But it would be "spot" parachute jumping, and no question about that. Before hitting the silk they would have not only to locate their "objective" but to gauge the wind direction, and speed, and then bail out so that drift would not take them beyond their target, or cause them to drop far short. They had come right down practically on it. At least well within the double ring of guards posted about the place.
"And it's going to take some doing, too!" Dawson breathed, as he thought of the job ahead. "Some doing, and I don't mean perhaps. But that will be only the beginning. Jeepers—!"
He let his voice trail off, and gave a little half worried shake of his head.
"Was I a dope to think that maybe Freddy and I could pull this thing off?" he grunted a minute or two later. "It looked like a swell idea back there in England, but how does it look now? Don't ask, my friend, don't ask!"
With another shake of his head he shrugged off the bothersome thoughts and gave all of his attention to his flying. His watch told him that actually dawn wasn't very far off. And he felt pretty sure that if he were suddenly to fly out of this ocean of clouds into clear air he would be able to see the first faint thread of light on the eastern horizon. But it seemed as though he would never come out of the clouds. That he had been flying through them on instruments for all his life, and that he would go on that way forever.
"Of course it's nice to have this cloud protection against Nazi ground gunners," he told himself, and laughed a little nervously. "But there are a lot of us up here, and not a sky traffic cop in sight. Wouldn't it be sweet if I should suddenly tangle wings with some guy in this muck, and have to hit the silk? Or Freddy! That—Oh, cut it, Dawson! Don't be a jumpy old woman all the time, for cats' sake. After all, you've—"
But Dawson never finished the rest, for at that moment the clouds over Occupied Europe suddenly came to an abrupt end. He streaked out into clear night air, and as he had expected the new day was beginning to dawn far, far to the east. After making sure that he wasn't crowding the tail of the next ship in front of him, he twisted around in the pit, and stared back. Instantly a happy grin curled his lips, and a thin layer of ice slid off his heart and melted away. There to his right rear was the shadowy shape of Freddy Farmer's Mustang cutting along right with him as though the two planes were tied together.
"And me stupid enough to worry about Freddy, the hottest pilot ever to take off any field!" he chuckled. "Boy, would he ride me if I ever let him know about it. Okay, Freddy boy, so far so good!"
Well, maybe it was so far so good, up to that moment. A moment later, though, it seemed as though all the flak guns the Nazis possessed started to hurl up everything, including the kitchen stove. Dawson's formation was riding high ceiling cover, and as he peered down at the bomber formations a good five thousand feet below him the bursts of red, orange, and yellow flak fire gave him the impression of a huge fire-works factory exploding.
"Hitler's welcome!" Dave murmured. "Only I don't mean he's glad to see us. He'll be even less glad when—"