The measured footsteps came closer.
Any second he expected to hear the sergeant bark the command to halt — and to feel the enemy's hand on his shoulder. The skin on his back crawled.
He stood rigid. And the footsteps passed. The crush of people at once let up.
He could feel himself shaking slightly, as after great exertion.
He turned to Marshall.
He was gone.
He looked around wildly before he caught himself.
Easy—
His mind raced.
What had happened? Had Marshall been pushed aside in the crush? Swept away — without being able to call out to him?
Where the hell was he?
Suddenly he heard loud, angry voices not far away. He turned — and froze.
Not twenty yards away stood Marshall, ashen-faced, frightened, surrounded by a group of Germans angrily shouting at him, brandishing their fists in outrage. Marshall was shaking his head desperately, gesticulating with his hands and frantically looking around for his comrade.
At once Kieffer was icily calm.
He started toward the knot of angry people.
And stopped short.
Interfering now would only make matters worse. Two men in outlandish uniforms would certainly arouse suspicion. They would both be lost.
Quickly he looked around.
A man ahead of him was just going through a door marked HERREN—Men.
At once he ducked in after the man.
The stranger was entering one of the small stalls.
Kieffer hurled himself against its door, sending the man sprawling over the yellowed porcelain bowl. In the same motion his right hand found and grabbed the gun in his shoulder holster. He whipped it out and dealt the man a crushing blow on the temple. Without a sound he collapsed.
Kieffer at once slipped into the stall with him and pulled the door shut.
He listened.
Someone came in and began to use the urinal.
Kieffer tore at his clothes. He ripped off his wool cap; he pulled his scarf from around his neck and wriggled out of his grubby mackinaw jacket.
He began to take off his paratrooper boots. It was incredibly cramped. He started to sweat. There was so little time….
He turned to the unconscious man. He wrestled the large raincoat from the limp body. Was he still alive? He pulled off the man's shoes and jammed his feet into them. They were too small — but he gave it no thought.
He struggled into the raincoat and grabbed the man's hat from the moist floor where it had fallen. He clamped it on his head.
Again he listened.
The man at the urinal was washing his hands. Someone else entered and made his way toward the stalls.
Kieffer waited until he heard the door to another compartment open, then he stepped out, closing the door to his stall behind him.
He moved quickly to the exit.
The man at the washstand paid him no heed.
Outside the WC his eyes went at once to Marshall. He was still there — obviously panic-stricken. Even as Kieffer watched, one of the angry Germans gave him a rough shove.
God, Kieffer prayed, as he hurriedly walked toward the group, don't fight back, Jerry! Don't!
As he strode toward the disturbance, he buttoned up his coat close to his chin and pulled the hat down on his head. He buried his hands in his pockets.
The thought struck him like lightning.
He was no longer in US uniform. He was in disguise — a spy.
And he reached the group.
Pushing the agitated Germans aside, he stepped up to Marshall. His hand shot out — and he grabbed his friend's arm, twisted it around to his back and yanked it upward with all his might.
Startled, Marshall cried out in pain. Tears welled in his eyes. His face twisted.
Kieffer glared at the suddenly silent Germans.
“Gestapo,” he growled. “What goes on here?”
With his hands busy holding the armlock on Marshall, he hoped no one would ask for any identification….
No one did.
A babble of irate explanations beat against him — anger mingled with wariness.
He listened for a moment, glowering at them. He let go of Marshall's arm with one hand, keeping his painful hold with the other.
He held up his free hand imperiously.
“Schon gut!” he said curtly. “Enough. We know what to do with him.”
Without waiting for any reaction, he began to march Marshall away.
The crowd parted for him.
No one followed.
Pedestrian traffic in the streets of Mayen was growing lighter. It was late. There were still little groups of grim people around a cart or bicycle being pushed down the street and heaped with household goods and bedding.
Marshall had only partly regained his composure.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ…”
He swallowed hard.
“I sure as hell thought I'd had it.” He looked pleadingly at Kieffer. “I didn't do nothing. What the hell did I do?”
“Why did you walk away from me?” Kieffer countered.
“I didn't. I swear I didn't. The damned fools pushed me away — trying to make room for those marching Heinies. I was on my way back to you. I stopped to look for you. But I didn't do nothing!”
“You did.” Kieffer grinned. “You stepped into a line waiting at a priority transportation center. They thought you'd bucked the line.”
“Je-sus Kee-rist,” Marshall whispered.
“At least you kept your head,” Kieffer said. “And kept your mouth shut. They thought you were a foreign laborer trying to beat them out of a chance to get away from the front.” He looked at Marshall. “They were ready to tear you apart.”
Marshall shook his head. “You sure took some chance— marching me off like that.”
“Hell, no,” Kieffer said. “If I'd thought there'd have been any risk, I'd have let you stew in your own juice. I just didn't think any of those noble travelers would want to lose their place in line, following us!”
“Thanks a heap, fella.” Marshall rubbed his shoulder. “You nearly pulled my damned arm out of its socket.”
“Had to, old buddy,” Kieffer said brightly. “It had to look good.” He glanced at Marshall. “And I didn't know how good an actor you were.”
He looked up at a metal sign on the side of a shrapnel-scarred house.
“Ostbahnhofstrasse,” he read. “Let's start looking.”
They started down the street.
Kieffer walked rapidly toward the nearest building entrance. He was acutely aware of one chilling fact. He no longer had the protection of his US uniform.
Capture now would mean death.
A most unpleasant one…
It was well past midnight when they finally gave up.
With typical Germanic orderliness, almost every residential building on Ostbahnhofstrasse had name plates listing the occupants in the entrance hall. But no Decker. Kieffer was getting worried. In just four hours they were committed to cross back into friendly territory.
Pedestrian traffic on the street had virtually disappeared. Only occasionally would someone hurriedly pass by. Kieffer felt increasingly conspicuous. It made him uneasy. Impatient.
He had a sudden crazy urge to get out in the middle of the street and shout at the top of his lungs: Hey, Decker! Where the hell are you? In times of stress he often let his mind flit to some such outrageous action. Never acted upon, these fantasies somehow helped put things in their proper perspective. He wondered if others had nutty reactions like that.
Okay, so shouting for Decker was hardly the thing to do. But — how the hell was he going to find the man?