“Freddy!” he gasped. “Freddy Farmer? You got away from them?”
“Of course not!” Freddy panted. “This is my twin brother! Certainly I got away. Those beggars couldn’t find anything unless it was stuck on the end of their big noses. I got up close to one stupid ox, and bashed him silent, and took his uniform and gun. After that it was as easy as pie. I was trying to sneak up on this blighter when I saw him raise his gun. So I had to shoot. I hope he bleeds to death. I—Good grief! The radio! Dave, did you—?”
“I didn’t!” Dave groaned. “Not powerful enough. I was halfway through when he came in and shot the thing into flames right in front of my face. But let’s cut this gab. I’ll bless you and give you a big kiss later, pal, for saving my hide. Right now we’ve got a job to do all alone.”
“What I’ve been trying to explain!” Freddy snapped, and spun around. “They’re all down at the other end hunting for me in the grass. That first Vultee, eh, Dave? What say?”
“Stop asking questions!” Dave barked. “Just pick up your feet, and get going with me. Gee, Freddy! What a sweetheart and a honey you always are in the clutches!”
The English youth didn’t make any comment to that. He was too busy picking up his feet, as Dave had suggested, and laying them down again. Shoulder to shoulder the two air aces raced out the door and across the clearing to the first of the bomb-loaded Vultees. Without wasting words talking it over, Dave leaped into the forward pit, and Freddy leaped into the rear pit and unhooked the swivel guns. As soon as his pants hit the seat Dave rapped open the throttle, and punched the starter button with his other hand. For a couple of seconds the starter made a grinding sound and the steel-bladed propeller rotated in a series of slow jerks. Then it caught in a rush of power and the dimly lighted clearing seemed to tremble and shake in the thunderous roar of the Wright Cyclone in the nose.
“Hang on, and be ready with those guns, Freddy!” Dave bellowed at the top of his voice, and rammed the throttle wide open.
As though the word guns had been some sort of a signal for which the unseen gods of war were waiting, the savage yammer of gunfire suddenly broke out to the left rear of the Vultee now lunging forward. Dave jerked his head around in time to see von Stutgardt coming reeling out through the radio hut door clutching a machine gun in his hands. He blazed away at the Vultee, and countless hornets of death whined by Dave’s head. Then von Stutgardt stumbled and fell, and his gun stopped spitting out flame and sound.
Dave didn’t wait to watch the German go sprawling. He had snapped his head front, and was biting down hard on his lower lip. The Vultee was a comet roaring along the runway now. But more guns were shooting at it from the heavy undergrowth on either side. And directly ahead was the camouflage screening for the opening out onto the beach. Dave had forgotten all about that until this moment. How strong was the screen? Would it crack them up? Would it catch on the prop blades, and bind about them, and slow up the Vultee’s speed so that the plane wouldn’t take off until it was down the beach and in the water? Would it—?
But there wasn’t any time to answer any of those questions, much less do anything about them. Like a streak of greased lightning the whirling prop of the Vultee slashed into the netting. Things flew off in all directions for a brief instant, and then there was clear air and sunshine ahead, and Dave was hauling the plane up over the blue surface of the Caribbean.