Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"A hundred British and American heavy bombers! Some of them those that were forced down and captured before their crews could destroy them. But most have been remade from salvaged parts. Think of it! For months German factories have been repairing and making parts for British and American planes. Our planes that they will fly against us at dawn. They will not carry high explosive bombs, but a new liquid fire bomb. A bomb that floods liquid fire for hundreds of yards, and destroy everything that it touches. Herr Baron and his men have done their work well—the devils. They have selected our biggest fields in England. R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force fields. They know our identification signals. Heaven help us, they seem to know everything. And tomorrow at dawn they will take off. All the hundred of them. A suicide pilot and suicide crew in each bomber. They will fly to England, and give identification signals as though they really were our own planes returning. Three of them for each of the thirty-three fields selected. They will go in low, as though landing, and then dump their terrible destruction. In the matter of seconds each of the selected air fields will be flooded by the fire. The devils and their planes will perish, too. But our loss will be staggering. It will be months and maybe years before we can replace our losses. Yes, Hitler's secret weapon. A great victory to give his home front. A long, long lull in the bombing of Germany. The Nazis do not fight to win the war now. They fight for time. Time to reorganize, and rearm. If Hitler can stop the bombing of Germany, then three fourths of his Luftwaffe can be sent to the Russian Front where he needs air power so desperately. And by this hideous, devilish blow against us at dawn he can accomplish just that!"

The dying man stopped talking. He fought for breath, and his very eyes seemed to be on fire. Stunned, Dawson gaped at him in utter disbelief. The man was mad, raving mad. What he had told them was fantastic, impossible. It couldn't be true. A hundred American and British heavy bombers salvaged by the Nazis? Repaired and put in condition to fly against England? It was the craziest pipe dream that—But what about Krumpstadt saying that Farbin Factory Number Six was making metal cylinders for British and American planes? And those landing gear parts he had seen with his own eyes? Landing gear parts, being repaired, that he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., or England? Yes! What about his experience in Farbin Factory Number Six?

"It can't be!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice explode beside him. "It's mad—insane! You don't know what you're saying, old chap. Why, they couldn't! They—they wouldn't dare!"

The dying man turned his head and fixed flaming eyes on Freddy's face. His thin, almost bloodless lips drew back over his teeth, and his thin fingers clutching the blanket looked as though they would snap.

"Mad?" the man gasped hoarsely. "Insane? It's true, I tell you! With my dying breath, I swear it is true. Five of us learned the secret, but four died before they could get word to England. Only I was left alive, and I had been arrested. I was to be shot, but I escaped. Ten days ago. I tried to get word through to Major Crandall, to anybody, but only part of my message must have arrived. The address of this place. Mad? Insane? Today I learned that Herr Baron and his agents had returned. They are to celebrate the take-off at dawn. Himmler is expected to be there. Perhaps even Hitler. No word came to me from England. I watched the sky for hours, and prayed for our bombers. But none have come. I went there to that camouflaged field. Mad? Yes, I was mad. I went there to try and defeat them alone. To start a fire. To do anything that would destroy what they have here. But I was discovered. It was that devil, Herr Baron. He was dressed as an American flying officer. His men fired. Hit me. I escaped and came back here. Perhaps it would not be too late. Perhaps there would be some word—some help from England. But they followed me, found me, and—"

The man choked on his own words. Tears streamed down his cheek as he raised one hand and pointed a quivering finger at Dawson and Freddy Farmer. His voice was little more than a dry cackle in his throat.

"Mad, insane? Go there—the Duisburg-Dortmund highway. See for yourselves. Give your lives, but, whatever you do, stop them!"

The last word was almost a dry scream. Then something seemed to let go inside the man. His half raised head fell back. His eyes went glassy, and then blank. His thin lips quivered, and then they were still forever.

"Dear heaven, forgive me!" Freddy Farmer whispered brokenly. "Tell him that I do believe him. That I do!"

"And tell him that we will try, dear heaven!" Dave Dawson breathed as he brushed tears from his smarting eyes. "If his life was worth the try, then our lives are, too!"