Colonel von Sprecht gave no indication of understanding what the commander was saying. What if Tensing had been wrong, and he didn’t speak English? But when the commander asked, “Do you understand, Colonel?” he said, with only a trace of a German accent, “I understand very well.” He drew himself up as he spoke, but the guards nearly had to carry him out to the car. He didn’t look strong enough to survive the journey by car, let alone the sea voyage, and apparently Cess was thinking the same thing.
“What if he dies along the way?” he whispered as the guards put the colonel into the backseat.
Cess and Ernest climbed in. Ernest started the car and then adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could see the colonel. He had leaned back against the rear seat, and his eyes were shut.
And if he stays like that the whole way, this scheme will have been for nothing, Ernest thought, driving south to Swindon, glancing occasionally in the mirror at the colonel. His eyes were still closed. Ernest drove into the town, feeling suddenly nervous. If there was even one signboard saying this was Swindon …
But Cess’s fears about the Americans having put up signs were unfounded, and the Home Guard or whoever had been in charge of taking down the signposts at the beginning of the war had done a thorough job. There was no name on the railway station and not even an arrow pointing to “Town Centre.”
“This is Brede, right?” Cess asked, looking at the map. When Ernest nodded, he said, “At the next turning, you go north to Horns Cross and take the Oxney Road to Beckley.”
“Shh. What if the colonel hears you?” Ernest said in a stage whisper.
“Don’t worry, he’s asleep,” Cess said, glancing back at him. “I don’t suppose we can stop in Nounsley, can we?”
“Why?”
“I know a girl there. A Wren. Name of Betty. She’s General Patton’s driver.”
“I thought Patton’s headquarters were in Essex. In Chelmsford.”
“They are, but she’s billeted in Nounsley, and she has a very understanding landlady. What do you say?”
“No,” Ernest said. “We can’t stop in Nounsley. Or Dover. You know our orders are to take the prisoner straight to London and hand him over to the War Ministry—”
“Shh,” Cess said, jabbing a thumb toward the backseat. “He’s awake.”
Ernest glanced over his shoulder and then called back to him, “Colonel von Sprecht, are you comfortable back there?”
“Yes. Thank you,” the colonel said.
“If you need anything, sir, just ask. Our orders are to take good care of you.”
“Would you like some tea?” Cess held up their thermos.
“No, thank you.”
“A cigarette?”
“No,” he said curtly, but at least he was awake and looking at what they’d brought him this way to see: fields full of tents and army vehicles and equipment. Ernest had been worried about their being able to stay on the prescribed route without the aid of signposts, but it wouldn’t matter which road they took. Every one they passed, even narrow country lanes, was lined with Quonset huts or Jeeps parked bumper to bumper or mobile anti-aircraft guns. One of the pastures was crisscrossed with tank tracks just like the ones they’d so carefully made in that pasture. Only the tanks half hidden under the trees at the far end weren’t inflated rubber—they were the real thing. And so were the huge pyramids of oil drums and stacks of ammunition boxes farther on.
But when Ernest glanced in the mirror, the colonel’s eyes were closed again. They shouldn’t have brought such a comfortable car. “Colonel von Sprecht,” he called, “are you warm enough back there? Would you like a rug?”
“No,” he said without opening his eyes.
“It’s rather cold for May,” Ernest said, and when the colonel didn’t answer, Cess asked, “Do you have this sort of weather in Germany?” Still no answer.
“What part of Germany do you come from?” Ernest asked, and the colonel began to snore.
You can’t fall asleep, Ernest thought. We’re doing this for your benefit. He drove into a large mud hole, but even the jolt didn’t wake the colonel. Stopping would, but every field they passed was full of soldiers—drilling in formation, doing calisthenics, loading supplies, standing in line outside mess tents. One of them was bound to come over and ask them if they needed directions, so Ernest had no choice but to keep driving. Straight past everything the sleeping colonel was supposed to be to come over and ask them if they needed directions, so Ernest had no choice but to keep driving. Straight past everything the sleeping colonel was supposed to be seeing.
There was a village up ahead. Good. If there’s a garage there, I’ll stop for gas, he thought, but there wasn’t one on the village’s single street, and just ahead was, oh, Christ, a signpost. He wasn’t close enough to read it, but he could make out letters and arrows pointing in opposite directions. And there was no side lane he could turn off onto.
He glanced in the rear-vision mirror, hoping to God the colonel was still asleep. He wasn’t. And in a minute he’d see the signpost. “Look!” Ernest said, pointing off to the other side of the road. “Parachutists!”
“Where?” Cess said. He leaned across him to look, and the colonel followed his gaze.
“There,” Ernest said, pointing at nothing. “I hear the Americans are planning to land twenty thousand parachutists in the Pas de Calais area the night before they invade,” and while Cess and the colonel were gawking at the sky, he shot past the signpost.
He needn’t have panicked. Next to one arrow it read, “Berlin” and next to the other, “Good Old USA.”
He almost wished the colonel’d seen it, but when he glanced back, his eyes were closed again.
Ernest drove on another mile and then pulled the car to a jolting stop opposite an aeroplane-filled field. “I don’t think this is the right road,” he said. “We passed these planes before.”
“No, these are Hurricanes,” Cess said. “The ones before were Tempests.”
“No, they weren’t. I think we should have turned left at that last crossroads.” When Cess still didn’t catch on, he said, “We’re lost.”
“Oh,” Cess said, the light dawning. “No, this is the right road.” He opened the map out. “Look, here’s where we are. We came through Newchurch, and Hawkinge’s that way.”
“Here, let me see the map,” Ernest said, snatching it away from him and holding it so the colonel could see it. “Where did you say we are?”
“Here, just north of Newchurch,” Cess said, pointing. “See, here’s Gravesend, where we picked the colonel up. We came across to Beckley and then took the Oxney Road.”
Ernest sneaked a glance in the mirror. The colonel was looking intently at the map as Cess traced their route.
“And this is the road we’re on now. It takes us through Dover, and then we take the Old Kent Road to London.”
“You’re right,” Ernest said. He started the car and yanked on the gear stick. The gears ground. He jiggled the knob back and forth, trying to get it to shift, and it finally slid into reverse. He backed the car out onto the road and went on, past more camps and storage dumps and so many airfields he lost count, full of P-51s and DC-3s parked wingtip to wingtip.
“Good Lord, will you look at all this?” Cess said, sounding awed, and Ernest wasn’t sure that that was just for the colonel’s benefit. He’d known the D-Day invasion had been a massive project, but the sheer magnitude of the undertaking was impossible to get one’s mind around—thousands upon thousands of planes, tanks, and trucks, and tons of equipment.