Dave Dawson with the Commandos

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Follow me, men!" he roared out in English. "The west side! Gather there, and we'll mop up. Follow me, men!"

Dave fired a shot burst, and went crashing through some bushes, making as much noise as he could. Then he slowed up a little, swerved sharply to his right, and the sounds he made from then on were no louder than a summer night wind. His feet hardly touched the ground as he dodged tree trunks, twisted past thorny bushes, and went speeding in a half circle around to the west side of the field. There the trees ended and he burst out onto open ground. Two grey clad figures loomed up in front of him. He saw the flash of dawn light on gun barrels. He flung himself flat, squeezing his own trigger as he fell. Three soldiers hit the ground together, but Dave Dawson was the only one of the three who got instantly up onto his feet again.

Clutching the sub-machine gun, he ran body well bent forward and low to the ground. Fifty yards of sprinting took him to the oil and gasoline drums. He skidded to a halt and blazed away at one of the oil drums. The brownish stuff spurted out onto the ground. Dave dropped to his knees and jerked a snap lighter from his pocket. He struck it into flame, dropped it in a pool of oil and started running off to the right at top speed. He had hardly reached the shelter of some woods on that side when the blazing oil reached the gas drums, and started to touch them off. Though he was a good thirty yards away the force of the explosion knocked him flat and almost sent the sub-machine gun flying from his grasp.

He clung onto it, however. And well that he did, too! At that moment, a squad of German troops came tearing toward him. They didn't see him in the light of the raging flame, but they would have in the next split second. Dave, however, didn't wait that next split second. He had swung the sub-machine gun up and was making it spit nickel-jacketed lead. It will never be known, but it is quite possible that not one of those Nazi soldiers knew what hit him. At least, not until he woke up in that other world, and there was Satan inviting him in.

Almost before the last Nazi had dropped, Dave was up on his feet again, and in whirlwind motion. Behind him was a roaring and a shouting that sounded like the whole German Army on his neck. His lungs were aching, and there was pain in his body from head to toe, but that did not stop him from putting more driving power into his legs. He tore blindly forward, not caring so much about direction now as distance. And when presently the roaring and shouting behind him seemed less, he cut sharply to his right toward the west.

He headed west for perhaps two minutes, then veered right again toward the north. All the roaring and shouting was off to his right now, and he had only to jerk his head in that direction to see the reflection of the burning oil and gas through the trees. He sped on by that spot until he came out into the open again and saw the dim shapes of houses in front of him. He swerved to the right for the last time, and went tearing along to the protective strip of woods that ran in back of the Headquarters building.

He was once more almost abreast of it when a figure loomed up in front of him. But loomed is not the correct word. The figure seemed to pop up, as though right out of the ground. He saw the hated grey green uniform, but he had no time to fling up his gun and fire. He was carrying it in one hand with fingers hooked about the trigger guard, while he kept the other hand out in front of him. So there was no time to shift his hold on the gun and shoot. There was only the time to hurl the gun straight out from him with every ounce of his strength. It didn't have far to travel, and it flew true. The gun crashed into the German's face and knocked him over flat, and Dave was forced to leap into the air broad jump style to prevent from stumbling over the fallen figure writhing on the ground in pain and total blindness.

Maybe ten seconds, maybe a half minute ticked by before Dave reached the grown over shell crater, and dived into it headlong. Hands slapped down on him, and steel fingers dug deep. But the pressure was instantly relaxed, and Freddy Farmer's arms were about him and hoisting him up to a sitting position. He heard the mumble of Freddy's words, but there were too many colored lights in his brain, too much of a roar in his ears, and too much white fire in his bursting lungs for him to understand for a few seconds.

"As if half the blasted German Army went tearing past us," Freddy's words began to register on his brain. "We would have plowed right into them, if it hadn't been for your stunt, though! All that noise took five years off my life! Thought sure you had copped a bullet and—"

"Kiss me later!" Dave panted. "Right now we've got to get moving. They're running circles around each other down there. But they may give a thought to the planes any second. Grab your guy, and—Hey! They aren't dead—Freddy?"