Dave Dawson with the Commandos Part 13

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_Silent Wings_

France! The once brave, fighting nation now helpless in the steel-gloved hands of its ruthless conquerors. Some vowed that treachery in high places had doomed France. Others vowed it had been the vast superiority of the enemy in all things. And others vowed there was some other reason for the swift and devastating defeat of the once proud republic. But what did it matter, the reason, now? Or what would it matter until after the war had been fought and won by the United Nations? The fact was that France was in chains; helplessly, but not hopelessly, enslaved by a gang of war bandits who even insulted their own intelligence, what little there 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 his greenhouse and stuck his head out to look down at the carpet of night shadows that was France, a sharp ache came to his heart, and he unconsciously 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 it seemed, so much had happened since then. Last year? No, that couldn't be. Five years ago at the least. Maybe more. But not just last year. It couldn'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't the beginning. But _the_ day is coming. It's coming just as sure as the rain 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 cut Hitler down to snake level. Believe me, old girl!"

With a grim nod for emphasis, he pulled his head in and shoved the greenhouse shut. He was flying Number Two on the right in Green Flight, and Green was on the right of the general squadron formation. The Para-troop transports were a thousand feet below, thirty-five of them drilling steadily along into France. At the coast anti-aircraft batteries had opened up with a savage fire and searchlights had crossed and crisscrossed the heavens. But not for very long. A few squadrons of low flying Hurricane bombers had jumped on the guns and lights, and given their operators too much trouble for them to be able to concentrate very closely on the huge aerial cavalcade pa.s.sing by overhead.

As for n.a.z.i night fighters, there hadn't been the sign of one so far.

Perhaps the bombers earlier had chewed up their dromes and parked planes so that there weren't any in condition to take to the air now. Or maybe, the odds being so much against them, the n.a.z.i pilots were simply executing that well known German military maneuver. In short, never fight unless there are three of you to one of your enemy.

"And then again," Dave continued the thought aloud, "maybe they are waiting until we get deeper in, and near our objective. Then they'll swarm up and dive down to try and do their stuff. Yeah! Maybe they know these are Para-troop planes. And what fun it would be to pick off the poor devils floating down by parachute. Just like shooting fish in a barrel!"

Dave's heart skipped a beat as he thought of that possibility. And on impulse he tilted back his head and stared hard at the still overcast sky. Were there n.a.z.i fighters up in that inky sky? Flocks of Hitler's vultures tagging along on silent wings, ready for the moment to scream down and strike? Dave's heart beat a little faster, and the palms of his hands became cold and clammy. He shook himself and returned his gaze to straight ahead.

"Cut it out, kid!" he growled at himself. "Get back on the beam. You've got plenty of other things to worry about, without wondering about n.a.z.i night fighters tagging along upstairs. Just keep your thoughts on what Freddy and you have ahead of you."

As he spoke his pal's name he turned his head and peered at the next plane on his left. He knew it was Freddy's Spitfire, but he could only see it as a darker moving shadow against the general background. A sudden longing to talk and crack wise with Freddy was his. But, of course, he made no move to speak into his flap mike. Squadron Leader Parkinson would do all the talking. n.o.body else was to say anything unless addressed by the Squadron Leader. Not that the n.a.z.is below didn't know that enemy planes were up there in the skies. Their ears told them that. Radio silence had been ordered simply to avoid all chance of an unguarded or thoughtlessly spoken word giving n.a.z.i listening stations a clue as to what was actually taking place.

And so Dave killed the urge to talk with Freddy Farmer, and continued to hold his position in the Flight formation, and keep his eyes skinned for the first glimpse of n.a.z.i night fighters that might suddenly come gun yammering down and in among the Para-troop transports. Seconds ticked by, and became minutes, however, without a single German pilot sticking his nose into the business. Then, presently, as Dave glanced at his cowled dash clock, he saw that the two formations were only one minute away from their objective point in the air. By straining his eyes, and peering hard, Dave could just make out the winding grey ribbon that was the Seine River winding past the city of Rouen. The city, itself, was in total blackout, though a light did show here and there. Staring at them, Dave wondered if brave Frenchmen down there were playing their part in this gigantic undertaking, risking the n.a.z.i death decree by showing lights that might guide the United Nations planes in the air. There were many Frenchmen like that. They mounted up into the thousands--far more than the rest of the world realized, let alone heard about.

Steel-hearted men, women, and, yes, children, who fought the n.a.z.i beasts twenty-four hours a day without guns, or cannon, or tanks, or airplanes, but with their hands, and feet, and their brains. They were not people living on the brink of death. They lived in the _middle_ of death. Night and 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. Dave glanced down and saw the shadows that were troop transport planes opening up wider formation. He imagined, if he didn't see, the tough, painted-faced Commandos stepping out and going down by parachute. He wondered if they were all Americans in that bunch down there. He hoped so, and told himself that was so. It gave him a thrilling feeling to have helped escort those boys over from England. And what they wouldn't do to the n.a.z.i tramps they met on me ground! There was no fighter on earth like a Yank, once he got started. Not even the Australians could get tougher than Uncle Sam's fighting fools. They--

The rest of the thought folded up in Dave's brain. At that instant he heard the savage snarl and yammer of aerial machine guns. And he had only to jerk his head around and look up to see the stabbing tongues of yellow-orange flame etched against the black sky. n.a.z.i fighters were rus.h.i.+ng down to enjoy a field day of killing and slaughter. But that's what _they_ thought! There was good old Two Hundred and Three between them and the Para-troop planes. Two Hundred and Three, that had one of the 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 the firing ring of his trigger b.u.t.ton on the stick. "Come on down and get slapped 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 around and up toward the part of the night sky etched with streaks of yellow orange. "We'll show--"

The rest died on his lips as common sense suddenly got the upper hand of him, and roughly jogged his memory. Heck, yes, of course! Was he nuts?

He couldn't go kiting up there to do battle with those n.a.z.i night fighters. And neither could Freddy Farmer. This was the end of the line for them. This was where they got off and changed trains. They had an exact time schedule of their own. And if they wasted minutes fooling around with those diving night fighters of Hitler's, their whole schedule could very well be thrown completely out of whack.

"But it's like quitting!" Dave groaned as he checked his turn and started to peel off and down toward the south. "Like getting the wind up and running out on the boys. And they're such swell guys. Oh nuts! Would five minutes make any difference? I might smack a couple in five minutes, stop two of them from maybe cutting down through us and spraying those Para-Commandos going down to earth. I--"

He groaned aloud again, for he knew that he was simply talking words that 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 Barber hadn't kidded around on that point when he'd given Freddy and him the instructions. At the jump off spot, Freddy and he were to peel away from the squadron and get on about their own little job. And that meant peel away no matter if the whole German Luftwaffe dropped down on top of Two Hundred and Three.

"But just let me get back to England!" Dave whispered as he went roaring southward. "Just let me get back so that I can tell those boys, and have them 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 searchlight beams that were now cutting up from the city of Rouen, and then looked to the right and to the left. Freddy Farmer's plane was on his right. He could see it quite clearly, now. There was beginning to be quite a bit of light. However, it was red light from explosions on the ground below that reflected upward. And those explosions meant that some of the Commandos had already landed and were going into planned action.

"Give it to them, boys!" Dave shouted impulsively, and shook his free fist. "Give them the works, and not once over lightly, either. Sock it to them where it hurts!"

As though a n.a.z.i anti-aircraft gunner on the ground wanted to help out, a sh.e.l.l exploded with a terrific roar just on the right to punctuate Dave's last sentence. It was close enough to send his Spitfire jumping a bit, and he almost slipped into a spin before he regained control. When he did he spent a couple of very anxious moments waiting to see if shrapnel pieces had done any serious damage. None seemed to have, though, for the Rolls-Royce Merlin in the nose continued to roar out its song of mighty power and pull the Spitfire through the night air at close to four hundred miles an hour.

That single exploding sh.e.l.l, though, was but the first greeting of many.

As Freddy and he went clipping across Rouen, and over the twisting Seine, it seemed as though all the anti-aircraft batteries in Europe had opened up on them. And there were so many searchlight beams poking upward and swinging back and forth, and around in circles, that the sky ahead and on all sides was like a s.h.i.+mmering white fis.h.i.+ng net. And the searchlight beams certainly were _fis.h.i.+ng_ for the two Spitfires.

A dozen times one caught Dave's plane cold and blinded him for a split second or two. But just as an anti-aircraft battery would take a new sight 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. And just as many times he saw lights catch Freddy's plane, and make the English-born air ace do his trick dance before getting out of sight again.

As a matter of fact, the closer they came to Evaux the more guns started shooting at them, and the more searchlights sprang into action. The sky was lighted up almost as though it were high noon. There were few "black" spots, and cold sweat trickled down Dave's face as sh.e.l.ls seemed to burst right on top of his wings, and even inside the c.o.c.kpit--which of course they didn't.

"We're going to have to be good!" he muttered, as he dropped the Spit's nose and cut down into momentary concealment. "Plenty good, or they'll see us step off, and start a man hunt by the time we've reached the ground. And that mustn't happen. Those birds down there have got to think we're still in the s.h.i.+ps when they see them catch fire. And so--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 only words they would speak over the air. But they would mean plenty. Dave's speaking those words was the signal for them both to bail out in the next possible second, after yanking the lever that started the time mechanism of the fire bomb. So the instant the words were off Dave's lips he cut deeper into the dark area in the sky, yanked the fire bomb lever, shoved open the greenhouse cowling, unfastened his safety harness and got up on the seat.

With his foot he moved the stick over to the right to tilt the Spitfire in that direction a little. Then, after bracing himself, he dived out and down, holding his breath for a couple of split seconds for fear he had done it wrong and would get practically cut in two by the Spitfire's tail plane. But he had done it right, and he went spinning end over end down through the night air that grew darker the lower he fell. He counted up to twenty, then tightened his grip on the rip-cord ring and jerked it hard.

"You'd better work," he muttered, "or I'll be plenty sore at the manufacturer!"

For a moment more he went on spinning downward, and then invisible hands hooked onto his body and he was jerked back up toward the night sky. For one awful instant he almost lost his grip on the bundled up German uniform he had grabbed before he bailed out. He managed to hang onto it, however, and presently he was floating earthward, while high above anti-aircraft sh.e.l.ls painted the heavens with red and yellow and orange.

And the dazzling white beams of the searchlights made a moving, swaying background for the display of war's colors.

"So far, so good," Dave muttered, and impulsively crossed the fingers of his free hand. "Now, if Freddy has bailed out safely, and is on his way down, everything is okay, okay."

CHAPTER TWELVE

_Invisible Death_

"All right, cut out enjoying yourself! There's the ground down there some place. And it's coming up, fast. Pay attention to your knitting, pal!"

Dave wasn't sure whether he had spoken the words aloud, or whether they had simply been spoken in his brain. Anyway, he stopped twisting his head this way and that to admire the display of bursting colors high overhead, and started peering down through the gloom in the direction of the ground. Just as he did that, though, there were two loud explosions in rapid succession. They were to the south and above his alt.i.tude, and when he jerked his gaze up that way he saw two huge raging b.a.l.l.s of flame arc out across the sky and down, leaving behind long tails of winking sparks.

"Freddy's s.h.i.+p and mine, going up in smoke," he said softly. "Gee! What a rotten end for such a swell pair of planes. Spitfire Mark Fives don't grow on trees, darn it! Too bad we couldn't have used a couple of crates that had seen their best days. Yet that might not have been so hot if we'd run into n.a.z.i night fighters sooner. Well, that's how it goes. Rest in peace, old gals!"