Dave Dawson on the Russian Front

by Robert Sidney Bowen

As Dawson finished speaking he half shrugged and made a faint gesture with one of his hands. But inwardly he was praying hard, and as he studied the Nazi's face he had the feeling that his prayers were being answered a little. His complete about-face wasn't setting so well with Herr Stohl. The German obviously hadn't expected so sudden an admission of defeat, and it puzzled him not a little. He searched Dawson's face for some hidden answer, and unconsciously let his gun sag until it was pointed toward the floor.

That was the moment for which Dave was waiting, to stake all on one swift lightning-like bit of action. However, the Yank-born air ace, in his own eagerness to befuddle Stohl slightly and get him off guard for the moment, had forgotten one very important item. And that item happened to be Freddy Farmer, in the flesh. Freddy was playing his own kind of game, too. And even as Dave coiled his muscles for a diving leap at Herr Stohl's legs, Freddy Farmer was way out ahead of him.

From a man half slouched, down in a chair, the English youth became a roaring tornado of savage action in nothing flat. Dave had just a split second in which to see Freddy's arm move like a striking cobra; to see something sail out of his hand. And then the oil lamp on the table went crashing off and down onto the floor. Just what else Freddy Farmer did, Dawson didn't have time to see. He didn't, for the simple reason that putting his own Commando training and actual experience to good use required all of his attention.

Like a shot from the mouth of a gun, he hurled himself up onto his feet, and off the floor, to sail straight forward and low down. He heard Stohl cry out in alarm and rage. Then Dave's shoulder crashed into his knees, and the German went over backward and down like a felled ox. But even as Dave crashed into the Nazi, he kicked outward with his left foot. It was a case of nailing two birds with one stone, so to speak. And he succeeded. His booted left foot caught the half stunned Bixby in the stomach, and doubled him over with pain split seconds before he could snap out of his trance and make use of the gun he held in his hand.

Then down on top of Herr Stohl crashed Dawson. He tried to protect himself as much as possible, but his momentum was terrific, and new and brighter stars began to whirl about as his forehead slammed down on the boards. Every nerve and muscle in him went limp and jelly-like. He was sure he heard the faint pop of the Nazi's revolver, and thought he felt a white hot spear of flame cut across the top of his shoulder. But he was too stunned to be sure of anything, save the fact that the whole wide world was now a glowing red, and that acrid smoke was driving every ounce of air out of his lungs, and burning their walls to a crisp.

In a vague, abstract sort of way he realized that the oil lamp crashing down onto the floor had sprayed burning oil in all directions, and that the floor was fast becoming a seething sea of fire. He realized all that, and even saw it with his own dazed eyes, but his whole body seemed to be clamped fast in a gigantic vise, so that he couldn't move an inch.

Then suddenly some great weight crashed down on top of him. In the same instant a gun roared out sound. The weight dropped down on his back, went limp, and rolled off him onto the floor. The sudden bit of mysterious action seemed to release a hidden spring within him. Strength rushed back into his body, and his muscles ceased to be limp any more. Hardly realizing that he had done so, he scrambled up onto his feet, and leaped back from a tongue of flame. He crashed into Freddy Farmer, but the English youth grabbed hold of him and checked him from tumbling down onto the floor again.

"This way, Dave!" he heard Freddy shout. "Nice work, old chap. I'm sure he was dead before he even fired his gun. Broken neck, you know. And good riddance. Come along, pal!"

The words made little sense to Dave, but his aching lungs were too empty of air to make questions possible. Besides, Freddy Farmer had him by the arm and was dragging him over to the door of the shack. He had just time enough to glance back and see the still form of Bixby, with a bullet hole square in the middle of his forehead, the still, motionless figure of Stohl with his head twisted around in a horrible position, and the seething, hissing pool of burning oil that was lapping its way across the floor boards. Then Freddy Farmer yanked open the shack door, and they both leaped through and out into the dark night.

"Keep going!" the English youth barked sharply as Dave started to pull up to a halt. "That whole blasted thing is going to be a torch of flame in no time at all. And we haven't time to answer questions for a lot of Air Raid Wardens and Auxiliary Police chaps. We want to get away from here fast!"