How he had got back to the mainland side of the creek he could not imagine. No guard would have brought his presumably dead body there. Perhaps he had only dreamed that he had been carried for some distance, and his subconscious will to survive had given him the strength to stagger back through the screen of trees and, undetected owing to the confusion caused by the raid, get across the creek. Yet to have done that with a smashed leg seemed impossible.
For a time his pain-racked mind rejected the problem; then as the church spires in Peenemunde and Krцslin looked much alike, he decided that it must be that of the former, but from an angle at which he had not previously seen it.
Throughout the day there were long periods during which his mind blacked out entirely. During others he strove vainly through a mist of pain to think of steps he might take which would give him some chance of survival; for he felt certain that unless he could secure help, or somebody found him, he would die there.
Twilight came and, eventually, darkness. Hours afterward, as it seemed to him, he caught sight of the beam of a torch flickering among the trees. For a long time past hiss sufferings had been added to by a terrible thirst. Now, resigned to falling into the hands of the enemy as the only possibility of receiving relief, he called feebly for help.
Footsteps came hurrying towards him, then a voice that he did not recognize cried in German:
`Here he is! Bring along the coffin.'
As the man spoke he thrust both his hands under Gregory's shoulders and began to pull him up. The pain caused by his being lifted was so excruciating that he fainted.
When he came round he was submerged in complete darkness. Now his memory of previous events returned immediately. The man who had found him had called to someone else to bring a coffin. By feeling about with his hands he realized that he was lying in one; then, with a gasp of relief, that he had not yet been buried, for the coffin was jolting and evidently being taken somewhere.
Panic seized him. His having called for help had shown that he was not dead. Yet the fiends of the Gestapo were capable of anything. Perhaps they meant to lower him into a grave while still alive. Frantically, with clenched fists, ignoring the increase of pain it caused him, he began to hammer on the coffin lid and plead to be let out.
The coffin lid was not nailed down, so lifted a little as he pounded on it. But his cries were feeble and were not heard. His effort caused him to swoon, but he soon came round and frantic thoughts again seethed in his brain. Perhaps, since he id fainted when half-lifted, the man had thought that he was ready in extremis and had then died. If so, he was probably being taken to a cemetery for proper interment. But why could the Nazis trouble to do that with his body when, as the result of the bombing, they must have so many of their own dead to look to?
So far, during his periods of semi-consciousness, he had been thinking of himself as an Englishman and British agent. Now it occurred to him that he must still be wearing the uniform of a German Major, and there was no reason to suppose that the men who had found him should believe him to be anything else. If that were so they would regard him as one of their own casualties and, most probably, were about to give him a respectable burial. There was, then, still a chance that then they reached their journey's end he might get himself taken to hospital.
Hopes and fears continued alternately to agitate his bemused and. The rocking and jolting of the coffin had the same effects if someone were constantly pummeling his injured thigh and, crazed by pain, his mind wandered from the present to scenes of the past.
After what seemed an eternity the vehicle on which he was came to a standstill. He caught the sound of footsteps on boards near the coffin and the lid was taken off. Dimly he realized that was still night, for a torch was shone down into his face, blinding him. It had been very hot in the coffin and, as he felt he cool air on his face, he knew that it was damp with sweat; so he must be running a high fever. A hand was eased into his tunic to feel his heart, then a gruff voice said:
`Holy Virgin be praised! He has survived the journey.'
In normal circumstances he would have been certain that it was Kuporovitch who had spoken; but his last glimpse of his, friend had been in silhouette against the glare of the burning camp on Usedom, so he believed himself to be the victim of hallucination. His right arm was lifted. By the light of the torch he saw that the sleeve of his tunic had been cut away. He felt the jab of a hypodermic needle and in another few moments lapsed back into unconsciousness.
For a long while, each time he came out of his drug-induced stupor, he dimly realized that he was shouting in delirium, then the kindly needle sent him off again. When at last he opened -his eyes with a clear mind he gradually took in the fact that he was in bed in a vaulted stone-walled chamber. As he feebly raised a hand he heard a movement beside him, then Kuporovitch's face came into view above his.
`So, my poor friend, you are conscious once more,' murmured the Russian. `St. Nicholas and all the Saints be thanked. For the past week I have feared you would die, but now you will turn the corner.'
Gregory strove to reply but could only mumble and the excruciating pain again shot up from his thigh to his heart. Kuporovitch gently raised his head, gave him a soothing drink then, with another injection, sent him off.
During the three days that followed he awoke several times to lucid intervals,, his powers of comprehension increasing with each. On every occasion he found Kuporovitch beside him and gradually learned from him what had taken place after he great raid on the fatal 17th August.
His friend had heard his last shout, turned and seen him struck down by the falling tree. Only the Russian's great strength had enabled him to lift the splintered trunk from Gregory's body. Finding that he was still alive, Kuporovitch had carried him back up the road, then left it and entered the belt of trees that screened the interior of the island from the creek. The confusion resulting from the raid, and the fact that the arc lights had been switched off, had enabled him to get Gregory through the wire fence unobserved. By a dispensation of Providence it had been low water in the creek, so he had been able to cross it by the nearest ford. On his early reconnaissance of the mainland bank one of the places he had marked down as an emergency hideout had been a group of trees not, far from Krцslin. Almost exhausted, he had got Gregory there, then taken an hour to recover from his terrible exertions and consider their situation.
His first idea had been to walk into Wolgast and get help, but it had suddenly struck him that Gregory must have left his boat on the far side of the creek, so in the morning it, was certain to be discovered. Sooner or later the wireless would be found in it. When that happened the Germans would swiftly put two and two together. They would jump to it that Major Bodenstein and his servant, Janos Sabinov, had been spies and it was messages sent by them that had brought about the raid on Peenemьnde. The whole police network in northern Pomerania would then start buzzing like a hornets' nest with imperative orders to hunt them down and, if Gregory were in a hospital, he would promptly fall into the hands of the Gestapo. Yet with him lying at death's door it was-out of the question to remain in hiding and hope later to slip safely out of the district.
Kuporovitch had then decided that the only hope for Gregory was to leave him there and try to get help from Sassen; so, the better to conceal him from any passer-by, before setting off he had partially buried him.