CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Silent Wings_
France! The once brave, fighting nation now helpless in the steel-glovedhands of its ruthless conquerors. Some vowed that treachery in highplaces had doomed France. Others vowed it had been the vast superiorityof the enemy in all things. And others vowed there was some other reasonfor the swift and devastating defeat of the once proud republic. Butwhat did it matter, the reason, now? Or what would it matter until afterthe war had been fought and won by the United Nations? The fact was thatFrance was in chains; helplessly, but not hopelessly, enslaved by a gangof war bandits who even insulted their own intelligence, what littlethere was of it, by referring to themselves as men and human beings.
That was the one fact, the one great truth. And as Dave shoved open hisgreenhouse and stuck his head out to look down at the carpet of nightshadows that was France, a sharp ache came to his heart, and heunconsciously clenched his free hand into a fist of promised vengeance.It had been a long time since he had flown over France. At least so itseemed, so much had happened since then. Last year? No, that couldn'tbe. Five years ago at the least. Maybe more. But not just last year. Itcouldn't have been. Yet it was so.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Dave Dawson, Flight Lieutenant._]
"Keep your chin up, old girl!" he whispered downward. "Maybe this isn'tthe beginning. But _the_ day is coming. It's coming just as sure as therain grows little apples. Britishers, Yanks, Dutch, Belgians, Canadians,Poles, and your own Free French. That's a promise, _La Belle France_.Thousands and thousands of them, with all the stuff they'll need to cutHitler down to snake level. Believe me, old girl!"
With a grim nod for emphasis, he pulled his head in and shoved thegreenhouse shut. He was flying Number Two on the right in Green Flight,and Green was on the right of the general squadron formation. ThePara-troop transports were a thousand feet below, thirty-five of themdrilling steadily along into France. At the coast anti-aircraftbatteries had opened up with a savage fire and searchlights had crossedand crisscrossed the heavens. But not for very long. A few squadrons oflow flying Hurricane bombers had jumped on the guns and lights, andgiven their operators too much trouble for them to be able toconcentrate very closely on the huge aerial cavalcade passing byoverhead.
As for Nazi night fighters, there hadn't been the sign of one so far.Perhaps the bombers earlier had chewed up their dromes and parked planesso that there weren't any in condition to take to the air now. Or maybe,the odds being so much against them, the Nazi pilots were simplyexecuting that well known German military maneuver. In short, neverfight unless there are three of you to one of your enemy.
"And then again," Dave continued the thought aloud, "maybe they arewaiting until we get deeper in, and near our objective. Then they'llswarm up and dive down to try and do their stuff. Yeah! Maybe they knowthese are Para-troop planes. And what fun it would be to pick off thepoor devils floating down by parachute. Just like shooting fish in abarrel!"
Dave's heart skipped a beat as he thought of that possibility. And onimpulse he tilted back his head and stared hard at the still overcastsky. Were there Nazi fighters up in that inky sky? Flocks of Hitler'svultures tagging along on silent wings, ready for the moment to screamdown and strike? Dave's heart beat a little faster, and the palms of hishands became cold and clammy. He shook himself and returned his gaze tostraight ahead.
"Cut it out, kid!" he growled at himself. "Get back on the beam. You'vegot plenty of other things to worry about, without wondering about Nazinight fighters tagging along upstairs. Just keep your thoughts on whatFreddy and you have ahead of you."
As he spoke his pal's name he turned his head and peered at the nextplane on his left. He knew it was Freddy's Spitfire, but he could onlysee it as a darker moving shadow against the general background. Asudden longing to talk and crack wise with Freddy was his. But, ofcourse, he made no move to speak into his flap mike. Squadron LeaderParkinson would do all the talking. Nobody else was to say anythingunless addressed by the Squadron Leader. Not that the Nazis below didn'tknow that enemy planes were up there in the skies. Their ears told themthat. Radio silence had been ordered simply to avoid all chance of anunguarded or thoughtlessly spoken word giving Nazi listening stations aclue as to what was actually taking place.
And so Dave killed the urge to talk with Freddy Farmer, and continued tohold his position in the Flight formation, and keep his eyes skinned forthe first glimpse of Nazi night fighters that might suddenly come gunyammering down and in among the Para-troop transports. Seconds tickedby, and became minutes, however, without a single German pilot stickinghis nose into the business. Then, presently, as Dave glanced at hiscowled dash clock, he saw that the two formations were only one minuteaway from their objective point in the air. By straining his eyes, andpeering hard, Dave could just make out the winding grey ribbon that wasthe Seine River winding past the city of Rouen. The city, itself, was intotal blackout, though a light did show here and there. Staring at them,Dave wondered if brave Frenchmen down there were playing their part inthis gigantic undertaking, risking the Nazi death decree by showinglights that might guide the United Nations planes in the air. There weremany Frenchmen like that. They mounted up into the thousands--far morethan the rest of the world realized, let alone heard about.Steel-hearted men, women, and, yes, children, who fought the Nazi beaststwenty-four hours a day without guns, or cannon, or tanks, or airplanes,but with their hands, and feet, and their brains. They were not peopleliving on the brink of death. They lived in the _middle_ of death. Nightand day, week after week, month after month, and on and on until death,or victory, ended their misery.
Finally, the last minute was over and a part of time history. Daveglanced down and saw the shadows that were troop transport planesopening up wider formation. He imagined, if he didn't see, the tough,painted-faced Commandos stepping out and going down by parachute. Hewondered if they were all Americans in that bunch down there. He hopedso, and told himself that was so. It gave him a thrilling feeling tohave helped escort those boys over from England. And what they wouldn'tdo to the Nazi tramps they met on me ground! There was no fighter onearth like a Yank, once he got started. Not even the Australians couldget tougher than Uncle Sam's fighting fools. They--
The rest of the thought folded up in Dave's brain. At that instant heheard the savage snarl and yammer of aerial machine guns. And he hadonly to jerk his head around and look up to see the stabbing tongues ofyellow-orange flame etched against the black sky. Nazi fighters wererushing down to enjoy a field day of killing and slaughter. But that'swhat _they_ thought! There was good old Two Hundred and Three betweenthem and the Para-troop planes. Two Hundred and Three, that had one ofthe best records in the R.A.F. for bringing down enemy aircraft.
"So come on down!" Dave grated, and slid his free hand up to twist thefiring ring of his trigger button on the stick. "Come on down and getslapped in the face for keeps. We'll--"
"Tally-ho, chaps!" came Squadron Leader Parkinson's cry over the radio."Company here. Let's entertain the blighters, or make them go home.After them, chaps!"
"And how!" Dave shouted happily, and started to whip his Spitfire aroundand up toward the part of the night sky etched with streaks of yelloworange. "We'll show--"
The rest died on his lips as common sense suddenly got the upper hand ofhim, and roughly jogged his memory. Heck, yes, of course! Was he nuts?He couldn't go kiting up there to do battle with those Nazi nightfighters. And neither could Freddy Farmer. This was the end of the linefor them. This was where they got off and changed trains. They had anexact time schedule of their own. And if they wasted minutes foolingaround with those diving night fighters of Hitler's, their wholeschedule could very well be thrown completely out of whack.
"But it's like quitting!" Dave groaned as he checked his turn andstarted to peel off and down toward the south. "Like getting the wind upand running out on the boys. And they're such swell guys. Oh nuts! Wouldfive minutes make any difference? I might smack a couple in fiveminutes, stop two of them from ma
ybe cutting down through us andspraying those Para-Commandos going down to earth. I--"
He groaned aloud again, for he knew that he was simply talking wordsthat didn't mean anything. He had a job to do. Freddy had a job to do.And Two Hundred and Three had a job to do--_without them_! Major Barberhadn't kidded around on that point when he'd given Freddy and him theinstructions. At the jump off spot, Freddy and he were to peel away fromthe squadron and get on about their own little job. And that meant peelaway no matter if the whole German Luftwaffe dropped down on top of TwoHundred and Three.
"But just let me get back to England!" Dave whispered as he went roaringsouthward. "Just let me get back so that I can tell those boys, and havethem understand how it was we pulled out and left them in the soup.Just let me do that!"
With a savage nod for emphasis, Dave squinted ahead at the searchlightbeams that were now cutting up from the city of Rouen, and then lookedto the right and to the left. Freddy Farmer's plane was on his right. Hecould see it quite clearly, now. There was beginning to be quite a bitof light. However, it was red light from explosions on the ground belowthat reflected upward. And those explosions meant that some of theCommandos had already landed and were going into planned action.
"Give it to them, boys!" Dave shouted impulsively, and shook his freefist. "Give them the works, and not once over lightly, either. Sock itto them where it hurts!"
As though a Nazi anti-aircraft gunner on the ground wanted to help out,a shell exploded with a terrific roar just on the right to punctuateDave's last sentence. It was close enough to send his Spitfire jumping abit, and he almost slipped into a spin before he regained control. Whenhe did he spent a couple of very anxious moments waiting to see ifshrapnel pieces had done any serious damage. None seemed to have,though, for the Rolls-Royce Merlin in the nose continued to roar out itssong of mighty power and pull the Spitfire through the night air atclose to four hundred miles an hour.
That single exploding shell, though, was but the first greeting of many.As Freddy and he went clipping across Rouen, and over the twistingSeine, it seemed as though all the anti-aircraft batteries in Europe hadopened up on them. And there were so many searchlight beams pokingupward and swinging back and forth, and around in circles, that the skyahead and on all sides was like a shimmering white fishing net. And thesearchlight beams certainly were _fishing_ for the two Spitfires.
A dozen times one caught Dave's plane cold and blinded him for a splitsecond or two. But just as an anti-aircraft battery would take a newsight on him, he would manage to whip out of the brilliance of the"Peeping Tom" and into blessed black sky that hid him from view. Andjust as many times he saw lights catch Freddy's plane, and make theEnglish-born air ace do his trick dance before getting out of sightagain.
As a matter of fact, the closer they came to Evaux the more guns startedshooting at them, and the more searchlights sprang into action. The skywas lighted up almost as though it were high noon. There were few"black" spots, and cold sweat trickled down Dave's face as shells seemedto burst right on top of his wings, and even inside the cockpit--whichof course they didn't.
"We're going to have to be good!" he muttered, as he dropped the Spit'snose and cut down into momentary concealment. "Plenty good, or they'llsee us step off, and start a man hunt by the time we've reached theground. And that mustn't happen. Those birds down there have got tothink we're still in the ships when they see them catch fire. Andso--well, it's up to us to make it good."
As he spoke the last he put his lips to the flap mike.
"Better get out of here, Freddy!" he shouted.
It was the signal they had arranged in Major Barber's office, the onlywords they would speak over the air. But they would mean plenty. Dave'sspeaking those words was the signal for them both to bail out in thenext possible second, after yanking the lever that started the timemechanism of the fire bomb. So the instant the words were off Dave'slips he cut deeper into the dark area in the sky, yanked the fire bomblever, shoved open the greenhouse cowling, unfastened his safety harnessand got up on the seat.
With his foot he moved the stick over to the right to tilt the Spitfirein that direction a little. Then, after bracing himself, he dived outand down, holding his breath for a couple of split seconds for fear hehad done it wrong and would get practically cut in two by the Spitfire'stail plane. But he had done it right, and he went spinning end over enddown through the night air that grew darker the lower he fell. Hecounted up to twenty, then tightened his grip on the rip-cord ring andjerked it hard.
"You'd better work," he muttered, "or I'll be plenty sore at themanufacturer!"
For a moment more he went on spinning downward, and then invisible handshooked onto his body and he was jerked back up toward the night sky. Forone awful instant he almost lost his grip on the bundled up Germanuniform he had grabbed before he bailed out. He managed to hang onto it,however, and presently he was floating earthward, while high aboveanti-aircraft shells painted the heavens with red and yellow and orange.And the dazzling white beams of the searchlights made a moving, swayingbackground for the display of war's colors.
"So far, so good," Dave muttered, and impulsively crossed the fingers ofhis free hand. "Now, if Freddy has bailed out safely, and is on his waydown, everything is okay, okay."