Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

by Robert Sidney Bowen

Night had come again to the German city of Duisburg. As yet the air raid sirens had not given their terrifying warning that the R.A.F. was on the prowl once more, but the streets of the city were practically deserted. Many of the inhabitants had gone underground to spend the night there whether there were bombs dropped on Duisburg or not. Only a scattering of soldiers and patrolling guards were to be seen on the streets. One of them, though, was an officer. An officer of the Nazi Luftwaffe, as a matter of fact. At least he was dressed that way, and being a Luftwaffe officer none of the patrols stopped him for questioning. Or if they did they instantly saw his rank, his decorations, and gave him a snappy salute, and a loud "Heil Hitler!" in the very next breath.

All afternoon, and during the early evening, that "Luftwaffe" officer had strolled about the Kholerstrasse section. Every now and then he had stepped into a restaurant for a bit of food. And in Duisburg a bit of food was just about all that one could get at a sitting. Whether private soldier, or field marshal, it didn't matter. There just wasn't enough. But after going into several spots Dawson was able to get filled up. Getting filled up, however, was not the entire reason for his many visits to Duisburg restaurants and food shops. Into each one he walked with the burning hope that he might see Freddy Farmer trying to fill that perpetually hollow leg of his. But it was all in vain. There was no sign at all of Freddy Farmer. His English-born flying mate and dearest pal had simply vanished from the face of the earth. Or rather, vanished from the face of a dawn sky where Dawson had last seen him alive.

And now with the darkness of night closed down over Duisburg, he was standing in what was left of the doorway of a bombed out house directly across Kholerstrasse from Number One Fifty-Six. Several times during the afternoon and evening he had passed by Number Sixteen in the faint hope that he might be able to see or hear something that would help him in deciding his next move. Once again, though, his hopes were in vain. From the outside Number Sixteen looked as though it hadn't been occupied since the start of the war. All of the window shades were drawn down, and half of the window shutters had been closed and bolted. The front door, which contained no window, was closed and locked. And not once had Dawson seen a single person go up or down the short flight of stone steps. If Number Sixteen was Intelligence headquarters in Duisburg, one certainly would not guess it from the looks of the outside of the building.

Eventually convinced that he would gain nothing by parading past Number Sixteen, and having finally given up hope of spotting Freddy Farmer in any of the Kholerstrasse section eating places, Dawson had fallen back on his final and last hope. If this hope proved to be false and no good, then he was at the end of his rope. His mission to Germany would end in failure right there on the streets of Duisburg.

And so he was playing his final card. From a good vantage point he was carefully studying the building that was Number One Fifty-Six Kohlerstrasse. The address of Major Crandall's agent, who was believed to reside there under the name of Heinrich Weiden. But did he? That question taunted Dawson as he surveyed the place, and half a hundred times he was tempted to go boldly over there, bang on the door of Number One Fifty-Six and demand of whoever answered that he be shown to Herr Heinrich Weiden's rooms at once. A tiny voice of caution warned against that move. For one thing, after two solid hours of watching the place, he had not seen anybody go in or come out. There wasn't so much as a single crack, of light showing, but of course that was probably due to the strict enforcement of the blackout regulations.

In other words, Number One Fifty-Six was pretty much like Number Sixteen. No sign whatsoever that anybody occupied the place. Just the same, Dawson made no move to go over and find out for himself. He told himself that such a thing was silly. That he could probably wait all night, and not see a single thing of interest. And yet there was something that made him determined not to leave his place of concealment. Silly? Perhaps. But how was he to know if real Gestapo agents weren't watching the place? Ten days ago Heinrich Weiden had sent word through to Major Crandall that his old address was not good, and that he should be contacted at a new one. Ten days ago, but what had happened since?

As a matter of fact, it was a mounting conviction that he was not the only one who was hiding in the darkness and watching Number One Fifty-Six that caused him to stay where he was. No proof. Nothing tangible. It was just that a few times he would have sworn that he saw shadowy movement across the street. Maybe it had been his imagination, the strain on his eyes. But maybe not. It was almost as though he could actually feel somebody over there on the opposite side of the street. And so he remained hidden and watching as another hour dragged itself off into the eternity of forgotten time.

But by the end of that hour he had reached the limit of his endurance. Gestapo agents or no Gestapo agents, he just had to go over there across the street and find out for sure if Number One Fifty-Six was occupied or not. If it wasn't occupied, then—

He gave a little shake of his head in the darkness and wouldn't let himself complete the rest of the sentence.

"It's my only hope!" he whispered fiercely to himself. "As things are now, I'm right up against a brick wall. Weiden's got to be living there, and I've got to contact him. He's the only one who can possibly help me now. Come on, Lady Luck, give us another little break, please."