Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Good gosh, Dave!" Freddy's broken whisper came out of the darkness. "Why, I—I—"

Young Farmer's voice faltered and stopped. And not for all the money in the world could Dawson have spoken a single word at that moment. The two of them just grabbed each other there by the bushes, and simply hung on, as words utterly failed them. But presently Freddy Farmer dragged Dawson around in back of the bushes, and down close behind them.

"It's true, Dave, it really is?" he whispered. "I thought you were dead, old thing. Thought the Jerries had got you. Dave, this has been the worse day of my whole life. It really has. I mean it!"

"And my worst day, too, kid!" Dawson breathed, as he kept squeezing Freddy's arm to reassure himself again that it was true, that Freddy wasn't dead but very much alive. "But what do you mean, you thought the Jerries got me? I thought they got you, Freddy. I saw a Mustang catch it square and blow up. I was sure it was you. And I didn't see another single parachute in the air. I—Gosh, Freddy! You just can't imagine what this moment means to me."

"Oh yes, I can, because I feel the same way, old chap," the English youth said in a choked up voice as he lightly brushed the knuckles of one fist across the point of Dawson's chin. "But about that business this morning. Just as I was getting set to jump, two or three of the Focke-Wulf beggars came in at me, and I had my hands full for a few moments. I managed to get one of them, and broke off action with the other two. I looked around for you, but there was nothing but burning planes in the air, and flak bursts. I thought then that you had caught one, Dave. I jumped anyway, but didn't judge the wind right at all. Perhaps I should have practiced a couple of times, eh?"

"Then you didn't come down close to that factory we had picked?" Dawson asked.

"Close?" Freddy whispered in self-scorn. "I didn't come within miles of it. Landed right in the middle of a little lake, no less. Imagine it! I ditched my parachute and swam ashore right head on into some German troops from a nearby camp. They had a car and their officer insisted on my going along with him. What else could I do? If I had refused to let them assist me in my drenched condition, they would have become suspicious. After all, a Luftwaffe officer doesn't go wandering about town soaked to the skin. So I went with them, and it wasn't until a few hours ago I got them to drive me into town. I pleaded that I was meeting my Kommandant at a certain place. Lord! I thought I'd never get away from those blighters. Their blasted guest most of the day, and all the time me going near balmy wondering what had happened to you. Can you imagine such a silly business, Dave? But when I did manage to get rid of them, I came down here hoping that I might at least contact Major Crandall's man. That was the only thing I could do, having lost complete touch with you. I—But here! What about yourself, Dave?"

"A full day, too, and just about as non-productive as yours, Freddy," Dawson said. And then he gave his pal a brief report of his own movements and experiences. "And so there was only one thing left for me to do," he finished up. "Try to contact Weiden to see if he knew anything of what's going on. My gosh! To think that we've both been watching this place for hours, and each of us thinking that the other had caught his this morning."

"And very unpleasant to think about, too," Freddy murmured. "But we've had some luck, Dave. At least we've joined up together. And that is a lot. But that Farbin factory business is certainly devilish queer, Dave. It just doesn't make sense, I mean."

"You're telling me?" Dawson groaned softly. Then turning his head and staring at the night-darkened front of Number One Fifty-Six, he murmured, "And if we can't contact Weiden, or if he can't give us any more of the picture, if there is a picture, then we will be sunk. The only thing we can do then is lie low until tomorrow night, and then make our way to where the British Recco plane is to land early the next dawn, and go back to England a couple of chumps. Particularly me, because I was the one with the bright idea that we come on this wild goose chase in the first place. Boy! Will I feel a fool when I tell Colonel Fraser that I didn't even get to first base. He thought the idea was cracked and impossible right at the beginning. Wind-Bag Dawson, that's me. The guy with the bright ideas—I don't think!"