“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 j
umped 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.
A Yankee Flier over Berlin (a yankee flier) Page 8