Slipping the car out of gear, Dawson braked it to a final stop, and automatically switched off the ignition. The moving flashlight beams were not more than twenty yards ahead now, and even through the rumble of many aircraft engines beyond the hills he could hear harsh German voices ordering unseen figures to get out of the cars in front and show their papers. A great sense of bitter defeat welled up within him, and he impulsively turned to Freddy. But young Farmer was already getting out of the car on the roadside and violently motioning to Dawson to follow him.

"Leave it to me, Dave!" he whispered. "You've got to, old chap!"

There wasn't anything else for Dawson to do but just that. Throat dry, and heart pounding, but with a sort of reckless, devil-take-the-hind-most spirit welling up in him, he got quickly out of the car and took his place beside Freddy. Young Farmer seemed to pause and breathe deeply. Then he nudged Dave with his elbow.

"Start running with me, but don't say a word!" he breathed fiercely. "I'll do all the talking. Let anybody that we meet see that you've got a gun. And try and get a very nasty Gestapo look on that face of yours. Right-o! Here we go!"

The comment that Freddy had obviously gone stark, raving nuts rose up to Dawson's lips. But he didn't have time to speak it, even if he had wanted to. Freddy had broken into a run, had snapped on his flashlight beam, and was sweeping it back and forth across the road in front of him. In three swift strides Dawson caught up with his pal, and shoulder to shoulder they ran straight for a group of shadowy figures standing in the middle of the road.

At the sound of their approach a couple of flashlight beams were turned their way, and Dawson's heart seemed to stand still in his chest as the order rang out in German:

"Halt!"

But by then Freddy Farmer was almost stepping on the toes of the German who had barked the order. He flashed his light straight in the man's eyes, and Dave caught a flash glimpse of small close-set eyes, and lips curled back in an angry grimace. Then Freddy Farmer was barking at the man and pushing him to one side.

"Stop him, you blockhead! That one ahead! Herr Baron's orders! We have followed him all the way. We're Gestapo, under Herr Baron's orders. Get out of the way, you dumb-witted cow. Out of the way, or Herr Baron will hear of this!"

Dawson's brain was spinning with confusion, and he tried to follow Freddy's words. But the only thing that really sank in was the fact that several seconds later Freddy Farmer and he had plowed right through the group in the middle of the road, left them standing there, and were racing along in the half darkness at top speed. With every step he took Dawson expected to hear angry shouts behind, and hear the bark of guns. Nothing happened, though, and presently Freddy and he were running through a narrow passage between two of the hills. And there spread out before them was a sight that caused them both instinctively to slow down to a stop and gape in horrified amazement.

As far as Dawson was concerned, he might have stood rooted in his tracks forever staring at the sight. But suddenly Freddy Farmer grabbed his arm, and pulled him off to the side and behind some heavy shrub growth. Winded, the two youths sank down onto the ground, and for a full minute not a word passed between them. Presently, though, Dave reached over, found Freddy's hand, and pressed it hard.

"I won't even say, nice going, pal!" he whispered. "Because I know darn well that it just didn't happen. Holy smoke! Right smack through the bunch, and not one of them so much as opened his mouth to stop you!"

"Credit it to the power of the Gestapo," Freddy murmured. "Plus the fact that a Jerry's mind never moves very fast. I know, though, that I'll go on being scared stiff for the rest of my life. I'll never get over these last few minutes. But, Dave! Look! It is all true. Just as Weiden told us. But—but what can we do, now that we're here?"

Dawson didn't reply to that question. The power of speech failed him as he peered through the shrub branches, and out across the mile square area of billiard table flat ground completely ringed by hills. It was like looking at some weird picture conjured up in the mind of a mad artist. It just wasn't possible to believe, even though he was staring at it with his own eyes. The picture of at least one hundred R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force heavy bombers, complete with insigne and unit markings. But with German uniformed figures swarming all about them. It was so fantastic, so utterly unreal, that Dawson impulsively closed his eyes tight several times, and then opened them quickly, fully expecting the crazy scene to vanish in thin air.

But it did not. It was still there every time he opened his eyes. The planes were arranged in a line that extended halfway around the edge of the field. The first plane in line was poised at the end of a runway that cut straight through the middle of the huge disc-shaped airdrome in an east to west direction. And when he looked toward the west side Dawson saw that the runway pointed straight at a wide opening between two of the ringing hills. In other words, the heavy bombers taking off would not have to gain more than usual take-off altitude in order to clear the ring of hills. That opening was plenty wide enough for them to pass through. Room to spare, in fact. And in a crazy, abstract sort of way Dawson realized that completed planes had passed down through that opening between the hills when the pilots came in for a landing.

"Lancasters, Wellingtons, Flying Fortresses, and even a few Liberators! And with props ticking over, ready for a take-off. Gosh! I wonder how they camouflaged this spot during the day? I don't see any nets, or anything. But they probably used nets, which are now rolled back against the hillsides."

Freddy Farmer's voice was low, and there was a queer note in it that made Dawson turn his head quickly and peer hard at his pal in the pale flickering glow that came from the take-off flares, and, so it seemed, from at least five hundred flashlights that were moving about all over the place. Impulsively Dawson reached out a hand and placed it on Freddy's arm. Freddy was trembling like a leaf, and Dawson didn't have to be any doctor to realize that reaction to all that had happened was setting in in Freddy with a vengeance.

"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Take it a bit easy, if you can. You've been aces, what I mean, pal. And now it's my turn to do some fast and heavy thinking. And get results like you did. Look, Freddy! Do you see anything different about those planes?"

"Different?" young Farmer echoed softly, and scowled hard at the scene before him. "No! And that's what tears me up so inside. Why, this is just like it is in England. Just before the take-off for a raid on Germany. But, good grief, Dave! This is Germany, right here!"

"I know, kid, I know," Dawson soothed him gently. "But let's skip that part for a moment. Now look. I don't see any difference either, so that means that their fire bombs, or whatever they really call them, are stowed away in the bomb bays just like any TNT eggs. And if so, they are to be released from the bombardier's nook, just like regular eggs. Now here's what I mean. They don't plan for any air fighting, so the chances are that each ship isn't taking along more than, say, three men. A pilot, a navigator, and a so-called bombardier. Call it four, and make the fourth a flight engineer. But it's to be a one-way flight, so maybe a flight engineer isn't going along."

"Yes, yes, you're probably right, Dave," Freddy said with an impatient nod of his head. "But what difference? It's unimportant to us. The important thing is, how can we possibly stop them? How in the world could we start a fire of any kind? The blighters are all over the place. Even though we did manage to sneak up and fire one of the planes, that wouldn't mean the lot would go. They must have fire equipment here, in case of accident. Dave, we're as helpless as Weiden was. We—"

"Shut up, and let me finish!" Dawson muttered, and pressed Freddy's arm hard. "Okay. I'll agree that even though we got away with touching off the gas tanks of one plane, it might not do us any good. I mean, that those cockeyed fire bombs may have to be dropped, and detonated before they really do their stuff. Maybe heat doesn't affect them at all, though I've got my doubts about that. Anyway, just setting one of them afire is out. Okay, then, we set the whole darn bunch afire! In short, we wipe out the works. Maybe you and me, too. But we still wipe out the works."

"Don't, Dave!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "You're talking insane. How can we possibly wipe them all out? Heaven knows I'd give my life, and gladly, if there were any way—"

"And I keep trying to get it through your head that there is!" Dawson cut in, tight-lipped. "Look at that end plane, Freddy. Do you see many of them milling around that ship? No. Only a couple, and they're mechanics. 'Most everybody is up front, where the goodbyes are being said, I guess. Gosh! Do you suppose Hitler and Himmler are in that bunch?"

"Hitler!" Freddy Farmer echoed in a strangled gasp, and started to push up on his hands and knees. "If I could just get close enough to that filthy baby killer, I'd—"

Dawson grabbed him and hauled him back.

"Don't go haywire!" he snapped. "Ten to one he's miles from here. But supposing he was here, and you got close enough for a shot—which you darn well wouldn't! You'd get nailed, too. And these planes would take off! Stop it, Freddy, and bend an ear. That end plane. That's our baby, see? You and me! With a couple of good breaks we can roll it down and onto the runway, and still have room to get off and pass through the hill opening on the west. It's a Fortress, Freddy, and we know all about those sweethearts. Well? We've swiped a couple of Nazi planes in the past, so how about swiping one of our own for a change, huh?"

"If we only could!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely after a long moment of silence. "If we only could!"

"We can, and we've got to!" Dave said grimly.

"But there may be some of the beggars inside the plane, that we just can't see," young Farmer said slowly.

"Oh, so what?" Dave snapped. "Use the old brain, Freddy! Are you and I carrying water pistols? With this rumbling and shouting all over the place, you wouldn't hear a shot three feet from the ship. Those three mechanics are our only worry. Then, plus the distance to the plane, and the little item of getting it off, and getting altitude."

Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked straight into Dawson's eyes.

"Right you are," he said quietly. "Anything to stop them all from taking off. And even if we can't get enough altitude—"

Young Farmer stopped, then tried to continue, but all he seemed able to do was swallow rapidly. Dawson forced his own lips to pull back in a forced grin, and nodded.

"Yeah, Freddy," he said softly. "The least we can do, for Dartmouth's sake. If we can get enough altitude to give us a fighting chance for our own hides, then we slam the plane down into the middle of them, and go up with the whole works. Tough on us, but—but a lot of swell guys have died for far less, Freddy."

Freddy continued to look at Dawson without speaking. Then presently he simply smiled, and pushed up onto his hands and knees.

"Let's get on with the blasted thing, Dave," he said with all the calmness of voice of a man going down to the post office to buy a stamp. "Always did hate to sit around jawing when there was something that had to be done. So let's get on with it—one way or the other."

"And it's going to be the way we want, kid!" Dawson whispered as they stepped out from behind the shrubs, and started walking along the rim of the field. "I've got the old hunch."

To that Freddy Farmer groaned, crossed two fingers of his left hand, because he was carrying his gun in his right, and kept on walking.