by Roy J. Snell
_Chapter IV_ Hans Schlitz
While the sound of voices from below grew louder, Jock said in a steadyvoice:
“He was changin’ to civies.”
“His uniform must be hidden somewhere close,” suggested Dave.
“Aye. That it must,” Jock agreed.
Brand was not long in locating the uniform half hidden by dead leaves.In a pocket he found an automatic.
“It’s good he didn’t have that in his hand,” said the sturdy Scot, “elseI shouldn’t ha’e been here. I caught him doin’ the lightnin’ change act.
“Plannin’ to do the spy act, eh?” He spoke to the man on the ground. Theanswer was a surly curse.
“All right.” Brand spoke quietly to the dog. “Let him up.”
Flash looked at Jock, read an answer in his eyes, then left his post.
“Get up.” There was a sound like clinking steel in the English lad’svoice.
“He knocked me over,” Jock explained quietly. “That was easy enough, an’me with but one leg. Then he went on to finish me off. He’s gotastonishin’ strong hands, that lad has. He’s all for shakin’ a man. Ifit hadn’t been fer good auld Flash now—”
“He would have killed you.” Chilled hate was in Brand’s voice.
All of a sudden hands parted the branches of a small oak and there stoodthe brawny blacksmith from Warmington, the village below Ramsey Farm. Hecarried an antique fowling-piece.
“So you got one of ’em? That’s grand, me boys!” he approved. “Where nowwould you say the others be?”
By that time a dozen members of the Home Guard had gathered in.
“My friend from America, David Barnes, has one of them just up here alittle way,” Brand replied.
“I’ll say you’ve done a fine job of it,” the blacksmith approved.
“And now then.” He turned to the prisoner. “What may your name be?” Hedrew pencil and notebook from his pocket.
For a moment the Nazi stood sullenly silent.
“Come now,” the blacksmith insisted. “It’s part of the regulations.”
“Hans Schlitz,” came in a low, defiant voice.
“Hans Schlitz!” The words sprang unbidden from Brand’s voice. “That’sthe name of the prisoner who worked on our farm during the World War!”
“I’m his son,” the prisoner snarled. “I’ve paid you a visit to squareaccounts. I’m sorry we missed.”
“So you meant to bomb our house!” Brand stared almost in unbelief.
“Why not? Your father treated my father, a prisoner of war, like a dog.”
“That,” said the gray-haired blacksmith, “is not the truth. I mind itwell. He was housed and fed as one of the family. He worked no harderthan the men of the household. He—”
“That’s a lie!” the prisoner snarled. A crimson flush o’erspread thegiant blacksmith’s face. He took a step forward. Then he mutteredlow—“No. It won’t do. Not at all it won’t do. Not to be brawlin’ with aswine like him.”
He stood there for a moment, head bowed as if in prayer. Then his headlifted as he said:
“Here you, Bill and Hugh, take this fellow to the guard house.
“The rest of you,” he waved an arm, “spread out an’ search for the onethat’s still free. There was three of them, you all mind countin’.”
There was a murmur of assent. Then they were away. “Come on,” Brand saidto Dave after the first man they had captured had been turned over tothe blacksmith and a companion. “All this leaves me a bit groggy. Thinkof their deliberately planning to blow our house off the map!”
“Terrible!” Dave agreed.
“And my father did treat that prisoner well,” Brand said. “I rememberhis telling of it many times. We saw where their plane cracked up.”Brand’s voice rose. “Finding that plane is important. That third fellowmay have been there and finished wrecking it. If not, we’ll be the firstto look it over.”
The discovering of the wreck was no great task. The plane had cut a paththrough a cluster of young trees. In doing this it had stripped off itswings, but its cabin, motor, and instrument board had been left in faircondition.
“The R. A. F. will want to look at this,” Brand said. “They’ll want toknow if the Huns have discovered any new tricks,—a bomb sight, orsomething like that.”
He tried the cabin door. It stuck. Seizing a bar from the smashedlanding gear he pried the door open. As he did so something fell at hisfeet. It was a long, flat pigskin billfold.
Throwing back the flap, he pulled out a handful of papers. The first ofthese appeared to be some sort of flying orders. He could not read theGerman print, but the names, written in by hand, were plain enough.
“Fritz Steinbeck,” the boy read aloud. “That may be the dark-hairedfellow we caught first.”
“What are the other names?” Dave asked.
“Hans Schlitz, and Nicholas Schlitz. Sayee—” Brand stared. “They may bebrothers.”
“And they are!” he exclaimed in a low, tense whisper ten seconds later.“Look! Here’s their picture together.” He held up a thin card.
“Look almost like twins,” Dave suggested.
“Nope,” Brand concluded after a second look. “The one we caught is theolder of the two. I only hope,” his brow wrinkled, “that they get thisfellow Nicholas. If they don’t—well—” he heaved a deep sigh. “His namemay be Nicholas, but for us, if he harbors a grudge, as his brothersurely does, he may prove to be Old Nick, the devil himself.” He did hisbest to suppress a shudder. “I’ll put this in my pocket.” He stowed thebillfold away. “Turn it in at the airport tomorrow. Mother will be downtonight. I want to talk the affair over with her.
“Hey, you!” he called a moment later as a boy who could scarcely havebeen past sixteen put in an appearance. “You’ve got a gun.”
“That I have,” the boy grinned.
“Want a job?”
“That I do. I’m tired of tramping.”
“Right. You just keep an eye on this wreck until someone from the R. A.F. comes along.”
“A Royal Air Force man.” The boy grinned again. “I’ll sure enough beglad to meet one.”
“You’ll get a chance, all right,” Brand promised. “They won’t missthis.”
To Dave he said: “Come on. We’ll go down now.”
They made their way through the shadows cast by young trees in silence.Arrived at the upper side of the broad meadow overlooking the homesteadand the village beyond, as if struck by the beauty of the view, theypaused to stand there motionless.
How different were their thoughts at that moment!
The American boy was thinking: “How strangely beautiful it all is, as ifit had been arranged with great care so that a famous artist might paintit.”
It was just that—the farmhouse built of native stone, centuries old,stood in the midst of orchards and gardens all green and gold with thecolors of autumn. Brightest speck of all was Cherry sitting on the grayrocks.
“How like a sprite she is,” Dave was thinking. “And how like an angelshe can sing!”
Beyond the farmstead was a broad, green pasture dotted with black andwhite cattle. To the right of this its walls shattered but stillupright, a great, gray Norman castle cast a long, dark shadow.
“It’s like the shadow of war on a weary world,” the boy thought.
As his gaze turned to the left his face brightened. “The village,” hewhispered. Never before, he thought, had there been such a village. Withits winding street following the whimsical meandering of a narrowstream, with its houses set irregularly along hillsides that sloped awayon either side, with gardens running back to the edge of a great groveof beech, oak and yew trees, it all seemed part of a picture-book dream.
“And yet,” he thought, “the people in that village are quite human. Theyare kind, simple and good. The baker, the blacksmith, the cobbler, andall the rest,—how really wonderful they are! And so kind to a stranger!An
d yet,”—He was thinking what it might be like tomorrow, or the dayafter—if the war lasted. And it would last!
As for Brand, he was thinking quite simply and steadfastly, “That’s myhome down there. It’s always been my home—has been the home of my peoplefor generations. And yet, if the purpose of one man, or perhaps two, hadbeen carried out on this perfect autumn day, it would have been nohome—only a pile of rocks. And beneath that pile would have been thecrushed forms of three persons I love.”
“This,” he said aloud, “is war. Come on.” His voice was hoarse. “Let’sget on down.”