Read Ebook: Dave Dawson Flight Lieutenant by Bowen Robert Sidney

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Ebook has 865 lines and 45214 words, and 18 pages

could well be a sack of wet meal being lowered to earth.

"Maybe he took sleeping tablets before he jumped out," Dave grunted aloud. "Or maybe.... Hey! What gives?"

He shouted the question and sent the Spitfire ripping in so close to the dangling figure that he came within a foot of brushing the man with his wingtip. He veered off just in time but not before he saw that there was a sheet of paper pinned to the front of the man's jacket. Whether or not there was writing on the paper, Dave couldn't see. But that the sheet of paper was pinned there was enough to make up his mind.

"This gets screwier!" he shouted and hauled back his throttle. "Screwy as can be. Maybe I'm all wet, but that lad looks stone dead to me. And somebody has pinned a note on his jacket. Me, I'm going down and find out what in heck this is all about."

Checking the general direction in which the parachute was drifting, Dave then took a look at the ground below. As luck would have it he spotted a field with plenty of room for a Spitfire to sit down. Having spotted the field he slid down, let down his wing flaps, and presently settled light as a feather on an expanse of slightly uneven ground. As he wiggled out of his safety harness, and parachute straps, he heard the sound of another plane tearing down. One look upward showed him a diving Spitfire with a big figure "8" painted on either side of the fuselage. He chuckled and vaulted from the pit to the ground.

"Good old Freddy, the watch dog," he said. "Betcha think the guy slugged me down. Nope, pal. Not yet, anyway."

Then he walked back to the crumpled figure on the ground. The man had his face turned toward the sky. His eyes were closed, and he was dead. A bullet hole square in the middle of his forehead was all the confirmation Dave needed. The Yank took his gaze off the death chilled face, and looked at the sheet of paper pinned to the front of the dead man's jacket. The paper had been torn by the wind, and the landing, but the words written with blue crayon stood out clear and readable. Dave's heart turned cold and his head pounded as he read the words.

British Intelligence:

Take your swine dog back. We don't want him, the fool!

von Peiplow

For a long minute Dave stared at the words, hardly able to believe his eyes. Then he shook himself out of his trance, knelt down beside the dead man and searched his pockets. His "reward" consisted of a small notebook from which half the pages had been torn out, the stub of a pencil, a few French francs, a pocket knife, a clip of cheap German matches, and half a pack of even cheaper German Army cigarettes. There was nothing else. Not a single shred of anything that could tell him the man's identity.

Somehow, though, he felt sure the man was British though the clothes he wore were Flemish peasant, and his face was Teutonic in appearance, being broad and flat, with a low forehead and short, bristling straw colored hair. True, not a thing about the dead man looked British, yet somehow Dave was convinced he was.

"Dave? What in the world?"

Freddy's cry straightened Dave up and turned him around. Freddy Farmer had come to a stop not five feet away, and was standing there gazing at him out of eyes that seemed to pop from their sockets. In the next second Dave realized he still held the dead man's possessions in his hands. He scowled at his pal.

"Skip it, and come take a look yourself!" Dave cut him off, and pointed at the paper still pinned to the dead man's jacket. "Read that! But don't expect me to answer your questions!"

The English youth came closer, bent over and read the words on the paper. It was several seconds before he lifted his head and looked at Dave. And when he did dumbfounded amazement was swimming in his eyes. He shook his head, blinked hard, and took another quick glance down at the paper to make sure.

"Well, strike me pink!" he finally exclaimed in a bewildered tone. "This is the craziest thing ever!"

"You're not telling me anything new," Dave grunted. Then more to himself he added, "So that's why they tried to sneak over? To toss this poor lad out and let him float down to be recognized."

"What's that?" Freddy cried sharply. "You mean he came down by parachute? From what?"

Dave jerked his thumb at the rolled up parachute silk and shroud lines on the ground a few feet from him.

Freddy whistled softly and rubbed the side of his face.

"I just saw you circling down, and I thought you'd been hit, or something," he said after a while. "So I came down to see if I could help. The others are still upstairs hunting for the bloke. When I realized you weren't with us, I went hunting for you."

"Thanks, pal," Dave grinned and gave Freddy an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "I had another of my hunches and went down under the stuff, figuring he might drop down through. He did. But, if you can help me, I sure wish you would. Explain this business."

Freddy made a hopeless gesture with his hands, and read the note again.

"Von Peiplow?" he murmured aloud and screwed up his face in deep thought. "I think I've heard that name before. It has a familiar ring, or something."

"Heels?" the English youth gasped. "Why? You're not going to bury him, are you? I think...."

"Don't!" Dave snapped. "You'll over-tax that pea inside your head you call a brain. Of course I'm not going to bury him. But I'm certainly not going to leave him here, either. I'm going to fly him back to the Squadron. I don't know where that One-Ten planned to toss him out, but I think they tossed him out too soon. We'll take him back to the Squadron and have the O.C. get in touch with British Intelligence. The note's addressed to them, so I guess they'll probably know what it's all about. But I sure hope he's English, and not Nazi like he looks."

"Why?" Freddy demanded. "Why do you hope he's English?"

Dave flung him a scornful look.

"That should be easy to guess," he said. "I'm particular who I ride around in my airplane. And Nazis aren't on my list. Now, catch hold of his feet and help me carry him back to the plane. I'll put him across the cockpit and hang onto him with one hand."

"That field isn't so good for Spitfire take-off," Freddy commented dubiously.

"So what?" Dave growled. "So if I crack up, you can fly both of us back. Now, stop worrying, and lend me a hand, pal."

Dave made the take-off without any trouble, and less than twenty minutes after his wheels had cleared the ground he was throttling the Rolls-Royce engine and sliding gently down toward Eighty-Four's field. Freddy had landed ahead of him and had mechanics and the "fire wagon" ready to dash into action in case Dave had trouble sitting down.

It was a precaution not necessary, however. The Yank born R.A.F. ace put the Mark 5 Spitfire down slick as pie and then taxied slowly up to the hangar line. There waiting mechanics lifted down the dead man from his position across the opened cockpit, and placed him gently on the ground. Dave leaped out to confront the dumbfounded gaze of his fellow pilots and Squadron Leader Markham.

"What's this all about, Dawson?" the O.C. was the first to break the silence.

Dave told his story in as few words as possible. Then everybody stretched his neck to read the sheet of paper.

"Von Peiplow, eh?" Squadron Leader Markham grunted as he straightened up. "Well, isn't that something!"

"You've heard of von Peiplow, sir?" Dave asked quickly. "Farmer, here, thought the name sounded familiar to him. You know him, sir?"

The Squadron Leader smiled, but it was a tight smile, and his eyes had turned cold and hard.

Markham paused and stared hard at the dead man as though he hoped to see right into the forever stilled brain and read the man's dying thoughts. Then suddenly he bent down, squinted hard at the bullet hole in the forehead, and lifted one of the man's arms, and let it drop back on the ground. Presently he straightened up and looked at Dave.

"He must have been tossed out, sir," Dave answered quickly. "The pilot dipped the wing so that the gunner would have less trouble getting him out the cockpit hatch opening, and not have the prop-wash carry him back into the tail assembly. That's the way it looked to me. Of course, everything happened pretty fast, but I'm sure he wasn't alive when he bailed out, sir."

Dave paused and pointed to the sheet of paper.

"He wouldn't be wearing that, would he, sir?" he said. "No, I think he was shot elsewhere. Perhaps in the plane, and the note was pinned to him."

"Yes, I guess you're right there, Dawson," Squadron Leader Markham said with a frown. "I guess he was killed before he was put into the plane. Yes, they made that flight for the express purpose of dumping him overboard. Well, I'll get in touch with Intelligence at once. Corporal Sharron! You and two men take him over to the hospital hut. And one of you stand guard outside. I'll...."

Squadron Leader Markham glanced at his watch and grunted.

"Hours sooner than I expected," he murmured. Then with a glance at the pilots gathered about him, he said, "Air Ministry has cooked up a little job for us, chaps. Don't know what it's all about, but that's Group Captain Ball come to tell me. Stay around close as he may want to talk to you. Dawson! And you, too, Farmer. Stay here with me. Perhaps Group Captain Ball may want to hear the story on this business first hand. I suggest the rest of you wait in the mess. I'll send for you later, Corporal Sharron."

The gathering broke up, leaving the O.C., Dawson, and young Freddy Farmer to greet the Blenheim's passengers. The big craft slid down to a beautiful landing, was taxied over, and braked to a stop. The fuselage door opened and two men stepped out. One wore R.A.F. blue, and the other wore army khaki. The former was Group Captain Ball, and Dave recognized him immediately. The latter wore the insignia of a full colonel on his shoulder straps, but he was a total stranger as far as either Dave or Freddy were concerned.

The pair walked over, and the two pilots and the C.O. saluted smartly.

"Glad to see you, sir," Markham said and shook Group Captain Ball's hand. "Didn't expect you so soon. You know Flying Officers Dawson and Farmer, eh?"

The Air Ministry official bored the two lads with a glance and smiled faintly.

"But, of course," he said. "Fact is.... But that can wait until later. Markham, this is Colonel Trevor, of Intelligence. Colonel Trevor, I'd like you to meet Squadron Leader.... Eh? What's the matter?"

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