“Well, it doesn’t matter much, Freddy,” he said to his English pal in a low voice. “When we don’t return X-62 will know that we were right. And he’ll start the wheels turning at once, of course.”
Freddy Farmer blinked and a blank expression spread over his face, but only for a brief instant. He either caught Dave’s quick wink, or caught onto the play of words by himself.
“Yes, that’s true,” he grunted. “Too bad we can’t be in on the climax of things, but that’s the way with a blasted war, I fancy. However, we did manage to get our part of the job completed, so that’s something, I guess.”
“It’s a lot,” Dave said. “In my book, it’s plenty. But it was nice to have known you, pal. We’ve had some swell times together.”
“Quite!” Freddy Farmer replied. “It was all top-hole while it lasted. And, who knows? Perhaps it isn’t over yet. For us, I mean.”
Dave nodded, but didn’t say anything. He had sneaked another flash look at von Stutgardt out the corner of his eye. And there was no longer a pleased look on the Nazi’s face. On the contrary, the man now wore a look of sullen rage tempered just a little by a glint of worry in his eyes.
Then Dave stopped sneaking quick glances at the man, for they had passed through the rim of underbrush and were approaching a series of man-made clearings in the tropical trees that covered the island. At first glance Dave could hardly believe his eyes. And when he took a second look he was sure that he must be dreaming. But it was not the results of any dream, or mirage, that he saw spread out before him. Instead, it was the most perfectly camouflaged flying field he had ever seen in his life, a flying field that had been built in sections so that enough trees would be left completely to hide everything from the air.
To be exact, the flying field really consisted of two long runways cut through the trees, and packed down firm. The runways ran from east to west across the island, and the take-off end was blocked off by strips of painted camouflage cloth. The strips of cloth had only to be pulled to the side and there was an opening that looked right out onto the beach and the blue Caribbean beyond. At the other end of the two runways was a group of huts built under the trees. Staring at them, Dave saw that a couple of them, the fronts being open, were filled with H.E. bombs of five hundred to a thousand pound size. There were also aerial torpedoes, and an unlimited quantity of German made incendiary bombs.
All that, however, he simply gave but a sweeping glance. What brought him up to a dead stop, and caused him to gasp in dumbfounded amazement was the sight of ten Vultee attack bombers pulled in in line under the trees. Two of them were still without wings, but a group of bull-necked, head-shaven men were in the very act of fitting the wings in place. A couple of other bull-necked figures were busy painting U.S. Air Corps insignia on the eight other Vultees. And not only that, they were painting on the Squadron insignia of the Ninety-Sixth Attack Unit, based at Colon.
“Interesting sight, isn’t it?” Dave heard von Stutgardt’s jeering voice in his ears. “It has taken us a long time to collect those planes, and more trouble than I care to talk about. But we have them at last, and so that is all that matters. Yes, indeed! A most interesting sight. Most interesting.”