«You read the message and then sent the pigeon on,» Hubbard surmised.
«Naturally, Herr Lieutenant. It was too good a chance to miss.»
The Nazi tapped the desk with a pencil slowly, sizing up the man before him.
«You are sure you can’t help us? Who Grigsby really is? Where we might find him? What he looks like? If you could just remember a few of those things, it might be possible you could escape, get back to England.»
«I’ve never seen the man,» Hubbard shot back.
The Kommandant leaned across the desk.
«You are an American?»
Hubbard nodded.
«Why do you Americans fight us?» demanded the Nazi. «This isn’t your war. You have no right to meddle!»
«We don’t like the way you comb your hair,» said Hubbard easily. «We don’t like the way you treat your neighbors. Or keep your promises. We don’t like the way your little tin god thinks he can boss the world—»
«Stop!» shrieked the German, his face livid.
The American grinned at him.
«You insulted the Fuehrer!» screamed the officer.
«Let me get my hands on him,» promised Hubbard, «and I’ll do worse than that.»
The Kommandant leaped to his feet, his face purple.
«I could have you shot for that!» he screeched.
«You could—but you won’t,» retorted Hubbard. «Not for a while, anyway. You think I’m going to tell you something.»
«We have ways to make you talk,» barked the Nazi.
«That’s the trouble with you Krauts,» said Hubbard. «You think force will accomplish everything.»
The Kommandant screamed orders at the two guards by the door. The men came forward at a trot, reached out to seize Hubbard’s arms.
But as they reached him, the American’s fist rose from his side, traveled in a bone-crushing arc straight to the chin of the guard on the right. The impact cracked like a whip. The soldier skidded across the floor on his heels, crashed into a table and slumped to the floor.
The other guard smashed Hubbard on the head with his pistol butt.
Hubbard opened his eyes, found he was in semi-darkness. He lay on one of several bunks. No one else was in the room. Gingerly his fingers explored the lump on his head. He cursed, wincing with pain.
Presently his brain cleared. His eyes made out a wash basin and a bench.
A rickety table was propped against one wall. Otherwise the room was bare.
Light came through a small window, shoulder high and criss-crossed by iron bars. Hobnailed boots beat a sentry tramp outside the heavy oaken door.
«A guardhouse,» Hubbard said, half aloud. «Naturally.»
He got to his feet, his brain throbbing, and walked groggily to the window. Grasping the iron bars, he peered out.
The base apparently was on the site of a French farm, for just opposite the window was the farmhouse, with Nazi flyers lounging and smoking in the doorway. Here and there sentries slogged, with rifles carried smartly.
Planes marked with the swastika of Nazi Germany stood in lines on the hard-packed tarmac, mostly fighters, with a few bombers next to the heavy forest that enclosed the field.
Suddenly Hubbard’s fingers tightened on the bars and his breath caught in his throat. On the far side of the field, squatting wing to wing with several German ships, was a Defiant, its burnished metal gleaming in the rays of the noonday sun.
Shoulders slumped, Hubbard went back to the bunk and sat down. The Defiant, he knew, must be his own ship. But it had not occurred to him that it would be brought to this base.
It was understandable that an undamaged British plane would be of value to the Jerries, but hardly for flying purposes. Then why should the Defiant be out there on the field, with R.A.F. insignia still intact?
There was something fishy, too, about what had happened back there in the stubble field. Who had opened fire on the Jerries when they popped up out of the wheat shocks?
Footsteps sounded outside and a key grated in the lock. The door swung open on creaking hinges and an old Frenchman entered, carrying a pail.
Behind him, four-square in the doorway, stood a guard, sun glinting on a fixed bayonet.
The old man tottered forward. He wore a greasy beret that at one time had been blue. His blouse was dirty and torn and his trousers were patched. His wooden sabots clattered as he shuffled forward.
Carefully he set the pail down. But as he stooped over, with his back to the guard, he held his right hand in front of his chest, index and second finger extended to form a V, the expression on his face unchanging. Then he straightened up and clopped back to the door.
For a long moment, Hubbard sat on the bunk. When he went over to the pail, he found it held his dinner, about a pint of watery soup.
A flight of Nazi planes more than an hour before had roared off into the night. Now someone in the old French farmhouse was playing a piano and young voices bellowed out the words of a German song.
Bright moonlight filtered through the barred window and threw a checkerboard pattern on the floor. It was, Hubbard thought, a good night for bombing. Probably the English Channel towns were catching their share of punishment.
The clumping feet of the sentry went past the door and toward the other end of the courtyard.
Hubbard lay flat on his back in the bunk and stared up at the blackness of the ceiling. His mind seethed with thoughts but they got him nowhere.
Speculation about Grigsby, and the man who opened fire from the edge of the field. Wondering about the Defiant squatting out there on the field, about the old French peasant who had made the victory sign with his fingers.
His hopes flared at the thought of the old man, but as quickly died again.
What could one old man do to help him. That victory sign had been a courageous gesture, nothing more. Just the old man’s way of letting him know that he had a friend, that someone was sorry he was in a mess.
The piano tinkled to a stop. The footsteps came from further and further away. Mind tired out with his thoughts, Hubbard slept. Once the roar of returning planes roused him in the night, but he turned over and went back to sleep.
Then someone was shaking him, shaking insistently, and a voice was whispering—an urgent voice with a clipped British accent.
«Roll out, lad. There’s a job to do.»
Hubbard opened his eyes to the first gray light of dawn and the figure that stood over him. It was the old Frenchman, the one who had brought his soup, the one who had made a V with his fingers. But the old man was speaking English—with a British accent. The American sat up.
«Who are you?» he challenged.
«I am Grigsby,» the Frenchman chuckled.
«Grigsby!» Hubbard sputtered. «Grigsby!»
«Certainly, old chap.»
«But the guard?»
«The guard is dead,» said Grigsby.
«I thought the Jerries got you,» Hubbard declared confusedly.
«Not quite,» Grigsby grinned. «Almost, but not quite. Sometimes they aren’t so clever. I’ve lived with them here for months. But they’ll know soon. After this, they cannot help but know.»
The American stood up determinedly.
«All right, Grigsby. What’s the play.»
In wordless reply, Grigsby stooped over, picked something off the floor and handed it to Hubbard. The American curled his fingers around it lovingly.
«A tommy gun!»
Grigsby nodded. «Now listen closely. In five minutes things are going to start happening around here, and we don’t want any slip-up.»
«I’m listening.»
«Righto. You come with me and hide around the corner of this guardhouse. I’ll walk over to the nearest Stuka. Nobody will think it strange, they knew me around here. Most of them are asleep, anyhow. I’ll try to get a chance to climb in and man the gun. When you see I’ve done that, come running.»