Dave Dawson on the Russian Front

by Robert Sidney Bowen

However, he did not remain motionless for very long. Only a moment or two after he had crashed to a full stop up against the thorny bushes, hands of steel came out of nowhere, grabbed hold of him, and yanked him savagely up onto his feet.

"Walk straight ahead, and do not be slow about it!" a voice snarled in his ear. "Cry out, and it will be your last sound in this world! Move along!"

One of the steel fingered hands let go of Dawson, though the other kept a tight grip on the back of his neck. And almost in the same instant he once again felt the familiar pressure of a blunt, hard object jammed into the small of his back. For a split second he hesitated, but only long enough for the sane side of him to point out that any show of resistance at this point would probably be plain suicide. Where Freddy Farmer was, and what had happened to his war pal, he did not know. However, this was not the moment to do anything about it.

And so, choking back the words of blazing anger that rose to his lips, and beating down the mad urge to whirl upon his unknown captor, gun or no gun, he started walking straight ahead through the darkness. In less than a minute his feet told him that he had reached some kind of a country lane. His captor swerved him onto it, and gave him a hard jab with the gun as a signal for greater speed. Dawson obeyed because there wasn't anything else he could do. But most of the spinning balls of colored light had faded from his brain by now, and he was better able to take stock of the situation.

It wasn't a very pleasant picture. In fact, it was most unpleasant, and twice as maddening. Why, not over twenty minutes before Freddy Farmer and he had been tearing along by train toward Aberdeen, and complaining of the fact that things were going along too smoothly. Well, Freddy had surely got his wish. Things had happened, and happened with a bang. There was no doubt, now, that Gestapo agents in London had grabbed at the bait thrown out by Colonel Welsh, and taken it hook, line, and sinker. So what?

So a well planned stunt had back-fired almost before it had been put into execution. And it had been done so easily and so simply, too. That was what made Dawson see red as the steel fingers and the business end of a gun prodded him along a night-shrouded country lane. Nobody had to explain to him that the two Gestapo agents had boarded the train at that whistle stop. And nobody had to explain to him, either, that they had timed every move to perfection. The emergency cord had been yanked at the right moment so that the train would come to a stop at the right place. The way in which "Steel Fingers" shoved him forward was proof in itself that this country lane was well known to him, and a definite part of this kidnapping escapade. Yes, it had been simple, and a cinch. Like rolling off a log. Or better, rolling off a railroad track embankment.

At that moment the shrill sound of a locomotive whistle came to Dave's ears. And almost immediately he heard the distant snorting and puffing of the Flying Scotsman getting under way again. Those sounds chilled his heart just a little bit more, and fanned into flame the smouldering anger in his breast. He could feel his face grow hot with the shame of having walked into this little trap so doggone blindly. He wondered how Freddy was taking it, if his pal was pleased that his wish for action had been granted. But more than that, he wondered how Freddy was, and where he was.

As though the gods of war had simply been waiting for him to start wondering in earnest about Freddy Farmer, the steel fingers gripping him by the back of the neck suddenly tightened and jerked him to a halt. He was spun around to face the shadowy figure of his captor, but the barrel of the gun was quickly moved from the small of his back to a point on his chest directly over his heart. And the harsh voice spoke again—almost invitingly, it seemed to him.

"Don't move a muscle! Not a muscle!"

Dawson remained motionless as ordered, but he strained his eyes in the darkness for a glimpse of his captor's face. He might just as well have tried to study a sheet of black paper at the bottom of a coal mine at midnight. He could only see that his captor wore a snapped down brim hat pulled low over his eyes. The face could be that of a Jap, for all he could tell.