Freddy Farmer's anxious words snapped Dave out of his bitter reverie. He stopped looking at the Messerschmitts and met his pal's gaze.
"Just learning how a guy can get to hate himself," he said evenly. "But skip it. I don't want to talk about it. Freddy?"
"Yes, Dave?"
The Yank-born air ace hesitated and stared for a moment over toward the other side of the field.
"When a fellow can't figure out a plan," he presently said slowly, "the only thing to do is to wade in swinging with both hands, and hope that some kind of a plan will pop up. You agree with that?"
"Quite," the English youth said evenly. "Fact is, I was just going to say that I think it's a bit too late, now, to bother about thinking up a plan. I think we should simply go on over there, and—well, trust to luck, I guess, that we'll meet up with a bit of luck. Maybe it's silly, and stupid, and—"
Freddy paused and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"It is all of that," Dave said, and absently wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "But that's how it is. Me, I'm sick of playing Indians and cowboys, crawling around in the dark, and getting no place. I'm for barging right into the business. And if we get caught on the wrong end of a gun, then—then that'll be that."
"Let's stroll around the west side of the field," Freddy said, and started to get up onto his feet. "A chance those guards by the planes might get a bit curious, you know. I've noticed that none of the others have gone near them."
"Strictly for Staff use, is my guess," Dave grunted as he got up too. "Just in case something pops around here, von Staube and von Gault are making sure they'll get out fast. Makes Nazi generals sore as the dickens to get killed, you know. Can't strut any more, or order women and children hostages shot, or have any kind of fun. They—Jeepers! Holy smokes! That's an idea!"