Stan and O'Malley had a visitor that night. Allison drove over to see them. Looking around the Nissen hut, he grinned broadly.
"Sure, an' I'll call the butler," O'Malley said. "He just stepped into the drawin' room."
"Sit down, pal." Stan motioned toward one of the cots.
"Homey spot you have here," Allison observed.
"How did it go today?" Stan asked.
"You fellows did a swell job, but why only six fighters?" Allison's smile had faded.
"The brass hats knew I was goin' along," O'Malley replied.
"One of those little experiments," Stan explained grimly.
"Pretty expensive try, I'd say," Allison answered.
"O'Malley spotted a big fighter base all equipped with vanishing planes." Stan got to the point he wanted to discuss at once.
"There must be dozens of them, but we have never been able to spot any of them to knock them out. Those Me's and FW's just sprout out of the ground as we go along." Allison frowned and shook his head. "If we could spot the fields, we could send out separate missions ahead of a raid and knock off those fields."
"O'Malley says they snap the planes out of sight in less than a minute. He slipped in over one of them, circled, and when he came back there wasn't a plane in sight."
"I figure there were at least seventy planes parked when I popped in over the field. When I came back over they were gone." O'Malley shook his head.
"Think anyone would believe such a yarn?" Stan asked.
"Every bomber pilot and crew member would believe it," Allison said grimly. "Why don't you report it and ask for a chance to check up?"
"I've already gone over the head of Sim Jones once and got socked for it," Stan said. "But O'Malley ought to report it."
"Sure, an' I'll be after seein' Colonel Holt meself." O'Malley ran his fingers through his mop of red hair. "I'd as soon have this Jones bird after me as not."
After that the talk got around to the raid on Huls. Allison's ship had come through with only a few bullet holes. His bombardier had laid their eggs squarely on a factory building. It had been a good show for the Forts and Libs.
"What I'm worried about," Allison said as he got ready to leave, "is that the Wellingtons and Lancasters will blow Berlin off the map before we are able to penetrate that far."
"Them nighthawks?" O'Malley showed his scorn by frowning savagely. "Flyin' boxcars!"
"They haul a lot of TNT and they get through, to their targets, but there'll be a lot of stuff for the precision sights of the Forts and Libs," Stan said. "You notice when they want important targets like locks or sub pens or carefully placed factories they send you boys to get them."
"I know, old man," Allison said with a grin. "But I'd like to make the Berlin run."
"With those hidden fighter fields out of the way you could go in and out alone," Stan pointed out. "The way it is now, they keep sending up fighters all along the route."
"I have to run for it," Allison said. "Pilots meeting."
After he had gone Stan and O'Malley headed for Colonel Holt's office. Bugs and Splinters came in just as they were leaving. They were both highly excited. They had been assigned to active duty. Stan smiled at them but he was thinking that they were taking the places of the men who had been in his flight.
The boys were waiting for the colonel when Sim Jones came out of a side door. He paused for a moment. Stan eyed him coldly; O'Malley walked on into the colonel's office without speaking.
"I suppose you think I deliberately tricked you, Wilson. You're headed for the Old Man." His lips pulled tight. "I don't blame you, but I didn't pull that stunt to get you cut out. It was a boner on my part."
"It was," Stan agreed dryly. "And I'm not squawking to the colonel."
Sim looked Stan in the eye; he flushed a deep red. "I figured I was so good I could cut back and take out all three Jerries."
"Forget it," Stan said and grinned. "We all pull 'em."
Sim turned and hurried away without another word. Stan was still smiling as he entered the colonel's office. O'Malley scowled up at him.
"Did you bop him one?" he asked.
The colonel was seated at his desk. He looked from Stan to O'Malley and lifted his eyebrows.
"No," Stan said. "I made a date to have lunch with him."
O'Malley's eyes opened wide. The colonel leaned back. "Go ahead with your story, Lieutenant," he said.
O'Malley finished his story and the colonel considered the matter for a few minutes.
"It sounds fantastic," he finally said. "But it fits in very neatly with what we have been able to learn about German fighter tactics. I think we should look into it. I'll let you men know what I plan to do."
"Could we have any special assignment growing out of this?" Stan asked.
"You will get the special assignment," the colonel promised.
"Thank you, sir," Stan answered as he got to his feet.
They saluted and left the office. O'Malley was still in a sour mood.
"You made up with that Jones bird?"
"I did," Stan said. "Now let's head for the mess."
When they entered the mess, the boys greeted them warmly and crowded around. There was no trace of resentment or jealousy. The fellows were eager to know what had happened over Huls. Stan and O'Malley were the only two pilots to get back. Sim sat at a table alone.
Stan talked with the boys a while, then walked over to where Sim was seated. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked.
"Glad to have you," Sim said and meant it.
After a bit O'Malley came over. He had noticed that Stan and Sim were laughing over something and he did not know what to make of it.
"Sit down," Stan greeted him. "Have a pie on me."
"Sure, an' I'll do that," O'Malley said. He sat down and waited to hear what he could.
Stan and Sim laughed and talked and finally O'Malley joined in. It was clear that the boys had buried the hatchet, so he saw no reason for being grumpy. Besides, the cook had just made some blueberry pies and they were extra tasty.
After mess Stan got a call from Colonel Holt and hurried off, leaving O'Malley and Sim together. The colonel had two officers with him when Stan went in to see him.
"General Ward and Major Kulp," the colonel said. "This is Lieutenant Wilson."
The men shook hands and all sat down. The colonel passed several papers across to Stan.
"You are on special detail. You'll be equipped with P-51 ships and have a flight of three. General Ward suggests you do a bit of rhubarb raiding."
"Thank you, sir. These 51's are the new long-range fighters?"
"They have the same range as the Libs and Forts." The colonel smiled. "But we have only a few of them. Later, perhaps, we'll have a great many."
"Check carefully on location and construction of fields. Each ship has a camera to record the details of any fields you locate." General Ward spoke in a Texas drawl.
"Don't trust the cameras entirely. Get down low and see all you can," the major added.
"The third pilot, who is he?" Stan asked.
"Did you have a man in mind?" Colonel Holt asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I should have consulted you, but I already have promised a man the job."
"Who is he?" Stan asked, trying not to show his disappointment.
"Lieutenant Jones."
Stan began to grin. "The same man I had in mind," he said.
"Good. Now take over."
Stan hurried away. He found the boys listening to the radio in the rest room. At his nod O'Malley and Sim joined him at a reading table.
"We get special rhubarb detail," he said.
"Foine," O'Malley said eagerly. "Only we'll never be able to fly far enough into Kraut territory to see anything."
"I get to go along?" Sim asked.
"Colonel's orders," Stan said and grinned. "And we get P-51 ships with the same range as the Forts."
"Sure, an' we'll fly to Berlin," O'Malley said.
"You better be thinking about locating that airfield," Stan answered. "There was a general at the meeting I just left."
"As long as he won't be askin' to go along, it's all right," O'Malley said.
"Now let's get some shut-eye." Stan got to his feet.
In the operations room the next morning, their papers were ready and they headed out on the field where three big Mustangs stood ready and warmed up. They were powerhouses with wicked armament and plenty of wingspread. In addition to wing guns, they had bomb racks which were fitted with extra gasoline tanks.
"Sure, an' they're one-man bombers," O'Malley crowed.
"They weren't built for hedge-hopping, but the major said they could do about four hundred miles per hour on the treetop level," Stan explained.
Sim whistled. "Wait until the Eighth gets a flock of these," he said.
"You plot the course, O'Malley," Stan said. "We'll stay in close until we start down over Germany, then we'll keep within striking distance to cover each other. We're camera equipped but we have to use our eyes, too."
The boys climbed up and got settled. Control gave Stan clearance and he called to his flight.
"Rhubarb Raid, check temperatures. Sim, take off first. Rendezvous at twenty thousand."
Stan leaned back and checked his instruments. He watched Sim slide away and shoot skyward. The 51's were plenty fast. O'Malley went off next and was in the air almost at once. Stan kicked his throttle open and roared after his pals. The Mustang hopped off as though she weighed only a few pounds instead of three tons or more.
The three P-51's slipped into close formation and headed out across the channel. The day was a good one for reconnaissance, because there were many banks of clouds at high level with a very high ceiling. Stan kept his eyes open for enemy interceptors. He half hoped a few Me's would spot them so that they could try out the new ships. No fighters were seen until they reached the mouth of the Rhine.
Below them they could see Rotterdam and beyond, Gorinchem. O'Malley was wagging his wings, signaling to go down. The fighters they spotted, three in number, did not try to intercept them.
Stan signaled back and they all peeled off. The P-51 went down smoothly but with a swift rush that set Stan back against the shock pad. He had to ease on a bit more power to stay with O'Malley who was trying his ship out.
At five thousand feet they flattened out a quarter mile apart and stalled in toward a line of trees and a windmill. O'Malley brushed the sails of the mill as he swept over it. They were close to the ground now, flipping along like cotton dusters on a Texas plantation. O'Malley was hugging the ground, popping over trees and sliding between buildings. Stan saw the white faces of people as they looked up. Most of them waved to the ship with the United States insignia. They were Dutch farmers.
The three ships hedge-hopped on over the low country. O'Malley held a speed that made the ground blur and waver. It also made dodging power lines and missing church steeples exciting business. Stan raked a pennant off the top of a building without seeing the building at all. After that he called to O'Malley.
"Hey, you. Get up a bit!"
"Sure, an' the scenery is foine down here," O'Malley called back. But he did take a little more altitude.
They roared in over Germany and headed for Huls. Twice they were blasted by machine guns, but they were flying so low the German detector system had not spotted them. They were put down as Mosquito bombers out hunting locomotives and trains:
"We're coming in now," O'Malley called.
He had swung wide of Huls and was headed for some low hills. Knifing over the the nearest hill, with their bellies scraping the tops of a row of trees, the three P-51's nosed into a little valley.
Suddenly Stan saw the airfield O'Malley had spotted. In a snap guess he placed the number of planes lined up at one hundred. They were in a long row at the base of a hill. Runways led out to a wide flight strip.
"Strafe them!" he shouted.
The order was not necessary. O'Malley and Sim were going straight down the line of planes, their guns blasting flame and lead. The target was so narrow that Stan had to stall and slip a bit to drop behind in order to get a shot at the line.
The Mustangs went over so fast the Germans did not have time to fire a shot at them. Not a plane moved, except those which blew up or burst into flames under the withering fire from the Yank guns. Up the P-51's went and over the ridge. They were roaring along at such a pace that it took a long zoom and bank to get lined up for a return trip.
When they came back over, the Germans were ready for them. Smoke makers were billowing thick haze over the scene and every imaginable sort of gun was slamming lead and steel into the sky. The air above the field was thick with flaming muck. O'Malley was out in front with Sim close off his port wing. He went into the muck low down. Stan came in a bit behind his pals.
Looking down into the flaming muzzles of the guns Stan stared hard. There wasn't a plane in sight! Not even the burning ships or those blasted to bits could be seen. There was nothing but the green slope of the hill and the smooth runways leading to the flight strip.
"Well, what do you know!" he muttered.
At that instant the muck enveloped him along with the pall of smoke from the edges of the field. Just ahead of him he saw something that looked like a huge rocket lift toward Sim's ship. It exploded with a blinding flash directly under the P-51. Sim's ship shot upward and a wing swirled away like a dark strip of paper torn from a wall. Then the P-51 nosed into the ground and exploded. Cold sweat broke out all over Stan's body as he pulled his ship over and up.
At five thousand feet up and well away from the hot spot, Stan took stock. He tried to call O'Malley and found his radio was shot out. Looking through his spattered hatch cover, he saw that his port wing had three gaping holes in it. But the engine was singing sweetly. His first thought was to locate O'Malley, but he had another when he spotted three Focke-Wulf fighters roaring in on his tail.
"We'll see what you have to offer, sister," he said softly as he kicked the Mustang wide open and laid her over.
The big ship responded with a surge of power that yanked her into the sky and over in a perfect roll before Stan could decide what was going on. Leveling off, Stan looked for the FW's. They had missed him by a wide margin. Stan grinned.
"You don't need a pilot, lady," he said.
Coming over he tried a burst on one of the FW's. It was a long shot, but the Jerry was lined up neatly in his sight. The heavy guns of the P-51 roared and bucked. Up ahead the FW wobbled and dived. The other two went up for altitude. Stan went up, too. The P-51 was a high-altitude lady and would do better up where she had rare air and plenty of space.
Stan eased away from the FW's and did not challenge them. They circled, taking a good look at this new type of fighter. They had learned from sad experience that any new Yank ship might prove to be deadly. The Forts had taught them that.
Stan was well up now where he could look down on the flight strip below. He saw nothing of O'Malley but he did see two wrecked planes at the far edge of the field away from the hill. Nosing down Stan dived toward the field. The two FW's dived after him, but he soon eased away from them.
Sweeping in a few yards above the runway, Stan laid over just a little. He checked the wrecks and saw that one of them was Sim's ship. The other was an FW fighter minus one wing. The Germans behind their hidden batteries opened up with a savage burst of fire. Stan went straight toward the hill, flying low to keep out of the flak. As he shot up off the runway he stared hard at the hillside ahead, then blinked his eyes.
"So," he said softly. "So that's the way it is."
He went up and over the hill, spiraling into the sky in a climb steeper than any ship had ever carried him. The FW's had been joined by five Me 110's, but the Jerries did not close with him. Stan headed for home as fast as the P-51 could travel, which topped four hundred miles per hour by a wide margin.
He was roaring along with no opposition in sight and a clear sky around him when he suddenly spotted a plane in his mirror. It was overhauling him rapidly. Suddenly Stan grinned. He eased back on the throttle and waggled his wings as O'Malley roared over him. Picking up speed, he dropped in beside his pal and signaled that his radio was dead. They roared on home, wing to wing.
Stan sat at Colonel Holt's desk along with O'Malley. It had taken them just twenty minutes to get from the operations room to the colonel's office. Holt had called in Major Kulp of the photography wing and General Ward from the command staff.
"When I came in to check the wrecked planes," Stan said, "I was able to see how they do it. They have a screen on tracks. It is covered over with brush and leaves and looks from any angle, except squarely in front, like the side of the hill. They just roll it out and it covers the planes."
"You wrecked quite a few of them on the ground?" the general asked.
"We must have smashed at least half of them," Stan answered. "But the part that interested me most was the underground hangars. The screen is only a temporary camouflage. The planes are snapped back into the underground hangar. I say we got about half of them, because the wrecked ones were still out under the screen. The others had been pulled back."
"We can bomb those hangars out," the colonel said.
"I don't think so," Stan said. "I judge there's a full forty feet of earth over them as a roof, and I suppose there's at least ten feet of concrete under that."
"That would make them safe. Have any any ideas for handling them?" General Ward bent forward eagerly.
"Yes," Stan replied. "We could skip-bomb them."
"Skip-bomb?" Major Kulp asked.
"Bounce our bombs right into the open end of the hangar," Stan said, grinning.
"It might work," Colonel Holt said.
"The P-51's carry bombs, and I'm sure the boys could rig them so that we could fly at the right angle to bounce them into the hangars. If we went across once, they'd have the ships pulled back in and we'd get most of them."
"We'll try it," the general said. "Wilson, you will have charge of the flight."
"It will be tough going. We lost Jones today and O'Malley and I were just lucky. We both had our ships shot up badly."
"Chances we have to take," Colonel Holt said gravely. "Are you sure Jones was killed?"
"I saw his ship hit by what looked like a rocket shell," Stan said. "I went into the smoke and did not see it until I flew over it on the ground."
Silence followed this remark. Finally the colonel spoke. "We'll report him missing in action and hope for the best."
"Sure, an' I'm thinkin' the Jerries were plenty mad," O'Malley said grimly.
"The thing to do is to check with bomber operations and locate the spots where they run into the most fighters. Then scout those areas with low-level flights. When we locate a set of runways near a hill, we'll check. After the data is in we'll try Lieutenant Wilson's skip-bombing tactics. But we want to make a clean-up, for once we let them know how we do it they'll rig up a defense." The general rose to his feet. "I'll let you know, Colonel, what plans my office makes."
"You have pictures of the hangars?" the major asked eagerly.
"I'm afraid I forgot all about your cameras when I came in over the runway," Stan replied. "I was really looking for Sim and O'Malley."
"You fighter pilots always forget the cameras," the major said sourly. "Well, we'll check what you did get."
"'Tis about time to be eatin'," O'Malley put in anxiously.
"In that case, Colonel, we'll run along," Stan said with a grin.
Colonel Holt looked at O'Malley sternly. "Food is a secondary matter right now, but you may go."
"Thank you, sor," O'Malley said. "It's very important to me."
The colonel looked at O'Malley's lank and bony frame and smiled. He turned back to his desk, and Stan and O'Malley hurried away.
"I thought you had to have water to do this here skip-bombing," O'Malley said when they were outside.
"It can be done on land, too. Our boys can rig a delayed fuse and we can roll the eggs right back into the nests," Stan explained.
"We'll have fun," O'Malley chuckled. "In no time at all we'll be over Berlin."
During the next week, scouting flights from the Eighth Air Force field and from other fields near by were made on a pattern. Long-range P-51's and swift Mosquito bombers went out. They searched a wide band of enemy territory and made many photographs. Every landing strip, even though it appeared to be only an emergency runway, was checked and photographed. Then the boys were called in. The fields had been spotted and their underground hangars located. It was time to strike.
Stan and O'Malley sat in the operations room looking at a big map. Colonel Holt stood before the map with his staff. The men leaned forward eagerly. For several days they had been practicing a new type of bombing with fighters, a skip method. The colonel pointed to the map.
"There are many flights going out at daylight. Ours is just one of them, but we have been assigned to destroy the largest of the fighter bases near Berlin. You all know the tactics. There will be thirty planes in your flight. This is a teamwork job." He paused and looked over the eager faces before him.
The men began to breathe easier as the colonel went on. They knew what they were up against. There would be a long flight during which they would avoid fights in the air. Then there would be a sudden attack to be staged just at dawn. That attack would be rugged going and a lot of them would never come back.
When the briefing was over, they crowded out of the room and into the mess for hot coffee and sandwiches. There was little talking. This was the hour of tension. Weather still had to come through with reports and the men had learned that Weather often let them down. Being let down after getting keyed up for a dangerous mission was worse than going out.
But Weather did not let them down. They got their clearance without delay and headed for the ready room. Eagerly they scrambled into their outfits, then barged out into the night. Stan and O'Malley walked side by side.
"We fly the tail slot," Stan said. "That means some hot going."
"'Tis as good as any," O'Malley answered as he headed for his plane. "See you at breakfast."
Like huge night birds the P-51's took off and headed east. Stan watched the flare of their exhausts as they flamed down the runways and lifted into the dark sky.
"O'Malley ready, Wilson stand by."
Stan adjusted himself and checked his instruments. He eased down against the shock pad and waited. O'Malley went knifing away and he wheeled in behind. Hoiking the P-51's tail he sent her off and up.
Quickly the big fighters, each with a bomb load tucked in where ordinarily extra tanks would nestle, closed into formation. The flight leader, Colonel Wellman held them in tight formation.
As they roared along Stan thought back over the past few days. He had been offered the flight leader's job but had turned it down. When Wellman got back he would be ranked up a notch and shoved into a job where he could fly only occasionally. Already his record and his rating kept him at base most of the time. Stan grinned. He did not want anything out of the war but a chance to fly in action.
They moved across the channel, high up in the cold sky. Roaring toward Berlin in arrow-straight flight, they slid over the Netherlands. There were to be no roundabout evasive tactics tonight, not with bombs in the place of extra gasoline.
Stan checked his instrument panel and his clocks. They must be over Germany now. The country below was blacked-out entirely. There was no flak and no lights below. Darkness still filled the world, but dawn was not far away.
A buzzer signal in his headset told Stan it was time to settle down for low flying. Light had begun to show in the east. Down went the Mustangs, and as the dawn began to lighten the low country below, they roared across the German countryside. Now they were greeted by a few bursts of fire, but no heavy flak came at them. Because they were hedge-hopping at a terrific speed, the German warning systems were not spotting them in time to allow gunners to get set.
"Tactical formation, Red Flight." Colonel Wellman broke the silence with that crisp order.
The Mustangs spread out and made a circling sweep. They had been headed straight for Berlin and would be spotted as a nuisance raid group of Mosquito bombers. No fighters would try to intercept them. The Berlin defenders would depend upon flak, as fighters were useless against the fast Mosquitoes. By swinging sharply east the Mustangs would hit the fighter hangars.
The light was good as the boys roared along at treetop level and spotted the landmarks they had been briefed to expect. They flew in perfect formation. Stan was flying the tail slot along with O'Malley. They were in a mopping-up position.
Stan saw the runways flash into sight, then he saw the lead Mustangs go in with their wheels almost touching the runways. A second later there were many flashes of flame and rolling clouds of dust. At the same moment the earth began to erupt fire and smoke and steel. The second wave of Mustangs disappeared into the inferno. Stan saw two of them blow up, then go bouncing and tumbling along the ground. That was all he had time to see. With his hand on the bomb release he went in.
The smoke and the firing was so intense Stan could make out little. He judged his distance and released his bombs when he caught a glimpse of a yawning tunnel ahead. He saw O'Malley cut his load loose. O'Malley was wing to wing with him. Then the Irishman's Mustang stuck her nose into the ground and went end over end down the field like a wrecked kite. Stan pulled up hard and as his P-51 lifted, he felt something hit her. It was as though he had slammed into a stone wall. She staggered, let down one wing, then nosed over. Stan felt the ground slap her and heard the ripping and tearing of metal as something exploded almost in his face. A blinding flash of light stabbed at his eyeballs and blinded him.
The Mustang rolled over and over, her sturdy fuselage refusing to crumple. Stan's one thought was of fire. He pawed aside what was left of his hatch cover and heaved himself upward and out. Staggering free of the wreckage, he found himself enveloped in a choking pall of smoke. Off to his left, a heavy explosion shook the ground. Dirt and sticks and bits of metal peppered him and the smoke surged away before the concussion of the explosion. Stan staggered back and as he did so, four soldiers leaped at him out of the smoke.
One of the men lunged at Stan from the side and two from the rear. He felt a solid impact on the back of his head and felt himself slumping forward, then everything went black.
Stan opened his eyes and found himself in a big room with stone walls and high windows. Sun was streaming in through two of the windows and gleamed upon piles of straw littering the floor. A dozen Yank airmen and several R.A.F. men sat on the straw. Stan lifted his hand to the back of his head and groaned. An R.A.F. man near him said:
"A bit of a tough rap? Can I get you some water? It's all we've seen so far in the way of refreshments."
"Thanks," Stan said. "But where am I?"
"A Jerry prison. I take it you were one of the boys who bombed the fighter fields. I'm Captain Prentiss." The Britisher smiled.
"I'm Stan Wilson. I'm not sure I bombed anything. Is there an Irishman here by the name of O'Malley?"
"Right-o. He was dragged in with you." Prentiss got to his feet. "I'll go tell him you're awake."
"Thanks." Stan heaved himself to a sitting position and looked around. Several of the boys nodded to him but none of them got up. All of them were strangers to Stan, men from flights he had not worked with.
O'Malley came in from a narrow hallway and hurried across the room. When he saw that Stan was sitting up, a dark scowl on his face turned into a grin.
"Sure, an' I've been yellin' at them Krauts, tryin' to get them to send a Doc in to fix you up. They jest laughed at me."
"I don't need a doctor. How did the raid go?"
"The boys say we blew 'em off the map. I talked with a couple of Lib boys just brought in. We cleared the path to Berlin." O'Malley grinned eagerly. "I'm glad ye're feelin' foine now. We have to get out o' this hole."
Stan looked up at the high, barred windows. "Yes, we do," he said, more to encourage O'Malley than because he had any hopes. They were deep in the heart of Germany and soon would be in a closely guarded prison camp.
"They're takin' us to another prison in a few minutes. The guard says we get to eat before we're locked up again. We have to be questioned by the Gestapo." O'Malley leered angrily.
"You mean German Intelligence," Stan corrected.
"All the same. Himmler runs 'em both," O'Malley answered.
They were interrupted by a shout from the hallway. A burly German officer stamped into the room and stood looking at the men.
"Get to your feet!" he yelled.
The men slowly rose and stared at the officer. He glared at them, his eyes moving over them slowly.
"You should be treated as swine, you bomb cities and kill non-combatants. Der Fuehrer does not like this," he snarled.
"We are only following the example you set at Warsaw and Rotterdam," a British major said as he stepped over and faced the German. "We are prisoners of war and you'll treat us as such, my fine fellow."
Stan moved forward quickly. The R.A.F. major stood with his feet planted well apart, facing the German. The German lashed out suddenly with a knotted fist. The major swayed a bit and ducked the blow. He started a right cross for the German's jaw but Stan dived in and pinned his arms.
"Swine! Dog!" the German bellowed. "You will pay for this."
"Take it easy. Knocking his block off won't help you any," Stan said as he released the major's arms. "There ought to be better ways."
"I'm sorry," the major said stiffly.
The German glared around him. He puffed out his chest and struck a stiff pose.
"You are to be moved to other quarters. Anyone trying any sneaking business will be shot. Is dot clear?"
"It's clear. Get on with the moving," Stan said crisply.
"You better be after feedin' us," O'Malley broke in.
The officer blew a whistle and a squad of soldiers filed in. The men lined up and the officer began splitting the prisoners up into small groups. He sent six men away with the guards and whistled for another squad.
"They must think we're tough," Stan said and grinned.
Before Stan and O'Malley were sent out, a young lieutenant entered and spoke to the officer in charge. He faced the remaining men.
"Lieutenants Wilson and O'Malley are wanted at once for questioning." He glared about him.
Stan and O'Malley stepped forward.
"Come with me," the young lieutenant snapped.
"What? No squad with fixed bayonets?" Stan asked and grinned.
The lieutenant smiled. "Where we are going there will be no need for an armed guard." He walked away with Stan and O'Malley beside him. O'Malley kept a sharp eye open for a chance to escape. Stan was afraid if they passed an open door O'Malley would bolt through it.
They entered a long hallway and were marched to its far end where they entered a small room. There was a table and a few chairs.
"You may as well sit down," the lieutenant said.
"You almost talk United States," Stan observed.
"I should. I spent ten years in Pittsburgh," the lieutenant explained.
"How did you come to get over here in Germany?" Stan asked.
"During those years I was working for the greater Germany," the officer answered stiffly. "Heil Hitler." He did an about-face as precisely as though he had been on parade before Hitler and marched out of the room.
"Don't tell them anything," Stan said.
"Sure, an' the Gestapo has my life history written down anyway," O'Malley said. "I think we're in Berlin and I'd be after likin' it if I could get loose."
"We'll be watched very close at first. We'll have to wait," Stan warned.
Two officers, a major and a colonel, accompanied by the young lieutenant, entered. The ranking officers seated themselves at the table; the lieutenant stood before Stan and O'Malley.
"You are a part of the Eighth Air Force?" he asked.
"Yes," Stan answered.
"Do you know how many fighters and bombers your force has?"
"No," Stan answered.
"How many of the new type of fighters do you have? The sort you were flying when shot down."
"I've heard some of the boys say a couple of thousand," Stan answered. He was merely reporting a bit of mess rumor he had heard the day before.
The lieutenant scowled and spoke in German to his superiors. After that the questions came fast, but neither O'Malley nor Stan offered any further comment. They answered simply yes or no or refused to answer at all. Finally the senior officer got up in disgust and stamped out.
"You are fools," the lieutenant snapped.
"Would you talk if we caught you?" Stan asked pleasantly.
"Of course not, but we are a superior race. Now you will be given comfortable quarters and food. We observe the rules of war." He turned about and motioned for them to follow.
The boys were fed soup and fish with a slice of bread and a brown liquid which passed as coffee. O'Malley grumbled a lot, but he ate everything set before him.
"If this is what the Geneva treaty said captured officers were to eat, I'm a spalpeen," O'Malley muttered as he marched away with Stan to their quarters.
They found themselves quartered in an old stone house which had at one time been a residence. There was a high wall around it with many guards pacing back and forth and two searchlights located on platforms which were also occupied by a machine gun and its crew. But there was a yard and a few trees and shrubs.
"Not as bad as a prison camp," Stan said.
"Not very good," O'Malley said as he stood looking up at one of the machine-gun nests.
The boys were taken to a room on the ground floor where they met several other fellows from the Eighth. They had been located at the camp for several months and were eager to hear news from England.
Stan and O'Malley talked with them for a while, answering their questions. One of the boys, a bombardier from a Fort, explained the workings of the camp.
"They change us around quite a bit. New men come and some of the old heads go. I figure they do that to nip any escape attempts in the bud." He laughed sourly. "I never heard of anybody getting away from one of these camps."
Another chap drifted in and seated himself. He was a lank Britisher with a mop of black hair.
"I hear you hail from the fighter strip near Diss."
"That was our outfit," Stan said.
"I just got a new roommate who says he's a Yank who was stationed at Diss," the Britisher grinned. "He got shot down a while back. He just came out of a hospital. Got a bad rap on the head."
"We'd like to meet him. He must be one of the boys we lost on our first bombing coverage." Stan got to his feet.
He and O'Malley went upstairs and into the little room. Two men were seated on a bed playing cards. Stan halted in the doorway. Over his shoulder, O'Malley said:
"Sim!"
At first Stan was not sure. The man looked like Sim Jones. He was thinner and he had a freshly healed scar on his cheek. His face was sallow and he looked much older.
O'Malley barged past Stan and caught the man's hand. "Glad ye're alive," he said eagerly.
"O'Malley?" Sim stared at O'Malley as he said it. He looked up at Stan. "Wilson, you here, too."
Stan grinned. "Yes, I'm here. We cracked up on a fighter strip while bombing with Mustangs. I'm glad you made it safely. When I last saw you, your P-51 had buried its nose in the ground."
Sim's eyes narrowed sharply. "That crack-up knocked me silly," he said grimly. "I don't remember much." He put his hand to his head. "I was nuts for quite a while, I guess. Even now I forget things. Sometimes I forget what's happened."
"You'll come around," O'Malley said cheerfully.
"They might let us three have this room together," Sim said. "I'd like to have you fellows around."
"It could be fixed," the Britisher said. "They let us line up about as we wish. I'll help you fix it. I've been here a couple of months."
Stan went with the R.A.F. man. They located a non-com who told them to shift around as they pleased. He seemed to know who Stan was and all about him and O'Malley.
"Ve treat you goot," he said.
As they went back the Britisher said, "Some of these Nazis are beginning to try to make friends with us. I guess they figure they may need some friends among the Allies one of these days."
"They certainly will," Stan agreed.
The two boys with Sim gladly moved out and Stan and O'Malley moved in. They found Sim silent and moody, as though he was brooding over his capture and captivity. Stan spoke to O'Malley about it out in the hall.
"Sim is in bad shape. He ought to be in the hospital. We'll have to watch out for him."
"He'll be after comin' around," O'Malley said confidently.
They entered the room and found Sim staring out of a window. Again Stan was struck by the change in the boy. He seemed to have aged at least ten years. He turned toward them, then got up and closed the door. He walked over to a picture on the wall and moved it. Behind it he revealed a small hole in the paper. He placed his hands to his lips and shook his head.
Stan moved over and looked closely, then he pressed on the paper. There was a small cylinder under the paper. He grinned at Sim and O'Malley. Deftly he slit the paper with his fingernail and removed a strip of it, revealing a listening device. Taking out his pocketknife he neatly snipped one of the small wires.
"That will take care of that. Later we'll hook it up again so they won't be suspicious."
"They listen to all new men everywhere," Sim said. Suddenly he began to laugh. "But I have fooled them. I have worked out a way for us to escape."
Stan stared at him. He was not sure Sim was not still insane.
O'Malley said eagerly, "Spill it. Escape is what I'm lookin' for."
Sim went to the door and opened it. He looked up and down the hall, then closed the door.
"I was going to try it alone, but I may be able to take you fellows along." He spoke slowly.
"Sure, three can make a getaway easier than one," O'Malley said. Stan said nothing.
"Germany is cracking up fast," Sim went on. "Rotten inside with half of the guards scared they'll be stood up against a wall and shot when the invasion comes."
"They didn't seem to be slipping much where we landed," Stan said.
"But they are," Sim insisted. "I have a man fixed to take me out of here and across Germany. I'm to get him out of the country and guarantee he'll be safely kept over in England."
"Swell," O'Malley put in. "When do we get going?"
"It will take a day or so. He's no small fry either, he's a non-commissioned officer with some authority. He thinks the Gestapo is about to pick him off for not being tough enough."
"It sounds a bit too easy to me," Stan said. "But I'd take any sort of chance to get back into action."
"Tomorrow I'll let you know if you can go along," Sim promised. "Now you better hook that listening gadget up again."
When Stan awoke the next morning Sim was gone from his bunk. He sat up quickly, then lay back and let his stiff, sore muscles relax. There was no hurry. He was not going any place that day, perhaps not for a long time. Lying there he listened to O'Malley's deep snores and thought back over the events of the past few hours.
Those events had happened so swiftly and so explosively that they seemed like the shadowy memory of a nightmare. He recalled that he had not asked O'Malley how he had been captured. He had just taken it for granted his pal had been through an experience the same as his own. It was odd, too, the way things fitted together. The oddest of all was finding Sim Jones billeted in the same prison.
A knock sounded upon the door. "Come in," Stan called.
O'Malley sat up in bed suddenly, pawing the blankets away from his shoulders. He stared around the room, then scowled. The door opened and a Nazi corporal entered.
"Heil Hitler!" he said very loudly and clicked his heels together.
"Good morning," Stan greeted.
O'Malley just glared at the corporal.
"I am Hans." The Nazi looked behind him, sticking his head out so that he could see up and down the hall. He closed the door. "It is orders of Herr General that prisoners be up and taking exercises by seven each morning. I have let you sleep because you were very tired."
"That was nice of you," Stan said.
"I am goot to prisoners," Hans said.
Stan swung his feet to the floor. He got out of bed and walked across the room. Flipping a picture of Hitler aside, he exposed the microphone in the wall. Hans rolled his eyes and clicked his heels.
"Heil Hitler!" he almost shouted. "Tomorrow you will get out of bed and be down in the yard by seven."
Stan grinned. He reached up and disconnected the wire leading to the instrument.
"They listen all the time," Hans said. "They watch everyone. There is more Gestapo than guards."
"Nice country to live in," Stan remarked.
O'Malley laughed and pulled the blankets up around his chin.
"Sure, an' it needs a bit o' cleaning up," he said.
Hans looked at him nervously. "You think the British and Americans come soon?" he asked.
"If they're later than next week, I'll be after speakin' to a few generals harsh-like," O'Malley answered.
"Perhaps not next week but soon," Stan said.
"I am not a party member. I will go back to my little farm near Pilsen," Hans said, "if it is permitted."
"It could be fixed that way," Stan said and smiled. "Silence is golden, but too much of it might make the Gestapo boys suspicious." He walked to the picture of Hitler and connected the microphone again.
"You will report at once for mess. Heil Hitler!" Hans clicked his heels and did an about-face. He moved out of the room almost goose-stepping. Stan grinned after him.
"Get up, you bum," he called to O'Malley.
O'Malley got out of bed and began dressing. Within ten minutes they were in the hall. As they walked down it they passed no less than three pictures of Hitler hanging on the walls. O'Malley moved every one of them and peered behind it.
"I don't like the scenery here," he grumbled.
The mess was a large room which once had been a living room and dining room combined. There were twenty prisoners, mostly R.A.F. men, all of officer's rank. They looked bored and listless, but they greeted the new arrivals with friendly interest. Sim was seated at the table. He looked up and nodded.
Breakfast was not bad and the boys ate everything set before them. After breakfast the men went out into the yard. The sun was shining and the air was warm, but there was a feel of winter in the wind which blew over the high wall.
Stan and O'Malley sat down on a bench with Sim. The other men busied themselves with handball and quoits. Sim bent down and traced a line with a stick in the dirt.
"I have everything lined up. We get away tonight. A British colonel is giving a lecture in the big room at nine tonight. I have fixed the checker. We'll get away while that is on." Sim did not look up.
"Hans is the checker?" O'Malley asked.
"Yes."
"Sure this isn't a trap? Things have been working too good around here," Stan said.
"This will not be easy," Sim answered in a low voice. "The chances are about even we'll be shot before we get clear of the wire and the guard lines. These guards do not shout at you, they shoot and then yell." Sim laughed shortly. "But I'd rather be shot than rot here."
"Sure, an' that's me, too," O'Malley agreed.
"We'll be ready," Stan answered.
"You cannot take anything with you," Sim warned. "Now we have to break up. The guards are watching us." He got to his feet and walked away.
"I think he's acting nuts for the benefit of the guards," O'Malley said.
"If it turns out he really is nuts, we may find ourselves messed up with lead," Stan answered. He got up and walked over to where the R.A.F. boys were pitching quoits.
"Care to get in?" a captain asked him.
"Thanks, I'll have a try," Stan answered.
O'Malley stretched out on the bench and went to sleep. He slept through until lunch call was sounded. Stan mixed with the British officers and learned what he could about conditions. He got their names so he could report regarding them if he did get away.
The afternoon dragged away and mess call sounded after one of the R.A.F. officers had put the men through a stiff drill and a series of sitting-up exercises. After mess Stan and O'Malley went to their room. Sim was not there.
"I didn't see Sim around the mess when we left, wonder where he went?" Stan whispered.
"You worry too much about him," O'Malley answered. "I bet he's snoopin' around gettin' set to get us away."
Stan stretched out on his bunk. They waited for Sim to show up, but he did not come to the room. At eight o'clock Stan began to squirm.
"They've probably nabbed him," he said sourly.
"Sure, an' I'll start working on Hans if they have."
They had been speaking in very low tones. Now Stan spoke louder. "Better be getting ready to go to that lecture."
"Sure," O'Malley agreed.
The boys settled down to wait. O'Malley kept looking at his wrist watch. Stan lay with his eyes closed. He was checking every angle of the strange business. As near as he could gather, things were going badly in Germany. The big crack-up might be near at hand.
At five minutes to nine they heard steps in the hall. They passed down the stairs. Boys from the rooms along the hallway were going to the lecture. Stan got up and disconnected the microphone. O'Malley was pacing about like a caged lion. They heard single footsteps and there was a rap on the door. It opened and Hans stood there.
"I am glad you have not yet gone to the lecture," he said. "Herr General wishes to speak to you. You will come with me."
Stan looked at O'Malley and O'Malley looked at Stan. Stan spoke smoothly.
"Couldn't we see the general after the lecture? We'd like very much to hear the colonel."
"It will not wait. Herr General is a very impatient man."
There was nothing to do but go with Hans. Stan and O'Malley walked along the hallway with the corporal, keeping a sharp watch for Sim. They did not see him in the hallway or downstairs. Hans took them past the guards at the outer garden gate and across the street to another house. In a small hall room he nodded toward chairs.
"You will be called," he said, then turned and hurried away.
The outer door was open and the boys could see two sentries standing on the front porch.
"We have to get out o' here," O'Malley said.
"Not a chance. There's no window and those two guards would see us before we got within ten feet of them," Stan answered. "It's just a case of sitting tight and hoping Sim waits for us."
Near where they were sitting a door opened into another room. Stan leaned over and looked at the door. It was not latched firmly and was open about a half inch. He could hear men talking in the other room. They were speaking in German.
"You understand German. Listen to what they are saying," Stan whispered.
O'Malley moved closer and listened. The men seemed to be arguing hotly. Every once in a while one voice would be raised in anger. There were three men in the room. O'Malley edged the door open a bit more and peeped into the room.
After a bit he straightened and grinned at Stan. "Sure, an' the general is eatin' the tails off his staff. Some of 'em seem to think the war is lost. They been tellin' him the German people are demandin' peace at any price. I figure he's goin' to have one o' them shot."
At that moment an orderly came rushing out of the office. He charged past the boys without seeming to see them, and rushed out of the building.
"The general says if this leaks out, the Allies will invade at once. He's sure mad." O'Malley laughed softly.
A few minutes passed and the orderly returned with a squad of armed soldiers led by a lieutenant. They stomped past the boys and into the office. When they came out they were marching a captain and a major before them.
Five more minutes passed and the orderly came out. He seemed much agitated.
"You will come now," he said in husky English.
The boys followed him into the office. Herr General was a burly fellow with a bald head and a narrow chest. He had a monocle screwed into one eye which made him look fierce and tough. He glared at the boys, then snapped an order to the orderly. The man scurried away.
"Come up to my desk, you," the general snarled.
The boys moved up and stood waiting.
"I have checked the answers you gave to questions asked you when you were captured. You said an invasion will come at once. Why did you say that?"
Stan stared at the officer. "We didn't say any such thing," he answered evenly. He decided that the general had heard some of their conversation over the listening device.
"Sure, an' you got big ears, General," O'Malley said.
Stan kicked him on the shin. The general jumped and puffed out his chest. He fixed O'Malley with a cold glare.
"Pig! Fool! Keep a civil tongue in your head or you will regret it much."
"If you brought us here to get information, you will be disappointed, General," Stan said. "We will not talk."
"I brought you here to tell you that we intend to make you talk," the general barked. "I merely wished to warn you and then to let you have a little time to think it over."
"We are prisoners of war," Stan reminded him.
"The code provides for disciplining prisoners of war. We have some very effective methods. You will talk and be glad to. Now get out."
Stan and O'Malley turned toward the door. Two armed men stood waiting for them. They marched out with the guards close behind them.
"Sure, an' this is a nice mess," O'Malley grumbled.
"Could be worse," Stan said.
The guards left them after passing them into the yard of their house. They headed for their room. Passing through the outer hall, they saw that the lecture was still going on in the living room. They went up the stairs.
Stan opened the door and O'Malley shoved into the room close behind him. They stood looking at Sim's bunk. The straw ticking of the mattress had been slit open and some of the straw was scattered on the floor. Sim was not in the room. Stan walked over to a little table. One small light bulb was flooding the room with light.
"He was here and left in a hurry. He didn't turn off the light."
"I'm gettin' out o' here," O'Malley growled.
"Sit down. We're staying," Stan said sharply. He pulled off his coat and tossed it across his bunk, then he seated himself on the foot of his bed.
"We're going to get it in the neck, anyway," O'Malley scowled.
"Do you know where we are, in what part of Germany?"
"Somewhere near Berlin," O'Malley said.
"Sure, but where? We need more dope on the grounds and on the country around us. We wouldn't get a mile from this prison farm if we did break out."
O'Malley sat down on his bed. "Sure, you're right. We should have had Sim tell us something about this deal."
"Now that you mention it, Sim never told us anything," Stan said.
"Probably didn't know anything," O'Malley growled.
They sat looking at each other, waiting, trying to discover some lead that might help them. Finally Stan said:
"We'll have to clean up that straw and fix Sim's bed before anyone comes in here snooping around."
"Yeah," O'Malley said but he did not move.
Stan began cleaning up their room so that the guards checking rooms that night would not notice Sim had gone. He wanted to give Sim as much of a start as possible. While he was brushing the straw under Sim's bunk the door opened. Both boys turned quickly. In the doorway stood Sim. His lips were parted in a thin smile.
"Sim!" Stan took a step toward the door. "We thought you had gone."
"Quiet," Sim whispered. "Come with me."
He turned and moved out into the hall with Stan and O'Malley at his heels. They walked down the hall and into a corner room. Sim crossed the room and opened a window. They saw a rope dangling over the sill.
Stan peered into the darkness below but could see nothing. "There should be a guard right under this window," he whispered.
"He has been taken care of," Sim hissed. "You go down. We will follow."
"Didn't you get any guns or grenades?" O'Malley asked.
"No," Sim answered sharply. "Hurry."
Stan climbed through the window and slid down the rope. When his feet hit the ground he wiggled the rope. A minute later O'Malley was at his side. Sim arrived within another minute. He caught the boys' arms and began moving away from the house.
Sim led them to the wall and along it until they came to a gate. It was open; Sim paused and Stan and O'Malley peered out. A small light burned above the gate. The light revealed a truck filled with cans. Stan grinned in the darkness. The truck was a garbage lorry. The night breeze carried that information to him. The truck smelled very strong.
"We hide among the cans," Sim whispered.
At that moment two men appeared carrying a can. They heaved it into the truck. One of them fastened a chain across the back opening, then they moved toward the cab of the truck.
"When the light is snapped off!" Sim whispered.
From the kitchen of the house a voice shouted something in German. The truck driver answered. The light snapped off and Sim started forward with the boys beside him. The truck was sputtering and backfiring, pouring out rank smoke as they reached it. They went into it as it lurched forward. All of the cans came clanging back against the chain, almost shoving the boys out.
Quickly the three moved cans until they were up in the front of the truck next to the cab. There they crouched down with their knees pulled up. The cans made so much noise there was no danger of the boys being heard.
"'Tis a sweet smellin' cab ye called," O'Malley observed.
"The smell will keep the Germans from examining it very closely," Sim answered and Stan heard him chuckle. "When we come to a lighted town we'll each have to get into a can."
"They're full o' garbage," O'Malley protested.
"We'll empty three cans," Sim said. "Might as well do it while we're on this rough country road."
The truck was bouncing and the cans were banging. The noise was terrific and the darkness total. Stan got hold of a can. It was heavy, but with O'Malley's help he was able to lift it up and tip it over the edge. The contents poured out on the side of the road. Two more cans were dumped.
"There goes a lot of meals for the prisoners in the ghetto," Sim said and laughed.
"You mean to say the skunks feed prisoners garbage?" Stan asked.
"I've been told they let the prisoners of the lowest class pick over the garbage," Sim answered.
Stan felt his stomach begin to turn over. O'Malley said nothing. For once he was stumped for words. They moved the cans to the center and well forward and crouched beside them.
The truck rattled on through the night. Presently they saw lights ahead.
"According to my map," Sim said, "that should be a well-lighted inspection post. We better get into the cans."
The boys got into the cans. Stan kept his head well up out of the can. He meant to keep it up in the wind until it was absolutely necessary to duck down.
The truck swung in under a row of lights. Stan ducked down and held his nose. There was much guttural shouting. Several men moved around the truck. They poked bayonets among the cans and against them. Stan felt a blade strike the can he was in. The can gave out a dull clinking sound, indicating it was full. Stan grinned. Someone shouted an order and the truck rolled on.
As soon as darkness closed over them the boys popped out of the cans. O'Malley was talking to himself in very rich Irish.
"If I'd known this was goin' to happen to me I'd have brought along a blanket to wrap meself in," he growled. "We'll smell so bad we won't be able to hide any place."
Stan laughed. "They won't need blood-hounds to track us," he admitted.
"We will get other clothing," Sim said.
The truck rolled on, crossing a hill and dropping down toward a town. Lights winked ahead of them and the road became smoother.
"We unload pretty soon," Sim said. "There will be a small farmhouse on the right with tall trees. We get off there. The farmer is a member of the underground."
"Underground in Germany?" Stan asked in surprise.
"They told me it was well established and doing a big business. People are paying well to get out of Germany before it collapses." Sim was swinging a leg over the side as he spoke.
The boys got out of the truck and clung to the outside. They saw dark forms of trees and a light in a window.
"Now," Sim whispered as he swung away from the truck.
Stan heard him land with a thud. Stan jumped and landed in a hedge beside the road and rolled on into tall grass. O'Malley hit close beside him, and they crouched behind the hedge watching the truck. It went rattling on into the night. Sim called to them.
"Come on. We have to hurry."
They moved over beside him and he headed across an open field toward the lighted window. As they neared the house, a dog began barking. Sim halted and they stood waiting. A door opened and a man shouted at the dog. Sim moved forward.
"Hello," he called.
The door closed suddenly and Stan heard the man walking over gravel toward them. They advanced to meet him. Sim spoke as soon as he was close.
"We were sent by Hans."
"Goot. Come, I show you," the man answered.
They walked with him to the house and he opened the door. "Quick," he mumbled. He began pushing them through the door.
There was no need to shove. The boys dived inside and the German closed the door. He moved to a window and pulled down the blind, then he faced them. He was a short man with a beefy face. His stomach rolled out over a wide leather belt.
"I get you clothes," he said gruffly.
Disappearing into another room he returned after a time with an armload of clothing which he tossed on a table. The boys changed into rough shirts and dungarees. The clothing was coarse, but it was clean. The German gathered up their uniforms.
"These I burn," he said and left with them.
"We have to move on at once," Sim said. "This place will be searched before morning. The Germans are very thorough."
The boys seated themselves and waited. Their host was gone for a long time. Finally Sim got up.
"I'll go hurry him along," he said. "You stay right here." He left the room hurriedly.
"Sim is no nut. He has this all worked out," O'Malley said.
"He certainly has," Stan agreed. He got up and moved to the door Sim had just closed. Opening it gently he went into a dark room. Feeling his way he moved to another door. He could see a shaft of light under the door. Halting with his hand on the knob, he listened. Sim was talking with their underground agent in German. Stan opened the door quickly. The two men whirled about and faced him.
"I didn't know you spoke German," Stan said.
"You should not be sneaking around," the German said sharply.
"I have always spoken German," Sim answered. "I learned it in school back home. How did you think I managed to line things up so well if I didn't know German?"
"We got worried," Stan said. "Thought something might have happened to you."
"I just wanted to make sure these uniforms were burned," Sim said and laughed. "German farmers are thrifty people. They hate to burn good wool cloth, which can't be bought for any price here. These people have only ersatz cloth."
"We go now," the German said and scowled at Stan.
"Did he burn them?" Stan asked.
"He buried them in his orchard. We don't have time to waste having him dig them up," Sim answered.
O'Malley had heard the talking and joined them in the kitchen.
"Everybody's here, so let's go," Stan said. He was trying to remember if Sim Jones had ever talked to him about his past. He could not remember the flier ever having said much about himself.
The German took the lead and they followed him out through a back door. They walked down a path and came to a small barn. Stan heard a horse snort. The German spoke softly to Sim in German.
O'Malley answered the man in German. The fellow jumped and O'Malley laughed. Too late Stan kicked O'Malley warningly upon the shin. Stan frowned. He should have warned O'Malley. Now the man knew he could speak and understand German. Sim looked at O'Malley and laughed.
"It seems we will be able to get on very well with two of us speaking the native tongue," he said.
"You talk Kraut?" O'Malley asked.
"Come, we waste time," the German said. He moved into the barn with the boys at his heels.
The guide untied a horse and led it out through a back door. There, by the light of the stars, the boys saw a two-wheeled cart loaded with hay. The German hitched the horse to the cart.
"Hide in the hay," he said.
The boys climbed into the cart and burrowed under the hay. Stan worked his way well forward with O'Malley and Sim close beside him. They were forced to lie very close together because the cart was narrow. They worked an opening for air and lay on the hard boards. The German spoke to the horse and the cart moved off.
The cart joggled over rutty roads for hours. Daylight began to show through the straw opening. Stan wiggled over against the slats on the side of the cart and poked a hole to look through. They were moving along a country lane. The cart turned out and a wagon passed. It was loaded with farm workers. Behind the wagon came a motorcycle and sidecar. A German soldier sat in the sidecar, while another, with a rifle slung across his back, drove the motorcycle. The driver shouted at the German on the seat of the cart, but he did not stop him.