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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i 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 embarra.s.sing."

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 G.o.d!" Dave said fervently. "I still can't realize that I'm not full of slugs, or that a flock of n.a.z.is aren't on our necks."

"Well, forget about it," Freddy murmured. "Both alive, and that's all that counts. Point is, what the d.i.c.kens 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 n.a.z.i boot. But--"

Dave had to stop and swallow hard before he could go on.

"But not a n.a.z.i 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 G.o.d 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 n.a.z.is 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i 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 sh.e.l.led church.

"That cooks it!" he spoke aloud. "That shouting means they've come across your n.a.z.i, 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 n.a.z.is!" 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 n.a.z.i 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 b.u.ms 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 n.a.z.is 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 n.a.z.is. 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."