"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 sh.e.l.l 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 n.a.z.is 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 th.o.r.n.y 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. .h.i.t 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i 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 sh.e.l.l 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 n.a.z.i? 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 n.a.z.i.

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 n.a.z.i mechanic, and n.o.body 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.is veered off to the side and opened up a withering blast of machine gun and rifle fire. A million tiny cracks appeared in the c.o.c.kpit windshield. And as Dave and Freddy ducked down low they heard the metallic wasps come whining into the c.o.c.kpit and tear into the part.i.tion in back of them. And then, suddenly, the G.o.ds 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, b.u.ms!" 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 G.o.ds! 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. n.o.body 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!"