“Quite!” he heard Freddy Farmer echo. “And the blighter was right in front of our eyes!”
The young Luftwaffe pilot turned and regarded them with grinning lips and hate-filled eyes.
“Your good luck has come to an end at last, you two war-mongering dogs!” he snarled. “Now it is our turn. When we—”
“That is enough, Herr Leutnant!” von Stutgardt cut in harshly. “You talk too much. Go contact the U-boat’s plane at once!”
The young Luftwaffe pilot gulped, flushed, then saluted stiffly and beat a hasty retreat back to the hut. Dave stared after him and felt ice cold anger in his heart. The last time he had seen that youth had been at the Air Corps Base at Albuquerque, New Mexico. The youth had not been a Nazi pilot then. He had been a U.S. Air Corps pilot—and the officer in charge of the check-in booth!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wings of Doom
Dave Dawson’s thoughts were like so many rats gnawing away at his brain. His whole body was filled with icy shivers, and his stomach felt full of lumps of cold lead. But it was not fear that caused that conglomeration of emotion. On the contrary it was the sense of defeat, and of seemingly utter helplessness and hopelessness, that caused him to feel as he did.
He was sitting with Freddy Farmer on the rough board floor of one of the frontless huts under the trees. From there he could look out and see everything that was going on; look out and see many things that were like white hot knives turning in his heart. He watched bombs being fitted to some of the Vultees, and aerial torpedoes being fitted to the others. And watching over the efforts of the bull-necked mechanics were nine Luftwaffe pilots, and von Stutgardt.