“I saw that,” said Mac casually, nodding toward the summerhouse.
“Yep,” I said. “Here we go again.”
Mac shook his head. “Things are going to be a bit different,” he said. “Let’s us make that jumper jump.”
“Have you been thinking about that, too?” I grinned.
“Right-o. Let’s see what we can do with him before he gets too rambunctious.” He swiftly outlined his plan. It was a honey.
I got up and limped over to the summerhouse. “Richter!”
He stood sullenly at attention, his little pig eyes roving up and down me, finally settling insultingly on my crooked leg.
“How do you feel?” I said conversationally.
He looked out at the castle, saw that the coast was clear, and leaned up against the doorpost. “Gut,” he grunted, and spat out the door just past my head.
The finest of the filthy spray settled on my cheek. I gasped with rage, got a four-handed grip on myself. “You know, you remind me of my cousin Julius in Winnipeg,” I chatted.
He regarded me with a sort of disgusted wonder on his face as I gabbled on in disconnected sentences. He was completely at a loss. Just as he was about to burst into my prattle, I heard a faint tap on the wall of the summerhouse. I don’t think I have ever moved faster in my life.
I reached out, took him by the shoulders and hauled him out of the door, spinning him around at the same time. McCarthy, who had been stealthily circling the building while I held the Nazi in conversation, leaped out of hiding with a rush, four feet in front of us. Richter froze, scared out of his wits.
For an interminable moment I was in doubt. Mac and the German held each other’s eyes while I held Richter’s shoulders, and all three of us were afraid to breathe. Then Mac knotted his jaw, turned around and walked off. Richter shuddered, moaned a very tiny moan, and—followed him.
“Got him!” I cried happily.
“Good stuff,” said two voices, speaking as one. It was an astonishing effect. Mac stopped and turned around. “What are we going to do with the blighter?” they asked me.
“Can’t do much with the two of you as close together as that,” I said. “Steer him into the wall.”
“Right-o,” they said in unison. Mac gauged his distances, walked up to the corner of the summerhouse, left-faced and disappeared around the corner. Richter marched up to the wall, hit it with a bump, and kept on marching futilely. I moved over to where I could see both of them.
“How’s this?” asked Richter. It was Mac speaking, but he was too far away for me to hear the low-voiced question. Talk about your wireless transmission!
“That’s dandy,” I said. They both stopped and turned; Mac came back to me while Richter plowed through flower beds. When the Englishman reached me, Richter was well out in the open spot where Mac used to do his tumbling.
“Now what?” asked Mac.
“Now Herr Richter is going to put on a bit of a show,” I said gleefully. “See if you can make the silly fool get his gun out.”
He began fumbling about the region of his side pocket. He had to make eight or ten passes, but finally got it right.
“Up in the air,” I said. “Just once.”
The Mauser roared. Richter, carefully guided by Mac and me, holstered it and stared raptly into the sky. A thudding of boots, and Rausch skidded to a stop in front of him. In rather low German, he wanted to know what the hell. Fortunately, Mac’s German was flawless.
“Didn’t you see it?” said Richter. “A Hawker Hurricane!”
Rausch was big and dumb. He stared up into the sky, and then said he didn’t see any airplane.
“Of course you don’t,” said Richter. “I shot him down.” He beckoned Rausch closer and whispered, “It was Rudolph Hess flying back.” Rausch went a little popeyed. “He had to get out,” said Richter. “The British Isles have been torpedoed and sunk.” They gazed solemnly at each other, and then Richter burst into rich Northumberland laughter. He slapped Rausch on the back, and Rausch, suddenly conscious that he was being kidded, uttered a complementary guffaw, took a deep breath, forced out another laugh, and then beat a hasty retreat.
“Halt!” snapped Richter. “Come back here, my friend. I want to tell you a fine English joke I learned from one of these dirty prisoners. You don’t speak any English, do you?”
Rausch shook his head.
“All the better,” said Richter jovially. “Now listen to me. The next time you see Herr Obermeier, you say these words in English.” He repeated a phrase a few times, and the gullible Rausch said it over and over until he had it right.
I have always regretted that I wasn’t around when Rausch walked into Obermeier’s quarters and said, “Thumbs up, you old prince!” (I think it was “prince” he was told to say.) “There’ll always be an England!”
Richter stood out there humming an air called “The Tinker He Went Walking” that Mac hadn’t learned in Sunday school until Obermeier erupted violently out into the garden. “Richter!”
“Ja! Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!” sputtered the adjutant. “Are you responsible for sending that blockhead in to me with those seditious utterances?”
Richter put a finger to his lips. “There’s going to be a revolution,” he said gravely.
“A revolution? Traitor! Marxist! Jew!”
“It is the truth, Herr Obermeier. Look.” And Richter rose off the ground in a perfect back somersault. Obermeier stepped back in alarm. Richter spread his hands and smiled. “You see? There was a revolution. I revolved, no?”
Obermeier’s face went into travail and delivered a laugh. Once he had laughed out loud he found that it was an easy and pleasant thing to do, and he roared until the tears ran down his cheeks. “Richter,” he gasped after a time. “I have thought hardly of you. I have never credited you with a sense of humor.” His features suddenly went wooden. “But this is war. This for such foolishness is no time.”
Richter said easily, “Hate is all the stronger if you give it a rest. I respectfully suggest to the adjutant that the prisoners should be served beer this evening.”
“A profound thought,” said the adjutant, after thinking it over. “That will do, Richter.” He eased his conscience by speaking very severely. “And hereafter curb your nonsense!” He went briskly into the castle. As he went through the door his voice drifted back—“Revolution. Hah! Das is gut!”
“What are we going to do with the fool now?” asked Mac. I looked out at the fine young specimen of Aryan manhood and grunted. “Pity we can’t send him to Berchtesgaden,” I said. “I’d like to pull that ‘There’ll always be an England’ gag on der Fuehrer.”
“That would be jolly—fine.” Mac swayed suddenly, mumbled something.
“What?” I asked.
“Jolly—Ach! Ich neine—“ He shook his head drunkenly.
“Mac!” I rapped. “Mac! What’s the matter?”
Sirens suddenly screamed outside the walls. As they died down I heard the growl of many motors. Torn between Mac and the noises outside, I dragged him to the door and looked up. There was a clutter of aircraft in the sky, attack bombers and pursuits. A formation of Messerschmitts climbed into the sky, and three lovely P-37S howled down to meet them.
Mac said, “Feel deuced queer, old boy. I—” Suddenly he whipped away from me, snarling. “Schmutzig Englisch schweinhund, du!” he spat, and he clawed at his hip, pulled a nonexistent Mauser out of his nonexistent holster, filled me full of imaginary holes. Every time his forefinger twitched there was a report outside. Richter had his gun out, was banging away at the garden wall. The sound of his shots was lost in the unholy racket from above.
“Mac!” I screamed, shaking him, slapping him. “Mac! What’s—”
He closed his eyes, opened them slowly. “This bloody thing works both ways,” he gritted. “The damned—goosestepper’s—fighting—” He rallied and said briskly, “What’s going on—air raid?”
“Yes. Mac, are you all
right?”
“I can hold him off, I th—Ah-h-h! Heil, mein Fuehrer! Der fleigand—” He drifted off into a hopeless jumble of words. Then, “LaFarge,” he said, “remember I said I’d like a chance at that air field if I ever get out of here? Well, I probably won’t, but maybe I can give someone else a break. I’ll wager those lads up there don’t know they have anything like that right under them. Are the Huns sending up any planes from here?”
I looked out. “No. Dammit, you’re right! They’ve got it camouflaged. They don’t want it bombed, and it’s likely because they have a man-sized gasoline dump around here!”
“We’ve got to—get word—” He groaned, came back strongly. He seemed to be putting up a tremendous battle. “Richter’s getting the knack of it,” he said grimly. “For a minute there I thought I was out in the garden. I ran my tongue around my mouth and felt a lot of rotten teeth. Ugh!” He shuddered. “Got—shaving mirror?” I had one of those unbreakable trench mirrors in my tunic. Mac waved me outside. “Give it to the Hun,” he said. “Right hand. Hurry, now, I don’t know if I—” And he went into one of those bilingual paroxysms. I ran out to Richter.
As I thrust the mirror into his hand he eyed me viciously, reached for his gun, paused, grinned. “Good stuff, chum,” he said. “Thumbs—für der Reich—be an England!”
It occurred to me what Mac had wanted him to have the mirror for. Heliograph. But what was the use of that puny flash of sunlight? How could it attract the attention of a pilot in a dogfight? Off chance. Why didn’t he want me to get out there and signal? I glanced around, saw guards on the walls, Obermeier running around like a brood hen. Richter might not be noticed, standing there in the garden with the mirror in his palm. I hobbled back to the summerhouse and ducked inside.
“Give me your watch,” said Mac. For the moment he was completely himself. I handed it to him, and he moved into the doorway where the late, bright afternoon sun streamed in. He let it play on the back of the watch, threw a spot on the ceiling, and began twitching his wrist steadily. Out in the garden Richter stood firm, eyes upward, right hand extended. Mac began to send.
Dot-dash-dot. Dot-dash. Dot-dot-dash-dot. R.A.F.
I don’t know how long that went on. Mac and Richter were engaged in a monumental struggle, weaving now and then on their feet, features working, sweat—and all the while, almost without a break, Mac sent those three letters. Twice he screamed in pain, and both times it was in Richter’s guttural tones. McCarthy. Renfrew McCarthy, of Northumberlandshire. Never was there such a man!
Once Richter threw the mirror from him, and I had to limp out and put it in his hand again. And Mac kept sending.
There was a growing, screaming roar. I looked up and saw a Messerschmitt 110 on the tail of a P-37. They seemed to be heading right for us, coming down, coming incredibly fast. At about two hundred feet, the Curtiss began to pull out of it. The Me began to try. The Curtiss made it. The Me didn’t. God bless the Nazis for building ships that are sloppy on the turns! The Me whipped low over my head, crashed into the garden wall. The P-37 groaned upward, lost speed, stalled into a wingover, and began to circle at about eight hundred feet.
“Mac!” I screamed. “He’s seen us! He’s seen us!”
Mac, his face green-white and beaded, chuckled hoarsely and kept sending. Fascinated, I watched that bouncing spot of light on the ceiling. Now it said. “Cam.—air field—300 yds—SSE.” He repeated it, repeated it again. Now he was sending, “Castle—munition dump.” And then the two of them were mixed: “Camstle—300 munition—SSE.”
“Mac—are there munitions in the castle?”
“No, dammit, Richter’s sending that! I think I’m driving him under, LaFarge! But—he’s going to see to it that if bombs are dropped, we get them, too!”
The circling P-37 waggled its wings and started to climb. I could almost feel the crisp bur of its radio, calling for bombs. A flight of Blenheims swelled up out of the west, wheeled toward us.
“Right-o, Mac,” I said quietly. “We better get as near underground as we can.” I put an arm around him. He leaned so heavily against me that my legs hurt me. He was dead beat. “Chin up,” I gritted, and began dragging him across the garden.
Outside the walls there was a flash of flame, and the ground shook. It shook again, and again. Ahead of us, Richter floundered crazily. When we reached the castle door I propped Mac against the jamb and looked back while I got my wind.
The whole skyline was aflame. There was gasoline there, but plenty. A huge Kurier waddled into the air, and a Hurricane cut it down, and I wondered why in hell they tried to get that monster into the air at a time like this. A bomb landed just outside the wall and blew it inward, and the debris swept Richter off his feet. I mean that word for word. I looked at his body and saw that he was all broken up about it. When the rubble hit Richter, Mac shrieked and passed out.
I’d no sooner got him inside when the next load of eggs were laid on the roof right over our heads. Richter’s message had been right. There was an ammunition dump in the castle. The whole bloody business came crashing and crushing down on us. So they got us and most of the other imperials. But we got an air field and an ammunition dump. And Richter. We got game, set and match.
Story Notes
by Paul Williams
Theodore Sturgeon sold his first short story in May 1938, to the McClure Newspaper Syndicate. He was 20 years old, a seaman in the merchant marine. In January of 1939 he moved to New York City and began to write full-time. The only markets he successfully sold to were the newspaper syndicate, which primarily bought short-short stories from him, and, beginning in May 1939, two magazines edited by John W. Campbell, Jr.: Astounding Science-Fiction and Unknown (the latter specialized in fantasy and horror).
Sturgeon shipped out again between July and October of 1939, doing some writing while at sea, and then returned to New York. In March of 1940 he married his high school sweetheart Dorothe Fillingame, and moved from Manhattan to Staten Island (his birthplace). Their daughter Patricia was born in December 1940, and in June 1941 the three of them left New York and moved to the British West Indies, to manage a resort hotel in Jamaica owned by Sturgeon’s mother’s family.
Sturgeon’s last McClure story was published in March 1940. He did some writing for hire in 1940 and 1941, primarily scripts for comic books, but most of his income until he left New York was from selling stories to Astounding and Unknown. Sturgeon’s bibliography shows him appearing regularly in the two magazines over a five-year period, but this is misleading. In fact, the move to the tropics, which was intended to make it easier for him to write, resulted in his doing no writing at all between July 1941 and April 1944. All of the Sturgeon stories that appeared in Astounding and Unknown in 1941, 1942, and 1943 were written and sold by June of 1941.
The first volume of The Complete Stories of Theodore Sturgeon covered the period from December 1937, when the story he sold in May 1938 was penned, until spring of 1940. The stories in this second volume were all written between April of 1940 and June 1941. All were published in Astounding or Unknown except for “The Anonymous,” presumably submitted to Campbell and rejected, and “Two Sidecars,” an unpublished story that contains no fantasy or science fiction element and therefore could not have been aimed at Campbell. There is evidence that Sturgeon wrote other non-fantasy stories during this period, but no manuscripts survive. It is also probable that he submitted a few stories to other fantasy magazines, but without success.
The period covered in Volume 1 was well documented in Sturgeon’s correspondence; he was writing regularly to his mother, who was living in Scotland, and to his fiancée in Philadelphia. By contrast, there is almost no documentation of the chronology, or circumstances of writing, of the stories in this volume; Ted had stopped writing to his fiancée now that she was his wife and living in the same house, and he wrote much less frequently to his mother. No other correspondence (or record-keeping) survives. As a result, the sequence of stories in this volume
is somewhat arbitrary. “Cargo” belongs near the beginning; “The Jumper” near the end; and some of the other stories can be dated at least within a few months. But the precise order of composition is unknown. (Campbell did not necessarily publish them in the order received.)
“Cargo”: first published in Unknown, November 1940. Probably written in June, 1940. Sturgeon’s introduction to the story in his 1948 collection Without Sorcery reports:
The story of the origin of “Cargo” will gladden the heart of the string-saver. The reader may remember that in “The Ultimate Egoist” the protagonist at one point debated the advisability of going to sea. In the first draft of that tale, he actually did, and for some three thousand words found himself on a tankship on which weird things happened. I realized suddenly that I was getting far away from my story, and cut back. But instead of throwing away these extraneous pages, I saved them and expanded them: “Cargo” is the result.
Some surviving manuscript pages among Sturgeon’s papers confirm this, although in fact the primary contribution of the “Egoist” pages seems to be paragraphs 2–6 of “Cargo” and the general idea of a story about strange events on a renegade oil tanker engaged in war profiteering. Sturgeon’s papers also yield the first few pages of a 1939 story (probably never finished) again about a renegade tanker and a skipper referred to as the Old Man.
The rich detail in the story is attributable to the author’s extensive experience as a merchant seaman between 1937 and 1939, serving primarily on “coastwise” oil tankers—New York to Texas and sometimes further south. No Atlantic crossings. (Although in 1937 Sturgeon fantasized about a trip to Spain on an oil tanker. He told his mother, in a letter written at sea on September 6, I hope to be in Europe within the next month or so, but I doubt whether I’ll be able to see you. I’ll only be in port 18 hours and it will be a Spanish port at that. The whole idea is strictly mercenary on my part, because the oil companies are paying huge bonuses to crews entering the [Spanish Civil] war zone. As for the theoretical side of it, you can be sure I’ll ship on a cargo of Loyal oil. Texas Co., like all the others, sells to both sides.)
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