[CHAPTER SIXTEEN]
We Who Must Die
As Dawson pushed slowly up onto his feet, with his eyes still fixed upon the face of the dead man, he felt as though a great weight were pressing down on his heart. Memory of the words that the Yank Intelligence agent had spoken whirled and spun around in his brain until it seemed as though he would never be able to think straight again. The torch had been flung down to him, and to Freddy Farmer, from the hands of a dying man. Lips that were actually stiffening in death had begged them to give their lives that hundreds of others might be spared, and the world be made a little bit better place in which to live. But how could Freddy and he accomplish the impossible? How? Where would they begin? How could they possibly—He cut short his spinning thoughts as he felt Freddy's hand gripping his arm, and heard his pal's voice.
"There's precious little, if any, time to lose, Dave, old thing," Freddy spoke in a tight, emotion-filled voice. "The least we can do is try—as he did, poor devil."
"Try?" Dawson echoed with a little harsh laugh. "Try what? Try—Hey, Freddy! You mean—?"
"Quite," young Farmer said, and began peeling off the Luftwaffe uniform he wore. "Those two Gestapo rats, there. We'll borrow their uniforms, and their car outside, and go find that ring of hills, and its camouflaged field. The Duisburg-Dortmund highway is not far from here."
"And when we reach the field?" Dawson said, as he stripped off his own Luftwaffe jacket. "Then what? Most likely the guards are five deep around the place!"
"No doubt!" Freddy Farmer said grimly, and for an instant let his gaze rest on the dead man. "But even if the whole blasted Nazi army is there, we've got to try to get in there somehow. Perhaps these uniforms will help us get by the guards. I hope so. But look, Dave, if you don't—"
"Who says I don't?" Dawson interrupted angrily. "I was only wondering if you had some kind of a plan."
"None at all," young Farmer replied. "Have you?"