by Barry Sadler
And in the hay scattered ahead of the plane, Casca could see Wothering lying on his back. He had evidently been too weak to take his own advice about buckling up.
His eyes opened as Casca reached him. He glanced briefly around him and smiled wanly. Then he passed out again.
Casca felt him over, but couldn't find any further injuries. He dressed the reopened wound, then bandaged his own head, and sat wearily beside the wounded officer.
Wothering came to again and tried to sit up, sucking in his breath in an agonized gasp as his gashed buttock took his weight. He turned onto his belly and lifted himself on his elbows to look around.
"Hmm. I see you found the haystack alright."
"Yes," Casca answered, "I just couldn't get her down in time."
"My fault," the pilot said. "Should have started the approach farther back. The head doesn't function quite right when it's running short on blood. I see you've lost quite a bit, too."
"Yes." Casca felt the blood still seeping into the bandage around his head. "The flow is slowing now. I'll be alright in a bit."
"Stretch out," Wothering said. "That's an order. I can keep watch for a bit."
Casca didn't feel like arguing. And there was little choice anyway. Neither of them was in any sort of shape to run away – or to fight. Some troops, German for sure, should arrive any minute and take them prisoner. He allowed himself to sink into unconsciousness.
He woke to Wothering's urgent command. "Wake up, Corporal! We've got company coming, and it's not what we expected."
Casca opened his eyes expecting to see a number of field-gray uniformed infantry toting Mauser rifles. What he saw was worse. There were only three gray uniforms, but they were bedecked with gold braid and riding in a large, open Mercedes motorcar.
Behind the wheel of the Mercedes sat a tall, elegant-looking German. But he was no chauffeur – the gold braid and the splendid uniform suggested that he was a high ranking officer if not a royal prince, and the wings on his chest denoted that he was a pilot.
With the agility of an athlete, the driver leaped from his seat, drawing a pistol as he did so. He walked toward the downed airplane casually displaying the Luger. He spoke politely in coarse English, addressing himself to Wothering. "Good afternoon, Englander. Welcome to the territory of the New Greater Germany. I gather you are wounded and will excuse you from standing."
He ignored Casca, but Casca included himself in the dispensation from standing since his bandaged head bore witness that he too was wounded.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hermann Goering, and these two gentlemen are my friends, the Baron Von Richtofen and Oberleutnant Max Immelmann. We are all flyers on our way to join our squadron. On behalf of all of us, I would like to thank you for a very entertaining spectacle." He laughed heartily.
"Good afternoon," Wothering replied. "I am Captain Henry Osgood Wothering, and this is Corporal Casterton. We are obviously your prisoners, and I accept that. I deny, however, your claim to this part of France. I happen to have read some of the ravings of your Herr Walter Rathenau, and I deny all of his claims."
"I am not surprised," Goering sneered. "From such an inferior pilot I would not expect any high level of intellectual understanding. But let me tell you, our Rathneau is right when he talks of Lebensraum. As he puts it: "We need land on this earth.”
"Everybody does," Wothering replied, "but that doesn't entitle you to take it from France."
"We have the same right to take it from France as you have to take India, Ireland, or Africa. We are going to build a new German Empire here, `Mitteleuropa,' and if the French are too stupid to see that it is in their own best interests, then we will just have to show them. A strong, unified central Europe under Germany will be able to stand and compete against the other empires – British, American, and Russian. History demands it, and we are going to accomplish it.
"But we are wasting time. What was the nature of the mission that you so clumsily aborted with your ridiculous landing?"
"We are your prisoners of war," Wothering answered, "and we are not required to give you any information."
"Well, no matter," Goering said. "There is little that we don't already know of the pathetic attempts of your contemptible little army to stand in the way of history. I probably know more of the dispositions and strengths, I should say weaknesses, of your army than you do."
Casca, sitting ignored on the ground, grimaced. The arrogant German was surely right. There was so little left of the British Expeditionary Force that German flyers, who were over the lines daily, doubtless did know more of its circumstances than the British officers did.
"Well, you certainly will not be passing on the information you have gained of our situation. Just leave your weapons on the ground there and get into the car," Goering said.
They got into the rear seat with Immelmann, then Goering pulled the big car around in a tight turn and roared away.
The Mercedes pulled up within the German encampment that they had just bombed, and Captain Wothering was taken to the headquarters building. Casca was marched away to a compound where he joined a small number of other prisoners, French and British, and all enlisted men.
These other prisoners had been captured from scouting parties, or even out of their own lines by raiding parties of German infantry, due to demands from the German high command for intelligence information. That they would risk such raids suggested that there must be a major push imminent. The prisoners had all been intensively interrogated and, Casca guessed, had told the Germans the little they knew.
It seemed scarcely worth the trouble. Nothing significant had changed in the positions of either army since the Battle of the Marne earlier in the month. Trains were daily rushing French troops to the front as the Germans either knew or should assume. Perhaps there were British reinforcements on the way, but certainly the Tommies in the trenches would know nothing of such movements. With a bored sigh Casca sat down to wait his turn for interrogation.
He was not kept waiting long. To his surprise he was taken before the elegant officer who had found them.
Goering was in a rage. The sneering good humor that he had shown by the downed plane had been replaced by a seething tantrum.
"So, you are the barbarian who bombed our troops at their prayers? And who destroyed our fuel supply?
"When we came upon your plane, we were still on our way here and did not then know of your monstrous attacks."
Goering slammed his fist into the desk with such force that the gold seal ring that he wore on his little finger stamped his emblem into the wood.
"Himmelherrgott!" he snarled. "We have plenty of men, and, for that matter, plenty of priests, but you have cost us most of our petrol. It will take us many days to replenish supplies, and our assault upon Verdun cannot be delayed."
Verdun? Casca was puzzled. Verdun was certainly the key sector of the Maginot line. But it was not what he would consider a worthwhile military objective. But he tried to keep the conversation going. "You will not find Verdun an easy target."
The big German's good humor returned momentarily. "Ach, but you are wrong. You missed what should have been your real target. Had your bombs landed amongst our chlorine store, you might have really damaged our attack. Yes indeed, we are about to teach the French and you British a real lesson at Verdun. You will be totally defeated within a matter of hours. We have a new weapon that is about to completely revolutionize warfare.
"Our victory at Verdun will open the eyes of the French people to the fact that they have nothing more to hope for. Beyond Verdun there are objectives for which the French General Staff will be compelled to throw into battle every man they have – and the forces of France will bleed to death. On the other hand, should the French withdraw and abandon their splendid fortress to us, the effect on the morale of France will be enormous."
His manner changed again. "You dumb fucking corporal, you don't realize just what you have done. You have grounded the world's be
st three flyers just when the war effort of the fatherland most needs our services.
"Now," he waved a long, threatening finger in Casca's face, "I want to know how you did that?"
"Did what?" Casca asked innocently.
"Don't play with me, Englander!" Goering snarled. "How did you aim your bombs? What special equipment does your plane carry? I have men examining it now, so I will know soon enough anyway. How do you carry these bombs? What sort of bombs are they? And how the hell do you aim them?"
"Just put it down to luck," Casca answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Luck?" Goering's voice was a shrill screech, a comical sound coming from the athletic body in the elegant uniform. "Luck! You dumb Englander corporal. We three, Immelmann, Richtofen, and myself are the three best pilots in the world, and we have not accomplished what you have done here. Don't talk to me of luck. Even from a zeppelin it is difficult to hit a target on the ground, and it flies only at forty miles an hour. You must have been doing twice that speed. Now, you will kindly tell me just how you did it."
Casca looked the German in the eyes. He had no idea of anything that he could possibly say. Luck was the only true explanation, but if the German chose to believe instead that there was some secret, sophisticated weaponry involved, he was certainly not going to tell him otherwise.
But he could think of nothing to say. His mind was totally occupied with what Goering had said. An imminent push on Verdun? And a secret weapon? Chlorine? What the hell sort of weapon uses chlorine? Maybe some machine that runs on it? Impossible, no machine could function with such a corrosive chemical. Does it explode easily? Some new sort of grenade?
Behind Goering's epauletted shoulder there was an open window, and outside Casca could see the huge Mercedes.
As his mind raced to try to find something to say that would satisfy the German, he saw two German soldiers escorting Captain Wothering to the car. The late afternoon sun glinted from the bright paintwork, and as he stared at the car, Casca saw another gleam from the cluster of keys in the dashboard.
He was already moving as fast as the thought was forming in his mind. He gathered his legs under him and threw himself across the desk, his outstretched arms reaching for the epauletted shoulders.
The chair went over backwards, and Goering fell, surprised and winded by Casca's weight thudding on top of him. Before the German could recover, Casca was on his feet and then diving headfirst through the open window. He rolled as he hit the ground and came up running.
Ahead of him the two soldiers were loading the wounded officer into the rear seat of the Mercedes with their backs to him. The one he reached first never knew what hit him. Casca's swinging fist took him behind the ear, and he slumped to the ground. The second soldier had a little more time, but it didn't do him any good.
Wothering put all of his diminished strength into an elbow jolt that doubled him over. Instantly, Casca was on the soldier's back, slamming his face over and over again into the quickly bloodied steel panels of the Mercedes until the German's body went limp, and Casca allowed it to fall to the ground.
As Wothering struggled through the open back door, he paused only long enough to retrieve the unconscious soldier's pistol. Casca turned the key and the dashboard instruments lit up. He ran to the front of the car and turned the crank handle.
Nothing happened.
"There's an electric starter," Wothering shouted from where he was still dragging himself into the back seat. "Should be a button on the dashboard."
Casca jumped into the driver's seat and stabbed at a black button. The windshield wipers scraped across the glass.
"On the floor," Wothering's voice said weakly. "Maybe it's on the floor."
Casca looked down. There were two pedals which he was sure were the clutch and the brake, and another that was surely the accelerator. There was also a small, round button. He tramped his foot on it; the motor whirred and instantly fired.
At the same instant he heard the bark of a gun and a bullet passed somewhere nearby. He glanced back toward the hut where he had been interrogated. Goering was leaning out of the small window with the Luger in his hand. A bright orange flash accompanied by the whine of a bullet alerted Casca that the man knew how to shoot.
He looked to his right and saw a number of soldiers running toward the car, cranking their rifles into action as they ran.
"The hell with finesse," he grunted as he engaged what he hoped was first gear and tramped the accelerator to the floor.
The big car shot away at tremendous speed, taking Casca completely by surprise as it hurtled over the uneven ground. He wrestled with the wheel as he looked for something like a road, but the whine of bullets passing close kept his foot to the floor.
He found a rutted cartway and gunned the huge car along it. A quick look to the rear, and he saw that their pursuit was confused and already outdistanced.
A gateway was coming up with a sentry hurrying to open the barrier. He just had time to do so and jumped out of the way saluting smartly as the Mercedes raced through the opening. Casca caught a glimpse of the sentry's startled face as he saw the khaki uniforms. Casca tipped him a salute for his trouble and changed gear, pressing the big car over the rough track as fast as he dared.
He heard a chuckle in his ear. Wothering was leaning on the back of his seat.
"That elegant chappy boasted to me that this is his own private auto," he laughed. "If he ever catches you, he'll fry your hide."
Casca joined in his laughter. "Can you give me any idea where to go?" he asked.
"Not much," Wothering answered. "South and west – head for the sun is about as close as I can guess. At least we've got the fastest motorcar in Europe. There's no chance that he can catch us." After a moment he added, "Unless he takes to the air."
They came to a road and Casca turned onto it – just as they heard the noise of an aircraft engine overhead. A green Fokker biplane was flying the length of the road, and Casca had no doubt that the pilot was Goering. It was quickly evident that he had spotted them. The Fokker climbed and banked, turning tightly so that it was soon behind them.
As it hurtled past overhead the pilot waggled the wings, and Casca heard pistol shots above the sound of the engine. An instant later there was another shot from the back seat of the car as Wothering fired after the departing plane.
Casca glanced at the speedometer. They were moving at more than seventy miles an hour. The big car straddled the narrow road, bouncing about as they struck ruts and potholes and sliding alarmingly as Casca pushed it through corners as fast as he dared.
Then Goering was behind them again, and this time Wothering was ready, the pistol already pointing at the cockpit when the wings dipped and the man between them was exposed. They traded shots, and Wothering fired again as the plane sped away.
"No real chance of damaging the damned thing," he grunted in dissatisfaction.
Goering made another pass as they were on a straight stretch of road, almost managing to slow his Fokker to the speed of the car.
For what seemed an age to Casca the plane was overhead and alongside, Wothering's pistol firing rapidly from the back seat. Casca saw the muzzle flash of Goering's pistol, and heard a bullet ricochet from the hood of the car.
Then the plane was ahead of them, and Wothering was firing a last shot at it. On the next pass another bullet hit the car, tearing through the floor close by Casca's feet.
"Damn, but this chappy's good!" Wothering shouted.
Casca agreed without enthusiasm. If the chase kept up like this, the German was sooner or later certain to hit one of them or, at least, disable the car.
Goering was now timing his passes to the straight stretches of road, flying slowly at treetop height, and firing two or three shots with each pass. Wothering answered the fire but without effect.
Casca changed tactics and braked almost to a standstill as soon as the Fokker came close so that it swept by quickly. Even so, another shot tore through the u
pholstery of the back seat.
Then Casca saw an encampment and left the road, heading for where the French tricolor was flying. They were almost to the barbed wire when a French machine gun opened fire on them.
At almost the same instant the Fokker swept overhead, and there was the ring of lead on steel as another of Goering's shots struck the car.
Wothering stood erect, displaying his British khaki uniform, and holding his hands high in the air. The only effect was that more French soldiers opened fire with their rifles.
Then the Fokker was overhead again, but now Casca couldn't brake as this would make them too easy a target for the French soldiers. He kept his foot down, and he heard shot after shot exchanged between the German pilot and his passenger. Mercifully, the French turned their attention to the plane, and Goering banked steeply away as he flew into their fire.
Then the plane was gone, and the French machine gunner was turning his weapon once more toward the Mercedes.
Wothering again stood up, his hands raised in the air to demonstrate his inhostility.
The machine gun stopped firing, but now dozens of rifles were trained on them as Casca brought the car to a stop. A number of French soldiers came running toward them, their rifles pointed nervously.
Casca, too, got to his feet and put his hands in the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They were interrogated by a French chef de batalion, Commandant Jacques Campion. He was obsessively suspicious and believed that they were German agents. Their arrival in the high-powered sports car persuaded him that they were high ranking German officers.
He refused to be impressed by Wothering's protestations that he had seen for himself that the German plane was pursuing them and firing at them. He was infuriated when Wothering, explaining that he did not know the language, declined to speak with him in German.