Sig had hit the ground. He stared with incredulous horror at the blackened apparition still twisting in its deadly vise. Was the man still alive? No… No. It was the burning and the charring of his fire-bloated body that was causing the macabre dance of death. Had to be….
He turned away, unable to bear the sight.
Dirk came up to Sig. Spent, he sank down beside him, the smoldering rucksack at his side. For a moment they sat in silence — not looking at one another.
Gradually the fire died out. The searing heat was replaced by a sickening stench. Sig swallowed Hard. The stench flooded his nostrils with sweet nausea. It seeped into him through every pore. He turned to look at Dirk. His eyes were sandy.
His partner had opened the rucksack. He had the OSS radio in his hands and was staring at the head-set. One of the earphones had melted into a shapeless mass.
“It… it'll be okay,” he said tonelessly. He ran his fingers probingly over the set. “I had to save it,” he said. “Without it the mission would be a bust. We'd be dead.
Sig swallowed. Again.
“But — that man.” It was a whisper of horror.
Dirk shook his head dully. “It would have been no use,” he said, his voice flat. “We could not have freed him in time.”
“We — could have tried.”
Dirk looked at his friend. He spoke quietly.
“Sig. Never again say ‘We could have…’” He turned to stare at the smoking wreck. “That poor bastard was dead when I left him alone with my damned rucksack,” he said bitterly.
Sig glanced at him quickly.
“Dirk. I–I didn't mean…”
Dirk whirled on him savagely.
“Shut up!” he cried with sudden vehemence. “Just—shut up!”
Sig stared at him, ashen-faced. He understood.
He shut up.
They continued to sit there, each with his own grim thoughts.
Dirk looked bleakly at the charred rucksack. “This thing's no damned good,” he said. “Raise too many Kraut eyebrows lugging that around.” He frowned. “We'll have to find some other way to carry the radio and the rest of the stuff.”
“My rucksack,” Sig said. “It was thrown clear of the truck.” He looked up the slope. “I saw it on the way down.” He stook up “I'll get it.”
“Great.” Dirk started to get to his feet. “We've got to get the hell out of here.” He took a step — and stumble in pain. He looked down at his right foot.
“Shit!” he said with utter disgust. He tested the foot. It hurt like hell to put his weight on it “I've sprained the goddamned foot!”
He sat down. He touched his ankle. It felt puffy. He remembered: the race down the steep slope; the wrench as he caught his foot in the root, tumbling head over heels…
He considered his swollen ankle.
They were only halfway to Hechingen….
17
Below them, in the verdant Neckar Valley, peacefully nestled on the river, lay the picturesque little village of Oberndorf.
Dirk was sitting on the grassy bank of the shallow ditch running along the road shoulder. He looked drawn and sweaty.
Sig watched him with concern. It wasn't just the sun and exertion that made his teammate sweat, he thought; his ankle must hurt like the devil. If only one of the damned bikes had been usable…
He rubbed his shoulders. The straps of the heavy rucksack had been biting into his skin. His thoughts briefly went back to Major Rosenfeld and his damned obstacle course. It was for real now. This time the make-believe Mason jar was a real-life radio transmitter.
Dirk rubbed his ankle gently. He'd bound it up tightly with strips of cloth torn from the tail of his shirt. At least that support had made it possible to get this far. Dammit! Of all the fucking luck! And there'd been no traffic on the road; no chance to bum a ride again. It was only a light sprain, he realized, but he needed to rest the damned foot. With rest, the swelling and pain would probably subside, but not if he kept trudging all over the goddamned Kraut countryside. But they didn't have the time to rest….
He glanced at his watch, and looked at Sig.
“Two hours,” he said bitterly. “Six lousy miles in two hours!” He swore under his breath. “We've still got thirty or thirty-five miles to cover. We'll never make it this way.” He looked at Sig. “You know what we'll have to do?”
Sig nodded. “It's a risk.” He looked soberly at Dirk. “Will it work?”
“It had better.”
The Schrader farm lay east of Oberndorf on the far side of the river. The villagers had been most helpful with directions.
Sig and Dirk entered the farmyard. At a hand pump in front of the house, a young man was filling a wooden bucket. He glanced up at them — but continued his task. They walked over to him.
“Grüss Gott,” Sig said pleasantly “The Widow Schrader. Is she here?”
The young man hefted the filled bucket from the pump. “Frau im Haus,” he said, his German betraying his foreign origin. “Woman in house.” Carrying the bucket, he walked off toward a hen coop.
Sig and Dirk turned to the farmhouse. As they started for the door, it opened. An elderly woman, gray hair gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head, stood in the doorway. She held her work-scarred hands in front of her, folded across a soiled apron. She watched them approach.
“Frau Schrader?” Sig asked politely.
She eyed him. Then Dirk.
“Ja,” she said guardedly.
Sig shrugged out of the rucksack and placed it on the ground at his feet. “Gott sei dank!” he said fervently. “Thank God! It has been hard walking to get here, Frau Schrader.”
The woman's noncommittal mien did not change.
“And why are you here?” she asked.
“Ah — that is another story,” Sig said. He took a deep breath and launched into his explanation. “We come from the farmer Ludwig Brause, Frau Schrader. From Biberach. And a pretty distance that is. Ludwig would have come himself, but some important matters came up and prevented his leaving the farm. And so, he sent us.” He took a breath and went on. “We had a — a little mishap with our truck.” He pointed to Dirk's foot. “My friend hurt his foot. And we had to leave the truck to be repaired in Alpirsbach. We walked from there. We have come for the tractor.”
“Ach, ja,” the woman exclaimed. “The tractor.” She looked. at Dirk's foot. “You should not walk on this foot,” she admonished. “It will make it worse.”
“It is good now,” Dirk said. “We can ride the tractor back to the truck. It will be no trouble.”
The woman looked dubious.
“Perhaps so,” she allowed. “If the tractor will run. And if there is gasoline for it…”
Sig and Dirk exchanged glances.
“When was it last used?” Sig asked quickly.
The woman shrugged. “Not for some weeks now. My husband — God rest his soul! — was ill. And Adam, the Polish boy, he is a good boy, but he does not know how to drive the tractor.”
“We will look at this tractor,” Sig said. “Where is it kept?”
“No, no, no,” the woman said emphatically. “I cannot let you do that.” She looked down at Dirk's foot. “When I have done what can be done for this bad foot, then I will show you the tractor.”
“Thank you, Frau Schrader,” Dirk said quickly, “that is not necessary.”