CHAPTER SIX
Eagles for Moscow
Had Colonel Welsh calmly pulled out an automatic and fired the whole clip through the ceiling of Room Twelve Hundred, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer wouldn't have been half so surprised as they were right at the moment. Like two sitting statues of stone, they froze motionless, and gaped wide-eyed at the Colonel. A billion questions spun around in their brains, but for several seconds neither could have made his lips speak words; not for a million dollars in cold cash.
In time, though, Dawson succeeded in getting his tongue back into working order.
"Sweet tripe!" he exploded. "That is a new one for us! Decoys for the Gestapo rats! Gosh!"
"It doesn't meet with your approval, Dawson?" Air Vice-Marshal Leman put the question with a slight frown.
"Sure, one hundred per cent, sir," Dave came right back at him quickly. "But it was so sudden like—well, it's sort of got me still swinging at thin air. One right on the outside corner that I didn't even see the pitcher let fly."
"Eh, what?" the senior R.A.F. officer grunted with a blank look on his face.
"Another American expression, sir," Colonel Welsh explained immediately. "Dawson means I took the wind out of his sails. Caught him flat-footed off the bag, you might say."
"Oh, yes, quite!" the English officer murmured, but didn't exactly lose his blank look. "Well, I'm glad that you approve, because we are definitely counting on you two for help. If this bit of a mission is completely successful, there's no telling how much it may change the course of the war in our favor, you know."