Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Are you feeling all right, lad?” Pop asked urgently.

  Brick hesitated a bit before replying. He felt fairly well except for the constricting tightness about his chest. Moving his hands under the light covering he discovered that his torso was bound closely with adhesive tape and bandages. Breathing was somewhat difficult, but his head was clear and his arms and legs felt strong and rested.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked with a weak grin.

  “No reason except you’ve been out like a light for thirty-six hours, got about three cracked ribs and had the krauthead sawbones wondering if you were goin’ to pull through at all.”

  “Thirty-six hours,” Brick muttered, dazed. “I must’ve pulled a weak sister act at that.” He raised himself on one elbow and ran a hand through his tousled, fiery hair. A glance about showed a small, frugally furnished room with two bunks, two chairs and one door with a barred window.

  “This the brig?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ but,” Pop snapped. “And we’re in for the duration.”

  Brick started to speak but Pop leaned close to him and said:

  “Lemme do the talking for a minute.” He shot a quick glance at the door, then turned back to Brick. “This is worse than a brig. It’s a German sub base, a whopping big one, built right on the floor of the ocean. They’ve got subs by the hundreds docked here and enough men to run ’em. It’s the reason why the British have been losing about two of every three ships they operate on the Atlantic.[4] And I think they’re gettin’ ready to turn these subs loose on American supply ships. This Captain Herrman is about the toughest and coolest thug I’ve ever run into. But I’ve got a plan—”

  “Slow down a minute,” Brick begged. “I’m getting dizzy.”

  His mind flashed back to the events of his last conscious hours. The sinking of the Vulcan, the rescue of the German sub, the escape from the British destroyers and finally the captain’s incredible statement that they were docked at a German base in the mythical continent of Atlantis.

  Whether this last was true was highly debatable, but the sub base did exist, constituting a terrible menace to all American Atlantic shipping. That much was definite. The only clear fact in the bewildering chain of circumstance was that America’s men and material were in immediate danger.

  Pop’s voice broke into his thought, tense and cautious.

  “We got a chance to throw a monkey wrench into their works. The guard outside steps into the cell when the flunkey brings the food. He wears two guns, but he keeps his eyes on me all the time cause he’s used to you lyin’ there like a dead man.”

  Brick’s eyes glinted as his mind raced ahead of Pop’s.

  “I see,” he said softly. “You maneuver him to turn his back to me and I’ll play possum. Then when he gets close enough to the cot I’ll let him have it.”

  AN HOUR later a surprised guard was seized from behind by a pair of steel-hard arms, hurled to the floor and his guns whipped from their holsters.

  Pop in turn slugged the gaping white-coated man who brought the food into the cell and the first phase of the plan had worked beautifully.

  While Brick held a gun at the guard’s neck, Pop tied his hands and feet with their two belts.

  “The corridor is clear,” he grunted. “All we got to do is get to the powder room at the end of it. It’s only a hundred feet away. Then we’ll finish this place for good.”

  Brick slipped into his trousers and, barefooted and shirtless, followed Pop stealthily into the corridor.

  Moving swiftly they stole past unbarred doors on either side of the corridor until they reached an intersection where another tunnel-like corridor right-angled their own.

  The walls and ceilings of the corridors were of heavy, reinforced concrete and were brightly illuminated by powerful lights set at intervals of every six feet in the ceiling.

  The second corridor was deserted and quiet. Everything was proceeding smoothly. Too smoothly, Brick thought worriedly. This suspicion brought hackles of his skin up warningly, but it came too late to do them any good.

  “Looking for someone?” a cold, mocking voice inquired from behind them.

  Brick wheeled. Captain Von Herrman stood in the corridor, a cigarette drifting smoke up past the sardonic twist of his lips. He had obviously stepped from one of the rooms they’d passed.

  Brick’s fingers tightened on the gun in his hand, but the captain raised a thin hand deprecatingly.

  “They’re not loaded,” he said calmly. “It was just a little clinical test of mine to see if you were going to be sensible. I instructed the guard to give you an opportunity to overpower him. Of course I wasn’t foolish enough to put loaded guns into your hands.” Brick stared helplessly at the gun in his hand, a dull feeling of defeat stealing over him.

  “After this,” the captain went on imperturbably, “we will have to be more careful with both of you. I thought for a while of giving you your freedom here in return for such information of America which you might happen to possess. Now you will be confined indefinitely.”

  As if that word were a signal of some sort a number of doors opened along the corridor and a dozen grinning German seamen piled out.

  “I took additional precautions,” the captain pointed out. “Now you will be shown your new quarters. Since we realize that we are harboring dangerous and resourceful Americans, we must be very careful. Very, very careful.”

  His broad sarcasm brought grins to the faces of the German seamen.

  Pop threw his gun to the floor bitterly.

  “If I had a minute alone with you,” he fumed, “I’d—”

  “You’d regret it exceedingly,” the captain said coldly.

  BRICK WAS silent as they were led to their new quarters. It proved to be a larger room with a small lavatory connecting. But the door and walls were plated with steel sheeting and the bars were several times thicker than the ones in their former cell.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” the captain grinned, “because it looks as if your stay is going to be a long one.”

  “By that,” Brick said, “you mean the war will be a long one.”

  “Long enough to accomplish its purpose,” the captain said, “and no longer. When the world is willing to admit the superiority of the German people and grant them their ordained position in the ruling of the world, then, and then only, will the war cease.”

  “Supposing,” Brick said, “the people of the world decide not to admit the superiority of the Germans. Supposing they’d rather rule themselves than be enslaved to a gang of power-drunk fanatics. What then?”

  A hot flash of anger reddened the captain’s face. One of the guards in the cell stepped menacingly toward Brick, but the captain checked him with a motion of his hand.

  “You’re safe in your insolence,” he said coldly, “because you happen to be defenseless and injured.”

  “That hasn’t stood in the way of your armies,” Brick snapped. “They’ve never displayed any noticeable scruples about attacking nations half their size.” The captain’s anger was under check now, and a frosty gleam of sardonic amusement played in his eyes. “The idealistic American again,” he jeered. “If you had an ounce of intelligence you’d realize that such things are necessary to the creation of a new order. For years we have been laying the ground work for our military machine and if tiny, undefended nations are impudent enough to attempt resistance they must pay the price for their folly.

  “This submarine base is an excellent example of our invincibility and thoroughness. Equipped now for a thousand ships, soon it will hold ten thousand. The British are laughing at the fleets of pocket submarines we are constructing because they know their cruising range to be less than fifty miles. But stationed at this base a submarine needs only a cruising range of five miles to operate at maximum destructive efficiency.[5]

  “We have barely tapped the potentialities of submarine warfare. In this base with its limitless unexplored possibilities we will create a fl
eet of such strength that no nation in the world will venture its ships on the Atlantic without our authority.”

  The impact of the captain’s words was almost physical. Brick thought of the thousands of American seamen who would be steaming into the Atlantic lanes, secure in the belief that the British had the German submarine menace throttled with their destroyer blockade of Northern ports and bases.

  Even as the horror of this swept over him he was able to wonder, with a curious detachment, why the force of this German base had not been unleased before on the stream of American ships carrying supplies to Britain. What motive did they have for holding back, practically encouraging America by their passivity to take still greater risks and send more and greater convoys into the Atlantic?

  The captain’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “For years we have been working secretly in the development of this base. Pumping out the halls of one of the ancient cities of Atlantis to create harbors and locks for our fleet. Now that job is over, but we have not as yet utilized many of the vast unexplored regions of Atlantis. Even so we are ready now to wage the war that will win us the final victory in the battle of the Atlantic.”

  Before Brick could reply a guttural German voice blasted into the room, seeming literally to fill it with its volume. The voice seemed to emanate above him, and glancing up he saw a loud speaker. The voice continued on for perhaps thirty seconds and then, abruptly, it stopped. Brick didn’t understand German, but it was apparent from the inflection of the speaker that some announcement had been made.

  A tense, pregnant silence followed.

  The captain and the four guards stood rigidly at attention, right arms outthrust in the Nazi salute.

  “What is it?” Brick asked, puzzled.

  “Der Führer!” the Captain barked. “Quiet!”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE SILENCE HELD FOR perhaps another minute. The only sound in the room was the breathing of the men. Pop stuck his hands in his pocket and leaned against the wall. With elaborate indifference he cleared his throat and spat contemptuously on the floor.

  Brick seated himself on the cot and waited.

  Within a few seconds the silence was shattered by a high strident voice. For the next ten minutes the voice drowned out all sound in the room, its pitch alternating from a screaming crescendo down to a hoarse fanatical whisper.

  The captain and the guards remained at statuesque attention, their faces shining and triumphant as the dominating voice of Hitler blasted through the loud speaker.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over. The echoes of the voice died in the room and the arms of the Germans dropped to their sides.

  The captain turned a flushed face to Brick.

  “The warning to our enemies has been repeated,” he said gloatingly. “Indo-China has fallen to our loyal ally, Japan. French Dakar but 1300 miles from the Western Hemisphere is in our hands. Our friends in South America have not been inactive. Brazil is ready to receive us. Outposts such as the Philippines and the Cape Verde Islands will soon be welded into the chain of encirclement our Führer is forging. A gigantic pincer movement is developing, but some nations are still too stupid to recognize its outlines.”

  “You’re forgetting the U.S. Navy,” Brick said grimly. “Also you’re overlooking the British fleet.”

  The captain smiled. One of the guards laughed outright.

  “Oh, no,” the captain said sarcastically. “We wouldn’t be so impolite as that. Our plans include them too. We wouldn’t slight them for the world.” He moved to the door, then turned and smiled at Brick.

  “It is a pity you do not understand German,” he said mockingly. “If you did you wouldn’t be so rude as to accuse us of neglecting the great navies of America and Britain.”

  With a sarcastic bow he stepped through the door, followed by the four guards. They were all smiling broadly.

  Then the door slammed behind them and Brick and Pop were alone.

  “What’s the joke?” Pop demanded belligerently.

  “I wish I knew,” Brick said worriedly. “The only thing I’m sure of is that there’s nothing funny about it.”

  Pop stamped across the room and sat down on the other bunk.

  “We got to get out of here,” he said fiercely. “Got to do something about this set-up.”

  Brick buried his face wearily in his hands. Despair was a strange emotion to him but it was creeping over him now. It was maddening to sit helplessly by while his country faced a menace that was so horrible in its potentialities. There had been a vicious threat behind the captain’s suave references to the British and American fleets. But what kind of a threat? What trap was being rigged and baited for them?

  Even if he knew all the details, what could he do? How could he warn them? The two of them were pitifully insignificant against the might of manpower the Germans had available at the base.

  Their efforts would be about as effective as pebbles thrown at a battleship. That was the maddening thing. They were so completely, utterly helpless.

  “Well?” Pop demanded. “What are we going to do?”

  BRICK LIFTED his head from his hands. His gray eyes were as hard as sunlight on burnished steel.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said softly. “But we’re going to make one helluva try before we give up.”

  “Atta keed,” Pop crowed.

  They examined their rooms thoroughly. Even the small lavatory was painstakingly scoured, but they were forced to admit that any escape from this cell was practically impossible.

  The next day, and the days that followed, they memorized the time of the arrival of their meals. They were served three times a day, plentifully. But two guards stood in the room with guns drawn while they ate. The utensils given them were carefully removed after they had eaten. They cleaned their own cell, made their own beds. Their only contact with the men of the base was at meal time when they were served by a surly, gnome-like fellow in a white uniform, and closely watched by the two guards.

  The monotony of the routine was practically unbearable. But worse than that was their feeling of complete futility and helplessness. They knew from various indications that something big was approaching. The tension was apparent in the faces of their guards, in the sounds of riveting and hammering that kept up twenty-four hours straight. The entire base was preparing itself.

  But for what?

  “I’m goin’ bats,” Pop snapped for the dozenth time. “Lemme tell you, these krautheads are up to something. I can smell it in the air.”

  That day Hitler spoke again. There seemed to be an additionally frenzied quality even in his voice. For fifteen minutes he spoke, dramatically and frantically.

  “Blasted madman,” Pop muttered. “Can’t even talk English like a civilized person. Besides, he said all this before. I’m sorry I understand the language!”

  Brick grinned, but as he listened to the shrill, fanatically determined voice flooding through the room, his smile faded. There was nothing funny about Hitler. Hitler was very, very unfunny.

  He thought of the thousands of men throughout the huge base standing rigidly at attention, listening to his every syllable as if it were originating from God himself.

  It was then that the idea crawled into the back of his head.

  It was a germ of a thought at first as whimsically fantastic as anything he could imagine. For a few seconds he toyed with it idly, carelessly. Then he forgot about it.

  But in a few minutes it was back, sticking persistently and doggedly in his mind. He turned the idea over then, exploring its possibilities. Or rather its impossibilities.

  It was hopelessly absurd. To risk two lives on anything so flimsy and uncertain was almost as ridiculous as the idea itself.

  He swung his legs off the cot and began pacing worriedly.

  “What’s the matter?” Pop asked. “Nothing,” he said, “Nothing at all.”

  “Spill it,” Pop said quietly.

  Brick continued to pace the room in silence
. Finally he said:

  “It’s a screwy idea that just hit me. It’s crazy as hell, but it won’t go away.” He paused for an instant, then walked quietly to the barred door and peered into the corridor. Satisfied he stepped back to Pop. “It’s something that might spring us out of this cell, at least.”

  POP REACTED excitedly. He sprang to his feet and grabbed his arm.

  “Are you kidding?” he demanded fiercely.

  “I was never more serious in my life,” Brick said quietly.

  “Then what’re we waiting for?”

  “It’s a thousand to one shot,” Brick answered.

  “I never knew you to figure odds before,” Pop said hotly.

  Brick sat down on his cot and stared at the floor.

  “I’m not worrying about us,” he said. “It’s just that if we fail this time we’ll never get another chance. I’m trying to make sure that this scheme of mine is the only chance we’ve got.”

  “Well stop being mysterious,” Pop said irritably. “Lemme in on it.” Brick told him in detail. When he finished Pop scratched his head in silence, and frowned darkly at the floor.

  “It’s crazy,” he said at last. “But sometimes the crazier a thing seems to be the better it works. I’m for it. Hell, it’s a chance, a dang slim one, but we can’t expect meat in our soup at this stage of the game.”

  Brick stood up decisively. He picked up the rolled blanket from the foot of his cot and handed it to Pop.

  “You know what to do with this. Hide it in the wash room though until we’re ready for it. We’re goin’ to take that thousand to one chance.”

  Pop grinned delightedly and hurried to the lavatory with the blanket. When he returned he was still smiling.

  “If it works,” he chortled, “it’ll take twenty years off my life.”

  “If it doesn’t,” Brick said grimly, “neither of us will have to worry about collecting old age pensions.”

  “You’re a pessimist,” Pop said scornfully, “but I ain’t. I just got the feeling that I’ll be standing watch again with a good U.S. deck under me before long. They can’t stop us. Hell, we’re Americans.”