That was the one fact, the one great truth. And as Dave shoved open his greenhouse and stuck his head out to look down at the carpet of night shadows that was France, a sharp ache came to his heart, and he unconsciously clenched his free hand into a fist of promised vengeance. It had been a long time since he had flown over France. At least so it seemed, so much had happened since then. Last year? No, that couldn't be. Five years ago at the least. Maybe more. But not just last year. It couldn't have been. Yet it was so.[1]
"Keep your chin up, old girl!" he whispered downward. "Maybe this isn't the beginning. But the day is coming. It's coming just as sure as the rain grows little apples. Britishers, Yanks, Dutch, Belgians, Canadians, Poles, and your own Free French. That's a promise, La Belle France. Thousands and thousands of them, with all the stuff they'll need to cut Hitler down to snake level. Believe me, old girl!"
With a grim nod for emphasis, he pulled his head in and shoved the greenhouse shut. He was flying Number Two on the right in Green Flight, and Green was on the right of the general squadron formation. The Para-troop transports were a thousand feet below, thirty-five of them drilling steadily along into France. At the coast anti-aircraft batteries had opened up with a savage fire and searchlights had crossed and crisscrossed the heavens. But not for very long. A few squadrons of low flying Hurricane bombers had jumped on the guns and lights, and given their operators too much trouble for them to be able to concentrate very closely on the huge aerial cavalcade passing by overhead.
As for Nazi night fighters, there hadn't been the sign of one so far. Perhaps the bombers earlier had chewed up their dromes and parked planes so that there weren't any in condition to take to the air now. Or maybe, the odds being so much against them, the Nazi pilots were simply executing that well known German military maneuver. In short, never fight unless there are three of you to one of your enemy.
"And then again," Dave continued the thought aloud, "maybe they are waiting until we get deeper in, and near our objective. Then they'll swarm up and dive down to try and do their stuff. Yeah! Maybe they know these are Para-troop planes. And what fun it would be to pick off the poor devils floating down by parachute. Just like shooting fish in a barrel!"
Dave's heart skipped a beat as he thought of that possibility. And on impulse he tilted back his head and stared hard at the still overcast sky. Were there Nazi fighters up in that inky sky? Flocks of Hitler's vultures tagging along on silent wings, ready for the moment to scream down and strike? Dave's heart beat a little faster, and the palms of his hands became cold and clammy. He shook himself and returned his gaze to straight ahead.
"Cut it out, kid!" he growled at himself. "Get back on the beam. You've got plenty of other things to worry about, without wondering about Nazi night fighters tagging along upstairs. Just keep your thoughts on what Freddy and you have ahead of you."
As he spoke his pal's name he turned his head and peered at the next plane on his left. He knew it was Freddy's Spitfire, but he could only see it as a darker moving shadow against the general background. A sudden longing to talk and crack wise with Freddy was his. But, of course, he made no move to speak into his flap mike. Squadron Leader Parkinson would do all the talking. Nobody else was to say anything unless addressed by the Squadron Leader. Not that the Nazis below didn't know that enemy planes were up there in the skies. Their ears told them that. Radio silence had been ordered simply to avoid all chance of an unguarded or thoughtlessly spoken word giving Nazi listening stations a clue as to what was actually taking place.
And so Dave killed the urge to talk with Freddy Farmer, and continued to hold his position in the Flight formation, and keep his eyes skinned for the first glimpse of Nazi night fighters that might suddenly come gun yammering down and in among the Para-troop transports. Seconds ticked by, and became minutes, however, without a single German pilot sticking his nose into the business. Then, presently, as Dave glanced at his cowled dash clock, he saw that the two formations were only one minute away from their objective point in the air. By straining his eyes, and peering hard, Dave could just make out the winding grey ribbon that was the Seine River winding past the city of Rouen. The city, itself, was in total blackout, though a light did show here and there. Staring at them, Dave wondered if brave Frenchmen down there were playing their part in this gigantic undertaking, risking the Nazi death decree by showing lights that might guide the United Nations planes in the air. There were many Frenchmen like that. They mounted up into the thousands—far more than the rest of the world realized, let alone heard about. Steel-hearted men, women, and, yes, children, who fought the Nazi beasts twenty-four hours a day without guns, or cannon, or tanks, or airplanes, but with their hands, and feet, and their brains. They were not people living on the brink of death. They lived in the middle of death. Night and day, week after week, month after month, and on and on until death, or victory, ended their misery.
Finally, the last minute was over and a part of time history. Dave glanced down and saw the shadows that were troop transport planes opening up wider formation. He imagined, if he didn't see, the tough, painted-faced Commandos stepping out and going down by parachute. He wondered if they were all Americans in that bunch down there. He hoped so, and told himself that was so. It gave him a thrilling feeling to have helped escort those boys over from England. And what they wouldn't do to the Nazi tramps they met on me ground! There was no fighter on earth like a Yank, once he got started. Not even the Australians could get tougher than Uncle Sam's fighting fools. They—