All Nazi bombing aircraft had gone scurrying back across the Channel to their funk holes in Occupied France, and a new dawn was sliding up out of the east as the train bearing Dave and Freddy raced along the track toward the great British naval base at Plymouth on the south coast. By a bit of luck they had managed to get an apartment to themselves. And as soon as the train had pulled out of the London station they had stretched out on the seats with the idea of getting in as much sleep as possible before tearing into the mysterious task that lay ahead of them.

Their intentions and their efforts were fine, but that's about as far as things went. Sleep completely ignored and abandoned them. There was too much in their brains, and in their hearts to permit sleep a single chance to take charge. And so after an hour they both gave it up, sat up, and switched on the dome light in the car ceiling.

"Boy, that did me a world of good!" Dave breathed and rubbed knuckles in his eyes. "Feel like a new man, and rarin' to go."

"Liar, you didn't sleep a wink," Freddy said scornfully.

"Yeah?" Dave shot at him. "Who says so?"

"I do!" Freddy shot back. "I was awake every second of the time, and I didn't hear a thing."

"Hear a thing?" Dave questioned without thinking. "What do you mean?"

"You," Freddy said. "When you sleep you snore loud enough to shatter windows. And there was hardly a murmur out of you."

"Ouch!" Dave yelped. "Strike three on me! I sure walked right into that one. Okay, I was kidding. I didn't get in a wink, either. Boy, if you must know, this suspense is wearing me down."

"Practically exhausted, I am," Freddy murmured. "Coastal Command, eh? I guess that means those Yank built Consolidated "Catalina" flyingboats."

"Or maybe those big four engined British Short "Sunderland" flying boats," Dave added in a speculative manner. "Well, either one suits me. Both are tip-top crates. But that means patrolling over coastal waters hunting for submarines. Heck, unless the bus falls apart and you drop into the drink I can't see much danger in that kind of work."

"Neither can I," Freddy said. Then thoughtfully rubbing the palms of his hands together, "Somehow, though, I have the hunch that it's going to be a bit more than tootling a flyingboat around from here to there and back again. The way Manners said happy landings to us makes.... Well, the way he said it made me sort of feel my stomach was suddenly filled with cracked ice. You know, sort of cold and shivery?"

"Right on the nose!" Dave said and nodded vigorously. "And there was a look in his eye, too. Gave me the feeling he knew darn well he'd never see us again."

"What a pleasant thought!" Freddy groaned. "I say, let's talk about something else. Any more of this and I swear I'll leap off the train and walk back."

"That will be the day, when Freddy Farmer back-tracks on anything!" Dave said with a chuckle. "But maybe it's best to talk of other things. After all, in this game talking about the unknown doesn't help at all. Like other jobs we've had, we've just simply got to take this one in stride as it comes along. And let it go like that."

"Oh quite," Freddy murmured. Then wistfully, "But I'd still jolly well like to know what we're going up against."

"You'll find out, and soon!" Dave said. "Right now, skip it. Tell me. What do you think of the Dodgers' chances to cop the flag this year?"

Freddy Farmer sat up a bit, blinked, and looked blank.

"Eh?" he echoed. "Dodgers? What country is that, and who are they fighting? I don't believe I ever heard...."

The English youth cut himself off short as Dave rolled over on the seat and collapsed with laughter. Then before Freddy could draw in breath to demand an explanation, the compartment door was rolled aside and a tall moon faced youth in the uniform of an R.A.F. flying officer stood in the doorway. Dave cut short his laughter, and both looked up into the grinning face of the man in the doorway.

"Am I interrupting something, chaps?" he asked in a north of England accent. "Just passing as I heard the outburst of humor, and saw you were R.A.F., too. Name's Steffins. Heading for Coastal Command, Plymouth."

"Come in, come in, Steffins," Dave said and moved over to make a place. "I'm Dawson, and my son, here, is named Freddy Farmer. Don't pay any attention to those wings and D.F.C. ribbon on his tunic. He stole them."

"All lies, Steffins," Freddy said, extending his hand. "The truth is, Dawson's really wearing my extra tunic. Likes to put on a show, you know. Look, Dave, have you cleaned those field boots of mine, yet? And don't forget to change back into your corporal's uniform before we reach Plymouth."

"Oh, you chaps going to Plymouth, too?" Steffins asked in a delighted tone. "By any chance is it Seventy-Four, Coastal Command? That's where I'm headed. Been up north on Lockheed Hudsons for the last two months. Got dropped in the water twice."

"Yeah, we're heading for Seventy-Four, too," Dave said. "We were in Sixty-Two on the west coast. Catalinas. What do they fly in Seventy-Four, anyway? Do you know?"

Dave wasn't sure but he got the impression that Steffins flashed him a searching, puzzled look. It was gone in an instant, however.

"Most everything, so I've been told," he said, "I say, you're a Yank, aren't you?"

"R.A.F. for the duration, anyway," Dave replied with a nod. "What was your Lockheed squadron? I know some chaps on Lockheeds up North."

Steffins seemed to hesitate, but perhaps it was only to draw air into his lungs.

"Squadron One Hundred and Twenty," he said. "A fairly new outfit. Squadron Leader Clancy was O.C. But I'm keen to get to Plymouth. Never been there before. And I'm blasted sick of the North Sea, I can tell you. Funny thing, though, about leaving my old squadron. Thought I was set there for good. Then suddenly yesterday the O.C. told me I had been assigned to Seventy-Four at Plymouth. Seemed to hint it was special duty, or something. Wouldn't say a thing, though. Just gave me my traveling papers, and such, and sent me off."

A suddenly liking for Steffins shot through Dave Dawson. Perhaps the lad was on the same kind of a mission as he and Freddy. He started to open his mouth to speak, but at that instant he happened to catch Freddy's eye. The English youth gave a hair width shake of his head, and said the rest in a look. Dave closed his mouth and started again.

"It wasn't like that with us," he lied. "Freddy and I asked for a transfer. Change of scenery, and all that kind of stuff. I guess there's more action off the south coast anyway. For the last two weeks we didn't do anything but use up gas and oil. I hope...."

At that moment all three of them heard the ungodly wail of a plane coming down in an all out power dive. It was not the wail but the sound of the plane's engine that brought them to their feet and diving for the compartment windows. It was not the steady beat of a British or an American engine. It was the throbbing pulsating roar of a German made engine. In fact, the unsynchronized throb of two engines. Even as they reached the window and stared up into the dawn sky they saw that the plane was a long range Nazi Focke-Wulf 187 destroyer plane. The craft was low down and racing in toward the moving train. An instant later the savage yammer of machine gun fire sounded above the beat of the engines.

"Strafing us!" Dave shouted unconsciously. "Why, that tramp! Do I wish I was in a Spitfire or a Hurricane! I'd soon...."

Dave stopped short, half turned and saw Steffins striving frantically to crawl under one of the seats. The man's face was paper white and he was biting into his lower lip hard. Another yammering burst from the strafing plane and jerked Dave's eyes back to the window. He started to duck himself but checked it as he saw that the pilot of the plane seemed to be concentrating on the rear car of the train. He looked at Freddy and saw the veiled contempt in the English youth's eyes. Freddy half jerked a thumb at Steffins still trying to crawl under the seat, and shrugged.

Dave laughed, and called out to Steffins.

"Give it up, Steffins! Those things are bolted to the floor. Besides, the lug isn't shooting our way."

"And also he has gone on his merry way!" Freddy said, turning away from the window. "The blighter just thought he'd have a bit of murdering sport on the way home. If I was in my old Hurricane he'd jolly well get a bellyful of his kind of sport."

Very red of face and twice as sheepish looking, Steffins stopped trying to crawl through bolted wood, and got up onto his feet. He gave Freddy a hard stare, then smiled slowly.

"Sorry I made such a fool of myself," he said with an effort. "Truth is, though, I got peppered a bit by one of those lads back in the September show. Turns my blood cold every time I hear one of the beggars come down. Well, I guess I'd better buzz back to my compartment and get my stuff together. Must be getting near there, now. Nice to meet you two. Hope we see a lot of each other."

"Sure, I guess we will, Steffins," Dave said pleasantly.

"Right you are," Freddy murmured as the pilot slid through the door and closed it shut.

"A nice guy to have around in the clutch," Dave grunted when he and Freddy were alone. "Ask me and I'll tell you the guy is yellow. Hey, why the heavy scowl, pal? What's suddenly on that thing you call a mind?"

"Your nice little friend," Freddy said with a jerk of his head toward the door. "It doesn't quite check. The lad is a bit queer, I'd say."

The opening was too perfect for Dave to let it slip by unnoticed.

"What Englishman isn't?" he cracked.

"I'll remember that one," Freddy growled. Then grave of face, "No, serious, Dave. I wish the devil the lad hadn't come in here. I'd feel better right now. I think I've seen him someplace before, but blessed if I can remember where. And the beggar lied to us, unless I'm completely wrong on my R.A.F. squadrons."

Dave started another smart remark but cut it off at the look on Freddy's face. He hitched forward a bit on the edge of the seat.

"How come?" he asked. "What are you driving at? I didn't notice anything unusual, but I really wasn't listening very hard. What do you mean?"

"A friend of mine used to be in One-Twenty Lockheed Hudsons," Freddy said with meaningful emphasis. "I ran into him a couple of weeks ago, when you and I were at Hull for that spell. He told me then that One-Twenty was washed out three months ago. Rather it was hooked up with One-Thirty-Six and they were doing coastal patrol around the Dover area."

"No kidding?" Dave exclaimed. Then with a puzzled frown, "But what was the point in the guy lying to us? He.... Say, I had a hunch at first when he came in. Maybe he's on some hush-hush thing like we are."

"I doubt it, and a lot!" Freddy said tight lipped. "I'm sure the chap was trying to pump us for all he was worth. Remember that time I shook my head at you? Well, he was fairly falling over on his face waiting for you to speak. And the way he tried to crawl under the seat! No, the lad has something very queer about him. Blast it! I wish I could remember where I've seen him before. I.... Wait! Let me think. I almost had it that time!"

Freddy scowled hard and pressed both palms against his forehead as though that would help memory to come back. As Dave watched him the tingling sensation came to the back of his neck once again. He sat as a man turned to stone, hardly daring to breathe.

"Well?" he finally got out after several tormenting minutes dragged by.

Freddy shook his head, started to gesture for silence with one hand, and then gasped and sat up straight.

"Got it, of course!" he cried. "Unless I'm completely balmy."

"Could be," Dave grunted. "But spill it anyway."

"Earlier tonight just as we were leaving Adastral House," Freddy said in a strained voice. "You were ahead of me yelling for that cabby, so you didn't see. In the blasted blackout I flew full tilt into a chap. We both went flat. I used my flash to help us both get up. And I got a look at the other chap's face. Dave, I swear to you that the chap was this Steffins. I can see his face now as clear as day!"

"So what?" Dave grunted as a sense of disappointment rippled through him. "The guy was in London to catch this train, and you just happened to collide with him in the blackout. Maybe he didn't get a look at your mug, so didn't recognize you just now."

"Let me finish!" Freddy snapped angrily. "When I bumped into him outside Air Ministry he was wearing the uniform of a captain in the Fifth Londonshire Infantry!"

"Sweet jumping tripe!" Dave breathed softly. "And he pops up again on this train wearing an R.A.F. uniform? Heck, Freddy, you must have made a mistake. It doesn't add up to make sense!"

"Perhaps it doesn't," Freddy said with a shrug. "But I still don't like that chap. And what's more, when we get to Plymouth I'm going to make it my job to find out more about him."

Dave made no reply. He turned his head and stared absently out the car window. For reasons he couldn't possibly explain to himself at the time he suddenly had the feeling that Freddy Farmer had spoken words of truth. That the English youth had looked into the future, seen what the war gods were brewing, and spoken an advance warning for them both. Dave shivered slightly and turned from the window.

"I wonder what it will be like when peace comes to this cockeyed world again," he grunted.

"I wonder how many of us will be around to find out," Freddy murmured as though talking to himself.