they sensed it unconsciously, for their step did become faster, their
hearts lighter, and the hope they would get through somehow mounted
higher and higher in their thoughts. And so on and on they went. A
thousand times they stumbled over things in the darkness; went pitching
together down into bomb craters, or barked their shins and raised lumps
on their tough bodies. Always forward, though. They stopped talking to
conserve their energy, for they had no idea how many miles of bomb
blasted roadbed lay ahead of them. The fog and the rain dulled the sound
of the guns so that they couldn't tell if they were drawing nearer or
actually heading away from them. And although they looked at it a
million times apiece the dull red glow ahead of them seemed always to
remain the same. It never once brightened up or faded down. It got so
that it seemed as though they were walking on a treadmill. Walking,
walking, yet never seeming to get any place. Never seeing anything
different to give them proof they had covered ground. Every piece of
twisted track they stumbled over was the same as the last. A bomb crater
into which they fell sprawling was no different from all the others. And
the darkness, the fog, the rain, the boom of the guns, and the
shimmering red glow were always the same in the next second, in the next
minute, and in the next hour.
Grit, courage, and a fighting spirit resolved never to give up, forced
them forward foot after foot, yard after yard, and mile after mile. Even
thoughts ceased to stir in their brains, and there was nothing there but
the fierce burning flame that drove their tired legs and bodies forward.
Then, suddenly, their separate worlds seemed to shatter before their
eyes in an explosion of sound. To Dave it seemed close to an eternity
before the sound made sense in his dulled brain. Then in a flash he
realized that nothing had exploded. A loud voice not three feet in front
of them had bellowed out the challenge.
"_Halt!_"
Even then neither of the boys could grasp its true meaning. The voice
shattered their hopes, gripped their hearts with fingers of ice, and
seemed to drain every drop of blood from their bodies. Fate was having
the big laugh on them at last. The worst, the one thing they had
dreaded had come to pass. They had stumbled headlong into a nest of
Germans!
"Halt, you blighters, 'fore I run this through your bellies!"
Then truth crashed home, and the boys let out a gurgling cry of relief
as they realized the voice was _speaking in English!_
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_Wings Of Doom_
"Hold it!" Dave heard his own voice cry out in the darkness. "We're not
Germans!"
"No!" Freddy choked out. "We're English and American! Are we near
Dunkirk?"
There was a startled exclamation in the rain and fog, then the tiny beam
of a buglight caught them in its glow. The light shook and there was a
gasp of dumbfounded amazement.
"Strike me pink!" exclaimed the voice in back of the light. "What are
you two young nippers doing here? And where'd you come from?"
The buglight was lowered and the two boys saw the dim outline of a
British Tommie. His gas mask and ration kit were slung over his
shoulder, and in his hands he carried a rifle with a wicked looking
bayonet.
"We're trying to reach Dunkirk," Freddy spoke up. "We've been hiding for
the last two days at a railway junction called, Niort, I think it was.
Part of the sign had been blown away but I think that's what it was."
"Niort?" the British soldier gasped. "Come off it, now, me lad! If you
were at Niort how'd you get here? I suppose by a blinking train, eh?"
"No, we walked," Dave said. "Along what was left of the railroad. We
missed the last train two nights ago. It pulled out when some Stukas
arrived."
The British soldier whistled through his teeth, and flashed his buglight
on them just to make sure he wasn't talking to a couple of ghosts.
"Well, can you beat that!" he ejaculated. "So you were left behind with
the others, eh? I was on that blinking train, thank my lucky stars! The
lads that were left had to march it all the way, and with Jerry throwing
everything he had at them, too. Strike me pink! You know what you two
nippers have done?"
"Sure," Dave said. "Walked about a million miles, the way we feel."
"It's closer to eighteen or nineteen, lad," the Tommie said. "But that
ain't the half of it. You've walked _right through_ the blessed German
line, that's what you've done! Right through their blinking lines, and
them not knowing about it! By George, will I have a tale to tell the
lads at the pub if I ever get back home!"
"But how far are we from Dunkirk?" Freddy asked. "And is there any way
to get there besides walking? I don't think I can go another step."
The soldier jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"See them flames?" he said. "That's Dunkirk. About two miles it is. And
it's time for me to go in from my patrol anyway. I got a motor-bike and
sidecar over there, yonder. You two can ride in the car. But we'd better
hop it. It's getting toward dawn and the Stukas will be coming over to
raise merry Ned. But, wait a minute, mates. Who are you and what were
you doing at Niort? Why, you ain't even in uniform."
"This is Dave Dawson, an American," Freddy said. "And my name is Freddy
Farmer. We've been trying to get back to England for days, and...."
"_What's that?_" the soldier cut in excitedly. "Dawson and Farmer? The
couple of American and English nippers, that stole a plane and all the
rest of it? Blimey! Why didn't you say so? Why you lads are heroes! The
whole blinking army's been talking of what you nippers did. Come along!
If there's two lads that's going to get a boat ride back home, it's
you. Yes, by George! I'm that anxious to get back home so's to tell the
lads, I'm fair ready to swim the blinking Channel, orders or no orders.
Come along!"
Without waiting for either of the boys to so much as open their mouths
the soldier grabbed them each by the arm and hurried them off through
the dark to the right. He must have known the way well, for they didn't
bump into a single thing. Presently he let go of them and dived into
some bushes. He was out in almost no time pushing an army motorcycle and
sidecar. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and straddled the seat.
"Hop in, lads!" he barked as he kicked his engine into life. "And hang
on for your lives. The beach where they're taking them off onto the
ships ... and man, they're bringing over anything that can float ... is
on the far side of town. But the blinking town's afire, and we have to
go right through it. Here we go, and a double-double to the blasted
Jerries!"
Though the two boys had wedged themselves down tight in the sidecar, the
soldier tore off in such a rush that he practically rode right out from
under them. Yelling any complaints would have been just a waste of
breath. Besides, the soldier wouldn't have heard them in the roar of his
engine. So the boys simply concentrated on trying to stay in the
sidecar, and breathed a prayerful hope that the soldier was an expert
driver.
He was more than that. He was a miracle man on a motorcycle. He raced
through the darkness without slackening his speed the fraction of a
mile. The rain slithered down and the street glistened in the faint glow
of his dimmed light. It looked like so much slippery black ice, and a
hundred times Dave closed his eyes and waited for the sickening crash
that never came. When, he dared open them again they were still hurtling
forward making as much noise as a whole division of tanks.
The two miles to the ancient Channel city of Dunkirk was covered in just
about as many minutes. In the last hundred yards the fog seemed to come
to an end, and the rain to pass on behind them. Dave looked ahead and
caught his breath sharply. Dunkirk looked like one gigantic
horizon-to-horizon wall of licking tongues of flame and billowing smoke
that towered high up into the sky. It was as though he had walked out of
a dark room straight into the open mouth of a blast furnace. He
impulsively cast a quick side glance at the soldier astride the
motorcycle seat expecting to see an expression of alarm and dismay pass
across the lean unshaven face. But no such thing did he see. The
soldier simply lowered his head a bit, and the corners of his eyes
tightened.
"Hang on, lads!" he bellowed without taking his eyes off the road. "Here
comes the first of it, and it ain't no ice box!"
No sooner had the last left his lips than the heat of the flaming
buildings seemed to charge forward right into their faces. Dave and
Freddy ducked their heads as the soldier had done, and in the matter of
split seconds they had the sensation of hurtling straight across the
mouth of a boiling volcano that shot up tongues of flame on all sides.
"Lean to the right, we're turning that way!" came the soldier's yell.
They leaned together and the motorcycle and sidecar went careening
around the corner of a street. It seemed to hesitate halfway around and
start to slide. But the driver skillfully checked the slide with a
vicious motion on the wheel, and they went roaring up a smoke filled
street. A moment or two later the driver yelled for them to lean again.
They did. In fact they did it no less than a dozen times during the next
few minutes. And all the while the heat of the flames beat in at them
from all sides, and the crash of falling walls, or of delayed action
bombs going off, was constant heart freezing thunder in their ears.
Then suddenly they shot right through the middle of one final wall of
fire and burst out onto a stretch of hard packed sand. It was several
seconds before the heat left them and they felt rain soaked salt air
strike against their faces. They gulped it into their lungs, and then
both cried out in alarm as a squad of British soldiers seemed to rise
right out of the sand in front of them. Their driver instantly stood up
on his foot plates and roared above the sound of his engine.
"Out of the way!" he bellowed. "A couple of young heroes to get boat
tickets from his nibs, the Commandant!"
Perhaps the group of soldiers heard him, or perhaps they just naturally
didn't want to run the risk of being bowled over by the on-rushing
motorcycle. Anyway they leaped to the side and the driver and the two
boys went banging on by without a single check in the speed. After
another moment or so the soldier cut his engine, slammed on his brake
and slid around to a full stop as his tires sent a shower of wet sand
into the air.
"There you are, nippers!" he cried and vaulted from the seat. "How was
that for a bit of a joy-ride, eh? She's a good little motor bike, she
is. A bit slow, but she'll do. Now, wait half a minute while I go see if
the Commandant's about. Sit tight. I'll be right back."
He flung the last back over his shoulder as he went racing off to the
left. Neither Dave nor Freddy said anything. They were too busy fighting
to get their breath back, and to unwedge themselves from the sidecar.
Eventually they were out on the sand and feeling themselves all over
just to make sure no arms or legs or anything had been left behind.
"Jeepers, jeepers!" Dave finally broke the silence. "You and that
Belgian sergeant are just beginners compared to that guy. My gosh! I
know darn well he must have gone right through some of those buildings,
instead of around them. Gee, Freddy! Look at those flames! No wonder you
could see them for miles. The whole town's going up in smoke."
"Yes, but look there, Dave!" Freddy cried and grabbed his arm as he
pointed with his other hand. "There on the beach. It's the British army.
Look! They're even wading out in the water to the boats! It must be too
shallow for them to get in any closer. Gee, Dave, _gee!_"
Dave couldn't speak as he stared at the sight. The words were all too
choked up inside of him to come out. The whole beach was practically
covered with row after row of British and French soldiers. They stood in
long columns of ten and twelve men across, and those columns stretched
from high up on the beach far out into the shallow water. In some
places cars, and tanks, and trucks, anything on wheels had been driven
out into the water and parked side by side, parked hub to hub and planks
laid across the tops of them to form a makeshift pier that could reach
out into deeper water. But there were only a few of such piers. Most of
the columns of men were wading out into the water until it came up to
their chests, and even up to their necks.
And out there looking weird and grotesque in the glow of the burning
Channel port were boats of every conceivable description. There were row
boats, and yachts. Fishing smacks and pleasure yawls. Coastal vessels
and ferry boats. Motor boats and canoes. Barges and British destroyers.
Anything and everything that could float had been brought over to help
in the evacuation. No, it wasn't the British Navy taking the British
Army home. It was all England come to rescue her fighting men.
Dave and Freddy stood rooted in their tracks staring wide eyed at the
historic event that will live forever in the minds of men. Their eyes
soaked up the scene, and their ears soaked up the conglomeration of
sound. Oddly enough, practically all of the sounds came from off shore.
The blast of whistles, the blowing of signal horns, the purr and the
roar of engines, and the shouts of the appointed and of the self-made
skippers and crews of the fantastic rescue fleet. The troops hardly made
any sound at all. Perhaps they were too tired. Perhaps the roar of
battle still ringing in their ears momentarily stilled their tongues. Or
perhaps they were content just to follow the next man ahead and pray
silently that they would be taken aboard some kind of a boat and sailed
away before daylight and the Stukas arrived once again. But the real
reason for their strange silence, probably, was because most of them had
been there for days waiting their turn, and dodging Stuka bombs and
bursting shells. And after such an ordeal they were too stunned to know
or even care about talking. Each had a single, all important goal. A
boat of some kind. And they slogged and sloshed toward it, numb to all
that was going on about them.
"It's ... it's almost as though it isn't real!" Dave heard himself
whisper aloud. "It's like being at a movie, and seeing something you
know was just made up. Gosh, there's thousands of them. Thousands! I
wonder how many have got away already? And...."
The last froze on Dave's lips. At that moment above the crackling and
sullen roar of the flames devouring the city there came the dreaded
sound. It was like the drumming moan of night wind in the trees, only
it wasn't. It was a sound that chilled the blood of every man on shore
and off shore. It was Goering's Stukas and Heinkels and Messerschmitts
coming up with the rising dawn. For a long second Dave and Freddy heard
it, and then it was drowned out by the mounting groans and curses that
welled up from the throats of those thousands of soldiers on the beach.
Yet as Dave stared at them, unable to move, he saw that not a man broke
ranks. Everybody stayed in his place, as though they were on a parade
ground instead of on a beach strewn with their own dead. Rifles and
portable machine guns were grabbed up and pointed toward the fast
lightening heavens, but no man gave up his place in line.
And then the winged vultures under Goering's command came howling down
out of the sky. Their noise drowned out all other noises, including the
noise of the guns that greeted them. It was as though some mighty giant
were tearing the roof right off the top of the world. It wasn't a
scream, and it wasn't an earth trembling wail. Nor was it a continual
thunderous roar. It was just a sound that had never been heard before,
and, perhaps, will never be heard again. A mighty collection of all
sounds in the whole world blended into one mighty inferno of noise.
As Dave and Freddy stood transfixed it didn't so much as even occur to
either of them to run for some kind of shelter. Their feet were lumps of
lead and the ground was one great magnet that held them fast. Something
spewed up orange and red flame a couple of hundred yards away from them.
It was a bomb exploding, but they couldn't even hear the sound. Another
fountain of flame, and sand showering down over everything, but no
individual sound of the bomb going off. A part of the sky overhead
turned into a great raging ball of red fire. It tore their eyes upward
in time to see a Heinkel bomber outlined in livid flame. Then it was
engulfed by that flame and came hurtling down to hit the water off-shore
and disappear as though by magic.
It was then, and then only they realized that not all of the planes
overhead were German. It was then they saw British Hurricanes, and
Spitfires, and Defiants slash down out of the dawn sky in groups of
three and pounce upon the German planes in a relentless, furious attack
that set them to shouting wildly at the top of their voices. The Royal
Air Force. The R.A.F., the saviors of Dunkirk! Outnumbered by the German
planes, but so far above them in fighting heart, in spirit, and in real
flying ability that there wasn't even any room left for comparison. A
British plane against five Germans, against ten, or against fifty! What
did it matter? There were gallant troops to be evacuated back home.
There were fleet after fleet of Goering's vultures with orders to shoot
down the British troops like cattle. Never! Never in all God's world as
long as there was an R.A.F. plane left, and an R.A.F. pilot alive to fly
it!
Suddenly Dave became conscious of a great pain in his right arm. He
looked down to see Freddy gripping it tightly with one hand and pounding
it with his other fist. The light of a mad man was in the English
youth's eyes. When he had Dave's attention he stopped pounding and
pointed to the left and beyond a short line of bomb blasted wharves.
"Look, look, Dave!" came his shrill scream faintly. "Look off that first
wharf. There's a motor boat. It was trying to get in close, but a
Messerschmitt came down and sprayed the chap at the wheel. See! He's
trying to get up. And there's the Messerschmitt again. Dave! The tide
will carry that boat up against those rocks, and smash in its bottom.
Dave! Can you swim? We've got to reach that boat before it hits the
rocks. Look! The Messerschmitt is shooting again. He's got the poor
chap. He's got him this time!"
As Freddy screamed in his ear Dave looked out at the boat. It was a
long slinky looking power boat, but it wasn't even slinking along, now.
The lone figure had fallen across the engine hood, and a diving
Messerschmitt was hammering more bullets into his body. And a running
tide was carrying the craft broadside toward some jagged rocks that
stuck up out of the water not two hundred yards away.
Dave was looking at it. And then suddenly he realized that his feet were
pounding across the beach. That he was racing madly down the beach
toward the water's edge. And that Freddy Farmer was close at his heels.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
_The White Cliffs!_
By the time they reached the water they had stripped off their hospital
jackets, torn free their water canteens, and flung them away. Shoulder
to shoulder they splashed out as far as they could, then dived in. They
broke surface together and struck out for the helpless craft being
carried toward its doom by the tide. Above them raged another mighty
battle of the air. Bombs fell close and when one struck the water and
went off, a thousand fists seemed to hammer against their chests. Behind
them the flames of Dunkirk leaped high, and the glow turned the waters
through which they swam to the color of blood. And there ahead of them
was the sleek-looking motorboat, like a highly polished brown log
drifting on the crest of a shimmering red sea.
A great fire burned in Dave's lungs, and his arms became like bars of
lead that required every remaining ounce of his strength to lift up and
cut down into the water again. But he fought back the aches, and the
pains, and the gnawing fatigue. And so did Freddy Farmer there by his
side. They kept their eyes fixed on that drifting motorboat and they
didn't take them off it until after what seemed like years they were
alongside it and hooking an arm over the gunwale. For a moment they just
hung there panting and gulping for air. Then at an unspoken signal they
each shifted their grip to the small brass rail that ran along each side
from stem to stern, and hauled themselves into the boat.
Not even then did they speak a word, for words were unnecessary, now.
There was a job to do, and a job to be done fast. The rocks weren't more
than sixty yards away. Shaking water from his face, Dave leaped toward
the engine hood, lifted up the motionless bullet riddled body and
lowered it gently to the deck. At the same time Freddy caught up an oar
and rushed toward the bow to fend off the craft should it reach the
rocks.
Lifting the engine hood Dave took one look inside and gulped with
relief. Messerschmitt bullets had not touched the American built engine.
A quick glance down at the priming can in the dead man's stiff hand told
Dave he had been trying to start the engine when the Messerschmitt first
dived. Perhaps he had throttled too much, and stalled the engine. There
was no way of knowing that, and no time to wonder about it. If there was
something else wrong, and the priming can didn't do the trick, then he
and Freddy could at least save the boat from being slammed up against
the rocks.
It was time for Lady Luck to smile again, however. Dave primed the
engine, and stepped on the starter pedal, and the engine roared up
instantly in full throated song. He leaped for the wheel, yanked back
the throttle, and then swung the wheel over hard. The rudder bit into
the water, and the power boat slid by the jagged rocks with but a few
feet to spare and glided out toward deep water.
"Made it!" Dave shouted wildly.
"Right-o!" Freddy yelled back from the bow. "This is one Herr Hitler
doesn't get, by gosh. Not if _I_ can help it! Oh, Dave, let's...."
"Me too!" Dave interrupted him. "I know what you're going to say. Let's
go over and pick up as many of those fellows as we can! You're doggone
right! Here we go!"
At that exact moment, however, the fates of war changed their plans. At
that moment a steel fish made in Nazi land slid past the watchful eyes
of a destroyer and let go a single torpedo straight into the maze of
craft hovering off shore beneath the raging sky battle above. True,
only one torpedo. And even as it streaked out from its tube the eyes
aboard the destroyer saw it, and the destroyer's guns spoke ... and
there was one U-boat less. However, one torpedo was on its way. And it
slammed into the bow of a sturdy coastal vessel plodding out to the
center of the Channel.
In the blaze of light that spewed up from the side of the vessel Dave
saw the decks crowded with khaki clad soldiers. Then they were lost to
view as the vessel heeled way over and was engulfed in a mighty cloud of
smoke. No sooner had what his eyes seen registered oh his brain than he
hauled down hard on the wheel and pulled the motor boat's bow away from
the shore and out toward that floating cloud of smoke and dull red
flame.
Other boats did the same thing, but Dave and Freddy were closer than any
of the others, and they reached there first. Killing his speed as much
as possible Dave worked the craft inch by inch toward the cluster of
heads that were now bobbing out from under the edge of the cloud of
smoke. Then when he was real close he throttled all the way back and let
go of the wheel and raced with Freddy to the stern of the boat. They
grabbed the first hand stretched up toward them and pulled the dripping
figure into the boat. No sooner was he in than they let him shift for
himself and grabbed for the next outstretched hand. Then another, and
another, and another, until there were no more bobbing heads close to
them.
By then other craft had arrived and were picking up survivors from that
doomed vessel. As Dave straightened up he stared out across the water
just in time to see the last bit of the vessel's bow slide down below
the waves and disappear. One look and then he was pushing through the
soldiers he and Freddy had rescued, to the wheel at the bow bulkhead.
Cheers and praise filled his ears but he was too all in to even so much
as grin. And, also, memory of that U-boat was still fresh in his mind.
If one slipped past, why not two, or even three? Dunkirk was behind him,
and a sky battle was raging high above him, but he did not know what
might be lurking in the waters under him. The sooner he got the boat
away, the better it would be for all concerned.