just what to think. Trouble is, I've got a sneaky hunch that the bums
figure that something may be in the wind, and are doing something about
it, by throwing out so many patrols. Right here is where this whole
thing stops looking like a cinch. Supposing Jones isn't there at the
wrecked church!"
"I refuse to answer!" Freddy hissed. "It just can't be that way. He's
just got to be there. We'd be in a fine flat spin if Jones didn't show
up. Don't even think about it!"
"I'm trying not to, but it's plenty hard," Dave murmured. "Well, I guess
there isn't much sense, at that, in parking here and trying to hash over
something we don't know anything about--yet. Let's get going again.
Can't be more than a quarter of a mile more. I've just been wasting time
for us."
"Rot!" Freddy grunted. "I was about to stop and talk things over, when
you beat me to it. But it does no good to talk. The only thing we can do
is get to that shelled church--and find out what's what."
"Yeah," Dave murmured as they got into motion again. "And do I wish my
cockeyed thoughts would leave me alone. Oh well! Live and learn, I
always say."
Perhaps! But Dave Dawson certainly didn't enjoy living the next ten
minutes. For one thing, each minute seemed a year long. And for another,
they twice came within a hair's breadth of running smack into a Nazi
patrol. And for a third, he felt as though he had died a dozen times
over during every minute of those ten. Eventually, though, they reached
the dirt road marked so clearly on Major Barber's maps. And but a short
time after that they were huddled together deep in the darker shadows of
the piled up rubble that had once been a church.
"So what?" Dave heard his own voice suddenly whisper. "Here we are,
and--so what?"
"A little patience, I fancy," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Jones probably
just wouldn't stand here waiting. It might look too suspicious to all
those blighters moving about. Besides, we're several minutes late. Maybe
he went for a bit of a walk, and will be back."
"Sure, that's probably it," Dave agreed, but only with his lips.
There was no agreeing with Freddy's words inside his head. A cold clammy
thought seemed to fill his entire brain. No, not just a thought.
Definite knowledge it was--though of course there was no proof. Just the
same, though, he had the steady sickening feeling that the man called
Jones was not going to meet them this night, or any other night, for
that matter. However, he had agreed with Freddy with his lips, anyway.
No sense building up a fear in Freddy that might be absolutely
unfounded. Still--
"Steady, Dave!" came Freddy's sudden, cautioning whisper. "I heard
footsteps coming along the road. Maybe this will be Jones. Steady until
we get a look at the chap!"
Dave was steady enough--outwardly. But inside he was all just so much
nervous jelly. His heart tried to slap out through his ribs as he
himself heard the sounds of footsteps coming along the road. And the
blood raced through his veins, and actually seemed to be trying to force
itself out through the ends of his fingers and the ends of his toes. He
was filled with the wild insane desire to snap the tension with a laugh,
or with a shout. He curbed the impulse, though, and crouched with Freddy
in the darkness as the footsteps came closer and closer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Satan's Calling Card_
Closer, closer came the footsteps! They seemed to be mysteriously
synchronized with Dave's beating heart. One beat, one footstep. One
beat, one footstep. Another, and another. Dave stabbed with his eyes at
the gloom, but he couldn't see a single moving shadow; couldn't see a
single moving thing, even though there seemed to be a sort of pale glow
all about from the reflection of raging fires, and exploding ammo dumps
up Rouen way to the north. But he couldn't see a thing, and his
straining eyes began to smart and water.
Then, suddenly, he felt Freddy Farmer stiffen rigid at his side. And he
felt Freddy's steel-like fingers close over his own hand and press hard.
And then Dave saw it, himself. Saw the faint outline of a German
infantryman walking along the road. He wore a battle helmet, and crooked
in his right arm was one of the deadly Nazi sub-machine guns. Jones?
The word question streaked across Dave's brain and returned to the
center to whirl like a top. Jones, or a real German soldier? There was
only one way really and truly to find out.
Dave hesitated, then pressed his lips to Freddy's near ear.
"This is us!" he breathed. "Let's find out."
The English youth didn't make any reply. He simply rose silently with
Dave, and together they stepped out of the darker shadows cast by the
church rubble and approached the figure in Nazi uniform. They were
practically in front of the man before they stopped, and Dave spoke the
code words in flawless German.
"Tell me the time, my watch is broken."
The figure in German uniform stopped short and gulped in surprise.
"The time?" echoed a thick, heavy voice. "I do not know. I--"
The voice stopped, and in the next split second Dave swore he could feel
every hair on his head turn grey. The man in German uniform snapped on
the beam of a tiny flashlight he had taken from his pocket, and the beam
hit Dave squarely in the middle of his _still blacked out face_!
For an eternity, it seemed, Dave stood rooted to the spot, unable to
move a muscle. He knew that he and Freddy had made a fatal mistake by
forgetting to remove the cork black from their faces. He knew that this
man was not Jones. He was a real Nazi soldier. And Dave knew also that
in the next split second the German was going to wake up the whole
countryside with his wild yells, and the savage yammer of the
sub-machine gun in his hands. He knew all that, yet he was powerless to
do anything about it. It was as though he didn't have a nerve nor a
muscle left in his body. He was just so much frozen bone and frozen
blood. This was the end--and he couldn't do a darn thing to save
himself. He--
It was a streak of black lightning that he saw moving at his side. Just
a streak of black lightning. It had to be, because nothing else could
possibly move that fast. But it wasn't black lightning. It was Freddy
Farmer's body streaking through the air. Freddy Farmer's body that hit
into the Nazi soldier with terrific force. The flashlight dropped to the
road and winked out. There was a stifled moan of intense pain, and then
the thud of two bodies falling to the ground.
By then Dave had snapped out of his trance. He flung himself forward and
down. But he was simply in the way. Commando Freddy Farmer knew his
stuff, and there, stretched out on the dirt road, was positive proof.
There was now one less German soldier to shoot a gun at Adolf Hitler's
bidding.
"Done for, Dave!" came Freddy's whisper. "Got him with his own knife,
too. Horrible business, but couldn't be helped. Lend me a hand. We'd
better drag him off the road, you know. Might be some more of the
beggars come along. And it would be embarrassing."
Admiration and pride rose up to choke in Dave's throat as he bent down
and caught hold of the dead German's feet. What a man was Freddy Farmer!
A whole doggone army in himself. If it hadn't been for Freddy's
lightning action, they both would have been full of German bullets right
now. Prisoners, at least. But while he had stood frozen and helpless as
an old woman, Freddy Farmer had whirled into action. How many times did
this make that Freddy had saved their lives? One hundred? Or was it two
hundred? Probably two hundred.
Together they carried the dead German back into the darker shadows of
the church rubble, and dumped him down on the ground. Then, by silent
mutual agreement, they crouched down beside each other, Dave to try and
get his brain working again, and Freddy to get back some of his
strength and wind.
"Remind me, Freddy," Dave said, and squeezed his pal's arm. "Remind me
to love you for life and six days afterward. That topped anything I ever
saw, pal. Thanks a million for keeping your head screwed on tight. Mine
went completely haywire. Gosh! That was wonderful. Honest, Freddy!"
"Had to be done," the English youth murmured. "After all, you'd got a
blighter earlier. Next turn was mine, so I took it."
"And how you did, thank God!" Dave said fervently. "I still can't
realize that I'm not full of slugs, or that a flock of Nazis aren't on
our necks."
"Well, forget about it," Freddy murmured. "Both alive, and that's all
that counts. Point is, what the dickens do we do now? I've got a
horrible feeling, Dave."
"I've had it for several minutes," Dave groaned. "Something went wrong
with this Jones fellow. I have a feeling he's not going to show up."
"Man, will that make a mess!" the English youth muttered. "But perhaps
if we wait a bit, and--I say, Dave? What's the matter?"
Dawson had suddenly jumped a little and then stiffened rigid. He had
put his hands on the ground in back of him to make his arms serve as
props for the upper half of his body. But both of his hands had not
touched ground. His right hand had come down on a booted foot. And it
was not one of the booted feet of Freddy's dead German. He was dumped
down behind some of the rubble a good five yards away.
Dave heard Freddy's excited question, but his own tongue was stuck fast
against the roof of his mouth. His right hand still pressed down on the
booted foot in the darkness behind him. He knew, he could feel that
there was a human foot inside the boot. And he also knew that the foot
and its owner were dead!
"Dave--?"
"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Get set for another shock. My right
hand's on the foot of a dead man. I'm sure of it. A Nazi boot. But--"
Dave had to stop and swallow hard before he could go on.
"But not a Nazi inside," he said with an effort. "I think Jones showed
up, Freddy, but--but he isn't going to be of any help to us, pal. We're
right behind the eight ball. Right out on the limb, and somebody waiting
to saw it off."
As a matter of fact, Dave wasn't conscious of whispering those words to
Freddy. He spoke them without thinking as he slowly turned around and
felt with both hands to confirm the terrible belief in his brain. Freddy
turned too. Their hands touched several times as they explored the
stiffened body stretched out on the ground. But neither of them spoke.
Neither of them dared to, for fear they wouldn't be able to control
their tongues, and start screaming crazy things at the top of their
voices.
Eventually, though, Dave thought he could trust his own tongue to say
what they both knew, now.
"Jones," he got out. "It must be. A German uniform. Shot in the back.
Uniform torn and ripped to shreds. The rats searched him for any secret
identification papers he might be carrying. Please God that they didn't
find any!"
"Amen!" Freddy Farmer said in almost a sob. "Of course you're right,
Dave. It must be Jones, poor devil. Wonder what happened? Wonder how
they managed to catch him? Blast this for a fine mess!"
"Another of this war's secrets that will probably never be known," Dave
said in a dull voice. "Why, and how, we'll never know, Freddy. But one
thing is sure, according to the way I look at it. The Nazis in this area
are wise to the fact that something is up. Jones dead, here. All those
patrols we had to sneak around. Freddy! I've got a darned strong hunch
that this particular spot is the most unhealthy in all Occupied France
for us. Maybe they didn't know that Jones was to contact somebody here,
but--"
"But _we_ don't know _if_ they _do_ know!" Freddy finished the sentence.
"Right!" Dave whispered, and got up on one knee. "So, unless we want to
beg for it, let's get distance from this spot, and get it fast. You with
me?"
"Quite!" Freddy murmured, and got quickly to his feet. "I say! How about
my beggar's machine gun? Think it would come in handy?"
"No, leave it," Dave replied. "Traveling fast, and light, is our best
bet. If we got cornered, the gun wouldn't be much help for long. No,
leave the darn thing. But let's get out of here, and--"
The rest froze on the end of Dave's tongue. In that instant he heard
sounds of running feet on the road. But the sounds were from more than
one pair of running feet. Freddy Farmer heard them, too. Not a word was
spoken. No time for words, now. Nor the need. Hands clasped for mutual
guidance, the two youths melted across the dirt road to the other side,
slid behind some bushes that bordered the road, and then stole forward
in a direction parallel to the approaching running feet. When the
running feet were almost abreast, the two youths froze stiff, and held
their collective breath. As near as they could tell, six Nazi soldiers
went pounding past their place of concealment. They heard a few German
grunts, but were unable to catch the words that were spoken. As soon as
the squad of Nazi troops had pounded by, the two youths struck off at
right angles from the dirt road, and travelled swiftly and silently
northward until they reached the shelter of a thick woods. They sneaked
in past the first fringe of trees, and sank to the soft ground fighting
for breath, and to ease off their pounding hearts.
For several minutes they simply lay there stretched out on the ground.
Then, as though at some secret inner signal, they sat up and stared
brooding-eyed at the darkness about them. It was then that Dave parted
his lips to speak, but stopped as they heard the faint shouting of many
voices coming from the direction of the shelled church.
"That cooks it!" he spoke aloud. "That shouting means they've come
across your Nazi, I think, Freddy. They know now that somebody's around
who shouldn't be."
"No doubt about it!" the English youth agreed bitterly. "And it means
that we'd better be getting going again. But, good grief, where? They'll
be crawling all over the place, now that they know something is
definitely wrong. Oh, blast it, what a fine mess we've made of things! I
almost wish my parachute hadn't opened. And to lose a perfectly good
Spitfire just for this! Enough to make a chap weep!"
Dave leaned over and pushed his fist against his pal's ribs.
"Cut it out, Freddy, old sock!" he growled. "None of that kind of talk
from you. Not like you at all. We're not licked, kid, until Saint Peter
swings wide the Pearly Gates and invites us in. Get that old chin up,
pal!"
"It's up high enough, I fancy!" Freddy muttered. But with a heavy sigh,
he added, "But it still makes me want to break down and weep. Should
have brought that sub-machine gun along after all. We could at least
take some of the beggars along with us."
"Nuts to the patrolling Nazis!" Dave snapped. "We'll let them hunt for
us until they're blue in the face. We've got things to do."
The English youth half turned and stared at him hard in the gloom.
"You haven't gone a little balmy, have you?" he demanded. "What have we
_got_ to do, now? Jones is dead. He was to be our big link with the rest
of the business. What have we got to do now, save keep clear of those
searching for us as long as we can? And it probably won't be any too
long, at that!"
"Boy, oh boy, are you sunk!" Dave said with a harsh chuckle. "Your Nazi
must have clouted you one on the head that I didn't see. Sure we're
getting out of here. In fact, pal, you and I are going to a spot where
those shouting bums over yonder wouldn't even think of looking for us,
see?"
"No, I don't see," Freddy replied. "Just what are you driving at,
anyway?"
"The middle of the enemy's camp, of course!" Dave threw at him. "Sneeze
away those brain cobwebs, pal. The H.Q. of von Staube and von Gault,
naturally! Aren't they the two birds we came over here to collect, huh?"
Freddy Farmer sat up straight, and even in the bad light Dave could see
his popping eyes.
"Good grief!" the English-born air ace choked out. "The H.Q. for von
Staube and von Gault, did you say?"
"You heard me!" Dave said firmly. "Look, Freddy. Figure it out. Jones is
gone. We're on our own now. So what are we going to do? Let these
darned Nazis chase us around Occupied France all night? Or head straight
for von Staube and von Gault, and--well, trust to luck that we'll get a
break somehow? Me, I'm for direct action, even if it does seem hopeless.
Darned if I'm going to stumble around in this darkness a couple of steps
ahead of a bunch of Nazis. Jones is gone. So that puts it squarely up to
us. I say, let's give it a whirl. Heck, Freddy! That's the only thing we
_can_ do! Right?"
"Of course you're right, Dave," Freddy said quietly. "Sorry I acted such
a fool just now. No doubt we're mad to think we can accomplish anything.
But--well, as you say, let's give it a whirl."
"Atta boy!" Dave murmured, and squeezed Freddy's arm. "But for cat's
sake, let's first get this cork black off our faces and hands. It won't
help us now. And when I think of that Nazi snapping that light in my
face--Boy! I died a thousand deaths in that split second. That's enough
for one night. We play strictly Jerry officers from now on. And Jerry
officers don't go wandering around with cork black all over them. So
let's get it off."
Five minutes later both youths had removed every trace of the cork black
with their handkerchiefs and some water from the small canteen fitted
to their German army belts. They stood up and studied Dave's compass
with its radium-painted needle.
"North and bear a bit left," Dave said, and slipped the compass into his
pocket. "We're a good half mile from the shelled church. So we can't be
more than a mile from the edge of Evaux where the H.Q. is located. Well,
I guess there's nothing to do but get started."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Vulture Nest_
Dave Dawson stole a glance at his watch and saw that there was little
more than an hour and a half until daylight. An hour and a half in which
to accomplish something which, if things had only gone as planned,
should have been cleaned up a good two hours before! He clamped his lips
tight to choke back the bitter groan that rose up in his throat, and
peered out from behind the thick clump of bushes at the scene that lay
before him.
He was hugging the ground on the south side of a small yet billiard
table flat field. On the other side, and not two hundred yards from
where he lay, was a group of small buildings which marked the beginning
of the outskirts of the French village of Evaux. In front of the group
of small buildings were half a dozen German Staff cars, motorcycles, a
couple of armored cars, and a hundred or more Germans of all sizes and
ranks. Busy bee activity was in progress, too. Cars were rushing up a
road that led out of some woods, to brake scream to a halt in front of
the buildings, where the occupants would leap out and go dashing inside.
A dispatch rider would come tearing up on his motorcycle, and
practically throw himself from it in his haste to get inside with his
dispatches. And twice an Arado army cooperation plane slid down to a
landing on the small flat field, and quickly taxied over to join the
general hubbub.
For thirty minutes, now, Freddy and he had been hugging the ground out
of sight of prying eyes and silently studying the layout before them.
And their thoughts were far from happy ones. Somewhere over on the other
side of the field, in one of the buildings--and they had a pretty fair
idea which one it was--Field Marshal von Staube and Luftwaffe Marshal
von Gault were receiving reports at the rate of about one every five
minutes on the progress of the United Nations Commando raid on the Le
Havre area. How that raid was making out, neither Dave nor Freddy could
tell. They could hear the distant roar of coastal batteries, the crash
of exploding bombs, and the terrific thunder of ammo dumps blowing up.
And every once in a while they caught the echo of savage fighting in
the air. But what had been accomplished, and what hadn't been
accomplished, were two things beyond their knowledge at the moment.
"Thought up any plan yet, Dave?"
Freddy's quietly spoken question caused Dave to start a little. He
chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and then shook his head.
"Not even close to an idea!" he grated. "At least not one that would
give us even a Chinaman's chance. How about you?"
"Mind a blasted blank!" the English youth sighed. "Getting von Staube
and von Gault away from that crowd over there would be as easy as
getting Hitler out of his precious Berlin bomb shelter during an R.A.F.
raid. I haven't even seen either of them poke their noses outside yet.
And blast it! It'll be daylight soon."
Dave nodded soberly, turned slightly and stared toward the east. He was
not looking for the dawn, however. He was looking at the very first
thing he had noticed when Freddy and he had arrived at the edge of this
field. It was the Dornier Do. Seventeen light bomber resting peacefully
on the edge of the east side of the field. There were a couple of
Messerschmitt One-Tens, and a single One-Nine, too, but Dave hardly
gave them a glance. He stared longingly at the Dornier, and his pounding
heart wept bitter tears.
If only Jones had not met his Fate! If only the man had lived, and been
able to play his part in this life and death, victory and defeat
struggle. If only--But what was the use of thinking about what might
have been? The key man was gone. The one main link to success was gone.
Whether they won out or failed depended solely upon Freddy Farmer and
himself. But what could Freddy and he do now? What possible chance did
they have against such overwhelming odds? How in the world could they be
expected to perform the absolutely impossible? They were only human.
They weren't miracle men who could simply snap their fingers, and,
_presto_, magic was done. They--
For an instant his eyes strayed to one of the Messerschmitt One-Tens.
There was an avenue of escape for Freddy and himself. Just a couple of
guards watching over those planes over there. They could be taken care
of in short order, and Freddy and he could get one of those One-Tens in
the air and be on their way back to England before the others realized
what was taking place. Sure they could! And they could explain to Major
Barber how they'd found Jones dead, how they had been chased all night
by Nazi soldiers, and how it would have simply been asking for certain
death to attempt to kidnap von Staube and von Gault under such
impossible circumstances. Darned right! They'd tell Major Barber--
Dave clamped down hard on his whirling thoughts, and his whole body grew
hot with shame. A fine soldier he was! Just about as much courage as a
new born rabbit. Just a quitter. Afraid he might get hurt? Afraid he
might get killed? My, my, what a pity! Well, never mind. Just go on
home, and Major Barber would pat him sympathetically on the back, and
say not to worry, and that it was really too much to have asked of any
man. Yes, yes. Just go to sleep, my little man. And sweet dreams! Maybe
some day somebody else will grab von Staube and von Gault, and then
everything will be just dandy!
"Dave! What in the world's the matter with you? Your face is as red as a
beet! Don't you feel all right?"
Freddy Farmer's anxious words snapped Dave out of his bitter reverie. He
stopped looking at the Messerschmitts and met his pal's gaze.
"Just learning how a guy can get to hate himself," he said evenly. "But
skip it. I don't want to talk about it. Freddy?"
"Yes, Dave?"
The Yank-born air ace hesitated and stared for a moment over toward the
other side of the field.
"When a fellow can't figure out a plan," he presently said slowly, "the
only thing to do is to wade in swinging with both hands, and hope that
some kind of a plan will pop up. You agree with that?"
"Quite," the English youth said evenly. "Fact is, I was just going to
say that I think it's a bit too late, now, to bother about thinking up a
plan. I think we should simply go on over there, and--well, trust to
luck, I guess, that we'll meet up with a bit of luck. Maybe it's silly,
and stupid, and--"
Freddy paused and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"It is all of that," Dave said, and absently wiped beads of sweat from
his forehead. "But that's how it is. Me, I'm sick of playing Indians and
cowboys, crawling around in the dark, and getting no place. I'm for
barging right into the business. And if we get caught on the wrong end
of a gun, then--then that'll be that."
"Let's stroll around the west side of the field," Freddy said, and
started to get up onto his feet. "A chance those guards by the planes
might get a bit curious, you know. I've noticed that none of the others
have gone near them."