"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 altitude, and when he jerked his gaze up that way he saw two huge raging balls of flame arc out across the sky and down, leaving behind long tails of winking sparks.

"Freddy's ship 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 Nazi night fighters sooner. Well, that's how it goes. Rest in peace, old gals!"

With a half salute toward the blazing Spitfires falling earthward, and followed downward every inch of the way by a couple of dozen Nazi searchlights, Dave switched his gaze toward earth again, and twisted around at the ends of his parachute shroud lines in order to pick out any faint landmarks that might be showing. It took him a couple of seconds before he saw the big loop made by the Seine as it wound past the city of Rouen. When he saw it a happy smile came to his lips, and he felt pleased all over. Unless a low wind caught him and did things with his parachute envelope, he should land practically in the middle of the Seine's loop, the exact spot, where he was to make his rendezvous with Freddy Farmer.

"Nice, very neat!" he grunted. Then with a little laugh, "But you know darn well, pal, that it's just bull luck. You didn't see that river loop when you stepped out, and you know it. But don't be dumb enough to admit that to Freddy when you see him!"

With a grin and a nod for emphasis, he started to bend his knees ready for landing. The night shadow-filled ground was very close, now. As yet, though, the shadows weren't clear enough for him to make out just what they were. Trees, rocks, buildings, or even maybe the cluster of farm barns where he was to contact Freddy again? And so he breathed a silent prayer that there were no trees directly under him, or at least that he'd be able to see them in time. It would be nice, he didn't think, to foul his 'chute on some top branches, and dangle there like a Christmas tree ornament until daylight when some Nazis came by and cut him down, or shot him down! And it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing had happened, either!

"So don't even think about it!" he growled at himself. And with one hand still hanging onto the bundled up German uniform, he reached up both hands and grabbed hold of the shroud lines to ease some of his weight off the harness straps and make the landing that much easier.

Perhaps the gods were watching over him, or perhaps he was just plain lucky. At any rate, there were no trees under him, nor any big rocks, either, that could give him a nice case of twisted or broken ankle. As a matter of fact, there was just a nice patch of fairly soft ground, and he came to earth, and spilled the air out of his 'chute, without any trouble at all.

The instant he was on the ground, and had spilled air, he wiggled out of the harness, gathered up the 'chute and shoved it well out of sight under some bushes.

"Too bad they don't make these things so's you can use them to go on back up again," he murmured with a chuckle. "A parachute pickup! I must give that some thought when I get back to England, and have a little time on my hands. I—"

He cut the rest off short as part of what he had said came echoing back into his brain. "When I get back to England!" A cold shiver rippled down his spine, and his mouth went just a little bit dry at the thought. Here he was in the middle of Occupied France, with nobody knows how many Nazi butchers quite eager to cut his throat from ear to ear if they should find him. In Occupied France—on foot. His Spitfire was now just a heap of smouldering wreckage many miles away. When he got back to England? That would not come to pass until he had captured a Nazi plane and flown it across the Channel. Stealing a Nazi plane was his only avenue of escape. It—

He shook his head to drive away the bothersome thought.

"So what?" he grated at himself. "Freddy's in the same boat. And what you hope to do, you did once before, didn't you? Well, stop sniveling and blubbering around. Just make this the second time, that's all!"[2]

All the time he had been carrying on the conversation with himself he had been changing into the uniform of a Nazi Ober-Leutnant. To his surprise and delighted satisfaction, he found that it fitted him perfectly. But when he gave that a second thought, why shouldn't it? Sure! Major Barber wasn't the kind of a man who did things hop-skip-and-a-jump style. The Major, of course, had made sure that the uniform would fit.

He stood up and moved around a bit, as though he were in front of a mirror.

"Nice, perfect!" he murmured. "Almost makes me feel like a Nazi. But not quite, though. Not in the old head, anyway. Now to check a bit, and get started. Mustn't keep Freddy waiting—if he's okay."

Turning slowly, he peered hard in all directions. The anti-aircraft fire had died down considerably, and not so many searchlight beams were sweeping back and forth across the sky. Still, there was enough light of battle toward the north to shed just a faint glow down on the ground. He saw that he was in the clearing of a small woods. Lucky for him to have dropped in so neatly. A glance at his compass gave him north, and after making sure that everything he was leaving behind was well out of sight of chance German eyes, he started forward due north. Unless his rapid calculations were all cockeyed, he had about half a mile to travel before he would reach the cluster of shell-battered farm barns.

Here was a chance to put more of his Commando training into practice, and as he moved forward he made less noise than an Indian stalking game. Every step he took was more or less planned and considered ahead of time. He didn't bump into any trees that loomed up out of the dark. Nor did he stumble blindly over stones and boulders, or go barging into bushes in his path. There was no way of telling whether German patrols were about. That was one detail that Major Barber couldn't give him. From now on his life was in his own hands. What he did, and when he did it, was strictly up to him. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer.

Freddy! The thought of his pal started his brain racing again. Where was Freddy? How was he making out? Had he come down okay somewhere near, and was he now making his own way toward the rendezvous point? Or—A cold chill slashed through Dave, and he refused to let himself finish that thought. If anything should ever happen to Freddy Farmer, he vowed he would spend the rest of his life hunting down Adolf Hitler to take personal vengeance out on the two-legged, mustached animal from another world.

"Listen!" Dave told himself. "Stop worrying about Freddy. If there is one lad who always keeps a date, no matter what, Freddy Farmer is the lad. Don't worry! That guy will get there, even if he has to slip through the whole darn German Army. Just worry about yourself. Just tend to your own knitting!"

Taking what comfort he could from his own words, he kept on moving north, eyes stabbing at the darkness ahead, and ears half tuned to the distant sounds of battle to the north. At the end of fifteen minutes he came to the crest of a small ridge. He flattened himself on the top and peered hard down the other slope. His heart did a little dance of joy, and he silently shook hands with himself. Down there, not more than a couple of hundred yards away, he could just see the dim outlines of the shell-blasted farm barns.

For a couple of minutes he remained glued to the ground, searching for any possible lights, and straining his ears for any sound other than the sounds of battle far away from him. He saw no lights, however, and he heard no sounds. He got to his feet again, bent well forward and went down the far side of the slope with as much noise as though he were in his bare feet and walking on a velvet carpet. At the end of seven minutes by his watch he was hugging the tilting side of the nearest shell-blasted barn, and straining his eyes and ears more than ever.

Again he saw nothing, and heard nothing. But for three long minutes he forced himself to crouch motionless, crouch as motionless as a corpse. Then he started to purse his lips and let out the whistle of a night loon, the signal he and Freddy had agreed upon. But before the first note could reach his lips he heard the low call coming to him through the darkness from off to his left. For a split second, his nerves had been so tensed, it was all he could do to stop from letting out a wild yell of greeting.

But he didn't, of course. Instead he turned left, started moving slowly forward, and answered the loon call. Two, three more minutes ticked by, and then a little bit of the darkness seemed to move out toward him, and he felt Freddy Farmer's hands on his arm. It was so perfect an approach by the English youth that Dave gulped and was violently startled in spite of the fact that he had known Freddy was close. The hand on his arm tightened and he was pulled down onto the ground, or rather down into a small crater left by one of the exploding shells that had wrecked those farm barns earlier in the war.

"What kept you, old thing?" asked the whispering voice in his ear. "Been here for hours, scared stiff something had happened to you. Did you run into any Nazi patrols? There are some of the beggars about. One blighter almost stepped on my hand. Could have finished him easy, but he had some pals along. You all right, Dave?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Dave whispered back. "What do you mean, what kept me? I ran all the way! I didn't come across any Nazis, though. After this, better keep your hands in your pockets, pal. Well, let's have a look at the time. Don't want to be late meeting Jones."

As Dave breathed the last he slid back the little cover that fitted over the radium dial of his wrist watch, and took a quick look at the time. It told him that they had forty-six minutes to cover the two miles to the shelled church rubble where Jones was to meet them. He let Freddy see his watch, and then started to speak, but didn't as the English youth pressed something into his hand.

"A bit of burnt cork I brought along, Dave," the English air ace whispered. "I know we are wearing Jerry uniforms, but until we contact Jones we'd better blackout ourselves a bit, don't you think? There are too many blasted Nazis patrolling around. Better that we don't let them see us, even if we are dressed as Nazi officers. We can rub this stuff off later, if we have to."

"Check, and thoughtful boy!" Dave murmured, and started rubbing the black stuff all over his face. "And look, Freddy, your seeing Nazi patrols starts me thinking. We both want to get through to contact Jones, but at least one of us must get through. You get what I mean?"

"Quite," Freddy replied. "If we ran into trouble together, why, neither of us might get out of it. Going separately, though, one of us would probably get through to Jones. And if the other didn't show up-well, Jones would just have to team up with the chap who did. Correct?"

"Right on the button," Dave said. "I'd sure like your company, pal. But I think we'd better go it alone from here to that shelled church. Two miles. Let's say we make one mile in twenty minutes. Forty miles to the ruined church, and six minutes to play with, in case we have to. Okay. That's the way it will be. I guess we'd better get going now. Your face all blacked out?"

"Ready," Freddy breathed, and got to his feet. But he suddenly reached out and touched Dave on the arm. "Just had a thought," he whispered. "Might be a good idea for us to contact again halfway. There's an old bit of railroad track just a mile from here. Remember seeing it marked on Major Barber's mosaic maps? What say we meet there again in twenty minutes, twenty-three minutes at the most. Think that would be a good idea?"

"Checks with me," Dave replied. "If we don't meet then, the one who does reach the railroad will know more or less that the other fellow is probably out of the picture for good. Okay, Freddy. I'll be seeing you in twenty minutes, twenty-three at the most. Don't go sticking that nose of yours into any trouble. We'll probably have plenty of that later on."

"And see that you don't, either!" Freddy Farmer whispered right back at him. "I don't want to have to go back looking for you. And I'm afraid I would, you know. That's the trouble with liking a chap so much. Makes one do the barmiest things sometimes."

Dave smiled in the darkness, groped for Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.

"That goes double for me, too, Freddy," he breathed. "But neither of us is going to have to go back looking for the other. We're going to meet in twenty minutes. So long. Be seeing you, pal."

The two youths squeezed hands for one brief instant longer, then parted, and went melting off into the darkness in opposite directions.