in that direction a little. Then, after bracing himself, he dived out
and down, holding his breath for a couple of split seconds for fear he
had done it wrong and would get practically cut in two by the Spitfire's
tail plane. But he had done it right, and he went spinning end over end
down through the night air that grew darker the lower he fell. He
counted up to twenty, then tightened his grip on the rip-cord ring and
jerked it hard.
"You'd better work," he muttered, "or I'll be plenty sore at the
manufacturer!"
For a moment more he went on spinning downward, and then invisible hands
hooked onto his body and he was jerked back up toward the night sky. For
one awful instant he almost lost his grip on the bundled up German
uniform he had grabbed before he bailed out. He managed to hang onto it,
however, and presently he was floating earthward, while high above
anti-aircraft shells painted the heavens with red and yellow and orange.
And the dazzling white beams of the searchlights made a moving, swaying
background for the display of war's colors.
"So far, so good," Dave muttered, and impulsively crossed the fingers of
his free hand. "Now, if Freddy has bailed out safely, and is on his way
down, everything is okay, okay."
CHAPTER TWELVE
_Invisible Death_
"All right, cut out enjoying yourself! There's the ground down there
some place. And it's coming up, fast. Pay attention to your knitting,
pal!"
Dave wasn't sure whether he had spoken the words aloud, or whether they
had simply been spoken in his brain. Anyway, he stopped twisting his
head this way and that to admire the display of bursting colors high
overhead, and started peering down through the gloom in the direction of
the ground. Just as he did that, though, there were two loud explosions
in rapid succession. They were to the south and above his altitude, and
when he jerked his gaze up that way he saw two huge raging balls of
flame arc out across the sky and down, leaving behind long tails of
winking sparks.
"Freddy's ship and mine, going up in smoke," he said softly. "Gee! What
a rotten end for such a swell pair of planes. Spitfire Mark Fives don't
grow on trees, darn it! Too bad we couldn't have used a couple of crates
that had seen their best days. Yet that might not have been so hot if
we'd run into Nazi night fighters sooner. Well, that's how it goes. Rest
in peace, old gals!"
With a half salute toward the blazing Spitfires falling earthward, and
followed downward every inch of the way by a couple of dozen Nazi
searchlights, Dave switched his gaze toward earth again, and twisted
around at the ends of his parachute shroud lines in order to pick out
any faint landmarks that might be showing. It took him a couple of
seconds before he saw the big loop made by the Seine as it wound past
the city of Rouen. When he saw it a happy smile came to his lips, and he
felt pleased all over. Unless a low wind caught him and did things with
his parachute envelope, he should land practically in the middle of the
Seine's loop, the exact spot, where he was to make his rendezvous with
Freddy Farmer.
"Nice, very neat!" he grunted. Then with a little laugh, "But you know
darn well, pal, that it's just bull luck. You didn't see that river loop
when you stepped out, and you know it. But don't be dumb enough to admit
that to Freddy when you see him!"
With a grin and a nod for emphasis, he started to bend his knees ready
for landing. The night shadow-filled ground was very close, now. As yet,
though, the shadows weren't clear enough for him to make out just what
they were. Trees, rocks, buildings, or even maybe the cluster of farm
barns where he was to contact Freddy again? And so he breathed a silent
prayer that there were no trees directly under him, or at least that
he'd be able to see them in time. It would be nice, he didn't think, to
foul his 'chute on some top branches, and dangle there like a Christmas
tree ornament until daylight when some Nazis came by and cut him down,
or shot him down! And it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing
had happened, either!
"So don't even think about it!" he growled at himself. And with one hand
still hanging onto the bundled up German uniform, he reached up both
hands and grabbed hold of the shroud lines to ease some of his weight
off the harness straps and make the landing that much easier.
Perhaps the gods were watching over him, or perhaps he was just plain
lucky. At any rate, there were no trees under him, nor any big rocks,
either, that could give him a nice case of twisted or broken ankle. As
a matter of fact, there was just a nice patch of fairly soft ground, and
he came to earth, and spilled the air out of his 'chute, without any
trouble at all.
The instant he was on the ground, and had spilled air, he wiggled out of
the harness, gathered up the 'chute and shoved it well out of sight
under some bushes.
"Too bad they don't make these things so's you can use them to go on
back up again," he murmured with a chuckle. "A parachute pickup! I must
give that some thought when I get back to England, and have a little
time on my hands. I--"
He cut the rest off short as part of what he had said came echoing back
into his brain. "When I get back to England!" A cold shiver rippled down
his spine, and his mouth went just a little bit dry at the thought. Here
he was in the middle of Occupied France, with nobody knows how many Nazi
butchers quite eager to cut his throat from ear to ear if they should
find him. In Occupied France--on foot. His Spitfire was now just a heap
of smouldering wreckage many miles away. When he got back to England?
That would not come to pass until he had captured a Nazi plane and flown
it across the Channel. Stealing a Nazi plane was his only avenue of
escape. It--
He shook his head to drive away the bothersome thought.
"So what?" he grated at himself. "Freddy's in the same boat. And what
you hope to do, you did once before, didn't you? Well, stop sniveling
and blubbering around. Just make this the second time, that's all!"[2]
[Footnote 2: _Dave Dawson With The R.A.F._]
All the time he had been carrying on the conversation with himself he
had been changing into the uniform of a Nazi _Ober-Leutnant_. To his
surprise and delighted satisfaction, he found that it fitted him
perfectly. But when he gave that a second thought, why shouldn't it?
Sure! Major Barber wasn't the kind of a man who did things
hop-skip-and-a-jump style. The Major, of course, had made sure that the
uniform would fit.
He stood up and moved around a bit, as though he were in front of a
mirror.
"Nice, perfect!" he murmured. "Almost makes me _feel_ like a Nazi. But
not quite, though. Not in the old head, anyway. Now to check a bit, and
get started. Mustn't keep Freddy waiting--if he's okay."
Turning slowly, he peered hard in all directions. The anti-aircraft fire
had died down considerably, and not so many searchlight beams were
sweeping back and forth across the sky. Still, there was enough light of
battle toward the north to shed just a faint glow down on the ground. He
saw that he was in the clearing of a small woods. Lucky for him to have
dropped in so neatly. A glance at his compass gave him north, and after
making sure that everything he was leaving behind was well out of sight
of chance German eyes, he started forward due north. Unless his rapid
calculations were all cockeyed, he had about half a mile to travel
before he would reach the cluster of shell-battered farm barns.
Here was a chance to put more of his Commando training into practice,
and as he moved forward he made less noise than an Indian stalking game.
Every step he took was more or less planned and considered ahead of
time. He didn't bump into any trees that loomed up out of the dark. Nor
did he stumble blindly over stones and boulders, or go barging into
bushes in his path. There was no way of telling whether German patrols
were about. That was one detail that Major Barber couldn't give him.
From now on his life was in his own hands. What he did, and when he did
it, was strictly up to him. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer.
Freddy! The thought of his pal started his brain racing again. Where was
Freddy? How was he making out? Had he come down okay somewhere near, and
was he now making his own way toward the rendezvous point? Or--A cold
chill slashed through Dave, and he refused to let himself finish that
thought. If anything should ever happen to Freddy Farmer, he vowed he
would spend the rest of his life hunting down Adolf Hitler to take
personal vengeance out on the two-legged, mustached animal from another
world.
"Listen!" Dave told himself. "Stop worrying about Freddy. If there is
one lad who always keeps a date, no matter what, Freddy Farmer is the
lad. Don't worry! That guy will get there, even if he has to slip
through the whole darn German Army. Just worry about yourself. Just tend
to your own knitting!"
Taking what comfort he could from his own words, he kept on moving
north, eyes stabbing at the darkness ahead, and ears half tuned to the
distant sounds of battle to the north. At the end of fifteen minutes he
came to the crest of a small ridge. He flattened himself on the top and
peered hard down the other slope. His heart did a little dance of joy,
and he silently shook hands with himself. Down there, not more than a
couple of hundred yards away, he could just see the dim outlines of the
shell-blasted farm barns.
For a couple of minutes he remained glued to the ground, searching for
any possible lights, and straining his ears for any sound other than the
sounds of battle far away from him. He saw no lights, however, and he
heard no sounds. He got to his feet again, bent well forward and went
down the far side of the slope with as much noise as though he were in
his bare feet and walking on a velvet carpet. At the end of seven
minutes by his watch he was hugging the tilting side of the nearest
shell-blasted barn, and straining his eyes and ears more than ever.
Again he saw nothing, and heard nothing. But for three long minutes he
forced himself to crouch motionless, crouch as motionless as a corpse.
Then he started to purse his lips and let out the whistle of a night
loon, the signal he and Freddy had agreed upon. But before the first
note could reach his lips he heard the low call coming to him through
the darkness from off to his left. For a split second, his nerves had
been so tensed, it was all he could do to stop from letting out a wild
yell of greeting.
But he didn't, of course. Instead he turned left, started moving slowly
forward, and answered the loon call. Two, three more minutes ticked by,
and then a little bit of the darkness seemed to move out toward him, and
he felt Freddy Farmer's hands on his arm. It was so perfect an approach
by the English youth that Dave gulped and was violently startled in
spite of the fact that he had known Freddy was close. The hand on his
arm tightened and he was pulled down onto the ground, or rather down
into a small crater left by one of the exploding shells that had wrecked
those farm barns earlier in the war.
"What kept you, old thing?" asked the whispering voice in his ear. "Been
here for hours, scared stiff something had happened to you. Did you run
into any Nazi patrols? There are some of the beggars about. One blighter
almost stepped on my hand. Could have finished him easy, but he had some
pals along. You all right, Dave?"
"Fit as a fiddle," Dave whispered back. "What do you mean, what kept me?
I ran all the way! I didn't come across any Nazis, though. After this,
better keep your hands in your pockets, pal. Well, let's have a look at
the time. Don't want to be late meeting Jones."
As Dave breathed the last he slid back the little cover that fitted over
the radium dial of his wrist watch, and took a quick look at the time.
It told him that they had forty-six minutes to cover the two miles to
the shelled church rubble where Jones was to meet them. He let Freddy
see his watch, and then started to speak, but didn't as the English
youth pressed something into his hand.
"A bit of burnt cork I brought along, Dave," the English air ace
whispered. "I know we are wearing Jerry uniforms, but until we contact
Jones we'd better blackout ourselves a bit, don't you think? There are
too many blasted Nazis patrolling around. Better that we don't let them
see us, even if we are dressed as Nazi officers. We can rub this stuff
off later, if we have to."
"Check, and thoughtful boy!" Dave murmured, and started rubbing the
black stuff all over his face. "And look, Freddy, your seeing Nazi
patrols starts me thinking. We both want to get through to contact
Jones, but at least one of us _must_ get through. You get what I mean?"
"Quite," Freddy replied. "If we ran into trouble together, why, neither
of us might get out of it. Going separately, though, one of us would
probably get through to Jones. And if the other didn't show up-well,
Jones would just have to team up with the chap who did. Correct?"
"Right on the button," Dave said. "I'd sure like your company, pal. But
I think we'd better go it alone from here to that shelled church. Two
miles. Let's say we make one mile in twenty minutes. Forty miles to the
ruined church, and six minutes to play with, in case we have to. Okay.
That's the way it will be. I guess we'd better get going now. Your face
all blacked out?"
"Ready," Freddy breathed, and got to his feet. But he suddenly reached
out and touched Dave on the arm. "Just had a thought," he whispered.
"Might be a good idea for us to contact again halfway. There's an old
bit of railroad track just a mile from here. Remember seeing it marked
on Major Barber's mosaic maps? What say we meet there again in twenty
minutes, twenty-three minutes at the most. Think that would be a good
idea?"
"Checks with me," Dave replied. "If we don't meet then, the one who does
reach the railroad will know more or less that the other fellow is
probably out of the picture for good. Okay, Freddy. I'll be seeing you
in twenty minutes, twenty-three at the most. Don't go sticking that nose
of yours into any trouble. We'll probably have plenty of that later on."
"And see that you don't, either!" Freddy Farmer whispered right back at
him. "I don't want to have to go back looking for you. And I'm afraid I
would, you know. That's the trouble with liking a chap so much. Makes
one do the barmiest things sometimes."
Dave smiled in the darkness, groped for Freddy's hand, and pressed it
hard.
"That goes double for me, too, Freddy," he breathed. "But neither of us
is going to have to go back looking for the other. We're going to meet
in twenty minutes. So long. Be seeing you, pal."
The two youths squeezed hands for one brief instant longer, then parted,
and went melting off into the darkness in opposite directions.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Falling Doom_
A faint sound broke the silence of the black night! Was it the wind in
the trees? The echo of the battle far to the north? A night animal
stalking its next meal? Or was it one of Adolf Hitler's uniformed
killers?
Dave Dawson didn't know. Perhaps it was just his imagination. Perhaps it
was just his taut nerves snapping, and his brain playing him tricks. As
yet he had not come across a single Nazi night patrol. And perhaps there
wasn't a German within miles of him. But maybe there was! Just to make
sure, he pressed himself close to the ground, turned his cork-blackened
face toward his left wrist, and with his right hand inched up the cuff
of his sleeve, and then removed the cover from the radium dial of his
watch that was strapped about his forearm halfway to the elbow.
Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes had ticked by already? His watch must be
wrong! It must have gone all cockeyed! It must have gained a couple of
hours in the last ten minutes. He was dead certain he had looked at it
not five minutes before. Yet his watch said it was exactly five minutes
of the hour. Just twenty minutes since he had parted company with Freddy
Farmer at those shelled barns. Twenty minutes? That meant he was late.
Only three minutes left to reach the strip of old railroad track!
He had the feeling that he wasn't very close to it; that he couldn't
cover the remaining distance in three minutes, and not make a lot of
noise doing it. But--that noise he had heard just now! Was it a Nazi? Or
was it Freddy closing in from his left. Had Freddy--?
The black night sky seemed to crash down on Dave's spine. Every muscle
went limp, and and every fiber of his entire being seemed to snap like a
rubber band. White hot flame cut into his right shoulder, and fingers of
steel circled about his neck. There was no air in his lungs, and
dazzling white balls of fire spun around before his eyes. So this is how
it feels when you are about to die? The thought pounded through his
brain as the thunderous roar in his ears seemed to blast his whole body
to bits.
It took perhaps a split second, or even less, for all those thoughts and
emotions to register within him. And then experience and intensive
training came racing to his rescue. He flung up both clenched fists with
every ounce of his strength, shoved them between two arms and pried
outward savagely. The steel fingers were pulled partly loose from his
neck. At the same time as he thrust up his fists, he brought up his
right knee with the driving force of a battering ram, and twisted to the
left. A gurgle of pain was music in his roaring ears. Air poured down
into his lungs and stung like sparks of fire. But strength was surging
through him now, and if there was still pain he was too furiously
engaged in whirlwind action to be conscious of it.
A grunting, gurgling hulk had half rolled and half fallen off from on
top of him. He shot out his left foot, hooked his toes about a booted
ankle, then kicked upward and outward. At the same time he twisted back
and slammed stiff fingers right down into a puffy moon-shaped face. His
palms slapping down over parted lips cut off the scream of pain that
would have torn the night air apart if it had escaped. But Dawson had
trained for this moment, and he wasn't slipping up on a single trick.
Keeping the open mouth gagged with one hand, he streaked the other down
to the neck, dug in his fingers and squeezed with every ounce of his
strength. The hulking figure under him struggled desperately, arched his
body upward, and tried to twist his head. That was the moment!
Quick as a flash Dave crooked a leg under the figure, held his grip on
the neck, and dropped the other palm down to the point of the chin. That
palm he jammed upward with a savage, vicious movement. No man on earth
caught by that Commando trick had a chance. And the heaving hulk under
Dawson was no exception to prove the rule. He was strong, though, and
for a brief instant he resisted Dawson in a furious effort. Then the
strength in him seemed to melt away. His head went flying backward and
there was the sickening sound of snapping bone. Instantly the man went
limp and still. And quite naturally, too. A man who has had his neck
broken doesn't move very much. He can't. And in this case it was
impossible, because the man was already dead.
A shudder shook Dave as he untwisted from the man and started to get up
onto his feet. Death was a terrible thing to have to deal out, even to a
black-hearted Nazi. But this was war, and a man's personal thoughts
about things weren't to be considered. He--
The strength was suddenly sucked right out of Dave. He hadn't realized
what it had cost him to take care of that hulking German who had
stumbled across him in the dark. He tried to regain his balance, but
couldn't in time. He went pitching headlong on his face. But that was
perfectly okay, at least for a moment or two. He was filled with
momentary pain from head to foot. And his lungs felt as though invisible
claws were trying to pull them right out through his ribs. And so for
two blessed minutes he stayed right where he was, stretched out on the
ground, sucking air into his lungs, and letting his heart pump renewed
strength through his body.
Then suddenly he remembered that he had only three minutes left. Holy
smoke! He'd never make the railroad track now. Freddy would go on
without him. Maybe he'd never be able to catch up. He'd--
"Dave! All right, old chap?"
The whisper was no louder than a breath of night wind in tall grass. Yet
it seemed to explode in Dave's ears like cannon fire. For a split second
he couldn't move, think, or function in any way at all. His brain raced
wildly; screamed at his muscles to go into action again. This might be
the rest of the German patrol. That was an officer he had just killed.
He'd felt the insignia and rank sewn on the man's uniform. Maybe the
rest of the patrol was--
Just a split second, and then his thoughts were making sense again. That
had been Freddy Farmer, of course! Good old Freddy Farmer. Freddy had
come back to look for him, as he had promised. Dave turned his head to
the right and stared at the motionless darkness.
"All okay here!" he breathed. "Had a little exercise, but it's okay now.
But thanks for coming back, pal."
One of the motionless shadows moved, and Freddy Farmer was at his side.
"Didn't come back," the English youth said, and ran his hands over Dave
as though to make sure. "Heard a racket, and guessed you'd stumbled into
a blighter. Couldn't tell in the dark. Phew! That must be the biggest
Nazi Hitler has!"
"Had," Dave corrected grimly. "And it was closer than I ever want it to
be again. Guess I'm a pretty punk Commando. He must have heard me and
played dead dog until I passed by. Gosh! I feel as if I didn't have a
strip of skin left on my neck!"
"We'll have a look into that, later," Freddy said, and started to help
Dave to his feet. "We've got to be getting along. We're behind
schedule. Maybe it would be better to stick together, at that. Yes, it
would. Come on, old chap. Can't spend the whole night chit-chatting."
"Okay by me," Dave grunted, and was just a little surprised when he
found out the rubber had gone out of his legs. "Let's get going. And
that's my last dumb idea for a while. Going it alone, I mean. Okay, give
me your hand, Freddy. Let's keep contact that way."
"Right-o." The word just managed to drift to his ears. "I'll squeeze if
I hear something on my side. You squeeze if you hear or see something on
yours. And let's make it as fast as we can."
Dave just grunted faintly. He didn't bother to say anything. For that
matter, there wasn't anything to say. Besides, he was too busy feeling
and sensing his way forward through the night, and getting more strength
back into his still aching body as soon as he could.
Then began a night journey that Dave vowed he would never forget as long
as he lived. The closer they approached the area surrounding Evaux, the
greater the risks they ran of bumping into Nazi soldiers. It seemed that
they would take no more than a couple of steps before they would be
forced to drop flat and hold their breath while a squad of German troops
went past.
That fact worried Dave not a little as Freddy and he stole forward
through the dark night. True, he had expected possibly to meet a few
Germans. But not meet so many, so often. The more he thought of it, the
more a gnawing little fear worked on his heart. Wasn't it just possible
that the Germans were suspecting that an attack of some sort might be
made on von Staube's and von Gault's headquarters? Were the Nazi
expecting something like that, and so had they thrown out patrols all
around the area? And if that _was_ true, what chance would Freddy and he
have of capturing the two Nazi big shots even with Jones' help? And what
if they didn't meet the U. S. Intelligence officer posing as a German?
Supposing something had happened to Jones--and he wasn't there?
The thought made a film of ice coat Dave's heart, and beads of clammy
sweat break out on his forehead. After all, maybe Freddy and he were
walking with eyes wide open straight into a Nazi trap. There were just
too darned many German soldiers about for comfort. No two ways about
that. Something was wrong. Or at least the eerie tingling sensation that
had come to the back of his neck seemed to warn him that things were
not as they should be, or he had hoped they would be.
On sudden impulse he stopped dead, squeezed Freddy's hand, and then
melted to the ground close to a thick clump of bushes. The shell-smashed
church couldn't be more than a quarter of a mile away now. But he wanted
to confab with Freddy before they started down the last lap of their
weird, nerve-jangling journey.
"What's up, Dave? Something wrong?"
"Not yet," Dave breathed into his pal's ear. "But that's just what I'm
wondering about. Freddy! Did you ever see so many Nazis out on night
patrol? The whole area is practically crawling with them."
"I know," the English youth murmured. "A blessed sight more than I
fancied we'd be bumping into. What do you think, Dave?"