Night had come again to England—black night and the throbbing drone of Nazi planes winging inland from the shoreline of the Channel; swarm after swarm of Goering's vultures who would blast helpless men, women, and children with their deadly loads of bombs, and then return to their bases and report the great number of hits they had scored upon strictly military objectives.

Standing on the edge of a night-shadowed field several miles north of London, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer watched the play of searchlight beams, and the glow of burning buildings in the distance. The sound of the bursting bombs was like the dull rumble of thunder far away. But every now and then when the wind changed slightly, they caught the faint chatter of the machine guns of night-flying Spitfires and Hurricane pilots hunting out the raiders high up in the sky.

For several minutes they had been standing there watching the sight and not speaking. There wasn't anything to say except express the desire to be up there doing their bit along with their R.A.F. comrades. And to express such a wish would have been just a waste of breath. Even though it had suddenly been granted, neither of them would have accepted. They had their own job to do. They had pledged themselves to carry it through to a successful end, and neither of them would turn back now even though he were given the opportunity.

One hour ago they had reported to the squadron leader of this Bombing Command unit. He had of course been informed of the flight they were to make, but only up to the point where they would bail out somewhere close to Antwerp. He had welcomed them gravely, but they had not missed the gleam of quiet admiration in his eye. The squadron leader had introduced them to the pilot and crew of the Wellington bomber in which they would make the flight. Flight arrangements had been quietly discussed, and they had been supplied with parachute packs, and oxygen masks and tanks. That done with, the pilots and crews scheduled to make the raid had retired to the Ready-Room for last minute instructions, leaving Freddy and Dave to discuss last minute items between themselves.

There had been nothing for them to discuss, however. Every possible angle of their coming venture had been hashed over and over during a second meeting with Colonel Fraser and Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. A detailed picture of Pierre Deschaud was stamped in their brains. They had poured over a detailed map of the Scheldt River waterfront until they knew it by heart. Every little thing that might help, Colonel Fraser had told them. Ten times, no, a hundred times, they had gone carefully over the whole thing from beginning to end. There was nothing for them to discuss between themselves, now. There was nothing to do but wait until the four plane flight of Wellington bombers, powered by twin 1000 horsepower Bristol "Pegasus" engines, was ready to take off.

"I bet those guys are busting to ask us a million questions," Dave eventually broke the silence between them. "You could see it in their eyes when we were introduced."

"Well, you certainly can't blame them," Freddy replied with a chuckle. "Just look at these duds we're wearing. And by the by, you certainly won't break any girl's heart as a Belgian peasant boy, my pal. Frankly, you look a sight."

"Listen to who's talking!" Dave snorted. "That dizzy-looking get-up of yours is the one thing that has me worried about this flight."

"Ah, so the chap is worried!" Freddy murmured. "I thought so!"

"Darn tooting!" Dave said. "One look at you and both of the Pegasus engines on the bus are liable to up and stop working just like that. And then where'll we be? See what I mean?"

"I doubt if they'll even get us off the ground if you get close to them!" Freddy scoffed. "So be sure and stay well back out of sight. But to be serious, Dave, what do you really think of our chances? Oh, I know we'll go the limit, but what do you really think?"

Dave didn't answer for a moment. He turned his back to the scene of night aerial warfare to the south and stared unseeingly at the four "Wellies" with their propellers slowly ticking over.

"That's a tough question, Freddy," he finally said. "To tell you the truth, I really don't know just what I do think. As a matter of fact—No, skip that."

"Skip what, Dave?" Freddy prodded earnestly. "What were you going to say? I really want to know."

Dave looked at him and smiled a trifle wryly.

"Maybe I'm getting old too fast, Freddy," he said. "Or maybe I'm just getting too many cockeyed ideas for my age. But from what I've already seen of this war, nothing is absolutely certain. I mean, you can plot and plan how you're going to do a thing until you're blue in the face; get every little thing all set so that it's—well, so that it's in the bag, as we say back home. Then, zingo! Something pops up that knocks all your plans completely haywire. And—Oh, nuts! I guess I'm like a kid whistling in the dark."

"And I feel exactly the same," Freddy said quietly. "But go on. What else, Dave?"

"Oh, skip it!" Dave grunted. "Maybe I'm just getting cold feet at the last minute."

Freddy stepped close to him.

"Would you like me to bash you one, my American pal?" he asked sharply. "Well, just stop talking that way about yourself. Cold feet? What rot! After what I saw you do at the Dunkirk show? Rubbish! No, Dave, don't talk that way to me. Now, what else were you going to say?"

Dave grinned and playfully rasped his knuckles across Freddy's jutting chin.

"One in a million, that's you," he said softly. "One in five million, or name any figure. Well, it's the old hunch business working again, if you must know, Freddy. I mean, everything seems too pat, too cut and dried. I've got the hunch that something we couldn't even dream of is going to pop up and dump us into a mess of trouble before we're back in England again."

"And right you are!" Freddy breathed softly. "I have a feeling just like that, myself. Got it first this afternoon, but I didn't say a word for fear the colonel might take it the wrong way. He might have thought I was hedging and trying to back out. You know, make excuses?"

"Nobody would ever think you were trying to back out of anything!" Dave said loyally. "But what was it that popped into your mind, anyway?"

"Pierre Deschaud," Freddy said.

Dave shot him a puzzled look.

"Huh?" he echoed. "Pierre Deschaud? So what?"

Freddy hesitated a moment and fumbled with the hem of his coarse peasant jacket.

"Sheer rot, probably," he said after a moment. "But a chap is bound to think of things, you know. Colonel Fraser admits that word from Deschaud cannot get through to him except by one of the colonel's agents. He also admits that the last five agents who have gotten in touch with Deschaud have failed to return. They have either disappeared or died, or both. Well, that makes me wonder a lot."

"Well, he said the Nazis were smart and clever guys," Dave pointed out.

"Sure he did," Freddy nodded. "But don't you get the idea, Dave?"

"The old brain has swallowed up so much today, it's a blank," Dave confessed. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

"What proof is there that Pierre Deschaud is still alive?" Freddy asked suddenly.

Dave gasped and went back a step as the real significance of the words came home to him.

"Holy catfish!" he eventually breathed. "That is a thought, isn't it!"

"And one worth a lot of consideration, too," Freddy nodded. "As I said, it may all be a lot of rot, but chew on this a bit, Dave. It is possible that the Nazis have trapped and caught this Pierre Deschaud, but aren't saying anything about it. Maybe they are using him, or somebody exactly like him, as bait for the colonel's agents. Don't forget, the last five agents were caught!"

Dave swallowed hard and wiped a hand across his forehead, which had become just a wee bit moist—and not from the warmth of the night air, either!

"Gee, you think of the nicest things!" he muttered. "But you could be right as rain, Freddy, and no fooling. We've got to watch our step. And how we've got to watch it! Pick up the marbles, Freddy. You've got the old brain, and no fooling! Any other ideas?"

"No, that one's enough," Freddy said grimly. "Yes, we've got to watch our step, but—well—that is—I mean, it doesn't make any difference, Dave, does it?"

"Any what?" Dave echoed, and stared at him. "You mean, should we call it off? Hey! One more crack like that, and—Oh, just the old kidder, huh?"

Freddy was chuckling as he grabbed Dave's arms.

"I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "I just couldn't pass the opening. Your face looks so funny when you suddenly get mad. Of course I didn't mean a thing, and I apologize."

"Well, that's better!" Dave growled. Then, grinning slowly: "You did have me going for a second, there. I really thought you were serious, you old tease, you! I must be slipping, not to have got wise at once. I—Uh-uh! I guess this is it, pal!"

The last was caused by the approaching figure of the pilot of the Wellington in which they were to fly. The pilot was Flight Lieutenant Wiggins, and though he wore a heavy flying kit, they knew that the D.F.C. ribbon for air gallantry was under the R.A.F. wings on his tunic. He came up, stopped, grinned, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the waiting Wellington bombers.

"Hitler just called," he announced. "Says the weather is perfect over Berlin, and will we please get it over with? So I guess we'd better get along and please the little fellow, what? You ready?"

"And raring," Dave said with a grin.

"Absolutely fed up with standing on the ground," Freddy added.

The flight lieutenant chuckled and gave them both a keen look.

"I say, drop me a line after it's all over, will you?" he suddenly asked as they started walking toward the planes. "You know my name and squadron address. It should reach me right enough."

"A line about what?" Dave asked in an innocent voice.

"Come off it, my lad!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins snorted. "You know what I mean. The show you two are scheduled to pull off. We've been pulling out our hair wondering what it's all about. That goes for the squadron leader, too. He swears he doesn't know a thing."

"But that's rot!" Freddy exclaimed, and buckled his helmet strap tight. "Didn't Hitler say he phoned, just now?"

"The blighter didn't say a word, except that the weather was wonderful and would we please get on with it?" Wiggins chuckled.

"Well, there you are!" Freddy cried. "He's just a shy sort of chap, you know. Probably was afraid that you'd pull his leg about it."

"Oh, quite," the flight lieutenant said with a gesture. "But just what would I pull his leg about? Of course, if it's a deep secret, and you've sworn to Winston Churchill not to breathe a word, why then—"

"But we thought everybody knew!" Dave said in mock surprise. "Hitler's become fed up. And he's mad at Goering, besides. Goering won't lend him any of his medals any more. So Hitler's mad. He wants to come over here and fight in the British army. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather when King George asked my pal and me to go over there and bring him back."

"So there you are!" Freddy said. "All very simple. Nothing to it, really."

"Sure!" Dave chuckled. "Get a copy of the London Times tomorrow. There may even be pictures."

"Say, I'll jolly well do that!" Flight Lieutenant Wiggins said with mock excitement. "And some day I'll tell my grandchildren that I shook hands with the two chaps who nurse-maided Adolf Hitler back to England. So I guess I'd better do that, now."

They had reached the side of the nearest Wellington. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins stopped and in turn shook each boy warmly by the hand.

"Happy landings, lads," he said quietly. "Tally-ho, and all that sort of thing, you know. Well, up into her."

A warm and exhilarating glow tingled through Dave and Freddy as they climbed up through the belly door of the Wellington bomber and made their way forward toward the navigator's cubbyhole just in back of the pilot. The kidding with Flight Lieutenant Wiggins had removed a lot of ugly thoughts. That was the old R.A.F. spirit. Perhaps not one of these Wellingtons would return from their dangerous night raids over Germany, but the pilots and the crews didn't talk about that. They didn't even think about it. They were R.A.F., and there was a job to do. And that was that. No fuss and feathers. No back slapping and brass bands. Battling death and beating it at its own game was routine with them, and they took it as such, with a smile and a joke on their lips.

When they were seated on the two small canvas stools, Dave reached over, pressed Freddy's knee and winked at him in the pale glow of the single light bulb fitted to a fuselage bracing strip. Freddy winked back and smiled. A moment later the fuselage light winked out, and there was no light save the pencil beam of the navigator's bulb, and the fused glow of the instrument panel up forward. Flight Lieutenant Wiggins ran up his engines, checked the radio, and then trundled his bomb-loaded ship to the far end of the field and swung it around into the wind.

There he waited with idling engines for the three other planes in the patrol to take up line-astern position. When they were in place and ready, radio orders came from the field's Operations Office for the take-off. Wiggins pushed throttles forward, and the two Pegasus engines roared up in a mighty song of power. The Wellington quivered and trembled for a moment as though it were reluctant to leave the safety of English soil. Then slowly it moved forward down a long line of flares set out on the field. With every revolution of its twin propellers the plane picked up speed. Presently it was bouncing down that line of flares on its wheels with the tail up. A moment or so more and Flight Lieutenant Wiggins pulled back on the controls. The bouncing stopped, and the Wellington went curving up toward the star-dotted night sky.

The instant the wheels were clear and the bomber was mounting up toward Heaven, Dave twisted slightly so that he could peek out the navigator's port and down at the shadowy mass that was England falling away from the plane. For one brief instant stark fright streaked through his heart. It passed, and a tight grin came to his lips. He turned his head and looked past Flight Lieutenant Wiggins and through the reinforced glass nose of the plane—and on into the future.

"Pierre Deschaud, here we come!" he whispered softly to himself.