Dog Robber: Jim Colling Adventure Series Book I

Dog Robber: Jim Colling Adventure Series Book I Page 17

by Robert McCurdy

  Chapter Sixteen

  March, 1947

  They reached Krakow by mid-afternoon of their first day of travel. The big Mercedes limousine provided a surprisingly comfortable ride. Hermann drove, with Elizabeth and Colling in the front seat beside him. Elena and the children rode in the spacious back with Helga. The larger pieces of luggage were in the trunk, together with a few bottles of wine and cognac that Hermann insisted that they bring with them, and some tins of caviar and other delicacies. The chrome pull-down rack on the rear of the car was filled with jerry cans of gasoline and an extra spare tire. The heavy vehicle rode well over the rutted country roads. They stopped only occasionally to stretch their legs, and at noon ate a lunch comprised of sandwiches from a picnic basket that Helga had prepared before they departed.

  Colling told Hermann not to stop in Krakow, despite the butler’s warning that there would be no hotels between there and Czestochowa, and only poor accommodations there. Colling reminded him that success depended heavily on speed.

  Outside Krakow they encountered their first checkpoint, their path barred by several saw-horses placed across the road. The place was manned by soldiers in Russian-style uniforms wearing Polish insignia, backed up by a contingent of Red Army men. They all stared pointedly at the big Mercedes, talking among themselves, and Colling guessed that they were discussing this unusual event.

  The Polish lieutenant who approached the driver’s window asked for their papers. As they had rehearsed, Hermann first handed over his identification as a police operative, then the general safe conduct pass that Tomek had prepared from the template that Colling had provided. Colling got out of his side of the car and walked around to hand over the American passports for himself, Elizabeth and Elena, and the certificates for the girls. Tucked into his and Elizabeth’s passports were their Communist Party of the U.S.A. membership cards. Hermann shouted gruffly at Helga, who gave him her Polish identity papers, which he handed over to the Pole.

  A Russian officer came to join the Polish lieutenant, and the two of them thumbed through the documents. They looked up as Colling said in English, “Everything in order, Comrades?”

  The Polish officer apparently understood him, because he asked, with a heavy accent, “Mister, where you going?”

  “Warsaw,” replied Colling, “We’ve been touring the country. Just came down from Warsaw the other day, down the Vistula. We left Tarnow late yesterday. Thought we’d have a look at Krakow before going back to Warsaw.” As soon as he got the words out, Colling prayed that he would not be asked where they had stayed in Krakow.

  The Russian officer held out his hand, saying something in Russian, and the Polish lieutenant said, “He welcomes you to Poland. He sees you are Communist from America. He is happy to…how is said? Make your acquaintance.”

  Colling shook the Russian’s hand and said, “Tell him I am honored to be in the new People’s Republic of Poland. I am much impressed, and will tell my comrades at home about the progress that has been made here.”

  The Polish officer translated, and Colling suspected his Russian was nearly as bad as his English, but the Russian officer smiled broadly. Their documents were returned to them, and smiling, Colling climbed back into the limousine. The Polish lieutenant said something to Hermann before he rolled up his window, and as they drove past the barrier of sawhorses that the soldiers had moved aside for them, he said, “He told me I was lucky to have such an assignment, driving rich Americans around. Told me to ask for a gratuity.”

  They were in Czestochowa just after dusk. Hermann asked at a post office where he might find accommodations for the night, and they were directed to what was apparently the town’s only hotel, a small, run-down place on the outskirts that looked as if it had been converted from a private residence. In the dark, the shabby appearance of its exterior was not noticeable, but as they filed into the entrance hall that served as a lobby, they could see that the establishment had seen better days.

  The hotel’s two staff members, a clerk and a maid, were friendly, however, and the rooms were warm. When they tried the hotel’s dining room, they found that the one dish appearing on the menu, cabbage cooked with spiced ground meat, was plain but filling. Colling slept beside Elizabeth for the first time in nearly a year, and during the night she embraced him in her sleep, murmuring something. He returned the embrace, but did not wake her.

  They bundled into the limousine early the next morning. The innkeeper was extremely pleased when Colling paid him in dollars, and wished them all a safe journey, waving from the steps of the hotel as they drove away.

  There were four more stops by officials as they made their way towards Warsaw. Each time, their American passports, the general safe conduct pass and the Party identification seemed to make an impression, and they were waved on their way. At one checkpoint, a half-intoxicated Russian major insisted that Hermann, Colling and Elizabeth drink vodka with him, toasting the triumph of socialism and the Great Comrade Stalin. Colling was concerned that the Russian would not be satisfied with their drinking one glass with him, and hit upon the idea of making the man a gift of a bottle of the Countess’ cognac, diverting his attention long enough for them to slip away.

  Colling told Hermann that he did not want to enter Warsaw proper, but to circle it. The butler said he had never done so when driving the Count and Madame, and was unsure of what roads to take. They eventually pulled out the Esso map and traced a circuitous route around the city that would bring them to the main road leading north. Colling hoped that the roads were as they had been in 1938, when the map was printed.

  They reached the place where they would leave the main highway to detour around Warsaw as the sun was low in the sky. Hermann was hesitant about trying to find their way in the dark. He said that he might know of a place where they might spend the night, and Colling agreed to pass the turnoff and allow Hermann to take them to where he guessed they might find accommodations.

  Even in the waning light, Hermann had little difficulty locating the house for which he was looking. It was a large mansion on a tree-lined street of similar houses on the city’s outskirts. Hermann explained that one of the Count’s business managers had owned the home, and it was possible that the man was still living there. Colling was not as optimistic, and said so.

  Hermann pulled the bell cord that hung beside the mansion’s wrought-iron gate. A few minutes later, a stooped old man came out to see who had rung. He was someone Hermann did not know, but when Hermann asked for Panowie Bronoskowicz, the old man opened the gate and invited them in.

  The Count’s former manager greeted Hermann warmly and asked about the Countess. Hermann told him that she had died, and Bronoskowicz expressed his condolences. After some reminisces about the von Brechstlers, Hermann introduced Colling and asked if they might find shelter for the night for themselves and five others travelling with them. Bronoskowicz explained that he was required to share his house with four families who had been assigned to him by the government. They were all pretty decent folk, he admitted, but he no longer had any guest bedrooms to offer. After a moment’s thought, however, he extended an invitation for their party to sleep in his part of the mansion. He had a bedroom, bath and sitting room, and thought that if they were willing to sleep on the floor for one night, they would be crowded but indoors and warm.

  Bronoskowicz showed Hermann where he might park the Mercedes behind the house, and then led his new-found guests to his rooms. The women took over the task of using bedclothes and blankets from the limousine to provide places for everyone to sleep. When the children had been put to bed on the floor of their host’s bedroom, the adults gathered in the sitting room and shared cognac from one of the bottles brought from the villa. Bronoskowicz had much to say about the current state of things in Poland, as well as his experiences during the war. He had been pressed into service running factories by first the Germans, then the Polish national liberation government, and now the Communist government. He was of the opinion t
hat his current bosses were undoubtedly the worst. They were only able to set quotas, but found it impossible to provide the raw materials or skilled labor required to meet them. He fully expected to be demoted to worker status at any time, or perhaps worse, to be sent to a labor camp.

  Their presence in the house did not seem to arouse any particular interest in the other tenants, although as they loaded the Mercedes early the following morning, they could see faces peering from the windows overlooking the parked limousine. Colling was anxious to be off, but before he left, he handed Bronoskowicz a roll containing five hundred dollars, telling him that he should use the money to get out of Poland at the earliest opportunity.

  They passed some stretches of scenery that looked familiar to Colling and Elizabeth as they traveled in a circle around Warsaw. They encountered no checkpoints on what were essentially dirt tracks through farm country. The fields on either side were bare, flecked by patches of snow, and they passed only a handful of locals using the road.

  When they emerged onto the main highway to Danzig, it was not long before they saw the Vistula. Colling wondered what had happened to the boatman, Petr Zaminoski, and his family, and whether the Russian colonel was still trading currency in the town square of that nearby village. He could not recall its name. He looked over at Elizabeth and asked himself if she were having the same thoughts.

  The first checkpoint of the day was at a bridge crossing a tributary of the Vistula that Colling understood to be the Brda. The bridge was made of steel and appeared to have been put in place parallel to the ruins of the former bridge by Russian engineers. It was similar to others Colling had seen in Germany, and he guessed it to be of American manufacture. A black and white striped pole served as a barrier on their end of the bridge, and Colling could see its twin at the bridge’s north end. There were no Polish guards around, only Red Army troops, and the blue collar flashes and cap bands of the officers in charge marked them as NKVD. Colling felt a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach as one of the NKVD men asked Hermann for their papers while his companions sized up the Mercedes and its passengers.

  Colling kept to his usual practice, and exited his side of the car and walked around it to stand beside the Russian. The officer barely glanced up from scrutinizing Hermann’s police identity card, and Colling said in English, smiling and in as cheerful a voice as he could muster, “Greetings, Comrade! Here are our passports.”

  Colling did not know whether it was the English or his display of good humor towards a secret police officer that caught the Russian’s attention, but the man turned to him and responded in slightly accented English, “Greetings. You are Englishman or American?”

  “Americans. Having a look at Poland. The Party office in Warsaw was really swell in getting us permission to travel.”

  The NKVD man took the passports that Colling had been holding out to him. He began to slowly read through each of them, pulling out the Party cards and staring at them. Suddenly he shouted something in Russian, and a second NKVD man came over to join them. The first officer handed the documents to his companion and asked what sounded to Colling like a question. A discussion between the two ensued, seemingly some kind of argument. Colling suddenly realized that Elizabeth was standing at his side. She spoke to the two officers in Russian, and they both bowed slightly to her and responded in a more respectful tone of voice.

  Elizabeth had the copy of The Daily Worker with the story about Warrencliffe Senior, and opened it to show it to them, pointing to the picture and to Colling. She went on conversing with the Russians, and they were soon both smiling, and at one point, laughed with her at something she said. Elizabeth turned towards the limousine and motioned with her hand, calling Helga’s name. The maid emerged from the car with two bottles of Hennessey, the last two bottles by Colling’s count, and handed them to Elizabeth, who in turn presented them to the NKVD men. At this, the officer that Colling had spoken to first brushed past him and approached the rear passenger door that Helga had left standing open, and stuck his head into the car, smiling at the two little girls and asking in his accented English, “How are you, little girls?”

  In unison, the children answered him, “Fine, sir. How are you?”

  Colling was hoping that the conversation would not go on, but the NKVD man was encouraged by the girls’ response, and after responding to their question with, “I am fines, too,” asked, “What is names, please?”

  “Barbara, sir,” said Basia.

  “Katherine, sir,” said Katya.

  The Russian laughed, saying to Elizabeth, “You have such pretty childrens. Like mother,” then after looking at Colling, “But not blondes hair, like mother. More dark, like father.” And with that, he clapped Colling on the back.

  The second NKVD man returned the passports and other papers to Colling, touched the visor of his cap with his finger, and shouted for the striped pole to be raised.

  The barrier on the other side of the bridge also went up to allow them to pass, and as they drove under it, Colling could hear Elena telling the girls that they had been wonderful. He asked Elizabeth, “What did you tell them?”

  “Same story you cooked up. Your daddy has lots of money, but he’s a socialist. We joined the Party because we wanted a cause. Love Stalin, all that jazz.”

  “What was it they were laughing about?”

  “They complimented me on my looks, and I told them American Communists were not so serious as they are in Europe.”

  Colling blurted out, “Too bad you couldn’t use your charm like that when they arrested you,” and then immediately regretted it.

  Elizabeth stared straight ahead through the limousine’s windshield, saying nothing, then in a flat voice, she said, “It was the papers. They trusted the papers you gave them. I didn’t have the right papers.” Colling could see tears forming in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Liz. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Forget it,” she replied.

  Colling could think of nothing to say in response. The two girls in the back were chattering with their mother and Helga, but Colling and Elizabeth rode in silence. Hermann made no attempt to start a conversation, seemingly disconcerted by the tension that he sensed had arisen between the man and woman seated beside him.

  As they passed through the next town, Colling told Hermann that he wanted to stop if there was a tavern or café. A place with several tables outside its door was in the central square, and Hermann pulled up in front of it as he had been asked. Colling instructed the others to wait in the car while he went inside. A few minutes later, he came back carrying a basket filled with a half-dozen bottles of vodka. After placing them in the trunk of the limousine, he returned the basket to the tavern’s owner and climbed back into the car. He explained that with the cognac gone, they would need something else with which to bribe the Russians.

  They were stopped three more times before reaching Gdansk, as it was now called. On each occasion, Colling and Elizabeth worked as a team; Colling playing the friendly American communist, and Elizabeth his more sophisticated Russian-speaking wife. They were amazed that no one seemed the least bit surprised that their party was proceeding across Poland in a big German luxury car. Elena and her girls were superb, answering in English when addressed.

  Once through the city, they drove north and west along the coast towards the region’s resort areas. Hermann mentioned that he was most familiar with the Grand Hotel in Sopot, which had been a favorite of the von Brechstler’s, but admitted that he had no idea what condition the place might be in at present. Colling reminded him that they needed a less conspicuous place to stay while they arranged for passage across the Baltic, and Elizabeth agreed. At that point, Elena broke in to say that she knew of a seaside town with pensions and small hotels where she and Tomasz had stayed before the war, and provided directions to Hermann on how to get there.

  Colling decided that the village to which Elena led them would be described as “picturesque
” in a tourist guide. A short row of perhaps seven or eight houses fronting the sea all held signs indicating they accepted guests. Within walking distance, a small harbor for fishing boats had been created by the construction of two breakwaters. A cluster of buildings across the street from the docks served as the center of town.

  Elena pointed out the house in which she and her husband had spent a week one summer, and Colling selected another, not wishing to take the chance that she might be recognized. They parked in front, and Colling climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It was answered by the gray-haired proprietress, and when he explained in Polish that they were seeking accommodations for a few days, she welcomed him in. When he asked where they might keep their car, she directed him to a large shed behind the house that could serve as a garage, reached by a track running through the grass-covered dunes behind the row of houses. After they had removed their luggage, Colling told Hermann where to take the Mercedes and put it out of sight.

  Colling had asked to rent three rooms, and the landlady, who told them her name was Klara Vollmer, took them up the stairs to show them their accommodations. She somewhat proudly told Colling that she had been born in Germany, and asked that he call her “Frau Vollmer.”

  Colling counted, and determined that the little hotel had ten rooms and no guests other than themselves. Frau Vollmer apologized that there had been no electricity since the district power plant had no coal, and what light there was would be provided by oil lamps. The fireplaces in their rooms would take off the chill. She advised that there was no coal and wood was scarce, so they would probably be warmer during the day if they stayed in the dining room or the sitting room downstairs. A few pieces of kindling would be provided at night. There was running water from a cistern located on a hill behind them, and they had had plenty of rain, so the water closets were functioning as they should. If anyone wanted a bath, it would require heating water in the kitchen and carrying it upstairs to the bathroom that served all ten of the guest rooms.

  As he signed the register, he had a view of the dining room, furnished with a scattering of small tables. It was located to the left of the foyer, and on the opposite side was a large room with a pair of sofas and easy chairs that Frau Vollmer referred to as the sitting room. When the old lady discovered that they had not yet eaten, she invited them to seat themselves in the dining room while she prepared supper.

  As they sat waiting, they could hear the old lady clattering around in the next room, and after a few minutes, Helga rose and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, asking if she might be of help. Colling could discern a conversation in progress, and although he could not distinguish what was being said, Helga did not return immediately, leading him to believe that the German maid’s offer had been accepted.

  When she did reappear, Helga came carrying a tray covered with glasses of hot tea. She indicated that it would not be much longer before their meal arrived. Elizabeth suggested that they pull three of the tables together so that they would all be sitting with one another as they ate, and Colling and Hermann dutifully rearranged the tables and chairs. The two little girls looked as if they were tired, and Colling asked Elena how they were holding up after such a long motor trip. She assured him that a good night’s sleep would do wonders.

  Frau Vollmer finally came in pushing a serving cart holding a huge tureen. Helga followed with their place settings and bowls, which she distributed in front of each of them. The landlady ladled out a thick fish stew; when Colling tasted it, he found it delicious, and said so. As Helga dipped her spoon into her bowl, she informed them that this was Baltic eel chowder. After a momentary pause, Colling decided he did not care what kind of sea animal he was eating, it was still delicious. He noticed that Elizabeth had shown no particular reaction to what Helga had said, and concluded that her upbringing had probably included more culinary sophistication than his own.

  The landlady had brought in a basket of tan-colored bread while they ate, and she apologized for its poor quality. Colling tasted some of it, and had to admit that she was right. Elizabeth asked if there were anything to put on the bread, and Frau Vollmer went off and came back with a large jar of German-labeled orange marmalade. She mumbled that she had only two more left in the pantry as she placed it on the table. Colling found that the bread became edible if it had a thick layer of marmalade on it, and he told Elizabeth how clever she was for thinking of it.

  For a moment the others were talking among themselves and it was if Colling and Elizabeth were alone, and he took her hand and whispered an apology for his behavior and the comment he had made at the checkpoint. He asked her forgiveness for saying what he said, knowing it must have been so hurtful to her. She squeezed his hand and said, “It’s not important. I’ll get over it.” Her response left him feeling worse than he had before he had made the apology.

  As Helga and Frau Vollmer were clearing away the dishes, Colling told Elizabeth he wanted to visit the fishing village to see if arrangements could be made for their passage to Sweden. He told her it would be best if he went alone.

  It was dark and a chill wind was blowing off the sea as he walked into the village. A lit doorway caught his attention, and he headed towards it. He found that it was a tavern, filled with fishermen quietly drinking. The air was hazy with tobacco smoke. As he walked in, his expensive topcoat and polished shoes immediately caught the attention of those nearest the door, and a sudden silence spread quickly over the room.

  Colling asked the man tending the bar for vodka. The tavern’s patrons continued to watch him silently. A small tumbler of clear liquid was placed before him, and Colling steeled himself, then tipped it up and drank it in one gulp.

  “You are not from around here,” said the barkeep.

  “No. From farther west. Near the German border.”

  “You are at old lady Vollmer’s place. You came from Gdansk in a big German car. First one we have seen in these parts for a long time,” was the reply, as a second glass of vodka was poured.

  This time Colling sipped his drink. “Yes. We want to go home.”

  “So why not use your big car and do so,” said a bearded man at a nearby table.

  “The roads are not good. Better we go by boat.”

  “We are fishermen, not excursion boatmen,” said another man.

  “I can pay, if anyone is interested.”

  “The Coast Guard watches closely. Maybe you are from the government yourself,” said someone.

  “Maybe I am,” said Colling. “Do I look like I am from the government?”

  There was a scattering of laughter, then the tavern keeper said, “In truth, you seem like a big shot American. Your accent sounds of it. ”

  “If that is so, then you must conclude for certain that I am not from the government.”

  There was a murmuring in the room, then an unshaven man of about fifty wearing a worn fisherman’s sweater stepped forward and asked, “Who played in the World Series last year?”

  Sports had not been foremost in Colling’s mind the previous fall, and he had to wrack his brain for the answer, “The Cardinals…St. Louis…and the Boston Red Sox. The Cardinals won.”

  His questioner laughed and said, “This chap is an American for certain.”

  The barkeep filled Colling’s half-empty glass to the brim, smiled and said, “One of my cousins lives in Chicago. You have been to Chicago?”

  “Yes. I am from Wisconsin, but that is near to Chicago, and I have been there often.” He noticed that everyone was listening intently, and decided it was the right time to display American generosity. “I wish to purchase vodka for everyone,” he said, placing his last two 1000-zloty notes on the bar.

  As he had hoped, this was greeted with enthusiasm, and there was a push to the bar to pick up the glasses that the bartender was filling. Most of the men took the vodka and returned to their tables, and since Colling continued sipping at his own vodka without adding anything to the general conversation, they resumed d
rinking, smoking and conversing among themselves.

  The fisherman who had questioned Colling remained beside him at the bar. “I am called Mikal Boroszki. How is it you speak Polish?”

  “My mother’s family,” answered Colling. “I am called Stanley Warrencliffe, but you may call me ‘Stan’.” Then he asked, “And how is it a man of the Baltic knows of American baseball?”

  “I used to live in the U.S.A., Stan. In New York City. From time to time some old friends there send me issues of Dziennik Polski, the Polish language newspaper, so I keep up with U.S.A. news.”

  “And you have no wish to return to America?” asked Colling.

  “It is a long story. Someday perhaps.”

  “Do you have a boat?”

  “Yes. My son and myself and two crewmen fish these waters.”

  “Would you be interested in taking on some passengers?”

  “One must be cautious, Stan. It is forbidden.”

  “Does that mean you are saying ‘no’?”

  “Come see me early tomorrow morning, before the sun is fully up, and we will talk. My boat is the white one, trimmed in blue, the Syrena.”

  Colling downed his drink, voiced a general goodbye to the tavern patrons, and walked back to the little hotel.

  He found Elizabeth already in bed. Next to the fireplace were a washbowl and a kettle of tepid water that Elizabeth had apparently heated in the kitchen and brought upstairs to their room. He undressed and washed himself with a cloth before climbing into bed. When he slipped under the covers, he felt the warmth that her body had generated. She turned to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry, Jim. I’ve been awful to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Liz. I haven’t been so great to you myself.”

  “Make love to me, Jim.”

  “Are you ready? We don’t have to if you still….”

  She silenced him with her lips, pressing tightly to him and caressing the back of his neck. He responded hungrily, overwhelmed by her intensity and the familiar reaction of her body that he had not known for so long. He was about to pull back in order to search for a prophylactic from his suitcase when he felt her hands on him, and she whispered, “I took one out already, Jim,” as she made sure it was properly in place.

  Elizabeth was still sleeping soundly when Colling woke, sensing that it was morning, even though it was still dark. He looked at his wristwatch to confirm that it was indeed 5:00 A.M., then slipped from underneath the covers, using care not to wake her. As he shaved, using cold water in the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall, he considered how little understanding he had of what made Elizabeth tick. He finally decided that his confusion was probably not unique, and that other men found themselves in the same quandary when it came to trying to understand the female mind.

  She did not wake up as he dressed, and he left her there to go meet Boroszki. The sky was turning gray to the east as he walked down the hotel’s steps.

  Colling found Boroszki’s boat moored at quayside. The dock was bustling with activity as the little fleet of fishing boats prepared to go to sea. Some of the other vessels were already in the harbor, headed out through the gap between the high breakwaters. The Syrena was among the last four tied to the dock.

  A young man was on the deck, straightening the folds of a net that was piled haphazardly in the waist of the boat. Colling asked for Boroszki, and the young man shouted towards the wheelhouse behind him. Boroszki emerged, crossed the deck and climbed onto the wharf with Colling. The young man moved off out of earshot, perhaps deliberately, thought Colling.

  “Dzien Dobry!” said Colling.

  “The same,” said the fisherman.

  “Is now the time we might talk?” asked Colling.

  “Just so.”

  “There are seven of us, five adults and two children. We wish to go to Sweden.”

  “Not possible, Stan. The damned Swedes are as bad as the Russians. If they catch you in their waters without authorization, they knock holes in the bottom of your boat and hand you over to the Polish Coast Guard or the Red Navy.”

  “West along the coast then?” suggested Colling.

  “You wish to avoid the Reds, is that not so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of the distance, the coast is that of the Russian Zone of Germany. One must go far enough to reach the British Zone,” said Boroszki.

  “Have you ever done this?”

  “Once in awhile since the war has ended, to take some Polish vodka to trade for English tobacco, Yes. Never before have I carried people. The authorities everywhere will overlook a little smuggling for a bottle of vodka or two, or a tin of tobacco. I do not think they will be so lenient about people.”

  “I will pay well for this,” said Colling, just as two men climbed onto the deck from out of a large hatchway. Boroszki turned to see what Colling was looking at, then said, “Those are my crewmen. They are reliable.”

  “I would hope so. As I was saying, I will pay well.”

  “It is very dangerous,” said Boroszki, “There are patrols, and my boat is not so fast. We cannot outrun them.”

  “I have U.S. dollars. I will pay one hundred for each person. That is seven hundred dollars.”

  The fisherman looked Colling in the eye for a moment, then said, “I might have known an American would have money. I will do it, for the reason that you are American, and I like Americans…but also…,” He grinned, “Because you pay. But first I must buy petrol. The ration we receive from the government is not sufficient. It will have to be on the black market.”

  “How much for the petrol?” asked Colling.

  “Say another one hundred. I will need that much now.”

  “Done,” said Colling, pulling out the folded bills he from his trousers pocket, and counting out $100 in tens and twenties. As he replaced the money, he realized how little was left of his cash. He asked, “When do we leave?”

  Boroszki looked at the gray sky, “In three days. Now we must go to catch the fish. We return in two days, then the next day, we will go. It will be late in the afternoon, that way the first miles will be at night. There is also a greater chance that we will have a fog. If so, that will be even better.”

  Happening to think of it, Colling said, “I have extra petrol for my motorcar. Does your engine burn automotive fuel?”

  “Yes, I will send Janek, my son, back with you to bring it down. I will still buy more so we will hope to have plenty.”

  The young man working with the nets turned out to be Boroszki’s son. Colling took him to the shed behind the hotel and removed the two jerrycans that were still full from the Mercedes’ rear rack. Janek remarked that the empty jerrycans would be useful as well, and they carried those to the dockside along with the full cans. The twenty-liter containers full of gasoline were heavy, and Colling found himself breathing heavily by the time they reached the boat. Janek did not seem in the least affected as he handed the jerrycans down to his father.

  Frau Vollmer saw him as he entered the hotel foyer, and invited him to come eat his breakfast. She placed a dish of boiled whitefish and small potatoes in front of him as he seated himself in the dining room. He was raising the first fork-full of fish to his mouth when Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. She joined him, and Frau Vollmer bustled away to bring her breakfast.

  Elizabeth smiled at him as she placed her hand on his arm, “I had a wonderful evening, sir.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. I could say the same thing, only mine was better than wonderful.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Elizabeth’s food. She looked at it and laughed as he said, “Hope you like fish. That’s all they have around here.”

  Frau Vollmer had brought hot tea, served as usual in glasses, and after they had finished eating, they sat sipping it slowly, looking at each other, but saying little. The landlady came out of the kitchen and asked if they had enjoyed their meal. Colling assured her that it was delicious, and the old
lady apologized for the lack of anything but fish.

  A few minutes later, Hermann and Helga, followed by Elena and the girls, arrived, and Frau Vollmer went off to bring more food. Colling told them with a smile, “Wait until you see what a treat you will be having for breakfast, my friends.”

  Basia and Katya stared at the boiled fish until their mother told them to eat, and then they did so with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  Colling spoke quietly as the others ate, describing his arrangements with Boroszki, and telling them to be packed and ready to go in three days. He added that the fisherman was hoping for an afternoon fog to rise that would cover their departure, and that they must be prepared to move quickly when the time came.

  Following his own instructions, Colling returned with Elizabeth to their room and completed as much packing as they could. He counted the last of his dollars from the compartment in his suitcase, and checked the Luger and extra ammunition. The Russian pistol he had promised Elizabeth was still in Hermann’s possession, as part of his disguise, and he noticed she watched carefully when he replaced the Luger in its hiding place. He held out sufficient cash to pay Boroszki.

  After breakfast, everyone wanted to walk on the beach across the road from the hotel. Colling went with them, holding Elizabeth’s hand as they strolled up and down, nervously hoping that his companions would decide they wanted to go back to their lodgings and remain out of sight. Eventually, the cold wind from the Baltic dampened enthusiasm, and Colling was relieved when everyone returned to the hotel.

  The next two days passed uneventfully, although Colling’s anxiety was heightened by his companions’ continued desire to occupy themselves with outdoor activities, even though the temperature remained cold. Elena took the girls to play in the dunes each day. Hermann and Helga took long walks on the beach, and into the village, where Colling was certain their presence would generate gossip. Elizabeth wanted to do the same, and against his best judgment, he obliged her.

  Every meal consisted of some variety of fish, prepared in various ways. Helga, Elena and Elizabeth all tried their hands at helping Frau Vollmer with the cooking, but Colling found himself wishing for a good Polish sausage and black bread.

  Each night, their love-making was as intense as it was on their first night at the hotel. When Colling took time to think about it, he had to admit that he was perplexed. He decided, however, to set aside any thoughts he might have about the hurt she had caused him in the past, and to simply enjoy the present, and not attempt to analyze what was going on.

  The afternoon of the day before they were to leave, Colling took Elizabeth for a stroll to the village to watch the fishing fleet return. The Syrena was the last boat to enter the harbor, and he pointed it out to her. Colling did not take her to meet Boroszki, having decided it was best to keep their distance until the time came to board.

  He had learned from discussions with Frau Vollmer that all the boats were required to unload their catches at the government-run fishery at a larger town down the coast, where they also were permitted to purchase their allotment of fuel. Colling assumed that Boroszki would have conducted his black-market transaction for additional gasoline there.

  The following morning, Colling rose before dawn and went to the dock. Boroszki and his son were on board, using a hose to wash down the deck. The fisherman greeted him and invited him to join him in the wheelhouse, while Janek finished their work. Boroszki confirmed that he would be ready to leave in the late afternoon. Colling was about to pay him what he had promised when Boroszki told him he would take only half, with the other half to be due when they were safely ashore in Lübeck, in the British Zone.

  Colling returned to the hotel, where he found that Frau Vollmer had his breakfast waiting for him. Soon after, he was joined by the rest of the party. He let them know that they would be leaving that afternoon. As usual, everyone wanted to spend time outside, and Elena and her daughters went to their customary spot in the dunes so that the girls could build sand castles. Hermann and Helga wanted to take one last walk on the beach, and Elizabeth said that she and Colling would go with them.

  This time, Colling was in no hurry to come back to the hotel, and it was well after 12:00 when they trooped into the dining room for a lunch consisting of another of Frau Vollmer’s fish stews. They ate in a leisurely fashion, consciously killing time, so that it was mid-afternoon before they had finished their tea and the women had helped Frau Vollmer clear the table. As they filed out of the dining room, Colling sent them all to finish their packing.

  He had everyone bring down their bags and pile them in the sitting room, where they would all wait until it was time to leave. He was settling accounts with Frau Vollmer in the dining room when he happened to glance out of the window, to see a man cautiously approaching the shed where the Mercedes was hidden. The man disappeared around the shed’s corner to where its doors were located, and Colling was certain he would be opening them and discovering the limousine. His suspicions were confirmed when the man reappeared and waved his hand, signaling to someone in front of the hotel.

  Colling was considering what to do in response to what he had just seen when there was the sound of someone entering the foyer. Frau Vollmer went to see who it might be, and Colling followed a few steps behind her. Over the old lady’s shoulder, he could see two men in the little reception area. One was a big man who had positioned himself so as to block the doorway. The other, slimmer and a bit older and obviously in charge, was looking around as if surveying the place. Colling’s heart skipped a beat when he saw that they were both wearing black leather jackets. He had seen enough men dressed in similar fashion to know that these two had to be plain-clothes policemen.

  The one in charge looked intently at Colling, as if trying to match a description he had been given with the man at whom he was staring, and said, “You are Krazinsky, yes?”

  Colling was unsure of how he should respond, so he said nothing.

  The policeman smiled with a knowing expression, “Or should I call you Mister Var…ren…cliffe?” stumbling over the pronunciation.

  Colling was pondering whether to try and bluff his way through when the sliding doors to the hotel’s sitting room opened, and Elizabeth was in the doorway, the others behind her. She said nothing, and Colling spoke first in English, “My name is Stanley Warrencliffe. I don’t speak Polish. Are you asking after me?”

  The policeman pulled a folded case from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, revealing an official-looking card that Colling assumed was his identification. As he replaced it, the officer said in accented English, “Inspector Zavek, Krakow Criminal Police. I have questions to ask, Mister Var-ren-cliffe. Everyone’s papers, please.”

  There was a flurry of activity as the group in the sitting room searched for their passports and other documents and handed them over. Elizabeth had Colling’s passport as well as her own in her hand when she gave them to Zavek. The officer looked up at each of the members of their little party in turn as he slowly worked his way through the stack of documents, matching the photos with their faces. Finally he said, “You are known in Dwiespestka as Krazinsky, sir. Do you perhaps have another passport in that name?”

  Cousin Jerry’s passport was in the concealed compartment in his suitcase, and Colling had no intention of disclosing its location. He said, in his most blustering manner, “See here, my good man, my wife and I and our children are touring Poland at the behest of the new government. You can see that we have passes, and that our documents are in order. I know nothing about anyone named Krazinsky. If you are through with us, I would suggest you leave us in peace.”

  Zavek smiled again as if not believing a word Colling had said. He said, “Whatever your name is, dear sir, you and your friends are in, how is it said? Deep trouble. I wish to question all of you about the disappearance of the Countess von Brechstler. Do any of you deny that you were at her estate only a few days ago?” His eye caught Hermann, and he stepped over and took him by th
e arm, pulling him forward, “And you, my friend, are the Countess’ butler, and that woman there is your wife and maid to the Countess. Do you deny this? In spite of the fact that you give me papers that show you to be a Polish operative for the NKVD?”

  With this, Colling knew that continuing to rely on their contrived identities was not going to work, and his mind darted about, trying to decide what to do. Before he could speak, Elizabeth said in Polish, “Inspector, do you know of the camp at Dwiespestka?”

  “Yes,” Zavek said cautiously, as if admitting such knowledge could be dangerous.

  “I was a prisoner in that camp for over four months, Inspector. Do you know it is an interrogation camp?”

  The policeman’s expression changed. Elizabeth was looking right at him, and he returned her gaze for only a few seconds before glancing in Colling’s direction. He said, “My nephew was there for only a month last summer. I was able to use some connections to have him released. He was questioned, yes, I know this. A foolish boy, goading the Reds.”

  “I will not be a prisoner of the Russians again, Inspector,” said Elizabeth defiantly. “This man,” she pointed at Colling, “Freed me. We wish only to go to the West. The others go with us.”

  Zavek seemed to be thinking for a moment, then he said, “There is the matter of the Countess. Her doctor came to her estate and was told by the tenants that she had died suddenly and had been buried. A gravestone seemed to bear this out, but the priest with whom the doctor drove from Krakow became suspicious. The Countess was a devout Catholic, and would have sought last rites. That was not done. We were informed, and when the grave was exhumed, no body was found. It was assumed that foul play had occurred, because the tenants all swore that the Countess had not been seen since before Christmas, and that this man, Breitmann, and his wife had continued to occupy the Countess’ house along with this Krazinsky and the blonde woman called ‘Elzbieta,” who came from out of nowhere. I suspect that some or all of you had some hand in the Countess’ disappearance, perhaps her death.”

  As the inspector finished speaking, Colling said, “The Countess gave her life for Elizabeth, this woman here who was known as ‘Elzbieta’ to those at the estate. She substituted herself for Elizabeth to permit her to escape. It is a long story, but it is my belief that the Countess died in Russian hands, and they have not discovered that she was not Elizabeth. So that is that. You may believe me or not, but it is the truth.”

  Zavek replied, “There is also the matter of the missing property of the Countess.”

  “Yes,” said Colling. “The Mercedes was hers, and you are welcome to it. We have no further use for it. We also have some of her clothes and those of her late husband that I am wearing. We will leave with you as much of these as we can. All else was left as we found it.”

  “We are informed by the Countess’ solicitor that an inventory of her property included a quantity of gold coins, English gold coins to be exact. You have no knowledge of this?”

  Colling looked at Hermann and caught a barely perceptible shrug of the man’s shoulders, which together with the sheepish expression on his face, told him that the butler might know where the coins were.

  Zavek noticed the silent exchange between the two men, and he angrily turned on Hermann, “Well, you damned Kraut, do you know where this gold is?”

  “The Countess bequeathed it to us in her will,” replied Hermann.

  The policeman reacted scornfully, “You are aware that German nationals can no longer inherit from Polish estates, are you not? This law was passed by the liberation government. Give back these coins, Kraut.”

  Hermann opened his mouth as if to speak, then appeared to think better of it, and went to his valise. A few seconds later, he appeared with a leather pouch that he dropped into Zavek’s outstretched palm. The policeman had just placed the bag in his coat pocket when there was a banging on the entry door. The burly policeman who had been standing guard turned and opened it to permit two more black-jacketed men to enter.

  “NKVD,” said the first man through the door in a loud voice. “Everyone remain where you are.” His Polish was accented, and Colling guessed that he was Russian. The big Polish policeman and the second NKVD man through the door stood eyeing one another, like two boxers in the ring.

  Zavek was the first to speak, “I am Inspector Zavek, Criminal Police. These people are in my custody.”

  “On what charges?” asked the Russian.

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  “I hereby arrest them as enemies of the State,” said the Russian, “That takes precedence.”

  “Not with me,” responded Zavek. “I have already arrested them, and I will take them to Gdansk for further interrogation.”

  “You cannot. This is a State Security matter, Policeman. I will take charge now. You may leave.”

  “No, I will not. These people are my prisoners, and I will not relinquish custody of them without proper authority.”

  “I am Major Klamnikov, NKVD. I am your authority. You may leave.”

  “I will not, my dear Major. I have not completed my investigation of a homicide, and I must question them. Once that is completed, you are welcome to them. Unless, that is, my superiors decide they will be tried for the crimes they have committed.”

  “I warn you, Policeman, there are two of us, and we are prepared to use force, if necessary.”

  Zavek grinned lopsidedly and said, “There are three of us, NKVD-man, another of my men is out back. And there are more on the way from Gdansk. I telephoned for assistance some time ago, and more Polish police should be here momentarily. I do not wish to discuss this any more. Go to your headquarters in Gdansk if you want, but I will not budge without written orders to relinquish this scum to you.”

  The Russian major sputtered, but then, shouting something in Russian over his shoulder, he scrambled down the hotel steps, his companion following on his heels, and into a sedan parked at the curb behind an old black Renault that apparently had brought Zavek and his men.

  Zavek watched the car until it was out of sight, then he turned to Colling, “More police officers from Gdansk will in truth be here soon. We will take the Mercedes and drive back to Gdansk. We will do some things to avoid the dear Major finding us right away, but I cannot give you much time. If you have some means to leave this place, I would do so immediately. You will be reported as having escaped from my custody, and I can promise you the Reds will be combing this part of the coast very soon thereafter.”

  “What will happen to you?” asked Colling.

  “I will have to contend with that. A demotion perhaps, but my men and I were Home Army, so that would be accelerating the inevitable at any rate. Good luck to you and your friends.”

  “And to you,” said Colling.

  They were gathering their things when a battered truck occupied by four uniformed Polish policemen pulled up outside. Zavek was speaking to them at the curb when the Countess’ Mercedes appeared, one of Zavek’s men at the wheel.

  The police inspector turned and waved before climbing into the passenger seat of the limousine, and the little caravan sped off.

  Their landlady provided a hand cart on which they loaded their luggage, and with Colling and Hermann pushing it, they walked to the harbor. The sky was overcast, but there was no sign of the fog that Boroszki had predicted, and Colling began weighing the alternatives that might be open to them. He could think of none.

  Boroszki’s boat was still moored where it had been that morning, although no one was in sight. As Colling dropped down onto the deck, Boroszki stuck his head out of a hatchway behind the wheelhouse. He emerged and stood looking at the little party of refugees standing above him on the quay. From the dour look on his face, Colling suspected that the fisherman might be having second thoughts about his agreement.

  “Did you find fuel?” asked Colling.

  “Yes, for certain. Janek is below, clearing a place for your people. Come, you must board,” he said, reaching up to take
the waist of Katya and lift her down into the boat.

  Within a few minutes, their luggage had been carried down the hatchway, and they had found places for themselves on the tarpaulins that Boroszki’s son had spread over piles of nets in the vessel’s hold. Boroszki asked Colling to join him in the wheelhouse, and he was amazed when he climbed the ladder to the deck to find the first tendrils of fog creeping in from the sea. By the time Boroszki had started the engine and they had cast off their moorings, the entire bay was blanketed in a thin haze that grew more dense with each passing minute. Half way across the harbor, the lights on either side of the opening in the breakwater were their only guide to the open sea.

  Janek stationed himself on the prow, watching the white wall ahead of them, listening intently. They ran without lights, the only noise the chug of the boat’s motor. Boroszki had the wheelhouse windows propped wide open, scanning ahead as he held the wheel. Colling asked where the other crewmen were, and Boroszki informed him that they were not to be taken on this trip. It was safer for them if he and his son were the only members of the crew on board.

  The fisherman was grinning as he asked Colling, “Have I not well predicted this fog?”

  “You should be a…” Colling could not think of the Polish word, so he used the English, “…Meteorologist.”

  “What is that?” asked Boroszki.

  “A scientist whose profession it is to predict the weather,” replied Colling.

  “Phff,” said the fisherman, “Any sailor can do this without being a damned scientist.”

  “Just so,” said Colling.

  “For instance, I say we will have storms in the next day or so.”

  “That will not be good,” replied Colling.

  “Not so. It will be good. The patrols do not like bad weather. If we are not blown off course, we may reach the British Zone of Germany without an encounter with them.”

  Colling stood beside Boroszki for some time, looking out through the open windows. After a time, however, he moved away from the wheel and seated himself on a bench at the rear of the wheelhouse. As he did so, Boroszki said, “Be careful, Stan, where you are sitting.”

  “Why?” asked Colling.

  “Lift up the seat,” said Boroszki with a grin.

  Colling stood and raised the bench, which turned out to be the lid of a locker. Inside was a Russian submachine gun that Colling recognized as a PPSh, three extra round drum magazines for the gun and three German potato-masher hand grenades.

  Colling whistled through his teeth. “Where did you get these?” he asked.

  “During the war. The PPSh I got from a dead Russian, and the grenades from a dead damned Kraut.”

  Colling dropped the bench lid back into place and sat down. “Let’s hope we do not have to use them,” he said.

  The boat chugged on through the fog. They seemed to be making significant progress, and Colling went below deck to find the rest of his companions wrapped in blankets that Janek must have brought them. Hermann and Helga were huddled together, sleeping. Elena and her daughters were awake. She was quietly reading a book to them in Polish. Elizabeth was curled up in a blanket, and when he dropped down beside her, he saw that she was awake.

  “How is it going?” she asked.

  “Not bad. You can’t see the nose on your face out there, but Boroszki seems to know what he’s doing.”

  “How long before we reach friendly territory?”

  “Don’t know. A couple of days, maybe more. Boroszki says there’s going to be a storm. He was right about the fog, so I guess he’ll be right about that too.”

  The fog was still there early the next morning. The only sign that the night had passed was a faint lightening of the haze around them. During the night, Colling and Hermann had relieved Janek to allow him to get something to eat and to sleep. Boroszki insisted he should remain at the helm, but Colling finally convinced him that he could take over for a short while, if the fisherman would give him some instruction on how to steer and operate the boat’s engine. After he had been at the wheel for a time, Colling found the task unnerving, and the need to be constantly alert had left him feeling exhausted when Boroszki finally returned to take over.

  By mid-morning, the combination of the sun rising in the sky and a light breeze from the sea had caused the fog to dissipate. To their left they could see a green strip of land in the distance, and Boroszki informed them that it was Pomerania. He increased the speed of the engine as visibility improved, and they were soon plunging along through rolling waves. Hermann and Helga became seasick and spent a significant amount of time first leaning over the rail, then in the hold shivering in their blankets. Colling had discovered when he sailed on the troop transport that brought him to Europe that for some undefinable reason he did not become seasick. He stood on the bow, holding onto one of the stays, enjoying the feel of the boat moving under him. Neither Elizabeth nor Elena looked as if they were finding the voyage to be a particularly pleasant experience, but they had not yet gone to the rail. It was Colling’s opinion that Elizabeth, at least, was determined not to allow herself to become sick so long as he was not. The two little girls seemed to be enjoying themselves as they played hop-scotch on the heaving deck.

  They met no patrol boats, although they did pass scattered clusters of fishing boats and caught glimpses of the occasional freighter on the horizon. Boroszki kept his distance from other vessels, and they sailed doggedly along. Colling had no idea of what the speed of the Syrena might be, and when he asked Boroszki, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

  The weather remained clear, and Colling chided Boroszki about the accuracy of his prognostications. The fisherman stuck to his original prediction, however, and continued to promise that they would have a real blow before they reached their destination.

  As it happened, the wind started to pick up as the sun was about to set on their second day at sea. Within an hour, it was howling through the rigging, and the boat was rolling and plunging so that Colling was doubtful that Boroszki’s strenuous work at the wheel could control their course. In the last half-hour of daylight, a sleet-filled rain began to slash down, impeding their vision and making the open deck a place of freezing misery.

  Boroszki explained to Colling that this was an inopportune time for the weather to act up. Through the rain, he pointed to a dark strip on the horizon, “Rügen. We have passed the mouth of the Oder, and now we must go north to bring us around the peninsula. The wind is from the east, and we must head for open water if we are not to be blown ashore. More chance for a patrol to see us.”

  Somehow Boroszki managed to keep the Syrena on a northerly course, but from Colling’s position as lookout in the bow, he could imagine the Rügen peninsula drawing closer and closer, even though nothing was visible in the darkness except the waves breaking on the bow of the boat. About midnight, Colling noticed a perceptible change of direction in the wind. What had been hitting him on the right side of his face now came from behind. He did not know how the Polish fisherman had done it, but he guessed that they had rounded the Rügen peninsula. When Janek came to take his place as lookout, he shouted the question to him, and the young sailor grinned back and nodded his head.

  Colling returned to the wheelhouse after Janek had relieved him. He had to shout at Boroszki to make himself understood over the noise of the storm. He was trying to congratulate the fisherman on his ability to predict the weather when Boroszki suddenly pointed in the direction Colling knew as “right,” but had learned to call “starboard.” At first, Colling could not understand at what the man was pointing, then he saw a flash of bright light that rose and then dipped away.

  “Patrol!” shouted Boroszki.

  Colling watched as the light increased in size and brightness. It was obvious that the source of the light was moving much faster than they were, and was gaining on them. Within minutes, the light had grown to a circle, and Colling realized that it was a spotlight. The movement of the two vessels made it difficult f
or whoever was aiming the light to keep it trained on the Syrena, but it periodically swept over them, causing a momentary blaze of blinding white in the wheelhouse.

  The patrol boat was coming closer each minute, although with the wind now at their back, the little fishing boat was moving with increased speed. Colling thought he heard a shout, but it was blown away in an instant. Boroszki was hunched over the wheel, staring straight ahead, his hand on the throttle as if he could urge the boat to outrun its pursuer. Colling could now distinguish the other vessel’s shape, and saw that it was larger than the Syrena, but without much greater freeboard, so that if the two boats were alongside one another, the cutter’s fore deck would only be about two feet higher than the main deck of the fishing boat.

  A shape on the patrol boat’s forward deck could only be a gun of some kind. Colling’s theory was confirmed when three figures ran forward, slipping and sliding as they did so, and a tarpaulin was pulled off to reveal the weapon. At first, Colling could not tell whether it was a machine gun or something heavier, perhaps a 20- or 40-millimeter cannon; then they opened fire.

  The first stream of tracers passed over the deck just in front of the wheelhouse, confirming for Colling that the cutter’s armament consisted of a heavy machine gun. The second volley struck somewhere in the hull, he could not be sure where. The disconnected pitching of the two boats was making it hard for the gunner. Shots continued to be fired, but more seemed to be going wild than were finding their mark.

  All at once, there was a deafening roar that coincided with Colling losing his footing and sliding to the floor of the wheelhouse. He felt, more than saw, splinters and other debris flying past his face, mixed with the smell of smoke and scorched wood. The next burst of fire went high, above the wheelhouse. Colling crawled towards Boroszki, who was now on the floor under the wheel, which was spinning wildly. Colling felt his hand touch something warm and wet, and he lifted it to see that there was a pool of blood seeping from under the fisherman.

  The boat plunged again, then wallowed awkwardly. Colling wondered where Janek was, and quickly concluded he could easily be dead or have fallen over the side. On all fours, fighting to keep some sort of traction on the pitching deck, Colling crept to the locker holding Boroszki’s gun and the grenades. A second volley of shots hit the wheelhouse, high this time, just under the ceiling, and Colling clapped his hands over his ears and clamped his eyes closed to shut out the noise and the fragments flying through the air.

  Somehow he retrieved the sub-machine gun, wrapped its sling around his arm as he had seen Russian soldiers do, and crawled out of the wheelhouse door onto the tiny flying bridge. The cutter was coming close alongside now, within twenty meters, and he could see the pale faces of the machine gun crew through the biting driven rain. The gunner fired off another volley that passed over the after deck. The fishing boat’s rigging had been shredded by the machine gun, and long lengths of line whipped out from its mast, cracking in the wind. The gunners had not seen Colling yet, as he crouched behind the riddled panel that served as the bridge’s railing. If they managed to improve their aim, he thought, the next burst would likely be reserved for the wheelhouse.

  The cutter suddenly lunged forward, its bow no more than ten meters from the side of the fishing boat, and Colling stood, the sub-machine gun held deep into his shoulder, the sling wrapped tight to pull it in and hold its muzzle down. He fumbled for a moment before he found the safety, assumed it would be on, and pushed until he sensed he had released it.

  Just before he fired, the gunners saw him. He thought he could see their eyes open wide in amazement, then they were gone. His burst of fire had swept the forward deck of the patrol boat clean. The distance to the other vessel’s deck was lengthening as he fired again, and he could not see where his shots had gone. For a moment, the distance between the two vessels widened markedly, and he thought that they might be calling off the chase, but then the cutter lunged forward again, and he realized that they were trying to ram the smaller boat.

  With no gunfire from the other vessel, Colling was able to walk upright to return to the locker for the grenades. He had seen a film demonstrating German weapons in basic training, and understood that he had to pull the ring from the grenade’s handle before tossing it, but he had no idea how long it would be before it detonated. He guessed he would soon learn, and perhaps it would be a fatal lesson.

  The cutter was so close that throwing the grenades far enough to reach its deck would not be difficult. What was a problem was the disjointed movement of both boats. His first try resulted in the grenade bouncing across the patrol boat’s forward deck and into the sea. He supposed it must have exploded at some time, but he heard nothing.

  The second grenade also bounced, but did not go over the side. Colling had held it to a count of two before throwing it, and it went off with a sharp crash, shattering the cutter’s windscreen. The concussion knocked Colling back against the wheelhouse, and he at first imagined that there had been a particularly nasty gust of wind. Colling’s face was numb from the cold, and initially he thought that the stinging pain he felt on the right side of his face was caused by sleet mixed with the spray from the sea. But when he put his hand to his cheek he felt warm moisture and looked down to see blood smeared on his fingers.

  The grenade’s damage to the patrol boat had apparently befuddled its crew, and it dropped back, slewing away from the Syrena. But then it came forward again. Someone had regained control of its wheel and was renewing the attempt to ram. Colling saw a flash of light through the cutter’s smashed windscreen, and then heard something buzz sharply past the right side of his head. One of the crew was apparently shooting at him, and he crouched quickly behind the plywood bridge rail, hoping that the shooter would not test its ability to protect him by peppering it with gunfire. Through a crack in the thin wooden panel, he watched as the cutter again settled on its course, headed for the side of the fishing boat.

  Colling pulled the last grenade from under his slicker, waiting to pull the pin when the cutter came closer. When only five meters again separated the hulls of the two vessels, he stood and tossed the grenade onto its deck. He watched as it bounced across the deck and thought it would go on into the sea, but then the cutter lifted suddenly, and the grenade bounced back and disappeared. At first, Colling thought he might have missed its dropping between the Syrena and the patrol boat, but then there was a loud bang and flame leaped skyward from the fore-deck of the cutter. He realized that a hatch must have been opened to allow ammunition to be passed to the machine gunners, and then not closed. A second after the first blast, another shot up from the cutter, then a series of explosions erupted, throwing pieces of the patrol craft high in the air.

  The Syrena was chugging on, and Colling suddenly remembered that there was no one at the wheel. At the same time, the thought crossed his mind that it was a miracle that the little fishing boat had remained on course throughout the attack. He rushed back into the wheelhouse to find Janek steering and Helga and Elizabeth crouched over the older Boroszki.

  “We came up the stairs on the other side,” said Elizabeth, anticipating his question.

  “Is anyone else hurt?” asked Colling, slinging the PPSh over his shoulder and dropping down beside the fisherman.

  “Hermann was hit in the arm, but it doesn’t look bad. We wrapped a handkerchief around it, and he’s down in the engine room, keeping things going. Everyone else is okay.”

  Boroszki moaned as Colling lifted Helga’s hands away from his wounds to examine him.

  “He’s been hit with more than one round,” said Colling, letting Helga attempt to staunch his bleeding. “I’m afraid this isn’t good. He needs a doctor.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Janek, not understanding the English being spoken around him. “How is my Papa?”

  “It is bad, I fear,” said Colling. “He has been shot by the machine gun, and his wounds are serious.”

  Janek’s eyes were filling with tears
, and Colling took the wheel, motioning for him to be with his father. He told the two women to take some shirts from his suitcase and tear them into bandages, and to bring blankets to wrap him in. While Colling manned the wheel, Elizabeth and Helga did their best to bind Boroszki’s wounds and keep him warm. Colling was afraid to make any attempt to move him from the wheelhouse; instead, he told them to place him beside the bench locker.

  The storm raged on, becoming no worse or no better, for the next few hours. Colling convinced Janek to conduct a survey of the Syrena for damage, and he reported that there were some holes in the hull close to the waterline that were causing them to take on water, but none below, and if everyone would take turns on the pump, he believed they would stay afloat. The engine was still running, the steering had not failed, there was a spare compass to replace the one that had been destroyed in the wheelhouse, and the east wind was pushing them closer and closer to Lübeck and the British Zone. Janek had no idea, however, how far they had yet to travel. Colling prayed that there would continue to be a degree of nasty weather – not heavy, just nasty – and that there would be no fog. Boroszki could navigate this coast using only an old chart, a compass and his instincts. Colling had only the compass and the old chart.

  While Janek manned the wheel, Colling took out the chart and tried to gauge the distance from where he estimated they were, north of the Rügen peninsula, and concluded that they might be about a hundred and twenty miles from the mouth of the Elbe River, the demarcation between the Russian and British Zones. Lübeck and safety were a short distance further to the west of the river. He had no idea of their present speed, but even if they were moving at eight knots, they would be at sea for another sixteen hours, plenty of time to be noticed by another patrol boat.

  They had seen some fishing boats and freighters, but no naval vessels, since the encounter with the cutter. Colling wondered why there was no pursuit. He would have imagined that the patrol boat had a radio, and had sent a message, notifying the shore that they were pursuing the Syrena, and relaying their course and location, but there was no sign that anyone was interested in them. Had the cutter’s radio mast carried away in the storm? Was its radio damaged or inoperative? He decided it was better that he did not think about such things too much.

  The weather moderated, and the sky was blue again. The sea continued heavy. The Syrena plunged along through mounting waves. Elizabeth asked if Colling would show her how to steer, and he found she did a passable job of holding the boat on a steady course. While Elizabeth was at the wheel, Janek brought some boards and paint from below and began to attempt to repair some of the damage that had been inflicted. The amount of wood available for repairs was limited, however, and the young fisherman ended up pulling planks from the main deck hatch cover to serve as replacement material. He had completed repairs to the flailing rigging before the storm had fully abated. As Colling watched Janek plug holes and replace parts of the wheelhouse, he was amazed at how much of the shattered structure Janek was able restore to a semblance of its former appearance in such a short time.

  Boroszki did not die, but he did not regain consciousness. Colling debated with himself about hailing one of the passing freighters and seeking medical attention for the fisherman. Because that would put all of them in jeopardy, he decided against it.

  At one point, an airplane flew over, so high that it was impossible to discern its markings. It continued on its way, oblivious to them. The gray form of a warship appeared on the horizon north of them, then was gone out of sight. Each of these encounters left Colling dry-mouthed and on edge. After he had weighed the relative risks of being caught with the Russian sub-machine gun and being without it, he took the PPSh and the extra drums of ammunition and threw them over the side.

  It was fully dark when they reached the Lübeck Bucht, the mouth of the bay that had permitted the city its role as a thriving seaport since Hanseatic times. They could see Travemünde in the distance on their right, a few lights showing. As they crept along, Janek voiced his fear that they might entangle themselves with the considerable amount of wreckage that littered the estuary. Colling took up a post on the bow, straining to see anything that looked as if it might pose an obstacle to their progress. They had somehow managed to come this far without meeting any other Russian patrols, and Colling did not want such good fortune to be dashed by their tearing the bottom of the Syrena out on the carcass of some submerged ship.

  Colling heard the approaching patrol boat before its spotlight came to life and froze them in its glare. A voice from the darkness called out in German, “Stand to and prepare to be boarded.”

  On a whim, Colling replied in English, “We’re Americans. Don’t shoot.”

  The same voice, closer now, responded in English, “Put your hands up. If you are Yanks, we’ll know soon enough.”

  There was a bump as the patrol craft came alongside the Syrena, and a sailor in Royal Navy blue with an Enfield rifle held in one hand jumped onto the fishing boat’s deck. Colling was standing with his hands raised, and he shouted to Janek at the wheel in Polish to raise his as well.

  A second later, a second seaman with petty officer’s insignia on the sleeve of his peacoat came aboard, looked at Colling and asked, “What the bloody ‘ell are you doing here, Yank?”

  “We’ve come from Poland,” said Colling, without lowering his hands.

  “Poland? Bloody ‘ell!”

  “Yes, we have refugees with us who are seeking asylum.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, Yank. What’s your name?”

  “James T. Colling, sir. I’m a sergeant in the U.S. Army.”

  “Bloody ‘ell!” repeated the petty officer.

  By this time, the rest of their party had clambered out onto the deck. Elizabeth stepped forward and said, “We have a badly injured man aboard. Is it possible that you can get him some medical attention?”

  “And who might you be?” asked the petty officer.

  “I am Elizabeth Hamilton. I’m an American as well.” Gesturing to the little group standing behind her, she continued, “These two are German nationals. That woman and the little girls are Polish. They are all under the protection of the United States Government. Now I really would appreciate it…your name, please?”

  “Sylvester, ma’am. Arthur Sylvester, .”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Sylvester, I really would appreciate it if you could help us get the captain of this ship to a doctor.”

  Petty Officer Sylvester looked at the bedraggled cluster of humanity standing on the deck, seemed to ponder whether he should allow Elizabeth to take charge of the situation, then shouted over his shoulder, “’Arry, have Jenkins and Pitch come over here. We ‘ave an injured man needs carried to ‘ospital.”

  When Sylvester discovered that Boroszki, a Pole, was the injured man, he informed Colling and Elizabeth that he would have to be taken to a German hospital, and not to that of the English military. The patrol boat led the Syrena to a dock where they tied up. A British Army ambulance appeared and Boroszki was loaded into it. Janek climbed in after him.

  The rest of their party brought their luggage on deck and transferred it onto the wharf. Sylvester and his men stood waiting with them until a truck arrived to take them to what the petty officer called “The Transit Station.”

  The Transit Station turned out to be a series of wooden buildings surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. They were helped down from the truck by a squad of red-capped British MPs who stacked their baggage to one side and refused to allow them access to it. After being searched and their papers confiscated, Hermann and Colling were separated from the women, and conducted to one of the barracks, where they were placed in separate rooms. Colling heard the sound of the bolt being shot on the door, and wondered how long he was going to remain locked up.

  His quarters were not much worse than the U.S. Army provided to its troops. He was brought a tray of food at each meal. There was oatmeal for breakfast and lots of plain white spaghetti for
lunch and supper, apparently something to which the British were used. On his second day, for supper he was brought a portion of tinned corned beef to go with the spaghetti. He wondered how Elizabeth was faring, imagining that she was no doubt letting their jailers know her opinion of the cuisine. He spent his time pacing back and forth, or sleeping on the cell’s single cot, wrapped in a blanket.

  As he was finishing up his breakfast oatmeal on the morning of the third day, two red-caps came and took him from the barracks to another building in the compound, and Colling felt pleased that he would finally be able to explain things and gain their release.

  He was ushered into a room furnished only with a table and two chairs. A British major was sitting behind the table. The officer did not rise; he was concentrating on a file folder spread out in front of him. His only acknowledgement of Colling’s presence was a wave of his hand towards the chair facing him.

  “I am Major Fullerton. I wish to ask you some questions. Your name, please,” asked the officer.

  “James T. Colling, sir. U.S. Army. Tech Sergeant fourth class. Serial Number 08-845-655.”

  “Are you certain you want to be James Colling?” asked Fullerton.

  “That’s who I am, sir.”

  “Well, on your person you had an American passport in the name of one Stanley Warrencliffe, together with a considerable amount of other identification indicating your membership in the American Communist Party. Hidden in your suitcase, we found another American Passport in the name of Jerzy Krazinsky. We found no documents concerning James T. Colling.”

  “That’s who I am, sir. The other papers were what I used to allow me to travel in Poland.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, Sergeant Colling, if that is who you are, you are listed as a deserter from the United States Army. I would expect that we would turn you over forthwith to the American authorities.”

  “Sir, if you will contact Major Andrew Quarles, in headquarters at Heidelberg, he’ll be able to vouch for me.”

  “Interesting. You know, His Majesty’s government does not have a favorable view of individuals who utilize a variety of pseudonyms in travelling about.”

  “Yessir. I understand, but Major Quarles can straighten this all out, if you will just call him.”

  “Who is Elena Berman?”

  Fullerton was using Elena’s name from the forged passport Colling had had prepared in Zurich, so that she could play the role of the girls’ nanny. Colling debated whether he should persist in the masquerade. After a pause, however, he decided to forego any more falsehoods. He finally said, “She and her daughters were Miss Hamilton’s responsibility. She can fill you in on the details. I really don’t know that much.”

  “Ah, yes. Miss Hamilton. According to her passport, she is, if you are really Stanley Warrencliffe..,your wife.”

  “As I said, sir, Stanley Warrencliffe is a name I used to permit me to travel in Poland.”

  “But the two Germans, Hermann and Helga Breitmann, are of the belief that you and this Miss Hamilton are husband and wife. Apparently you conducted yourselves as such, having no hesitation about sharing a bed.”

  “Well, that’s a long story, sir.”

  “Undoubtedly. According to the information we have, Miss Elizabeth Hamilton was killed in an accident last fall. Strange that she would rise from the dead.”

  “Sir, if you would just contact Major Quarles….”

  Fullerton interrupted, “The Soviet authorities in Poland are of the opinion that one ‘Jerry’ Krazinsky, an American of Polish extraction, has been engaged in the Polish black market to a considerable extent. Apparently gasoline and American cigarettes were the principal commodities in question. The Russians want Mr. Krazinsky returned to Poland, and have so informed His Majesty’s government. In addition, it appears that Mr. Krazinsky and the blonde American woman known as either ‘Elzbieta’ or ‘Delores Warrencliffe,’ take your choice; as well as this German couple, the Breitmanns, escaped from the custody of the Polish Criminal Police while charged with the murder of an elderly Polish woman in the south of the country.”

  “All that is not exactly true,” said Colling.

  “Nevertheless, my inclination is to return all four of you to Poland. Let them sort it all out.”

  “What about Elena and the girls?” asked Colling.

  “I am not aware that they are involved in anything. However, as Polish nationals, if the Polish government requests their return, they would be sent back.”

  “And Boroszki and his son?”

  “The old man goes back to Poland as soon as he can be moved. The son can go back with the lot of you.”

  “How is Boroszki?” asked Colling.

  “Surprisingly well. Those damned Jerry doctors do know how to patch up the near-dead. Of course, the old bird is tough as nails, which helps.”

  “Sir, I beg you, before anything is done, get in touch with Major Quarles. He will be able to explain everything.”

  “As a matter of fact, that has been attempted, at the insistence of this woman who calls herself Hamilton. Major Quarles is no longer attached to the American Army in Heidelberg. They seem to have lost track of him. Nice try on your part, though.”

  “Then at least contact my parents. They live in Bel Cors, Wisconsin. Tim and Hilda Colling. They’ll confirm who I am.”

  “If you are James T. Colling, as you say, you are a deserter, and I am not in the habit of discussing matters with the family members of deserters and criminals.”

  Colling was taken back to his barracks-room cell. He gave consideration to how he might escape. Even if he could manage to get away, he could think of no way that he could save the others. He did not know exactly where he was, he had no money, no papers. It was clearly a hopeless proposition. Within a few days, he would be in a Soviet prison somewhere, and sometime after that when they were through with him, a bullet to the back of the neck. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought about what would happen to Elizabeth. He wondered who would tell his parents.

  Colling remained curled on his cot the rest of the day, feeling sorry for himself and considering whether it might not be better to attempt to grab a pistol from the holster of one of the British MPs. Not to harm anyone, but in the hope that if he did so, maybe they would shoot him dead. That would solve all his problems.

  He was still thinking about it when his door was opened by two of his guards. When he had heard their footsteps outside his cell, he had expected breakfast to be shoved through the opening in the door, and was surprised when they told him to come with them. He assumed that he was being taken to be transported back to Poland, and was about to ask why they did not have at least the decency to provide breakfast before sending him off, when he realized that he was being conducted to the building where he had met with Fullerton the day before.

  There was no one in the interrogation room, and they told him to sit in the chair he had occupied while being questioned. One of the red-caps remained standing behind him, blocking his path to the door.

  He heard someone come in, but did not turn to see who it was. Unexpectedly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Andrew Quarles, wearing a trench coat, dressed in civilian clothes, standing over him. Major Fullerton stood behind him.

  Quarles spoke first, “Jesus Christ, Jim! I thought you were dead!”

  Colling felt a wave of relief sweep over him, “Am I glad to see you. They said they couldn’t find you.”

  “They ran me down in London. Apparently Major Fullerton tried to reach me in Heidelberg with some tale about a guy calling himself Colling and a blonde named Elizabeth showing up in Lübeck on a Polish fishing boat. When I heard, I flew to Hamburg right away.”

  Fullerton said, “Is this the man you told me about, Colonel?”

  “This is him. He was doing a little job for me and covered his tracks so well he can’t prove who he really is. Is Miss Hamilton here?”

  “Yes,” said the British major, “I’ll ask that she be brought from her
quarters.” Then to the MP at the door, he said, “Corporal, would you bring the woman prisoner who calls herself Elizabeth Hamilton?”

  “I can’t believe you made it,” said Quarles. “I understand that you brought out Dr. Zaletski’s wife and daughters as well.”

  “Yes,” said Colling. “We also have some other people, a German couple named Breitmann, and two Polish fishermen. You can’t let any of them be sent back to Poland.”

  Quarles turned to Fullerton, “I’ll take custody of all these people, Major. Anyone who’s helpful to my people deserves to be helped any way possible.”

  Elizabeth was led in by the British MP corporal. When she saw Quarles, her face broke into a smile, “Andrew! Thank God they found you!” and ran forward and put her arms around his neck. Quarles looked sheepishly over her shoulder at Colling, who grinned back.

  After disengaging himself from Elizabeth, Quarles said, “Major, would you be so kind as to have the other members of Sergeant Colling’s party brought here?”

  Within a few minutes, Hermann and Helga and Elena Zaletski and the girls had been ushered into the room. Fullerton apologized that Janek Boroszki was being held by Royal Navy authorities, but had been sent for.

  Quarles explained that all of them would be on their way to the American Zone as soon as transportation could be arranged. He spoke with Elena, and told her how much her husband had missed her and the girls, and how happy he would be to see them in the United States. He asked the Breitmanns if they wished to immigrate to the States or remain in Germany, and Colling was surprised when Hermann asked if they might return to Berlin, the American Zone, of course. Janek was brought in, and Quarles informed him that he and his father could go to the U.S. if they wished. A smile lit up the young fisherman’s face when Quarles mentioned that they would find fishing the Grand Banks from New England was a possibility. Until the elder Boroszki was ready to be moved, he could remain here in Lübeck, and Major Fullerton assured him he would be given quarters near the German hospital where his father was.

  Major Fullerton instructed his MPs to bring everyone’s belongings to their rooms, which would remain unlocked, while the British Army figured out how to arrange transport. Quarles indicated that he could arrange the necessary Air Force flights from Hamburg. As everyone else filed out of the room, Quarles asked Colling and Elizabeth to remain.

  As soon as the three of them were alone, Colling asked Quarles, “Did I hear Major Fullerton call you ‘Colonel’?”

  “Yeah. I made light colonel in January. Now, I want to know…how did you manage to get away from the Russkies? We intercepted a message in December that ‘the American’ travelling in southern Poland had been disposed of. I figured it was you. And we heard from some other sources that the blonde woman named Zariski had died in a labor camp. I can’t believe you two are both still alive.”

  “Did you inform my parents that I had been killed?” asked Colling.

  “Nope. I had enough of a problem figuring out how to let Elizabeth’s father and mother know that she wasn’t really killed in a jeep accident without compromising her, and telling your parents that you were dead was just too damned complicated. I did make sure some post cards ‘from field maneuvers’ in North Africa, were sent in your name. I had figured out that I might have to have you involved in another jeep accident somewhere in Morocco. If it’s any consolation, you would have received full military honors, and maybe a medal.”

  Colling smiled, then said, “I suppose I won’t get many military honors when I get back to my outfit.”

  “Right you are. I didn’t arrange a cover story for you this time, and you’re still listed as a deserter. I can probably see that you don’t get picked up before you manage to report in to the 511th General Hospital in Munich…that’s where the headquarters for the Kummersfeld dispensary is now located… but I can’t guarantee what happens next. I would suggest you show appropriate remorse and ask for company punishment, rather than a court martial. I might be able to arrange that that be accepted.”

  Quarles turned to Elizabeth, “What about you, Liz? I can get you some kind of a posting in London, if you want.”

  “No, Andrew, I need a rest. I’d like to go back to the States and see my parents.”

  Colling said, “Major, could you leave Liz and myself by ourselves for a little bit?”

  “Sure. I expect you two have some things to talk over,” said Quarles.

  When Quarles had closed the door behind him, Colling asked, “When will I see you again, Liz?”

  “I don’t know, Jim. Maybe you can get a furlough to the States. You have my address in Philadephia.”

  “That’s not good enough, Liz. I want you to marry me.”

  “Let’s give it some time, Jim. I’m not sure I’m ready for this right now. Things are too unsettled. I can’t even be sure I’m free to marry you.”

  “I don’t want you to get away from me again, Liz. I thought it was over, and then when I heard that you had been killed, I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I do love you, Jim, but you’ve got more than a year to go in the Army, and then you want to go back to college. There’s a lot than can happen in that time. Maybe I’ll hear more from the Air Force about Brian.”

  Colling was not used to hearing her use her missing husband’s name, and not inclined to believe the man would suddenly reappear after having been unheard from in over two years. In an almost subconscious form of denial, he ignored her comments and continued to press his own argument, “It’s pretty common these days for couples to be married while still in college. They even have something called ‘Married Student Villages’ at a lot of schools.”

  “Well, maybe after you’re through with the Army. But you know, you might decide to stay in. Andrew can get you a commission, you know,” she said, deftly diverting him from the point he was trying to make.

  “I don’t think I want to make the service a career.”

  “Well, then, after you’re discharged, come to Philadelphia and we can talk about it.”

  “This sounds like a brush-off, Liz.” he said.

  “It isn’t, Jim. I just want to go slow.”

  It became clear to him that Elizabeth was not going to change her mind, and Colling reluctantly admitted to himself that further argument would be useless. He felt he had achieved one concession when he extracted her promise to answer his letters. They shared one final kiss, and then went to join Quarles.

  Epilogue

  March, 1947

  The British provided cars to drive all of them to an RAF airfield outside Hamburg. In the waiting area, Colling had a chance to go through his luggage. He found that Fullerton had returned his Luger and the ammunition, and all of Cousin Jerry’s papers. Even the forged passports and documents were in the suitcase. He had exactly thirty dollars left, and a few small zloty notes. He was considering asking Quarles for the replacement of his personal funds when the man handed him an envelope. Inside was $5,000. Quarles winked at him when Colling looked up from riffling through the currency.

  Colling said goodbye to the Breitmanns, wishing them well. Hermann smiled slyly, telling him that the British had been good enough to return the bag of gold sovereigns that he had hidden in his wife’s suitcase, and when Colling’s eyebrows raised, laughed and asked him if he really believed that he had handed over all the Countess’ bequest to Inspector Zavek. He told Colling he had plans to open a garage in Berlin, in the American Zone, of course.

  Colling also wished Elena Zaletski and her girls the best of luck in the United States, and Elena told him that they would never forget him. He did not know what to say in response, and could only watch in silence as they walked out to the C-47 that would take them to London.

  Elizabeth was assigned to the same plane as the Zaletski family. Before following them onto the plane, she took Colling in her arms and kissed him passionately. Then she whispered in his ear, “Please understand, Jim. I promise we’ll see each other again. Trust me.”

&n
bsp; Quarles indicated he would stay behind to make sure that the Boroszkis would be protected until they were able to travel to the United States. Colling would take a flight into Munich, where Quarles had alerted the Military Police to ignore Sergeant Colling so that he could voluntarily report in at the 511th General Hospital.

  Colling had been allotted a place on the last Air Force C-47 to leave Hamburg that day. He tried to sleep during the flight, but the noise and vibration made that impossible.

  He took a taxi from the Munich airport to the railway station. He was surprised that when he turned over the check stub that he had kept concealed under the insole of his shoe, his B-4 bag was returned to him. His uniform smelled musty, and after he had shaken it out and put it on, it fit him more loosely that it had in the fall, a sign of how much weight he must have lost.

  Once in uniform, he was able to catch a ride in a jeep with a corporal who said he would be passing the hospital on his way to perform some errand, and within minutes, Colling was walking through the ornate black iron gates of the 511th General Hospital. He acted as if his arrival was routine, not stopping to check in at the guard post.

  Colling followed the signs in the building’s corridors and found his way to the door marked “Hospital Headquarters.” A tech-5 was manning the desk in the outer office, and Colling gave him his name and informed him he was reporting in. Colling was asked to wait, and he stood in the “at ease” position until he was told to come into the inner office.

  Colling had snapped to attention and saluted before he recognized the figure seated behind the desk. Major Vincent looked up and smiled at him, “Well, Collings, I see you have decided to rejoin us.” To the tech-5, Vincent added, “Corporal, call the Provost Marshal’s office and tell them we have a deserter for the stockade.”

  Author’s Postscript

  Those readers who are familiar with the Order of Battle of the U.S. Army in World War II will undoubtedly recognize that there was no 61st Division that actively served in the European Theater of Operations, nor has there ever been an infantry regiment designated as the 40th in the Army organizational tables. The 61st was a “Ghost” division that was proposed to be organized, but dropped from consideration in 1943 due to financial and manpower limitations.

  The author’s 61st is modeled after the 71st Division, which was actually formed from “orphan” Regular Army infantry regiments, and served with distinction in the closing months of the war. The 71st , nick-named the “Red Circle” division because of the red circle that enclosed the divisional number on its unit shoulder patches, was considered a “Regular Army” division, resulting in its remaining part of the occupation forces in Germany until well into 1946. Many of the events recounted in Dog Robber were drawn directly from the pages of the 71st Division newspaper, the Red Circle Times, published in postwar Germany.

  The military and political policies and events described are part of the historical record, no matter that they have generally been forgotten by all but historians specializing in the post-World War II era in Europe.

  Jim Colling has quite a few months left in his enlistment, and will undoubtedly find himself called upon to engage in further adventures.

  ###

  ~ Enjoy the complete Jim Colling Adventure Series ~

  Rat Line

  Ram’s Horn

  White Eagle

  Mountain Tiger

  Now available for just $2.99 each

 

‹ Prev Next ›