CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_We Who Must Die_

As Dawson pushed slowly up onto his feet, with his eyes still fixed upon the face of the dead man, he felt as though a great weight were pressing down on his heart. Memory of the words that the Yank Intelligence agent had spoken whirled and spun around in his brain until it seemed as though he would never be able to think straight again. The torch had been flung down to him, and to Freddy Farmer, from the hands of a dying man. Lips that were actually stiffening in death had begged them to give their lives that hundreds of others might be spared, and the world be made a little bit better place in which to live. But how could Freddy and he accomplish the impossible? _How?_ Where would they begin? How could they possibly--He cut short his spinning thoughts as he felt Freddy's hand gripping his arm, and heard his pal's voice.

"There's precious little, if any, time to lose, Dave, old thing," Freddy spoke in a tight, emotion-filled voice. "The least we can do is try--as he did, poor devil."

"Try?" Dawson echoed with a little harsh laugh. "Try what? Try--Hey, Freddy! You mean--?"

"Quite," young Farmer said, and began peeling off the Luftwaffe uniform he wore. "Those two Gestapo rats, there. We'll borrow their uniforms, and their car outside, and go find that ring of hills, and its camouflaged field. The Duisburg-Dortmund highway is not far from here."

"And when we reach the field?" Dawson said, as he stripped off his own Luftwaffe jacket. "Then what? Most likely the guards are five deep around the place!"

"No doubt!" Freddy Farmer said grimly, and for an instant let his gaze rest on the dead man. "But even if the whole blasted Nazi army is there, we've got to try to get in there somehow. Perhaps these uniforms will help us get by the guards. I hope so. But look, Dave, if you don't--"

"Who says I don't?" Dawson interrupted angrily. "I was only wondering if you had some kind of a plan."

"None at all," young Farmer replied. "Have you?"

"No," Dawson replied, and went over to one of the unconscious Germans in black uniforms and heavy boots. "Maybe we can think up one on the way. Set the place on fire, he said, eh? Of course he must have meant that fire would touch off the rest of what's there. But, boy! If we only had a plane. Any kind of a plane, just so long--"

Dawson suddenly let his voice trail off, and an agate gleam leaped into his eyes as he knelt down beside one of the Germans and quickly relieved him of his uniform. And that gleam was still in the Yank air ace's eyes when a few moments later Freddy and he bound the Germans hand and foot, gagged them, and then stole silently out of the room, and along the hallway to the front door.

There they paused a moment, eased open the battered door, and peered out. Duisburg was still in darkness, and there was no sound to be heard save that of their own breathing. It took Dawson a second or two to pick out the small Nazi Army car at the curb. When he had, he touched Freddy lightly on the arm, went out the door, and down the short flight of steps. Without a word he slid behind the wheel, and held out his hand to Freddy. Young Farmer nodded and handed over the ignition keys. A minute later Dawson slid the car away from the curb. And ten minutes after that he was rolling it along the highway between Duisburg and Dortmund.

"Have any ideas clicked yet, Freddy?" he presently broke the silence between them. "I figure we've got about five or six miles to go. Keep your eyes skinned, because we could very easily slide right by those hills in the dark."

"No, I haven't the ghost of an idea," Farmer replied. "If only some of our planes would come over we might be able to signal them to dump some bombs around. Small chance of that, however. It's close to midnight, and if any of our planes are out they've jolly well reached their objectives by now. Good grief! It's almost as though the Devil himself were watching over the Nazis this night."

"This night, and a lot of other nights, I guess," Dawson said, tight-lipped. "Look, Freddy, are we awake, or _is_ all this just a crazy nightmare? I mean, I want to believe that poor fellow ... I mean, of course, he wasn't off his beam; he told us the truth. But--suffering catfish! Fire bombs that throw liquid fire for hundreds of yards? And British and Yank planes flown by German suicide pilots and crews? And _if_ they succeed, three fourths of our combined air forces in England will be so much burned out junk? It--well, it just seems almost too much to believe. It's like stuff you'd read about in a ten-cent blood and thunder thriller. Doggone it! This is a war with guns, and tanks, and ships, and planes...."

"And a lot of _other_ things that most of us never dreamed of before the start of the war, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly, as Dawson struggled for words. "Radar, for instance. The Nazi rocket gun. And our own jet-propulsion plane for another. And that's saying nothing at all about the miracles in medicine that have come out of this war so far. Yes, I know how you feel, Dave. That it just can't be true. That it isn't possible. But when you think about it for a moment, you find yourself asking, why isn't it true, and why isn't it possible? And the only answer is, that it is, and could be. War knows no limits. And that goes for the minds of men who create the devilish weapons of war. Or do I sound silly?"

"No, kid," Dawson said. "It just got me for a moment. The seemingly fantastic part. No, you're right. Anything _can_ happen, or be cooked up in an all out total war. And the Nazis are just the breed to cook up something like liquid fire bombs. But--"

Dawson choked off the rest as at that exact moment a small searchlight suddenly became visible not fifty yards along the highway in front of them, and its beam became trained directly on the car. In the side glow Dawson could just make out the ugly snout of a mounted machine gun, and the booted feet of the men who operated it. Then a uniformed figure, with a sub-machine gun hung over one arm, stepped out into the beam of light and rapidly winked a red-shaded flashlight as a signal for the car to stop.

"Keep your gun ready!" Dawson whispered between stiff lips as he slackened the car's speed and applied the brakes. "Here's the first test, kid. Maybe this is the end of the line, but on the other hand, maybe we can shoot it out with them and skip off cross-country. Hold everything until we make sure."

"With you, old chap!" Freddy Farmer replied in a voice so low that Dawson almost didn't catch it.

A moment later Dawson stopped the car full in the beam of the searchlight, and rested his hand on his gun on the seat beside him and watched the uniformed figure carrying the red-shaded flashlight walk around to his side of the car.

"Show me your--!" the figure said harshly, and then stopped with a grunt. "Oh, you two, eh? Back again? Very well, proceed. But keep your speed to thirty miles or the others will open fire on you. The second turning on the right has been left unblocked. _Gott!_ So many cars tonight! It is like a parade. It must be nice to be of the Gestapo. You will probably be given all the schnapps you can drink. All right. Go ahead. Pass to the left of the light!"

For a split second Dawson was tempted to play his Gestapo part to the hilt and snarl a few words at the uniformed figure backing away from the car. On second thought, though, he instantly decided to let things stand as they were. The unpopularity of the Gestapo with this particular soldier was none of his affair. He would be a fool to get tough about it. The one with the sub-machine gun might decide to get even tougher.

And so, sweating with relief, Dawson meshed gears and tooled the little Army car around to the left of the searchlight, that winked out as he went by, and got back into the middle of the night-darkened road again. It was then that both Freddy and he let the clamped air from their lungs.

"Jeepers!" Dawson gasped. "I know I've got gray hair now. Praise be that that dope simply remembered two Gestapo rats in an Army car, but _not_ what they looked like."

"Amen!" Freddy Farmer whispered. "And may Satan bless the blighter for telling us about the second turn off on the right. Gosh, Dave! Do you really think that we'll be lucky enough to--?"

"Don't say it!" Dawson said hoarsely. "It might break the spell, or something. Just pray, Freddy, that's all. Pray as you never prayed before. I know we haven't a hope, but--"

"There's the first turn off, Dave!" young Farmer stopped him. "Slow up a little so we won't miss ... Dave! Look! There ahead to the right. There's the spot. You can see the tops of the hills. There's a glow of light, that's why. Dave! Do you hear something? Like the rumbling of thunder?"

But Dawson didn't reply at once. He couldn't possibly have replied at that moment, even had it cost him his life not to do so. Every nerve in his entire system was twanging like a snapped violin string. His heart was striving to hammer its way out through his ribs, and the blood surging through his veins was like ice water one instant, and liquid fire the next. Yes, he could see the tops of the ring of hills, and the faint glow of orange-yellow light behind them that made them stand out against the night sky. And above the sound of his own engine he could hear that other rumbling sound that seemed like thunder to Freddy Farmer.

Yes, but it was thunder caused by high voltage leaping across storm skies. It was the thunder of many powerful engines being revved up. Aircraft engines. And as Dawson leaned forward a little over the wheel and strained his ears, he knew in a flash that the thunder was from British and American-made aircraft engines.

"They're revving them up!" he heard his own voice say. "Maybe the take-off's near. Must be, or they wouldn't show so much light. Yeah! They've removed the camouflage covering from the place, and that light is from runway flares, and maybe exhaust plumes. Dear heaven! Let us get through. Let us get through in time to do something. Don't let this terrible thing happen, please. I beg of you! Don't--!"

Dawson's voice clogged up in his throat, and his heart seemed to shrivel into nothing as his own beseeching voice echoed back to mock him. And then, even as Freddy Farmer touched his arm, his straining eyes saw the second turn-off. There were three or four uniformed figures at the corner of the turn-off, and Dawson instantly tightened up inside. But there was no need of that A flashlight winked on, and its moving beam signalled for him to make the turn and keep going. Perhaps the car was recognized, but he doubted that because of the darkness. It was probably that any car that passed the first barrier down the road, and there had apparently been many of them tonight, was being allowed to continue on unchallenged to the secret field hidden behind the ring of hills.

A great sigh of relief slid off Dawson's lips as he drove by the signalling flashlight beam and made the turn. A moment later, though, as he drove along a bumpy dirt road that led straight toward the ring of hills, his heart leaped up his throat to smack hard against his back teeth, and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his forehead. He heard Freddy groan softly, and that groan was echoed in his own heart.

A short distance ahead he could see several cars parked off the dirt road. Several flashlight beams were moving about, and the road itself was blocked by several figures in uniform. In the bad light Dawson could not tell if all carried sub-machine guns, but he saw at least six, and to him that was six too many. No wonder his car had been allowed to turn off into the road leading to the secret field!

"No cars allowed on the field, of course, because of the danger of fire," he muttered. "They're all being ordered to park outside, and those moving flashlight beams mean just one thing. That everybody is being checked before he can go the rest of the way on foot."

He swallowed hard, and turned to young Farmer as the parked cars in front forced him to apply the brakes and slow down.

"It's been nice knowing you, Freddy," he said in a dull voice. "This is the end of the line, and I mean the end. But I'm going to take some of the rats with me, that's certain!"

"Cut it, Dave!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Don't be a blasted fool, old thing. This isn't the end. We can't let it be. I've just got an idea. It's got to work. Stop the car and get out with me. Stick at my shoulder, and have your gun in your hand. But for goodness' sake don't use it. No! No questions. There isn't time. Just do as I say!"

Dawson hesitated a split second, and then shrugged.

"Okay!" he murmured. "That's one more idea than I've got. Lead on. Freddy!"