A throbbing drone penetrated Dave Dawson's brain, and slowly stirred him back to consciousness. The first few moments were ones of utter confusion and pain. The throbbing drone developed into the sound of spoken words. Words spoken in both French and English. Despite the pain that seemed to extend throughout his entire body, an inner sense of caution warned Dawson to keep his eyes closed, and to lie perfectly still. He knew that he was propped up in some kind of a padded chair, and that he was in a room filled with people. There was the smell of them in his nose, and there was also the half tangy, half sweet smell of hot oil and grease. In an instant he placed it as the smell one gets inside a factory that is equipped with many machines for working on metal. A joyous sense of satisfaction flooded through him when he told himself that he had obviously been taken inside the factory to be given first aid. But a split second later, as terrible memory returned in full, there was not one bit of joy left in him. Freddy Farmer! Where was Freddy? Dead or still alive? He hardly dared think that the last could possibly be true. Yet hope does spring eternal within the human breast, and he clung to that tiny hope with all his heart and soul. And then through his bitter thoughts came the sound of spoken words. Words that registered upon his still slightly stunned brain, and made sense. "Stand back, you fools!" a voice snarled in German. "Can you not see that he needs air? Stand back! We must do all for this gallant hero of the Luftwaffe." "Ja, ja!" a second voice echoed hoarsely. "With my own eyes I saw him destroy five of the swine before he was forced to abandon his airplane. Look at him, you French dogs. There is a German hero. After such a thrilling experience he is not hurt at all. Just a bump or two, and a little winded. By this time tomorrow he will again be in his airplane and again destroying those who would war with us. Look at him. See the medals of bravery, and gallant service to the Fuehrer, that he already wears? Five of them, I saw him destroy. With my own eyes!" "Hold your tongue!" the first voice snarled again. "We all saw it, so you do not need to tell us. Here, make yourself useful and soak this towel in cold water again. He will be conscious in another moment or two. Has anybody heard from the city? Did those swine dogs do much damage?" "A few fires from incendiaries," Dawson heard somebody reply, "but they are all out, or under control by now." "Good, good!" the snarling one said. "The swine dogs! But we will show them. Wait and see! Ah! So you have finally brought the towel? Now we will help our Luftwaffe hero." Dawson sensed movement very close to him, and then suddenly his face felt as though it had been buried in an iceberg. He had, of course, expected a cool towel to be placed on his face, but actually the towel was so icy cold that he gasped in spite of himself, and made as though to brush it away with his hands. The towel was quickly removed and he found himself staring up into the smiling face of a fat, double-chinned German. The man wore civilian clothes, and a badge on the right lapel of his coarse cloth jacket indicated that he was some kind of a factory official. "Ah, you are better now, yes?" he said, and beamed at Dawson. "You had an accident with your parachute just before you struck the ground. But you are safe now, and in good hands. I personally ordered you to be brought inside and made comfortable. But, my pardon, Herr Leutnant, there is perhaps something you wish?" The way the man waved his puffy hands, and obviously tried to create the impression that he personally had done a great service to an officer of Hitler's Luftwaffe, instantly typed the man for what he was, as far as Dawson was concerned. Dave sat up straighter in the padded chair he was in and eyed the man coldly. And he also took a brief moment to sweep the faces of the ten or twelve others crowded into what looked like a factory office. He saw some faces that beamed with pride, and even a little awe. Their owners he knew were German. But there were a few that stared at him practically expressionless. Deep sunken eyes were fixed on his unwinkingly. Deep sunken eyes in faces that had a skin color of a sort of yellowish gray. The faces of men who, though alive in the body, were dead of soul. He did not have to look at them twice to know that they were Frenchmen. Frenchmen uprooted from their native land and transported to Germany to perform slave labor in Hitler's war factories. Then Dawson brought his cold stare back to the double-chinned man. "Yes!" he bit off in German, and drew a hand across his eyes. "Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?" "You do not know?" the puffy-faced one asked in surprise. "Then I will tell you at once. This is the Farbin Factory, Number Six. You are in my office, Herr Leutnant. I am the general manager. I am Herr Kurt Krumpstadt. When I saw that you were in difficulties I at once took personal charge." Dawson grunted, and then saw that his flying suit had been removed and placed over the back of a nearby chair. He looked at it and nodded again. "Yes, it comes back to me now!" he said in a harsh voice. "I had shot down several of the swine, and then my guns jammed. Many of them came at me, and I was forced to leave my plane." "Ja, ja!" Herr Krumpstadt cried eagerly. "We all saw you. It was wonderful. Never have I seen such bravery as you displayed." "It was good of you to come to my assistance," Dawson said to him in a flat voice. "Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, eh? I will remember that name. I have a friend who is high in the Party. I will tell him how quickly you gave assistance to a member of the Luftwaffe." Herr Krumpstadt almost wept with joy at hearing those words. "It was nothing, Herr Leutnant," he said. "It was a duty to be performed, and I performed it. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude that Herr Leutnant will be so kind as to mention my little act to his important friend." "As soon as I meet him, which will be soon," Dawson grunted. Then, with a puzzled frown on his face, he said, "Farbin Factory Number Six? What do you make here, Herr Krumpstadt?" The German's beam of joy instantly faded, and he looked like some fat, oily creature that is suddenly cornered, and is very much afraid. Dawson glared at him, and snapped his fingers. "Well, are you deaf?" he barked. "Did you not hear a Luftwaffe officer's question? Or do you make nothing here? Well?" "Oh, no, no, no, Herr Leutnant!" the German fairly wailed, and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "We used to make treads for the Fuehrer's tanks, but now it is something else. Something special. Something very secret. I do not know if it is permitted for me to tell even a hero of our wonderful Luftwaffe. I do not know." On impulse Dawson made a quick decision not to press his point. He had a feeling that he was perhaps skating on very thin ice, and that it would be best to "test" out the ice a bit before really getting tough with Herr Krumpstadt. And so, instead, he asked a question that had been on the tip of his tongue since shortly after he had regained complete consciousness. "Did you see any of my comrades come down with their parachutes?" Herr Krumpstadt frowned as though deep in thought. A moment later he shook his head. "No, Herr Leutnant, you were the only one I saw," he said. Then he swung around and snarled at the others. "How about you? Did any of you see one of Herr Leutnant's brave comrades come down by his parachute? Well? Have you tongues? Speak up!" Almost everybody shook their heads, but Dawson thought he saw a tall Frenchman start to open his mouth as though to speak, then snap it shut and start at Herr Krumpstadt unwinkingly. The double-chinned German turned back to Dawson and shook his head. "No others were seen, Herr Leutnant," he said. "Only you. And now, can I be of further service? You wish me to drive you to the nearest Luftwaffe field? I would invite you to use the phone, only—only all the phones have been taken out. An order of the Ministry of War Production. But perhaps I can do something for you?" "Yes!" Dawson snapped, and jerked his head. "Get these others out of here. Is there no work to be performed in this place? Do you all drop your tools, and stare, simply because a Luftwaffe officer comes down with his parachute?" Herr Krumpstadt shook his head so violently that some of the little beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead flew off like fine rain. "Oh, no, not at all, Herr Leutnant!" he gasped. "But we were all here at a conference when we saw you descend in your parachute. I will dismiss them at once." The German played the factory big shot to the hilt. He swung around on the others, and stabbed a thick finger at the door. "Get out!" he shouted. "We will talk of that matter later. Now I am busy. Get out! Heil Hitler!" He received a mumbled reply to this vocal salute, and then Germans and Frenchmen alike shuffled out of the office, the last one to leave softly shutting the door. Dawson didn't watch them go. Instead he spread his feet apart a little, hooked his thumbs in his uniform belt, and stared fixedly at the back of Herr Krumpstadt's head. The German presently turned around, a boot-licking, oily smile on his fat lips. But when his eyes met Dawson's steady stare his smile faded, and a worried look crept into his face. "There is something, Herr Leutnant?" he asked in a strained voice, and swallowed hard. Dawson nodded coldly. "Yes, Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, there is something," he said. And with that he turned his back on the German and walked coolly over to the nearest window. The window looked out on a broad expanse of ground, that had before the war been rather artistically landscaped, but since then had been allowed to go to seed. Withered shrubs sprawled all over the place. The grass was dull brown and at least a foot high. That is, the patches of it that were not trampled flat by truck wheels, and countless feet. A half mile away was a woods, and Dawson could see two German Army cars parked by a road leading into the woods. Helmeted figures stood near the cars. And although Dawson wasn't sure, he thought he saw a machine mounted by one of the cars. Beyond the woods was the skyline of the City of Duisburg, and three columns of smoke that he saw mounting from it toward the morning sky he sincerely hoped were from burning buildings, and not from other factory chimneys. One thing was certain, however. He was in the middle of a strongly guarded area. The mounted machine gun and the parked Army cars and the helmeted soldiers guarding one of the approaches to the factory were proof enough of that truth. It would probably take more than just bluff to get away from this place, once he had learned its secret, if he ever did learn it. And there was something else, too. Something, heaven forgive him, that was as important to him as the secret of that factory. Freddy Farmer. Freddy's fate. At the thought of his pal Dawson's heart seemed to weep a little, and his whole body felt so weak that he impulsively put out a hand and braced it against the window frame. A moment later he heard the very timid voice of Herr Krumpstadt. "You do not feel well, Herr Leutnant! I beg you, sit down. Here, at my desk. You will find the chair most comfortable. I bought it long before the war. It is like an old friend. Sit down, Herr Leutnant, and I will get you some brandy. I have been saving it for the victory celebration when our enemies are no more. But who is more entitled to it than a hero of our glorious Luftwaffe?" "No brandy," Dawson said coldly as he turned from the window. "You may keep it for the victory celebration, Herr Krumpstadt. No, no brandy. I feel perfectly well. Instead, I will ask you a few questions. You have papers of personal identification, perhaps? Let me see them, then." The German looked dumbfounded, and perhaps even a little angry, but Dawson pretended not to notice. He turned from the man and went over to the huge desk that completely filled one corner of the office, and sat down in the most comfortable chair he had encountered in many a day. When he relaxed with a gruff grunt of approval he turned his head toward Herr Krumpstadt to see the German walking over to him with a folder of papers in his hands. "Here they are, Herr Leutnant," the man said. "You will find them all in order. I prize them above everything I own. I am a loyal and trusted member of the Party. But, forgive me, Herr Leutnant, I do not understand. Why do you ask me for my—?" "Is it for you to understand all the methods of the Gestapo?" Dawson barked at him, and snatched the papers away. For a brief moment Herr Krumpstadt held his empty hand out in front of him as his face seemed to turn yellow, and then green. Then he clapped his outstretched hand to his mouth for all the world like a man about to become violently ill. And as Dawson saw the terror mount in the man's eyes he knew that he had the fat, puffy-faced German in the palm of his hand! |