"Don't worry, pal, I'm not that dumb," Dave calmed his fears. "I saw them, too. Heck! If I'd thought we stood a chance of getting away on foot, I wouldn't have stood around gabbing this long. But we wouldn't have been able to go a hundred yards without bumping into a mess of them. Bet you anything you want there's a dozen or more Nazi rifles trained on us right now, only we can't see them."
Freddy swallowed hard and glanced anxious eyes over his shoulder. Dave saw the look and chuckled.
"Keep your shirt on, pal," he said. "Nobody's going to play target practice with us."
"What do you mean?" Freddy demanded wide eyed. "Why not, I'd like to know?"
Dave bit his lower lip and shrugged.
"And so would I," he said. "But the way it strikes me, we're something very special to these Nazis. They had five million chances to clip us upstairs, but they didn't fire a shot until you and Barker started to leave in a hurry. In my book it all adds up that they want us alive. But why, is something I haven't figured out, yet."
Dave stopped talking abruptly as he saw the worried look that spread over Freddy Farmer's still slightly pale face.
"Of course, I can think of one answer," he said lightly, "but I don't know if it's the right one."
"Well, what in the world is it?" Freddy asked sharply when Dave didn't continue.
"Well," the Yank born R.A.F. ace murmured, and shrugged, "it's maybe because they got a look at your face up there, and got to wondering if arms, legs, and a body really went with it. Take it easy, my little man! You walked right into that one!"