"Why then we walk to Aberdeen," Dawson interrupted. "But take a bow, son. You've really got something there, at that. My error."
"Granted," Freddy Farmer said sweetly. Then with profound relief echoing in every word, he said, "Well, anyway, they took good hold of the bait. And what's more, we landed them right into the boat. Now we shouldn't bump into any more trouble until we leave Moscow for Urbakh, and Tobolsk. If even then."
"Yeah, sure," Dawson said absently. "But me, I've learned never to count on even a sure bet in this crazy war. Three Gestapo rats are dead and gone out of the picture for us. But there are lots and lots of other Gestapo rats still alive and kicking. And between you, me, and this town I hope we reach darn soon, I've a hunch that we've only seen a little of the beginning of trouble on this cockeyed mission."
And as the echo of Dawson's comment died away, the gods of war in their high places of hiding nudged each other, grinned wickedly, and nodded their heads in complete and absolute agreement with all that had come off Dave Dawson's lips!
CHAPTER TEN
Eastward to War
A cold, dirty grey fog hung over the Royal Air Force Depot, at Aberdeen, Scotland, like a soggy blanket just about ready to drop. Ceiling was about eight hundred feet, and visibility was about a third of a mile, if you had good eyes. Far to the east the sun of a new day was dawning. But you would never have been able to tell by looking in that direction. There was nothing but dirty grey fog stretching out to the four horizons. Only there weren't even any horizons. There was just fog, and more fog.
The state of the weather, however, had not put any damper on plans for R.A.F. activity. At every dispersal point about the Depot field were aircraft of all types being made ready for the day's aerial smash against the Axis forces on the Continent. Planes of every description, ranging from sleek, powerful Supermarine Rolls Royce "Merlin" powered Spitfire Mark V's to the gigantic death dealing Lancaster bombers. And swarming all over them, like so many industrious ants, were the R.A.F. mechanics. The riggers, the fitters, the armorers, and the countless other members of the ground crews that keep the planes in the air.
Over in one corner of the field, though, was a lone Vickers "Wellington" bomber. And grouped under one of its huge wings were five airmen dressed for the skies. Three of them wore R.A.F. uniforms, but Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer still wore their U.S. Army Force uniforms, though they were not in the best of condition as a result of the boys' recent experience with three worshipers of Hitler, who wouldn't be around any more.