DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE
EIGHTH AIR FORCE

by
R. SIDNEY BOWEN

The War Adventure Series

CROWN PUBLISHERS
New York

COPYRIGHT, 1944, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Dedicated to
Joel Stivers

CONTENTS

DAVE DAWSON WITH THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE

[CHAPTER ONE]
Junk Wings

With one eye on the instrument board, and the other on the lookout for other planes in that area of cloud-filled sky over England, Dave Dawson hauled the Lockheed Lightning around to the left at a fast clip, and then deliberately pulled the nose straight up, and let the fighter plane take the bit in its teeth until it stalled. It did just that eventually, and at practically the same time the starboard Allison engine sputtered badly and started to throw black smoke.

"What gives with this heap of junk, anyway?" Dawson grunted, and eased off the throttles as the Lightning fell off the stall and went whanging down in a dive to pick up flying speed. "Talk about your cranky crates! This baby is certainly something. Or maybe it's me. Let's try it again and see."

Once more he hauled the ship to the left, and then pointed the nose toward Heaven. The fighter aircraft power climbed to the stalling point, and then the starboard engine repeated its little performance. It sputtered and started to throw smoke. And just to make it unanimous, the port engine started doing the same thing.

"Well, that's that!" Dawson said with a nod for emphasis, and eased back the throttles again. "Maybe this is a very fine airplane, but I sure don't want any part of it. No, not even for a joy hop."

And with another nod for emphasis he slanted the plane earthward, after he had pulled it out of its stall drive, and went coasting down through the drifting patches of cloud toward the home drome of the Two Hundred and Fifth Squadron, Fighter Command, U. S. Eighth Air Force. He got Operations on his R.T., received permission to land, and went sliding in. After he had braked to a stop he trundled the plane over to its dispersal bay. His mechanics were there waiting for him, and the technical sergeant in charge of the group gave him a questioning look as he killed both engines and legged out of the pit and down onto the ground.

"Is there a foundry near here, Sergeant?" Dawson asked as he pulled off his helmet and goggles.

"A what, Captain?" the other echoed.

"A foundry," Dawson repeated, and jerked a thumb back at the plane. "We could take it down there and have a brass handle fitted on so we'd have something to hold on to when we throw it away."

The technical sergeant blinked and then grinned.

"Not so hot, eh, sir?" he said.

"Very snafu!" Dawson said with emphasis, using the Air Forces slang for snarled up. "And you've got me as to what's wrong. Both engines practically cut out on me as I reach the stall after a power zoom. Pressure just falls right downhill. There's a bug in both systems somewhere."

"I know, sir," the technical sergeant said, and shook his head sadly. "The darn thing just hasn't been right since we got it. I thought maybe we had got it licked, but I guess not, if she does that. Looks like she's got to have two new engines."

"More than that, I'm afraid," Dave said. "She's tail heavy, and she insists on scooting around to the left on her own. She needs a complete re-rigging from tip to tip."

The technical sergeant groaned and heaved a long sigh.

"I guess she's just an out and out lame duck," he said as he gave the aircraft a reproachful look. "We've put in more time on her than all the other ships put together. Just a dud, that's all. One of those misfits that come along every so often. Okay. Thanks, Captain, for testing her out. But until we get a replacement plane, sir, I'm afraid you won't have anything to fly. We haven't got a single spare at the field."

"Well, that's war for you," Dawson said with a faint grin. "But not a very good beginning for me. I've been with Two Hundred and Five for just three days, and now I haven't got anything to fly. Maybe I'm my own jinx."

The technical sergeant looked at the decoration ribbons under Dawson's pilot's wings, and chuckled softly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Captain," he said. "Those ribbons sort of indicate you've done more than your share."

"Wrong, Sergeant," Dawson said grimly, and stared at the cloud-filled skies to the east. "Nobody can do more than his share in this mess. It's—Oh well, let's skip it. Sorry I couldn't tell you that she's a honey, Sergeant. But she isn't. She's got the misery in lots of places."

With a nod and a smile the Yank air ace turned and started walking over toward pilots' mess. His throat was dry, and he wanted a coke. After he'd had one he'd go to see Major Starke, the C.O., about getting a replacement plane. He was about halfway there when suddenly he became conscious of the fact that everybody about the field was staring at a lone Lightning circling about three or four hundred feet overhead. He took a look himself, and instantly felt very sorry for the pilot in that plane. Two of his wheels were down, but the other was still up in its recess. It was the starboard nacelle wheel that was obviously stuck, and as the plane circled slowly about Dave could see the pilot struggling desperately to get his third wheel down. But he wasn't even beginning to meet with any success. His starboard nacelle wheel was up in its recess to stay.

"Now there's a sweet thing!" he heard a voice in back of him say. "He can't get his third wheel down, and he can't get the other two back up so he can come in on his belly. Tough luck for the guy."

Dawson turned to see one of the ground officers from Operations standing just behind him. The man was staring at the plane, and absently speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Who is it up there?" Dave asked.

"A captain by the name of Farmer," the other said without taking his eyes off the circling plane. "He just joined us a couple of days ago. A heck of a thing for him to bump into on his first test hop, I'll say."

"Farmer?" Dawson gasped after a moment of stunned silence. "Freddy Farmer! Boy, are the two of us running in luck, I don't think. Me with a lame duck, and Freddy with a jammed landing gear!"

"You know him?" the other officer grunted. Then, as he looked at Dave, "Oh, you're Dawson, his pal, aren't you? Well, cross your fingers, Dawson. Just now as I left Operations he was pleading with the Old Man to let him come in on two wheels. But those things come in very hot, and the Old Man wants him to fly off and hit the silk. Only a screwball would—"

But Dawson didn't wait to hear the rest of the officer's opinion. He spun around and went legging it over to the Operations Office. The door was open and he heard Major Starke talking over the R.T. to Freddy Farmer in the air.

"I know, Farmer," the C.O. was saying. "You might get away with it, but it's too risky. Pilots are more valuable than planes to me. So long as you save your neck, writing off that plane doesn't matter so much. Head east and get some altitude; then cut your switches and go over the side, Farmer. I'll send a jeep out to look for you, and pick you up."

"But I've got half an hour of gas left, sir!" came Freddy's voice through the panel speaker unit. "Give me fifteen more minutes, sir. Maybe by then I can get the blasted wheels up, and come in on my belly. She's really a pukka ship, save for the blasted landing gear, sir. I don't want to have to hit the deck and burn up for a total loss if I can possibly help it. Just fifteen minutes more, sir?"

Dawson saw the squadron C.O. scowl, bite his lower lip, and then shrug.

"All right, Farmer, if you insist," he spoke into the R.T. "Do what you can, but only for fifteen minutes. We can always get another Lightning. But an experienced combat pilot is something else again. Fifteen minutes, Farmer. And I'm looking at my watch."

"Right you are, sir!" came Freddy Farmer's cheerful voice. "I'll see if I can't do something with this cranky blighter."

"For only fifteen minutes!" the C.O. had the last word. "And I mean just that!"

It seemed that Freddy Farmer was content to let his commanding officer have the last word. At least the English-born air ace made no further comment. Dawson waited for a couple of seconds, and then stepped back from the Operations Office door, and fixed his gaze once more on the plane that was circling the field at cruising speed.

"Don't be a dope, pal!" he breathed softly. "The Old Man wasn't trying to kid you. Pilots are worth more than planes. And though you wouldn't catch me telling it to your face, sweetheart, you're worth more than all the Lockheed Lightnings they ever made. So don't be a dope, little man. But definitely, don't be a dope!"

Seconds ticked by and became minutes, and the minutes increased in number, but still two of the Lightning's wheels stayed put in their down position, while the third continued to stick fast in its recess. As the end of the fifteen minute period drew near, young Farmer took his plane up for a little more altitude, and began kicking it about the sky, no doubt in a last desperate effort to shake loose whatever was jamming the stuck wheel and get it down into landing position.

"No soap, Freddy!" Dawson grunted, and gave an unconscious shake of his head. "That crate just doesn't like you, or something. It's stuck, and—"

At that instant he cut himself off short as he heard the C.O. call Farmer on the R.T.

"Time's up, Farmer! Too bad, but I guess there isn't anything you can do. Get altitude to the east of the field, head the plane toward the Channel, and bail out."

"Yes, sir, very good, sir," Dawson heard Farmer's slightly choked reply. "I guess the blasted thing still—Wait a minute, sir! The retractable gear is working. I can get the two wheels up. Can you see me, sir? They're up, and they're staying up. I can come in on my belly now, sir!"

It was true. Whatever had jammed the two down wheels was no longer jamming them. They were up in their recesses, and staying put. Dawson caught a movement at his elbow and turned his head to see Major Starke dash out of the Operations Office. The C.O. looked up at the plane, and seemed to sigh heavily.

"Certainly hates to lose an airplane, bless him!" he grunted. And then he spun on one foot and dashed back into Operations to speak over the R.T. "Okay, Farmer, have it your way!" he called out. "Come in on your belly, but come in on the north side of the field. It's softer there. Keep clear of the runway, by all means. The metal skin of your ship might strike sparks and touch off your gas. Come in easy, and—But I don't need to tell you how to do it. Good luck, Farmer."

"Thanks, sir," Freddy called from the air as he circled his plane around and into position for his landing run. "Be down there right away, sir."

"Save your breath, Freddy, and pay attention to your flying!" Dave Dawson breathed fiercely as he walked toward the north side of the field. "Just cut the chatter and get that thing down, boy!"

As the crash and fire truck went streaking by him he swallowed hard and unconsciously clenched both hands tight. It wasn't that he was really afraid that Freddy Farmer wouldn't make it. He'd seen his English-born pal in too many tight spots, and seen him get out of them slick as a whistle. And of course the crash and fire truck was simply routine precaution. Just in case, so to speak. Still, as he hurried his steps and watched Freddy come sliding down, a clammy chill seemed to take hold of his heart, and his mouth and throat went strangely dry.

Was their assignment to the Fighter Command of the Eighth Air Force a jinx move? Two weeks ago they had completed a very important mission in North Africa, and they had put in the request for assignment to the Eighth Air Force based in England. True, it had been mostly Freddy Farmer's doing. Dawson hadn't cared much where he was sent just so long as he could keep swinging at either the Japs or the Nazis. But Freddy longed for a look at his native country again, and so Dawson had agreed that that was okay by him.

But then trouble seemed to begin to dog them. For four days the worst spell of weather ever to hit Casablanca kept their Air Forces transport plane grounded. They had finally taken off on the fifth day, only to have engine trouble force the pilot of the transport to turn back when he was only two hundred miles out. It took thirty-six hours to fix the plane. Then they had taken off again and finally reached England in a pea soup fog that was forcing even the birds to walk. Luck, plus sweet beam and instrument flying by the pilot, saved them from hitting the deck and being washed out of the world and the war right then and there.

That had been four days ago. The next day they arrived at Two Hundred and Five and were given the only two replacement planes the Squadron had. And both had to be fussed with considerably before they could be taken aloft for test flight. Dawson's had turned out to be a complete lame duck. And now Freddy Farmer was bringing the other one in on its belly.

"It must be old age creeping up that lets the jitters get me!" Dawson muttered as he finally came to a halt close to where he judged Freddy's plane would touch the ground. "I'm acting like an old woman over a simple wheels up landing. Easy does it, Freddy, boy. Slide her in sweet and smooth. You can do it, kid, and—"

He let the rest trail off into silence. Farmer was close to the ground now, and coming in as slowly as he dared. Without realizing it Dawson took a deep breath and held it locked in his lungs as there ceased to be air space between the belly of Freddy Farmer's Lockheed Lightning and the ground. The Lockheed touched with a sound like that of a giant slapping the palm of his huge hand on a tin roof. And then it went rocketing forward, sending up a shower of dirt and dust that almost completely hid the plane from view. Then suddenly the left wing seemed to strike something and snag. The Lockheed flat-spun violently on the ground, crabbed off to the right, and seemed about to buckle and pile up in a heap of twisted metal. But at the last split second it managed to shake itself free, and slide forward another few feet, and come to a dead stop.

By then the crash and fire truck was right along side of the plane, and Dawson and several others, including Major Starke, were legging out there as fast as they could go. A panting gasp of relief burst from Dawson's lips as he saw Freddy push up out of the nacelle pit and climb down onto the wing, and jump to the ground. That was proof enough that Freddy hadn't been hurt, and Dawson ran the few remaining yards with a stinging sensation at the backs of his eyeballs. But when he finally reached young Farmer, the question popped from his lips just the same.

"You all right, Freddy?"

Farmer turned to him, gave a wry smile, and nodded.

"Quite," he said. "But I certainly made a blasted mess of it, didn't I? Something caught the left wing, and I couldn't do a thing. Maybe I should go back to training school. I was certain I could get her down all right, blast it!"

"Not your fault, Farmer," Major Starke said as he came up. "There was a little hump in the ground that tripped your wing tip. Hit it once myself and it practically bounced me off for a take-up. No, not your fault, Farmer. Thank God you were able to hold her from cartwheeling and catching fire."

"But look at her, sir!" Freddy cried, almost with tears in his voice. "She's twisted bad. She'll have to go to the repair depot for quite a spell before she'll fly again."

"And that'll be all right, too," the C.O. said grimly. Then, suddenly turning to Dawson, he asked, "What about your plane?"

"No good, sir," Dave replied. "Both engines have a lot of bugs, and the rest is not much better."

"That's what I was afraid of," the C.O. said with a frown. "I had a hunch that both were junk ships. Well, we'll send both of them back. And you and Farmer can go down to Replacement Depot at Kingston, and each get yourself a new plane."

"Kingston, sir?" Freddy Farmer echoed excitedly. "You mean down beyond London, sir?"

The C.O. looked at him, grinned, and nodded.

"That's right, Farmer," he said. "You'll pass through London on the way down there. And if you'd like to stop off for say twenty-four hours, that will be all right with me. Things are a bit quiet, and I expect you both could do with a look at London."

"Could we!" Freddy Farmer exclaimed, and grinned happily at Dawson.

Dave sighed and shrugged.

"Okay," he said. "But look, I know the whole history of your wonderful little village by heart. You've talked of it enough. So just take your look, and save the comments, huh?"

"Such tastes some people have!" Freddy growled, but his eyes were still dancing.

[CHAPTER TWO]
Blitz Scars

His face all alight with the joy and happiness of a little boy seeing his first Christmas tree, Freddy Farmer took in every detail of the Savoy Hotel dining room. Every now and then he took a mouthful of the food the waiter had set in front of him, but mostly he let his eyes roam all over the huge room. He grinned at everyone who happened to look his way, whether he was a general or a civilian office clerk. In short, Freddy Farmer's heart was bubbling over, and he didn't care who knew it.

"Well, have you finally decided?" Dave Dawson presently asked him. "Or are you simply giving your neck muscles a workout?"

"Eh, what's that?" the English youth echoed, turning his head to look at him. "Have I finally decided what?"

Dawson waved a hand at the room at large.

"If you've ever been in this place before," he said. "Because you have, in case you've forgotten, or can't make up your mind. Remember? And I've got a hunch that we were sitting right at this same table, too. Remember?"

Young Farmer frowned, and took a moment out to collect his thoughts. Then suddenly his face lighted up.

"Why, yes, of course!" he exclaimed. "The night we met Soo Wong Kai, the Chinese Minister of War. That meeting certainly resulted in something, didn't it!"[1]

"Yeah, and how!" Dawson murmured. Then a shadow seemed to pass across his sun- and wind-bronzed face as he added, "Right now I'd like to be feeling as contented with things as I felt that night."

Freddy Farmer stopped a piece of muffin halfway to his mouth and looked at his flying mate and dearest pal in marked astonishment.

"You mean you don't?" he ejaculated. "Good grief, why not? Why, everything's much better for the United Nations now than it was then, and— say, Dave, old thing, what's up with you? Ever since we arrived you've acted like you were attending a blasted funeral, or something. Don't you feel all right?"

Dawson scowled, and then forced his lips to stretch into a smile.

"Sorry, kid, my error," he said. "I'm a heel to spoil your visit to London. Sure, I feel swell. It's—Oh, skip it, huh?"

"Not by half, I won't!" Freddy said quickly. "Tell it to Pater, old thing. Just what is bothering you?"

Dawson toyed with his fork for a moment before replying.

"I don't know," he said. Then, with a little shake of his head, he added quickly, "I mean, I don't know just how to put it in words. I've just got a funny hunch, that's all."

"Praise be, then!" Freddy Farmer breathed in relief. "For a moment I thought it was something serious. Just another one of your hunches, eh? But pardon me for interrupting, my good man. What's the bad, bad hunch about this time?"

"Okay, I can take it." Dave grinned at him. But the grin quickly faded. "Maybe it isn't a hunch," he said. "Maybe it's just me. But I'm wondering if Old Man Jinx isn't catching up to us, Freddy?"

"Rubbish!" the British-born air ace snorted. "Positively ridiculous. Just because I had a little trouble with that Lightning, and brought it in for a terrible landing? Why—"

"And my crate couldn't fly for beans!" Dawson interrupted. "Plus the fact that it took us years to finally get away from North Africa. Plus the fact that we almost cashed in our chips in that pea soup fog. Plus—Oh nuts! Don't pay any attention to me. I've just turned into a wet smack of late. Call me Old Woman Dawson, pal."

"I'd call you a lot of things, only there are ladies at the next table!" Freddy Farmer said, and gave him the stern eye. "You're just wound up a bit, Dave. Relax, old thing. Lord knows that's what you've told me enough times. Look, I've got a surprise, Dave!"

"Hold it!" Dawson cried, and raised both hands in protest. "If you think you're going to drag me halfway across London to see some weather-beaten joint where one of your famous kings stopped for tea and crumpets, you're—"

"The Holborn!" Freddy stopped him. "It's a theatre, and there's a very funny show playing there. Part American cast, too. I got the tickets this afternoon without saying anything to you. Well, what about it? Shall we go, or just sit here and mope about your blasted hunches?"

"Part American cast?" Dawson echoed.

"Yes, but they don't spoil the show too much, I hear!" Freddy snapped at him. "Well, is it a go?"

"On one condition," Dave said, and gave Farmer a very grave look.

"And that is?" the English youth walked into the trap.

"That you wait until it's over before you ask me to explain the jokes and tag lines!" Dawson said with a chuckle. Then quickly, "Now, now, little man! Food's scarce in England. Put down that plate!"

"As if I'd waste a crumb on the likes of you!" Freddy Farmer growled, but he did release his sudden hold on his plate. "Now if there were a hammer or a length of lead pipe handy. Oh well, probably neither would make an impression on your thick skull!"

Dawson laughed at the look on Freddy's face, and as he resumed eating his meal he suddenly realized that his mood of gloom and depression had gone. He felt swell; sitting right on top of the world.

As it was still early evening, the two aces took their time finishing the meal. But finally they settled the check and wandered out into the blacked out streets of London. As they reached the Strand they both impulsively paused and peered at the shadowy sky line. It was a long time since the Luftwaffe had given up the attempt to force stout-hearted London to its knees, but many scars of those weeks and months of nightly sky horror were still visible. No, there were not heaps of bomb rubble all about. On the contrary, Londoners had pitched to with a will and cleaned up their beloved city. The scars that Dawson and Freddy Farmer saw were simply the gaping holes where once a building, or a theater, or a row of shops, had been. In other words, it was not what they saw that sent their thoughts flying back to the blitz of London; it was the familiar things that they didn't see. And would never see again.

"The dirty beggars!" Freddy Farmer said in a low, strained voice. "The dirty dogs for doing this to London!"

"Yeah," Dawson murmured. "But they're getting paid back, pal. And how they're getting paid back! Before we're through they'll wish they'd never been born."

"What a pity," young Farmer grunted.

"Huh, pity?" Dawson echoed sharply. "Because we're smacking them plenty, and—"

"No," Freddy interrupted. "I mean, what a pity any of them were ever born in the first place. So help me, I don't believe I'll ever live to see the day when just hearing the word Nazi won't make my blood boil, and make me see red."

"And that goes for millions of people, Freddy," Dawson said. "But right now, nuts to the future. Shall we try to flag a taxi in this sprawled out coal mine, or is the Holborn near enough to walk?"

"It's not far, so let's walk," young Farmer said. "It will be like old times, perhaps."

"Okay, Grandpa!" Dawson laughed. "But watch your step, and don't trip over your beard. And by all means, don't let us get lost, see?"

"Lost?" Freddy Farmer snorted. "Why, you could dump me down in any part of London, and I'd—"

"Which might not be such a bad idea at that!" Dawson chuckled. "Okay, my handsome guide, let's get going."

Keeping close to each other, they strolled up the Strand toward Aldwych Circle and Kingsway. They took their time, which was the best thing to do in London's blackout. Time and time again they almost bumped into persons coming their way. And more than once their teeth clicked as they went down off a curbstone they didn't see until too late. Eventually, though, they turned into Kingsway and started along toward High Holborn where the theater was located.

After a couple of blocks, however, they ran into a detour. And after a block or so the detour ran into another detour. And some ten minutes after that Dawson nudged his shoulder against Freddy Farmer's.

"I don't want to imply anything, kind sir," he said, "but you do happen to know where the heck we are, don't you?"

"Of course!" the English youth snapped. "This is Serle Street close by Lincoln's Fields. Second right and then first left will bring us right out on High Holborn at Chancery Lane."

"Well, all those names make it sound as if you knew what you're talking about," Dawson murmured.

"Don't be silly!" Freddy snapped. "Would you get lost in a blackout in your precious New York?"

"Could happen, could happen," Dawson grunted. "But I'm just hoping it isn't happening here."

"No fear of that, my little man," Freddy assured him. "Take hold of Pater's hand, and he'll lead you."

However, Dawson refused to do that. Fifteen minutes later, as the pair came to a cross street, Freddy Farmer paused and rubbed a hand down the side of his face.

"Blast it, there shouldn't be a cross street here!" he muttered.

"Oh, oh!" Dawson groaned. "And my mother warned me, too!"

"Oh, shut up!" Farmer growled. "It's probably a new one they've made since I was here last."

Dawson didn't say anything. A small metal plate on the step post of the first building of the cross street caught his eye. He moved closer and snapped on his small pocket flashlight for an instant. When he came back to Freddy his voice was brittle.

"And how were things in 1810 when you were here last, pal?" he snapped. "That's when that post plate says that building was built. Made the street since the blitz, huh? Or was there a blitz in 1810?"

"Oh, good grief, Dave, I'm afraid—!" Freddy Farmer began.

"I'm not afraid we're lost!" Dawson cut in. "I'm dead certain, dope. Give me a shilling!"

"Why?" Freddy demanded.

"I'm going to toss it," Dawson said. "Heads we go to the right, tails we go to the left."

"But what about straight ahead?" Farmer asked.

"I've had enough of going straight ahead on this street!" Dawson growled. "For all you know it may go right off the edge of a cliff. But okay. If the shilling lands edge up we go straight ahead. Flash your beam on the sidewalk, Freddy."

Young Farmer did that. Dawson flipped the coin, which made a tinkling sound as it hit the sidewalk and bounced around. Finally it came to rest with the King's head showing.

"We turn right," Dawson grunted, and picked up the shilling. "And I'll just keep this as a little souvenir of the night's travels. Of all the—!"

"I'm sorry, Dave, blast it all!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "I guess the London streets aren't what they used to be."

"In more ways than one, pal!" Dave murmured. "But dry your tears, little fellow. It's okay. Maybe we'll bump into a taxi at the next corner, or one of your London Bobbies who can give us a bearing and put us on the beam."

If the two air aces had turned left at that cross street they would have met a patrolling Bobbie within the next two hundred yards. But they turned right, and in so doing walked straight into the beginning of their greatest battle with Death, and Satan's forces of evil and ruthless destruction!

[CHAPTER THREE]
The Dead Can't Breathe

It was no doubt their imagination, but as Freddy Farmer and Dave Dawson walked along the street to the right they both felt as though it was even more blacked out. They could hardly see a dozen steps in front of them. On both sides the street was lined by a solid row of four or five story city dwellings, not one of which showed so much as a tiny pin point of light. Perhaps they were filled with men, women, and children, but as far as Freddy and Dave could tell they might well have been lost in the very heart of a completely dead city. They didn't even meet anybody on the sidewalk. In fact, they didn't meet anything but darkness, and more darkness. Clouds had crawled across the face of the sky, so it was only by straining their eyes that they were able to make out the silhouettes of the building tops. And to add to all that, the street seemed to go on and on, with not one single intersection.

Finally Dave drew to a halt, and made sounds in his throat.

"Well, I guess we're even now, kid," he said with a groan. "Because if you didn't lose us before, I sure have lost us now. This doggone street is like a subway tunnel with no end."

"Quite!" Freddy murmured. "I almost wish the Luftwaffe would come over, so we could have some light and maybe see something. This is definitely a mess."

"With all the trimmings," Dawson added. "Look. Let's put it that that shilling gave us a bum steer. Let's go back and try the other way for a while. We're not going to meet anything this way, that's a cinch."

"Right-o with me," young Farmer said. Then suddenly he grabbed Dawson's arm. "Wait a minute!"

"For what?" Dave grunted. "You got to sneeze?"

"Shut up!" Freddy snapped, and exerted pressure with his fingers. "I thought I heard footsteps back there, coming our way."

They both listened intently and heard nothing but their own breathing.

"You and your big ears!" Dave finally growled. "Footsteps on this street, my eye! There can't be two other dopes in London tonight. Let's go, and—"

But Dawson never finished the sentence. At that instant two shadowy figures seemed to appear by magic right out of the darkness.

"So?" a deep voice growled. "You would try to escape us?"

For a moment Dawson stood like a man struck to stone, his eyes popping, and his mouth sagging. It had stunned him to see the two shadowy figures appear out of thin night-black air. And it stunned him to feel the firm pressure of a gun muzzle against his ribs. But what stunned him most was to hear the voice speaking German!

"What, what?" he finally blurted out in English. "Hey! What's the big idea? Is this a stick-up?"

"Silence, dogs, both of you!" the voice hissed. "You are fools to try to make jokes. We have followed you all the way from the hotel. We know! You are stupid to think you could escape us!"

"But see here, you're altogether balmy!" Freddy Farmer spoke the first words that came to his lips. "We're not trying to escape anybody. We're lost, and—"

A sharp hard slap cut off the rest of Freddy Farmer's words. Dawson started to leap forward instinctively, but an arm was hooked about his neck, and the gun muzzle was practically snapping one of his ribs in two. For a brief instant colored light spun around in front of his eyes, and blind rage tempted him to risk a bullet from the gun as he attempted a Commando trick to rid himself of his attacker. But in the darkness he couldn't see how Freddy was making out, and there was the chance that Freddy might pay for the trick with his life. And so he let his coiled muscles relax, and stood perfectly still.

A moment later the hooked arm was removed from about his neck, but the pressure of the gun muzzle remained the same.

"That is good," the voice growled in his ear. "My orders are not to kill you unless I am forced to. So do not be foolish, as I do not feel patient tonight."

Dawson ignored the man's words and strained his eyes to see the spot where Freddy Farmer and the other shadowy figure were standing so close together they looked like the form of one very fat man.

"You okay, pal?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

"Quite, old thing," Freddy Farmer replied calmly. But to Dawson Freddy's voice sounded very muffled.

"Silence!" Dawson's "playmate" rasped, still speaking in German. "Not a word, or a sound, you swine. I warn you. Hans! Make your dog silent so that he will not trouble me! And then go back and get the car. Hurry."

A cry of instinctive alarm rose to Dawson's lips, but before he could let it out it was all over. There was blurred lightning-like movement, then a sickening thud, and Freddy Farmer slowly sank to the sidewalk. Blazing rage flared up in Dawson, but cold, common sense held him in rigid check. This was no moment to be a blockheaded hero. The odds were far too great against him. And so he continued to remain perfectly still as the second shadowy figure faded away to become instantly lost in the darkness.

Seconds that seemed minutes long ticked by, and an almost uncontrollable urge to yell at the top of his voice seized hold of Dawson. He curbed the urge, however, and was suddenly of half a mind to speak in German to the man cracking his ribs with the gun muzzle. In fact, his lips moved to speak the words, but he stilled them at the last split second as something seemed to tell him not to speak in German.

"I don't know what this is all about, Mister," he said in a low voice, "but you've got the wrong two guys. Just who do you think I am, anyway?"

"I know who you are, Karl Stoltz!" the other grated. "It is no use. Nothing you can say or do will help you!"

Dawson started to tell the man to put it in English, as he did not understand German. But suddenly he realized that Freddy and he had both plainly shown that they understood German. So to act ignorant would simply be stupid.

"So I'm Karl Stoltz, eh?" he finally echoed in German. Then switching to English, he said, "And just who in heck is Karl Stoltz? Reach into my upper left pocket, Mister, and you'll find all my papers. And you won't find the name of Karl Stoltz on any of them!"

"Of course not, you stupid fool!" the other retorted. "But we know who you are. And so does Herr Baron. He will be glad to see you, Karl Stoltz. Ja, ja! Very glad!"

Dawson started to speak, but at that instant he saw the two slit headlights of a car coming along the street. It slid up to the curb with no more than a soft mechanical whisper of sound, and came to a stop. The door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped out, gathered the limp Freddy Farmer up in his arms, and dumped the English-born air ace down onto the floor of the car, as though he were no more than a wet sack of meal.

"You—!" Dawson began savagely.

But that's as far as he got. A crack on the side of his head sent stars and comets spinning, and seemed to paralyze his entire body from head to foot. By the time he was able to shake off the paralytic spell, and take stock of things, he found himself beside Freddy Farmer on the floor of the car. A pair of heavy booted feet were resting on the small of his back, and the car was in motion and pulling away from the curb.

The first thing he did when complete consciousness returned was to move his head as close to Freddy as he could, hold his breath, and strain his ears. Almost instantly a great wave of relief flooded through him. He could hear Freddy Farmer's regular breathing. At least the blow Freddy had received had not cracked his skull and killed him. He was just out cold, that was all.

Was that all? It was more than enough. It was too much. And as the car rolled on almost silently down the pitch dark street Dawson mentally promised himself that the instant he was given the opportunity he would pay it all back to these two rats, and with plenty of interest.

However, his flash of silent anger died as various thoughts concerning the utterly incredible business began to pass through his brain. Utterly incredible, maybe, but a very definite reality just the same. That it was a case of mistaken identity was as plain as the nose on anybody's face. But that the two kidnappers were obviously Nazi agents right there in London was something you just couldn't laugh off. Nor could he laugh off the fact that Freddy and he had stumbled into something that was deadly serious. The reasons, and what have you, were completely beyond him. He believed that they were being taken to someone known as Herr Baron. But from there on it was all just a lot of blanks that no amount of imagination could possibly fill in.

He checked his rambling thoughts as he felt Freddy Farmer stir, and then heard him groan and mumble.

"Blast the dirty blighter!" young Farmer got out. "Good gosh, my head!"

"Take it easy, Freddy," Dave murmured. "You got clipped good. But if you can talk, it can't be too bad. Just try—"

The two heavy booted feet clumping down made Dawson feel for an instant that his spine had been snapped.

"Silence, dogs!" a harsh voice said. "You will have your chance to talk later!"

Dawson cut short the blistering retort that rose to his lips. Then, after he had got full control of the seething anger within himself, he inched one hand over until he could feel Freddy Farmer's right leg. Then, using a short jab of a finger for a dot, and a longer jab for a dash, he signalled his pal in International Morse code....

"Chin up, pal. It's all very screwy, but we can't do a thing about it yet. Just play dumb, and wait for the break."

A couple of moments passed, and then Dawson felt Freddy Farmer signalling a reply message.

"Right you are. But when and if the break does come, I'm going to give it to the dirty beggars. I think they are Nazi agents."

"You can say that again!" Dawson signalled. "And a couple of tough eggs, too. So watch it. Play it their way until we find out what's what."

Young Farmer signalled back that he would do just that. And then the two air aces stopped their silent signalling, and grimly waited for further developments.

However, they had to wait quite a while. A good forty-five minutes passed before the car's speed was slackened. Then it turned sharp right, bumped over something, and went down a steep incline, after which it traveled a short distance on the level before it finally came to a full stop. From the movements of the car Dawson was pretty sure that they had turned off a main street into a short inclined driveway that ended at a garage. And when a moment later he heard the sound of doors rolling shut he knew that he had figured correctly.

And then a switch was snapped, and the interior of the car was filled with yellow light.

It blinded him for a moment, even though he was lying down face to the car floor and away from the light. But as soon as he could adjust his eyes to the sudden change he turned his head and looked at Freddy Farmer. Freddy was a little pale around the edges, and there was a tiny trickle of blood from his nose, but the hard, glittering look in his eyes indicated that his feelings had been hurt far, far more than his cracked nose and clipped head.

"Atta boy, Freddy!" Dave whispered softly. "Just hold it that way, but hold it!"

Young Farmer had only the chance to nod slightly. Before he could whisper in reply the heavy booted feet were removed from the small of Dawson's back, and harshly spoken German words filled their ears.

"Get up, and get out, swine! Herr Baron is waiting! Get up, dogs—or must I help you?"

An altogether fitting comment hovered on Dawson's lips, but he did not permit himself the satisfaction of saying it. Instead he pushed up onto his hands and knees, and then up onto his feet and stepped out through the car door that a pale, thin-faced man was holding open with one hand. In his other hand was a small but wicked-looking Luger automatic, the muzzle of which was trained dead on the Yank air ace. And when Dawson stepped down onto the cement floor of the garage and started to turn around and give Freddy Farmer a helping hand the man snarled and jammed the muzzle of the gun against him.

"Step back, swine. Your little comrade is all right. He can get out by himself!"

Dawson backed up and watched Freddy Farmer get out. There was nothing about the English youth to indicate that he didn't feel any too steady on his feet, save his unnatural pallor. His chin was up, and his eyes set and unflinching as he stepped out of the car. The thin-faced man gave him a sneering smirk, and motioned him over to stand beside Dawson. And when the two youths were standing shoulder to shoulder a bullet-headed, thick-set man came around from the other side of the car. His small, close-set eyes seemed to glitter like those of a deadly snake about to strike.

"Well, well!" he growled. "Herr Karl Stoltz, and Herr Paul von Heimmer! You stupid fools. So you thought that we would not remember, eh? That we would not try to find you? Gott! So you would be swine traitors to the Fuehrer? But Herr Baron will teach you about that. Hans! Lead the way. I will be right behind the dogs!"

The thin-faced man called Hans nodded, turned and pushed open a door. Dawson saw a lighted stairway leading up, and then a clenched fist struck him in the back and sent him stumbling toward it. He heard Freddy Farmer gasp sharply, and then his pal was stumbling into him. He managed to keep his balance and follow the thin-faced man up the stairs. At the top the man did not pause. He walked along a narrow hallway and went up a second flight of stairs. As a matter of fact he did not come to a stop until he had mounted four flights of stairs.

Just at the top of the fourth flight he stopped in front of a door, fished a key from his pocket, and put it in the lock. When the door was opened there was darkness beyond. But the thin-faced man flicked a switch, and Dawson found himself staring into the foyer of an apartment. The thick-set man herded Freddy and him inside, through the foyer, and into a well appointed living room that was heavy with the smell of stale tobacco smoke and cooking.

"Make them comfortable, Hans," said the thick-set man with a little hoarse chuckle. "I will telephone the good news to Herr Baron."

The man called Hans echoed his friend's chuckle and waved Dawson and Farmer to a couple of straight-backed chairs placed side by side. Dawson hesitated a brief instant, saw the man's fingers on his gun tighten, and walked over and sat down in one of the chairs. Freddy Farmer seated himself in the other chair. And as the thick-set man went through a door leading off into another room, Hans took up a position about ten feet in front of the two youths and leered at them invitingly.

"If you would like to try to escape, go ahead!" he suddenly spat at them in German, and made a little gesture with his gun. "No doubt Herr Baron would be just as pleased to see you dead as alive."

"That is perhaps so!" Dawson shot right back at him in the man's native tongue. "But he will not be pleased with you whether he sees us dead or alive. And who is Herr Baron? Herr Baron what?"

A brief flash of doubt showed in the German's eyes. Then he laughed harshly.

"So you are not Herr Karl Stoltz?" he said with a smirk. "Is that what you are trying to make me believe, eh?"

"I'm not trying to get anything through your thick head!" Dawson said evenly. "I'm just wondering who Herr Baron is, because he's in for one big surprise. And, numbskull, I'm not kidding you!"

As the other's eyes lighted up with a murderous gleam, Dawson instantly regretted that he had let his tongue run away with him. However, when the light suddenly died and was replaced by a look of bafflement and not a little worry, a tingling sense of grim satisfaction rippled through him.

But not for long. It was now definitely a case of mistaken identity by the two thick-headed Nazis. But that did not in the slightest alter the fact that Freddy and he were perched right on the edge of a volcano, and that at almost any moment they could be toppled off and down into the middle of complete oblivion as far as living out the rest of their lives was concerned. They both knew only too well what the Nazis do with their victims, whether they are the intended victims or just a couple of other guys.

[CHAPTER FOUR]
Herr Baron No Face

Believing that he had said more than enough, and that to so much as open his mouth would invite sudden disaster, Dawson ignored the worried, questioning eyes fixed upon him, and let his own gaze wander about the room. The first thing he noted was that there were windows on two sides. Windows that had steel shutters for blackout curtains. They were so fitted into the sash frame that when drawn they kept out both light and air. And bullets too, no doubt. But apart from the windows the room wasn't any different from scores of London apartment living rooms that he had seen.

But no! There was one big, big difference. Hanging on the wall to his right was a framed photograph of the lowest form of life ever to be born. A framed photograph of Adolf (Slaughter the women and children, too) Hitler. Just to see the photograph made Dave Dawson sick to his stomach, and he quickly took his eyes from it.

And then the side door opened and the thick-set man came into the room.

"In a few minutes, dog traitors!" he rasped at the two prisoners. "In a few minutes Herr Baron will be here."

"And after that where will you be, I wonder!" Dawson couldn't keep himself from saying.

The thick-set man blinked, frowned, and turned to his partner. Hans frowned, too, and his voice sounded definitely worried as he spoke.

"The swine is trying to make us believe it is all a mistake, Erich," he said. "But there is no mistake, no?"

The man called Erich switched his beady eyes back to Dawson's face again. It seemed as though he had a moment of doubt; then it was gone as his lips slid back in a cruel smile.

"No, there is no mistake!" he said harshly. "Too long were we together in Herr Himmler's training school not to recognize you at once, even though you have changed a lot. No, Hans. Do not let what the dog says worry you. Come, Hans. Let us enjoy some schnapps before Herr Baron arrives. Keep your eye on them. I will get the bottle and the glasses."

Smiling and rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the drink, the man called Erich moved across the room to a little wall cabinet and pulled open the door. Dawson saw Hans' eyes follow the movements, and he impulsively steeled himself for a leap toward the Luger that was now pointing not at him but at the floor. At that instant, though, two things happened simultaneously. Freddy Farmer's knee bumped against his in a sign of caution, and Hans' eyes and Luger returned their attention to him. Dawson slowly let the clamped air out of his lungs and stared absent-eyed up at the ceiling above Hans' head. The Nazi smirked and then reached out with his free hand to accept the glass of schnapps that Erich of the bullet head held out. Together they raised their glasses, gave Hitler the usual Heil, and drank noisily.

"To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, Hans!" Erich said hoarsely, and refilled their glasses.

"Ja, ja!" Hans echoed loudly. "To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, and death to all enemies of the Third Reich!"

"Prosit!" the bullet-headed one shouted. And once more they drained their glasses in typical sloppy, noisy German style.

A moment later when Erich was about to refill the glasses again, the sound of a door buzzer froze him, bottle in hand in mid-air. He made a gasping sound, snatched Hans' empty glass from him and went swiftly to the wall cabinet. As he turned from it he swiped the back of his big hand across his mouth, then hurried to the foyer door. As he went through, closing it behind him, an electric charge seemed to invade the room. Dawson could feel, and almost hear, his heart pounding against his ribs. The blood in his veins seemed like liquid fire, and his mouth and throat were bone dry.

How many more minutes were Freddy and he to live? The crazy question cut through his brain like a sword of fire. He tried to shake his head and drive the maddening thought away, but it kept coming back to taunt him. Seconds were as years hanging on the edge of nothing. Had Hans taken his eyes off them for even an instant Dave knew that he would have hurled himself forward in a frantic, desperate effort to overpower the man and get possession of that Luger before it was too late. But Hans' eyes never wavered for a fleeting split second, nor did the gun in his hand move a fraction of an inch.

Then there came the sound of footsteps and voices outside, and a moment later the inside door knob was seen to turn. Dawson sat staring at it as though it were some powerful magnet that his eyes could not resist. In fact his gaze still clung to it as the door was swung open, and it was not until he heard Freddy Farmer's half choking gasp that he was able to tear his eyes from the doorknob and look up.

And when he did, when he stared at the uniformed figure framed in the open doorway, it was akin to a blow right smack between the eyes. For there in the doorway stood a man in the uniform of a colonel in the U. S. Army Air Forces. He wore on his tunic the wings of a command pilot, and there were two rows of decoration ribbons under the wings. But it was the officer's face that stunned Dawson the most. The man looked American. The clear light in his eyes, the good old U. S. A. rosiness in his cheeks, and the friendly grin that curved his lips. And when he spoke, spoke in perfect German, it was like the ceiling falling down on top of Dawson.

"Ah! So the two swine traitors have come to the end of their run? That is good. That is very good, Hans and Erich! My compliments. I shall inform Herr Himmler of your good work. And no doubt he will tell the Fuehrer himself. Your rewards will not be small, I can tell you."

"To serve Herr Baron and the Fuehrer is reward enough!" Erich said as he beamed and clicked his heels. "It was so simple, too. We saw them eating at a hotel restaurant. We recognized them at once. We could see that they were restless and uneasy. We followed them in the car we had waiting outside. That was easy, too, even in the cursed blackout. They became suspicious and tried to escape us by turning down a street that led nowhere. But we caught up with them, and captured them easily."

"And that's a blasted lie!" Freddy Farmer blurted out. "If you're this Herr Baron they've been jabbering about, then you're balmy to believe them. I never heard of either Karl Stoltz or Paul von Heimmer in my life. And neither has my friend. You've made just another one of your confoundedly stupid Nazi mistakes! You're not in Berlin now. This is London!"

Considering the situation, all that was not exactly the thing to say, and Dave Dawson stiffened and waited for all three of the Nazis to hit the ceiling. Particularly the one known as Herr Baron, who was cloaking his true identity in the uniform of an Air Forces colonel.

Oddly enough, though, Herr Baron's face did not change expression one single bit. He looked at Freddy Farmer with the pleasant grin still on his lips. To Dawson it seemed a little stiff. In fact the man's whole face seemed stiff. It was almost as though his features had been stuck on a blank area of skin. The Yank air ace peered hard, his heart thumping against his ribs. And then suddenly something seemed to click in his brain, and he knew. Or at least he was quite positive that he knew. Knew that what he was looking at was not the true face of the man who wore the uniform of an Air Forces Colonel. It was a mask. No, it was even more than that. Every feature had been built up separately and fitted over the original feature. Each bit separate but so cleverly formed and blended in, that the whole gave the impression of a single one-piece mask. No, it was not the true face that Dawson stared at, and he wondered what was behind that conglomeration of make-up paste, and putty, and whatnot.

However, he did not have much time to wonder about that. Herr Baron took a step or two toward Freddy Farmer, his lips still smiling.

"So you have been in England so long, a traitor to the Fuehrer, Herr von Heimmer, that you even talk like one of the swine?" he murmured in a soft voice. "But isn't that a stupid way to try and convince me of something that is not true? You fool! Why have your voice speak as an Englishman, and your body wear the uniform of an American pilot?"

"Because I am English, you idiot!" Freddy shouted. "You've made a balmy mistake, and no doubt you'll end up by having your hired thugs there shoot me. But I'll be blessed if I'll die as a dirty Nazi. I'll die as an Englishman, and the devil to you!"

"That's telling him, kid!" Dawson cried impulsively. Then, looking at the still grinning man, he said, "Believe it or not, he's dead right, Herr Baron. Your boy friends have pulled a boner. I'm not Karl Stoltz, or Karl anybody. I'm a Yank. And no matter what happens, I'm not going to die as any Nazi, either. And just what is behind that masquerading face of yours? Let's have a look, if it doesn't hurt too much to pull that stuff off?"

As Dawson simply spoke words that came into his mouth he moved his knee over slightly and gently pressed it against Freddy's knee. The answering pressure he received started his heart to pounding harder than ever. It meant that young Farmer understood perfectly, and wasn't missing a single bit of the picture. In other words, doubt was closing down on the three Nazis like a thick fog. Particularly upon Hans, and his thick-set playmate, Erich. They stood staring open-mouthed, their eyes puzzled, worried, and not a little afraid. Erich's hands were hanging limp like a couple of hams at his sides. Hans was fiddling with his gun with both of his hands, and without the slightest knowledge that he was pointing it straight down at his feet. Herr Baron's stiff lips were no longer smiling. The rest of his face was the same, save for the eyes. They had suddenly clouded over, and in a crazy sort of way Dawson had the feeling that he was looking into the eyes of a dead man, or perhaps a ghost.

An eerie sensation rippled through him, but he shook it off. If there ever was a time in his life when emotions and sensations were to be ignored, this was it. Whether the three Nazis believed, or not, Freddy and he were facing death in triplicate. Hans, Erich, and Herr Baron. A ten-year-old child could have figured that this place was a Nazi agents' nest in London. And although Freddy and he had proved their true identity beyond all semblance of a doubt, it was sheer madness to think that the three Nazis would give them a smile, an apology, and let them go their way. Not a chance. The Nazis had the habit of flaunting their triumphs to the four corners of the earth, and of burying their mistakes. Sometimes they didn't bother with the burying part. They simply left their "mistakes" where they fell. Stone dead, but definitely! So Dawson didn't pay any attention to his emotions. He knew just what the score was. And so did Freddy Farmer.

"Well?" Dawson said, when Herr Baron just stood there looking at him. "Want proof? But wait a minute! Did this Karl Stoltz have any mark or scar on him that would prove his identity to you?"

"Yes, he did," Herr Baron said slowly. "He had a saber scar on his right arm. Near the elbow. Let me see your right arm. Come, swine traitor! Show me your right arm, at once!"

Herr Baron barked out the last because Dawson had hesitated, and started to shake his head. But his actions were simply to hold the attention of the three Nazis while he once again pressed his knee against Freddy Farmer's. Then he shrugged and stood up, and reached over with his left hand to shove up the right sleeve of his tunic.

"All right," he said, and looked Herr Baron straight in the eyes. "Take a good look, and see if you see any saber scar!"

Dawson drew back his right arm slightly as he pushed up his tunic sleeve. Then when he saw Herr Baron's eyes drop from his face to his arm, he lashed out with his clenched right fist, took a quick half step forward and brought up his right knee. His fist caught Herr Baron a savage blow on the side of the neck, and his knee went deep into the man's groin. It was Commando stuff for keeps, and Dawson didn't stop there, either. He let momentum carry him forward and down. His feet left the floor, and like a projectile his body shot through the air toward the wide-eyed, sagging-mouthed Hans.

The thin-faced Nazi probably didn't know what had actually happened until Dawson's charging body slammed into him and sent him crashing backwards against the wall. The Yank caught him in the chest with his left shoulder, and as the two of them went crashing back and down, Dawson grabbed hold of the Nazi's gun and twisted it free. His ears rang with the scream of pain, and he felt Hans' trigger finger break as it got caught in the trigger guard. But neither bothered Dawson in the slightest. He had learned from blood and fire experience the Commando's code. And no part of it is to feel anything but hatred for the man you're after.[2]

The instant he had the gun in his own possession Dawson heaved himself up onto his hands and knees and chopped down hard with the gun barrel on the side of Hans' head. Hans was reaching for Dawson's throat with clawing fingers, white pain and seething rage showing in his face. But the gun smash on the side of the head nipped everything in the bud. The Nazi made hoarse gurgling sounds in his throat, and instantly went as limp as a wet dishrag.

But Dawson hadn't waited to see the effect of his blow. Out the corner of his eye he had seen the thick-set figure of Erich charging at him. Black murder was in the Nazi's eyes, and he was tugging a Luger out of his jacket pocket. Dawson tried to spin around and pull his trigger before the Nazi pulled him. But he half tripped over the limp Hans' body, and the muzzle of Erich's gun seemed to loom up right in front of his eyes like the black mouth of a tunnel.

Then suddenly there was a shot! Dawson flinched instinctively, but his eyes saw no flame stab from the mouth of that Luger, and no white hot spear of flame cut into his body. What his eyes did see was the blank, slightly stupid look that spread over Erich's face. Then, as though invisible strings holding him up had been cut, Erich fell in a heap on his face.

"Well, thanks for letting me in on the show a little, at least!" the words filtered into Dawson's spinning brain.

He gaped for a second at the prostrate Erich, and then turned his head to see Freddy Farmer standing a few feet away with a still smoking Luger in his hand. The English-born air ace was smiling, but there was nothing but grimness in his steady eyes.

"Boy, are you a right guy to have along!" Dawson mumbled. "But I sure didn't figure you for a gun. I counted on you to give him the old one-two Commando stuff."

"His nibs, here," Freddy said and pointed a finger at Herr Baron, who was face down on the floor at his feet. "I fancied all along that he had a little gadget like this in his tunic pocket. So when you bashed him I immediately investigated. Saves time and trouble just to shoot the beggars, instead of knocking them about. But, good grief, Dave, you moved so fast. You were a bit of all right, old thing. Quite!"

[CHAPTER FIVE]
Satan's Pawns

Dawson took a deep breath, and slowly got up onto his feet. Then he grinned over at Freddy Farmer.

"I don't care how you did it, kid," he said. "Just doing it was okay by me. And if I haven't mentioned it, thanks, pal. I was sort of close to getting lead poisoning just about then."

"And we were both close to getting heaven knows what," young Farmer said. His face became hard, and deadly serious. "To me it's still like a mad dream. Imagine it, Dave! Right here in London. It just can't be true! Balmy things like this just don't happen!"

"I know, of course not," Dawson grunted, and dropped to his knees beside the prostrate Hans. "But Erich, there, wouldn't believe you, Freddy. He found out. Let's search these rats for anything we can find, and then get out of here fast. I guess British Intelligence would like to hear what we have to tell them."

"There's a phone in the next room, Dave," Freddy said, as he recalled the fact. "The one that Erich used. Let's just tie them up, and then get on the phone. Intelligence may want them just as they are."

"Maybe, but I'm a curious cuss," Dawson said with a dogged shake of his head. "Truss up that bird with his belt, and then go phone the big shots. Me, I'm going to see what these birds have on them, if anything. I—Ye gods! Did Herr Baron's face slip!"

Dave gulped out the last as he got his first really good look at Herr Baron's face. Freddy had half rolled the limp figure over, and at first look Herr Baron seemed to have been hit square in the face by a pan of soggy bread dough. His nose was over on one cheek, and his jaw was twice as big on one side at it was on the other, his eyebrows pointed straight up, and his lips looked twisted all out of shape.

"Good grief, the floor must have done that!" Freddy Farmer gasped as he looked down. "Make-up paste, no less, Dave. Why—why, he hasn't really got any real face. It's horrible!"

"Just truss him up and leave him, Freddy," Dawson said, and swallowed hard several times. "I guess the rat was in some kind of an accident, and did his own plastic surgery with make-up paste, or whatever that stuff is. Sweet tripe! This thing gets screwier and screwier. Truss him up, and then get British Intelligence over here in a hurry. We'll—Hey, I'm nuts! We don't even know where we are!"

"That's simple, old thing," Freddy said, and lashed Herr Baron's arms behind his back with the man's own belt. "A fine detective you'd make. British Intelligence can simply trace my call, that's all, and be over here in no time."

"Call me dunce, and get going, pal!" Dawson said with a sigh of relief. "Sure, of course, kid. Boy, maybe old age is slowing me down at that."

"Not judging from what I saw just recently!" Freddy Farmer said, as he got to his feet, and headed for the side door of the room. "Be back in a jiffy, old thing."

Dave just grunted, completed his job of making sure that Hans would give no trouble should he come to, and then went systematically through the man's pockets. He collected the usual amount of personal belongings, but the man's papers were very interesting. They were all made out and officially stamped to identify him as a born Englishman, by the name of John Dobbler, with an East London address.

Dawson thumbed through them for a moment, and then stuffed them into his pocket and moved over to Erich's dead body. And what he found in the dead man's pockets made him realize all the more to what pains Nazi agents go. There was nothing on Erich's person to indicate that he was a Nazi. But everything to prove that he was one Harold Cabot, an Englishman who lived at an address in the Cheapside part of London. As a matter of fact, Erich's papers went Hans' one better. Erich also had identification as an Air Raid Warden.

"An Air Raid Warden, the dirty skunk!" Dawson grated, and put Erich's papers into his pocket, too. "I wonder how many of the poor devils he left to die under piles of bomb rubble?"

With a look of scorn and loathing for the dead man, he got to his feet and went over to the prostrate form of the man referred to as Herr Baron. The false face still looked the same, and the Yank air ace tried not to look at it as he went through the pockets of the man's uniform. What he found so amazed him and angered him that for a moment he trembled with loathing and blazing anger. Herr Baron's papers, all strictly official and military, showed that he was an American colonel in the Yank Air Forces, that he was commanding officer of such and such group, but that of recent date he was attached to Air Forces Intelligence in England.

"The dirty—!" Dawson began, and then words failed him.

He put a hand to his forehead, and closed his eyes tight for a moment. Like Freddy Farmer, he was almost inclined to believe that all this just hadn't happened. That he was having a wild, crazy dream, and that he would wake up soon to find that everything was all right. But it wasn't a dream; it was cold, stark truth, incredible as it seemed. Three Nazis of no less than Herr Himmler's brood, yet two carried perfect identification as Englishmen. And the third, definite identification as a colonel serving in the U. S. Army Air Forces.

"But it just doesn't make sense!" Dawson muttered, and stared at Herr Baron's picture with the official Air Forces stamp imprinted on it. "How in the world did he get away with it? If I could tell that his face was faked, anybody else could have spotted the same thing. I don't see how the—"

He cut the rest short as something peculiar about the man's left tunic lapel caught his eye. He reached out a hand and felt of the lapel. His heart leaped, and in the next instant he had whipped out his jackknife and was slashing at the lapel seams. When he had cut an opening big enough, he thrust his fingers inside and felt a thin inch by inch and a half leather-covered book. He pulled it out to see that it was a worn address and memo book that had several pages missing. And when he thumbed through those that were left it was to discover that they were filled with countless numbers. Some of them in groups, and some of them but a single number. All were written in a fine hand with a needle-sharp indelible pencil.

"Code, of course," he grunted. "British Intelligence will break it down soon enough, and—"

Dawson stopped and sat up straight.

"Speaking of British Intelligence," he grunted, "what's Freddy doing on that telephone? Making a date with the operator?"

As there was only one way to get the answer to his question, he got to his feet, went over to the side door and pushed it open.

"Hey, Freddy, what—?" he began, and stopped short.

The room beyond was a well furnished bedroom. Included in the furnishing were twin beds with a little night table between them. On the night table there was a French phone, but the instrument was in its pronged cradle. Most important of all, though, there wasn't hide nor hair of Freddy Farmer. Dawson gaped for a moment as though he couldn't believe his eyes. Then he shook himself out of his trance and leaped into the room.

"Freddy!" he yelled, and looked wildly about. "Hey! Where are you, Freddy?"

Four walls sent back the echo of his voice, and that was all. There was no other reply to his yell. He noticed what was obviously the bathroom door on the other side of the room, and to the right of the twin beds. In three leaps he crossed the room and yanked the door open. It led to the bathroom right enough, but there was still no Freddy Farmer to be seen.

"What the heck?" he gasped, and his heart started to chill slightly. "Where is the guy, anyway? He couldn't have just disappeared through solid walls. Ah!"

The last slipped off his lips as a blast of cool night air blew against his face, and he saw that the window over the bathtub was open. A split second later he saw the prints of more than one pair of feet on the edge of the bathtub. One look and he was up on the edge of the bathtub himself, and sticking his head and shoulder out the window. For a moment he couldn't see a thing because of the darkness of night. Even the light that poured through into the bathroom from the bedroom, and out the opened window, didn't reveal anything in those first few seconds.

Then as his eyes quickly adjusted themselves he saw that there was a flat roof some four feet below the level of his eyes. It was really the main roof of the building; the apartment he was in being the English conception of a penthouse. To the right and left were the motionless darker shadows of chimneys and building ventilation vents. He opened his mouth to call out Freddy's name when suddenly off to his right came the scuffing of feet on the gravel-topped roof, and then the clear bark of a gun and a sharp cry of anger or pain.

The bark of the gun was still ringing in Dawson's ears as he went head first through the opened window and landed heavily on all fours on the gravel roof. He paused a second to get his breath; then, with Hans' Luger clutched in his hand, he went sneaking silently forward toward the spot whence had come the scuffing of feet, the sharp cry, and the shot. He bumped into a vent pipe that he didn't see in the darkness, and almost went to his knees. As he fought to maintain his balance he plainly heard running feet a short distance off to his right. He jerked his head around in time to see a running shadow etched against the London sky. He whirled and brought up his gun.

"Hold it!" he rasped out. "Hold it, and get your hands up!"

The running shadow ducked down, and in practically the same instant the night stabbed red flame, and a wasp of death whined by Dawson's face almost before he heard the crack of the shot. He ducked instinctively, and lost the running shadow before he could return the fire.

"Keep low, Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice to his left. "Two of the beggars, and they are both armed. Keep low and watch the fire escape on the rear side. Only way they can get off—"

If Freddy Farmer said any more Dawson didn't hear it. He was in the act of turning and moving toward the rear of the building roof when something moved in front of him, and a thunderbolt slashed down out of nowhere to hit him on the head. As his knees turned to rubber, and buckled, he flung out his arms in a desperate effort to grab hold of something that would help him remain on his feet. But there was nothing but thin air there to grab hold of, and he fell headlong on the roof. Whether he was hit by another thunderbolt, or it was just hitting the gravel-topped roof, he didn't know, but in the next second he had lost consciousness of everything. Everything, save that he was spilling down into a huge bottomless hole that was filled with pitch darkness and utter silence. And then even that was no more.