Dave Dawson, Flight Lieutenant

CHAPTER FIVE Nazi Intrigue CHAPTER FIVE Nazi Intrigue With a helpful snack of food safely tucked away, Dave and Freddy were in the mess lounge thumbing through some magazines and papers when the squadron office orderly found them. "The C.O. wants to see you two officers at once," he said. "You wouldn't have any idea, eh, Sergeant?" Dave asked and gave him a searching look. "Did he look mad, or anything like that, when he sent you after us?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know. The Sergeant grinned and shook his head. "I don't think so, sir," he said. Then gravely, "Fact is, sir, he struck me as looking a bit worried, if you know what I mean. Like as if something had upset him. But, no, he didn't look mad." "Well, thank goodness for that!" Dave breathed and looked at Freddy. "I guess it doesn't mean bombers for you yet, pal. Thanks, Sergeant. We're on our way right now. Pull in your stomach, Freddy, and let's go." "Some day I'll die laughing at your silly jokes!" the English youth growled, but he impulsively pulled in his stomach and pushed back his shoulders as he dropped into step. A couple of minutes later they entered the Squadron Office. Markham was there, and so were Colonel Trevor, and Group Captain Ball. They started to salute but Group Captain Ball stopped them with a wave of his hand. "We'll forget formality for the time being, Gentlemen," he said with a smile. "Make yourselves comfortable. We want to talk to you two for a spell. There, that's the idea." The Group Captain nodded as the two boys seated themselves, then glanced at Markham. "You want me to do the talking, Markham, or would you rather?" he asked. The Squadron Leader instantly shook his head. "You, of course, sir," he said. "You naturally know all the details better than I do." "As you wish, then," Group Captain Ball grunted, and looked back at Dave and Freddy. "Well, what with the Balkans already in this blasted war, and a Nazi attack on Russia almost certain within a month or so, old Adolf is going to need all the troops he can get." The Air Ministry official stopped short and smiled at the surprised look on the boys' faces. He chuckled, and nodded. "Oh, quite!" he said. "We've known for some time that Hitler was going to strike at Russia. When he does it will of course be quite a surprise to the rest of the world. Particularly to your civilian military experts back in America, Dawson. They've been having a jolly fine time on the radio and in the newspapers solving the Stalin riddle. Yes, I fancy they'll be the most surprised of the lot. And they'll be very annoyed at Adolf for not playing the game according to their views. However, be that as it may, we know definitely that Hitler is going to make war on Russia, and soon!" The Group Captain paused and plucked at his lower lip as though deciding upon his next words. "Tremendous in size as the German army is," he said presently, "it is not big enough for Hitler to wage intensive warfare on two fronts. He has not enough men, or enough material. It will be absolutely essential for him to withdraw a certain number of his forces from the occupied countries. And, when I say forces, I mean the Luftwaffe forces in particular. Now, if Hitler were to withdraw a large portion of his ground and air forces from the occupied countries what, in your opinion, would be the result, eh?" The Group Captain happened to be looking straight at Dave, so it was the Yank born R.A.F. ace who answered. "It would present a perfect opportunity for a British invasion of the Continent, sir," he said after a moment's thought. "And you, Farmer?" the Group Captain asked, turning to the English youth. Freddy flushed and looked slightly embarrassed, but he nodded his head. "I say the same as Dawson, sir," he replied. "It would be a perfect opportunity for us to invade the Continent ... provided we have sufficient troops, guns, and planes for the job." "And do you believe we have, Farmer?" the Air Ministry official shot at him. Freddy opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and shrugged. "I don't know, sir," he said after a short moment of hesitation. "Frankly, I have not the knowledge whether we are well enough equipped, or not." "Exactly!" Group Captain Ball cried and poked the air with his finger for emphasis. "You do not know, and neither do thousands and thousands of others. Only a mere handful of men know the true strength of Britain's armed forces today. And Adolf Hitler is not one of that group . In other words, Hitler does not know whether or not we would strike at him with an invasion of the Continent once he removes the bulk of his forces from the occupied countries. At the same time, though, Hitler is not such a fool ... insane as the man is ... as to leave himself wide open for an attack from our side of the Channel." "But if he withdraws the troops, and...?" Dave began and stopped short. "He will withdraw his troops," Group Captain Ball interrupted. "Never fear. The beggar has to, or run the risk of possible defeat on the eastern front. But how can he withdraw the major portion of his forces from the occupied countries, and still feel safe from attack by England? That has been the problem we have been struggling with for the past five weeks. Ever since his bandits marched into Yugoslavia. And we think we've got an inkling of the correct answer." The Group Captain paused and looked at Colonel Trevor. "I think you'd better carry on from there, Colonel," he said. "You've been in charge of that end of the thing." The Intelligence officer nodded, studied his fingernails for a moment, and then looked up. The glint of worry, or sadness, was still in his eyes, but in them also was the glitter of hard boiled determination. "Some three weeks ago," he began, "British Intelligence received word from one of its members who has been in Germany since long before the start of the war. This communication received was the first that had come through from this agent in some four months. He had been recorded in our files as missing or dead. So it was a great joy to all concerned to learn that he was still alive and operating." Colonel Trevor paused to crush out the cigarette he was smoking, and clear his throat. "That agent was my brother," he continued presently. "The dead man you saw thrown out of that Messerschmitt, Dawson. Today ... today was the first time he had been in England for four years! All that time he was in Germany, serving England. He actually became a member of their cursed Gestapo, and as such obtained much information about Hitler's plans that was of inestimable value to us. However, in those days we did not have a government in power that believed Adolf Hitler was nothing but a liar and a dirty murderer. Consequently practically all of my brother's reports were shelved, and ignored completely. He stuck at his job, however, and after we once got into the war ... and there was a fighting Prime Minister at Number Ten Downing Street ... my brother's efforts began to help us no end. But never mind that, now. It's all past history. It's events since receiving that communication about three weeks ago that we're interested in right now." The Intelligence officer stopped talking again. Questions hovered on Dave's lips, but he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut. He waited outwardly calm, but inwardly on fire, for the Colonel to continue. "In that first communication," the Intelligence officer presently took up the thread of his talk, "we learned for the first time of Hitler's plan to attack Russia, and of his intention to withdraw a large portion of his forces from the occupied countries. But, also, my brother included a sharp warning that an attempt by us to invade the Continent would be a risky venture with a very small chance of succeeding in our favor. Naturally, we in Intelligence wondered why our chances would be so slim. Assuming, of course, that we had the guns, planes, and men to tackle the job. However, there was no reason given in my brother's first communication. Only a sharp warning not to attempt the invasion, and a hint that there would be a second message coming through in a short time. "Well, it was five days before the second communication came through. And as luck would have it, it didn't help us very much. There was a repeat warning against an invasion attempt, but no concrete reason other than a veiled implication that the Nazis had devised a means of defeating invasion attempts regardless of the number of troops, guns, and planes they had transferred to the eastern fronts. My brother could give us no facts, as he apparently was not in possession of any facts, himself. High up as he was in Nazi inner circles, the Nazis' secret of how they would hold onto occupied countries and still wage war on two other fronts was still a mystery to him. However, it was clear that he hoped to learn that secret soon. In the meantime he was warning us against any hasty action." The Intelligence officer paused to gesture with a hand. "High Command followed his warning for the plain reason we are not yet prepared to launch any kind of an invasion of the Continent," he said bluntly. "Not by sea or land, at any rate. And then, a week ago we received a third communication from him. He spoke of a new secret weapon of defense developed by the Nazis. He did not give details, or any kind of a description. He stated only that it was a weapon that guarded the entire coast of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. He said that one General Paul von Peiplow had been placed in complete charge of this secret defense of the occupied countries. He also stated that in his next message he would supply us with complete details of this weapon, and complete information on how to combat and overcome it." Colonel Trevor stopped short and both Dave and Freddy saw the bitterness and sorrow that flooded his face. "No other communication was received!" he said in a heavy voice. "And ... and you two know what happened today." A sense of eager expectation fizzled out in Dave. He felt cheated and disappointed. He looked at Colonel Trevor and waited for the man to continue talking. However, the Intelligence officer was evidently finished. He slowly drew a cigarette from his pocket case and touched a match to it. "Then you have no idea, sir?" Dave finally ventured the question. "No idea at all what this new secret weapon might be?" "None," Colonel Trevor replied without looking at him. "We have no idea at all." Dave bit his lips in thoughtful silence, then started to speak but changed his mind and remained silent. Group Captain Ball, watching him, leaned forward. "What were you going to say, Dawson?" he asked. "Don't be shy, my lad. Anything may be a help, now." Dave hesitated and then shrugged. "I was thinking of this von Peiplow, sir," he said. "Well, what about him?" the Group Captain pressed. "Well, I assume he's still connected with the Luftwaffe, isn't he?" Dave inquired. "Most certainly, and definitely!" the Air Ministry official replied. "Von Peiplow is as close to Goering's job as any Nazi will ever get. So, what about it?" "Nothing, sir," Dave said slowly, "except that it gives me the hunch that the secret weapon must have something to do with aircraft, being as how von Peiplow is in full charge." A second of silence hit the group and then Ball broke it by slapping a hand down on his knee. "By the gods, yes!" he cried. "Yes, I believe you're right, Dawson. It's quite logical, of course, Colonel! What do you think?" The Intelligence officer had straightened up a bit in his chair and was staring at Dave with an entirely new light in his eyes. There was a gleam of admiration where there had originally been a sort of bored patience. He smiled slightly and gave a little side twist of his head. "I think Dawson has done more correct figuring in the last seven seconds," he said, "then we of Intelligence have done in the last seven days. But that's the way it is at times in this game. A bloke is so busy digging up the mysterious that the obvious passes him right by. Yes, I believe Dawson has got hold of something. And that brings us up to the work you've been doing, Group Captain. Does Dawson's remark change anything?" The Air Ministry official scratched the side of his jaw and squinted off into space for a moment or so before giving voice to his thoughts. "I don't know," he said, "but I doubt if it does. I've studied those photos until I know every dot and shadow on them by heart. True, we weren't looking for any signs of aeronautical activity, and for that reason perhaps something slipped past us. I doubt it, though. However, the point is, Colonel, as we both agreed, that as of the Twenty-Fifth all photos of Zone K Dash Twenty-Four are obsolete. So I think we can just plain forget them." Colonel Trevor nodded, and said nothing. Dave waited for perhaps three seconds, and then he couldn't stand being in the dark any longer. "What photos, Group Captain Ball?" he blurted out. "And where is Zone K Dash Twenty-Four located? I don't believe I've ever heard of that zone, sir?" The Air Ministry official grunted and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. "Well, you're going to hear about it now," he said with a quick side glance at Squadron Leader Markham. "Through a slight mistake a certain order of mine was sent to this Squadron instead of the Squadron for which it was originally intended. However, I regard that as a bit of good fortune, rather than bad, because when Squadron Leader Markham told me of the mistake over the phone I suddenly realized that I would much rather have this Squadron tackle the job. Just a minute, now, while I light my pipe." As the Air Ministry official produced pipe, tobacco, and matches, Dave noticed that Squadron Leader Markham looked far from happy. As a matter of fact, the O.C. of Eighty-Four looked downright annoyed at Group Captain Ball. However, he said nothing and watched in silence while the senior officer lighted up his hand carved "stove." CHAPTER SIX Pilots' Plans "There we are!" Group Captain Ball said and tossed the fourth or fifth burnt match into the ash tray on Markham's desk. "Now, about those photo patrols. Well, when we learned that Jerry had developed some new secret weapon that could guard Europe's coastline from the tip of the Netherlands to the south of France, we got to work to find out what it could be. Naturally, the first step was to take pictures from the air. Pictures, and more pictures, until we had found some kind of a clue. Then we would concentrate upon that particular area, and try to learn more. "Well, under my direction, at least thirty picture patrols a day were made to various points along the entire coastline. Light bombers and reconnaisance planes took the pictures. And a fighter unit or two went along as escort and protection. There were air scrambles, of course, on every patrol. We suffered a slight loss in pilots and planes, but we did get our pictures. Well, for the first few days those pictures told us absolutely nothing that we didn't already know. Then it suddenly became very apparent that there was something going on in Zone K Dash Twenty-Four. That Zone, for your information, extends from Dunkirk to Ostende, to Calais, to Boulogne, to Dieppe. In other words, the strip of Occupied France shoreline closest to the British Isles. There the photos told us that changes were being made every day. Pictures taken on two successive days simply didn't match up with each other at all. Gun implacements were different, ammo depots and the like were all changed around, anti-aircraft battery posts, and signs of troops and motorized unit movements were different. In other words, the whole blasted length of shoreline, and inland for fifteen miles or more, was a different kind of a jumble from day to day." The Air Ministry official paused, frowned at his dead pipe, and pulled out some more matches. Dave started to ask a question, hesitated a second, and Freddy Farmer beat him to it. "That sounds like the Jerries were on to you, sir," he said quietly. "I mean, that they mussed up things on purpose so that you couldn't make out head nor tail of what was going on in that Zone." Group Captain Ball blew a cloud of thick smoke toward the ceiling, smiled at Freddy, and nodded. "Good lad, Farmer," he said. "That's exactly the way we figured it. We decided definitely that they were playing a bit of a game with us. Pulling our leg, you know. And then we got pictures on the Twenty-Fifth. That was three days ago. They were the most mystifying of the lot. Every blessed one of them showed definite signs that the Zone had been completely evacuated. Yes, sir! Completely evacuated. Even the pilots taking part in the picture patrol reported they saw no signs of occupancy. True, they were at altitude, and the Jerry planes, of course, were there to give them trouble. But what little opportunity they did have to observe the terrain below resulted in nothing of value. Eye witnesses and photographs assured us that the German forces had just up and cleared out." The Air Ministry office made a faint motion with his hand, and snorted softly. "Naturally we suspected some kind of a trick at once," he continued in a moment. "We knew, perfectly well that Hitler wasn't going to up and walk away from ground that had cost him so much in men and guns. No, not that greedy one! No, it was obvious that they had simply dug places where they could hide during the day, and did their work, whatever it was, during the night. And so we made arrangements to top them on that little game." Group Captain Ball cut off the last short and stared fixedly at his pipe. It had gone out again, but it was plain that he was not even conscious of the fact. His thoughts were on something completely removed from his hand carved stove. To Dave and Freddy the senior officer's face seemed to suddenly age a dozen years or more. His shoulders sagged slightly, and his lips were pressed tightly together in a grimace of bitter self-reproach. Then presently he lifted his head and got his shoulders back. "I'd give my life if I could recall that order," he said in a husky voice. "The order was for the light bomber-photo planes to go over at night, as though on a bombing mission. When they were over their objective they were to release the new powerful magnesium flares used nowadays for night photography. They were to dive, catch those on the ground by surprise, and take their pictures." "The pictures still showed evidence of complete evacuation, sir?" Freddy Farmer put the question when the Air Ministry official stopped and didn't go on. "There were no pictures," the man said harshly. "No pictures, sir?" Dave echoed. Then as a wild guess, "Oh, you mean the patrol was washed-out?" Group Captain Ball turned his head and stared at him out of eyes filled with sorrow. "I mean that the patrol was wiped out !" he said in a heavy voice. "Not a single plane or pilot returned to base. Ten Lockheed Hudsons and not a one of them has been heard from since. They all just completely disappeared!" The senior officer stopped abruptly and a tingling silence settled over the interior of the Squadron Office. Dave wanted to say something, but he could not think of the right words. A lump of lead was rolling around inside his stomach, and the palms of his hands had suddenly become strangely hot and clammy. Ten Lockheed Hudsons roaring out over the Channel, and on into complete and utter oblivion? It wasn't a pleasant thought. It was the sort of thing that seemed to drain the blood from a fellow's body, and dumped ice cubes on his brain, no matter how many times he had personally battled with death. The known you could always take. It was the unknown, the eerie, and the mysterious that cut your heart up into small pieces, and clawed your nerves to shreds. "No report at all on what happened, sir?" Dave presently asked, though he knew full well what the answer would be. "No, none at all," Group Captain Ball replied without looking at him. "The patrol took off, and never came back." "I might add," Colonel Trevor spoke up quietly, "that Intelligence H.Q. contacted every one of its agents in the Occupied Zones. That is, all whom it was possible to contact. Not one of them could give us a satisfactory explanation." "I say!" Freddy Farmer suddenly gasped, and then instantly subsided into silence. Group Captain Ball swiveled around in his chair and shot the English youth a keen look. "You say, what?" he demanded. "You've just thought of something?" Freddy started to shake his head, and then to Dave's surprise he shot a guilty look at Squadron Leader Markham. Eighty-Four's O.C. took the look with a puzzled frown. "What now, Farmer?" he asked. "Your face has a bit of a telltale expression, you know. Spoke out of turn, eh?" "In a way, sir, I guess," Freddy said with an apologetic smile. "Never thought I'd mention it, but.... Well, after all that's been said, perhaps I'd better mention it." "If it has a bearing on our present problem," Group Captain Ball said sharply, "I'm giving you an order to mention it! And jolly well right now!" The English youth stared at him and nodded meekly. "Of course, sir," he said. Then, "It was two nights ago ... Tuesday night ... the photo patrol took off and never returned?" "That's correct," the Air Ministry official said with a curt nod. "Tuesday night." "That Zone covers quite a bit of ground, sir," Freddy said next. "Naturally, the patrol didn't expect to photo the entire area. Do you happen to know what their main objective was? I mean, the exact location?" "Certainly I do!" the Group Captain snapped in an annoyed tone. "The area between Boulogne and Lille. Day to day changes there had attracted our interest the most. We.... Now what? What the devil, Farmer? You're turning pale as a blasted ghost. For Heaven's sake, what's on your mind, lad?" Freddy gulped, swallowed hard, and shot another guilty look at Squadron Leader Markham. "You won't like this, sir," he said, "but I'd better tell it now. Last Tuesday night I took up one of the night flying planes for a little test hop about the field. You remember, sir?" "I do," the Squadron Leader said, and fixed him with a hard stare. "You were up almost three hours. Matter of fact, I've been meaning to tell you to make your night test hops shorter in future. I know that was a special plane with extra tanks to permit lengthy practice. But three hours is too long. Yes, I remember. So what about it?" "I did not make my test hop within sight of the field, sir," Freddy said as his face turned a bit red. "Fact is.... Well, I sort of went hunting for trouble. I mean.... Well, I came across a flight from our Bomber Command on its way over to Naziland. I tagged along hoping that a Jerry night fighter or two would come up once they reached the other side of the Channel." "Well, I'll be hanged!" Squadron Leader Markham breathed as Freddy faltered. "Remind me to make an example of you to the rest of the Squadron, my lad. Lots of pilots have been jolly well broken out of Service for less." "Yes, I know, sir," Freddy said in a crestfallen tone. "I was a perfect idiot." "You were completely balmy!" the Squadron Leader growled. "But never mind that for the present. Did night fighters come up after the bombers?" "No, sir!" Freddy said, brightening a little. "There wasn't a single bit of action. Not even anti-aircraft guns or searchlights. I tagged the patrol a bit farther inland, and then turned back and headed for home. I had almost reached the Jerry side of the Channel when there was what seemed to be a terrific explosion to my southeast. The whole earth seemed to explode fire and smoke. It was miles from my position yet the glare actually blinded me for an instant. Then the light died down to a reddish glow in the distance. But, I didn't go and investigate, sir." "Blessed wonder you didn't!" Squadron Leader Markham said, and hid a faint smile by wiping his mouth with his hand. "You figured the spot where the explosion occurred, I suppose?" "Yes, sir," Freddy replied instantly. "From my own position I judged it to be about half way between Boulogne and Lille. I didn't go and investigate because I assumed that it was the bombers I had tagged blasting some Jerry ammo dump, or something. So I just came on back home, and landed. Sorry, sir, but.... Well, I thought it best I tell you, considering." "Well, fessing up may help you a little," Markham grunted. "Doesn't excuse your being a crazy idiot, though." Freddy started to apologize again, but checked it as Colonel Trevor leaned toward him. "The location of that explosion, Farmer!" he said sharply. "You are sure of it? Positive?" "Oh quite, sir," the English youth assured him. "Fact is, the blinking glare lighted up some landmarks that I recognized easily. But, as I say, it was probably those bombers of ours giving a Jerry ammo dump, or rail-head, a good drubbing." "It wasn't!" Group Captain Ball cut in with a violent shake of his head. "The Bomber Command received very definite orders not to send a single unit over that area Tuesday night. It was to be left strictly alone so that the photo patrol planes would be able to work unhindered. No, none of our bombers were over that point Tuesday night." "By the way, Farmer," Colonel Trevor got in quickly. "Did you happen to note the time of the explosion, by any chance?" The English youth pursued his lips and squinted his eyes at the office wall in a mannerism of deep and concentrated thought. After a moment he sat up a bit straighter and nodded. "Yes, of course, I did, sir!" he replied. "I distinctly remember glancing at the instrument board watch. I remember because I was flying with all dash lights out, and the glare of the explosion was bright enough for me to see the time. It was exactly twenty-seven minutes before midnight, sir!" Colonel Trevor slowly let clamped air from his lungs, leaned back in his chair and looked at Group Captain Ball. The Air Ministry official returned the look and slowly nodded his head up and down as though it were hinged in the middle. "Yes," he said as though talking to himself, "that time would just about put the photo patrol over their first objective. Yes, that explosion, or whatever it was ... must have been the end of those brave chaps. Blast this war! Blast me for issuing that order!" No one said anything for a moment or two after the senior officer stopped speaking. Then Colonel Trevor spoke to Freddy again. "You'd better go into detail on that little off the record night flight you made, Farmer," he said. "Did anything else happen? See anything else that didn't seem quite right to you?" The English youth went into his thinking act again, and came out of it shrugging his shoulders. "No, sir," he said. "Can't say, that there was anything else. It did seem a bit strange, though, that Jerry ground gunners and searchlight lads didn't do anything about that bomber flight passing over. And, of course, there wasn't a thing done about me when I returned back over the Channel. Quiet as could be, and twice as dark below. Fact is, I don't recall spotting a single light on the ground. But, of course, that's not unusual. Jerry knows quite a bit about black-out technique, too." Colonel Trevor nodded, said nothing, and fell to studying his fingernails some more. Dave waited for somebody to say something, and when the silence continued he offered his suggestion to Group Captain Ball. "If it hasn't already been made, sir," he said, "why not have a daylight photo patrol made over that area?" "I thought of that," the Air Ministry official replied with a nod. "In fact I had arranged for a patrol to be made. Only...." The senior officer paused and smiled at Squadron Leader Markham. "Only the arrangements went haywire," he said. "My orders came here instead of going to another Squadron. However, as I've already said, I consider that fortunate rather than unfortunate. Frankly, I'd rather have Eighty-Four tackle the job." "There's nothing particularly hard about escort work, sir," Markham spoke up quietly. "In my opinion any squadron in the Fighter Command is just as good as the next." "Don't be modest, Markham!" Group Captain Ball said with a chuckle. "I appreciate your desire to keep your squadron working as a unit. However, the job I have in mind is not exactly a routine affair. True, nothing out of the way may happen. On the other hand it is possible that Jerry may be planning something very special, knowing full well that the photo planes are over there to try and find out what happened to the missing patrol. You see?" The Squadron Leader nodded and smiled faintly. "I didn't expect you to let us out of it, sir," he said and broadened his smile. "Just the old hen looking out for her chicks, if you understand what I mean, sir. Rather fond of my lads, and want to keep them around as long as I can. However, I have a suggestion to make." "By all means, Markham!" the senior officer said quickly. "By all means. What is it?" "Make it a voluntary affair, as stated in your orders, sir," Eighty-Four's O.C. said, "but permit the entire Squadron to volunteer. I know every one of my chaps will be eager to go along. And if there is trouble, and I fancy there will be, then the more escort pilots there are along the safer it will be for the photo planes." "Splendid, Markham!" Group Captain Ball cried. "A splendid idea. Of course, that means you want to lead the Patrol?" "Yes, sir," Markham replied. "Naturally, I wouldn't want to ... er, miss any of the fun." "I suspected as much," the Adastral House official said with a chuckle. "Very well, then, Markham. We'll tackle it on that basis. I'll inform the Fifty-Fifth Bomber Command Squadron that you will serve as their escort. We'll schedule the patrol for first thing at dawn tomorrow, and...." "Why not today, sir?" Markham interrupted with an apologetic gesture. "We've got all afternoon, and the sooner you get those pictures, the sooner you may be able to find out something ... I hope." "True," Group Captain Ball said. "Quite true, Markham. On the other hand, delaying things another day may give Jerry the idea we're no longer interested in that Zone. Sort of catch him off guard, you might say. It's a chance worth taking. We jolly well might profit from it." "Yes, I see your point, sir," Markham said with a nod. "And, after all, we've got a little preparing to do. Checking planes, engines, and all that sort of thing. Right you are, sir. Tomorrow morning at dawn it is." "Good!" Group Captain Ball said. Then turning toward Dave and Freddy he continued, "And now I have a bit of a surprise for you two chaps. In recognition of your...." The Air Ministry official stopped short and stared hard at Dave Dawson, who seemed not to be listening. The Yank born R.A.F. ace was gazing out the Squadron Office window with a look on his face that seemed to indicate his thoughts were a million miles away. Group Captain Ball cleared his throat, and reached out a hand and tapped Dave on the knee. "Day dreaming, Dawson?" he asked sharply. "All this sort of bores you, eh?" Dave jumped as though he had been shot, swallowed hard, and went beet red to the roots of his hair. "No, sir, of course not!" he said hastily. "I was.... Well, I was just thinking, sir." "Really?" the senior officer murmured. "Mind telling us about what, Dawson?" Dave turned even a shade redder, and avoided Group Captain Ball's steady gaze. "About the photo patrol you're planning, sir," he finally said after a couple of false starts. "It seems to me.... That is.... Well, I mean sir, I...." "Come, come, Dawson!" the Adastral House official jacked him up as he stumbled. "Just what do you mean, anyway?" Dave hesitated, then took a deep breath, and sort of squared his shoulders. "Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but I'm not in favor of your plan at all. Frankly, I don't think you'd gain any more from it than you have from the others. To tell the truth, I've got a hunch it would be a waste of time, and perhaps a loss of pilots and planes!" CHAPTER SEVEN Dave's Plan Had a Nazi Stuka come plowing down through the Squadron Office roof and lighted on Markham's desk the stunned amazement of the others would not have been any greater. Freddy gulped and looked actually scared stiff. Markham, Group Captain Ball, and Colonel Trevor sat up a bit in their chairs and gaped pop-eyed at each other. It was the Air Ministry official who first found his tongue. "Well, bless me, rather!" he breathed. "In my time I've been told a thing or two right to my face, but.... Well, I must say, Dawson, that once you get started you get right to the point. So my plan is a bit of a wash-out in your mind, eh?" At that moment Dave would have given a lot if a great big hole had opened up in the floor so that he could jump into it and disappear completely. However, no hole opened up, and so he stuck to his guns. "Yes, sir," he said doggedly. "I know I'm speaking out of turn, but you asked me, sir. So I gave you a truthful answer." "The truth is always welcomed, of course," Group Captain Ball said a bit stiffly. "Supposing, though, instead of wasting time defending yourself, you explain why there would be no sense in carrying out such a stupid mission?" "Just a minute!" Dave said as his cheeks got hot. "I didn't say the mission was stupid, sir. I didn't say, either, that carrying it out would be a waste of time. I meant that carrying it out as planned would be a waste of time, in my opinion." "Why?" It was Colonel Trevor who shot out the single word. He had leaned farther forward in his chair, and was regarding Dave not out of hostile eyes, but out of eyes that showed frank curiosity, and an earnest desire to learn the truth. "Because of what's already happened, Colonel," Dave replied. "Look at it this way. Countless photo patrols were made over the terrain of Zone K Dash Twenty-Four. Each time Jerry planes were encountered and there was a scramble or two. At first the pictures didn't show anything of interest. Then suddenly they showed a lot of crazy changes in a certain area. Finally, the pictures gave every indication that that certain area had been completely evacuated. And lastly, a photo flight that went over at night failed to return. You follow me, sir?" "Yes," the Intelligence officer grunted. "But you're only giving a case history of what's happened. We know all about that." "Why did it happen?" Dave shot right back at him. "If you want my opinion I think it's because the Nazis knew all the time what we were up to. They saw our bombers upstairs, but no eggs were dropped. They saw our bombers circling around over the area day after day, and still no bombs came down. The Jerry fighter pilots tangled with our fighters, and the photo ships still stuck to their job. What in the world do you think the Nazis on the ground were imagining? That we were practicing formation flying or something? The heck they did! They knew darn well that we were taking pictures, and more pictures. And not being exactly dumb, they did the logical thing!" The ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of Colonel Trevor's mouth. Even Markham and Group Captain Ball were having trouble keeping a straight face. The straight from the shoulder honesty of the young Yank was not exactly an every day occurrence in British Army life, and they were a bit more amused than they were shocked. "And what was the logical thing for the Nazis to do?" the Intelligence officer eventually asked quietly. "Kid us along, of course!" Dave cried, warming up to his subject. "Pull the old razzle-dazzle on us, so that we wouldn't know where we were from a three dollar hat. Don't you get me?" "I was quite a while in the States," Colonel Trevor said with a chuckle, "but I'm afraid I didn't quite pick up all of your American slang expressions. What do you mean by what you've just said, Dawson?" Dave grinned, and blushed slightly. "Sorry, sir," he said. "I sort of shoved into high gear without realizing it. I mean, I ... well, anyway, I'm sure Jerry knew what we were up to all the time, so he purposely made things all the more confusing. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised but what he kidded us along step by step hoping that we would send over that night patrol." "What?" Group Captain Ball exploded in a loud voice. "Led us along? What in the world do you mean by that? I think you've gone balmy, my lad. Of all the rot!" "Maybe so, sir," Dave said evenly and held up two fingers. "But there are two things we don't know. One, what the new Nazi secret weapon is all about. And, two, what happened to that night picture patrol. Correct, sir?" "Unfortunately, yes," the other grunted backing down a little. "But what's that got to do with what the Nazis did? I mean, all this kidding along, as you express it." "You're pinning me down kind of tight, sir," Dave said with a half grin. "That part is just a hunch that sticks in my craw. I mean, I've got the hunch that there was one thing the Nazis didn't know . For certain, I mean." Group Captain Ball groaned and threw up his hands. "My word!" he cried. "More blasted riddles! Come to the point, Dawson. What in the world do you mean?" Dave hesitated a moment and then gave it to them straight. "The new Nazi secret weapon," he said. "The Jerries were not certain how successful it would be against an air invasion. So they tried it out !" As Dave's echo faded away into silence not a man uttered a sound. Not a man hardly so much as breathed. The exploding verbal bomb shell had driven home a possible truth that not one of them had even so much as considered. Not even so much as suspected of existence. "By George!" Group Captain Ball finally breathed in an awed tone. "The chap has hit upon something. No doubt about it at all. It's quite possible, this hunch of his. Quite, indeed. The blasted Nazis have been playing games with me to serve their own purpose. Dawson! I apologize for being a bit rude awhile back. You're quite right. I'm afraid we have been wasting our time. And would waste more to make another photo patrol. Blast it, though, we just can't sit back and twiddle our thumbs." "Perhaps you've got an answer to that one, Dawson?" Colonel Trevor asked. Dave didn't reply at once. He pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully off into space. "The original patrols weren't entirely a waste of time," he said presently. "I mean, if for no other reason than the fact we learned that something very mysterious is going on in the area over which the photo patrol was lost. We can be pretty sure there's something there that needs further investigation." Dave held up a hand as Group Captain Ball scowled and opened his mouth to interrupt. "Just a minute, please, sir," he shut off the high ranker. "I know what you're going to say. Get along with it! Okay. Here it is. A night patrol, such as the last, is out. Too much of a risk. A day patrol of bomber-photo ships and escort planes is out, too. Sight of us in the sky would simply tell Jerry that we were still ... well, suckers for punishment. But two or three fighter planes passing over probably wouldn't create any interest at all. And certainly no suspicions. And if there happened to be a couple of Jerry planes in the air to scramble with, then so much the better. Or isn't that clear?" "As mud!" Group Captain Ball said with a sad shake of his head. "You'd better not ever run for Parliament, Dawson. You'd befuddle the issue. Your colleagues wouldn't know what in the world you were talking about, I'm afraid." "Then that makes me a swell bet for Congress," Dave grinned. "Seriously, though, sir. Three Spitfires fitted with special cameras could slide over the mystery area and look like they were just passing by. Now, if Jerry fighter planes came up, we could scramble with them, and a couple of us could act like we were going down. Shot down, or the engine quitting, and a forced landing necessary. We could even fake engine trouble without Jerry planes being around. The point is, though, a couple of us could get real low down and snap pictures that would bring out a lot of stuff that the camera wouldn't catch at high altitude. Also, in fighter planes we could cover a whole lot more ground than the slower bomber jobs. But the main thing is, the Nazis wouldn't be wise to what we were doing." Group Captain Ball expelled air through pursed lips, and gave a little half shake of his head. "What blasted use I am at Air Ministry, I jolly well don't know!" he exclaimed. "I think you and I should swap jobs, Dawson. Only I'd be a frightful wash-out at yours. You're absolutely correct, though. You've hit upon the only way possible to get a good look at what's going on over in that cursed Zone. Right, Colonel? Right, Markham?" "Seems that way to me," the Intelligence officer said slowly. "Dawson has at least convinced me that our original plan is no good at all. And the only alternative that seems any good, is his plan." "I knew it wouldn't be long before Dawson and Farmer were off again on some special mission," Squadron Leader Markham grunted. "But he's quite right. His plan's the best bet. Only one thing I hope doesn't happen, though. Two things, matter of fact." "Eh?" Group Captain Ball murmured. "One that they don't run into a couple of squadrons of Jerry planes," Markham said. "And really get shot down. And two, that this blasted secret weapon doesn't work in the day time. But one can't be sure of everything, I suppose." "No, of course not," Group Captain Ball said with a shrug. Then turning to Dave, "Well, naturally, you're elected for one of the trio. Who else? Farmer for one?" The eager look on Freddy's face was too much for Dave to let slide. He scowled dubiously, and rubbed his chin in mock deliberation. "Why, yes, I guess so," he said finally. "That is, if he promises not to go off on any little night flying jaunts." They all laughed. Freddy with them. But the look he flashed at Dave clearly said, "Wait 'til I get you alone, my friend. Just wait!" "Well, who else?" Markham asked the question. "I'd like the third one to be Flight Lieutenant Barker, sir," Dave said. "He's tops as a pilot in my opinion. And he can shoot rings around anybody I ever saw in the air, with maybe the possible exception of Farmer, here." "And yourself, Dawson," Markham added with a smile. "Right you are, then. You, Farmer, and Barker. You take command, and...." "That's something I wanted to speak about, sir," Dave interrupted hastily. "I happened to think up the idea, but that doesn't rate my being placed in charge of the show. After all, Barker has had more R.A.F. experience than either Freddy or I. He's been in it from the very start. Then, too, sir, the matter of rank. Barker is a Flight Lieutenant, and as such...." "So are you and Farmer!" Group Captain Ball cut in. Dave's jaw dropped, and his eyes popped. "Come again?" he blurted out. "What was that you just said?" The Air Ministry official chuckled and pulled some papers from his inside tunic pocket. "That you and Farmer are Flight Lieutenants, too," he said, and tossed the papers on Markham's desk. "That's the surprise I was about to mention awhile back. In recognition of your services on that convoy patrol job, Air Ministry has promoted you both to the rank of Flight Lieutenants. It'll appear officially in the London Gazette tomorrow. Meantime, there's confirmation for your files, Markham. Well, Dawson, and Farmer, let me be the first to congratulate you. It's a promotion well earned, and doubly deserved." [2] For the next couple of minutes neither Dave nor Freddy had any idea what they were doing. They were completely swallowed up in a beautiful rosy cloud, and their little world was the nicest thing ever created. "And so, you don't need to feel any qualms about difference in rank, Dawson," Group Captain Ball's voice finally brought Dave's feet back on earth. "Strictly speaking, he still is your senior, but I'm placing you in command of this mission. And that's that. Now, of course your Mark Fives can't be fitted with cameras in time for you to make the patrol today. But do you think you could be ready by dawn?" "Yes, sir," Dave answered promptly. "And.... Well, there's one more suggestion, if it ... if it won't drive you crazy, sir." "I think I can stand just about one more," the Adastral House official said with a faint grin. "Shoot, as you Yanks term it!" "I think it might be a good idea for a flight of bomber planes to be sent over the area before we arrive," Dave said. "Not right over the area. Have them pass over well south, as though they were headed for some objective farther inland. Then when we appear later Jerry will think that we're just tootling over to meet the bombers and escort them back home. So maybe they won't give us a second glance." "Right," Group Captain Ball said. "I'll arrange with Bomber Command to do just that. Now, any more suggestions, eh?" "I guess not, sir," Dave said with a chuckle. "Then let's all have a spot of tea, or something," the Air Ministry official said, getting to his feet. "We can talk things over again later. Meantime I'm parched, and hungry as a wolf." Dave shot a glance at Freddy Farmer and saw instantly that his English pal was five hundred per cent in favor of the Group Captain's idea. CHAPTER EIGHT The Dead Speak The dawn sun was still out of sight far down below the eastern lip of the world. Not even the first faint glow of its coming could be seen in the sky. On the tarmac of Eighty-Four's field three powerful Mark 5 Spitfires were being warmed up and mothered by mechanics as though they were infant babes in arms. Off to one side, Dave Dawson, Freddy Farmer, Barker, and Squadron Leader Markham, stood waiting and talking of everything under the sun except the special patrol that was soon to get underway. That was a taboo subject with them. It was for the simple reason there wasn't anything else to discuss. All the plans and preparations had been made. Special high speed cameras, that could be operated from the control stick, had been fitted in the planes. The cameras had been tested and found to be in perfect working order. Each pilot had taken his plane aloft and tested it until he was thoroughly satisfied with every beat of the engine, and every single response to a touch on the controls. Everything that could be done, had been done. There was nothing to do now but wait for the engines to be warmed up ... and then get on with the job. "Say, Barker," Dave suddenly broke a minute's silence. "Meant to speak to you about this, but we've all been pretty busy. I mean.... Well, darn it, you're still senior officer, and I'm perfectly willing for you to take over command of this show. Fact is, I think it would be a sensible idea. I...." "Oh, no you don't, Yank!" Barker cried and laughed. "Decent and mighty sporting of you, old bean. And I like you a lot for saying it. But I've been in command of special shows before. Not at all to my liking. Hate responsibility, you know. I'm always getting things messed up something terrible." "Yeah, I can guess!" Dave snorted. "He's won the Distinguished Flying Cross, and bar! And he says he'd mess things up? Nix on that line, friend. But I really am serious about your...." "Don't be!" Barker said firmly. "I refuse, flatly. No, my lad. I'm going to tag along obeying orders on this show. And love it, I fancy." "Then you won't...?" Dave started again and hesitated. "No!" Barker repeated. "Absolutely not. If it's a success then you get perhaps the Victoria Cross, my lad. If it's not, then you get Squadron Leader Markham on your neck. I don't! See what I mean, old thing?" Dave grinned and looked at his commanding officer who was shaking with laughter. "Don't mind Barker, Dawson," the O.C. said. "He's an awful one for juggling the truth. Frankly, I've never so much as spoken a harsh word to him since he's been in the squadron." "But, what you've thought , sir!" Barker said and laughed. "Just the same, Dawson, this is your show. And in my opinion you certainly deserve to have command." "Well, I still don't know about that," Dave said with a shrug. "But.... Hold everything! That's a ship coming down to land, isn't it?" All eyes were turned on the star studded sky overhead whence had come the sudden sound of airplane engines. An instant later the sound died down to a purr. And a brief moment after that the darkness was cut by the twin beams of the incoming plane's landing lights. "Can't see for those darn lights," Dave grunted. "But she sounds to me like a Blenheim." "It is!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "I can see her, now. I say! That's the same bus Group Captain Ball, and Colonel Trevor, came down in from London. I wonder if they're coming back." "I wonder, too!" Squadron Leader Markham echoed. And Dave thought he caught just a faint trace of hopefulness in the O.C.'s voice. "Maybe they've decided to wash-out the patrol. Maybe something else has popped up." As Dave watched the shadowy blur slide down toward the surface of the field, then level off and settle gently, a conglomeration of mixed emotions surged through him. One instant he experienced the familiar eerie tingling at the back of his neck that was always an advance warning of danger just ahead. Then in the next instant a sense of disappointment would flood through him. As though that plane was bringing word that the flight over occupied France had been called off. Then again he was filled with the strange excited feeling of more mystery being added to what already existed. A jumble of emotions and crazy thoughts that plagued him as he waited for the pilot of the Air Ministry Blenheim to taxi up to the line. When the plane stopped, and the door was popped open, only one man jumped down onto the ground. That man was Colonel Trevor, and he hurried over to the group with a look of marked relief quite visible on his face in the pale glow shed by the two or three flare lights set about on the tarmac. "Thank heavens, you haven't taken off yet!" the Intelligence officer cried. "Didn't want to waste time trying to get you on the phone. Raid on in London, anyway, and the phone service isn't so good at such times. No, not a hot raid. Just a few Jerry ships up there. And our lads are handling them very nicely. Anyway, I dashed out to Croydon in the blasted black-out and commandeered Ball's plane. I've got a bit more information for you, Dawson. By the way, do you know that terrain between Boulogne and Lille?" "Fairly well, sir," the Yank R.A.F. ace replied. "I've done quite a bit of flying over that section, now and again. Why, sir?" The Intelligence officer didn't answer at once. He fished a hand into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Smoothing it out he held it to the light so that all could see. A map had been roughly drawn in pencil on the paper. "A map of a three square mile spot of ground exactly seven miles west of Lille," Colonel Trevor said, and started pointing things out with his finger. "See this? A hill range. Here is the Lille River that flows into the Somme farther south. See this sharp bend in the river? Well, the ground there is thickly wooded, and to the east ... the southeast, rather ... is quite an expanse of swamp ground. Now, just a shade east of the edge of that swamp land is a tiny French village. You can't even find it on a map, but its name is Fleurville. Somewhere in that area, Dawson, is the secret weapon that Hitler plans to use against us. The weapon, I am sure, that destroyed those Lockheed Hudson bombers last Tuesday night." Dave didn't say anything as the Intelligence officer stopped speaking. He stared hard at the pencil drawn map in an effort to stamp every little detail on his mind. Squadron Leader Markham, however, was not so interested in the map as he was in what Colonel Trevor had said. "Why do you say that, Colonel?" he asked. "And where did you get this map?" "I traced that map from one you could only see under a microscope," the other said. "From a map originally drawn almost pin head size by my brother." Dave jerked his head up, eyes wide. "Your brother, sir?" he gasped. "But your brother's dead! You mean another communication came through just the same? That he'd sent it on its way before he was captured?" "No," Colonel Trevor said quietly. "My brother brought it with him. Remember my not wanting anybody to touch the body? Remember my saying something about an autopsy? Well, naturally, I did not plan for any autopsy to be made on my brother. The cause of his death was clear enough. However, in Intelligence every agent has a special way of hiding secret messages in the event he is captured. Some use false fingernails with the message printed underneath too small for the human eye to read. Others conceal the message under a false patch of hair glued to their scalp. And so on. There are a hundred and one different ways of hiding information you've gathered. However, each man's method is a secret between himself and the Chief of Intelligence. Therefore I didn't allow your medico to touch my brother. I wanted to communicate with my Chief first." Colonel Trevor paused for a moment, squared his jaw a bit, and then continued. "My brother did bring back information," he said. "His method of hiding messages on his person was by means of a hollowed out false tooth that not more than one dentist in a hundred would detect. In that hollow tooth was a postage stamp size original of this map, and some instructions." "Dope on the secret Nazi weapon, sir?" Dave asked eagerly as the Intelligence officer paused again. "Some," was the quiet reply, "but not nearly enough. To be perfectly truthful, my brother still didn't get complete details. He only learned that somewhere in this area covered by the map the Nazis have installed this new weapon, and...." Colonel Trevor cut himself off short and nodded at Dave. "Your hunch was a good one, Dawson," he said. "According to my brother's report, the Nazis have installed the weapon there for the purpose of experiments and tests. As I said, he did not know what the weapon is. He was only able to find out that it is to be used primarily against aircraft." "Not against troops?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Then how do they expect to beat off an invasion attempt. They...! That's rather silly of me, isn't it?" "What, Farmer?" Squadron Leader Markham asked with a puzzled frown. "The question, sir," the English youth replied and blushed faintly. "I suddenly realized that the answer is obvious. This war has proved that the side that has control of the air is the side that comes out on top. So, if the Nazis are able to maintain control of the air over Occupied Europe, all the invasion troops in the world wouldn't of much use to us." "Right, Freddy!" Dave said with a grin. "Go to the head of the class, my boy. Did you learn anything else, Colonel?" "Sorry, but that's all, Dawson," the Intelligence officer replied. "But it should help you a little. At least you won't have to waste time buzzing around over the entire area. Concentrate on the spots covered by this map. Here, better take my copy along with you. Well.... Well, good luck, chaps. And God speed back home again." Colonel Trevor didn't thrust out his hand, or stiffen to attention and salute the three R.A.F. aces. He did nothing but look at them each in turn. That was plenty. His eyes said far more than his lips could have said. Expressed far more than any firm hand shake or slap on the back. "Thanks, sir," Dave said for the three of them. "You can depend on us to bring back the pictures ... or else." "Never mind the, or else, Dawson," Squadron Leader Markham grunted. "Just make sure all three of you come back! And, Dawson?" "Yes, sir?" Dave murmured. Squadron Leader Markham didn't speak for a few seconds. He stood staring Dave straight in the eye. Then suddenly he raised a cautioning finger. "In case things don't turn out as you hope," he said eventually. "In case the patrol looks like a complete wash-out, don't get too many of those hunches of yours, will you? There'll always be a tomorrow in this blasted war, you know. Don't try to win it in a few hours, though goodness knows you and Farmer could probably make a fairly good go at it." "Don't worry, sir," Dave chuckled and tightened the strap on his helmet. "I'll watch my step, and try not to lead with my chin. But if I should get out of line you can count on Barker and Farmer to throw a halter on me." "Oh, quite!" Flight Lieutenant Barker echoed. "I don't fancy to step out of this war for quite some time, if ever. Don't worry, sir, Farmer and I will keep an eye on this wildman from the States." "And a good grip with both hands, too, sir!" Freddy added. "But, I've handled the balmy blighter before, and I can do it again." "Shucks!" Dave said in mock disappointment. "Then what's the sense of my going along, if I can't have fun?" "Personally, I wish there was no sense in any of you going along," Squadron Leader Markham said gravely. "However, war's war, and that's that. I guess it's time for you to be off. The very best, lads! And happy landings ... on this field!" The trio hesitated a moment, looked at each other, and then as one man turned and walked over to their planes. As Dave climbed into his pit a soothing calm flowed through his body. The calm before the storm, perhaps. But for the moment the excitement of the occasion, the tingling, eager anticipation of things to come, and the myriad little inner fears and doubts, were banished. It was as though he were climbing into his Mark 5 to take it aloft for a joy hop, or a bit of gunnery practice on the field's ground target. That soon he would be leading Freddy Farmer and Barker deep into mystery skies over occupied Europe was as something as far removed as the sun. A sense of peace and contentment were his as he settled himself in the pit, and made a last minute check of everything. But perhaps the war gods were perfectly willing that he should feel that way for a spell. They knew it would not last long. They knew what awaited those three stout hearted aces of the R.A.F. They knew what was waiting, and what was going to happen. And they clapped their hands and nudged each other in high glee.

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