CHAPTER XIII
SPY HUNT
The commander of the destroyer placed Stan in the hands of a British Intelligence Officer. Having had some experience with British methods of sending all reports through regulation channels before acting upon them, Stan merely requested that he be rushed to his headquarters at once.
“Certainly, old fellow,” the officer said. “But that will be a bit awkward, you know. Everything is upset and everybody is very busy. There’s a big show in the making. I’ll do my best. Should be able to deliver you there by morning.”
“Don’t bother, if that is as fast as you can get me there,” Stan said. “I’ll find a way out to my outfit.”
“No trouble at all, glad to help you. I’ll get you a room and you can get a nice sleep. Bright and early I’ll be around with a car.” The officer made it clear he was in a big hurry to be off.
“Thanks a lot,” Stan said. “I’ll see you later.”
The officer stared at him as Stan turned and barged out of the little office where the Navy had left him. News of a big air push made it necessary for him to get into action at once. He had to report his information in time to halt the operations, or catch Egbert Minter before he reported to Berlin. Getting a report to his own flight commander seemed the quickest way.
Without his Yank officer’s uniform Stan was at a disadvantage. The destroyer commander had had his civilian suit cleaned and pressed for him and he was wearing it, having discarded the coveralls he had worn in the German shop. Standing on a street corner in the coast village, Stan realized that he was dressed as a German civilian. Getting a ride would not be so easy. Then he began to understand why the Intelligence Officer had wanted to hold him overnight. Intelligence had not been so sure the destroyer commander knew all about Stan.
Grinning broadly he hurried down the street. A few people stared at him and one man pointed him out to another. A bobby turned and stood watching him. Stan halted abruptly. The policeman was walking toward him. Suddenly Stan realized that he did not have a scrap of evidence on him to prove he was a Yank officer. The Germans had taken all identification away from him.
A man came up the street and halted the bobby. He showed the policeman something. The bobby looked at Stan, then turned back to his beat. The man sauntered on a few steps and paused to look into a shop window. At once Stan knew he was being trailed by British Intelligence. He had a hunch he would be picked up soon.
Entering a shop he smiled at a girl leaning on a counter. “May I use your telephone?” he asked.
“Over there.” The girl pointed to a small booth.
Stan went into the little room. He got a connection and asked for Eighth Air Force headquarters after convincing the operator that he was a stranded flier. A voice at the other end of the line said in a very irritated manner:
“We are accepting nothing but accredited calls until tomorrow.”
“This is vitally important. I must speak to General Gilmer. This is Lieutenant Stan Wilson speaking. I’ve just escaped from Germany. A British destroyer put me ashore.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Ramsgate.”
“Get in touch with British Intelligence there. We can’t put you through to the general.”
“Then get me Colonel Holt.”
“He is in conference. Now clear the wire.”
“Don’t hang up or I’ll have your stripes!” Stan shouted.
“Yes, sir,” the voice said quickly.
That meant the operator was a non-com which would make it a little easier.
“Get me Lieutenant Allison at Mess 187. Make it quick.”
The operator did some plugging and after a bit came back with a report.
“Lieutenant Allison has shifted to fighter group. He is at 155, Interceptor Base.”
“Get him!” Stan snapped.
The operator began plugging again and Stan waited. He saw the man shadowing him standing out at the counter drinking a cup of tea. After a long wait he heard Allison’s voice.
“Hello there?”
“This is Stan. Hold it! Listen! I’m at Ramsgate and have to get to headquarters at once. Can’t tell you how I got here, but I’m about to be grabbed by British Intelligence. I’m dressed like a German business man.”
“I say, old man, this is topping.” Stan heard him shout to O’Malley.
“Is Sim Jones there?”
“Yes, he was here. I don’t see him, but I’m sure he’s around. Want to talk to him?”
“No, but either you or O’Malley keep an eye on him. Don’t let him get out of your sight. If he leaves the mess, follow him!”
“I say, what’s up?” Allison was clearly startled.
“Do as I say, and get Colonel Holt. Tell him to pick me up here at once. Even if he has to come himself. I’m about to be grabbed by a plain-clothes man. But I’ll be at British Intelligence here at Ramsgate.”
The Intelligence man was in the door of the booth. “That will be enough talk,” he said gruffly. “Any other messages you have I’ll send for you.” He reached over and hung up the phone before Stan could say another word.
“Listen, Officer. Take me back to the Intelligence Office,” Stan said. “My commander will call for me there.”
“You are acting very strangely, my man. Why didn’t you make this call from the office? It could have been checked there.” The officer laid a big hand on Stan’s arm.
“I’ll make one from there,” Stan said. “I’ll admit I should have put this one through from your office, but I did not know I was to be followed and I didn’t stop to think how I would look in these clothes.”
“I have orders to handle this myself in case you showed any suspicious actions. I think you have acted plenty suspicious. I’m taking you to the London office. We’ll have to check this call you just made and get you identified.”
“I can’t waste all that time,” Stan protested. “I have to get out to my outfit.”
The officer smiled. “I think I’ve landed one of the boys we’re after. We have had a tip that the Germans have planted a group of the smoothest men they have over here. So far we haven’t been able to put a hand on a single man of them. But you fit the picture neatly.”
“Why?” Stan asked.
“Well, you are an escaped pilot. That’s the way they have been coming in. They are always able to slip through because they know all about the outfit they were supposed to have been with. They’re even supposed to look exactly like the officers lost over Germany.” The officer laughed. “The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that we’ve landed one of them at last. Come along.”
Stan walked beside the officer. He felt like kicking himself for bungling. If the time were not so short everything could be straightened out. But he was sure the first waves of the giant air attack were about due to start, possibly before midnight. Allison had said Minter was not around. He and O’Malley might not be able to locate the spy.
“Here’s my car,” the secret-service man said.
Stan paused beside the sleek roadster. The officer opened the door. Stan stepped inside. The officer walked around the car. Stan leaned over the side.
“Aren’t you going to do anything about this flat tire?” he asked.
“Another flat?” the officer said in disgust. “That’s the third one this week. It’s about time I had some new tires.” He got out and started around the car.
Stan reached over and flipped on the switch. He slid under the wheel and stepped on the starter. The engine hit at once and Stan slammed the gears into mesh. The roadster leaped ahead, then stalled. Stan opened the choke and the car leaped again, its tires showering the agent with gravel.
“Stop or I’ll fire!” the officer shouted.
Stan bent down and hit a near-by corner. He did not want to have a real blowout. He wanted to get as near headquarters as he could before the British police headed him off. The car careened around the corner and headed down a tree-lined street. Dusk wa
s beginning to settle and Stan switched on the lights. He was disgusted to see that the lights were hooded for blackout driving.
Stan knew exactly how to get where he was going, but he avoided the main road and went careening down lanes and along narrow trails hemmed in by hedges. The car attracted little attention since it was an official vehicle and clearly marked.
Just when he figured he was going to make it in spite of the dim headlights and the fact that darkness had settled, he burst out of a lane into a village. He recognized the place at once. He was just two miles from his objective, but two military cars blocked the road ahead. Stan was sure they were waiting for him. He did not drive on to find out. Cutting the switch he slid out of the car and ducked over a hedge.
The car rolled on in the darkness while Stan sprinted along the hedge. He passed through a back yard two jumps ahead of a shaggy dog and headed up an alley. A few minutes later he was hurrying down the blacked-out street.
Reaching a tavern Stan saw two bicycles shoved into a rack beside the door. One of them was locked but the other was loose. Stan slipped it out and headed up the street again. He was mounting the cycle when he heard shouts down the street and men running. Dimmed car headlights gleamed. The officers were on his trail again. Stan ducked into a narrow path and pedaled away as hard as he could.
The officers chasing him drove along the road, which ran parallel to the lane. They had a spotlight on one of the cars which they kept moving in wide circles. Finally the light passed over Stan and the men began shouting for him to halt. The light came back and held on him.
Stan sent the bike into a cross path and was out of the beam and headed away from the road. He pedaled furiously. The men were out of the cars and running after him. At the first left-hand turn Stan headed back in the direction he wanted to go and kept pumping away.
The shouting behind him died down and he began to think he had evaded his pursuers. Suddenly the lane broke out into the main road. Stan headed down the road. He could see the looming bulk of a hangar against the sky and knew that he was nearing headquarters. Suddenly he heard a car behind him. Looking back he saw that one of the cars was close upon him. He kept on pedaling but the car rapidly gained on him. It was very close when he saw a gate ahead.
With five British officers on his heels, Stan ditched the bike and sprinted for the gate. Under shaded lights he saw two Yank soldiers. He reached them ten yards ahead of the Britishers, having outrun the secret-service men. The guards barred the way.
“Get a guard and take me to headquarters,” Stan snapped.
“We turn all civilians over to the local police,” one of the guards said. He grinned at Stan. “Looks like they were right on the job, too.”
“They think I’m a spy, but I’m an Eighth Air Force officer and I have important information for Colonel Holt, my commander.” Stan spoke sternly.
The British officers closed in. Their leader said:
“Come now. You led us a hot chase but you won’t get away again.”
“Colonel Holt will vouch for me,” Stan said.
“What was the last password we used here?” the guard asked. “The one in use when you left.”
Stan grinned and stepped forward. “Port wing,” he said.
The two guards stared hard at him. “He has it,” one of them said. The other turned to the British officials. “We’ll take him to Colonel Holt. You can come along. If he’s a phony you can have him.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” Stan said.
The guard made a call and two soldiers appeared. One of the British officials went along, but it was clear they had begun to believe Stan. The guards took Stan straight to the administration building. Stan and the secret-service man were led to a small room off the operations room. Within five minutes Colonel Holt appeared.
“Wilson!” he almost shouted. “Where in heck did you come from?”
“I came in just one jump ahead of Scotland Yard,” Stan answered and grinned at the Britisher.
“Guess I’ll be running along. Sorry we took you for a Jerry,” the man said.
“You did a fine job. Stick around. We may be able to grab one of the men you are looking for,” Stan said.
“You got out of Germany?” Colonel Holt asked. “The Germans seem to be getting slack about prisoners lately. O’Malley and Jones got back a few days ago.”
“O’Malley got back but not Jones. The Jones who got here is a spy. I’ll give you the story briefly.”
Stan outlined the whole scheme. When he had finished, Colonel Holt rushed him in to the officers meeting where the final touches were being made on plans for the big raid. Stan had an audience composed of generals and other high-ranking officials for the next fifteen minutes. Then phones began to buzz. The R.A.F. was notified to hold up. Stan soon found himself out of the meeting. He headed for his barracks. Officers had been sent to round up Egbert Minter, but Stan had a hunch he might be able to locate the phony Sim Jones before the officers found him.
Stan found Splinters Wright in the Nissen hut. Splinters leaped to his feet when Stan opened the door. He had a service automatic in his hand and the light of battle in his eyes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said and seemed disappointed.
“Who were you expecting?” Stan asked.
“O’Malley left me here to grab Sim Jones when he comes in,” Splinters explained. He grinned broadly. “You sure started a little war around this hut.”
“Where’s Allison and O’Malley?” Stan asked as he began getting out of his civilian clothes and into a uniform.
“They tore out of here like wild men. I’d hate to be Sim Jones if O’Malley locates him. We’ve all been wondering about that bird. He has acted half cracked since he got back.”
“He isn’t Sim Jones, he’s Egbert Minter, a German spy,” Stan explained. “And we have to grab him.”
“O’Malley seemed to have a clue,” Splinters said. “Bugs Monahan went with him and Allison.”
“That Sim’s locker?” Stan asked.
“Yes.”
Stan walked over to the locker and opened it. Inside hung one of Sim Jones’ uniforms and a few other things. Stan examined the uniform, then turned to the toilet kit. There was nothing there. He opened the first-aid kit. It contained sulfa pills, powder for dusting, and other medicines. Stan picked a roll of bandage out of the kit and looked at it intently. The bandage was packaged to keep it sterile. Suddenly Stan ripped open the package and unrolled a strip of the bandage. It came away freely because there were only a couple of yards of it. Under the bandage was a roll of adding machine tape. Stan whistled softly and Splinters crowded close to look.
The tape was covered with figures and fine, even German writing.
“Can you read Kraut?” Splinters asked.
“No,” Stan said softly. “But our Intelligence Department can.”
At that moment the door banged open. The boys turned and found themselves staring into the muzzle of a service revolver. Above the barrel glinted the eyes of Egbert Minter.
“Toss that gun on the floor,” he snarled.
“Toss it,” Stan said sharply as he saw Splinters’ arm muscles begin to tighten. “This bird will shoot.”
“You are right, Lieutenant Wilson. Now give me that roll of tape. It contains valuable data regarding the Eighth Air Force.” He stepped closer and Stan passed over the roll.
“You’ll never get out of camp with it,” Stan said softly. “I have tipped the boys off to your little game.”
“I will take it back to Germany,” Minter said. “But before I go I will see that you do not make more trouble for us. You are a very capable man, Lieutenant Wilson.”
“You flatter me,” Stan said smoothly. “But how are you going to get back to Germany?”
“Don’t try to stall for time. I have killed your pals, Allison and O’Malley, the idiotic Irishman. Now it is your turn. I shall break a container of Herr Domber’s gas in this room before I lock you in.”
&
nbsp; “Is that the way you killed Allison and O’Malley?” Stan asked. A dangerous light had begun to flicker in his eyes.
“It is and I will go back to the hut where I left them. I have a radio there and will send a message. Two hours later I will be crossing the channel on a British patrol boat. You know we have captured a few.” Minter smiled. He could not help gloating over his victims.
“You Nazis have very nice habits,” Stan remarked.
“Yes, we are efficient.” Minter laughed. “This hut is made of corrugated iron, the floor is cement, the windows are steel with such small panes. You will die like rats!”
“Interesting, but I prefer to be shot!” As he spoke Stan dived in a lightning-like leap, straight at Minter. The Nazi’s gun flamed and Stan felt a blow like the smashing of a big fist against his chest. The gun flamed again, its fire searing Stan’s neck, then he had closed with the German and had forced his gun arm down. Splinters had dived in and hit the Nazi around the knees. They went down in a twisting, writhing mass with Stan’s blood spattering over all three.
Splinters got the gun and brought its butt down on Minter’s head. He slumped down and rolled free of Stan. Splinters stood up.
“You’re hit bad,” he said.
“I’m all right. Get some water and bring him around. We have to locate his hut and the radio. He must have others helping him.” Stan steadied himself with an effort. He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach.
Splinters got water and doused the Nazi, while Stan tore open his shirt and began plugging an ugly wound in his shoulder. He had to sink down on a bunk to do it. But he refused to give in. He had to get to the death hut and rescue O’Malley and Allison. The medics might be able to save them.
Minter opened his eyes slowly. He groaned and pulled himself to a sitting posture.
“Take that container away from him,” Stan ordered. Minter had pulled a square glass container from under his coat. It was attached there by a leather strap with a snap on it. Splinters grabbed the container and unsnapped it.
“No, you don’t,” he growled.
“We have to make him talk,” Stan said thickly. His head was beginning to feel light and his tongue thick. The corrugated dome of the Nissen hut was wavering and swaying.
A Yankee Flier over Berlin (a yankee flier) Page 11