R.A.F. again. Yeah, good! Plenty good!"
As though to echo his words, he heard Freddy Farmer's guns blast away.
The leading Nazi plane swerved, then dropped by the nose and started
down with one engine smoking badly. Dave grunted and ruddered his
P-Thirty-Eight a little to bring his sights to bear on another Nazi
plane.
"Okay, first blood for you, Freddy!" he sang out. "But it's my turn,
now, and how!"
His words were no crazy boast. They were simply a statement of cold
fact. And as his guns started hammering out made-in-America doom, his
statement was proved. A second Nazi would-be ground strafer seemed to
jump straight up in the air. That is, the fuselage went upward. The
wings remained at the lower level for a moment, then went slip-sliding
away. The fuselage fell over by the nose and went down like a bomb as
two objects popped out of it and soon became a pair of Germans going
down by parachute.
The swift double kill obviously took some of the lust for battle away
from the other Nazi pilots. The formation swerved this way and that, and
then broke up into pairs that made half-hearted passes at the ferry
bomber-covered field below. But they all should have stayed home. By
then the pilots of the locally based R.A.F. squadrons were in the scrap,
and their arrival just about settled things for the Germans. A couple of
them did linger around a little longer, but that was very stupid of
them. They went down like nailed clay pigeons, while their pals went
streaking back across the Channel to their temporary homes in Occupied
France.
When Dave and Freddy came down out of the air and landed, an orderly was
waiting for them.
"Group Captain Farnsworth wishes to see you two officers at once," he
told them.
"Guess breakfast waits, pal." Dave grinned at Freddy. "Let's go. I guess
Major Barber is with the Group Captain. I don't see him around any
place. So maybe this is it."
"Maybe, but I wouldn't be too sure," Freddy murmured.
Dave looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Nothing, I hope," the English youth grunted. "But I believe I've heard
of Group Captain Farnsworth. Very much of a stickler for rules and
regulations. And--well, after all, this is an R.A.F. field, you know."
"So what?" Dave demanded as he stared, puzzle-eyed. "What's that got to
do with it? Hey! What's eating you, anyway?"
Freddy shrugged and started walking toward the Field Commandant's
office.
"Let's go and find out," he said. "I could be wrong, of course."
"You could be nuts!" Dave growled, still mystified. "And I think you
are!"
The English youth let that one slide. He simply hunched his shoulders
once and walked with Dave over toward the office. They reached it in
time, knocked, and went inside when a rasping voice told them to do so.
Seated at the desk inside was a heavy-browed, red-headed man in an
R.A.F. Group Captain's uniform. The decoration ribbons under his R.A.F.
wings showed that this was not the first war he had fought in. And they
also showed that he had not exactly kept his feet on solid earth all the
time in either war. But his eyes were his outstanding feature. They were
like frosted cubes of ice that seemed to melt everything that came into
their range of vision. Dave looked into those eyes and gulped a little.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer reporting, sir," he heard his own voice say.
"You wished to see us, sir?"
"Blasted right I do!" the words came smashing at him. "Just who the
ruddy blue blazes do you think you two are? A little special air force
all your own?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
_More Orders_
Dave was filled with the sudden desire to have the office floor open up
and permit him to drop down through out of sight. Those frosted ice cube
eyes pinned him in his tracks, and held his own like powerful magnets.
He couldn't have turned his head to see Freddy's face if he had wanted
to. He gulped and moistened his tongue.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" he managed. "I--"
"Never mind begging my pardon!" the owner of the frosted eyes flung at
him. "Just answer my question. Who the devil do you two think you are?
Who gave you permission to take off from this field and engage enemy
aircraft?"
Dave was too stunned even to begin to think up an answer. Instead, he
listened to Freddy Farmer speak for them both.
"I'm afraid we didn't stop to think, sir," the English youth said. "When
we heard the alarm siren we simply jumped for our planes. It was like
that. I realize we shouldn't have, sir. But--well, I was in the air by
that time. And it seemed the right thing to keep on and have a go at the
Jerry ships. I'm sorry, sir. We're both sorry, sir."
A touch of sudden anger slashed through Dave, and the words were out of
his mouth before he could check them.
"I'm not, sir!" he cried. "I'm never sorry when I get a Nazi, no matter
how or where I get him. We saw them coming, and it was our job to do
something about it. That's all there was to it!"
The Group Captain stared at Dave and made a solid line with his brows.
"Not sorry?" he barked. "Who said anything about not being sorry? I
demand, however, that you apologize to me, and to my fighter pilots!"
"Apologize?" Dave gasped, as he seemed to lose his grip on things. "For
what? For knocking off a couple of Jerry planes, for cat's sake?"
The senior officer looked sterner than ever; then the ghost of a smile
quivered at the corners of his mouth.
"Certainly, Captain Dawson," he said without so much bite in his voice.
"This is _our_ hunting ground. And goodness knows too few Jerries come
over our way to make us eager to share them with a couple of wild flying
mad-men. So you both owe us an apology for poaching on our game grounds.
But we'll take the apologies for granted. Sit down, you two. You deserve
a chair at least, I fancy."
Dave came close to missing his chair, he was so surprised and relieved.
He looked at the now grinning Group Captain and let his breath out
slowly.
"Gosh, sir," he gulped, "I thought you meant it there for a minute."
"I still do!" the other said with a nod and a chuckle. "It wasn't fair
of you, at all. According to Major Barber you had your air sport earlier
this morning. Not cricket, you know, to horn in on our doings.
Congratulations, nevertheless. Fact is, those blighters might have done
a bit of damage if you hadn't got at them so soon. My chaps must have
been taking cat naps. Well, Farmer? Glad to be back in England?"
"Very much so, sir," Freddy replied, and beamed all over his face. "One
of the happiest moments of my life."
For a brief instant shadows crossed the Group Captain's face, and he
looked grave and filled with concern.
"I hope there will be many more, equally happy, Farmer," he said
presently. "No. Never mind the questions. I have no idea what's in store
for you two. But I certainly know you were not brought back over here
just to have a spot of leave. You'll doubtless learn soon enough,
though. Meantime, I'd better get on with my part of the business--that
is, give you the instructions Major Barber left with me."
"Left!" Dave gulped. "You mean, sir, the Major has gone?"
"Quite," the other replied with a nod. "While you two were stealing
Jerry planes from us. I believe he had intended to remain awhile, but a
call for him came through from your American Headquarters in London. I
detailed him a plane, and a pilot to fly him up there."
"And he left orders for us, you say, sir?" Freddy Farmer prompted
respectfully.
"Quite correct," the senior officer told him. "You are to remain here
until you've had a bit of breakfast and some rest. Then I'm to detail
you a two-seater plane. It's as if I were running a blasted aerial taxi
company, or something. Anyway, sometime today, when it suits your
collective fancy, you are to fly to the Lewes Base, on the South Downs,
and report to the commanding officer. Squadron Leader Parkinson is his
name. He has a Spitfire squadron. A fine bunch of lads, too. You'll
like them all, I'm sure. Well, there're your orders as Major Barber left
them with me. Now, how about a spot of food, eh?"
Dave didn't move. He acted as though he had not heard the question. He
simply sat staring puzzle-eyed at the Group Captain.
"Report to a fighter squadron, sir?" he murmured presently. "You mean
we're back in the R.A.F. again?"
"I don't mean anything of the sort," the senior officer replied with a
little gesture, "for the reason that I have no idea whatsoever. That's
truth, really. I simply know that you are to report to Squadron Leader
Parkinson's base. What happens after that, I haven't the faintest idea."
"A bit queer and very hush-hush, for fair," Freddy Farmer grunted, and
scowled at the opposite wall.
"That's the blasted war for you," the Group Captain chuckled. "Nothing
means very much until after it's happened. However, much as the R.A.F.
would like to have you back in its membership, I do not believe that is
to be in your case. As I said, or should have said, neither of you was
brought back to England for anything of the usual sort. A blind bloke
can see that it's for some very important reason. And certainly most
secretive, too."
"You're telling us?" Dave groaned, forgetful for the moment of the
other's senior rank. "It's plenty secret, and how! Freddy and I have
been guessing our heads off since the start of this business, and
neither of us can come up with anything that even seems close!"
"Phew, yes!" Freddy breathed heavily. "We Britishers are very good at
the hush-hush business, but the Yanks are certainly going us one better
this time. And if I don't get some kind of an inkling soon, I'll be
going balmy."
"Well, I wish I could help you out, but I can't," the Group Captain said
with a sympathetic laugh. "Sometimes, though, it's best not to know what
one's in for--until it happens."
The somber note in the other's voice sent a little icy chill rippling
through Dave. True enough, Freddy and he certainly hadn't come over to
England just to have a good time. They had come over to take part in
some Commando operation. That much Major Barber had admitted. But--and
it was a big but--he had said they were to handle an extra, a very
special job. What job? What kind of a job? Unfortunately, there just
wasn't any answer to that one. The answer would be theirs--in the near
future. Perhaps!
"I get what you mean, sir," Dave said to the Group Captain with a faint
grin. "And maybe you're right, sir. But--well, just the same I don't go
much for this sitting on pins and needles stuff. I think I'd rather
know, and get my worrying over with first. As you say, though, that's
war."
"Quite," the senior officer grunted, and got up from his chair. "So
let's leave it at that, what, and have a bite to eat?"
"Absolutely, sir!" Freddy cried, springing to his feet. "No sense
fighting a war on an empty stomach, if you don't have to."
"Just name one time when yours was empty," Dave laughed.
"Right now!" the English youth snapped, and gave him a scornful look.
They followed the Group Captain out and over to the officers' mess.
There they ate their fill, and when the senior officer had taken his
departure they went outside and started wandering around the field.
Their legs were still a little stiff from the Atlantic crossing, so a
little exercise wouldn't do either of them any harm. At the end of an
hour or so they had had enough. They hunted up a hutment orderly, and
were shown a couple of bunks where they could catch up on a little much
needed sleep and rest.
It was late in the afternoon when the orderly awakened them. He told
them that there had been two raid alarms sounded while they had been
asleep. However, no Jerry planes had put in an appearance.
"The Commandant told me to find out when you would be taking off,
Captains," the orderly added later. "There're two Spitfires just ferried
here from the factory, waiting on the tarmac. The Commandant says as how
he would like you to deliver them to the squadron you're going to. Shall
I have them revved up?"
Dave dug sleep seeds out of his eyes and looked at Freddy. His pal did
likewise, and nodded.
"Might as well," he grunted. "There's nothing more to be learned here.
Might just as well get on with it."
"Check," Dave said, and turned to the orderly. "Do that, will you, and
thanks."
Half an hour later the two air aces were out on the tarmac, and ready to
leave. They were about to climb into their Spitfires when Group Captain
Farnsworth came over to them.
"Just wanted to say goodbye," he smiled, "and wish you all kinds of
luck."
"Thank you, sir," Dave grinned. "And we're sorry about those two Jerry
planes. I promise that next time we won't be so selfish."
"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed.
The Group Captain chuckled and made a little gesture with both hands.
"That's quite all right, chaps," he said. "All is forgiven, I assure
you. Frankly, next time--if there is one--I hope you get double the
number of blighters. Well, goodbye. Thumbs up, and all that sort of
thing. I certainly envy you."
Dave shot him a sharp questioning look, but the Group Captain shook his
head firmly.
"No, I really don't know a thing, Dawson," he said. "On my word, I
don't. I'm just imagining, that's all. And there's blessed little else a
Group Captain can do in this crazy war. Well, on with it, you chaps. And
luck, again."
Dave and Freddy thanked him for his good wishes, shook hands, and then
legged up into the pits of their Spitfires. They taxied out to the far
end of the main runway, and waited there with props idling over for the
signal from the Operations Tower. It came, and they gunned their engines
together and went rocketing forward.
"Well, here goes for the next stop," Dave grunted as he lifted his
Spitfire clear, and nosed up and around toward the overcast sky. "And I
sure would like to know what is the next move in this cockeyed
arrangement of things?"
He spoke the question aloud, but the gods of war in their high places
refused to answer. They simply nudged each other, grinned, and winked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Sudden Chaos_
"This is getting me down, and giving me a sweet pain in the neck!" Dave
groaned, and rolled over on the grass. "Do you think that Major Barber
has forgotten us?"
Freddy Farmer opened his eyes just to show that he was awake, and sighed
contentedly.
"Does it really matter?" he murmured. "Personally, this suits me quite
nicely, thank you."
Dave scowled and contemplated jabbing Freddy in the ribs. But his pal
looked so perfectly relaxed that he didn't have the heart to. So he
simply deepened his scowl.
"Fine guy, you are!" he growled. "A week ago you were as keen as mustard
about what Major Barber cooked up for us. And now? Now you're just a
lazy bum!"
Freddy opened one eye and glared.
"That's a downright lie, my good man!" he snapped. "I got a
Messerschmitt One-Nine yesterday, didn't I? And one of those new
Focke-Wulf One-Nineties the day before? What more do you want?"
"Action!" Dave grunted, and stared brooding-eyed at the row of Spitfires
on the near side of the field. "I admit it's swell to be serving with an
R.A.F. fighter squadron again. It's okay, but--but, doggone it, we
didn't come way over here for this! Even Group Captain Farnsworth agreed
with that. But it's been a whole week now since we arrived here. I'm
beginning not to know what to think, or hope."
"Then don't do either," Freddy commented sleepily. "Terrible strain on
the brain, you know. Must confess, though, I've been wondering a little
myself, in odd moments. Does seem a bit queer we haven't heard from
Major Barber. Could be that the whole show, whatever it was, was called
off."
"There you go!" Dave groaned. "Always taking the joy out of life. Me,
I've almost talked myself into getting in touch with Major Barber and
finding out what's what."
"I wouldn't," Freddy cautioned. "Doubtless you'd be told off quite
properly. The Major struck me as that sort of a chap. If and when he
wants us, we'll be sure to hear about it, I fancy."
Dave groaned again and sat up straight. A strong feeling of having been
cheated out of something was gnawing at him. He knew that he shouldn't
feel that way. As a member of an R.A.F. fighter squadron it was his job
to concentrate solely on his work, and let all other things go hang. A
soldier must be all soldier no matter what his duty, or where he had to
perform it.
Yes, sure. That was all very well. But too many intangible things had
happened to let his mind stay at rest, and his attention to stick to the
daily sweeps across the Channel to Occupied France that he took part in.
There had been something big, very big, in the wind. Was it still so? Or
had that sleepy Freddy Farmer spoken the truth about the whole business
having been called off? It was a tantalizing thought, like a termite in
his brain. And the galling part of it all was that there really wasn't a
single thing that he could do about it, or should do about it, if he had
any sense. Start fishing around Major Barber and he might end up by
getting bounced back to the States. It was for him simply to--
The rest was cut off short as the raid alarm rang in the Operations Hut.
He and Freddy sprang to their feet as one man, and went tearing over.
The rest of the pilots on "stand to alert" reached there at the same
time. Squadron Leader Parkinson stuck his head out the door, and barked
the orders.
"Five Heinkels sighted coming across! Twenty thousand. Course,
north-northwest. Get after the beggars!"
Dave and Freddy wheeled with the others to dash for their planes, but
stopped short as the Squadron Leader called them both back.
"Not you two chaps, this time," he told them. "Just received other
orders for you. Buzz over to Horsham Commando H.Q. Take one of the
squadron cars. You're to report to a Yank Major. Barber is the name.
Better hop along at once. He sounded urgent over the phone. Glad to have
had you with us for the short spell. Luck, chaps!"
The Squadron Leader ducked back inside to continue with his raid alarm
duties. Dave and Freddy just looked at each other, then spun around and
tore over to the motor park. They were expected, for the Corporal in
charge pointed out a fast R.A.F. Daimler, and swung open the gates for
them. Dave dived in beside the wheel, waited just long enough for Freddy
to light beside him, and then kicked the engine into life and slipped it
into gear. Three minutes later they were on the winding dirt road that
eventually finished up in the Southeast English town of Horsham.
"Hot dog!" Dave cried happily, and boosted the speed up another ten
miles. "I guess this is really it, this time, pal!"
"It won't be, if you hit a tree!" Freddy cried, and grabbed for a strong
hold as Dave took the next turn. "Be careful and stop playing speed
demon. Five or ten minutes longer won't make any difference!"
"Will to me!" Dave laughed, and held his speed rate. "Can't wait to find
out what the Major has to say to us. Gosh! And I was beginning to
think--! Oh well! Everything is wonderful, now. So why bother with the
past?"
"Quite!" Freddy snapped sarcastically. "Blast to the past. Just
concentrate on this winding road, if you possibly can. I've got enough
grey hairs, as it is."
"What do you think it'll be, Freddy?" Dave asked, ignoring his last
remark. "I mean, what do you think he'll have to say to us?"
"Haven't the faintest idea," the English air ace replied. "But I have a
feeling it won't be all sugar and honey. Everybody's been too deep down
serious about things to suit my fancy. Particularly the Major's
reference to the little extra job for us. We've been detailed little
extra jobs before. Only they weren't _little_!"
"So what?" Dave laughed. "Wouldn't be getting the wind up, would you,
pal?"
"Certainly!" Freddy threw at him. "And your gay eagerness doesn't fool
me a bit. You're a little jittery inside yourself."
"And how!" Dave agreed instantly. "The heart's got a swell case of
jitters, if you must know. Always like that when things are mysterious
and unexplained. But war is no pink tea, hey, Freddy?"
"Not a bit of it!" the English youth replied with feeling. "Our job,
though, is to do the best we can--while we can."
"Atta boy!" Dave cried, and took a hand off the wheel to press his
friend's knee. "The old fight, always. You're making me feel better,
now. Bring on your mysterious assignment! What do Farmer and Dawson
care?"
"I'd hate to tell you," Freddy grunted, and lapsed into brooding
silence.
In another few minutes the car streaked over the crest of the last hill,
and down there in the shallow valley was the town of Horsham. At first
glance it was nothing but another town, like any one of thousands of
English towns. But on second glance Dave spotted lots of little things
that made Horsham just a bit different. Man-made things, to be exact.
Woods completely surrounded the town, only not all were woods. Mostly it
was perfect camouflaging that concealed from prying Nazi eyes flying
above the tremendous amount of activity that was taking place.
It concealed the row upon row of Commando tents. It hid the various
groups of Commandos going through attack preparations and practice. It
concealed the long lines of motor trucks that would carry them to
embarkation points. It concealed a countless number of things. But on
second glance Dave saw quite a bit of what was hidden, and his heart
started hammering against his ribs, and the blood surging through his
veins. If there was a last stop before the great adventure, whatever it
was, Horsham must certainly be it.
Fully convinced of that fact, Dave eased off the Daimler's speed a bit,
and went down the slanting road and into the town. They had to stop to
ask the location of H.Q., but after that they found it with no trouble
at all. It was located in a picturesque two story grey stone house on
the far side of the town. An armed sentry came forward as Dave braked
the car to a halt. He learned their identities, told them to wait, and
went inside. He was out again in less time than it takes to tell about
it.
"You are to go in, at once," he said, and saluted with his rifle at
present arms.
Dave and Freddy climbed down out of the Daimler, and went up the stone
steps into the house. A sentry stationed inside pointed at the open door
to the right. They stepped through it and snappily saluted Major Barber,
who sat half hidden behind a huge desk piled high with maps and what
not. He smiled and rose to greet them.
"Leave any rubber on those tires?" he asked, glancing at his wrist
watch. "You certainly got over here fast. You were driving, weren't you,
Dawson?"
Dave grinned and went pink.
"Guilty, sir," he said. "But I was in a hurry. For a whole week, now--"
"I know," the Major stopped him. "But wars aren't won in a day. I
suspected you'd be wondering yourselves sick, but there were other
things to take care of first. Sit down, though. Sit down and relax. It's
time you learned a few things about when the balloon goes up."
Dave and Freddy seated themselves in chairs, but neither of them relaxed
even a little bit. They sat on the edges of their chairs, and fixed
their gaze unwaveringly on the U. S. Commando Chief. He let them sit in
tingling silence a moment or two while he seemed to collect his thoughts
and choose his words. Eventually, he leaned forward on the edge of his
desk with his elbows, and locked the fingers of his two hands together.
He spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his voice that sent Dave's
heart beat mounting upward.
"Tomorrow night we are making a combined United Nations Commando raid on
a section of France which, if it is pulled off successfully, will leave
the Nazis hanging on the ropes for quite some time to come. In fact,
there is every possibility, and hope, that this raid will open the door
wide for a general United Nations invasion of the Continent."
The Major paused abruptly, and stared hard at Dave and then at Freddy.