Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Freddy!" he yelled, and looked wildly about. "Hey! Where are you, Freddy?"

Four walls sent back the echo of his voice, and that was all. There was no other reply to his yell. He noticed what was obviously the bathroom door on the other side of the room, and to the right of the twin beds. In three leaps he crossed the room and yanked the door open. It led to the bathroom right enough, but there was still no Freddy Farmer to be seen.

"What the heck?" he gasped, and his heart started to chill slightly. "Where is the guy, anyway? He couldn't have just disappeared through solid walls. Ah!"

The last slipped off his lips as a blast of cool night air blew against his face, and he saw that the window over the bathtub was open. A split second later he saw the prints of more than one pair of feet on the edge of the bathtub. One look and he was up on the edge of the bathtub himself, and sticking his head and shoulder out the window. For a moment he couldn't see a thing because of the darkness of night. Even the light that poured through into the bathroom from the bedroom, and out the opened window, didn't reveal anything in those first few seconds.

Then as his eyes quickly adjusted themselves he saw that there was a flat roof some four feet below the level of his eyes. It was really the main roof of the building; the apartment he was in being the English conception of a penthouse. To the right and left were the motionless darker shadows of chimneys and building ventilation vents. He opened his mouth to call out Freddy's name when suddenly off to his right came the scuffing of feet on the gravel-topped roof, and then the clear bark of a gun and a sharp cry of anger or pain.

The bark of the gun was still ringing in Dawson's ears as he went head first through the opened window and landed heavily on all fours on the gravel roof. He paused a second to get his breath; then, with Hans' Luger clutched in his hand, he went sneaking silently forward toward the spot whence had come the scuffing of feet, the sharp cry, and the shot. He bumped into a vent pipe that he didn't see in the darkness, and almost went to his knees. As he fought to maintain his balance he plainly heard running feet a short distance off to his right. He jerked his head around in time to see a running shadow etched against the London sky. He whirled and brought up his gun.

"Hold it!" he rasped out. "Hold it, and get your hands up!"

The running shadow ducked down, and in practically the same instant the night stabbed red flame, and a wasp of death whined by Dawson's face almost before he heard the crack of the shot. He ducked instinctively, and lost the running shadow before he could return the fire.

"Keep low, Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice to his left. "Two of the beggars, and they are both armed. Keep low and watch the fire escape on the rear side. Only way they can get off—"

If Freddy Farmer said any more Dawson didn't hear it. He was in the act of turning and moving toward the rear of the building roof when something moved in front of him, and a thunderbolt slashed down out of nowhere to hit him on the head. As his knees turned to rubber, and buckled, he flung out his arms in a desperate effort to grab hold of something that would help him remain on his feet. But there was nothing but thin air there to grab hold of, and he fell headlong on the roof. Whether he was hit by another thunderbolt, or it was just hitting the gravel-topped roof, he didn't know, but in the next second he had lost consciousness of everything. Everything, save that he was spilling down into a huge bottomless hole that was filled with pitch darkness and utter silence. And then even that was no more.