"A hundred different ways," Colonel Fraser said. "Took 'em off the poor devils as they lay dead in the bomb rubble. Or when they were in a casualty station, or a hospital. Things were very much in a stew during blitz nights, you know. Everybody was helping everybody else, and nobody was asking the next chap why he was there, or what he was doing. There wasn't any time for that, or any need. London was in a desperate state, and little things didn't matter at all. No, they simply got hold of the papers somehow, and then steered clear of those addresses. Civilians carried no pictures on their papers for identification, you know. That is, save an important few in charge of Air Raid Defense work." "Well, that's one satisfaction, at least," Freddy Farmer said grimly. "That beggar, Erich, will steal no more papers. We sent that blighter where he belongs." "You mean, _you_ did," Dawson corrected with a grin. "And saved my hide at the same time!" Freddy Farmer shrugged that off and looked at Colonel Fraser. "There's something I'd like to ask if I may, sir?" he said. "Who has a better right, Farmer?" the senior officer smiled. "Go right ahead." "That Hans and Erich drank a toast to the Fuehrer's secret weapon, sir," Freddy said. Then, with a little embarrassed smile, "I know the Nazis have been putting out a lot of silly scare propaganda, now that we're blasting their cities. Threatening to use a secret weapon, and all that sort of thing. But--well, frankly, sir, is there anything to this secret weapon business, that you know of?" The British Intelligence officer didn't reply to the question for a moment. He drummed his fingertips on the desk, and pursed his lips as though he were carefully selecting the words to speak. "Propaganda, or not," he finally said slowly, "we are firmly convinced that the Nazis are arranging some kind of a surprise for us. Fact is, we've felt that way for some time now. Just what it is, we frankly do not know. I know for sure that British Intelligence hasn't obtained sufficient information as yet to give us so much as an inkling as to what it is. But what about you, Major? Has Yank Intelligence got wind of anything of that sort?" "Yes and no, sir," Major Crandall said with a crooked little smile. "Like you, we've received some confirmed reports from inside Germany that something is brewing. I mean, that Hitler has become so desperate that he's going to take a desperate gamble, and play his final cards. But whether it will be against the Russians, or against us, or both, we don't know. Nor do we know if it's a new plane, a new gun, a new kind of tank, or what. But it's pretty certain that the Nazis are not going to take the terrific air beating they are now receiving without striking back with something very special they've been saving until they were forced to use it." "You speak of confirmed reports, sir," Dawson spoke up. "Just what do you mean by that? Confirmed reports of what, may I ask?"