However, there was still a master pilot riding the cockpit of that Mark 5. With but a few feet to go Freddy somehow managed to get the damaged wing up and leveled off. His whirling prop slowed up to indicate he had cut off his ignition. And perhaps it was fate that put a fairly smooth strip of ground directly in front of the Spitfire mushing sluggishly forward. At any rate the craft settled, hit hard and bounced high in the air. It settled to strike again, seemed to hug the earth for an instant or two, and then sluffed off drunkenly to the damaged side. The broken section of the wing "crabbed" on the ground. The Spitfire bucked and stumbled forward. The nose went down and the propeller blades chewed into the soil. Then the whole thing spun like a top on the propeller hub, and went sliding forward in a cloud of dust. Presently it fell over on its back, stopped moving, and Dave saw the tiny ribbon of fire that started to creep through the wreckage.
The next thing Dave actually realized was that he had his own Spitfire down on that strip of ground. He braked to a stop, and yanked a knob that was connected with the mechanism of a small fire bomb installed in the plane, so that the craft could be destroyed in the event of a forced landing, and not fall into Nazi hands intact. His actions were automatic, however. He didn't even know that he had released the fire bomb as he vaulted from the pit onto the ground. He had thoughts only for Freddy. And those thoughts were as hot tears flooding his heart.
His legs were working even as his feet touched the ground. He tore over to Freddy's crashed plane at top speed, ripped and heaved pieces of broken wreckage to one side, and flew at the safety harness straps that held the English youth fast in the seat. Waves of hot air from the burning wreckage closed down on Dave like a blanket. He choked, coughed, and gagged, and tugged and pulled at the belt snaps with all of his strength.
Perhaps it was five seconds, or perhaps ten, before he had the last one free, and was hauling Freddy out of the wreckage and well clear. To him, though, it seemed a year. And when he finally laid the English youth gently down on the ground hot tears of rage and bitter sorrow were coursing down his cheeks.
"Freddy, boy, Freddy, boy!" he sobbed as he bent over his white faced pal. "Hang on, Freddy. You mustn't die. You can't die, Freddy! You...!"
And then, suddenly, it happened!
Freddy Farmer's eyes flew open. For an instant they stared blankly up into Dave's. And then they blinked.
"Die?" the word exploded from the English youth's lips. "What crazy rot are you talking, Dave? What...? Good grief! Where am I, I'd like to know?"
Dave went back on his heels speechless, and utterly unable to move as Freddy Farmer sat up and absently straightened his helmet that was askew on his head.
"I say!" Freddy cried as he gaped at the two Spitfires that were now two heaps of seething flame. "What in the world...? Wait! I remember, now. Dave! What about Barker? Did he get away all right? The blighters didn't get him, did they?"