"The one thing I simply adore about dear old England is the weather," Dawson grunted, and stuck both thumbs toward the ground. "So delightfully refreshing. Now take this perfect spring night. Why, where else in the world could you—?"

"Oh, shut up!" Freddy Farmer growled, and fiddled with the radio-jack of his helmet. "What's a little rain? Besides, it doesn't extend over Europe, the weather blokes assure us."

"Little rain is right!" Dawson snorted. "So little it's practically a falling mist. But it falls, and falls, and falls. Boy, there's going to be two great songs come out of England, but the second one hasn't been composed yet. Too bad I don't know C sharp from a three dollar hat, or I'd compose it myself."

"Well, thank goodness you won't!" Freddy snapped. "Your singing voice is bad enough. But what's the first song?"

"There'll Always Be An England," Dave replied. "And the one that some guy is bound to write before this is over, will be entitled: There'll Always Be Rain In England, Too!"

Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to make a fitting retort to that, but before he could release any words the door opened and an Air Forces lieutenant stepped inside.

"Major Crandall would like to see you in the C.O.'s office, Captains," he said.

"Major Crandall?" Dawson echoed. "He's down here?"

"That's right, Captain," the lieutenant assured him. "And he would like to see you both."

As the officer left, Dawson looked at Freddy and arched an eyebrow.

"Now what?" he grunted. "I thought that neither the major nor Colonel Fraser were going to come down here to see us leave. But maybe there's something he forgot to tell us."

Freddy shook his head and looked at the rain-spattered window of the mess lounge of a certain R.A.F.-Yank Eighth Air Force airdrome located on England's east coast.

"I doubt that," he said. "Up there in London they both told us as much about Duisburg as any two men could possibly know. And there isn't a map or a photo of the place that we didn't see. No, it just can't possibly be that he has anything to add. Most likely he's become a trifle worried about you, and has come down here to see if you'd rather stay behind while I carried out the job alone. And after all, that would be one thing less I'd have to hinder me."

"Listen to the guy rave!" Dave jeered. "Go it alone when he's often admitted that he's been afraid of the dark all his life? Fat chance! Come, little fellow! Take my hand and I'll lead you through the nice rain. And don't fret. There'll be other lights just as soon as we reach the C.O.'s office!"

Freddy made an appropriate face, and drew back his right foot. Dawson frowned sternly, and waggled his finger in warning. But just the same he went out the mess lounge door well in front of his flying pal.

They found Major Crandall alone in the field commandant's office, and the Intelligence officer gave them both a keen, searching look as they entered. He seemed to like what he saw, for his face immediately relaxed in a smile.

"Surprise, surprise!" he said. "But it's not because I was nervous, and just had to see you take-off. Something a darn sight more important to you two than that. Two hours ago I received contact word from one of my agents in the Duisburg area. One that I was afraid was gone for good. True, word that he's still alive was a good ten days in reaching me. And a lot of things can happen to an agent in enemy territory in ten days. There was no message. Just that he was alive and still on the job, but using a different address. Whether that means that Nazi counter-espionage agents got their eye on him, and are watching his old address, I don't know. It may mean that he was captured but managed to escape before he could be tried and shot. However, he is the only one that Colonel Fraser or I have heard from in weeks. So I flew down here in a hurry to tell you, just in case it develops that he can help you."

The major paused for a moment, then moved a step closer to the two air aces, as though he feared that the very walls had ears.

"The address," he said in little more than a whisper, "is Number One-Five-Six Kholerstrasse. Yes, the very same street. He goes by the name of Heinrich Weiden. I can't tell you how he looks now, but he was a big man. A six footer, with straw hair and blue eyes. The fourth finger of the left hand is missing at the first joint. But he may be wearing a fake fingertip. I'd try to get word to him to expect you, but it's too much of a risk. Only the colonel and I know of your mission, and it's safest to keep it that way."

"But he must have a number, or a code name, sir," Dawson spoke up quietly. "And how can we let him know—if we do contact him—that we're okay? After all, you know the uniform we're wearing under our flying suits."

"Don't worry about that," Major Crandall said. "His code name is Dartmouth. Where he went to college. And he will know that you are to be trusted when he hears you speak the words: 'Harvard Nothing.' A few years ago he captained a Dartmouth football team that blanked Harvard in a top-heavy game, so that explains the Harvard Nothing touch. Well, that's all. I'm going to get out of here right away so that your flying mates won't suspect anything strange going on. A million in luck, as I said before. But just one last word of caution."

Major Crandall paused and grinned at both of them.

"If things get hot when the raiding planes reach their target," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "don't forget that you're to fake getting shot down, and bail out. By that I mean, don't get so tied up slapping German fighters down that it will be so light by the time you jump that ground observers will see that you bailed out of Yank planes, and not Nazi ones."

"We'll keep that in mind, sir," Dawson grinned at him. "But if a Jerry should happen to slide into our sights I've got a hunch that we won't just blow a kiss and let him go his way."

"I know darn well you won't!" Major Crandall chuckled. "But just don't waste too much time blowing kisses. Well, God bless you both!"

The major fairly blurted out the words, saluted them smartly, and then ducked out of the commandant's office.

"A nice guy," Dawson murmured. "We can't let him down, Freddy. Or the colonel, either."

"Then why let the thought even enter your brain?" Farmer snapped. "Come on. Let's get out of here. I want to take another check look at my plane."

"Me, too," Dawson grunted, and followed him toward the door. "I wonder if they've got any sponges or towels around here. By now my poor crate must be drenched to the skin. And through it, what I mean!"

But Freddy let that one go without comment, too, and the pair went outside and onto the field.

Some three hours later that part of England's east coast shook and trembled to the thunder of many powerful aircraft engines. On one side of the field R.A.F. and Yank Eighth Air Force bomber pilots were giving final warm-ups to their bomb-laden chariots of the skyways before taking off for the combined operation against Hitler's fast crumbling European fortress. And on the other side of the field R.A.F. and Yank escort fighter pilots were doing the same thing with their fleet, deadly escort aircraft.

Not all the fighter pilots would escort the big fellows to their targets and back, because of the great distance to some of the plotted targets. It was arranged that no one spot in Hitler's fortress would feel the full bomb weight of the planes on this field, or of the planes that would take off from other fields. A dozen targets had been marked up, and, though it must have perhaps puzzled the pilots and crews, the raid upon Duisburg was to be light. Mostly incendiary stuff. The "eggs" were to be dropped at a spot farther on.

How Colonel Fraser and Major Crandall had arranged for the Duisburg raid to be light, without divulging the true reason, neither Dawson nor Farmer knew. And, in fact, neither of them cared. All that mattered to them was that they would fly as a part of the Duisburg escort. Their ships were the new North American P-Fifty-One B Mustangs that had a range that could take them well beyond Duisburg, and back to England. Only they weren't going back to England. At least not in the Mustangs they were about to fly to Duisburg.

"Seems a shame, doesn't it, Freddy?" Dawson murmured as they stood together between their two parked planes, with propellers idling over.

"What does?" young Farmer asked. "Or is it supposed to be more of your warped humor cropping up? If so, forget that I asked."

"No, not funny at all, pal," Dawson said gravely. "I mean, these two planes. Best things ever to have wings. Yet we're going to fly them into Hitler's front yard, and then ditch them and let them dive down to hit the deck. It's going to hurt to see these two babies hit and burst into flame."

"Quite, if either of us can take the time out to look," young Farmer murmured. "However, you're right. It does seem to shame to expend them that way. But what is nice about this war, anyway?"

"What's nice about any war?" Dawson grunted. "But I've got a hunch that this war is just about running out, and—"

"And keep it to yourself!" Freddy cut in. "Right now I want to think only of our private war, Dave. And speaking of this little job ahead, do you think it would help to check over the details together again?"

"No, it wouldn't help a bit, Freddy," Dave said with a firm shake of his head. "We've both talked ourselves blue in the face as to just exactly what each is going to do, or hopes to do. If we haven't got it in the old brain by now, going over it once more won't make any difference at all."

"No, I guess you're right, it won't," Freddy Farmer murmured. "However, in case I haven't mentioned it, old thing, happy landings, and all that kind of rot. I'm quite sure that I'll be frightfully busy, but I'll do my best to look out for you."

"Now I call that right nice of you, neighbor!" Dawson chuckled, and put an arm about Freddy's shoulders and squeezed. "And the same goes for me to you, kid. And double. But we've gone through some tight spots together, and I've got a hunch that we'll get through any tight spots this time, too. And with flying colors."

"If only you hadn't used that blasted word, hunch!" Freddy Farmer groaned. However, the grin on his face belied the tone of his voice.

A moment later signal lights began to flash from the Operation tower, and one by one the big bombers were trundled down to the far end of the runway. The first swung around into position, the pilot received the green light, and the mighty aircraft moved forward, picking up more and more speed until it was hurtling along the flare-marked runway. Hardly had it cleared and began nosing up into the night sky than the pilot of the next bomber in line opened up his throttles. One by one the powerful ships took to the air until only the fighters were left.

A signal blinked for all pilots to get into their pits. Dave reached out and gripped Freddy's arm.

"Be seeing you, kid, at Duisburg," he said. "And have a nice ride. But don't star gaze too much."

"I won't, Dave," young Farmer replied, and pressed Dawson's arm in return. "And you watch out for yourself, too, old thing. A very queer chap at times, you know, but I'm really quite fond of you."

"And I guess you'd do in a crowd, too, little man," Dave said with a gentle gruffness in his voice.

And that was that. The two air aces parted company, and each climbed into his plane. Some seven minutes later Dawson rocketed his Mustang across the field, cleared, and went power climbing up toward the star-hidden heavens. At a certain altitude he leveled off, and then circled slowly until he found, and was in, his formation position. His was the tail cover plane, so a moment later the formation swung eastward and out over the English Channel.

"Well, Duisburg, here we come!" Dawson murmured softly. "And here's hoping you're not too tough a nut to crack."

If the war gods on high heard Dawson's words they must have winked slyly at each other, and then burst out with roaring and hooting laughter! They knew! And so did the Grim Reaper, who was already waiting!