A faint sound broke the silence of the black night! Was it the wind in the trees? The echo of the battle far to the north? A night animal stalking its next meal? Or was it one of Adolf Hitler's uniformed killers?

Dave Dawson didn't know. Perhaps it was just his imagination. Perhaps it was just his taut nerves snapping, and his brain playing him tricks. As yet he had not come across a single Nazi night patrol. And perhaps there wasn't a German within miles of him. But maybe there was! Just to make sure, he pressed himself close to the ground, turned his cork-blackened face toward his left wrist, and with his right hand inched up the cuff of his sleeve, and then removed the cover from the radium dial of his watch that was strapped about his forearm halfway to the elbow.

Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes had ticked by already? His watch must be wrong! It must have gone all cockeyed! It must have gained a couple of hours in the last ten minutes. He was dead certain he had looked at it not five minutes before. Yet his watch said it was exactly five minutes of the hour. Just twenty minutes since he had parted company with Freddy Farmer at those shelled barns. Twenty minutes? That meant he was late. Only three minutes left to reach the strip of old railroad track!

He had the feeling that he wasn't very close to it; that he couldn't cover the remaining distance in three minutes, and not make a lot of noise doing it. But—that noise he had heard just now! Was it a Nazi? Or was it Freddy closing in from his left. Had Freddy—?

The black night sky seemed to crash down on Dave's spine. Every muscle went limp, and and every fiber of his entire being seemed to snap like a rubber band. White hot flame cut into his right shoulder, and fingers of steel circled about his neck. There was no air in his lungs, and dazzling white balls of fire spun around before his eyes. So this is how it feels when you are about to die? The thought pounded through his brain as the thunderous roar in his ears seemed to blast his whole body to bits.

It took perhaps a split second, or even less, for all those thoughts and emotions to register within him. And then experience and intensive training came racing to his rescue. He flung up both clenched fists with every ounce of his strength, shoved them between two arms and pried outward savagely. The steel fingers were pulled partly loose from his neck. At the same time as he thrust up his fists, he brought up his right knee with the driving force of a battering ram, and twisted to the left. A gurgle of pain was music in his roaring ears. Air poured down into his lungs and stung like sparks of fire. But strength was surging through him now, and if there was still pain he was too furiously engaged in whirlwind action to be conscious of it.

A grunting, gurgling hulk had half rolled and half fallen off from on top of him. He shot out his left foot, hooked his toes about a booted ankle, then kicked upward and outward. At the same time he twisted back and slammed stiff fingers right down into a puffy moon-shaped face. His palms slapping down over parted lips cut off the scream of pain that would have torn the night air apart if it had escaped. But Dawson had trained for this moment, and he wasn't slipping up on a single trick. Keeping the open mouth gagged with one hand, he streaked the other down to the neck, dug in his fingers and squeezed with every ounce of his strength. The hulking figure under him struggled desperately, arched his body upward, and tried to twist his head. That was the moment!

Quick as a flash Dave crooked a leg under the figure, held his grip on the neck, and dropped the other palm down to the point of the chin. That palm he jammed upward with a savage, vicious movement. No man on earth caught by that Commando trick had a chance. And the heaving hulk under Dawson was no exception to prove the rule. He was strong, though, and for a brief instant he resisted Dawson in a furious effort. Then the strength in him seemed to melt away. His head went flying backward and there was the sickening sound of snapping bone. Instantly the man went limp and still. And quite naturally, too. A man who has had his neck broken doesn't move very much. He can't. And in this case it was impossible, because the man was already dead.

A shudder shook Dave as he untwisted from the man and started to get up onto his feet. Death was a terrible thing to have to deal out, even to a black-hearted Nazi. But this was war, and a man's personal thoughts about things weren't to be considered. He—

The strength was suddenly sucked right out of Dave. He hadn't realized what it had cost him to take care of that hulking German who had stumbled across him in the dark. He tried to regain his balance, but couldn't in time. He went pitching headlong on his face. But that was perfectly okay, at least for a moment or two. He was filled with momentary pain from head to foot. And his lungs felt as though invisible claws were trying to pull them right out through his ribs. And so for two blessed minutes he stayed right where he was, stretched out on the ground, sucking air into his lungs, and letting his heart pump renewed strength through his body.

Then suddenly he remembered that he had only three minutes left. Holy smoke! He'd never make the railroad track now. Freddy would go on without him. Maybe he'd never be able to catch up. He'd—

"Dave! All right, old chap?"

The whisper was no louder than a breath of night wind in tall grass. Yet it seemed to explode in Dave's ears like cannon fire. For a split second he couldn't move, think, or function in any way at all. His brain raced wildly; screamed at his muscles to go into action again. This might be the rest of the German patrol. That was an officer he had just killed. He'd felt the insignia and rank sewn on the man's uniform. Maybe the rest of the patrol was—

Just a split second, and then his thoughts were making sense again. That had been Freddy Farmer, of course! Good old Freddy Farmer. Freddy had come back to look for him, as he had promised. Dave turned his head to the right and stared at the motionless darkness.

"All okay here!" he breathed. "Had a little exercise, but it's okay now. But thanks for coming back, pal."

One of the motionless shadows moved, and Freddy Farmer was at his side.

"Didn't come back," the English youth said, and ran his hands over Dave as though to make sure. "Heard a racket, and guessed you'd stumbled into a blighter. Couldn't tell in the dark. Phew! That must be the biggest Nazi Hitler has!"

"Had," Dave corrected grimly. "And it was closer than I ever want it to be again. Guess I'm a pretty punk Commando. He must have heard me and played dead dog until I passed by. Gosh! I feel as if I didn't have a strip of skin left on my neck!"

"We'll have a look into that, later," Freddy said, and started to help Dave to his feet. "We've got to be getting along. We're behind schedule. Maybe it would be better to stick together, at that. Yes, it would. Come on, old chap. Can't spend the whole night chit-chatting."

"Okay by me," Dave grunted, and was just a little surprised when he found out the rubber had gone out of his legs. "Let's get going. And that's my last dumb idea for a while. Going it alone, I mean. Okay, give me your hand, Freddy. Let's keep contact that way."

"Right-o." The word just managed to drift to his ears. "I'll squeeze if I hear something on my side. You squeeze if you hear or see something on yours. And let's make it as fast as we can."

Dave just grunted faintly. He didn't bother to say anything. For that matter, there wasn't anything to say. Besides, he was too busy feeling and sensing his way forward through the night, and getting more strength back into his still aching body as soon as he could.

Then began a night journey that Dave vowed he would never forget as long as he lived. The closer they approached the area surrounding Evaux, the greater the risks they ran of bumping into Nazi soldiers. It seemed that they would take no more than a couple of steps before they would be forced to drop flat and hold their breath while a squad of German troops went past.

That fact worried Dave not a little as Freddy and he stole forward through the dark night. True, he had expected possibly to meet a few Germans. But not meet so many, so often. The more he thought of it, the more a gnawing little fear worked on his heart. Wasn't it just possible that the Germans were suspecting that an attack of some sort might be made on von Staube's and von Gault's headquarters? Were the Nazi expecting something like that, and so had they thrown out patrols all around the area? And if that was true, what chance would Freddy and he have of capturing the two Nazi big shots even with Jones' help? And what if they didn't meet the U. S. Intelligence officer posing as a German? Supposing something had happened to Jones—and he wasn't there?

The thought made a film of ice coat Dave's heart, and beads of clammy sweat break out on his forehead. After all, maybe Freddy and he were walking with eyes wide open straight into a Nazi trap. There were just too darned many German soldiers about for comfort. No two ways about that. Something was wrong. Or at least the eerie tingling sensation that had come to the back of his neck seemed to warn him that things were not as they should be, or he had hoped they would be.

On sudden impulse he stopped dead, squeezed Freddy's hand, and then melted to the ground close to a thick clump of bushes. The shell-smashed church couldn't be more than a quarter of a mile away now. But he wanted to confab with Freddy before they started down the last lap of their weird, nerve-jangling journey.

"What's up, Dave? Something wrong?"

"Not yet," Dave breathed into his pal's ear. "But that's just what I'm wondering about. Freddy! Did you ever see so many Nazis out on night patrol? The whole area is practically crawling with them."

"I know," the English youth murmured. "A blessed sight more than I fancied we'd be bumping into. What do you think, Dave?"

"In circles, up to now," the Yank-born air ace replied. "I don't know just what to think. Trouble is, I've got a sneaky hunch that the bums figure that something may be in the wind, and are doing something about it, by throwing out so many patrols. Right here is where this whole thing stops looking like a cinch. Supposing Jones isn't there at the wrecked church!"

"I refuse to answer!" Freddy hissed. "It just can't be that way. He's just got to be there. We'd be in a fine flat spin if Jones didn't show up. Don't even think about it!"

"I'm trying not to, but it's plenty hard," Dave murmured. "Well, I guess there isn't much sense, at that, in parking here and trying to hash over something we don't know anything about—yet. Let's get going again. Can't be more than a quarter of a mile more. I've just been wasting time for us."

"Rot!" Freddy grunted. "I was about to stop and talk things over, when you beat me to it. But it does no good to talk. The only thing we can do is get to that shelled church—and find out what's what."

"Yeah," Dave murmured as they got into motion again. "And do I wish my cockeyed thoughts would leave me alone. Oh well! Live and learn, I always say."

Perhaps! But Dave Dawson certainly didn't enjoy living the next ten minutes. For one thing, each minute seemed a year long. And for another, they twice came within a hair's breadth of running smack into a Nazi patrol. And for a third, he felt as though he had died a dozen times over during every minute of those ten. Eventually, though, they reached the dirt road marked so clearly on Major Barber's maps. And but a short time after that they were huddled together deep in the darker shadows of the piled up rubble that had once been a church.

"So what?" Dave heard his own voice suddenly whisper. "Here we are, and—so what?"

"A little patience, I fancy," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Jones probably just wouldn't stand here waiting. It might look too suspicious to all those blighters moving about. Besides, we're several minutes late. Maybe he went for a bit of a walk, and will be back."

"Sure, that's probably it," Dave agreed, but only with his lips.

There was no agreeing with Freddy's words inside his head. A cold clammy thought seemed to fill his entire brain. No, not just a thought. Definite knowledge it was—though of course there was no proof. Just the same, though, he had the steady sickening feeling that the man called Jones was not going to meet them this night, or any other night, for that matter. However, he had agreed with Freddy with his lips, anyway. No sense building up a fear in Freddy that might be absolutely unfounded. Still—

"Steady, Dave!" came Freddy's sudden, cautioning whisper. "I heard footsteps coming along the road. Maybe this will be Jones. Steady until we get a look at the chap!"

Dave was steady enough—outwardly. But inside he was all just so much nervous jelly. His heart tried to slap out through his ribs as he himself heard the sounds of footsteps coming along the road. And the blood raced through his veins, and actually seemed to be trying to force itself out through the ends of his fingers and the ends of his toes. He was filled with the wild insane desire to snap the tension with a laugh, or with a shout. He curbed the impulse, though, and crouched with Freddy in the darkness as the footsteps came closer and closer.