Dave Dawson with the Commandos Part 10

The senior officer paused again, and Dave caught his breath in astonishment at the news. Von Staube and von Gault? If there were two men in all the Third Reich responsible for Adolf Hitler's blood-shedding successes across bowed Europe, those two were the ones. Von Staube and von Gault! The former the brains of the Army. The latter the brains of the Luftwaffe. Oh yes, and quite true! Their names seldom appeared in newsprint, or over the Berlin radio. Other names were featured. Other figureheads such as "Uncle" Goering received the publicity, and the praise for every triumph, big or small. But it was von Staube and von Gault who had made everything possible. And if they had been transferred to France--

"Then Hitler sure is worried, plenty worried!" Dave heard himself speak the thought aloud.

"No doubt about it!" Freddy Farmer echoed. Then, addressing the Major, he asked, "There is absolute proof of this, sir?"

"Absolute proof!" the senior officer replied emphatically, and picked up a small photo off the desk top and held it out. "Take a look. Taken the day before yesterday, and smuggled across to us. The uniforms will tell you which is which, in case you've never seen their pictures before."

It was a picture of two high ranking German officers standing beside the running board of a German Staff car, and obviously in deep conversation.

The picture was not any too clear, because it had been taken at a distance with a long range lens. But it was clear enough for Dave and Freddy to recognize, from other pictures they had seen, the thin, cruel, hawkish face of Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault, and the beefy, moon-faced, thick-necked figure of Field Marshal von Staube. Dave handed the photo back without comment. But Freddy had another question.

"It was taken in Occupied France, sir?" he asked.

The Major held the photo up and pointed out the spire of a church that was faintly visible in the background. Part of it was missing as the result of an exploding sh.e.l.l.

"That's the church in the little village of Evaux," he said, "across the Seine River from Rouen. I recognize it, because I've been there many times since that sh.e.l.l struck. Matter of fact, I happened to see that sh.e.l.l do its work. It was a week before Dunkirk. No, don't worry. That picture was taken in Occupied France. And those buildings in back of them, but on this side of the church, are their combined Headquarters."

The Major nodded slightly for emphasis, and dropped the photo on the desk.

"A force of fifteen thousand men," he said a moment later. "Navy men, army men, and airmen. The time schedule has been worked out to the last split second. And the schedule has been checked and rechecked, I might add. At the first show of darkness tomorrow evening, navy vessels will take aboard the ground forces, at designated points along the south coast here. At the right moment the s.h.i.+ps will put out into the Channel and proceed toward the French coast. At a designated time bomber flights will go over and blast all strong points for a thirty-five mile radius about the French coastal city of Le Havre. Le Havre will be the pivoting point of the entire raid. All operations will fan out north, south, and east from Le Havre.

"Fighter squadrons, of course, will go across to keep a protective cover over the bombers against n.a.z.i night fighters--if any are able to get off and come up at them. Fighter squadrons will also protect transport planes filled with Commando Para-troops. Needless to say, each unit in the attack has its own time schedule, that dovetails in with the general schedule for the raid. And each unit, whether land, sea, or air, has its own individual objective to take and hold, or, as in many cases, to take and completely destroy. Clockwork is the keynote to the whole thing.

Every man knows just what he is supposed to do, and what he's supposed _not_ to do, incidentally. There will be losses, heavy losses, probably.

But our losses will be nothing to what the n.a.z.is will lose in man power, war materials--and morale!"

The Major paused for breath, and to think over his next words. It was all Dave could do to stop from squirming about on the edge of his chair.

A hundred questions quivered on the tip of his tongue. But he had just enough sense to remain silent and bide his time. Soon enough the Major would tell Freddy and him what fighter flight they were to fly in. As a matter of fact, that bit of information was the next thing that came from the Yank Commando Chief's lips.

"You will go over with the squadron with which you are now stationed,"

he said. "The Two Hundred and Third Fighters, with Squadron Leader Parkinson in charge. That unit will go over as part of the cover for the Commando Para-troops. Parkinson will be supplied with his own time schedule, and will, of course, acquaint you with all those details later. Well, there you are. That's the general picture of the little surprise we'll have for Adolf Hitler tomorrow night. And if it comes off as we have planned, and as it _must_ come off, this world will be a much better place to live in much sooner than most people expect. The n.a.z.i high lords, in particular!"

As Major Barber seemed to pause for the last time, and leaned back in his chair, Dave was thrilling to the thought of so gigantic a raid, and such a devastating blow against the barbaric forces striving to conquer the civilized world. At the same time there was a certain feeling of frustration within him, a feeling of keen disappointment. It was as though he had been built up for a terrific let-down. He sneaked a glance at Freddy's face and could instantly tell from the expression he saw there that Freddy was not exactly one hundred per cent pleased himself. Dave hesitated a moment, and then took the bull by the horns.

"It should be something, and how, sir!" he said enthusiastically. "But back in New York, you mentioned something about a little extra job for Freddy and me. You still have one?"

Major Barber grinned and leaned forward again.

"I was wondering if you had forgotten that bit," he said with a chuckle.

"Yes, there's still a little extra job for you two. But _little_ is hardly the word. Your fighter plane unit will go as far inland as the village of Salernes, just north of Rouen. That's where your bunch of Commando Para-troops will step off, and go down. But you will not return to this side with the Two Hundred and Third Spitfires. You two will bear south and across the Seine to Evaux."

"Evaux?" Dave echoed, and gulped. "And when we get there?"

There was no grin on the Major's lips now. Neither was there a smile in his eyes.

"When you get there," he said in a calm, steady voice, "you will kidnap von Staube and von Gault and fly them back here to England. _That_ is the little extra job that has been selected for you two to carry out.

Think you'll like it, eh?"

For all the gold in the world Dave couldn't have spoken a single word at that moment. His head had seemed to fly up off his shoulders and go floating away. The rest of him was frozen to his chair as solid as Arctic ice. It was impossible for him to move, and doubly so for him to think. Kidnap Field Marshal von Staube, and Luftwaffe Marshal von Gault?

CHAPTER NINE

_Orders For Eagles_

It seemed a lifetime to Dave before the ability to think fully returned, and three times as long before the power of speech was once again his.

He turned his head slowly and stared at Freddy Farmer. The English youth was sitting like a statue of stone, eyes fixed on Major Barber, and blank amazement spread all over his face. In an abstract crazy sort of way the picture he saw made Dave think of somebody socked by a five pound blackjack loaded with buckshot. Freddy Farmer wasn't exactly out cold. But he might just as well have been.

"Did you hear what I heard, pal?" Dave finally compelled his lips to say.

Freddy jumped a little as though stuck with a pin, and turned to look at him.

"I don't know," he said in a rather vacant tone. "I could be mistaken.

This could be just some crazy nightmare."

"It is," Dave grunted, and switched his gaze to Major Barber. "Only the nightmare part hasn't arrived yet. You're--you're not kidding, sir?"

Major Barber grinned and shook his head.

"No, Dawson," he said. "That was straight from the shoulder. But I don't blame you for going into a tail spin. I'll admit it's quite an order to hand out."

"Quite an order, he says!" Dave mumbled, and shook his head. "You wouldn't want us to pick up Adolf Hitler for good measure, would you, Major?"

The senior officer laughed and gestured with his two hands, palms upward.

"That would be nice," he said, "but I doubt that Adolf would ever get that close to possible activity. After all, he has to save himself for the future, you know. If little Yellow Belly, of the trick mustache, should get himself killed, what would become of the world? And he got wounded in the last war, you know. It's in the official German records.

A gashed finger opening a can of beans, I think it was. No, we can skip Hitler. I'm not expecting too much of you fellows."

"Thanks," Dave grinned. "For a moment, I thought it was something that was really going to be tough. One question, though. I take it that von Staube and von Gault have agreed? They won't put up any objections when Freddy and I pop into their H.Q. and say, 'Let's go, boys'?"

Major Barber started fis.h.i.+ng through his pockets. He finally sighed, stopped, and looked annoyed.

"Darned if I didn't lose that wire I got from them, okaying the whole business!" he said in mock seriousness. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that everything is all arranged. All this kidding aside, though, if you two fellows think--"

"Just a minute, sir!" Freddy spoke up sharply. "That's just the point.

I'm not yet back where I _can_ think. But if you're imagining that we're refusing this _little_ extra job, please dismiss it from your mind at once. Personally, I wouldn't miss it for anything in the world."

"And you can say that again for me, pal!" Dave echoed. Then, looking at the Major, "You just simply threw a curve when we were expecting a high, hard one. Heck, sir! We're all for the idea. Freddy and I have a little motto we try to stick to. It's: We'll try anything once, and maybe twice. So forget it. Count us in. I've heard of tougher a.s.signments, though I don't just remember where, or when!"

The senior officer chuckled and gave them both a look of frank admiration that was almost as satisfying as receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor, or the Victoria Cross.

"Don't worry," he presently said quietly. "I didn't have half a doubt for even a second. I was simply getting a kick out of the way you two received my little bombsh.e.l.l. However, I must be deadly serious about this. It isn't an everyday a.s.signment. You stand one chance of bringing back those two, and nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine chances of not living to see the next sun rise. There is one big thing in your favor, though, as regards pulling off this stunt successfully. It's that n.o.body but a wild-brained chap like me would ever think of trying it. In other words, the fact that it is practically impossible makes it just that much more possible. If you get what I mean?"

"Close enough, I guess," Dave grunted. "In other words, if and when we do show up at their H.Q., neither of them will think its strictly on the level. And while they are mentally fanning the air trying to get the picture, we'll have the perfect chance to grab them."

"Exactly," Major Barber said emphatically. "You could go in there dressed as Santa Claus and they wouldn't disbelieve you any less.

However, I don't plan for you to pop in dressed up as a couple of Saint Nicks."