"Last evening I gave you a tool, a weapon, and told you to use it. You didn't. I was afraid you wouldn't, but I trusted you anyway. My error. By giving in to your own squeamishness, you have put us all in needless danger. Because if Manfred was dead, the police and SS would assume that everyone there had died in the explosions, except the handful of SS that I butchered outside. They would be watching for a force of airborne raiders, not a man, a woman, and a child; and me they would not see."
He took a deep breath. "So listen welclass="underline" I am the commander on this mission. In emergencies, do what I tell you without questioning. Without hesitation! More lives than your own may depend on it. If it is not an emergency, and you have an objection, it to me once. If I do not agree, that is the end of it."
Macurdy paused. "If you cannot abide by those rules, tell me now. I will leave you a blanket and one of the four field rations I have left, and take Berta and Lotta with me."
Edouard's face had reddened, turned wooden. After a long moment he replied. "I understand, and I will accept your orders. I appreciate what you have done for us, and you have every right to be angry. I regret that I had not learned to think like a soldier."
Macurdy gripped his shoulder, and his words were mild. "Thank you. It is not surprising you thought like a civilian, but it was unfortunate. For the next few days, you will think like a soldier." He smiled, and his voice softened further. "When we get to Switzerland, you can think like a civilian again, and in a year or so, when this war is over, I can too. Now scrape some fir needles together and lid down. I will set my mental alarm clock for three hours, then we will be on our way again."
Few motor vehicles passed them on the road. Now and then, in the vicinity of farms, a woman, older man, or youngster passed on foot, or riding a wagon or draft horse. What the passersby saw was a family on a day off, an outing. Usually a rather tall slender man on a horse, riding slowly southward, followed by a woman on another, their daughter holding on to her mother's waist from behind. The man and woman would wave cheerily, and sometimes received a wave in return. The daughter neither waved nor loosed her grip. Others, however, saw only one horse, led by the slender man on foot. On those occasions, Macurdy was riding, and had cloaked his horse as well as himself.
The passersby, of course, did not exchange notes. They saw, then dismissed the sight as unimportant. Few even noted that the horses were remarkably well-bred for such undistinguished riders, or for the district.
Occasionally the family paused to let the horses graze the burgeoning spring grass beside the road, or drink from the ditch. Then the woman and girl got down to walk around stiffly.
Once, as they passed an elderly man trudging toward them headed north, horse apples appeared noisily out of nowhere and dropped onto the graveled road. Stopping, the old man gawped. For the first time the girl made a sound, giggling behind a hand. The old man seemed not to hear, as if his ears were faulty, merely stared at the pile of new dung steaming in the morning sun, while the family rode on. After a pause, he continued own the road, seeming dazed. He'd tell no one; he valued his reputation.
When they were well past him, the mother joined in the giggling. For the next several minutes both mother and daughter giggle from time to time, while the father smiled. Both "parents" were thrilled at the sound from their "daughter"; neither had heard her laugh before.
The family had learned to see their companion when they tried. Presumably others, unaware and less talented, would not. His very foreign-looking khaki jumpsuit showed extensive stains, especially the right sleeve and trouser leg-blood browned from drying, but recognizable. A web-belt rode at his waist, with,a holstered pistol and a sheathed knife. A Schmeisser submachine gun was slung on a shoulder. On his back was a plywood pack frame with a large green canvas bag, fat with horse blankets. Had a passerby seen him, they'd certainly have reported it.
From time to time the riders got down and led the horses back into the forest, where they all rested out of sight, the humans sometimes nibbling morsels from an unheated ration, passing a container around, sharing, then burying the small green can or wrapper, hiding the evidence. Occasionally one of them refilled the canteen from some mountain stream passing beneath the road. Their waters might not have passed a purity test, but generations of farmers and herd girls had drunk from them with few ill effects.
The sun was in the west when they approached the village of Schondorf, in a broad bowl occupied mostly by farms, the road keeping to one side, along the forest edge-the sort of scene described in travel-guides as "picturesque." Limping a bit, the father led the horse out of sight among the trees. His feet had blistered. When he stopped, his wife and daughter climbed down from the horse, clearly saddle sore.
Their invisible companion left his horse with them, and trotted back to the edge of the woods on foot, where he stood appraising a small house some two hundred yards away. His stomach growled; he'd eaten nothing all day, explaining to the others that he drew energy from the Web of the World. Considering all the other unlikely things he'd done, they took his word for it. His stomach on the other hand, wasn't convinced, and there were only two rations left. By the time they slept that night, there'd be none.
The SS had no doubt checked maps for possible routes to Switzerland. This seemed one of the least likely, but they'd no doubt look into it, and one of the things they'd check would be places where food could be bought.
Macurdy heard a screen door slam. A woman came into the yard, carrying a large basket, set it down beside the laundry hanging in the sun, and disappeared into the privy. Macurdy headed for the house at a strong lope; he'd hardly get a better chance in this village.
Hopefully there wouldn't be a dog.
There wasn't. When he returned to the family in the woods, his tunic bulged with a loaf of rye bread and an eight-inch wheel of cheese. He'd been tempted to leave two reichsmark notes in payment, reichsmarks printed by the British SIS, and issued to him by the OSS, good enough that even a banker with a magnifying glass wouldn't recognize them as counterfeit. But payment would surely cause talk, while as it was, the woman might simply be puzzled, and say nothing beyond her own living room.
He hoped, though, that the absence would go unnoticed until he and his wards were well away. With that in mind, he ordered them back onto their horses, and trotting ahead of them, backtracked a half mile to the edge of the open basin, where a lane ran along the forest's edge, toward the higher mountains at the head of the valley.
They camped two miles above the basin, beside a mountain stream. There was a cattle trail along it, leading to an alpine pasture with what, on his map, seemed to be a cow camp. The map showed not only contours-the terrain-but forest, colored pale green, with openings in white, and buildings shown as tiny squares. The trail they'd followed was marked by a curling line of tiny dashes. In Oregon the cattle would be untended, but here, he suspected, someone would be with them.
Sooner or later, someone would come across the truck and report it, hopefully only after several days. But it might already have happened. Then the SS would know in what area to look. That meant pushing on as fast as they could, faster than Edouard and Berta might think possible.
Dusk had begun to settle, and Macurdy ate with the others, though lightly, appeasing his surly stomach. He'd chosen the hard tough heel from each end of the loaf, along with a slice of cheese, taking small bites, chewing slowly and thoroughly.
Tomorrow was important. They had a long way to go. He could only hope no one would find the truck for a while.