Then on impulse he leveled off his climb, and banked around toward the northeast. In that position he could stare down off to his right toward the ring of hills about the secret flying field. But as his breath caught in his throat, he saw neither any ring of hills, nor any secret flying field. The brilliance of the light all around had died down some, but not where the secret flying field had been. The ring of hills was just faintly visible, but from their center, that was like a seething maelstrom of liquid white fire, a great column of flashing and flickering whiteness towered high up into the sky. Not red flame, nor orange flame, or even yellow. All was a sort of silverish white that increased in seething fury and brilliance with every passing second. No hill-ringed flying field any more. Nothing but a boiling volcano of white death.
"Good grief, what a way to die, even for Nazis!" Dawson choked out.
"Blast it, it's awful, horrible!" he heard Freddy Farmer speak from the co-pilot's seat at his side. "Get us away, Dave quickly! I don't even want to look at it. I—I almost feel sorry for those devils down there, even though they were planning to do the same thing to England. Horrible! They were like white water when they hit, Dave. Splashed out in all directions like waves. Saw some of the devils just fall in their tracks. Then everything was covered by the stuff. I couldn't look any more. I can't now. Get us home, Dave. To England. I want to forget this night. To try and make myself believe that it never happened. It's not war. It's—it's—"
Young Farmer let the words trail off, sank back in the seat and closed his eyes. Dawson nodded silently, licked his lips, shuddered a little, and banked the Flying Fortress around on a course toward the English Channel, and Britain beyond.
Dawn's light was chasing up out of the east after them when they reached the English Channel, and Dawson began to let down toward the ground. Over the radio he called Coastal Patrol, identified himself and asked for escort to the nearest field. After all Freddy and he had been through, it would be indeed the irony of fate for a chance Yank or R.A.F. fighter plane to mistake him for a Nazi, and perhaps shoot him down. So he played safe by calling Coastal Command, and a moment later he saw half a dozen Spitfires prop-winding up to meet him.
He turned his head to Freddy Farmer only to see that Freddy was looking at him, and grinning.
"Well, old thing," Freddy said. "That chap who was to go over tonight and pick us up will be glad to see us. He won't have to go, now. But what are we going to say in our reports? Nobody will believe us, I'm sure."
"Probably not," Dawson grinned back. Then, as his grin faded, "But we're going to make a report, and all the credit is going to that lad, Dartmouth, and those four others, too."
"Quite!" young Farmer echoed. "Without his help, we'd—But that's blasted war for you. The chaps that are really responsible for the victories never get back to enjoy them."
"And I'm making a report, plus suggestions, to Bomber Command." Dawson said with a grim nod. "We spoiled that party tonight, but only yesterday I saw them making those fire bomb cylinders in Farbin Factory Number Six. Maybe they figured to pull the stunt a second time. Yeah, I think Bomber Command would be interested to hear about Farbin Factory Number Six, and a couple of other spots around there."