Dave gasped the last as he reached down and started to heave von Gault up onto his feet. The German was limp, like a sack of wet wheat.
"Of course not!" Freddy snapped angrily. "Think I'm a blasted Nazi? Just tapped them to make sure they'd kick up no fuss. Better to carry them, anyway. This fat slob, von Staube, wouldn't go half fast enough, anyway. Let's go!"
"Check!" Dave grunted, and heaved von Gault up over one shoulder. "The last lap. Keep your gun in your hand, Freddy. Maybe the mechanics and guards didn't join in the fun."
"We'll find that out!" Freddy panted, and started off with Adolf Hitler's military little Boy-Blue slung over his shoulder.
The quarter of a mile they were forced to travel before they reached the open east end of the small flying field didn't give forth a single Nazi. And fortunately, for them, the noise of the revving engines and the bedlam still in progress at the west end of the field blotted out any sounds they made as they stumbled forward with their heavy burdens. In fact, it was the protection they needed to get them to within twenty yards of the Dornier. When they got that close they saw the lone mechanic standing under the right wing. He stood as though in a trance, his popping eyes fixed on the mounting flames to the west. Dave took one look, then silently deposited von Gault on the ground. He glanced at Freddy, shook his head, and put a finger to his lips.
One shot would take care of that Nazi mechanic, and nobody would have heard it. But Dave couldn't bring himself to do that. The mechanic was unarmed. It would be cold murder, and unnecessary too. And so Dave simply braced himself and then streaked those twenty yards like a cat on velvet. He reached the mechanic, clapped a hand over his mouth, hooked the other arm about his neck, and heaved upward and to the side. The mechanic seemed to do a beautiful swan dive through the flame-tinted air for a moment. Then he fell down on his face, and lay there groaning, and clawing with both hands at his neck.
Dave didn't give him a second look. He knew, from Commando training that it would be minutes before that mechanic would have full use of his body muscles and brain—particularly his brain. He simply sprinted back and hoisted von Gault up again onto his shoulder, and started with him toward the belly door of the Nazi light bomber. In the matter of seconds, the two young Commandos had their prisoners inside the bomber and bound together for "comfort." Then they ran forward to the pilots' compartment. There Dave hesitated, but Freddy shoved him roughly into the pilot's seat.
"You fly, old chap!" Freddy shouted above the sound of the engines. "Never cared much for the heavy stuff, anyway. Get on with it! It's your honor, old thing!"
Dave didn't stop to argue. Besides, he saw grey green clad figures sweeping toward them from the west end of the field. He kicked off the Dornier's wheel brakes and shoved the handle of the double throttle forward. The Daimler-Benz engines roared out their combined song of power and the bomber started forward. It picked up speed at a rapid rate, but its wheels were still clinging to the ground when the on-rushing Nazis veered off to the side and opened up a withering blast of machine gun and rifle fire. A million tiny cracks appeared in the cockpit windshield. And as Dave and Freddy ducked down low they heard the metallic wasps come whining into the cockpit and tear into the partition in back of them. And then, suddenly, the gods of good fortune seem to release the Dornier's wheels. The plane zoomed upward under full throttle, and the flame-spitting machine guns and rifles fell away from the belly of the bomber as it mounted higher and higher into the dawn-filled sky.
"Don't worry, bums!" Dave shouted on impulse. "We're just leaving you for a little while. We'll be back soon. Right! Us, and the whole gang. But you'll like that less!"