Dave Dawson with the Commandos

by Robert Sidney Bowen

For some crazy reason the first thing that came to Dave's brain as he was ushered into a fairly big room was the quite unimportant realization that Freddy and he had actually been edging toward the wrong side of the building when they had bumped into that Nazi Major. They would undoubtedly have gained nothing had they been able to peek through the windows on that side.

That thought came and went, and then he was taking notice of other things that really were important. The room was exactly like other Nazi military Headquarters he had seen during his war career. Maps covered with little colored flags. A bank of field phones. Shortwave radio sets. Memos, dispatches, letters and any number of other kinds of military papers scattered all over the place. But the main attraction, of course, was the huge double desk at which sat the two Nazi high rankers who had been personally responsible for ninety per cent of Adolf Hitler's blood triumphs to date.

On one side was Field Marshal von Staube, lumpy, beefy, with a sweating red face, bald head, and neck the thickness of a telephone pole. And on the other side sat Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault, looking like a half starved vulture about to strike. His cruel, hawkish face was absolutely blood chilling to behold, and it was all Dave could do to suppress the shudder that started through him. The Number One and Number Two killers of the Third Reich. Adolf Hitler's two butchers. Himmler, of the infamous Gestapo, acted like a sweet little old lady when his acts were compared with the killing and plunder performed under the command of these two.

Dave looked at them, and his hand twitched as he had the sudden desire to go for the small but deadly automatic he carried in his tunic pocket. Neither Freddy nor he wanted to end it that way. But they would be true to their mutual vow. Though it cost them all the torture the Nazis could inflict upon them, today would be the last day of war for Field Marshal von Staube and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault. These two would never—

"Well, have you lost your tongues? What are you here for? Where is your Major von Kummil? Speak up! Can you two young fools not see that I am busy?"

It was von Staube who spoke the words. Yet that is not quite right. He did not exactly speak them. His voice sounded more like an express train going through a tunnel. Dave stepped quickly forward, saluted with one hand, and held out the sealed envelope with the other.

"Herr Major von Kummil was recalled, Herr Field Marshal," he said. "We were intrusted to deliver this to you."

The German high ranker growled in his throat, snatched the envelope from Dave's hand, stabbed a thick finger under the flap opening and ripped viciously. He took out a fold of papers inside, glanced through them quickly, and then hurled the lot down on the desk.

"Fools!" he thundered. "Swine stupid fools! To tell me this by courier, when it could have been spoken over the telephone an hour ago! What do I care about the condition of your reserves? Should I tell the enemy to wait until we are ready to give them battle? Should I sit here and wait until arms and battle equipment have been issued to every German soldier. Mein Herr! What am I commanding? German armies or packs of fools?"

The German bellowed the questions straight at Dave, and pounded his fat fists on the desk. Beads of sweat flew from his face, and his color mounted to where it seemed impossible that he wouldn't explode in small pieces in the next instant. Dave tried to think of something to say, but the German seemed not to want answers to his questions. He probably didn't even realize that he was looking straight at Dave. He was too busy with thoughts about something, some part of his plans, that had gone higher than a kite.