"Tomorrow I'll let you know if you can go along," Sim promised. "Now you better hook that listening gadget up again."



CHAPTER VII

ESCAPE

When Stan awoke the next morning Sim was gone from his bunk. He sat up quickly, then lay back and let his stiff, sore muscles relax. There was no hurry. He was not going any place that day, perhaps not for a long time. Lying there he listened to O'Malley's deep snores and thought back over the events of the past few hours.

Those events had happened so swiftly and so explosively that they seemed like the shadowy memory of a nightmare. He recalled that he had not asked O'Malley how he had been captured. He had just taken it for granted his pal had been through an experience the same as his own. It was odd, too, the way things fitted together. The oddest of all was finding Sim Jones billeted in the same prison.

A knock sounded upon the door. "Come in," Stan called.

O'Malley sat up in bed suddenly, pawing the blankets away from his shoulders. He stared around the room, then scowled. The door opened and a Nazi corporal entered.

"Heil Hitler!" he said very loudly and clicked his heels together.

"Good morning," Stan greeted.

O'Malley just glared at the corporal.

"I am Hans." The Nazi looked behind him, sticking his head out so that he could see up and down the hall. He closed the door. "It is orders of Herr General that prisoners be up and taking exercises by seven each morning. I have let you sleep because you were very tired."

"That was nice of you," Stan said.

"I am goot to prisoners," Hans said.

Stan swung his feet to the floor. He got out of bed and walked across the room. Flipping a picture of Hitler aside, he exposed the microphone in the wall. Hans rolled his eyes and clicked his heels.

"Heil Hitler!" he almost shouted. "Tomorrow you will get out of bed and be down in the yard by seven."

Stan grinned. He reached up and disconnected the wire leading to the instrument.

"They listen all the time," Hans said. "They watch everyone. There is more Gestapo than guards."

"Nice country to live in," Stan remarked.

O'Malley laughed and pulled the blankets up around his chin.

"Sure, an' it needs a bit o' cleaning up," he said.

Hans looked at him nervously. "You think the British and Americans come soon?" he asked.

"If they're later than next week, I'll be after speakin' to a few generals harsh-like," O'Malley answered.

"Perhaps not next week but soon," Stan said.

"I am not a party member. I will go back to my little farm near Pilsen," Hans said, "if it is permitted."

"It could be fixed that way," Stan said and smiled. "Silence is golden, but too much of it might make the Gestapo boys suspicious." He walked to the picture of Hitler and connected the microphone again.

"You will report at once for mess. Heil Hitler!" Hans clicked his heels and did an about-face. He moved out of the room almost goose-stepping. Stan grinned after him.

"Get up, you bum," he called to O'Malley.

O'Malley got out of bed and began dressing. Within ten minutes they were in the hall. As they walked down it they passed no less than three pictures of Hitler hanging on the walls. O'Malley moved every one of them and peered behind it.

"I don't like the scenery here," he grumbled.

The mess was a large room which once had been a living room and dining room combined. There were twenty prisoners, mostly R.A.F. men, all of officer's rank. They looked bored and listless, but they greeted the new arrivals with friendly interest. Sim was seated at the table. He looked up and nodded.

Breakfast was not bad and the boys ate everything set before them. After breakfast the men went out into the yard. The sun was shining and the air was warm, but there was a feel of winter in the wind which blew over the high wall.

Stan and O'Malley sat down on a bench with Sim. The other men busied themselves with handball and quoits. Sim bent down and traced a line with a stick in the dirt.

"I have everything lined up. We get away tonight. A British colonel is giving a lecture in the big room at nine tonight. I have fixed the checker. We'll get away while that is on." Sim did not look up.

"Hans is the checker?" O'Malley asked.

"Yes."

"Sure this isn't a trap? Things have been working too good around here," Stan said.

"This will not be easy," Sim answered in a low voice. "The chances are about even we'll be shot before we get clear of the wire and the guard lines. These guards do not shout at you, they shoot and then yell." Sim laughed shortly. "But I'd rather be shot than rot here."

"Sure, an' that's me, too," O'Malley agreed.

"We'll be ready," Stan answered.

"You cannot take anything with you," Sim warned. "Now we have to break up. The guards are watching us." He got to his feet and walked away.

"I think he's acting nuts for the benefit of the guards," O'Malley said.

"If it turns out he really is nuts, we may find ourselves messed up with lead," Stan answered. He got up and walked over to where the R.A.F. boys were pitching quoits.

"Care to get in?" a captain asked him.

"Thanks, I'll have a try," Stan answered.

O'Malley stretched out on the bench and went to sleep. He slept through until lunch call was sounded. Stan mixed with the British officers and learned what he could about conditions. He got their names so he could report regarding them if he did get away.

The afternoon dragged away and mess call sounded after one of the R.A.F. officers had put the men through a stiff drill and a series of sitting-up exercises. After mess Stan and O'Malley went to their room. Sim was not there.

"I didn't see Sim around the mess when we left, wonder where he went?" Stan whispered.

"You worry too much about him," O'Malley answered. "I bet he's snoopin' around gettin' set to get us away."

Stan stretched out on his bunk. They waited for Sim to show up, but he did not come to the room. At eight o'clock Stan began to squirm.

"They've probably nabbed him," he said sourly.

"Sure, an' I'll start working on Hans if they have."

They had been speaking in very low tones. Now Stan spoke louder. "Better be getting ready to go to that lecture."

"Sure," O'Malley agreed.

The boys settled down to wait. O'Malley kept looking at his wrist watch. Stan lay with his eyes closed. He was checking every angle of the strange business. As near as he could gather, things were going badly in Germany. The big crack-up might be near at hand.

At five minutes to nine they heard steps in the hall. They passed down the stairs. Boys from the rooms along the hallway were going to the lecture. Stan got up and disconnected the microphone. O'Malley was pacing about like a caged lion. They heard single footsteps and there was a rap on the door. It opened and Hans stood there.

"I am glad you have not yet gone to the lecture," he said. "Herr General wishes to speak to you. You will come with me."

Stan looked at O'Malley and O'Malley looked at Stan. Stan spoke smoothly.

"Couldn't we see the general after the lecture? We'd like very much to hear the colonel."

"It will not wait. Herr General is a very impatient man."

There was nothing to do but go with Hans. Stan and O'Malley walked along the hallway with the corporal, keeping a sharp watch for Sim. They did not see him in the hallway or downstairs. Hans took them past the guards at the outer garden gate and across the street to another house. In a small hall room he nodded toward chairs.

"You will be called," he said, then turned and hurried away.

The outer door was open and the boys could see two sentries standing on the front porch.

"We have to get out o' here," O'Malley said.

"Not a chance. There's no window and those two guards would see us before we got within ten feet of them," Stan answered. "It's just a case of sitting tight and hoping Sim waits for us."

Near where they were sitting a door opened into another room. Stan leaned over and looked at the door. It was not latched firmly and was open about a half inch. He could hear men talking in the other room. They were speaking in German.

"You understand German. Listen to what they are saying," Stan whispered.

O'Malley moved closer and listened. The men seemed to be arguing hotly. Every once in a while one voice would be raised in anger. There were three men in the room. O'Malley edged the door open a bit more and peeped into the room.

After a bit he straightened and grinned at Stan. "Sure, an' the general is eatin' the tails off his staff. Some of 'em seem to think the war is lost. They been tellin' him the German people are demandin' peace at any price. I figure he's goin' to have one o' them shot."

At that moment an orderly came rushing out of the office. He charged past the boys without seeming to see them, and rushed out of the building.

"The general says if this leaks out, the Allies will invade at once. He's sure mad." O'Malley laughed softly.

A few minutes passed and the orderly returned with a squad of armed soldiers led by a lieutenant. They stomped past the boys and into the office. When they came out they were marching a captain and a major before them.

Five more minutes passed and the orderly came out. He seemed much agitated.

"You will come now," he said in husky English.

The boys followed him into the office. Herr General was a burly fellow with a bald head and a narrow chest. He had a monocle screwed into one eye which made him look fierce and tough. He glared at the boys, then snapped an order to the orderly. The man scurried away.

"Come up to my desk, you," the general snarled.

The boys moved up and stood waiting.

"I have checked the answers you gave to questions asked you when you were captured. You said an invasion will come at once. Why did you say that?"

Stan stared at the officer. "We didn't say any such thing," he answered evenly. He decided that the general had heard some of their conversation over the listening device.

"Sure, an' you got big ears, General," O'Malley said.

Stan kicked him on the shin. The general jumped and puffed out his chest. He fixed O'Malley with a cold glare.

"Pig! Fool! Keep a civil tongue in your head or you will regret it much."

"If you brought us here to get information, you will be disappointed, General," Stan said. "We will not talk."

"I brought you here to tell you that we intend to make you talk," the general barked. "I merely wished to warn you and then to let you have a little time to think it over."

"We are prisoners of war," Stan reminded him.

"The code provides for disciplining prisoners of war. We have some very effective methods. You will talk and be glad to. Now get out."

Stan and O'Malley turned toward the door. Two armed men stood waiting for them. They marched out with the guards close behind them.

"Sure, an' this is a nice mess," O'Malley grumbled.

"Could be worse," Stan said.

The guards left them after passing them into the yard of their house. They headed for their room. Passing through the outer hall, they saw that the lecture was still going on in the living room. They went up the stairs.

Stan opened the door and O'Malley shoved into the room close behind him. They stood looking at Sim's bunk. The straw ticking of the mattress had been slit open and some of the straw was scattered on the floor. Sim was not in the room. Stan walked over to a little table. One small light bulb was flooding the room with light.

"He was here and left in a hurry. He didn't turn off the light."

"I'm gettin' out o' here," O'Malley growled.

"Sit down. We're staying," Stan said sharply. He pulled off his coat and tossed it across his bunk, then he seated himself on the foot of his bed.

"We're going to get it in the neck, anyway," O'Malley scowled.

"Do you know where we are, in what part of Germany?"

"Somewhere near Berlin," O'Malley said.

"Sure, but where? We need more dope on the grounds and on the country around us. We wouldn't get a mile from this prison farm if we did break out."

O'Malley sat down on his bed. "Sure, you're right. We should have had Sim tell us something about this deal."

"Now that you mention it, Sim never told us anything," Stan said.

"Probably didn't know anything," O'Malley growled.

They sat looking at each other, waiting, trying to discover some lead that might help them. Finally Stan said:

"We'll have to clean up that straw and fix Sim's bed before anyone comes in here snooping around."

"Yeah," O'Malley said but he did not move.



CHAPTER VIII

FLIGHT

Stan began cleaning up their room so that the guards checking rooms that night would not notice Sim had gone. He wanted to give Sim as much of a start as possible. While he was brushing the straw under Sim's bunk the door opened. Both boys turned quickly. In the doorway stood Sim. His lips were parted in a thin smile.

"Sim!" Stan took a step toward the door. "We thought you had gone."

"Quiet," Sim whispered. "Come with me."

He turned and moved out into the hall with Stan and O'Malley at his heels. They walked down the hall and into a corner room. Sim crossed the room and opened a window. They saw a rope dangling over the sill.

Stan peered into the darkness below but could see nothing. "There should be a guard right under this window," he whispered.

"He has been taken care of," Sim hissed. "You go down. We will follow."

"Didn't you get any guns or grenades?" O'Malley asked.

"No," Sim answered sharply. "Hurry."

Stan climbed through the window and slid down the rope. When his feet hit the ground he wiggled the rope. A minute later O'Malley was at his side. Sim arrived within another minute. He caught the boys' arms and began moving away from the house.

Sim led them to the wall and along it until they came to a gate. It was open; Sim paused and Stan and O'Malley peered out. A small light burned above the gate. The light revealed a truck filled with cans. Stan grinned in the darkness. The truck was a garbage lorry. The night breeze carried that information to him. The truck smelled very strong.

"We hide among the cans," Sim whispered.

At that moment two men appeared carrying a can. They heaved it into the truck. One of them fastened a chain across the back opening, then they moved toward the cab of the truck.

"When the light is snapped off!" Sim whispered.

From the kitchen of the house a voice shouted something in German. The truck driver answered. The light snapped off and Sim started forward with the boys beside him. The truck was sputtering and backfiring, pouring out rank smoke as they reached it. They went into it as it lurched forward. All of the cans came clanging back against the chain, almost shoving the boys out.

Quickly the three moved cans until they were up in the front of the truck next to the cab. There they crouched down with their knees pulled up. The cans made so much noise there was no danger of the boys being heard.

"'Tis a sweet smellin' cab ye called," O'Malley observed.

"The smell will keep the Germans from examining it very closely," Sim answered and Stan heard him chuckle. "When we come to a lighted town we'll each have to get into a can."

"They're full o' garbage," O'Malley protested.

"We'll empty three cans," Sim said. "Might as well do it while we're on this rough country road."

The truck was bouncing and the cans were banging. The noise was terrific and the darkness total. Stan got hold of a can. It was heavy, but with O'Malley's help he was able to lift it up and tip it over the edge. The contents poured out on the side of the road. Two more cans were dumped.

"There goes a lot of meals for the prisoners in the ghetto," Sim said and laughed.

"You mean to say the skunks feed prisoners garbage?" Stan asked.

"I've been told they let the prisoners of the lowest class pick over the garbage," Sim answered.

Stan felt his stomach begin to turn over. O'Malley said nothing. For once he was stumped for words. They moved the cans to the center and well forward and crouched beside them.

The truck rattled on through the night. Presently they saw lights ahead.

"According to my map," Sim said, "that should be a well-lighted inspection post. We better get into the cans."

The boys got into the cans. Stan kept his head well up out of the can. He meant to keep it up in the wind until it was absolutely necessary to duck down.

The truck swung in under a row of lights. Stan ducked down and held his nose. There was much guttural shouting. Several men moved around the truck. They poked bayonets among the cans and against them. Stan felt a blade strike the can he was in. The can gave out a dull clinking sound, indicating it was full. Stan grinned. Someone shouted an order and the truck rolled on.

As soon as darkness closed over them the boys popped out of the cans. O'Malley was talking to himself in very rich Irish.

"If I'd known this was goin' to happen to me I'd have brought along a blanket to wrap meself in," he growled. "We'll smell so bad we won't be able to hide any place."

Stan laughed. "They won't need blood-hounds to track us," he admitted.

"We will get other clothing," Sim said.

The truck rolled on, crossing a hill and dropping down toward a town. Lights winked ahead of them and the road became smoother.

"We unload pretty soon," Sim said. "There will be a small farmhouse on the right with tall trees. We get off there. The farmer is a member of the underground."

"Underground in Germany?" Stan asked in surprise.

"They told me it was well established and doing a big business. People are paying well to get out of Germany before it collapses." Sim was swinging a leg over the side as he spoke.

The boys got out of the truck and clung to the outside. They saw dark forms of trees and a light in a window.

"Now," Sim whispered as he swung away from the truck.

Stan heard him land with a thud. Stan jumped and landed in a hedge beside the road and rolled on into tall grass. O'Malley hit close beside him, and they crouched behind the hedge watching the truck. It went rattling on into the night. Sim called to them.

"Come on. We have to hurry."

They moved over beside him and he headed across an open field toward the lighted window. As they neared the house, a dog began barking. Sim halted and they stood waiting. A door opened and a man shouted at the dog. Sim moved forward.

"Hello," he called.

The door closed suddenly and Stan heard the man walking over gravel toward them. They advanced to meet him. Sim spoke as soon as he was close.

"We were sent by Hans."

"Goot. Come, I show you," the man answered.

They walked with him to the house and he opened the door. "Quick," he mumbled. He began pushing them through the door.

There was no need to shove. The boys dived inside and the German closed the door. He moved to a window and pulled down the blind, then he faced them. He was a short man with a beefy face. His stomach rolled out over a wide leather belt.

"I get you clothes," he said gruffly.

Disappearing into another room he returned after a time with an armload of clothing which he tossed on a table. The boys changed into rough shirts and dungarees. The clothing was coarse, but it was clean. The German gathered up their uniforms.

"These I burn," he said and left with them.

"We have to move on at once," Sim said. "This place will be searched before morning. The Germans are very thorough."

The boys seated themselves and waited. Their host was gone for a long time. Finally Sim got up.

"I'll go hurry him along," he said. "You stay right here." He left the room hurriedly.

"Sim is no nut. He has this all worked out," O'Malley said.

"He certainly has," Stan agreed. He got up and moved to the door Sim had just closed. Opening it gently he went into a dark room. Feeling his way he moved to another door. He could see a shaft of light under the door. Halting with his hand on the knob, he listened. Sim was talking with their underground agent in German. Stan opened the door quickly. The two men whirled about and faced him.

"I didn't know you spoke German," Stan said.

"You should not be sneaking around," the German said sharply.

"I have always spoken German," Sim answered. "I learned it in school back home. How did you think I managed to line things up so well if I didn't know German?"

"We got worried," Stan said. "Thought something might have happened to you."

"I just wanted to make sure these uniforms were burned," Sim said and laughed. "German farmers are thrifty people. They hate to burn good wool cloth, which can't be bought for any price here. These people have only ersatz cloth."

"We go now," the German said and scowled at Stan.

"Did he burn them?" Stan asked.

"He buried them in his orchard. We don't have time to waste having him dig them up," Sim answered.

O'Malley had heard the talking and joined them in the kitchen.

"Everybody's here, so let's go," Stan said. He was trying to remember if Sim Jones had ever talked to him about his past. He could not remember the flier ever having said much about himself.

The German took the lead and they followed him out through a back door. They walked down a path and came to a small barn. Stan heard a horse snort. The German spoke softly to Sim in German.

O'Malley answered the man in German. The fellow jumped and O'Malley laughed. Too late Stan kicked O'Malley warningly upon the shin. Stan frowned. He should have warned O'Malley. Now the man knew he could speak and understand German. Sim looked at O'Malley and laughed.

"It seems we will be able to get on very well with two of us speaking the native tongue," he said.

"You talk Kraut?" O'Malley asked.

"Come, we waste time," the German said. He moved into the barn with the boys at his heels.

The guide untied a horse and led it out through a back door. There, by the light of the stars, the boys saw a two-wheeled cart loaded with hay. The German hitched the horse to the cart.

"Hide in the hay," he said.

The boys climbed into the cart and burrowed under the hay. Stan worked his way well forward with O'Malley and Sim close beside him. They were forced to lie very close together because the cart was narrow. They worked an opening for air and lay on the hard boards. The German spoke to the horse and the cart moved off.

The cart joggled over rutty roads for hours. Daylight began to show through the straw opening. Stan wiggled over against the slats on the side of the cart and poked a hole to look through. They were moving along a country lane. The cart turned out and a wagon passed. It was loaded with farm workers. Behind the wagon came a motorcycle and sidecar. A German soldier sat in the sidecar, while another, with a rifle slung across his back, drove the motorcycle. The driver shouted at the German on the seat of the cart, but he did not stop him.

O'Malley began squirming. He was in the middle and could see nothing at all.

"Be still!" Sim snapped. "You'll shake hay loose and someone may become suspicious."

O'Malley lay still but he made Stan tell him what he saw. They passed other wagons loaded with slave labor going to the fields, as well as many farmers, both men and women, on the way to work.

The German kept on driving and no one stopped him. Noon came and he still kept on. The boys were getting hungry and thirsty, but the driver did not halt. He pulled out a bag from under the seat and munched a sausage sandwich, washing the food down with draughts from a brown jug. O'Malley was able to see this.

"Sure, an' I've a mind to reach up there an' grab that sandwich," he said hungrily.

"Better not," Stan warned.

O'Malley held his appetite in check, but he kept on grumbling.

"Stop watching him eat," Stan advised in a whisper.

"Sure, an' I can't take me eyes off that sausage sandwich. 'Tis the most appetizin' thing I iver seen," O'Malley said mournfully.

The cart rattled through a village and moved on down another narrow lane. Presently they came to a gate and the driver pulled up. Stan ducked back.

"German soldiers," he whispered warningly.

The soldiers were shouting at the driver. He got down and began talking to them excitedly.

"They're looking for escaped prisoners," O'Malley whispered in Stan's ear.

Three burly soldiers walked over to the cart and began thrusting their bayonets into the hay. Stan stiffened. If he was stabbed he meant to make no outcry. He felt the cold steel move across his body a few inches from his chest. It slipped back, then stabbed again. Stan was glad the bed of the cart had a ten-inch high board around it.

After more shouting and poking the driver got back on his seat and the cart moved forward.

"Boy," Stan muttered. "That was a close shave."

"I got a small cut," Sim said.

"And you didn't yell?" O'Malley spoke admiringly.

"It would have been the end for us if I had yelled," Sim answered.

The cart continued to jog along slowly. Long shadows fell across the road and the cart passed many farmers returning from the fields.

"I could eat a boiled dog," O'Malley grumbled.

"We'll eat later," Sim assured him.

Darkness settled slowly. The driver turned off the road into a narrower lane as soon as it was dark.

"No traveling is allowed after dark," Sim explained. "We must be near our second station."

The cart halted and the driver called to them.

"Come out now."

They climbed out and flexed stiff muscles. O'Malley faced the driver.

"I'm hungry. Got any food?"

"Come with me," the man said.

They entered a grove of trees and walked up to a tiny house. The house was dark but, with the aid of a flashlight, the guide located a trap door under some loose straw. He pulled it upward, revealing a stairs. The boys went down into a cellar where their guide lighted an oil lamp.

The cellar smelled stale but it had boxes to sit on and a table. There was a box on the table.

"Your food," the German said, nodding toward the box.

He turned away and went upstairs again. They heard him close the door and rake straw over it. O'Malley opened the box at once. It contained a loaf of heavy bread, a few pieces of cold sausage and three boiled potatoes. Also there was a jug which contained milk.

Sim produced a heavy clasp knife and cut the bread. The boys made sandwiches and munched them. The jug was passed around and they drank out of it.

"Sure, an' this is not a bad dinner," O'Malley said. "It compares favorably with the last roast duck dinner I had in London." He grinned at Stan.

After finishing their meal the boys sat waiting for their guide.

"He has to care for his horse and dispose of the hay," Sim explained.



CHAPTER IX

TRAPPED

The boys left the cellar very soon after finishing their meal. Their guide led them down a country lane. They hiked along steadily for several hours, then detoured through a field, making a wide circle.

"We have to go around the patrol stations on the road," Sim explained.

"It's nice to have a guide who knows the way," Stan said.

"I understand the patrol posts are cleverly hidden. Without a guide a man walking down the lane would trip an alarm wire and be caught in no time at all." Sim seemed to know all about the methods used by the Nazis to trap anyone fleeing the country.

They kept walking until midnight. Then they rested for a half-hour, lying in a hedge beside the road. After midnight they moved more slowly. Several times they dived into the fields along the road to avoid patrols moving swiftly along the lane on motorcycles. Once they almost ran into a bicycle patrol. The cyclists did not make any noise and were upon the boys before they had time to duck. A leafy hedge saved them from being sighted.

"We will have to cross the Dutch border soon," Sim said after talking with their guide.

"There won't be much of a guard there, will there?" Stan asked. "The Germans have made Holland a part of Germany."

"There is a strict border control," the guide answered. "The Dutch are just pigs and are kept in their pen."

"That's what the Nazis say," Sim added.

"Sure," the guide agreed. "The Nazis say that."

"How are we to get through?" Stan asked. "You must have a method which works."

"Sure," the guide said. "But it has always been risky. We may be separated. If we are separated, you will ask a Dutchman to take you to 76 Mamur in Arnhem. Do not speak to a Dutchman wearing a swastika. Ask only of a farmer or other working person."

"We all will meet there," Sim said. "After that, we will have no more trouble. The Dutch will take care of us."

"Now we go," the guide said.

"At any rate, we know where we are," Stan said to O'Malley. "Arnhem isn't so far from Rotterdam."

"Sure, an' that just means nothin' to me. I'm stickin' with this here guide," O'Malley answered.

They moved along at a fast pace for some time. Finally the German called a halt. There seemed to be quite a bit of activity ahead; besides, dawn was not far away. They had spent most of the last hour ducking patrols roaring up and down the lane.

"We must move very carefully now. We will leave the road. Keep close to me," the guide said in a low voice.

The party moved off the road and through a hedge. Beyond the hedge they found themselves in a plowed field. The ground was soft and damp. Moving slowly now, because they sunk in to their boot tops, the boys crossed the field and came to a canal. Stan could see murky water in the ditch. He judged the canal was about fifteen feet wide.

They followed the canal for some distance. Lights ahead caused the guide to halt. Stan could see men on both sides of the canal. They were silhouetted against the sky and were moving back and forth.

"We must pass through the guard lines here," the guide whispered. "There will be soldiers with rifles on each side of the canal. There is much barbed wire and many electrical alarms along the border. We must take to the canal."

"Sure, and it looks cold, that water," O'Malley muttered.

"We will keep close to the bank, two on each side. When we pass the guards above we must crouch down in the water and stay against the bank. We must go very slow. Waves or movement of the water will be noticed."

"Lead on," Stan said grimly. "Let's get it over with."

"Those on the far bank will wade across after we pass the border. We will then go to Arnhem and hide there during the day." The German was sliding down the bank into the water as he spoke.

"O'Malley and I will cross over," Stan said. He wanted to keep O'Malley with him.

The water was icy and numbed their bodies almost at once. Stan and O'Malley waded across the canal. The bottom was muddy and the water came up to their necks. With chattering teeth they reached the far bank and began moving along in the black shadows next to overhanging grass.

Slowly the boys inched forward, being careful not to send ripples out across the water. As they neared the sentry post the water was well lighted from electric floodlights set on each bank. Stan halted and flattened himself against the grass.

A sentry was standing on each bank, his rifle butt resting on the ground. Both were looking down at the canal intently. Stan pulled O'Malley close to him.

"We'll have to get down until just our heads stick out, then inch forward," he whispered.

"Inch away," O'Malley whispered back. His teeth rattled louder than his words.

Stan sank down into the water and they began moving slowly ahead. Inch by inch they entered the lighted area and moved on. A water rat swam past them in the middle of the canal. It left a wide ripple behind it, and the sentries jerked up their guns. One of them laughed and picked up a rock. He tossed it at the rat. The rat dived with a loud splash. Both soldiers laughed loudly and one of them lighted a cigarette.

Stan shoved ahead a bit faster. They moved directly under the sentries and kept on going. Slowly they edged away down the stream. The light on the water became dimmer and finally faded out.

"How about crossin' over? I'm frozen stiff," O'Malley hissed between chattering teeth.

"O.K.," Stan answered. They moved out into the canal and waded across. Climbing out on the bank, they sat shaking and shuddering.

"Wonder where Sim is?" O'Malley asked.

"We better wait here. They may not have moved as fast as we did." Stan began rubbing his legs to warm them.

They heard no sounds except those coming from the post on the bank of the canal. Finally Stan moved.

"We stayed in the canal quite a long distance. They may be up or down the canal. But no matter which way, they are sure to be waiting for us. We can't stay here because daylight will be breaking very soon. I'll work my way back toward the border; you move the other way. When we find them, we'll turn back and meet."

"Good idea," O'Malley agreed. He moved off at once.

Stan headed back along the bank of the canal. He kept as close to the edge as he dared, because he figured Sim and the German would be sitting on the bank. After going a few yards he got down on his hands and knees and crawled. He would be able to go only a few yards more because the floodlights were growing strong. In a few more minutes he could turn back and be sure Sim was downstream.

He was moving along, crawling slowly, when he felt the bank under him begin to sag and slip. With a swift effort he tried to pull himself away from the canal. The cave-in took a big slice of earth with it. Stan's grasping hands found only torn roots and wet mud. He went over the edge and into the canal along with a half ton of earth. He and the dirt hit the water with a terrific splash.

Instantly a floodlight snapped on and swung around to sweep the canal. Stan went down in a mass of mud and water. He came up pawing and struggling. Men began shouting on the shore. Stan ducked under the icy water and plunged toward the bank. He came up against the grassy bank and shook the water out of his eyes. Both banks were swarming with soldiers.

Stan thought fast. He wanted the others to escape. They had to get away. He was getting set for another dive when the searchlight found him and pinned him to the bank like a trapped animal. Guards with machine guns covered him threateningly. He didn't have a chance. An officer was shouting at him in German.

"Hold your fire, I'll get out," Stan shouted. He wanted to hold the attention of the men until his friends got away.

"A Britisher," the officer shouted. "Get out on the bank!" His English was a bit thick but understandable.

Stan climbed out and was surrounded by armed men in an instant. He was marched up the bank and halted under the floodlight. The officer stood glaring at him.

"Where do you come from?" he demanded.

"I came out of that canal, and it was a bit chilly," Stan answered. "I'd appreciate some dry clothing."

"American!" the officer exclaimed. "A spy dressed in the clothes of a farmer."

"I just borrowed these. I'm not a spy. You can check up on that." Then Stan clamped his lips shut. If he revealed his identity now, the Germans would know where to look for O'Malley and Sim.

"A spy, no less," the officer snapped. "Come with me."

"Gladly," Stan said.

He was taken to a small shack a few yards back from the canal. There was a stove in the shack and Stan edged close to it. The officer stepped to a wall phone and put through, a call. He talked quite a while and finally began to laugh loudly. After he hung up he turned to Stan.

"The colonel agrees you are a spy and a very dumb one. You will be sent to him and he will have you shot at once. It is easy to see why you Americans cannot fight the Germans. You are careless fools, all of you."

Stan grinned. He figured the officer was the dumb one. He had not even asked Stan if there were any other men with him.

"I guess you're right, Captain," he said. "But if I'm to be shot I should be made comfortable. How about some dry clothes? I may contract pneumonia and die before you get to question me."

"I will deliver you to the colonel. What he does with you is no affair of mine." The captain opened the door and called to his men outside.

Stan walked out and a squad of four men marched him to an open car. He was shoved into the back seat and the guards climbed in, three with him and one in front. Stan was grateful for the packed condition in the rear seat, because chill air began to swirl back on him as they roared away. He got a little warmth from the soldiers crowded in with him.

Day was breaking as they moved into a city. Stan figured it was Arnhem. The car pulled up in front of a long stone building and Stan was hustled inside. He was taken into a bare room and left there alone. There was some heat in the room and he ceased shaking.

An hour passed and a tall soldier came into the room. He beckoned Stan to follow him. They walked down a hall and entered another room. Here Stan was served a bowl of potato soup. It was watery thin, but it was hot. His jailer sat watching him as he ate. When he had finished, the man nodded and got to his feet. Stan followed him down the hall again and into a room furnished as an office. A fat German colonel sat at a desk. His bloated cheeks puffed out and he burst into a hearty laugh when he saw Stan. His fat stomach heaved as he laughed, and his bristling mustache made Stan think of a walrus he once had seen in a zoo.

Stan stood waiting. For the life of him he could see nothing so funny about his personal appearance. He looked the colonel over with a critical eye. The colonel ceased laughing and regarded Stan closely.

"Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, U.S.A.," he said softly. "But for my purposes a spy, caught creeping up on one of our outposts dressed as a German farmer."

Stan jumped in spite of himself. The colonel knew his name. That was bad. He said nothing, knowing the colonel would explain more in detail.

"You American swine are such fools, so easy for the German mastermind to handle. But you are the prize dummer of all. We gave you a chance to escape along with your friend Lieutenant O'Malley, and you had to get caught in spite of us." He leaned back and laughed loudly.

"Sim Jones was a spy?" Stan shot the question at the colonel.

"Sim Jones is no spy, but Herr Egbert Minter is a spy and a very clever one. He fooled you men into thinking he was Jones. You were trapped by a very clever actor, Lieutenant." The colonel patted his stomach and smiled broadly. "I have been given a complete file upon the case along with orders to put you out of the way."

"Why should you let us escape?" Stan asked.

"As you will not live to tell about it, I may as well enlighten you." The colonel fairly beamed. "When Herr Minter and the redheaded lieutenant reach England, as they will, Minter will send us information as to a big raid we are sure you are planning. After Lieutenant O'Malley and Herr Minter tell your High Command how near collapse Germany is, they will make the raid with everything they have to knock us out of the war." The colonel bent forward. "We were careful to stage many little scenes for your benefit. I am sorry only that this O'Malley person is to get through to tell how weakened Germany is within her own borders. You would have served much better."

Stan stared at the German and his teeth clamped shut hard. "A very clever set of tricks, Colonel," he said coldly. "But they won't get you any place. Minter won't be able to get a message out in time."

"We already have the radio equipment where he can use it. We have made a careful study of the habits of Lieutenant Jones. You see he was knocked a bit out of his head and talked a great deal about his home and about his career in the service while he was in the hospital." The colonel leaned back. "I, Colonel Glotz, had no small part in this and will earn an advancement. Heil Hitler!" He snapped the words out sharply.

"And you intend to shoot me?" Stan said.

"Perhaps, unless you can give us some information regarding this new fighter craft you were flying."

Stan's eyes narrowed. He was sure Colonel Glotz's orders did not call for shooting him on the spot. He would have a little time to plan an escape. His chances would be desperately slim, he knew that, but he had faced death many times before and had always cheated the final pay-off.

"Well?" Glotz asked.

"I don't know what I could tell you," Stan said, pretending to be debating with himself.

"We'll give you a few hours to think it over. I have some important messages to dictate." Glotz rang a bell and two guards appeared. They stepped up beside Stan and nodded toward the door.

Stan was marched out into the hall and down a few doors to a small room. He was shoved inside and the door was locked. There was a cot and a table in the room. A small light bulb dangled from a cord. Its feeble light was necessary because the room was an inside one without windows. Except for a barred transom over the door, there was no means of ventilation.

Stan sat down on the cot to think. He had to get away and warn the Eighth Air Force of the trap being baited for them. That matter was more important than saving his own neck.



CHAPTER X

SPY

Stan lay on the cot for several hours, looking up at the dangling light bulb. He had been able to think of no plan of escape that seemed likely to succeed. But after careful thought he was convinced Colonel Glotz had been merely showing off. Stan felt certain Glotz would have to wait for orders from his superiors before he did anything. Those orders, however, could come through very quickly.

His thoughts were disturbed by the rattling of the iron bar across the outside of his door. The door creaked open and a man in civilian clothes entered. Stan heard the shuffle of feet outside in the hall and knew armed guards were waiting. The civilian was a slender man with a big nose and a very small chin. He looked at Stan out of little eyes set close together.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, Lieutenant Wilson." The man bowed stiffly. "I am Domber." He said it as though Stan ought to know him once he had mentioned his name.

Stan nodded and remained seated on his cot. Domber rubbed his hands together and smiled.

"You will go with me," he said. "We will have a nice long talk."

Stan got to his feet. Domber stepped to the door. He frowned at the two armed guards waiting for them.

"The military have odd ways. They always have guards about."

"They are funny that way," Stan agreed dryly.

They walked down the long hall and entered a small office. Its one wide window looked out upon a tree-lined street. There were no bars on the window and one of its side wings stood open. Stan saw people walking up and down the street. An expanse of smooth turf lay between the window and the sidewalk. Stan turned back to Domber, who had seated himself at a desk.

The office had nothing military about it. There were no war maps on the wall. The only picture was one of Hitler, hung back of the desk. There was an adding machine, two sets of files, several large cabinets with steel doors, and a desk with a typewriter on it. Stan smiled at the little blonde seated before the typewriter. She returned his smile with a severe and steady look out of her gray eyes. No help there, Stan thought.

"Be seated," Domber said, pointing to a chair beside the desk. He fished out a box of cigars, flipped the lid open, and extended the box toward Stan. "Smoke?"

"No, thanks," Stan said.

Domber selected a cigar after turning several over. "Such poor cigars. I'll be glad when the war is over and I can again import some of my favorite Tampa Perfectos." He snipped the end off the cigar with a gold clipper, then jabbed a full inch of the end into his mouth and rolled the cigar around as though tasting its flavor. "Now," he said, "we will get down to business."

Stan leaned back and waited.

"I went to considerable trouble to get this chance to talk with you. The colonel is a bloody old coot. All he thinks of is shooting people. I have other interests besides killing men. My hobby is planes." Domber bent forward.

Stan was instantly on the alert. He noticed the stenographer had placed a sheet of notes on a rack and was clicking away on her typewriter, but he did not think she was copying from her notes. He was sure she was going to record what he said.

"You have had a chance to work with many new ideas. You'll be with us until after the war, so I see no reason why we shouldn't have a chat about new wrinkles." He smiled and rolled his cigar.

"I understood I was to be shot as a spy," Stan said.

"The military is bent upon it, but I have much influence. I could have you designated a prisoner of war. Tomorrow I will see the Fuerher himself."

"What do you want to know?" Stan realized this was a chance to stay alive for a time. If he could interest Domber without giving away any secrets, he might be given a chance to escape.

"You were flying a P-51, a Mustang, the British call it."

"Yes."

"This ship has some very interesting equipment on it, some typically American improvements."

"Just what features do you mean?" Stan asked.

"I operate a plane factory. We have been experimenting with a supercharger. The one on the P-51 is something new. If you can recall some of the details...." Domber leaned forward.

"You haven't captured one intact yet?" Stan asked.

"No, and the possibility seems quite remote. You Yanks have been very clever in fixing it so that that particular piece of mechanism is always smashed when a ship lands."

"I'm not an instrument man. I just fly planes," Stan said. "But I have had general instructions on the new dual supercharger." Stan spoke slowly.

"You might, perhaps, be able to suggest repairs for one that is partly destroyed?" Domber asked eagerly.

"I have patched together some badly hashed ships," Stan answered.

Domber rubbed his hands together. "I think we shall have a very pleasant time working upon a P-51," he said.

"Don't get your hopes too high, I'm no expert," Stan said.

"When one is sure to be turned over to Colonel Glotz as a spy, one is apt to be quite successful as a mechanic, what?" Domber beamed.

"If I don't make good on this I'm to be shot?" Stan looked Domber squarely in the eye.

"I'm afraid so. It would be very painful to me, I can assure you. I do not like to see men shot. But we won't think of that. We'll have lunch and then we'll get at the job." He turned and spoke to his secretary in German, then shot a glance at Stan.

"He wants to see if I understand German," Stan thought. He did not show any interest and Domber smiled broadly.

"We will go out to lunch now," he said.

Outside the door the two guards fell in behind them. Stan smiled as he thought of the appearance they made. Domber was dressed in a natty suit. He wore spats and carried a small cane, which his secretary handed him as he walked out. There was a red feather in the bow on his snap brim felt hat. Stan was dressed in a wrinkled and soiled outfit that was streaked with mud.

They walked out of the building and entered a big car. The guards got in with the driver and the car pulled away. Stan noted looks of hate and fear on the faces of the Dutch people in the street as they watched the car slide past. He had a hunch Domber was known to these people; he also had a hunch the plane maker was hated and feared by them. They stopped outside a big house where four guards stood watch over the entrance. The guards saluted as Domber got out. He puffed up like a pouter pigeon and shouted:

"Heil Hitler!"

They walked up the steps and entered the house. A man met them in the vestibule. He took Domber's hat and cane and stared at Stan.

"See that Lieutenant Wilson is furnished a complete outfit of clothing. Show him to the east room." Domber spoke in English.

"Yes, Herr Domber," the man said and bowed.

"Run along with Herman," Domber said. "I'll be having a brandy in the library." He turned away at once.

Stan followed Herman up a wide stairway and into a large room. It was furnished in a luxurious manner. Herman bowed at the door.

"You will wish me to draw hot water for a bath?" he asked.

"Thank you, Herman, I will take a hot bath. See that there's plenty of soap." Stan grinned.

Herman drew water in the bathroom and laid out snowy towels. Coming out of the bathroom, he said:

"I will lay out clothing for you."

Stan lost no time in getting into the tub. He splashed and built up a mountain of suds, then wallowed in them. As he lay there he suddenly began to laugh. This was the oddest experience he had ever had. Yet there was something sinister about it. Domber had a fishy coldness about him that was chilling. Stan decided it was the way he looked out of his little eyes. There seemed to be a smoldering hate back of the light in those eyes.

Herman had laid out clothing, a business suit which was very close to Stan's size, fresh linen, a shirt, a tie and a pair of dress shoes. Herman was nowhere in sight.

Stan dressed slowly. The shoes fit well and so did the shirt. Herman was an expert man's man. He had sized Stan up correctly. As he knotted the tie, Stan walked to a wide window overlooking a garden. There were no bars on the window and the garden was deserted. No guards paced back and forth. Stan began to wonder if he was not supposed to escape again.

Walking to the door he opened it. The hallway was empty. Stan walked toward the back of the house and found a balcony with a flight of steps leading to the garden below. He wondered what would happen if he walked down those steps and into the garden. With a grin on his lips he did just that.

Stepping off the last step he strolled into the garden. No one challenged him, so he walked around the house. He was standing looking out into an alley lined with trees. Suddenly a man stepped out from behind a wall and bowed to Stan.

"Luncheon is ready," the man said in perfect English.

Stan noticed, as the wind whipped open the man's coat, that he was wearing a heavy shoulder holster. He smiled. The man reminded him of a Chicago gangster he once had seen captured.

"I was just going in," he said. Turning about he entered the house. Herman appeared at once and bowed. Stan followed him into Domber's library. A table had been set before an open fire. Domber was seated in an easy chair, puffing on a cigar.

"Have a pleasant stroll in the garden?" he asked.

"You certainly requisitioned a nice place for yourself," Stan remarked.

"Oh, I have owned this for years," Domber said. "This is my home."

That accounted for the hated looks the people on the street had given Domber as he passed. He was a Dutch Quisling, a traitor to his own country. Domber seemed to read Stan's thoughts.

"I always have been credited with having brains enough to take care of my business and my own comforts," he said dryly. Then he smiled. "But sit down. We will see what we have for luncheon."

The common people of Germany might be eating poorly and tightening their belts, but Herr Domber's table gave no hint of lack of supplies. There was real coffee, strong and black, fruit, fish, fresh vegetables and a roast squab for each diner. Stan put aside all unpleasant thoughts and ate heartily.

While they ate, Herr Domber kept up a steady conversation. He talked about fighter planes. Stan was surprised at the things Domber revealed in a casual way. He gave a very good description of the new secret rocket which was doing so much damage to the Forts and Libs, even telling Stan how it was handled. Once in a while he would ask a question. Each time Stan matched wits against the traitor to keep from telling him anything important.

After a while Stan was convinced Domber was so sure he would never live to repeat what he had heard that he felt no need to be careful about what he told the Yank.

"I have had many guests, Dutch, Norwegian, British and now an American." Domber beamed. "I have enjoyed each of them, and I am sure they never complained of my hospitality."

Back of the genial manner Stan felt the cold threat of death lurking in the way the traitor looked at him. Domber was very sure of himself and of his power. Stan resolved that he was going to be one guest who fooled the Dutch Quisling.

After dinner Domber showed Stan his collection of war trophies and his laboratory and workshop. The laboratory was far more elaborate than the workshop. Stan was fascinated by the plants and animals Domber kept there. Domber laughed softly.

"I experiment much," he said. Then he added, "I have done much with poison gas as well as with rare drugs."

"You plan to use poison gas?" Stan asked.

"If our plans work out well, yes," Domber said frankly. "If Minter's work is well done and we are able to smash a large part of the British and American air power, we will launch gas attacks upon the principal English cities and later make an invasion." He smiled slightly.

"You have the planes?" Stan asked.

"For one big blow. First we smash the air power, then we attack. We have endured much bombing to save air power for this." Domber had ceased smiling and for the first time his hate came to the surface. He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. "But we waste time. We will have a look at the P-51."



CHAPTER XI

MUSTANG

Herr Domber led the way from his shop and laboratory to the street entrance where a car was waiting. He scowled at the guards outside his door and shouted, "Heil Hitler!" Then he marched down the walk to the car. This time no uniformed guards went along. There was just the driver, Domber, and Stan.

Stan was beginning to get the idea that the Dutch Quisling disliked the military. But he was not fooled into thinking Domber did not have his own henchmen. The driver of the car was a powerful fellow with beetled brows and scowling face. As soon as they pulled away from the curb, another car slipped in behind them and never left them until they parked outside a walled enclosure.

They were getting out of the car when a German military machine roared up and stopped. Two officers got out and moved stiffly toward the spot where Stan and Domber stood.

"Heil Hitler," Domber said. Then he opened up with an angry flow of German.

The officers snapped back at him and a heated argument raged. Stan gathered the officers were angry because Domber had taken Stan out without a proper armed guard. Apparently Domber won the argument. The officers saluted and made off.

"Such fools. They fear you would escape," Domber explained. "I have told them you would not get a hundred yards before you would be killed. No one has ever escaped from the Bloodhound."

"Bloodhound?"

"That is a pet name my Dutch friends have given me." He smiled at Stan. "But come, we are being delayed."

A gate opened and a man in coveralls came up to meet them. Domber spoke to him and the man walked with them to a locked door in a second wall. Producing a key, he opened the door and let them through.

Stan was startled by what he saw. There was a sunken runway leading into an underground hangar. Domber beamed.

"Not a bomb ever falls here. Above our shops there is a church and a schoolhouse. We do much valuable research here and cannot afford to be disturbed."

Stan looked along the runway. It ended abruptly at a steel fence, but a roadway went on in a twisting course, making detection of the runway difficult.

"Very clever," Stan said.

"I was sure you'd appreciate it," Domber said. "Now we'll have a look at the P-51."

They entered the underground hangar by going down a shaft in an elevator. Stepping out of the elevator Stan saw a well-lighted and spacious hangar. Various planes stood along one high wall. There was a Fort, a Wellington, two Spitfires, a Lockheed Lightning, and at the far end in a wide shop space stood a new P-51. Her nose was pointed out toward the runway and she looked ready to glide out from underground and take off. Domber laughed.

"I'm sorry, but it can't be done," he said as though Stan had spoken his thoughts out loud.

"Can't blame me for thinking about it, can you?" Stan asked.

They walked over to the fighter. She had been patched up and looked airworthy enough.

"Mind if I go up?" Stan asked.

A dozen men working in the shop stood watching. "No, go ahead," Domber said.

Stan climbed up and into the cockpit. A glance showed him that there had been considerable instrument damage which the German mechanics had not been able to repair. He noticed at once that the engine was hooked up to a small portable gasoline tank. That meant she had no fuel in her except just enough to make test runs of the engine. It probably was a fire hazard measure, but it also was one reason why Domber was so willing to let Stan get into the cockpit.

The other reason Stan soon discovered. Looking out, he saw on each side of the opening to the runway, batteries of aircraft cannon. Those guns could lay a concentrated cross fire over the runway so deadly that any plane would be blown to bits in a minute.

Stan climbed down out of the cockpit. He faced Herr Domber. "Just what was it you wanted me to do?" He had to stall for time, more time.

"You will assemble and repair the supercharger on that plane. Every tool you need will be at hand, and if you need an assistant I will furnish you one who speaks English." Herr Domber was smiling as he spoke.

"That's a big order," Stan said.

"My experts could do this, but it might take several weeks and we do not have that much time. We have such a ship as this one. All we need is a supercharger to make it the best ship in the world. Naturally I am anxious and do not wish to lose any time."

"I'll need an English-speaking helper. I may have to have parts made and I do not run a lathe," Stan said.

Herr Domber called a man over to him. After listening for a few minutes the man left. He returned a few minutes later with a youngster not more than eighteen years of age.

"Swen, you will be Lieutenant Wilson's assistant. Help him in every way you can. You are under his orders," Herr Domber said.

"Heil Hitler," Swen said and saluted. He was a blond, curly-headed kid with a ready smile. Stan grinned at him and said:

"We'll get along."

"You may talk freely to Swen," Domber said. "He is a tested party man, but he does not like killing, so he is a mechanic. I have to watch him to keep the generals from stealing him and sending him off to Russia to fight." Domber laughed, but Stan saw fear come into the boy's eyes.

"Anyone else speak English in the shop?" he asked. "I might want another man."

"No others," Domber said. "Now we must get to work."

Stan was supplied with a locker and a pair of coveralls. He was taken to a special room in the shop. There he found parts from P-51's recently shot down. The smaller shop was completely equipped. Three other men worked at benches before a window. Stan was assigned to a vacant bench. Before him lay part of the new dual turbo-supercharger. Other parts were stacked on a table.

"Know anything about one of these gadgets?" Stan asked Swen.

"Gadget?" Swen repeated in a British accent.

"Yank word for machine," Stan explained.

"No, I have never seen one before," Swen replied.

Herr Domber stood around for a little while, then made off. Stan grinned at Swen. He had decided to work upon the kid. There might be a chance to do something. Swen, like most young Germans, was deadly afraid of being sent to the Russian front. It might be that he secretly hated the men who bossed him.

At the next bench a tall mechanic was working with a part from a Spitfire. Stan moved over to the edge of his bench.

"Hand me that wrench," he said to the tall German.

The German reached over and handed Stan the wrench. Suddenly his face became very red and he spoke angrily in German.

"Thanks, buddy," Stan said. "I'm glad you speak American."

The German shrugged his shoulders and went on working. Swen looked at Stan and said:

"I am your helper. I could have handed you that wrench."

"I just wanted to be sure Heinie, here, could understand everything we say. I noticed that he was just playing with that oil gauge. It's an old type that's been out of use for four years."

The tall German's face got redder. He growled something and moved away. Stan figured he was going to report he had been spotted.

"Now, Swen," Stan said, "we're going to be friends, you and I."

Swen looked scared. "Heil Hitler," he said. "I am not to be your friend."

"You won't get hurt," Stan said softly. "Just tell them everything I tell you when they question you tonight."

"They will kill you," Swen said in a low voice. "Herr Domber poisoned the other one. He will do the same to you."

"Tell me about it quickly. They won't be leaving us alone without a spotter very long," Stan said.

"I do not know how it was done. I heard the Gestapo men laughing about it. The British flier thought he was going to get away. He fixed up his plane and had gasoline enough for much testing. But after he had it running and they learned what they wanted to know about it, he just fell over dead."

"That is quicker than working it out by themselves. Not much, but a few days," Stan said grimly.

At that moment the tall German who had been working at the next bench came running up. He was out of breath when he halted before Stan.

"I am to be your helper." He turned upon Swen. "Get out into the shop."

"Sorry to lose you, Swen," Stan called after the boy. He turned to the new helper. "They sure sent you back on the run. Did you get a good skinning?"

The German scowled at Stan. "I am to take orders," he muttered.

Stan laughed. The softhearted Swen had been planted on him. They were supposed to get chummy while the tall mechanic listened and picked up anything of value which might be said.

"What am I supposed to call you?" Stan asked.

"Hans," the mechanic said shortly.

"Well, Hans, we'll have a try at assembling this thing," Stan said.

Stan worked on the supercharger all that afternoon and convinced himself that he could fit it together and make it work. Toward evening Herr Domber came back. He halted beside the bench and looked at the machinery there.

"You have had some success?"

"I don't know," Stan said innocently. "I'll have to try it out on the ship."

"Certainly," Domber agreed. "Of course. When will you wish to try it out?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Stan said.

"If you worked tonight you could try it out in the morning?" Domber suggested with a leer.

"Yes, I guess so," Stan said.

"Fine. I know you won't mind working tonight."

"Of course not," Stan said and felt an itch to lay his fist against Herr Domber's receding chin.

"You will honor me by having dinner with me tonight?"

"Certainly," Stan said and laughed. He might as well live high while he could live.

As they went out to enter Domber's car, Stan asked, "Why do you go to all of this fuss? I can't understand you Germans. There was a lot of fuss in planning to let us escape. Now you are putting on a big show for me. You could get results without it."

"We have much humor," Domber said. "I have my own little jokes and enjoy them." He smiled at Stan.

Stan thought about the R.A.F. flier who had been poisoned after he revealed what Domber wanted to know. He decided Herr Domber was a bit of a maniac as well as an enemy and a traitor to Holland.

After an excellent dinner Stan was taken back to the job. Herr Domber was in high spirits. Hans was waiting at the bench. Stan saw at once that the mechanic had been trying to fit the machinery together. With a grin he fished several parts out of his coverall pocket and set to work.

As he worked he began to plan. If he was to be poisoned, it likely would be done shortly before the tryout. He would have to watch closely. He would drink nothing and he would eat nothing. And he would keep two vitally important parts hidden until he had to put them into place. He also would be very careful no one bumped into him and jabbed him with a hypodermic needle. The last method of poisoning did not seem to fit in with the character of Herr Domber. His method would be cunning and crafty, and it would be done with a lot of showmanship.

Nobody but Herr Domber, Stan decided, would have thought up such a crazy method of saving a few days time, and of making away with a prisoner of war. If he was called to face charges after the war, he could claim Stan Wilson had turned traitor to his country and disclosed secrets before meeting an accidental death.

Stan looked at the machine on the bench. He was taking chances with valuable secrets, but if he escaped he would be able to stop a mass slaughter of British and American planes and men, perhaps even a gas attack upon England. He decided it was worth the risk.

"You work very slow," Hans complained.

"You're here to take orders," Stan snapped.

Hans jumped and scowled at Stan. He was so used to being snapped at that he reacted without thought. Stan laughed.

"You jump like monkeys when they yell at you, don't you?" he said.

"Pig," Hans muttered under his breath.

Stan went to work again. At twelve o'clock he took off his coveralls and slipped several parts into his coat pocket.

"Tell the boss I'm ready to go to bed," he said.

Hans made off and while he was gone Stan did a few things to the supercharger. Hans came back quickly.

"Herr Domber will call for you," he said, then seated himself and lighted a cigarette.

Domber appeared a half-hour later, dressed in evening clothes. He was beaming.

"You have everything ready for a tryout in the morning?" he asked.

"Everything," Stan assured him.

"I must have a look at the machine," Domber said. He walked to the bench and spent a half-hour studying the supercharger. Finally he turned to Stan. "How much testing will be required to adjust it?"

"It can only be adjusted by running the motor," Stan said and did not smile. "I should say the plane could be ready for flight by afternoon."

"You will run it that long?"

"It may take even longer," Stan said. "This is a delicate bit of machinery and I am not too familiar with it. I have only had a general course in its construction."

"In that case we will have the tanks connected and filled with gasoline." Domber smiled broadly.

"That will save time, and I understand that's what you are interested in," Stan said.

"Time, yes, we have to work fast."

Stan grinned. He knew that Herman Goering's Air Ministry was wild with fear and grasping at every straw of help they could get for their fighter planes. They had to have something that would stop the Fortresses and Liberators, or their cities would be destroyed, and they had to have it quick.

"Haven't you ever thought that I might sabotage this job?" he asked.

"I think not," Domber said. "I am a student of the human mind. When I have studied a man I know just about what he will do. I know you do not wish to be turned over to the Gestapo and given the treatment they use to get information."

"No, I guess I'm not that much of a hero," Stan said.



CHAPTER XII

ZERO HOUR

As Stan worked on the supercharger he went over his plans carefully. With everything about ready to make tests, he was beginning to wonder if the story Swen had told him was not just the wild fancy of a scared kid. He even thought of the possibility that Swen had been planted to get him off on the wrong track. There had been so many crazy things happening that he could not afford to overlook any angle.

He had three mechanics helping him, with Hans giving his orders to the two who spoke no English. As he worked he began to wonder if he had not been neatly tricked. He was sure that at least one of the men hanging around watching him was a Luftwaffe pilot. No one interfered with his work or tried to tell him what to do. He was having as free a hand as though he had been working in a shop of the Eighth Air Force. Some of the men scowled at him, but most of them just watched with interest and with something else. Stan guessed they were eagerly waiting for the trap to spring. Then they could have a big laugh on the dumb Yank.

The supercharger parts were about installed in the ship. Stan checked the gasoline supply. There was just enough to fly him out over the channel if he took off before he used too much. Once out over the channel he might be able to water-crash the P-51 near a British patrol or pick-up boat. The trouble was that the instant the engine began to work the trap would be sprung on him. He had to figure that one out fast.

Swen showed up and hung around watching along with the other mechanics. He grinned at Stan once and shook his head. Stan winked at him. Herr Domber showed up in a sports outfit. His white spats gleamed and his yellow tie shone. Domber was in a very genial mood.

"You are progressing?" he asked.

"I'm getting the thing together, but I don't know whether it will work," Stan said.

"We will have lunch at a cafe downtown today," Herr Domber said without the flicker of an eye. "I have a special cafe in mind where the sea food is excellent and the wine very choice."

"That will be fine," Stan said and grinned as he hoisted himself up into the ship.

He lay inside the fuselage and looked at the supercharger. There was one valve which he had not fitted. He was afraid that if he fitted that valve into place the Mustang would purr like a cat. He was now convinced that the Germans had had all of their trouble with the air mixture and the pressure intake. His instructions on the new machine had been very detailed on these points. They were the secrets of the new supercharger.

Stan plugged the valve opening with a wad of cotton waste and tucked the valve into his pocket. Of one thing he was sure, the Mustang's engine had to be hot if he expected to snap her out of that hangar. And in getting her hot he did not dare let her show signs of running smoothly. Climbing out of the fuselage, he called to Hans:

"We'll turn her up." He wiped sweat from his forehead. The air in the hangar was hot, kept that way to make engine starting easy.

Hans and his men wound up the Mustang. Stan climbed into the cockpit and got set. From where he sat he could see, through a plate he had removed from the panel, the adjustment valve he had seated with waste. He could reach it by bending over.

The Mustang's engine turned over and she sputtered once or twice but refused to start. The wad of waste was no good. He had to seat the valve. Looking out he shook his head to Hans. Then he noticed that Domber was talking to an artillery captain over by the gate. He was shaking his head and making violent gestures.

Stan watched him carefully. It might be that Domber was telling the gun captain not to blast the P-51 if it made a run. In that case Domber had plans even if Stan got the ship away. Domber came back to the P-51 and Stan looked the other way as he bent forward and seated the valve.

The tough part was that if he hit the mixture just right in seating that valve the engine would hit it off at once. Stan knew how those Allisons worked. Given a hot room they might flip right over and go off with a bang. He climbed out of the cockpit and made a few last checks on the outside.

A water boy came up and the men crowded around for drinks. Stan watched the water boy carefully. He was again thinking about the poison business. The water was in a pail and the men were dipping it out in a tin cup. That did not look dangerous and Stan was very thirsty. He turned his back and climbed into the cockpit again. He was down inside, working on a repaired cable. Close to his face was the hole where the shell had ripped through and severed the cable.

Suddenly Stan heard someone whispering. It was the voice of Herr Domber.

"Get set, fool, and when the boy offers him a drink you are to shake your head. In that way he will think he has escaped being poisoned. He is just stalling now. I want this ship tuned up. If you fail, it is the Russian front for you."

"Yes, sir. Heil Hitler," Swen's voice answered.

Stan grinned broadly. He finished with the cable. One thing was sure. The poison story had been a gag to make him think he had outwitted Domber. He climbed out of the cockpit and walked over to Hans.

"We'll hit her again," he said.

Turning back he noted that several of the mechanics had moved in close. A quick glance showed bulges under their coveralls which looked a lot like army pistols or automatics. The water boy moved toward Stan. Looking past the boy Stan saw Swen. Swen began shaking his head as Stan looked at the water pail. Stan pretended not to see him, though Swen was squarely in front of him.

Reaching down he took the tin cup, filled it, and drank deeply. He had a second drink, then tossed the cup to the boy. As he did so, he shot a side glance at Herr Domber and almost burst out laughing. Domber's face was red and his mouth was screwed into a snarl. Suddenly Stan felt sorry for Swen. He nodded to Hans as he climbed up.

Looking down he saw the mechanics with their bulging coveralls crowding in close. Several of them had ripped their suits open and had their hands inside. Stan eased back against the shock pad. The left brake was the one to kick down hard. He had shoved the chock out from under the right wheel. He had a momentary feeling that the builders of the Mustang should have extended the armor plate further forward. The men on the ground would have a clean shot at him. They were well forward now and watching him like cats at a rat hole.

Hans kicked the engine over to prime her. Stan got set and eased on the switch. She turned over slowly, fired twice, idled, then fired again. Sweat broke out over Stan's forehead. Below him the faces of Domber and his men blurred. The engine kept on rumbling and sputtering. Stan relaxed as he pretended to be working on the gas adjustment.

He gave the valve a turn and the Allison smoothed considerably. Leaving it that way he looked down at Hans, a deep frown on his face. He shook his head and motioned to the mechanic. Hans did not know what he wanted, but he moved around to the side of the ship. Stan was sorry to have to use Hans as a shield but he knew, now, that a quarter turn more on the valve would set the Allison roaring. What he needed was a bit more heat on his temperature gauge, and he wanted to keep Hans in line.

Bending over he bellowed at Hans, making his words jumble together. Hans looked blank and shook his head. Stan scowled at him. Then he got a bright idea. He looked over at Domber and beckoned to him. Domber came over. He was shorter than Hans. Stan reached down and bellowed:

"Get up and I'll show you how to adjust this type of supercharger!"

He even gave Herr Domber a hand up on the step. Domber leaned into the cockpit. Stan pointed to the valve. His fingers closed over it and began to turn it. Then his right arm shot out. His fingers gripped Domber's yellow tie. The Dutch Quisling's eyes bulged and he pulled back.

In that instant the Allison surged into full, smooth power. Stan kicked down on one brake and snapped her around. Like a falcon launching out from a limb, the Mustang shot toward the opening ahead. Stan held Domber over the edge of the open hatch until the ship was out in the sunshine, then he gave the little Quisling a shove.

Hoiking the tail of the Mustang, he hopped her suddenly. It was a trick he had depended upon to save him from the guns. As she shot upward he saw flame and fire rip the runway. The blast was so close to his belly that it sheared away most of the landing gear. Stan banked and dropped back down toward the roofs of the city. As he laid over he saw the withering fire on the runway lift. Amid the ripped up slabs of cement he saw a man lying sprawled on his face. He was half covered by a slab of concrete.

"One for the Dutch patriots," Stan said grimly.

As he roared over the rooftops, Stan leaned back and laughed. He would have to fly low because the high-level dual supercharger was not working. All he had done was adjust the regular carburization system. He had not taken chances on his work on the high-altitude machinery.

There were no Nazi planes in the air. There had been no alert. Stan was sure there would be no attack until he reached Rotterdam. Using the tactics of the Rhubarb Raiders he flew low over the tile roofs and the windmills.

In a surprisingly short time, the Mustang broke out over Rotterdam and Stan straightened his course. His compass was out, the gyro-horizon had been removed and both clocks were stopped. The radio had been stripped out of the ship along with every other instrument not absolutely necessary to test flight. Domber had only wanted to learn about the supercharger. His egotism in believing everyone else was dull-witted compared to himself had saved Stan.

Over the estuary of the Rhine River Stan met his first flak. A startled battery opened up as he flipped over so low down he could see the buttons on the artillery men's uniforms. The firing was wild, but it roused gunners out on the Hook of Holland. There the Jerries did some closer shooting. But Stan was dusting the concrete emplacements and the gunners did not get their hearts into the job. Stan flipped up over blue water with a grin on his face.

Checking his gasoline supply, he judged he could get to the middle of the channel. He had no parachute and no life belt or Mae West suit to float him. The chill water of the channel would soon drag him down. He had to locate a patrol boat or a British ship of some other class. And he had to watch for Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf fighters.

High above him he spotted three fighter craft. He saw them wheel and bank into the sun. They would be coming downstairs to have a look. Possibly they had been warned by radio to look for him. A minute later he spotted five more planes and these he was able to check. They were FW 190 fighters and they were coming up from the direction of Ostende on the Belgium coast. Then he saw two Me 109 Stingers slipping in from the other side. Stan kicked the Mustang wide open. No use trying to save gas by holding cruising speed. He had to get away from that coast.

The Mustang knifed ahead and Stan bent forward as the air-speed indicator rolled up to just under four hundred miles per hour. There was no more boost and he longed for the dual supercharger. The FW's dropped in behind, unable to head him off, but the Me's came on like falcons trapping a homing pigeon. Stan felt a good deal like a pigeon. He was unarmed and he was carrying a vital message that had to get through. He dived down close to the water and roared ahead.

One Me dived in on him and zoomed over him. Stan felt lead spattering all over his ship and saw cannon shells hit the sea close below his wings. The second Me came in and Stan slipped a bit, kicking the top of a wave with his port wing.

The Jerry was coming down at a terrific rate. He did not think any sane flier would be zooming along on the crests of the waves. When Stan dipped, the Jerry missed him and shot past. Stan pulled up sharply just as a great cloud of water and smoke lifted above the sea. The Jerry had hit nose-on. Stan saw the tail of his ship and one square-tipped wing rise above the green water, then slip from sight.

In coming up Stan went over the third Me. It managed to flatten out but went skidding along the tops of the waves for a half mile before it got into the air again.

That gave Stan his chance to get away. He could outrun the Me's once he got them down on his level, where they could not use their diving speed. But the three fighter craft he had first spotted were coming down now. They were dangerous ships. All three of them were FW 190's, and diving on an enemy from above is a job the FW does best.

Stan settled down close to the channel again and kept racing on. The FW's were sloping in at a screaming pace. Stan felt their first lead as it hailed around him. He stayed in the fire a split second, then bounced up and over. He saw the three FW's far below him. They were coming around for another climb.

"Sorry, fellows, but I just can't wait," Stan muttered.

He nosed down again and used the slope to build up speed. Suddenly he glanced at his gasoline indicator. It was getting wobbly. Stan went up again to have a look around. Far ahead he spotted two black specks with smoke pluming up over them. That meant larger ships than patrol boats. They might be German light destroyers on patrol, but they were the only craft in sight. He had to make a try for them.

Sloping off again, he roared away toward the ships. Slowly their hulls became larger and Stan saw that they were destroyers, small, sleek, and fast. They were plowing along at top speed, which was not a good sign. German craft in those waters would be making knots because Allied planes kept a sharp watch over the channel.

Stan went in at top speed. He was still a long way from the two ships when his engine quit. It went out without any sputtering at all, and it refused to rev up a single blast.

Flying so low, Stan knew he would not stay up over any great distance. He felt the Mustang begin to settle. The ships were closer now, but he still had not identified them. That no longer mattered. If they were German he would just sink with the Mustang. Considerable haze and smoke enveloped the ships. They were putting about and swinging away from him so that the smoke kept them covered. Stan had a wild notion they thought he was trying to torpedo them and were taking evasive measures.

"Germans," he said between his gritted teeth.

Then the Mustang shot through the smoke, grazed the prow of one of the destroyers, and settled into the channel with a terrific splash. Stan heard anti-aircraft guns blasting away and saw flame and smoke belching from dozens of gun muzzles above him. "They aim to finish me off right," he thought wryly.

He promptly forgot his resolve to go down with the Mustang. Pawing the hatch cover open he heaved himself out of the cockpit and tumbled into the water. A big wave rolled over him and the suction from the sinking Mustang dragged him down. Savagely he battled his way to the surface. He was pawing and sputtering but able to swim strongly.

Looking up he saw that he was close beside the destroyer or her sister ship, he did not know which. Something white came sailing down toward him and he heard a voice shout to him:

"Blimey, old man! Grab the preserver!"

Then Stan saw that two other life preservers had been tossed to him. He swam to the nearest one and grabbed it. He was shaking from the cold water but he laughed. The destroyer was flying the ensign of His Majesty's Royal Navy.

A few minutes later a boat picked him up and he was rowed to the destroyer. Climbing aboard he was met by the commander. Stan saluted the officer.

"Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, reporting, sir," he said.

The commander looked at Stan's clothes, then smiled. "Where were you going with that Mustang, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"I was headed for home, sir. You mistook me for a Jerry and started shooting."

"No, we knew what you were. We just bagged two Focke-Wulf fighters off your tail. But you can report in detail after we get you into some dry clothing."

Stan followed the commander to the officer's quarters. After climbing into a navy blanket and swallowing hot tea, Stan told the commander his story. He did not keep anything back. When he had finished, the commander said:

"We could radio in a warning, but I think High Command might appreciate it if we took no chances. We'll put in and rush you right to Eighth Air Force headquarters. That way the Germans won't be able to learn anything."

"The FW that got away will report I was blasted into the sea. Anyway, I have a personal score to settle with a Nazi who is passing himself off as a pal of mine."

"Better get in touch with the big boys first," the commander advised.

"I'll take care of both jobs," Stan promised.



CHAPTER XIII

SPY HUNT

The commander of the destroyer placed Stan in the hands of a British Intelligence Officer. Having had some experience with British methods of sending all reports through regulation channels before acting upon them, Stan merely requested that he be rushed to his headquarters at once.

"Certainly, old fellow," the officer said. "But that will be a bit awkward, you know. Everything is upset and everybody is very busy. There's a big show in the making. I'll do my best. Should be able to deliver you there by morning."

"Don't bother, if that is as fast as you can get me there," Stan said. "I'll find a way out to my outfit."

"No trouble at all, glad to help you. I'll get you a room and you can get a nice sleep. Bright and early I'll be around with a car." The officer made it clear he was in a big hurry to be off.

"Thanks a lot," Stan said. "I'll see you later."

The officer stared at him as Stan turned and barged out of the little office where the Navy had left him. News of a big air push made it necessary for him to get into action at once. He had to report his information in time to halt the operations, or catch Egbert Minter before he reported to Berlin. Getting a report to his own flight commander seemed the quickest way.

Without his Yank officer's uniform Stan was at a disadvantage. The destroyer commander had had his civilian suit cleaned and pressed for him and he was wearing it, having discarded the coveralls he had worn in the German shop. Standing on a street corner in the coast village, Stan realized that he was dressed as a German civilian. Getting a ride would not be so easy. Then he began to understand why the Intelligence Officer had wanted to hold him overnight. Intelligence had not been so sure the destroyer commander knew all about Stan.

Grinning broadly he hurried down the street. A few people stared at him and one man pointed him out to another. A bobby turned and stood watching him. Stan halted abruptly. The policeman was walking toward him. Suddenly Stan realized that he did not have a scrap of evidence on him to prove he was a Yank officer. The Germans had taken all identification away from him.

A man came up the street and halted the bobby. He showed the policeman something. The bobby looked at Stan, then turned back to his beat. The man sauntered on a few steps and paused to look into a shop window. At once Stan knew he was being trailed by British Intelligence. He had a hunch he would be picked up soon.

Entering a shop he smiled at a girl leaning on a counter. "May I use your telephone?" he asked.

"Over there." The girl pointed to a small booth.

Stan went into the little room. He got a connection and asked for Eighth Air Force headquarters after convincing the operator that he was a stranded flier. A voice at the other end of the line said in a very irritated manner:

"We are accepting nothing but accredited calls until tomorrow."

"This is vitally important. I must speak to General Gilmer. This is Lieutenant Stan Wilson speaking. I've just escaped from Germany. A British destroyer put me ashore."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Ramsgate."

"Get in touch with British Intelligence there. We can't put you through to the general."

"Then get me Colonel Holt."

"He is in conference. Now clear the wire."

"Don't hang up or I'll have your stripes!" Stan shouted.

"Yes, sir," the voice said quickly.

That meant the operator was a non-com which would make it a little easier.

"Get me Lieutenant Allison at Mess 187. Make it quick."

The operator did some plugging and after a bit came back with a report.

"Lieutenant Allison has shifted to fighter group. He is at 155, Interceptor Base."

"Get him!" Stan snapped.

The operator began plugging again and Stan waited. He saw the man shadowing him standing out at the counter drinking a cup of tea. After a long wait he heard Allison's voice.

"Hello there?"

"This is Stan. Hold it! Listen! I'm at Ramsgate and have to get to headquarters at once. Can't tell you how I got here, but I'm about to be grabbed by British Intelligence. I'm dressed like a German business man."

"I say, old man, this is topping." Stan heard him shout to O'Malley.

"Is Sim Jones there?"

"Yes, he was here. I don't see him, but I'm sure he's around. Want to talk to him?"

"No, but either you or O'Malley keep an eye on him. Don't let him get out of your sight. If he leaves the mess, follow him!"

"I say, what's up?" Allison was clearly startled.

"Do as I say, and get Colonel Holt. Tell him to pick me up here at once. Even if he has to come himself. I'm about to be grabbed by a plain-clothes man. But I'll be at British Intelligence here at Ramsgate."

The Intelligence man was in the door of the booth. "That will be enough talk," he said gruffly. "Any other messages you have I'll send for you." He reached over and hung up the phone before Stan could say another word.

"Listen, Officer. Take me back to the Intelligence Office," Stan said. "My commander will call for me there."

"You are acting very strangely, my man. Why didn't you make this call from the office? It could have been checked there." The officer laid a big hand on Stan's arm.

"I'll make one from there," Stan said. "I'll admit I should have put this one through from your office, but I did not know I was to be followed and I didn't stop to think how I would look in these clothes."

"I have orders to handle this myself in case you showed any suspicious actions. I think you have acted plenty suspicious. I'm taking you to the London office. We'll have to check this call you just made and get you identified."

"I can't waste all that time," Stan protested. "I have to get out to my outfit."

The officer smiled. "I think I've landed one of the boys we're after. We have had a tip that the Germans have planted a group of the smoothest men they have over here. So far we haven't been able to put a hand on a single man of them. But you fit the picture neatly."

"Why?" Stan asked.

"Well, you are an escaped pilot. That's the way they have been coming in. They are always able to slip through because they know all about the outfit they were supposed to have been with. They're even supposed to look exactly like the officers lost over Germany." The officer laughed. "The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that we've landed one of them at last. Come along."

Stan walked beside the officer. He felt like kicking himself for bungling. If the time were not so short everything could be straightened out. But he was sure the first waves of the giant air attack were about due to start, possibly before midnight. Allison had said Minter was not around. He and O'Malley might not be able to locate the spy.

"Here's my car," the secret-service man said.

Stan paused beside the sleek roadster. The officer opened the door. Stan stepped inside. The officer walked around the car. Stan leaned over the side.

"Aren't you going to do anything about this flat tire?" he asked.

"Another flat?" the officer said in disgust. "That's the third one this week. It's about time I had some new tires." He got out and started around the car.

Stan reached over and flipped on the switch. He slid under the wheel and stepped on the starter. The engine hit at once and Stan slammed the gears into mesh. The roadster leaped ahead, then stalled. Stan opened the choke and the car leaped again, its tires showering the agent with gravel.

"Stop or I'll fire!" the officer shouted.

Stan bent down and hit a near-by corner. He did not want to have a real blowout. He wanted to get as near headquarters as he could before the British police headed him off. The car careened around the corner and headed down a tree-lined street. Dusk was beginning to settle and Stan switched on the lights. He was disgusted to see that the lights were hooded for blackout driving.

Stan knew exactly how to get where he was going, but he avoided the main road and went careening down lanes and along narrow trails hemmed in by hedges. The car attracted little attention since it was an official vehicle and clearly marked.

Just when he figured he was going to make it in spite of the dim headlights and the fact that darkness had settled, he burst out of a lane into a village. He recognized the place at once. He was just two miles from his objective, but two military cars blocked the road ahead. Stan was sure they were waiting for him. He did not drive on to find out. Cutting the switch he slid out of the car and ducked over a hedge.

The car rolled on in the darkness while Stan sprinted along the hedge. He passed through a back yard two jumps ahead of a shaggy dog and headed up an alley. A few minutes later he was hurrying down the blacked-out street.

Reaching a tavern Stan saw two bicycles shoved into a rack beside the door. One of them was locked but the other was loose. Stan slipped it out and headed up the street again. He was mounting the cycle when he heard shouts down the street and men running. Dimmed car headlights gleamed. The officers were on his trail again. Stan ducked into a narrow path and pedaled away as hard as he could.

The officers chasing him drove along the road, which ran parallel to the lane. They had a spotlight on one of the cars which they kept moving in wide circles. Finally the light passed over Stan and the men began shouting for him to halt. The light came back and held on him.

Stan sent the bike into a cross path and was out of the beam and headed away from the road. He pedaled furiously. The men were out of the cars and running after him. At the first left-hand turn Stan headed back in the direction he wanted to go and kept pumping away.

The shouting behind him died down and he began to think he had evaded his pursuers. Suddenly the lane broke out into the main road. Stan headed down the road. He could see the looming bulk of a hangar against the sky and knew that he was nearing headquarters. Suddenly he heard a car behind him. Looking back he saw that one of the cars was close upon him. He kept on pedaling but the car rapidly gained on him. It was very close when he saw a gate ahead.

With five British officers on his heels, Stan ditched the bike and sprinted for the gate. Under shaded lights he saw two Yank soldiers. He reached them ten yards ahead of the Britishers, having outrun the secret-service men. The guards barred the way.

"Get a guard and take me to headquarters," Stan snapped.

"We turn all civilians over to the local police," one of the guards said. He grinned at Stan. "Looks like they were right on the job, too."

"They think I'm a spy, but I'm an Eighth Air Force officer and I have important information for Colonel Holt, my commander." Stan spoke sternly.

The British officers closed in. Their leader said:

"Come now. You led us a hot chase but you won't get away again."

"Colonel Holt will vouch for me," Stan said.

"What was the last password we used here?" the guard asked. "The one in use when you left."

Stan grinned and stepped forward. "Port wing," he said.

The two guards stared hard at him. "He has it," one of them said. The other turned to the British officials. "We'll take him to Colonel Holt. You can come along. If he's a phony you can have him."

"Now you're talking sense," Stan said.

The guard made a call and two soldiers appeared. One of the British officials went along, but it was clear they had begun to believe Stan. The guards took Stan straight to the administration building. Stan and the secret-service man were led to a small room off the operations room. Within five minutes Colonel Holt appeared.

"Wilson!" he almost shouted. "Where in heck did you come from?"

"I came in just one jump ahead of Scotland Yard," Stan answered and grinned at the Britisher.

"Guess I'll be running along. Sorry we took you for a Jerry," the man said.

"You did a fine job. Stick around. We may be able to grab one of the men you are looking for," Stan said.

"You got out of Germany?" Colonel Holt asked. "The Germans seem to be getting slack about prisoners lately. O'Malley and Jones got back a few days ago."

"O'Malley got back but not Jones. The Jones who got here is a spy. I'll give you the story briefly."

Stan outlined the whole scheme. When he had finished, Colonel Holt rushed him in to the officers meeting where the final touches were being made on plans for the big raid. Stan had an audience composed of generals and other high-ranking officials for the next fifteen minutes. Then phones began to buzz. The R.A.F. was notified to hold up. Stan soon found himself out of the meeting. He headed for his barracks. Officers had been sent to round up Egbert Minter, but Stan had a hunch he might be able to locate the phony Sim Jones before the officers found him.