“Coming, sir!” called a voice from down the corridor. There was a shuffle of running feet and a gray scalp-locked and extremely portly sergeant puffed into view.
“What will it be, sir?” he asked.
“Colonel Blick or any of the staff around?” questioned the colonel.
“No, sir,” said the sergeant. “They’re all upstairs celebrating.”
“Good!” said Harris. “Unlock the door, will you?”
“Anything you say, colonel,” said the old man agreeably and produced a large key from his pouch and fitted it into the lock. There was a slight creaking and the door swung open.
“Young Dixon here wants to escape,” said the colonel.
“It’s all right by me,” replied the sergeant, “though it’s going to be awkward when Colonel Blick asks what happened to him.”
“The lieutenant has a plan,” confided the colonel. “He’s going to overpower you and escape.”
“There’s more to it than just that!” said Kurt. “I’m figuring on swapping uniforms with you. That way I can walk right out through the front gate without anybody being the wiser.”
“That,” said the sergeant, slowly looking down at his sixty-three inch waist, “will take a heap of doing. You’re welcome to try though.”
“Let’s get on with it then,” said Kurt, winding up a roundhouse swing.
“If it’s all the same with you, lieutenant,” said the old sergeant, eyeing Kurt’s rocklike fist nervously, “I’d rather have the colonel do any overpowering that’s got to be done.”
Colonel Harris grinned and walked over to Wetzel.
“Ready?”
“Ready!”
Harris’ fist traveled a bare five inches and tapped Wetzel lightly on the chin.
“Oof!” grunted the sergeant cooperatively and staggered back to a point where he could collapse on the softest of the two cots.
The exchange of clothes was quickly effected. Except for the pants —which persisted in dropping down to Kurt’s ankles—and the war bonnet—which with equal persistence kept sliding down over his ears —he was ready to go. The pants problem was solved easily by stuffing a pillow inside them. This Kurt fondly believed made him look more like the rotund sergeant than ever. The garrison bonnet presented a more difficult problem, but he finally achieved a partial solution. By holding it up with his left hand and keeping the palm tightly pressed against his forehead, it should appear to the casual observer that he was walking engrossed in deep thought.
The first two hundred yards were easy. The corridor was deserted and he plodded confidently along, the great war bonnet wobbling sedately on his head in spite of his best efforts to keep it steady. When he finally reached the exit gate, he knocked on it firmly and called to the duty sergeant.
“Open up! It’s Wetzel.”
Unfortunately, just then he grew careless and let go of his headgear. As the door swung open, the great war bonnet swooped down over his ears and came to rest on his shoulders. The result was that where his head normally was there could be seen only a nest of weaving feathers. The duty sergeant’s jaw suddenly dropped as he got a good look at the strange figure that stood in the darkened corridor. And then with remarkable presence of mind he slammed the door shut in Kurt’s face and clicked the bolt.
“Sergeant of the guard!” he bawled. “Sergeant of the guard! There’s a thing in the corridor!”
“What kind of a thing?” inquired a sleepy voice from the guard room.
“A horrible kind of a thing with wiggling feathers where its head ought to be,” replied the sergeant.
“Get its name, rank, and serial number,” said the sleepy voice.
Kurt didn’t wait to hear any more. Disentangling himself from the head-dress with some difficulty, he hurled it aside and pelted back down the corridor.
Lieutenant Dixon wandered back into the cell with a crestfallen look on his face. Colonel Harris and the old sergeant were so deeply engrossed in a game of “rockets high” that they didn’t even see him at first. Kurt coughed and the colonel looked up.
“Change your mind?”
“No, sir,” said Kurt. “Something slipped.”
“What?” asked the colonel.
“Sergeant Wetzel’s war bonnet. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sank down on his bunk and buried his head in his hands.
“Excuse me,” said the sergeant apologetically, “but if the lieutenant’s through with my pants I’d like to have them back. There’s a draft in here.”
Kurt silently exchanged clothes and then moodily walked over to the grille that barred the window and stood looking out.
“Why not go upstairs to officers’ country and out that way?” suggested the sergeant, who hated the idea of being overpowered for nothing. “If you can get to the front gate without one of the staff spotting you, you can walk right out. The sentry never notices faces, he just checks for insignia.”
Kurt grabbed Sergeant Wetzel’s plump hand and wrung it warmly. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he stammered.
“Then it’s about time you learned,” said the colonel. “The usual practice in civilized battalions is to say ‘thank you.’ ”
“Thank you!” said Kurt.
“Quite all right,” said the sergeant. “Take the first stairway to your left. When you get to the top, turn left again and the corridor will take you straight to the exit.”
Kurt got safely to the top of the stairs and turned right. Three hundred feet later the corridor ended in a blank wall. A small passageway angled off to the left and he set off down it. It also came to a dead end in a small anteroom whose farther wall was occupied by a set of great bronze doors. He turned and started to retrace his steps. He had almost reached the main corridor when he heard angry voices sounding from it. He peeked cautiously around the corridor. His escape route was blocked by two officers engaged in acrimonious argument. Neither was too sober and the captain obviously wasn’t giving the major the respect that a field officer usually commanded.
“I don’t care what she said!” the captain shouted. “I saw her first.”
The major grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back against the wall. “It doesn’t matter who saw her first. You keep away from her or there’s going to be trouble!”
The captain’s face flushed with rage. With a snarl he tore off the major’s breechcloth and struck him in the face with it.
The major’s face grew hard and cold. He stepped back, clicked his calloused heels together, and bowed slightly.
“Axes or fists?”
“Axes,” snapped the captain.
“May I suggest the armory anteroom?” said the major formally. “We won’t be disturbed there.”
“As you wish, sir,” said the captain with equal formality. “Your breechcloth, sir.” The major donned it with dignity and they started down the hall toward Kurt. He turned and fled back down the corridor.
In a second he was back in the anteroom. Unless he did something quickly he was trapped. Two flaming torches were set in brackets on each side of the great bronze door. As flickering pools of shadow chased each other across the worn stone floor, Kurt searched desperately for some other way out. There was none. The only possible exit was through the bronze portals. The voices behind him grew louder. He ran forward, grabbed a projecting handle, and pulled. One door creaked open slightly and with a sigh of relief Kurt slipped inside.
There were no torches here. The great hall stood in half darkness, its only illumination the pale moonlight that streamed down through the arching skylight that formed the central ceiling. He stood for a moment in awe, impressed in spite of himself by the strange unfamiliar shapes that loomed before him in the half-darkness. He was suddenly brought back to reality by the sound of voices in the anteroom.