revving aircraft engines. There must be other Nazi pilots about! They
were getting ready to take the craft up into the air. Perhaps this was a
part of some schedule that Freddy and he knew nothing about. Was their
only avenue of escape going to fly away? They couldn't hope to march
these two Germans to the nearest bunch of Commandos. The nearest point
where they would find Commandos was miles away, far over on the _other_
side of the Seine River.
"Freddy!" he choked out on the spur of the moment.
But that's as far as he could get.
"Quite all right, Dave!" his pal cut him off quickly. "Our chaps warming
up the engines as arranged. We'd better put on a bit of speed. Mustn't
keep them waiting."
Dave knew that he was prodding his prisoner across the space of open
ground at an increased rate. He knew that Freddy and von Staube were
speeding up also. He knew that they reached the shelter of the trees
without incident of any kind. But they were all bits of snap realization
that flipped through his brain. What filled his brain most was a great
dawning light which had burst on him at Freddy Farmer's words. Those
engines revving up were the Dornier's, of course! And Freddy knew it! He
expected it! And--and he had arranged it. But how? Holy smoke! That
Luftwaffe pilot he had herded out into the hall? But Freddy certainly
hadn't sent that Jerry pilot over to start up the Dornier's engines and
get them warm. Freddy had said the Luftwaffe Captain was "sleeping" in
the hallway. So--?
The thought was ended right then and there for Dave. At that exact
instant there came a roar of anger and blazing rage from around in front
of the H.Q. building they had just quit. The roar came a split second
after a crashing sound, a crashing and splintering that made Dave's
heart quiver and then freeze up solid. He didn't know the true facts,
but his guess was good enough for him.
Some of the Germans, maybe an arriving high ranker, had tried the H.Q.
front door and found it locked. So the door had been smashed in and
Germans knew now that von Staube and von Gault had been swiped right
from under their noses. And if they didn't know the exact details, they
would as soon as they had ungagged and revived those inside the place.
It was the way it always happened! The gods had to have their laugh.
Freedom and success were almost within hands' reach, and now suddenly
everything seemed about to be wiped clean from the slate.
"Get speed out of that slob, Freddy!" Dave barked, and gave his own
prisoner a vicious jab. "Jig's up. Speed's the only thing. Get that slob
going, or slice him up. No time to waste words, now!"
Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He simply went into action. His needle
pointed knife drew blood from von Staube's back. Perhaps the German's
courage returned for a moment. Perhaps he was actually going to turn and
throw his wrist-bound body at Freddy, perhaps even cry out. But the
knife digging into his back was the breaking of the last straw. The big
fat hulk gurgled out a moan of pain, and then tripped and went sprawling
to the ground in a dead faint. Unable to check himself or his own
prisoner, Dave and von Gault plowed into the pair in front, and
everybody went sprawling.
And behind them in the shadows German voices screamed out commands to
each other, and the fading night was filled with the snarl and crackle
of random gunfire!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
_Commandos Never Quit!_
For a fleeting instant Dave's head was full of spinning colored lights,
and his lungs were full of searing white flame. But the lights and the
fire were gone as quickly as they had come. He rolled off the heap made
by von Staube and von Gault, and breathed a little crazy prayer of
relief that in spilling down he hadn't driven home his Commando knife.
Quite unconsciously he must have twisted his hand so that the point of
the knife was no longer at the German's back. And in the next instant he
realized that Freddy Farmer had likewise been fortunate. Von Staube was
still in a faint, and von Gault was rigid with fear, and gasping for
knocked out wind. But neither of them was dead.
"Blast!" Freddy almost sobbed. "It was so close, too! I--"
"Shut up!" Dave told him. "It's still close. Grab your guy by the
collar, and drag him along. The deeper we get into these trees, the
better. I got an idea."
"What...?"
"Save it!" Dave cut his pal off again. "Just grab hold and heave-ho!
Those tramps are only shooting at shadows so far. They don't know which
direction we took. We can make tracks while there's still time. Deeper
into the woods, Freddy."
Though his prisoner was still gasping and choking, that didn't bother
Dave in the least. He hooked the fingers of his right hand in von
Gault's tunic collar and then hauled the German over the ground and
deeper into the strip of woods. Freddy and he had traveled no more than
fifty yards when suddenly the English youth lost his footing and went
tumbling with his prisoner down into a partially grown over shell crater
made in the first year of the war. Dave stopped just in time, and felt
like letting out a shout of joy. The gods had laughed, but they were
being a little kind to Freddy and him now. Dave slid down into the shell
crater, hauling von Gault along with him. By the time he reached the
bottom where Freddy was wiggling out from under the unconscious von
Staube, von Gault was past the moaning complaint stage. He was having
all he could do to get a little air into his lungs and get it out
again.
"Nice going, Freddy!" Dave cried softly. "Just what the doctor ordered.
Couldn't find a better hide-out than right down here. Now--"
"But, Dave, we've--"
"Pipe down!" Dawson whispered. "Listen! We haven't a chance to reach
that Dornier with all these birds tearing about. We'd be bound to
stumble into them. These two chumps, their condition, would be a dead
give-away. And--and, Freddy, the killing stuff is out, until there isn't
a _single_ hope left."
"Quite, Dave!" Freddy whispered. "I was just talking for their benefit,
inside there, you know. Not unless--"
"Okay, okay, we're decided on that point!" Dave cut in. "Now, look! The
way to that Dornier has got to be made clear. That yelling pack of
wolves has got to be drawn off in the other direction. They've got to be
made to think they've got a small sized war on their hands. I think I
can arrange that part. You stick here, and see that these two don't let
out a peep. If they so much as take a loud breath, crown them. I won't
be gone more than ten minutes at the most. Then we'll carry them piggy
back the rest of the way to the Dornier. But, hey! The Dornier! You
_did_ fix it to be revved up?"
"No, my little Commando knife," Freddy replied. "I made that Jerry pilot
stick his head out the door and yell to one of his mechanics out there
to start up the Dornier's engines. He was too scared to do anything
else. Then I pulled him inside, locked the door for good luck, and
bashed him into sleep, along with the dispatch rider who had come
popping through. But, Dave! You can't!--"
"I can, and will!" Dave snapped angrily. "Look! It's my turn to have a
hand in this party. You've done plenty, pal. I've just been playing the
outfield with a no hit pitcher in the box. Nix! My turn, now. You stay
put with these two. I'll be back in ten minutes, or less."
Dave turned to streak off among the shadows, but turned back to Freddy
Farmer once more.
"Give me ten minutes, Freddy," he whispered. "If I don't show up, I'll
have at least dragged them off in the other direction. That'll be that
much of a break for you. Then you'll have to lug these two one at a time
over to the planes, and take care of the guards there. But you've got a
gun, and know how to use it. One thing, though. I'd stuff these two in
the rear pit of one of those Messerschmitt One-Tens, if I were you. You
can kick those babies into life and get off quicker than you can in a
Dornier. Quite an order to fill, pal. I hope you don't have to fill it,
and that I'll be back. Luck, pal!"
Dave squeezed Freddy's shoulder hard, and without giving his pal so much
as a chance to open his mouth, whirled away from the half grown over
shell crater and went speeding silently back through the woods toward
their starting point. But he didn't go all the way to the starting
point. He didn't even leave the woods. He kept well under their shadows
until he was almost abreast of the Headquarters building and not a dozen
yards from German officers and soldiers milling about in the pale light.
He pulled up to a halt and froze against a tree trunk. It had been his
original intention to make for the west end of the field. He had spotted
some drums of oil and gasoline there when walking by the spot with
Freddy Farmer. But now sight of the Nazis dashing about like so many
bewildered chickens was too much to resist. Here was the perfect chance
for a trained Commando to do his stuff. Surprise attack, a lightning
blow, and an even faster retreat!
He moved slowly away from the tree trunk and toward a slightly hunched
over German soldier with a sub-machine gun in his hands who was
examining some piled up rubbish in back of the Headquarters building.
Dave moved slowly for a moment, and then sprang forward with the speed
of a pouncing tiger. The Commando knife he carried in his left hand went
home dead true. His other hand chopped down on the sub-machine gun and
yanked it from the falling German's hands. So swift and so deadly
accurate had the Yank's actions been that he was spraying machine gun
bullets to right and left, and in front of him, before any of those
Germans near by knew what had happened.
For many the truth came too late. They went over like ten pins and fell
sprawling to the ground. The others just leaped forward regardless of
what was in front of them. They crashed into each other, into the rear
of the building, or just into thin air--and kept going at top speed. A
wild blast of concentrated fire in three directions, and then Dave
jerked his finger off the trigger and sprinted back under the trees.
"Follow me, men!" he roared out in English. "The west side! Gather
there, and we'll mop up. Follow me, men!"
Dave fired a shot burst, and went crashing through some bushes, making
as much noise as he could. Then he slowed up a little, swerved sharply
to his right, and the sounds he made from then on were no louder than a
summer night wind. His feet hardly touched the ground as he dodged tree
trunks, twisted past thorny bushes, and went speeding in a half circle
around to the west side of the field. There the trees ended and he burst
out onto open ground. Two grey clad figures loomed up in front of him.
He saw the flash of dawn light on gun barrels. He flung himself flat,
squeezing his own trigger as he fell. Three soldiers hit the ground
together, but Dave Dawson was the only one of the three who got
instantly up onto his feet again.
Clutching the sub-machine gun, he ran body well bent forward and low to
the ground. Fifty yards of sprinting took him to the oil and gasoline
drums. He skidded to a halt and blazed away at one of the oil drums. The
brownish stuff spurted out onto the ground. Dave dropped to his knees
and jerked a snap lighter from his pocket. He struck it into flame,
dropped it in a pool of oil and started running off to the right at top
speed. He had hardly reached the shelter of some woods on that side when
the blazing oil reached the gas drums, and started to touch them off.
Though he was a good thirty yards away the force of the explosion
knocked him flat and almost sent the sub-machine gun flying from his
grasp.
He clung onto it, however. And well that he did, too! At that moment, a
squad of German troops came tearing toward him. They didn't see him in
the light of the raging flame, but they would have in the next split
second. Dave, however, didn't wait that next split second. He had swung
the sub-machine gun up and was making it spit nickel-jacketed lead. It
will never be known, but it is quite possible that not one of those Nazi
soldiers knew what hit him. At least, not until he woke up in that other
world, and there was Satan inviting him in.
Almost before the last Nazi had dropped, Dave was up on his feet again,
and in whirlwind motion. Behind him was a roaring and a shouting that
sounded like the whole German Army on his neck. His lungs were aching,
and there was pain in his body from head to toe, but that did not stop
him from putting more driving power into his legs. He tore blindly
forward, not caring so much about direction now as distance. And when
presently the roaring and shouting behind him seemed less, he cut
sharply to his right toward the west.
He headed west for perhaps two minutes, then veered right again toward
the north. All the roaring and shouting was off to his right now, and he
had only to jerk his head in that direction to see the reflection of
the burning oil and gas through the trees. He sped on by that spot until
he came out into the open again and saw the dim shapes of houses in
front of him. He swerved to the right for the last time, and went
tearing along to the protective strip of woods that ran in back of the
Headquarters building.
He was once more almost abreast of it when a figure loomed up in front
of him. But loomed is not the correct word. The figure seemed to pop up,
as though right out of the ground. He saw the hated grey green uniform,
but he had no time to fling up his gun and fire. He was carrying it in
one hand with fingers hooked about the trigger guard, while he kept the
other hand out in front of him. So there was no time to shift his hold
on the gun and shoot. There was only the time to hurl the gun straight
out from him with every ounce of his strength. It didn't have far to
travel, and it flew true. The gun crashed into the German's face and
knocked him over flat, and Dave was forced to leap into the air broad
jump style to prevent from stumbling over the fallen figure writhing on
the ground in pain and total blindness.
Maybe ten seconds, maybe a half minute ticked by before Dave reached the
grown over shell crater, and dived into it headlong. Hands slapped down
on him, and steel fingers dug deep. But the pressure was instantly
relaxed, and Freddy Farmer's arms were about him and hoisting him up to
a sitting position. He heard the mumble of Freddy's words, but there
were too many colored lights in his brain, too much of a roar in his
ears, and too much white fire in his bursting lungs for him to
understand for a few seconds.
"As if half the blasted German Army went tearing past us," Freddy's
words began to register on his brain. "We would have plowed right into
them, if it hadn't been for your stunt, though! All that noise took five
years off my life! Thought sure you had copped a bullet and--"
"Kiss me later!" Dave panted. "Right now we've got to get moving.
They're running circles around each other down there. But they may give
a thought to the planes any second. Grab your guy, and--Hey! They aren't
dead--Freddy?"
Dave gasped the last as he reached down and started to heave von Gault
up onto his feet. The German was limp, like a sack of wet wheat.
"Of course not!" Freddy snapped angrily. "Think I'm a blasted Nazi? Just
tapped them to make sure they'd kick up no fuss. Better to carry them,
anyway. This fat slob, von Staube, wouldn't go half fast enough, anyway.
Let's go!"
"Check!" Dave grunted, and heaved von Gault up over one shoulder. "The
last lap. Keep your gun in your hand, Freddy. Maybe the mechanics and
guards didn't join in the fun."
"We'll find that out!" Freddy panted, and started off with Adolf
Hitler's military little Boy-Blue slung over his shoulder.
The quarter of a mile they were forced to travel before they reached the
open east end of the small flying field didn't give forth a single Nazi.
And fortunately, for them, the noise of the revving engines and the
bedlam still in progress at the west end of the field blotted out any
sounds they made as they stumbled forward with their heavy burdens. In
fact, it was the protection they needed to get them to within twenty
yards of the Dornier. When they got that close they saw the lone
mechanic standing under the right wing. He stood as though in a trance,
his popping eyes fixed on the mounting flames to the west. Dave took one
look, then silently deposited von Gault on the ground. He glanced at
Freddy, shook his head, and put a finger to his lips.
One shot would take care of that Nazi mechanic, and nobody would have
heard it. But Dave couldn't bring himself to do that. The mechanic was
unarmed. It would be cold murder, and unnecessary too. And so Dave
simply braced himself and then streaked those twenty yards like a cat on
velvet. He reached the mechanic, clapped a hand over his mouth, hooked
the other arm about his neck, and heaved upward and to the side. The
mechanic seemed to do a beautiful swan dive through the flame-tinted air
for a moment. Then he fell down on his face, and lay there groaning, and
clawing with both hands at his neck.
Dave didn't give him a second look. He knew, from Commando training that
it would be minutes before that mechanic would have full use of his body
muscles and brain--particularly his brain. He simply sprinted back and
hoisted von Gault up again onto his shoulder, and started with him
toward the belly door of the Nazi light bomber. In the matter of
seconds, the two young Commandos had their prisoners inside the bomber
and bound together for "comfort." Then they ran forward to the pilots'
compartment. There Dave hesitated, but Freddy shoved him roughly into
the pilot's seat.
"You fly, old chap!" Freddy shouted above the sound of the engines.
"Never cared much for the heavy stuff, anyway. Get on with it! It's your
honor, old thing!"
Dave didn't stop to argue. Besides, he saw grey green clad figures
sweeping toward them from the west end of the field. He kicked off the
Dornier's wheel brakes and shoved the handle of the double throttle
forward. The Daimler-Benz engines roared out their combined song of
power and the bomber started forward. It picked up speed at a rapid
rate, but its wheels were still clinging to the ground when the
on-rushing Nazis veered off to the side and opened up a withering blast
of machine gun and rifle fire. A million tiny cracks appeared in the
cockpit windshield. And as Dave and Freddy ducked down low they heard
the metallic wasps come whining into the cockpit and tear into the
partition in back of them. And then, suddenly, the gods of good fortune
seem to release the Dornier's wheels. The plane zoomed upward under full
throttle, and the flame-spitting machine guns and rifles fell away from
the belly of the bomber as it mounted higher and higher into the
dawn-filled sky.
"Don't worry, bums!" Dave shouted on impulse. "We're just leaving you
for a little while. We'll be back soon. Right! Us, and the whole gang.
But you'll like that less!"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed his words. "But keep us going up, Dave.
England's thirty minutes away still. Just look at that! That flame and
smoke over Le Havre way. I guess the other chaps fulfilled their
mission, too. What a mess they made of the whole attack area!"
Dave squinted ahead at the ocean of flame and oily black smoke that
towered up above the Le Havre area. It was a horrible sight to see, but
just the same it filled him with pride and joy to be a member of a force
that could slam into Adolf Hitler's boasted strongholds and make that
kind of a mess of things. One look at that flaming, smoking chaos and he
knew that the United Nations Commando attack had been a success, in
spite of what it may have cost. First Dieppe, now Le Havre. Next time,
with luck, it would be all of France! All of conquered Europe!
"Say, Freddy?" he suddenly spoke aloud. "One thing not quite clear. Just
why did you have those two Luftwaffe pilots sent for, anyway?"
"Don't tell me you didn't get it!" Freddy echoed with a laugh. "I should
think it would be obvious, now. I realize I took an awful chance, but
that was the only way I could find out. And, of course, I needed one of
them to make the orders to start up the Dornier's engines authentic."
"Hold everything!" Dave cried. "I get that part, sure. But what was it
you had to find out?"
"Why, how many pilots were about, of course!" Freddy said with a chuckle
and a gesture. "Would have been silly, you know, for us to kidnap von
Staube and von Gault, and then have some Jerry pilots fly off in the
planes we were going to use. That's why I asked to speak to their
_pilots_. Plural, see? And--well, thank goodness there were only two at
that field. Everybody else was a ground soldier or officer. It would
have been frightfully annoying if a dozen or so Jerry pilots had been
there. My whole stunt would have gone up in smoke!"
"Jumping catfish!" Dave breathed in awe. "So that was the reason! Ye
gods! Supposing there had been more than two? But I don't want even to
think of it. And I think you'd better leave that part out of your
report, pal. Nobody would believe we had _that_ much luck. Hey! A mess
of R.A.F. Spitfires! Holy smoke! They don't know who we are, and--!"
"So we'd better surrender," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "And about time
we did, too, I'm thinking. Hold her level, Dave, while I give the chaps
the surrender signal."
Freddy shoved open the greenhouse, stood up on the seat so that he was
head and shoulders in the air, and waved both arms in the well known
gesture of aerial surrender. The flock of R.A.F. Spitfires swooped down,
looked them over cautiously, and then took up escorting positions as the
Dornier drilled on out across the Channel toward England.
"That's what _I_ like, pal!" Dave cried happily, and motioned toward the
Spitfires. "To come home in style. Aerial escort, and everything."
"Frankly," Freddy said as a wistful expression spread over his tired
face. "Frankly, I'd like a--"
"I know!" Dave shouted him down. "A nice pot of hot tea! With cream.
Well, pal, you're going to get one. Get a thousand. For the first time
Dave Dawson is going to buy all the tea he can get. But for you.
_Strictly for you!_ There's a limit to any friendship, my friend!"
THE END
* * * * *
_A Page from_
DAVE DAWSON ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT
The moving dot silhouetted against the bleak, cheerless-looking sky grew
bigger and bigger. Presently it ceased to be just a moving dot. It took
on the definite shape and outline of a German Messerschmitt One-Ten.
Dave watched it a moment longer, and then when the Nazi craft suddenly
veered off to the west, and went streaking upward toward a brooding bank
of clouds, he took a quick glance at Freddy Farmer flying just off his
right wing, and started to snap out a short burst from his guns.
There was no need, however, to attract the English youth's attention.
Freddy had already spotted the Nazi plane. In fact, he was pulling his
own ship around and up in that direction. Dave grinned, tight-lipped,
and hauled his own plane around in Freddy's wake.
"Leave it to you, Eagle Eyes, to spot things before I do," he murmured
with a chuckle. "Okay, pal. That's our baby. This is our dish. He thinks
he's learned things, and is hurrying home to tell Uncle Goering about
it. Well, not today, hey, Freddy?"
End of Project Gutenberg's Dave Dawson with the Commandos, by R. Sidney Bowen