Dave Dawson with the Eighth Air Force

by Robert Sidney Bowen

But by then Freddy Farmer was almost stepping on the toes of the German who had barked the order. He flashed his light straight in the man's eyes, and Dave caught a flash glimpse of small close-set eyes, and lips curled back in an angry grimace. Then Freddy Farmer was barking at the man and pushing him to one side.

"Stop him, you blockhead! That one ahead! Herr Baron's orders! We have followed him all the way. We're Gestapo, under Herr Baron's orders. Get out of the way, you dumb-witted cow. Out of the way, or Herr Baron will hear of this!"

Dawson's brain was spinning with confusion, and he tried to follow Freddy's words. But the only thing that really sank in was the fact that several seconds later Freddy Farmer and he had plowed right through the group in the middle of the road, left them standing there, and were racing along in the half darkness at top speed. With every step he took Dawson expected to hear angry shouts behind, and hear the bark of guns. Nothing happened, though, and presently Freddy and he were running through a narrow passage between two of the hills. And there spread out before them was a sight that caused them both instinctively to slow down to a stop and gape in horrified amazement.

As far as Dawson was concerned, he might have stood rooted in his tracks forever staring at the sight. But suddenly Freddy Farmer grabbed his arm, and pulled him off to the side and behind some heavy shrub growth. Winded, the two youths sank down onto the ground, and for a full minute not a word passed between them. Presently, though, Dave reached over, found Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.

"I won't even say, nice going, pal!" he whispered. "Because I know darn well that it just didn't happen. Holy smoke! Right smack through the bunch, and not one of them so much as opened his mouth to stop you!"

"Credit it to the power of the Gestapo," Freddy murmured. "Plus the fact that a Jerry's mind never moves very fast. I know, though, that I'll go on being scared stiff for the rest of my life. I'll never get over these last few minutes. But, Dave! Look! It is all true. Just as Weiden told us. But—but what can we do, now that we're here?"

Dawson didn't reply to that question. The power of speech failed him as he peered through the shrub branches, and out across the mile square area of billiard table flat ground completely ringed by hills. It was like looking at some weird picture conjured up in the mind of a mad artist. It just wasn't possible to believe, even though he was staring at it with his own eyes. The picture of at least one hundred R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force heavy bombers, complete with insigne and unit markings. But with German uniformed figures swarming all about them. It was so fantastic, so utterly unreal, that Dawson impulsively closed his eyes tight several times, and then opened them quickly, fully expecting the crazy scene to vanish in thin air.

But it did not. It was still there every time he opened his eyes. The planes were arranged in a line that extended halfway around the edge of the field. The first plane in line was poised at the end of a runway that cut straight through the middle of the huge disc-shaped airdrome in an east to west direction. And when he looked toward the west side Dawson saw that the runway pointed straight at a wide opening between two of the ringing hills. In other words, the heavy bombers taking off would not have to gain more than usual take-off altitude in order to clear the ring of hills. That opening was plenty wide enough for them to pass through. Room to spare, in fact. And in a crazy, abstract sort of way Dawson realized that completed planes had passed down through that opening between the hills when the pilots came in for a landing.

"Lancasters, Wellingtons, Flying Fortresses, and even a few Liberators! And with props ticking over, ready for a take-off. Gosh! I wonder how they camouflaged this spot during the day? I don't see any nets, or anything. But they probably used nets, which are now rolled back against the hillsides."

Freddy Farmer's voice was low, and there was a queer note in it that made Dawson turn his head quickly and peer hard at his pal in the pale flickering glow that came from the take-off flares, and, so it seemed, from at least five hundred flashlights that were moving about all over the place. Impulsively Dawson reached out a hand and placed it on Freddy's arm. Freddy was trembling like a leaf, and Dawson didn't have to be any doctor to realize that reaction to all that had happened was setting in in Freddy with a vengeance.