The words were still somewhat monotone; his mind was functioning at maybe fifty percent, Macurdy thought. He switched to English, too. "Morrill's your partner?"
Von Lutzow barely nodded, probably because his head hurt. "Cavalieri will get him out; I'd bet a month's pay on it. And he's got the medic with him." Macurdy stood. "Sit up, captain," he said. "Let's see if I can do anything for your headache."
Von Lutzow sat up and Macurdy knelt behind him, putting a hand on each side of the spy's head, holding them there for long seconds, frowning slightly, then moved one to the forehead on the other opposite. After another ten seconds he asked, "How's that feel?"
Von Lutzow's jaw had sagged slightly. "The headache's not half what it was!"
"Good." Macurdy removed one hand, while the fingers of the other traced lines in the space immediately above Von Lutzow's bandaged scalp. This continued for perhaps half a minute, then he worked his fingers gently down the spine, pausing here and there while his fingertips wove patterns, shifting threads of energy. Von Lutzow only blinked. Finally Macurdy sat back. "How's the scalp?"
"Tingles like a son of a bitch, but the burning's gone. The headache too, now." Von Lutzow's monotone had been replaced by thoughtfulness.
A nearby voice commented, with an accent that reminded Macurdy of the Saari brothers. "My mother would love to watch you, sarge," Luoma said. "She's always talking about stuff her grandma did like that, back in the old country."
Other eyes had watched, too, and other ears had listened. They'd known and liked the fact that their sergeant was different, peculiar, but this healing business was new to them. Macurdy stood up. "Time to move," he said. "On your feet."
They got up, Von Lutzow rising without help, and Macurdy led off, westward along the broad crest.
Over the next three hours, Macurdy pretty much observed the standard breaks-ten minutes on the hour. On that basis, troopers with full field gear could push fifty miles in twelve hours, on a road. But these guys had been on patrol all afternoon before coming out on this mission. And the German trucks had returned up the ravine and up the hill; the danger seemed over. At least until daylight, when Messerschmitts might come hunting them. Besides, the moon had climbed higher, shortening the shadows. So Macurdy had set no watch on this break. Men dozed, and his own lids too slipped shut. The ground was hard and stony, and like the night, cold. At worst he wouldn't sleep longer than a few minutes.
The same sound wakened them all, a quiet voice perhaps 120,150 feet away, speaking German, ordering, "Take a break. Pass it on. " Other voices repeated it at intervals in both directions.
None of the six Americans moved. They occupied an area not twenty feet across. "Come to me," Macurdy murmured softly. "On your bellies. Now." They did, wondering, until all of them would have fitted under an eight-foot-square tarp. But it wasn't a tarp Macurdy planned to cover them with. This time his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Take out your.45s, but no one move or shoot unless I say so, or I'll see your ass on a fence post. Just lay still. They won't see us as long as you keep quiet." He chuckled softly, deliberately. "Trust me; me and my Aunt Varia. If you pray, do it under your breath. God'll hear you."
Then he spread his cloaking spell to cover them, using his hands because he'd never spread it over an area before. How long had he dozed? he wondered. Surely not more than ten minutes. And what were Germans doing up there? Looking for them, obviously; but why there?
It seemed to him he knew: The feldgrau, the Germans, had found the chutes; obviously American paratroopers had taken the spies. And where would they have gone with them? Unless they were hiding near the plane, they'd have gone in a westerly direction, toward the American outposts, probably following the road. So the German commander had sent three truckloads of men after them, commanded by a junior officer.
But after a few miles, having found no one, they'd look at other options. The Americans might have left the road and followed the crest, which after the road gave the best hiking. So the trucks had returned empty, and the feldgrau were working their way back on foot. It was a low percentage sort of action, done so they could say they'd covered all the prospects. They didn't really expect to find anyone.
Apparently the German breaks were ten minutes long, too; that's how long it was before a voice said in German, "On your feet," then after a moment, "move out. And stay alert!"
Macurdy lay on his side, the heavy Colt in his fist, thumb on the half-cocked hammer. His M1 lay on the ground beside him. If it came down to it, he'd empty the Colt at whatever targets offered themselves, then pick up the rifle. The Germans approached, more than half a dozen he could see. By their helmets and coveralls, they were Fallschirmjager-German paratroops. With submachine guns.
One of the Germans was coming directly toward them, scanning from side to side. Unless he changed course, he'd walk right into them. Macurdy stared as the man approached, to 20 feet, 10, 5. As he passed, the German's toe struck Macurdy's booted foot, and he stumbled. "Verdammter Felsen!"he muttered, cursing the outcrop he imagined had tripped him, and continued walking, peering about.
You could have cut the tension with a knife; Macurdy wondered the German hadn't sensed it. No one spoke or got up until, supported by an elbow, Macurdy could no longer see the Germans. "All right," he murmured, "sit up if you want, but stay quiet."
"Jesus Christ, sarge!" Williams murmured, "that was the goddamnedest thing I ever heard of. Scared me out of five years growth! I don't know which was the spookiest, you or the damned krauts. And fallschirmjager, for chrissake! That would have been a fight!"
"Thank your ass it wasn't," Macurdy growled.
Luoma chuckled. "With you around, sarge," he said quietly, "I don't worry too much."
Macurdy grunted. If the Germans had spotted them, all the magic he'd ever seen or heard of wouldn't have meant a thing when the Schmeissers started spewing 9mm slugs at seven or eight per second each.
With the pale light of dawn, Macurdy led them into a side draw, where there was cover-coarse brush and some small trees. There they ate a K ration each, then most lit up cigarettes, Macurdy lighting Von Lutzow's with a finger. After that they made themselves as comfortable as they could, and settled down for a few hours of restless sleep. Only Macurdy slept warm. He awoke once to the sound of a plane, flying fast and fairly low, to pass without showing itself, hidden by a ridge. One of Cochran's P40s, he decided. Not a Messerschmitt or the twin-engined P38s, or the Junkers they saw and heard from time to time. He could hear the difference.
Toward noon, with so little air activity he led them down to the road. They could travel faster, and there was intermittent tree cover along its edge. Several more times during the day they heard fighters, and once a P40 streaked overhead. An overcast developed, then thickened. Toward evening it began to drizzle, and they paused to put on their ponchos. Macurdy offered his to Von Lutzow, who refused it.
"Take it," Macurdy ordered. "It's my fault I didn't bring an extra, and anyway, I don't get cold."
Von Lutzow peered at him with interest. "What do you mean, you don't get cold?"
"Remember how I warmed you before we left the plane last night? I stay as warm as I want. My Aunt Varia's a witch; she taught me."
Von Lutzow half grinned, uncertain whether he was being put on, and accepted the poncho.
Dusk was thickening when the road reached a larger ravine, this one with trees numerous along the roadsides. Macurdy turned left and they kept hiking. The drizzle had charged to a light but steady rain. With no poncho, he was wet to the skin, and water trickled down the ponchos of the others. Von Lutzow had held up well-his conditioning was obviously excellent but they were due for more than a ten-minute rest. At the next break, he told himself, they'd stop for a couple of hours.