They did not appear to notice that as each legionnaire was released he spent more time than usual in massaging life back to his painful limbs. Nor did they attach much importance to the fact that there was less talk than normal. Men facing death are not usually loquacious,
After nearly half an hour, the final rope was lifted away from the last wrist and ankle.
And one of the guards jerked his thumb towards the door.
By now that was a familiar signal. It meant that Sergeant Vogel and Legionnaire Keith Tragarth were to go through the normal process of collecting the morning rations. When they returned—and not a moment before—the others would be allowed out two at a time to visit the adjacent wash-house.
The guard, who was pock-marked, said to Keith and Vogeclass="underline" “You’ll have coffee today instead of water. And there’s a double issue of pemmican biscuits.”
Keith tried to appear casual as he asked: “Why the sudden charity?”
“It’s no charity,” the guard assured him with a humourless smile. “We’re building up your strength. We want all of you to be alive when the explosion comes.”
Keith did not answer. The pock-marked guard followed them as they moved out of the room. The five other guards stood against the wall, Lugers still held ready.
Like everything else in Fort Ney, the cookhouse was a dismally inadequate structure. It was a small square place situated between the bunk room and the officer’s quarters.
The water storage tank lay under the floor. Being fed by a natural artesian spring, it maintained a constant depth of rather more than nine feet. Access to it was gained by lifting one of the large flagstones.
A small oil stove stood against one wall and above it
.hung a miscellany of antiquated cast-iron cooking utensils. The rest of the space was taken up by deep shelves on which various dried foods were stored, several sacks of flour and chicory-laden coffee, and a small wood table.
Two tall pitchers in which water for immediate use was kept, stood in one corner.
The guard spat on the floor. Then, posting himself just inside the open door, he said: “We want coffee also. Make plenty of it. And make it fast.”
Keith thought: “The coffee’s a bit of luck. It gives us extra time… they’ll think we’re making it…”
While Vogel went to one of the coffee sacks, Keith picked up the stone pitchers. As was usual at that hour, one was empty and the other nearly so.
Keith crossed to the well flagstone. He prised up the rings in the centre. With an effort—for the stone was heavy—he lifted it clear.
Black water was revealed beneath.
Meantime Vogel had emptied coffee beans into a pan. He now turned his attention to one of the shelves. He took down a large lead-plated case. This contained the pemmican bisuits.
There was an air of resigned efficiency about their actions.
Until Vogel dropped the case.
It was not an abrupt drop. Rather did he let it slither out of his hands, so that one corner hit the floor without any considerable noise. The other corner fell on the stiff toe-cap of his left boot.
But Vogel gave out a gasping moan. He lifted his left foot and held it between his hands. Face contorted, he hopped round the floor.
The guard looked at him without sympathy.
“Fool! Pick it up and get on with your work.”
But Vogel did not do so. He leaned against the wall directly behind where Keith was kneeling and continued to moan softly.
“Be quiet! You’re not hurt!”
Vogel continued to ignore the guard. He had the appearance of a man battling with a severe injury.
The guard hesitated. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to put his head into the short corridor and call for one of the others. But instead he decided to investigate himself. Holding his pistol at waist level he took a pace towards Vogel.
“Let me see that foot.”
He was glaring down at the allegedly damaged limb.
Vogel detached a hand from it to make a shaking gesture.
“I’ve—I’ve broken a bone… I’m sure I’ve broken a bone. That box… it fell across my ankle.”
By now the guard was half convinced.
“Then get back to your bunk. You have one consolation—it won’t hurt you for long!”
He started for the door.
He intended to move backwards—so as to keep Vogel and Keith in sight. But before a man can progress in that fashion he has to be certain that his path is clear. Even as he took the first short step the guard felt compelled to glance quickly round.
It was precisely the moment for which Vogel had been waiting.
The Dutchman stopped nursing his foot. Suddenly he kicked with it—a vicious kick. The boot slapped into the crotch between the guard’s legs.
A violent blow in that area has an unusual temporary effect. It induces complete temporary paralysis of the entire body, including the vocal chords. But there is no immediate loss of consciousness. The recipient is aware of each figment of apalling agony without being able to give so much as a low moan.
For perhaps a couple of seconds the guard stood completely still, absolutely rigid. His eye-balls had rolled upward so that only the whites and the lower rim of each cornea showed. There was a barely detectable twitching of his cheeks.
This condition was due to last for less than half a minute. Then life would return to his motor nerves. He would let out a piercing scream—if he had the opportunity. He was not given the opportunity.
Vogel took hold of the limp gun hand. He inserted a finger behind the trigger before removing the weapon from the man’s grip. By this means he prevented any possibility of it being accidentally fired.
He glanced at the gun belt. It was a military type, with an ammunition pouch at the right hand side. But, as they had foreseen, there would not be time to remove this. Already the guard was producing a series of faint grunts. Any one of them might be heard by the others, less than five yards away.
Keith whispered: “Hurry! What are you waiting for?”
But the phlegmatic Vogel took his own time. He gripped the guard round the shoulders and waist. He half lifted, half pushed him backwards.
Like all the others, the guard was powerfully built and heavy. Even Vogel’s considerable strength would not have been enough to prevent him hitting the floor with a loud bump, if Keith’s kneeling body had not been in the way.
As it was, he fell silently across Keith’s back.
Keith squirmed free of the burden. Then, with the guard stretched near the edge of the water tank, Vogel carefully reversed the Luger, so that he was holding the barrel. He took careful aim, then tapped the man’s forehead with the heavy butt. It was not a hard blow—a hard blow might have been noisy. But it was sufficient to stop the grunting by producing complete unconsciousness.
Both Keith and Vogel were sweating hard. But they worked as if doing a drill.
Vogel pocketed two clips of spare ammunition.
Keith took up the pitchers, filled them to the brim. Then he concealed them behind the oil stove.
They froze still as they heard a cough. It came from the bunk room. Then a mumble of gutteral voices. The guards were talking. Maybe they were becoming impatient.
Now the worst moment of all.
For a moment they stood on either side of the prostrate body, looking at each other. Keith had to fight against a sickening revulsion. But they gained strength from each other’s presence.
They bent down. Slowly they dragged the guard so that his head hung over the water tank. Then they pushed.
The senseless man slid face first into the deep, dark water. He did so slowly, and there was scarcely a splash.
As the water closed over him, a circle of air bubbles rose and plopped on the surface. Then there was nothing —nothing to suggest that a man was dying nine feet below.