By then Dave had snapped out of his trance. He flung himself forward and down. But he was simply in the way. Commando Freddy Farmer knew his stuff, and there, stretched out on the dirt road, was positive proof. There was now one less German soldier to shoot a gun at Adolf Hitler's bidding.
"Done for, Dave!" came Freddy's whisper. "Got him with his own knife, too. Horrible business, but couldn't be helped. Lend me a hand. We'd better drag him off the road, you know. Might be some more of the beggars come along. And it would be embarrassing."
Admiration and pride rose up to choke in Dave's throat as he bent down and caught hold of the dead German's feet. What a man was Freddy Farmer! A whole doggone army in himself. If it hadn't been for Freddy's lightning action, they both would have been full of German bullets right now. Prisoners, at least. But while he had stood frozen and helpless as an old woman, Freddy Farmer had whirled into action. How many times did this make that Freddy had saved their lives? One hundred? Or was it two hundred? Probably two hundred.
Together they carried the dead German back into the darker shadows of the church rubble, and dumped him down on the ground. Then, by silent mutual agreement, they crouched down beside each other, Dave to try and get his brain working again, and Freddy to get back some of his strength and wind.
"Remind me, Freddy," Dave said, and squeezed his pal's arm. "Remind me to love you for life and six days afterward. That topped anything I ever saw, pal. Thanks a million for keeping your head screwed on tight. Mine went completely haywire. Gosh! That was wonderful. Honest, Freddy!"
"Had to be done," the English youth murmured. "After all, you'd got a blighter earlier. Next turn was mine, so I took it."
"And how you did, thank God!" Dave said fervently. "I still can't realize that I'm not full of slugs, or that a flock of Nazis aren't on our necks."
"Well, forget about it," Freddy murmured. "Both alive, and that's all that counts. Point is, what the dickens do we do now? I've got a horrible feeling, Dave."
"I've had it for several minutes," Dave groaned. "Something went wrong with this Jones fellow. I have a feeling he's not going to show up."
"Man, will that make a mess!" the English youth muttered. "But perhaps if we wait a bit, and—I say, Dave? What's the matter?"