Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Blank Wall CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Blank Wall For several minutes Dawson pretended to study Herr Krumpstadt's papers carefully, though actually he hardly gave them more than a glance. The idea was to make the German sweat it out for a bit, and that's just what the Nazi did do. When Dawson finally tossed the folder of papers on the desk and looked at the man, Herr Krumpstadt was practically dripping sweat from every pore. His face was flushed like a sunset, and he kept "washing" his hands as he stared at Dawson out of very frightened eyes. "There is something wrong, Herr Leutnant ?" he asked in a quavering voice when Dawson simply looked at him and through him. "But I do not understand! What have I done that someone should see fit to report me? I swear that I am a loyal Nazi. Heil Hitler!" "The report made about you is our affair," Dawson said sternly. Then, with a wave of one hand toward the closed door, he went on, "You were in conference with them? Do you take me for a fool? Several of those who were here in this room are swine French dogs! What is a good German doing talking with Frenchmen? Frenchmen are only for work. A little conference, eh? Perhaps you made a slip-up there, Herr Krumpstadt?" The German was so eager to talk that the words spilled off his fat lips like flood waters over a broken dam. "But of course, Herr Leutnant !" he exclaimed. "The swine French are for work only, and that is why they are here in my factory. Over a hundred of them, Herr Leutnant . Sent here by the Ministry of War Production. And it is necessary to hold a conference every now and then to explain the work that I wish them to do. They are swine French, yes, but they are expert welders. And if I am to produce what I have been ordered to produce, then I must have them work for me." Dawson acted as though he were giving the German's explanation careful thought. His heart was beginning to pound against his ribs, and the blood surged through his veins as he realized that he was very, very close to learning the guarded secret of this mysterious factory. If only Freddy Farmer were there with him. Freddy, among other things, was very clever with words. Freddy would make this fat-faced German talk, without realizing that he was saying a thing. But Freddy wasn't there. For a brief instant, as sharp grief and bitter despair ripped through Dawson like a two-edged knife, he almost lost the grip he had on himself. With a mighty effort, though, he forced thoughts of Freddy Farmer to the back of his brain and once more fixed Herr Krumpstadt with a cold stare. "French welders, eh?" he murmured. Then, with a sharp ring in his voice, he snapped at the German, "And what are these French welders making for you, Herr Krumpstadt?" For one fleeting second the German hesitated, and almost made as though to shake his head and refuse to answer. However, the terrible fear that every German has of the Gestapo was too much for him. Perhaps his orders from the Ministry of War Production had been to let no word pass his lips to an outsider. But a member of the Gestapo? That was something very, very different. "They are making the metal cylinders for the American and British planes, Herr Leutnant ," the German finally said. "And they also make repairs on landing gear parts that are shipped to us. They are swine dogs, all of them, but they are expert at welding. If I could get a hundred more of them I could double the output of my factory." Dave Dawson didn't allow a single change of expression to come into his face, but inwardly he was all on fire. And considerably puzzled and confused, too. Metal cylinders for American and British planes? What in heaven's name had the Nazi meant by that? And the Frenchmen also made repairs on landing gear parts that were shipped to this factory? At the moment it made no sense at all to Dawson, but although a hundred questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, he didn't voice a single one of them. He didn't because once again he knew that he was skating on very thin ice. His little Gestapo act had filled Herr Krumpstadt with terror, but he could very easily overplay his part and plant the seed of shrewd suspicion in the man. After all, as a member of the Gestapo seemingly come to make a check on Herr Krumpstadt, it would be only natural that he would know all about what was taking place in the German's factory. To ask too many leading questions might prove very disastrous. And then suddenly Dawson was hit by a very bright idea. Instead of asking questions here in Herr Krumpstadt's office, why not take a look for himself, and perhaps obtain the answers to his questions that way? So he nodded curtly, pursed his lips, and stood up. "I know, Herr Krumpstadt," he said. "I know all about what you are doing here. It is not what you make, but those who make it, that interests me. I have been meaning to pay you a little visit before now, but other things were more important. But now that good fortune brought me down here by parachute, I might as well take care of the matter." Dawson paused, and for a moment cocked a thoughtful eye at the far wall, then quickly switched his gaze back to the Nazi's face. "There is one French dog that we want very much," he said. "He probably goes by a hundred different names, but his real name is Pierre Duval. You have perhaps in your records a man by that name?" "It is not familiar to me, Herr Leutnant ," the German said with a frown and a slow shake of his head, "but I will look in my war prisoner file and make sure. One minute, please, Herr Leutnant ." Dawson simply grunted and watched Krumpstadt walk over to a wall filing cabinet and pull open one of the drawers. He studied its contents for several minutes and then turned back to Dawson with another shake of his head. "No, Herr Leutnant ," he said. "I have not one of them listed by the name of Pierre Duval." "I did not expect that you would," Dave grunted with a shrug. "The dog would naturally not be that much of a fool. The man may even be dead by now. We do not know for sure. But as I am now here I will check them over and make sure. Herr Krumpstadt! Conduct me about your factory and I will take a look at these French swine." "But of course, Herr Leutnant !" the German beamed. "It will be an honor and a pleasure." "But one word of caution, Herr Krumpstadt!" Dawson snapped, and leveled a stiff forefinger at the man. "The one you will conduct through your factory is a Luftwaffe pilot shot down in battle. He is your guest, and you are doing him a slight honor. There will be no mention by sign or word of who I really am, or the reason for my little visit here. I hope you understand me, Herr Krumpstadt?" "Oh, yes, yes, Herr Leutnant !" the German made haste to reply, and bobbed his head violently. "My lips are sealed. Why, I wouldn't dare, Herr Leutnant !" "I'm sure you wouldn't," Dawson said dryly. "Very well, let us take a look around." Herr Krumpstadt nodded, beamed, and led the way to his office door. It was almost two hours later before Dave Dawson found himself back again in that very same office. There was a faint frown on his face, and it wasn't entirely for Herr Krumpstadt's benefit. On the contrary, it actually reflected the turmoil going on within him. In other words, he was more mixed up and confused now than he had been before. The factory was five floors high, and Herr Krumpstadt had conducted him to every floor, and had pointed out every French war prisoner performing slave labor. To keep up his part Dawson had keenly studied each new face, but he actually gave more attention to what each man was doing than to his face. And they were almost all doing spot welding on metal cylinders that varied in size from some that were a foot long and three inches through to others that were six feet long and two feet through. One end of every cylinder was left open. And try as he would to convince himself that Farbin Factory Number Six was turning out bomb casings, Dawson knew that they were not. At least, he was as sure they weren't as he could possibly be sure of anything. Yes, the French war prisoners were working mostly on the spot welding of varied sized cylinders, but there were a few who were working on aircraft landing gear parts. And it was that work that puzzled and confounded Dawson far more than the cylinder welding. The landing gear parts were all stripped down, but even at that he was quite sure that he recognized certain parts that were definitely of either British or American make. Repairing British and American plane landing gears in Farbin Factory Number Six? The question seemed to hang in Dawson's brain in letters of fire a foot high as he traveled with Herr Krumpstadt from floor to floor. And he would have given anything he ever hoped to possess if he could but have obtained the answers to the questions that crowded his thoughts. And now he was back in Herr Krumpstadt's office, more confused than ever. And with a sense of frustration that flooded through him like a dank fog. Information; information of goodness knew what value right at his fingertips, and yet he couldn't pick it up without running the risk of falling through the very thin ice over which he was skating. Herr Krumpstadt had regained considerable of his composure, and Dawson could tell without being told that a certain "Gestapo agent" was fast wearing out his welcome at Farbin Factory Number Six. Herr Krumpstadt kept looking at his watch, and there was a faint gleam of annoyance in his close-set pig-like eyes. "Well, I guess he is not working in my factory, Herr Leutnant ," the German suddenly said with an undertone of impatience. "But I did not think so in the first place, as the Ministry of War Production carefully checks every prisoner worker they send to me. And now, is there anything else I can do for Herr Leutnant ?" Dawson scowled in deep thought, and then tried a cold stare or two for Krumpstadt's benefit, but it didn't seem to change anything. Time was running out fast, and Dawson knew that to linger any longer might result in growing suspicion on Krumpstadt's part. The Nazi was over his original fright. Nothing had been charged against him, and some of the arrogance that is a typical German trait was coming back into his manner and speech. And so Dave Dawson made his decision. His decision to get out of Farbin Factory Number Six, and to get out as quickly as he could. "Did you say you had a car, Herr Krumpstadt?" he suddenly snapped. "That is so, Herr Leutnant ," the Nazi replied. And then, with just the faintest of frowns, "You wish to be driven some place? To your Staffle Headquarters?" "Yes, but not to my Staffle," Dawson said. "There is one to whom I must report in Duisburg. Order your car, Herr Krumpstadt, and you can drive me there. And I mention it again. My friend who is high in the Party will hear of the courtesy and consideration that you have shown me." That accomplished what perhaps threats would have failed completely to achieve. Herr Krumpstadt was suddenly all smiles again, and eager expectancy showed in his eyes. After all, it was not every day that one's name was mentioned to one in high authority. All in all it pleased Herr Krumpstadt very much. "At once, Herr Leutnant !" he said. "And of course I will drive you. No one else here is permitted to leave the area. As you know, there are guards all about. But with me it is different. Holding the position I do, I am permitted to come and go as I wish. No questions are asked of me." It was all Dawson could do to refrain from heaving one great big sigh of relief. How he would pass through the cordon of guards had been a problem to be faced. But not any more. With Herr Krumpstadt he would obviously sail right on through, and even get saluted on the way by Hitler's soldiers. "Of course," Dawson said, and even favored the Nazi with his first smile. "Let us leave at once. Heil Hitler!" "Heil Hitler!" Herr Krumpstadt fairly screamed, and whacked his arm up in a rigid Nazi salute. "Follow me, Herr Leutnant ." Fifteen minutes later Farbin Factory Number Six, and its ring of guards, were far behind the rear wheels of the Benz touring car that Herr Krumpstadt guided toward Duisburg in the distance. It had been absolutely comical to see the soldiers manning the guard posts to stiffen and salute as the Benz rolled by them. However, Dawson kept his face expressionless, returned each salute in the mechanical Nazi way, and simply smiled inwardly. "This address where you wish me to drive you, Herr Leutnant ?" the Nazi behind the wheel presently broke the silence between them. Dawson hesitated, and then made his decision. "Kholerstrasse," he said. "It is on the east side of the city. You can drop me off as soon as we reach it. I will walk to my destination from there." Dawson was not sure, but he thought that the Nazi stiffened slightly and gave him a quick side glance. But perhaps that wasn't so. Perhaps to Herr Krumpstadt, Kholerstrasse was just the name of a street in Duisburg. Perhaps it meant no more to him that just that. "Yes, I know where it is," the Nazi replied a moment later. "I will go straight there. And I thank you again, Herr Leutnant , for speaking to your friend." "I will not forget," Dawson grunted. And that was that between them until Herr Krumpstadt swung the car into a long, broad street and rolled to a stop at the curb. "May good luck follow you, Herr Leutnant ," the German said as Dawson climbed out. "And may we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. If one by the name of Pierre Duval should come to my factory, I will instantly inform the nearest Police Post. Heil Hitler." "Good, and a reward will be yours, Herr Krumpstadt," Dawson replied gravely. "Heil Hitler!" The German smiled, shifted gears and drove away from the curb and on down the street. Dawson watched the car disappear and then slowly took his German cap that he had stuck under his belt and put it on his head. A moment later he turned and started walking along the street. He carried himself like a soldier, but his heart was heavy as lead in his chest. He felt as though he were the last person alive in the world, and it was a battle to keep back the tears when thoughts of Freddy Farmer kept crowding back into his head. Good old Freddy gone! He apparently hadn't bailed out soon enough, and the finger of Death had touched one of the finest persons ever to be born. Freddy gone, and—? "But it can't be!" Dawson told himself fiercely. "It just can't be. Not Freddy! He wasn't born to go out that way. Yet—!" He let the rest go unspoken and groaned softly. It was as though his own life were slowly trickling out of him, leaving little more than a dead man to carry on. But that was the thing. Carry on he must, in spite of everything. But how? What next? Getting inside one of the secret factories had seemed so important once. But now? Well, he had been inside Farbin Factory Number Six, and so what? French war prisoners spot welding metal cylinders, and repairing landing gear parts, some of which he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., and in England. So what? What good was that knowledge to him now as he walked aimlessly along Kholerstrasse? Freddy was gone, and he was alone in Duisburg. The day after tomorrow, by arrangement, a British Recco plane would land at a certain spot and pick him up and take him back to England. The day after tomorrow. But tomorrow was the twenty-fourth of the month. The day when Herr Baron's last agent in England would report to Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse. Or would he? Would Herr Baron change all his plans the instant he learned that he didn't have his little black book any more? And the secret weapon Hans and Erich had toasted with schnapps? What secret weapon? Spot welded metal cylinders, and stripped down landing gear parts? In the name of—! "I think I'm just going stark, raving nuts!" Dawson breathed, and clenched his two fists helplessly. "It's all mixed up. No part of it makes any sense at all. Oh, dear heaven, if only Freddy were here. If only Freddy were still alive. I can't believe that he is gone. I can't!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN Sinister Silence Night had come again to the German city of Duisburg. As yet the air raid sirens had not given their terrifying warning that the R.A.F. was on the prowl once more, but the streets of the city were practically deserted. Many of the inhabitants had gone underground to spend the night there whether there were bombs dropped on Duisburg or not. Only a scattering of soldiers and patrolling guards were to be seen on the streets. One of them, though, was an officer. An officer of the Nazi Luftwaffe, as a matter of fact. At least he was dressed that way, and being a Luftwaffe officer none of the patrols stopped him for questioning. Or if they did they instantly saw his rank, his decorations, and gave him a snappy salute, and a loud "Heil Hitler!" in the very next breath. All afternoon, and during the early evening, that "Luftwaffe" officer had strolled about the Kholerstrasse section. Every now and then he had stepped into a restaurant for a bit of food. And in Duisburg a bit of food was just about all that one could get at a sitting. Whether private soldier, or field marshal, it didn't matter. There just wasn't enough. But after going into several spots Dawson was able to get filled up. Getting filled up, however, was not the entire reason for his many visits to Duisburg restaurants and food shops. Into each one he walked with the burning hope that he might see Freddy Farmer trying to fill that perpetually hollow leg of his. But it was all in vain. There was no sign at all of Freddy Farmer. His English-born flying mate and dearest pal had simply vanished from the face of the earth. Or rather, vanished from the face of a dawn sky where Dawson had last seen him alive. And now with the darkness of night closed down over Duisburg, he was standing in what was left of the doorway of a bombed out house directly across Kholerstrasse from Number One Fifty-Six. Several times during the afternoon and evening he had passed by Number Sixteen in the faint hope that he might be able to see or hear something that would help him in deciding his next move. Once again, though, his hopes were in vain. From the outside Number Sixteen looked as though it hadn't been occupied since the start of the war. All of the window shades were drawn down, and half of the window shutters had been closed and bolted. The front door, which contained no window, was closed and locked. And not once had Dawson seen a single person go up or down the short flight of stone steps. If Number Sixteen was Intelligence headquarters in Duisburg, one certainly would not guess it from the looks of the outside of the building. Eventually convinced that he would gain nothing by parading past Number Sixteen, and having finally given up hope of spotting Freddy Farmer in any of the Kholerstrasse section eating places, Dawson had fallen back on his final and last hope. If this hope proved to be false and no good, then he was at the end of his rope. His mission to Germany would end in failure right there on the streets of Duisburg. And so he was playing his final card. From a good vantage point he was carefully studying the building that was Number One Fifty-Six Kohlerstrasse. The address of Major Crandall's agent, who was believed to reside there under the name of Heinrich Weiden. But did he? That question taunted Dawson as he surveyed the place, and half a hundred times he was tempted to go boldly over there, bang on the door of Number One Fifty-Six and demand of whoever answered that he be shown to Herr Heinrich Weiden's rooms at once. A tiny voice of caution warned against that move. For one thing, after two solid hours of watching the place, he had not seen anybody go in or come out. There wasn't so much as a single crack, of light showing, but of course that was probably due to the strict enforcement of the blackout regulations. In other words, Number One Fifty-Six was pretty much like Number Sixteen. No sign whatsoever that anybody occupied the place. Just the same, Dawson made no move to go over and find out for himself. He told himself that such a thing was silly. That he could probably wait all night, and not see a single thing of interest. And yet there was something that made him determined not to leave his place of concealment. Silly? Perhaps. But how was he to know if real Gestapo agents weren't watching the place? Ten days ago Heinrich Weiden had sent word through to Major Crandall that his old address was not good, and that he should be contacted at a new one. Ten days ago, but what had happened since? As a matter of fact, it was a mounting conviction that he was not the only one who was hiding in the darkness and watching Number One Fifty-Six that caused him to stay where he was. No proof. Nothing tangible. It was just that a few times he would have sworn that he saw shadowy movement across the street. Maybe it had been his imagination, the strain on his eyes. But maybe not. It was almost as though he could actually feel somebody over there on the opposite side of the street. And so he remained hidden and watching as another hour dragged itself off into the eternity of forgotten time. But by the end of that hour he had reached the limit of his endurance. Gestapo agents or no Gestapo agents, he just had to go over there across the street and find out for sure if Number One Fifty-Six was occupied or not. If it wasn't occupied, then— He gave a little shake of his head in the darkness and wouldn't let himself complete the rest of the sentence. "It's my only hope!" he whispered fiercely to himself. "As things are now, I'm right up against a brick wall. Weiden's got to be living there, and I've got to contact him. He's the only one who can possibly help me now. Come on, Lady Luck, give us another little break, please." For a moment he bowed his head as though in prayer, and then, silent as the very darkness of night itself, he moved out of his place of hiding and started across the street to the other side. When but halfway across the street he heard a faint sound ahead of him that made his heart stop beating, and his hair practically stand up on end. It was just a sound, one of a million different kinds of sounds that anybody might have heard. Maybe it was a door closing, or someone taking a step, or knocking against something accidentally in the dark. The sound had come and gone before he could even begin to figure what it might have been. But as he froze motionless in the street, with his service Luger clutched tightly in his free hand, he was convinced beyond all doubt that the sound had been made by a human being. There were no stray dogs or cats in Duisburg to go around nights making sounds. They had long since disappeared, and no doubt more than one German housewife, who had stood in front of the butcher shop all day only to learn that there wasn't a scrap of meat left, could tell where those stray dogs and cats had "gone"! No, the sound had been made by a human form, a human being. And in a crazy sort of way Dawson expected to see the night spurt flame, and to hear the bark of a gun in his ears, expected his body to feel the sting of a bullet from the gun of some Gestapo killer who had mistaken him for one Heinrich Weiden. It was perhaps a completely mad thought, but in that instant Dawson experienced more cold fear than he had in all his life before. However, no unseen gun spat flame and sound, and presently Dawson got his pounding heart and jangled nerves under control and started moving forward silently again. Then presently he had reached the opposite sidewalk, and the front door of Number One Fifty-Six was not over fifteen feet away. He could actually see the little metal frames made to hold name cards, but there were only the frames, and no name cards. It was obvious that if anybody did reside at Number One Fifty-Six he was not announcing it to the chance passer-by. And then suddenly, as Dawson moved toward a little clump of scrub bushes that had been planted to take the place of the iron fence that had long since gone into Hitler's melting pot, he sensed rather than heard movement. Movement came from the other side of the bushes. For a fleeting instant his keyed up nerves snapped, and he was undecided whether to take to his heels as fast as he could go, or to jerk up his gun and pump bullets through the clump of bushes. He didn't do either, however, because in the next moment there was swift movement right behind him and the muzzle of a gun was jammed into his back. "Not a move, not a sound!" a whispered voice told him. "Just stand perfectly still if you don't want to die!" The inside of Dawson's head seemed to explode. He went hot and cold all over, and it was all he could do not to spin around. But he didn't move a muscle even though he recognized the voice instantly. "Freddy!" he said in a soft whisper. "Freddy, boy! For heaven's sake don't shoot!" There were tears in Dawson's voice as he whispered. And there were real tears in his eyes, too. Like a man in a dream he felt the gun muzzle being removed from the middle of his back; then strong fingers grasped his arm and turned him around. "Good gosh, Dave!" Freddy's broken whisper came out of the darkness. "Why, I—I—" Young Farmer's voice faltered and stopped. And not for all the money in the world could Dawson have spoken a single word at that moment. The two of them just grabbed each other there by the bushes, and simply hung on, as words utterly failed them. But presently Freddy Farmer dragged Dawson around in back of the bushes, and down close behind them. "It's true, Dave, it really is?" he whispered. "I thought you were dead, old thing. Thought the Jerries had got you. Dave, this has been the worse day of my whole life. It really has. I mean it!" "And my worst day, too, kid!" Dawson breathed, as he kept squeezing Freddy's arm to reassure himself again that it was true, that Freddy wasn't dead but very much alive. "But what do you mean, you thought the Jerries got me? I thought they got you, Freddy. I saw a Mustang catch it square and blow up. I was sure it was you. And I didn't see another single parachute in the air. I—Gosh, Freddy! You just can't imagine what this moment means to me." "Oh yes, I can, because I feel the same way, old chap," the English youth said in a choked up voice as he lightly brushed the knuckles of one fist across the point of Dawson's chin. "But about that business this morning. Just as I was getting set to jump, two or three of the Focke-Wulf beggars came in at me, and I had my hands full for a few moments. I managed to get one of them, and broke off action with the other two. I looked around for you, but there was nothing but burning planes in the air, and flak bursts. I thought then that you had caught one, Dave. I jumped anyway, but didn't judge the wind right at all. Perhaps I should have practiced a couple of times, eh?" "Then you didn't come down close to that factory we had picked?" Dawson asked. "Close?" Freddy whispered in self-scorn. "I didn't come within miles of it. Landed right in the middle of a little lake, no less. Imagine it! I ditched my parachute and swam ashore right head on into some German troops from a nearby camp. They had a car and their officer insisted on my going along with him. What else could I do? If I had refused to let them assist me in my drenched condition, they would have become suspicious. After all, a Luftwaffe officer doesn't go wandering about town soaked to the skin. So I went with them, and it wasn't until a few hours ago I got them to drive me into town. I pleaded that I was meeting my Kommandant at a certain place. Lord! I thought I'd never get away from those blighters. Their blasted guest most of the day, and all the time me going near balmy wondering what had happened to you. Can you imagine such a silly business, Dave? But when I did manage to get rid of them, I came down here hoping that I might at least contact Major Crandall's man. That was the only thing I could do, having lost complete touch with you. I—But here! What about yourself, Dave?" "A full day, too, and just about as non-productive as yours, Freddy," Dawson said. And then he gave his pal a brief report of his own movements and experiences. "And so there was only one thing left for me to do," he finished up. "Try to contact Weiden to see if he knew anything of what's going on. My gosh! To think that we've both been watching this place for hours, and each of us thinking that the other had caught his this morning." "And very unpleasant to think about, too," Freddy murmured. "But we've had some luck, Dave. At least we've joined up together. And that is a lot. But that Farbin factory business is certainly devilish queer, Dave. It just doesn't make sense, I mean." "You're telling me?" Dawson groaned softly. Then turning his head and staring at the night-darkened front of Number One Fifty-Six, he murmured, "And if we can't contact Weiden, or if he can't give us any more of the picture, if there is a picture, then we will be sunk. The only thing we can do then is lie low until tomorrow night, and then make our way to where the British Recco plane is to land early the next dawn, and go back to England a couple of chumps. Particularly me, because I was the one with the bright idea that we come on this wild goose chase in the first place. Boy! Will I feel a fool when I tell Colonel Fraser that I didn't even get to first base. He thought the idea was cracked and impossible right at the beginning. Wind-Bag Dawson, that's me. The guy with the bright ideas—I don't think!" "Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer breathed at him. "I was just as much for it as you were. Just simply didn't get the chance to suggest it before you did. But blast it, let's not do our weeping and grinding of teeth yet. Maybe Weiden is here, and maybe he does know something that will help." "Yeah, maybe," Dawson echoed, but not very convincingly. "What do we do, though? Bang on the front door, or just stay where we are and wait to see if anybody goes in or comes out? And that last I think is a very punk idea." "Both ideas are punk," Freddy told him. "I've been doing a little snooping around. There's an alley that leads to the back. And the rear door is open. I really think the only thing for us to do is search the place, room by room. After all, you played Gestapo with a certain amount of luck once today. Let's both try it and see if it works a second time. After all, isn't it a strict Gestapo rule to break in on people at night, and go thumping and tramping around? At least, if anybody lives here, he'll be too scared to ask questions. And if we meet with no luck searching the place, we can simply leave the way we came." "Well, it's worth a try," Dawson grunted. "Gestapo or Luftwaffe, what difference does it make to civilians in the middle of the night? Okay, lead on, Freddy. Get your gun and flashlight?" "Both," young Farmer replied. "But don't use your flash until we get inside. Right you are; follow me. I know the way. And luck, old thing." "And how we both will need it!" Dawson echoed under his breath. CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Living Dead Making no more noise than a couple of cats walking across a velvet rug, Dawson and Freddy Farmer slipped down the narrow alley to the rear of Number One Fifty-Six Kholerstrasse. There at the rear door they paused for a moment, holding their breath and straining their ears for the slightest sound inside or outside the house. There was not one single sound to be heard, however. All of Duisburg seemed truly a city of the dead. No sound, no light, no anything. "Eerie spot, isn't it?" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Gives a chap the creeps." "Anybody can have my share," Dawson grunted. "Okay, let's go inside." Young Farmer nodded in the darkness, eased open the rear door, and slipped inside without making a sound. Dawson went in right at his heels, pulled the door shut, and for a moment both youths stood there motionless in the dark. Presently Dawson pressed the button of his flashlight and sent the beam roaming about a rear entry hallway. Dust and dirt seemed to be everywhere, and there was a smell in the air that made Dawson think instantly of Death. He started to mention it to Freddy when suddenly the beam of his flashlight came to rest on some brownish red smears on the plaster wall to his right. He caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and Freddy Farmer echoed the sound. For a long moment neither spoke, their eyes held by those reddish brown smears as though by a powerful magnet. "Bloodstains!" Freddy finally whispered. "Some chap came in here badly hurt, and he braced his hand against that wall to hold himself up." "Yeah!" Dawson said, and swallowed hard. Then, as he lowered the beam of his light, "Look, Freddy! More stains on the floor. Boy! Somebody was hurt bad. He spilled blood all over the place. Oh my gosh, Freddy! Do you suppose—?" Dawson didn't finish. The rest seemed to stick in his throat as he looked at Freddy. Young Farmer's face was tight and drawn, and the look in his eyes was proof that he had the same thought. That the man who had made those blood smears was one Heinrich Weiden. Why they both thought that, neither youth bothered to question. They just knew it, and that was that! "Let's get—" Dawson began, and then cut himself off short as both he and Freddy went rigid. They did so for the simple reason that from out in front they heard the protesting scream of rubber on the pavement as a car was braked to a violent halt. And almost before the sound had been lost to the echo there came the sounds of heavy booted feet pounding up the front steps. And almost no time after that the front door shook and then crashed open under the impact of somebody hurling his full weight against it. Split seconds before that door crashed open Dawson and Farmer were already in action. Dawson killed his flashlight, and the two youths, without a word to each other, both darted toward a hall closet door, yanked it open and slipped inside. And not a second too soon, either. It seemed to Dawson that he had hardly pulled the door to within a quarter of an inch of being closed when the hallway they had just left was flooded with light, and a voice spoke hoarsely in German. "Swine dog! He will not escape us this time. See! There on the wall! Bloodstains. I knew I had wounded him. He cannot be far. We will try these rooms first. Be ready with your gun. We will not talk this time. We will simply shoot the dog!" The voice seemed to speak almost in Dawson's face, and as he peered through the crack he saw a black-uniformed and booted figure advance upon a door directly across the hall. A second black-uniformed and booted figure was right at his heels. The man in front turned the doorknob, then shoved the door open, and jumped back a step as he played the beam of the flashlight in his hand through the door opening. "Ah, swine dog! So there you are!" As though from a thousand miles away Dawson heard the German snarl those words, and they hardly registered on his brain. He was looking past the two Germans and into the room beyond. There stretched out on a bed that boasted of only one dirty blanket was the figure of a man who at first glance looked stone dead. His face was like wax under the dirt and half dried blood. And his fingers that clutched the single blanket looked almost toothpick thin. But he was not dead. As the light hit him in the face he opened eyes that seemed to be sunk two inches in his head. They glowed for a brief instant in fierce defiance. And the thin lips twitched as though the man were about to speak. At that moment, though, Dawson saw one of the Germans raise the wicked-looking Luger that he held clutched in his right hand. And Dawson didn't wait to see what would happen next. He jerked back one hand to give Freddy Farmer the signal for lightning-like action, and then he went out of that hallway closet like a shell from a naval gun. In one great leaping stride he crossed the hallway. He kicked up with his right foot and connected with the German's gun hand. The gun went spinning from lifeless fingers, but Dawson wasn't watching its flight. He brought his own gun over and down in a vicious chopping motion. The barrel practically buried itself in the German's skull, and the man folded up silent as a mouse and sank to the floor. Spinning around and ducking down at the same time, Dawson started to rip his gun upward, but he instantly checked the movement. There wasn't any second German there to receive that gun under the chin in more or less brass knuckle style. Not a bit of it. Freddy Farmer had not been simply an interested spectator. He had "taken care" of the other German. And in very definite style, too. Dawson hadn't heard so much as a single sound, but when he looked down he saw Freddy's victim stretched out cold as an iced mackerel across the threshold! Without a word both air aces grabbed their respective victim and hauled him inside the room, and closed the door. Then, shielding his flashlight so that the beam wouldn't strike the man on the bed in the eyes, Dawson moved over to him. A great lump was in his throat, and it was difficult for him to speak. "Hello, Dartmouth," he said. "I'm right, aren't I?" The deep sunken eyes stared at him; then the man moved his head from side to side. "I do not know what you are talking about," he whispered in German. Dawson smiled and kneeled down beside the bed. For some unknown reason he was positive now. The man in the bed was well over six feet tall, but his hair was not straw-colored. It was almost snow white. But his eyes were blue, and it was perhaps the eyes that made Dawson so certain. They were defiant as they stared at him, but in their depths there seemed to burn a tiny spark of faint hope. "Harvard Nothing," Dawson said softly. "We're Yanks, Dartmouth. Yank Air Forces, but trying to do a job for Major Crandall, your chief. He only got word of your new address yesterday, just before we took off. It was ten days getting through to him. Look, Dartmouth, you've—" Dawson stopped speaking as the other's eyes became aglow with a wild light of unbounded joy, and tears welled out of his eyes and trickled down through the dirt and caked blood on his face. Then his thin lips moved, and he whispered words that were like the bells of doom in Dawson's ears. "You are too late! Too late! They cannot be stopped now. By dawn they will be in the air. I tried, but they saw me. I ran, but one of them shot me. I thought—if I could only get back here. Perhaps a little rest, and then I could try again. But I lost too much blood. I—I can't make it now. And—and it is too late—too late...." The words trailed off into a gurgling sound in the dying man's throat. His eyes fluttered closed, and a horrible fear curled icy fingers about Dawson's heart. He turned to speak to Freddy Farmer, but the English-born air ace was not there in the room. In alarm Dawson started to his feet, but at that instant Freddy Farmer came slipping through the door. "Freddy! What—?" "Making sure, naturally," young Farmer cut him off, and quickly crossed over to the bed. "Slipped outside to see if there were others. We could be caught like rats in a trap in this place. But there were just these two. They've a small Army car outside. I took the ignition keys, and straightened the front door as I came back in. How's—?" Freddy stopped and groaned as he fixed his eyes on the man in the bed. "It's Dartmouth," Dawson said softly. "He talked for a moment, but about all he said was that we were too late. That nothing can stop them now. And that by dawn they'll be in the air. Before I could ask him what he meant, he passed out. He's dying, Freddy. Look at that neck wound. It's a miracle that he's lasted this long. He's—Wait! He's coming to again." The last was not necessary. Freddy Farmer also saw the eyes flutter open, and the thin lips move. But no sounds came from between them. Dawson leaned close. "You've got to hang on, Dartmouth!" he whispered fiercely. "You've got to hang on and tell us about it. Maybe we can help. Maybe we can still lick them. Why can't they be stopped? Who are they? And what planes in the air by dawn? Hang on and tell us, Dartmouth! Hang on, please." The sunken eyes stared, and the thin lips continued to move without making a sound. Dawson clenched both fists helplessly. "If there were only something we could do for him!" he groaned. "A couple of sulfanilimide pills, or even a First Aid kit. But we haven't a darn thing. And I'm afraid it's too late, anyway. Dartmouth! Please! Hang on, fellow, hang on. You've got to tell us what it's all about." As Dawson's pleading voice died away to the echo the very silence of Death seemed to hang in that room. Then, suddenly, sound began to come from between the dying man's thin moving lips. Both Dawson and Farmer leaned close so that they would not miss a single word. "Fire!" the man said. "Fire bombs that destroy everything within a mile of where they strike. It is true! I—I have seen it with my own eyes. Flame throwers of the air. That's what they are like. But they are dropped like bombs. Special chemicals. Nothing can extinguish them. They must burn themselves out. But—but they explode and spread out in all directions. It is liquid fire. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can stop those devils now. Their secret weapon. That devil! That Herr Baron. He is back in Duisburg again. I know! I saw him. He cannot fool me, no matter what he does to his face. The twenty-fourth—tomorrow. Tomorrow they strike, and we will be helpless to stop them. It—it will not win them the war, no! They will never win. But our planes—our pilots—our crews. Hundreds—thousands! Three fourths of England's and America's bombers—wiped out in minutes. It will make the war go on five years longer. Dear heaven, I was so close. So close to stopping them!" The dying man stopped speaking and his eyes became glazed. A hundred thousand questions sprang to Dawson's lips, and to Freddy Farmer's lips, too. But neither youth dared to speak them. Death was so very, very close, now. They could almost smell the Grim Reaper's clammy hand reaching out. They hardly dared breathe for fear that doing so would speed the end. They were helpless. The battle had to be fought alone by that man under the single dirty blanket. No other power on earth could help him. He would win his own fight, or he would lose, and his knowledge of the horrible doom poised to descend upon England would be sealed in his brain. Tears of helpless agony stung Dawson's eyes, and his lips moved in fervent, silent prayer. He could feel Farmer's breath on his cheek, and he knew that Freddy was also praying with all his heart and soul. And then, as though a curtain had been drawn aside, the glaze vanished from the dying man's eyes. They were bright and clear as they looked at Dawson and Farmer. The man drew breath deep into his lungs, and there was no longer the heart-chilling rattle of death in his throat. It was as though in his greatest moment of need he had reached out and received new strength from his Maker. "Do not speak," he said in a clear voice that made Dawson's heart leap with joy. "Just listen to me, because I cannot last long. I know it—inside. I failed, but perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps you will succeed. You must. Listen to me! Ten miles along the Duisburg-Dortmund highway there is a little group of hills. They form a ring, and the valley in the middle is flat as a table. You cannot see it from the air because it is perfectly camouflaged. The spot has never been bombed because it is out in the country. Our bombers wouldn't give it a second look. "But it is a military objective. The most important this moment in all Germany. In that camouflaged valley there are a hundred British and American heavy bombers. Yes! British and American heavy bombers, I tell you. I have seen them. For months the Nazis have been planning this blow. They call it their secret weapon. It came out of the mad brain of the one they call Herr Baron. Who he is no one seems to know. But it is rumored that he was a famous Luftwaffe pilot shot down in the Battle of Britain. That he was horribly burned about the face. But he lived, and became the man of many faces. Some say he was a great actor before the war. I do not know. But I have seen him many times, and every time he looked different. Once I was almost able to kill him, but I failed then, too. To think, if I had only succeeded, this terrible thing might not be hanging over England, as it is." The man stopped talking and stark terror gripped Dawson and Farmer again. But the man only paused to draw breath into his dying body. He went on speaking again, a wild light flaring up in his eyes. "A hundred British and American heavy bombers! Some of them those that were forced down and captured before their crews could destroy them. But most have been remade from salvaged parts. Think of it! For months German factories have been repairing and making parts for British and American planes. Our planes that they will fly against us at dawn. They will not carry high explosive bombs, but a new liquid fire bomb. A bomb that floods liquid fire for hundreds of yards, and destroy everything that it touches. Herr Baron and his men have done their work well—the devils. They have selected our biggest fields in England. R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force fields. They know our identification signals. Heaven help us, they seem to know everything. And tomorrow at dawn they will take off. All the hundred of them. A suicide pilot and suicide crew in each bomber. They will fly to England, and give identification signals as though they really were our own planes returning. Three of them for each of the thirty-three fields selected. They will go in low, as though landing, and then dump their terrible destruction. In the matter of seconds each of the selected air fields will be flooded by the fire. The devils and their planes will perish, too. But our loss will be staggering. It will be months and maybe years before we can replace our losses. Yes, Hitler's secret weapon. A great victory to give his home front. A long, long lull in the bombing of Germany. The Nazis do not fight to win the war now. They fight for time. Time to reorganize, and rearm. If Hitler can stop the bombing of Germany, then three fourths of his Luftwaffe can be sent to the Russian Front where he needs air power so desperately. And by this hideous, devilish blow against us at dawn he can accomplish just that!" The dying man stopped talking. He fought for breath, and his very eyes seemed to be on fire. Stunned, Dawson gaped at him in utter disbelief. The man was mad, raving mad. What he had told them was fantastic, impossible. It couldn't be true. A hundred American and British heavy bombers salvaged by the Nazis? Repaired and put in condition to fly against England? It was the craziest pipe dream that—But what about Krumpstadt saying that Farbin Factory Number Six was making metal cylinders for British and American planes? And those landing gear parts he had seen with his own eyes? Landing gear parts, being repaired, that he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., or England? Yes! What about his experience in Farbin Factory Number Six? "It can't be!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice explode beside him. "It's mad—insane! You don't know what you're saying, old chap. Why, they couldn't! They—they wouldn't dare!" The dying man turned his head and fixed flaming eyes on Freddy's face. His thin, almost bloodless lips drew back over his teeth, and his thin fingers clutching the blanket looked as though they would snap. "Mad?" the man gasped hoarsely. "Insane? It's true, I tell you! With my dying breath, I swear it is true. Five of us learned the secret, but four died before they could get word to England. Only I was left alive, and I had been arrested. I was to be shot, but I escaped. Ten days ago. I tried to get word through to Major Crandall, to anybody, but only part of my message must have arrived. The address of this place. Mad? Insane? Today I learned that Herr Baron and his agents had returned. They are to celebrate the take-off at dawn. Himmler is expected to be there. Perhaps even Hitler. No word came to me from England. I watched the sky for hours, and prayed for our bombers. But none have come. I went there to that camouflaged field. Mad? Yes, I was mad. I went there to try and defeat them alone. To start a fire. To do anything that would destroy what they have here. But I was discovered. It was that devil, Herr Baron. He was dressed as an American flying officer. His men fired. Hit me. I escaped and came back here. Perhaps it would not be too late. Perhaps there would be some word—some help from England. But they followed me, found me, and—" The man choked on his own words. Tears streamed down his cheek as he raised one hand and pointed a quivering finger at Dawson and Freddy Farmer. His voice was little more than a dry cackle in his throat. "Mad, insane? Go there—the Duisburg-Dortmund highway. See for yourselves. Give your lives, but, whatever you do, stop them !" The last word was almost a dry scream. Then something seemed to let go inside the man. His half raised head fell back. His eyes went glassy, and then blank. His thin lips quivered, and then they were still forever. "Dear heaven, forgive me!" Freddy Farmer whispered brokenly. "Tell him that I do believe him. That I do!" "And tell him that we will try, dear heaven!" Dave Dawson breathed as he brushed tears from his smarting eyes. "If his life was worth the try, then our lives are, too!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN We Who Must Die As Dawson pushed slowly up onto his feet, with his eyes still fixed upon the face of the dead man, he felt as though a great weight were pressing down on his heart. Memory of the words that the Yank Intelligence agent had spoken whirled and spun around in his brain until it seemed as though he would never be able to think straight again. The torch had been flung down to him, and to Freddy Farmer, from the hands of a dying man. Lips that were actually stiffening in death had begged them to give their lives that hundreds of others might be spared, and the world be made a little bit better place in which to live. But how could Freddy and he accomplish the impossible? How? Where would they begin? How could they possibly—He cut short his spinning thoughts as he felt Freddy's hand gripping his arm, and heard his pal's voice. "There's precious little, if any, time to lose, Dave, old thing," Freddy spoke in a tight, emotion-filled voice. "The least we can do is try—as he did, poor devil." "Try?" Dawson echoed with a little harsh laugh. "Try what? Try—Hey, Freddy! You mean—?" "Quite," young Farmer said, and began peeling off the Luftwaffe uniform he wore. "Those two Gestapo rats, there. We'll borrow their uniforms, and their car outside, and go find that ring of hills, and its camouflaged field. The Duisburg-Dortmund highway is not far from here." "And when we reach the field?" Dawson said, as he stripped off his own Luftwaffe jacket. "Then what? Most likely the guards are five deep around the place!" "No doubt!" Freddy Farmer said grimly, and for an instant let his gaze rest on the dead man. "But even if the whole blasted Nazi army is there, we've got to try to get in there somehow. Perhaps these uniforms will help us get by the guards. I hope so. But look, Dave, if you don't—" "Who says I don't?" Dawson interrupted angrily. "I was only wondering if you had some kind of a plan." "None at all," young Farmer replied. "Have you?" "No," Dawson replied, and went over to one of the unconscious Germans in black uniforms and heavy boots. "Maybe we can think up one on the way. Set the place on fire, he said, eh? Of course he must have meant that fire would touch off the rest of what's there. But, boy! If we only had a plane. Any kind of a plane, just so long—" Dawson suddenly let his voice trail off, and an agate gleam leaped into his eyes as he knelt down beside one of the Germans and quickly relieved him of his uniform. And that gleam was still in the Yank air ace's eyes when a few moments later Freddy and he bound the Germans hand and foot, gagged them, and then stole silently out of the room, and along the hallway to the front door. There they paused a moment, eased open the battered door, and peered out. Duisburg was still in darkness, and there was no sound to be heard save that of their own breathing. It took Dawson a second or two to pick out the small Nazi Army car at the curb. When he had, he touched Freddy lightly on the arm, went out the door, and down the short flight of steps. Without a word he slid behind the wheel, and held out his hand to Freddy. Young Farmer nodded and handed over the ignition keys. A minute later Dawson slid the car away from the curb. And ten minutes after that he was rolling it along the highway between Duisburg and Dortmund. "Have any ideas clicked yet, Freddy?" he presently broke the silence between them. "I figure we've got about five or six miles to go. Keep your eyes skinned, because we could very easily slide right by those hills in the dark." "No, I haven't the ghost of an idea," Farmer replied. "If only some of our planes would come over we might be able to signal them to dump some bombs around. Small chance of that, however. It's close to midnight, and if any of our planes are out they've jolly well reached their objectives by now. Good grief! It's almost as though the Devil himself were watching over the Nazis this night." "This night, and a lot of other nights, I guess," Dawson said, tight-lipped. "Look, Freddy, are we awake, or is all this just a crazy nightmare? I mean, I want to believe that poor fellow ... I mean, of course, he wasn't off his beam; he told us the truth. But—suffering catfish! Fire bombs that throw liquid fire for hundreds of yards? And British and Yank planes flown by German suicide pilots and crews? And if they succeed, three fourths of our combined air forces in England will be so much burned out junk? It—well, it just seems almost too much to believe. It's like stuff you'd read about in a ten-cent blood and thunder thriller. Doggone it! This is a war with guns, and tanks, and ships, and planes...." "And a lot of other things that most of us never dreamed of before the start of the war, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly, as Dawson struggled for words. "Radar, for instance. The Nazi rocket gun. And our own jet-propulsion plane for another. And that's saying nothing at all about the miracles in medicine that have come out of this war so far. Yes, I know how you feel, Dave. That it just can't be true. That it isn't possible. But when you think about it for a moment, you find yourself asking, why isn't it true, and why isn't it possible? And the only answer is, that it is, and could be. War knows no limits. And that goes for the minds of men who create the devilish weapons of war. Or do I sound silly?" "No, kid," Dawson said. "It just got me for a moment. The seemingly fantastic part. No, you're right. Anything can happen, or be cooked up in an all out total war. And the Nazis are just the breed to cook up something like liquid fire bombs. But—" Dawson choked off the rest as at that exact moment a small searchlight suddenly became visible not fifty yards along the highway in front of them, and its beam became trained directly on the car. In the side glow Dawson could just make out the ugly snout of a mounted machine gun, and the booted feet of the men who operated it. Then a uniformed figure, with a sub-machine gun hung over one arm, stepped out into the beam of light and rapidly winked a red-shaded flashlight as a signal for the car to stop. "Keep your gun ready!" Dawson whispered between stiff lips as he slackened the car's speed and applied the brakes. "Here's the first test, kid. Maybe this is the end of the line, but on the other hand, maybe we can shoot it out with them and skip off cross-country. Hold everything until we make sure." "With you, old chap!" Freddy Farmer replied in a voice so low that Dawson almost didn't catch it. A moment later Dawson stopped the car full in the beam of the searchlight, and rested his hand on his gun on the seat beside him and watched the uniformed figure carrying the red-shaded flashlight walk around to his side of the car. "Show me your—!" the figure said harshly, and then stopped with a grunt. "Oh, you two, eh? Back again? Very well, proceed. But keep your speed to thirty miles or the others will open fire on you. The second turning on the right has been left unblocked. Gott! So many cars tonight! It is like a parade. It must be nice to be of the Gestapo. You will probably be given all the schnapps you can drink. All right. Go ahead. Pass to the left of the light!" For a split second Dawson was tempted to play his Gestapo part to the hilt and snarl a few words at the uniformed figure backing away from the car. On second thought, though, he instantly decided to let things stand as they were. The unpopularity of the Gestapo with this particular soldier was none of his affair. He would be a fool to get tough about it. The one with the sub-machine gun might decide to get even tougher. And so, sweating with relief, Dawson meshed gears and tooled the little Army car around to the left of the searchlight, that winked out as he went by, and got back into the middle of the night-darkened road again. It was then that both Freddy and he let the clamped air from their lungs. "Jeepers!" Dawson gasped. "I know I've got gray hair now. Praise be that that dope simply remembered two Gestapo rats in an Army car, but not what they looked like." "Amen!" Freddy Farmer whispered. "And may Satan bless the blighter for telling us about the second turn off on the right. Gosh, Dave! Do you really think that we'll be lucky enough to—?" "Don't say it!" Dawson said hoarsely. "It might break the spell, or something. Just pray, Freddy, that's all. Pray as you never prayed before. I know we haven't a hope, but—" "There's the first turn off, Dave!" young Farmer stopped him. "Slow up a little so we won't miss ... Dave! Look! There ahead to the right. There's the spot. You can see the tops of the hills. There's a glow of light, that's why. Dave! Do you hear something? Like the rumbling of thunder?" But Dawson didn't reply at once. He couldn't possibly have replied at that moment, even had it cost him his life not to do so. Every nerve in his entire system was twanging like a snapped violin string. His heart was striving to hammer its way out through his ribs, and the blood surging through his veins was like ice water one instant, and liquid fire the next. Yes, he could see the tops of the ring of hills, and the faint glow of orange-yellow light behind them that made them stand out against the night sky. And above the sound of his own engine he could hear that other rumbling sound that seemed like thunder to Freddy Farmer. Yes, but it was thunder caused by high voltage leaping across storm skies. It was the thunder of many powerful engines being revved up. Aircraft engines. And as Dawson leaned forward a little over the wheel and strained his ears, he knew in a flash that the thunder was from British and American-made aircraft engines. "They're revving them up!" he heard his own voice say. "Maybe the take-off's near. Must be, or they wouldn't show so much light. Yeah! They've removed the camouflage covering from the place, and that light is from runway flares, and maybe exhaust plumes. Dear heaven! Let us get through. Let us get through in time to do something. Don't let this terrible thing happen, please. I beg of you! Don't—!" Dawson's voice clogged up in his throat, and his heart seemed to shrivel into nothing as his own beseeching voice echoed back to mock him. And then, even as Freddy Farmer touched his arm, his straining eyes saw the second turn-off. There were three or four uniformed figures at the corner of the turn-off, and Dawson instantly tightened up inside. But there was no need of that A flashlight winked on, and its moving beam signalled for him to make the turn and keep going. Perhaps the car was recognized, but he doubted that because of the darkness. It was probably that any car that passed the first barrier down the road, and there had apparently been many of them tonight, was being allowed to continue on unchallenged to the secret field hidden behind the ring of hills. A great sigh of relief slid off Dawson's lips as he drove by the signalling flashlight beam and made the turn. A moment later, though, as he drove along a bumpy dirt road that led straight toward the ring of hills, his heart leaped up his throat to smack hard against his back teeth, and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his forehead. He heard Freddy groan softly, and that groan was echoed in his own heart. A short distance ahead he could see several cars parked off the dirt road. Several flashlight beams were moving about, and the road itself was blocked by several figures in uniform. In the bad light Dawson could not tell if all carried sub-machine guns, but he saw at least six, and to him that was six too many. No wonder his car had been allowed to turn off into the road leading to the secret field! "No cars allowed on the field, of course, because of the danger of fire," he muttered. "They're all being ordered to park outside, and those moving flashlight beams mean just one thing. That everybody is being checked before he can go the rest of the way on foot." He swallowed hard, and turned to young Farmer as the parked cars in front forced him to apply the brakes and slow down. "It's been nice knowing you, Freddy," he said in a dull voice. "This is the end of the line, and I mean the end. But I'm going to take some of the rats with me, that's certain!" "Cut it, Dave!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Don't be a blasted fool, old thing. This isn't the end. We can't let it be. I've just got an idea. It's got to work. Stop the car and get out with me. Stick at my shoulder, and have your gun in your hand. But for goodness' sake don't use it. No! No questions. There isn't time. Just do as I say!" Dawson hesitated a split second, and then shrugged. "Okay!" he murmured. "That's one more idea than I've got. Lead on. Freddy!"

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