With a half salute toward the blazing Spitfires falling earthward, and followed downward every inch of the way by a couple of dozen n.a.z.i 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 n.a.z.is 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 G.o.ds 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 n.o.body knows how many n.a.z.i 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 pa.s.s until he had captured a n.a.z.i plane and flown it across the Channel. Stealing a n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i _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 n.a.z.i. 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 compa.s.s 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 c.o.c.keyed, he had about half a mile to travel before he would reach the cl.u.s.ter of sh.e.l.l-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 b.u.mp 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 sh.e.l.l-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 sh.e.l.l-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 sh.e.l.ls 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.is, 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 sh.e.l.led 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 n.a.z.is patrolling around. Better that we don't let them see us, even if we are dressed as n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i 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 b.u.t.ton," Dave said. "I'd sure like your company, pal. But I think we'd better go it alone from here to that sh.e.l.led 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 n.a.z.i 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 c.o.c.keyed! 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 sh.e.l.led 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 n.a.z.i? 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 b.a.l.l.s 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.