Dave Dawson with the R.A.F.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  _Brave Wings Fly Eastward_

  Night had come again to England--black night and the throbbing drone ofNazi planes winging inland from the shoreline of the Channel; swarmafter swarm of Goering's vultures who would blast helpless men, women,and children with their deadly loads of bombs, and then return to theirbases and report the great number of hits they had scored upon strictlymilitary objectives.

  Standing on the edge of a night-shadowed field several miles north ofLondon, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer watched the play of searchlightbeams, and the glow of burning buildings in the distance. The sound ofthe bursting bombs was like the dull rumble of thunder far away. Butevery now and then when the wind changed slightly, they caught the faintchatter of the machine guns of night-flying Spitfires and Hurricanepilots hunting out the raiders high up in the sky.

  For several minutes they had been standing there watching the sight andnot speaking. There wasn't anything to say except express the desire tobe up there doing their bit along with their R.A.F. comrades. And toexpress such a wish would have been just a waste of breath. Even thoughit had suddenly been granted, neither of them would have accepted. Theyhad their own job to do. They had pledged themselves to carry it throughto a successful end, and neither of them would turn back now even thoughhe were given the opportunity.

  One hour ago they had reported to the squadron leader of this BombingCommand unit. He had of course been informed of the flight they were tomake, but only up to the point where they would bail out somewhere closeto Antwerp. He had welcomed them gravely, but they had not missed thegleam of quiet admiration in his eye. The squadron leader hadintroduced them to the pilot and crew of the Wellington bomber in whichthey would make the flight. Flight arrangements had been quietlydiscussed, and they had been supplied with parachute packs, and oxygenmasks and tanks. That done with, the pilots and crews scheduled to makethe raid had retired to the Ready-Room for last minute instructions,leaving Freddy and Dave to discuss last minute items between themselves.

  There had been nothing for them to discuss, however. Every possibleangle of their coming venture had been hashed over and over during asecond meeting with Colonel Fraser and Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Adetailed picture of Pierre Deschaud was stamped in their brains. Theyhad poured over a detailed map of the Scheldt River waterfront untilthey knew it by heart. Every little thing that might help, ColonelFraser had told them. Ten times, no, a hundred times, they had gonecarefully over the whole thing from beginning to end. There was nothingfor them to discuss between themselves, now. There was nothing to do butwait until the four plane flight of Wellington bombers, powered by twin1000 horsepower Bristol "Pegasus" engines, was ready to take off.

  "I bet those guys are busting to ask us a million questions," Daveeventually broke the silence between them. "You could see it in theireyes when we were introduced."

  "Well, you certainly can't blame them," Freddy replied with a chuckle."Just look at these duds we're wearing. And by the by, you certainlywon't break any girl's heart as a Belgian peasant boy, my pal. Frankly,you look a sight."

  "Listen to who's talking!" Dave snorted. "That dizzy-looking get-up ofyours is the one thing that has me worried about this flight."

  "Ah, so the chap _is_ worried!" Freddy murmured. "I thought so!"

  "Darn tooting!" Dave said. "One look at you and both of the Pegasusengines on the bus are liable to up and stop working just like that. Andthen where'll we be? See what I mean?"

  "I doubt if they'll even get us off the ground if you get close tothem!" Freddy scoffed. "So be sure and stay well back out of sight. Butto be serious, Dave, what do you really think of our chances? Oh, I knowwe'll go the limit, but what do you really think?"

  Dave didn't answer for a moment. He turned his back to the scene ofnight aerial warfare to the south and stared unseeingly at the four"Wellies" with their propellers slowly ticking over.

  "That's a tough question, Freddy," he finally said. "To tell you thetruth, I really don't know just what I _do_ think. As a matter offact--No, skip that."

  "Skip what, Dave?" Freddy prodded earnestly. "What were you going tosay? I really want to know."

  Dave looked at him and smiled a trifle wryly.

  "Maybe I'm getting old too fast, Freddy," he said. "Or maybe I'm justgetting too many cockeyed ideas for my age. But from what I've alreadyseen of this war, nothing is absolutely certain. I mean, you can plotand plan how you're going to do a thing until you're blue in the face;get every little thing all set so that it's--well, so that it's in thebag, as we say back home. Then, _zingo_! Something pops up that knocksall your plans completely haywire. And--Oh, nuts! I guess I'm like a kidwhistling in the dark."

  "And I feel exactly the same," Freddy said quietly. "But go on. Whatelse, Dave?"

  "Oh, skip it!" Dave grunted. "Maybe I'm just getting cold feet at thelast minute."

  Freddy stepped close to him.

  "Would you like me to bash you one, my American pal?" he asked sharply."Well, just stop talking that way about yourself. Cold feet? What rot!After what I saw you do at the Dunkirk show? Rubbish! No, Dave, don'ttalk that way to _me_. Now, what else were you going to say?"

  Dave grinned and playfully rasped his knuckles across Freddy's juttingchin.

  "One in a million, that's you," he said softly. "One in five million, orname any figure. Well, it's the old hunch business working again, if youmust know, Freddy. I mean, everything seems too pat, too cut and dried.I've got the hunch that something we couldn't even dream of is going topop up and dump us into a mess of trouble before we're back in Englandagain."

  "And right you are!" Freddy breathed softly. "I have a feeling just likethat, myself. Got it first this afternoon, but I didn't say a word forfear the colonel might take it the wrong way. He might have thought Iwas hedging and trying to back out. You know, make excuses?"

  "Nobody would ever think you were trying to back out of anything!" Davesaid loyally. "But what was it that popped into your mind, anyway?"

  "Pierre Deschaud," Freddy said.

  Dave shot him a puzzled look.

  "Huh?" he echoed. "Pierre Deschaud? So what?"

  Freddy hesitated a moment and fumbled with the hem of his coarse peasantjacket.

  "Sheer rot, probably," he said after a moment. "But a chap is bound tothink of things, you know. Colonel Fraser admits that word from Deschaudcannot get through to him except by one of the colonel's agents. He alsoadmits that the last five agents who have gotten in touch with Deschaudhave failed to return. They have either disappeared or died, or both.Well, that makes me wonder a lot."

  "Well, he said the Nazis were smart and clever guys," Dave pointed out.

  "Sure he did," Freddy nodded. "But don't you get the idea, Dave?"

  "The old brain has swallowed up so much today, it's a blank," Daveconfessed. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

  "What proof is there that Pierre Deschaud _is still alive_?" Freddyasked suddenly.

  Dave gasped and went back a step as the real significance of the wordscame home to him.

  "Holy catfish!" he eventually breathed. "That _is_ a thought, isn't it!"

  "And one worth a lot of consideration, too," Freddy nodded. "As I said,it may all be a lot of rot, but chew on this a bit, Dave. It is possiblethat the Nazis have trapped and caught this Pierre Deschaud, but aren'tsaying anything about it. Maybe they are using him, or somebody exactlylike him, as bait for the colonel's agents. Don't forget, the last fiveagents were caught!"

  Dave swallowed hard and wiped a hand across his forehead, which hadbecome just a wee bit moist--and not from the warmth of the night air,either!

  "Gee, you think of the nicest things!" he muttered. "But you could beright as rain, Freddy, and no fooling. We've got to watch our step. And_how_ we've got to watch it! Pick up the marbles, Freddy. You've got theold brain, and no fooling! Any other ideas?"

  "No, that one's enough," Freddy said grimly. "Yes, we've got to watchour step, but--well--that is--I mean, it
doesn't make any difference,Dave, does it?"

  "Any what?" Dave echoed, and stared at him. "You mean, should we call itoff? Hey! One more crack like that, and--Oh, just the old kidder, huh?"

  Freddy was chuckling as he grabbed Dave's arms.

  "I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "I just couldn't pass the opening. Your facelooks so funny when you suddenly get mad. Of course I didn't mean athing, and I apologize."

  "Well, that's better!" Dave growled. Then, grinning slowly: "You didhave me going for a second, there. I really thought you were serious,you old tease, you! I must be slipping, not to have got wise at once.I--Uh-uh! I guess this is it, pal!"

  The last was caused by the approaching figure of the pilot of theWellington in which they were to fly. The pilot was Flight LieutenantWiggins, and though he wore a heavy flying kit, they knew that theD.F.C. ribbon for air gallantry was under the R.A.F. wings on his tunic.He came up, stopped, grinned, and jerked a thumb in the direction ofthe waiting Wellington bombers.

  "Hitler just called," he announced. "Says the weather is perfect overBerlin, and will we please get it over with? So I guess we'd better getalong and please the little fellow, what? You ready?"

  "And raring," Dave said with a grin.

  "Absolutely fed up with standing on the ground," Freddy added.

  The flight lieutenant chuckled and gave them both a keen look.

  "I say, drop me a line after it's all over, will you?" he suddenly askedas they started walking toward the planes. "You know my name andsquadron address. It should reach me right enough."

  "A line about what?" Dave asked in an innocent voice.

  "Come off it, my lad!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins snorted. "You know whatI mean. The show you two are scheduled to pull off. We've been pullingout our hair wondering what it's all about. That goes for the squadronleader, too. He swears he doesn't know a thing."

  "But that's rot!" Freddy exclaimed, and buckled his helmet strap tight."Didn't Hitler say he phoned, just now?"

  "The blighter didn't say a word, except that the weather was wonderfuland would we please get on with it?" Wiggins chuckled.

  "Well, there you are!" Freddy cried. "He's just a shy sort of chap, youknow. Probably was afraid that you'd pull his leg about it."

  "Oh, quite," the flight lieutenant said with a gesture. "But just whatwould I pull his leg about? Of course, if it's a deep secret, and you'vesworn to Winston Churchill not to breathe a word, why then--"

  "But we thought _everybody_ knew!" Dave said in mock surprise. "Hitler'sbecome fed up. And he's mad at Goering, besides. Goering won't lend himany of his medals any more. So Hitler's mad. He wants to come over hereand fight in the British army. Well, you could have knocked me down witha feather when King George asked my pal and me to go over there andbring him back."

  "So there you are!" Freddy said. "All very simple. Nothing to it,really."

  "Sure!" Dave chuckled. "Get a copy of the London Times tomorrow. Theremay even be pictures."

  "Say, I'll jolly well do that!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said with mockexcitement. "And some day I'll tell my grandchildren that I shook handswith the two chaps who nurse-maided Adolf Hitler back to England. So Iguess I'd better do that, now."

  They had reached the side of the nearest Wellington. Flight LieutenantWiggins stopped and in turn shook each boy warmly by the hand.

  "Happy landings, lads," he said quietly. "Tally-ho, and all that sort ofthing, you know. Well, up into her."

  A warm and exhilarating glow tingled through Dave and Freddy as theyclimbed up through the belly door of the Wellington bomber and madetheir way forward toward the navigator's cubbyhole just in back of thepilot. The kidding with Flight Lieutenant Wiggins had removed a lot ofugly thoughts. That was the old R.A.F. spirit. Perhaps not one of theseWellingtons would return from their dangerous night raids over Germany,but the pilots and the crews didn't talk about that. They didn't eventhink about it. They were R.A.F., and there was a job to do. And thatwas that. No fuss and feathers. No back slapping and brass bands.Battling death and beating it at its own game was routine with them, andthey took it as such, with a smile and a joke on their lips.

  When they were seated on the two small canvas stools, Dave reached over,pressed Freddy's knee and winked at him in the pale glow of the singlelight bulb fitted to a fuselage bracing strip. Freddy winked back andsmiled. A moment later the fuselage light winked out, and there was nolight save the pencil beam of the navigator's bulb, and the fused glowof the instrument panel up forward. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins ran up hisengines, checked the radio, and then trundled his bomb-loaded ship tothe far end of the field and swung it around into the wind.

  There he waited with idling engines for the three other planes in thepatrol to take up line-astern position. When they were in place andready, radio orders came from the field's Operations Office for thetake-off. Wiggins pushed throttles forward, and the two Pegasus enginesroared up in a mighty song of power. The Wellington quivered andtrembled for a moment as though it were reluctant to leave the safetyof English soil. Then slowly it moved forward down a long line of flaresset out on the field. With every revolution of its twin propellers theplane picked up speed. Presently it was bouncing down that line offlares on its wheels with the tail up. A moment or so more and FlightLieutenant Wiggins pulled back on the controls. The bouncing stopped,and the Wellington went curving up toward the star-dotted night sky.

  The instant the wheels were clear and the bomber was mounting up towardHeaven, Dave twisted slightly so that he could peek out the navigator'sport and down at the shadowy mass that was England falling away from theplane. For one brief instant stark fright streaked through his heart. Itpassed, and a tight grin came to his lips. He turned his head and lookedpast Flight Lieutenant Wiggins and through the reinforced glass nose ofthe plane--and on into the future.

  "Pierre Deschaud, here we come!" he whispered softly to himself.