Hey, what's so funny about
that?"
The officer wiped a broad smile from his lips.
"I wasn't laughing at you, my lad," he said. "It's amusing, though, to
witness the final effects of concussion shock. My boy, you weren't
picked up last night. You've been here in this British military
hospital, at Lille, for eight days!"
Dave was speechless. His eyes widened in blank amazement. He just
couldn't believe he had heard correctly. Surely his ears must be playing
him tricks. _Eight days?_
"That's right, my lad," the medical officer said, reading Dave's
bewildered thoughts. "It's exactly eight days this morning, since they
brought you two in here."
"But eight days?" Dave cried. "But ... but I'm not even hurt! There are
no bandages on me, and I don't ache any place. How could I have been
here for eight days?"
"I'll not give you the medical explanation, because you wouldn't
understand, probably," the officer said with a smile. "But what
happened, was something like this. The concussion shock of that
explosion, whatever it was, temporarily paralyzed certain nerve centers
in your body and in your head. Why you didn't receive physical injury
is just one of those mysterious things that happen often in war. A shell
can blow every strip of clothing off a soldier's back, blow off his
shoes, and toss him fifty yards, but not mark him with a single scratch.
That's what must have happened to you and your friend. Perhaps, too,
being in the scouting car protected you from things flying around. But,
certain nerve centers were paralyzed. There's little we can do for that
outside of a few injections. It's up to the patient's make-up, his
constitution, and such. You probably don't remember waking up several
times, do you?"
Dave shook his head.
"No sir," he said. "But I sort of half remember something about seeing a
face that kept fading out, and seeing lips move, but I couldn't hear the
words."
"Yes, that's the way it is usually," the medical officer said and
nodded. "That was just parts of the nerve system returning to normal.
You could see a little but you couldn't hear. Or you could feel but
still not have the power to speak. The medical term for that has
thirty-six letters, I believe. I don't even think I could pronounce it
correctly now, anyway. But, you're fit now, my lad. I'll have the nurse
bring you in something to eat."
"Gosh!" Dave gasped as a sudden thought struck him. "Have I gone eight
days without eating?"
"Hardly," the other said with a laugh. "No, several times you both woke
up enough to take food, though of course you don't remember it. The rest
of the time we gave you injections. But, my word, the things you two
raved about! You insisted, rather your friend insisted on seeing General
Caldwell, Chief of Staff. You claimed you had been prisoners in Germany,
and had seen a very important map. Your friend was very annoyed when we
refused to summon the General at once, and gave him something to put him
to sleep, instead. Really...!"
"But that's true, that's true!" Dave burst out. "We were prisoners, and
we saw a map of the German plan of invasion. We escaped to the Belgian
lines in a plane we stole. Then the sergeant driving us to Namur was
killed. We met some Belgian dispatch riders and they were showing us the
way to General Boulard's headquarters when the whole road exploded. It's
true, sir!"
The medical captain's eyes were now the size of saucers. He stood
staring down at Dave in confounded amazement.
"I say, my lad, go a bit easy," he began. "I guess you're not yet out of
that coma. Now, just lie back, and...."
"I'm fine, I'm okay!" Dave shouted excitedly. "Honest! It's all true,
sir."
The officer continued to stare at him in puzzled bewilderment, and then
Freddy's voice from the next bed caused them both to look his way.
"I say, hello, Dave!" the English youth cried. "They said you were all
right, and then I guess I fell asleep again. Good grief, this is a
hospital, isn't it? By George, it all comes back to me now! That road
blowing up. But how in the world did we get here?"
The medical officer didn't bother to answer the question. He hurried
over to Freddy's bedside and took a good look at him. Freddy gave him a
puzzled frown, then his face suddenly lighted up.
"I say, I've seen you before, haven't I, sir?" he asked.
"This morning," the medical man nodded. "Then you're all ship shape,
too? But, listen, my lad, do you two still insist upon seeing General
Caldwell, Chief of British Staff?"
Asking the question was like turning a magic key in Freddy. The English
youth became very excited at once, and breathlessly explained everything
in more detail than had Dave.
"Yes sir," he finished up. "We have some valuable information, I'm
sure. If you could loan us a car, sir, and tell us where we can find the
General, we'll go at once."
"You two will go nowhere just now!" the officer said sternly. "Bless my
soul, after what you've been through? Certainly not! However, there may
be something to all this. I'll get the General on the wire and tell him
about you two. His headquarters are not far away. He'll send one of his
Staff, or perhaps come himself. This whole thing is almost fantastic!
You're sure you're not trying to pull my leg, fool me?"
"Word of honor, sir," Freddy said solemnly.
The medical officer scowled and hesitated a moment. Then he shrugged and
hurried out of the ward.
Dave looked at Freddy and grinned happily.
"Boy, am I glad to see you!" he exclaimed. "According to the Doc we
should be dead, by rights, or something. Instead, we just got our nerve
centers knocked haywire. Say, do you know how long we've been here? Did
he tell you when you woke up last time?"
"I guess he didn't have the chance," the English youth said with a wry
grin. "I started yelling for them to take us to the General, and they
thought I was completely off my topper. Stuck a needle in me and I
popped off like a kitten. We've been here last night or since this
morning, haven't we? And where the dickens are we, anyway?"
"Hold your hat, Freddy, here it comes," Dave said with a chuckle. "We've
been here eight days, he told me."
Freddy's jaw dropped and his eyes bugged out so far you could have
knocked them off like marbles on sticks. Then he flushed and laughed
scornfully.
"Come off it, Dave!" he protested. "Don't give me any of that kind of
tosh. My word! Eight days, my hat!"
"No kidding, that's what he said," Dave insisted. And then he started to
give Freddy the medical officer's description of what had happened to
them, and their unknown, to them, actions during the eight day period.