ds away.

Dave was looking at it. And then suddenly he realized that his feet were
pounding across the beach. That he was racing madly down the beach
toward the water's edge. And that Freddy Farmer was close at his heels.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

_The White Cliffs!_

By the time they reached the water they had stripped off their hospital
jackets, torn free their water canteens, and flung them away. Shoulder
to shoulder they splashed out as far as they could, then dived in. They
broke surface together and struck out for the helpless craft being
carried toward its doom by the tide. Above them raged another mighty
battle of the air. Bombs fell close and when one struck the water and
went off, a thousand fists seemed to hammer against their chests. Behind
them the flames of Dunkirk leaped high, and the glow turned the waters
through which they swam to the color of blood. And there ahead of them
was the sleek-looking motorboat, like a highly polished brown log
drifting on the crest of a shimmering red sea.

A great fire burned in Dave's lungs, and his arms became like bars of
lead that required every remaining ounce of his strength to lift up and
cut down into the water again. But he fought back the aches, and the
pains, and the gnawing fatigue. And so did Freddy Farmer there by his
side. They kept their eyes fixed on that drifting motorboat and they
didn't take them off it until after what seemed like years they were
alongside it and hooking an arm over the gunwale. For a moment they just
hung there panting and gulping for air. Then at an unspoken signal they
each shifted their grip to the small brass rail that ran along each side
from stem to stern, and hauled themselves into the boat.

Not even then did they speak a word, for words were unnecessary, now.
There was a job to do, and a job to be done fast. The rocks weren't more
than sixty yards away. Shaking water from his face, Dave leaped toward
the engine hood, lifted up the motionless bullet riddled body and
lowered it gently to the deck. At the same time Freddy caught up an oar
and rushed toward the bow to fend off the craft should it reach the
rocks.

Lifting the engine hood Dave took one look inside and gulped with
relief. Messerschmitt bullets had not touched the American built engine.
A quick glance down at the priming can in the dead man's stiff hand told
Dave he had been trying to start the engine when the Messerschmitt first
dived. Perhaps he had throt