would promptly have abandoned any such idea once the soldier got the
motorcycle and sidecar rolling down the street. The German acted little
short of a madman. He streaked along like a bolt of lightning and took
corners on one wheel. A dozen times, had not Dave grabbed frantically
for support, he would have been bounced out on his head to meet with
serious injury. It was an even wilder ride than he and Freddy had taken
through the blazing bomb-blasted streets of Dunkirk just a few short
months before.[2]
[Footnote 2: _Dave Dawson at Dunkirk._]
After a two mile ride that brought them straight into the heart of the
city, the German braked to a screaming stop in front of a long
flat-roofed building. A glance at it indicated that it had probably been
used as a storehouse before the outbreak of war. In a way, as Dave
learned a few minutes later, it was still being used as a storehouse, a
storehouse for civilian prisoners taken by the Nazi troops occupying
the city!
The soldier marched him in through the front door and past two
giant-sized guards. The guards grinned at the soldier and raised their
eyebrows questioningly. The soldier laughed harshly and nodded.
"Caught him trying to sneak through the forbidden area," the soldier
said, and jerked his head at Dave. "Where is Sergeant Mueller? My
corporal says that he will be in later to make a report."
One of the guards pointed at a door on the left.
"In there, and probably sleeping," he said with a mirthless chuckle. "Go
and see him, and leave your little playmate with us. We will see that he
has the best of care, eh, Hans?"
The other guard laughed and nodded his head vigorously.
"The very best, of course!" he cried. "We shall let him go and talk with
some of his friends. Come along, you!"
A big hairy hand shot out and fingers of steel were curled around Dave's
arm. He was almost jerked off his feet as the guard yanked him forward.
He kept his balance, however, and was led to the far end of the short
corridor into which they had entered. There the guard stopped, gave Dave
a warning look, and took a ring of keys from his pocket. He selected a
key and opened the door in front of him. Then, faster than moving light,
he spun around and hit Dave across the back of the neck.
Stars flared up in Dave's brain, and he saw a sea of blurred faces as he
went stumbling through the open door. He fell down a short flight of
steps and landed hard on his hands and knees on a rough board floor. For
a moment he stayed where he was, waiting for his head to clear. Then the
hushed murmur of many voices and a cloying cloud of countless human
smells brought his head up and made him get to his feet. He found
himself in a huge, long room that contained at least a hundred others in
as pitiful looking state as himself.
"There's another one of your comrades!" he heard the guard shout just
before he slammed the door.
For a moment or two the hundred pairs of eyes searched Dave's face, and
his heart ached as he realized why they were doing so. Here was a
storehouse filled with war's driftwood, helpless refugees whose
families had been either crushed or broken up by the onward rushing
machine of war. Each man there was now searching his face and hoping in
his heart to recognize a long lost brother, or father, or some other
male relative.
Presently though, they dropped their eyes and went on with whatever they
had been doing before he had been hurled into their midst. Nobody made
any effort to speak to him, and he understood why. They were not
shunning him, or anything like that. They were simply letting him alone
with his own sorrows, as they wished to be let alone with theirs. What
could they speak about, anyway? Each man's story was the same. There was
no real difference. Each had been caught up in the toils of war--and
here he was.
Dave swallowed the bitterness that rose in his throat and went over and
sat down on a long row of hard wood benches that ran along one side of
the wall. An old man sitting there, staring unseeingly at the floor,
didn't so much as raise his eyes as Dave sat down. Save for the slight
movement of his chest, caused by his breathing, he could have been a man
dead. Perhaps in a way he was dead, too. His spirit had been killed by
the Germans. Only the physical side of his body remained alive.
Dave flashed him a sympathetic glance, started to speak, but thought
better of it. After all, what was there that even _he_ could say?
Certainly nothing that could give good cheer and heart to this poor old
man. Then he thought of the case of emergency food still strapped in
place about his waist, and his hand moved impulsively toward the inside
of his shirt. He checked the movement, however. The old man looked half
starved, but so did everybody else in the place. To take out his
specially prepared emergency rations would start a riot, at least.
Then, too--and he felt a little ashamed as he thought of it--there was
the matter of his own welfare. In a roundabout way he was fighting for
these poor helpless derelicts of war, and for that reason among others
he was forced to think of himself first. Right now he was in a tough
spot. He was locked up in a Nazi detention prison. Perhaps fate had
laughed in Freddy's face, too. Perhaps right now he also was eating his
heart out in some other prison nearby. Yes, Dave was a Nazi prisoner,
and he didn't dare even think of what would happen if he were
exposed--if, for example, he were searched and his secret supply of food
discovered, or the small compass, and pocket knife, and one or two other
little things he had brought along just in case.
Each little article could well mean a short and snappy trial, and then a
firing squad. He wasn't a civilian now, as he had been the last time he
and Freddy had fallen into German hands. He was a commissioned Pilot
Officer in the Royal Air Force. And what was even more important, right
now he was a spy, if ever there had been a spy.
And all of that added up to just one thing. He must get out of this
place at all costs, and as soon as possible. It was no use now ranting
at himself for not having thrown the incriminating articles away before
entering the outskirts of the city. Too late for that, now. The main and
important thing to concentrate his brain upon was how and when he was
going to escape from this place.
He lifted his head and stared about. There were plenty of windows, but
they were a good twelve feet from the floor. There were three doors at
the rear of the place, but he couldn't see them very well because of the
other refugees in the way. He was certain, however, that they must be
securely locked or barred. The thought added to his misery, and he
groaned aloud.
"It is of no use to complain, my son, even to oneself," a kindly yet sad
voice said at his elbow. "It only adds to one's misery."
Dave turned to see watery blue eyes fixed upon him. The old man who had
not moved a muscle as he sat down was now turned around and looking at
him out of watery blue eyes that held a wealth of sympathy and a world
of sorrow in their depths. Dave smiled and shrugged.
"I will try to get used to it," he said. Then, with a little wave of his
hand, he asked, "They have been here long? And why are they here?"
The old man sighed heavily and shook his head.
"Some a day," he said. "Some a week or two. And some, like myself, for
many months. Why are we here, you ask? For a thousand different reasons.
Yet all the same. We are of no use to the Germans who have captured our
beautiful city and driven us from our homes. We are only in their way.
My son, look at me."
"I am looking at you, sir," Dave said and felt uncomfortable.
"And what do you see?" the other asked with bitterness in his voice.
"An old man. An old, tired, and broken man. Yet, would you believe it,
just a year ago I owned one of the finest perfume businesses in Antwerp.
Yes, in all Belgium. I was a very rich man. And now, I am a broken old
man."
"But there must be some way of getting out of this place," Dave said,
and fought to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "There are only a few
guards. And--and you could hide out some place in the city."
The old man smiled as though Dave were a little child asking questions
about Santa Claus. He reached out a withered hand and patted Dave on the
knee.
"We stay here because there is no other place to go," he said in a
patient voice. "They at least give us a little food. No, it is not hard
to get out of here. Those doors at the rear are not very strong. They
could be knocked down without much trouble. But what then? All Antwerp
is watched by the Nazis. Could we go to a friend's house? No. He would
not dare let us in. Could we find food? No. The Germans have control
over everything. They claim they are protecting us, but they are really
breaking our spirits, and our bodies. It is all a part of their system.
Escape? Of course. But it would be only a matter of hours before one
would be caught--caught and shot down in the street like a mad dog. No,
my son, I stay here and try to make the best of it. They may kill me,
yes, but I shall not give them the satisfaction of my having them forced
to do it."
A lump rose in Dave's throat, and near tears were hot against the backs
of his eyeballs. He wanted to put his arm about the old man and do what
he could to comfort him. But he feared to attract attention. The old
man, and the other poor devils, were resigned to their fate. But not he.
He knew now that Lady Luck was still hovering close. Escape was
possible. Escape was easy, so it seemed. Escape would be his next bit of
action. And, please God, the chance to act would come soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Flight From Nazi Guns_
How many hours had passed since he had been pitched headlong into this
storehouse of unspeakable human misery? Dave asked himself that question
for the umpteenth time as he stared at daylight fading beyond the row of
windows so far out of reach. In his saner moments he realized the hours
couldn't total more than ten or twelve, but the high tension ordeal of
living those hours seemed now to make them total a hundred at least.
Twelve hours of waiting, with every nerve and every muscle of his body
on fire. Each time the door had opened, and the face of one of those big
guards had appeared, his heart had turned to a chunk of ice in his
chest for fear that he was to be summoned for further examination. Right
after his short talk with the old man, he had wandered about the place,
and when no eye was turned his way he had one by one rid himself of the
emergency articles he had brought along. He had tossed them in a dark
corner, or stuffed them under a bench--any place, just so that he got
rid of them.
However, he had not parted with his little case of emergency rations.
That he had kept strapped in place inside his shirt. The knowledge that
it was there was a curse as well as a balm. If he was searched, the
discovery of those emergency rations might be as bad for him as the
Germans finding a couple of rifles and a machine gun stuffed down inside
his pants. As a matter of fact, a hundred times he had come within an
ace of definitely doing something about that ration case. Each time,
though, something had stayed his fingers; something had prevented him
from throwing his food supply away.
At any rate, he had hung onto it, and so each time a guard had opened
the door his heart had stood still and the sweat of fear had oozed out
on his forehead. By good luck, or otherwise, the visits of the guard
had meant nothing of importance. Once it had been to toss rank-smelling
loaves of bread at the starving throng, and to fill the huge water
buckets at one end of the room. The other visits had obviously been only
to see that the prisoners were still there, and were not rioting among
themselves.
During those long torturing hours Dave had spoken with a few of the
other imprisoned refugees. Their spirits had been no higher than that of
the old man. They were there for begging, for wandering about the
streets after dark, for not getting out of the way of some strutting
German officer in time, and for a hundred other utterly ridiculous
reasons. They were there because they were of no use and were in the way
of Nazi domination and oppression. What would happen to them they did
not know. And most of them did not care. Life for them was ended--and
they were spirit-whipped enough to let it go at that.
As Dave stopped staring at the fading twilight through the windows, and
lowered his gaze to the silent mass of broken men about him, he grimly
pledged anew to give his very all, if necessary, to rid the world once
and forever of such a system of living as Adolf Hitler and his
crackedbrained cohorts were striving to force upon all mankind. As long
as there was an ounce of strength in his body, or a drop of blood in his
veins, he would fight on to undo all the evil wrought and make the world
a better place for the millions yet unborn.
Presently he got slowly to his feet and started shuffling along the wall
as though he were going for a drink of water from one of the buckets. A
drink of water, however, was one thought not even in his mind. The water
buckets were near the three rear doors, and during the long hours of
waiting he had covertly examined those doors many times. The old man had
been indeed right. They were not at all strong. The locks were so rusted
and worn with age, and the hinges, too, that they would fall apart in
pieces from a single sharp blow.
But what lay beyond those doors? Bit by bit he had found that out, too,
by an innocent question here, and an innocent question there, spoken so
as not to arouse the slightest bit of curiosity. If his attempt to
escape was to be successful it depended upon no one even suspecting that
he was going to try. He had to surprise the refugees as well as the
guards. And so he had been very careful about the questions he asked.
He had learned that in back were low-roofed lumber sheds, though the
lumber had long since been carted away to Germany. Some one hundred
yards beyond the sheds was swamp ground that led down to the edge of the
Scheldt River. To the right and to the left of the sheds were the poorer
sections of the city, deserted now, blasted by bombs in the beginning,
and seldom patrolled by the Germans. That knowledge had boosted his
hopes high. It was almost as though Lady Luck, herself, had planned it
to be that way.
Halfway to those rear doors, Dave caught sight of the old man with the
watery blue eyes. The poor old fellow was trying to stretch out on one
of the benches rather than suffer the cold of the floor as most of the
others were doing, for there were no cots or anything like that. Seeing
that old man was like a knife stabbing Dave's heart. He knew that he was
foolish to do so, but he did it just the same. He slipped a hand, inside
his shirt, took one of the specially prepared chocolate bars from his
ration case, and palmed it in his hand.
Then he moved over close to the old man. Watery blue eyes stared up at
him, and thin lips made an effort to smile.
"It is not a comfortable bed, my son," the old fellow said in an
apologetic voice, "but you will find it less cold than trying to sleep
on the floor."
Dave smiled and leaned over so that his body hid his hand from the
others. Quickly he slipped the bar of chocolate into a pocket of the old
man's tattered coat. He frowned sharply as questions lighted up the
watery blue eyes.
"Don't move!" he said in a low whisper. "When you can see me no more,
put your hand in your pocket. But do not let the others see you do it.
Good luck, my old one."
Before the old man could speak, Dave had straightened up and moved away.
In another few seconds he was some ten feet in front of the center one
of the three doors. Fading twilight seeped through the cracks--the
fading twilight of freedom outside. Dave steeled himself and sucked air
into his lungs. For a sharp instant panic overcame him, and his whole
body trembled. He beat down his terror, took a quick look around, and
then lunged straight for the door. He crashed against it half bent over,
shoulders bunched, like an All-American halfback blocking out a
particularly dangerous tackler.
The aged door groaned and creaked in protest, and for one horrible
moment Dave feared that it would not give way. He had charged it with
battering ram force, however. The hinges snapped off, the door sagged,
and then it split straight down the middle and went crashing down onto
the ground outside. Dave tripped over something and fell sprawling, but
he bounced up like a rubber ball and pinned wings to his feet.
Behind him a bedlam of sound broke out. The startled cries of the
refugees seemed to pour out through the broken door like flood waters
pouring through a broken dam. Dave thought he heard a wild hoarse
challenge to halt hurled after him. A split second later the sharp bark
of a rifle shot cut above the babble of voices, and something whined
past just a little bit above his head. Still crouched over, he darted
quickly to the side and sped around the corner of the nearest lumber
shed. Halfway down its length, he saw a spot where some of the boards
had fallen away, leaving an opening. He swerved and ducked through
inside. Slowing his pace a trifle, he cut directly across the floor of
the shed and wriggled out through an opening on the other side.
He pulled up to a halt, hugged the shadow cast by the shed and strained
his ears. He heard angry voices on the other side of the shed, and the
unmistakable sound of pounding feet. He grinned and silently
congratulated himself. It had certainly been a bright idea to duck
inside the shed. The Germans chasing after him had missed the opening
completely and were racing down toward the swamp.
He didn't linger long, though, to congratulate himself on his
cleverness. As soon as he got his second wind, he started cutting across
lots, hugging the shadows until the lumber sheds were far behind him and
he was scurrying along the dark and smelly streets of the deserted poor
section of the city. He sneaked along for two or three blocks, then
ducked into the pitch dark entrance of a building and paused to rest.
His breath was like fire in his lungs, and every square inch of his body
was drenched with sweat. But he grinned happily and his heart sang a
song of joy.
"Score one for the good old R.A.F. over Hitler's lads!" he chuckled to
himself. "Right through the old line, and how. Boy, what a sensation I'd
be in a Rose Bowl game!"
He chuckled a bit more and then snorted at himself.
"Sure, you're a wonderful guy," he grunted derisively. "But you can
thank your lucky stars that door was weak. And--"
He cut the rest off short and pulled back deeper into the dark doorway.
From up the street came the familiar sound of hobnailed boots on the
cobblestones. A second later a harsh order in German hit the early night
air.
"Take both sides of the street! Search every house. If you see him,
shoot! Shoot on sight! Hurry up!"
Dave gulped and caught his breath. He didn't have to have anybody write
him a letter to explain that the Nazi patrols were making a house to
house search. Not a bit of it. Perhaps this section wasn't patrolled
regularly, but it was most certainly being patrolled now. A grim little
game of hide and seek, and one Dave Dawson was _it_!
He inched forward cautiously and peered around the corner of the
building entrance. Some sixty yards up the street were the dim shapes
of a dozen or so Nazi soldiers. Each man carried one of those deadly
short-barreled rifles which had proved so effective in skirmishing
operations. In the center of the street stood an officer. He had drawn
his Luger and was waving it around as he barked orders at his men.
One look was enough for Dave. He saw all he wanted to see. He ducked
back and slipped inside the house. It was dark as pitch inside, and he
was forced to move slowly, feeling the way with his hands and feet. He
reached the rear of the building and let himself into a small court. The
court connected with the court of a building on the other street. He
eased into that building, made his way to the front and peered out. Fate
laughed in his face. There were Nazi soldiers in that street, too.
He ducked back inside and grimly considered the situation. He hadn't
outsmarted the Germans as much as he had believed. When they hadn't
found him among the lumber sheds, they had instantly guessed he had
headed for this deserted section of town. In no time extra patrols had
been ordered out, and now they were combing the section, methodically
searching every house on every street. Even though he ducked from house
to house, sooner or later he was going to bump smack into one of those
patrols.
"This is what is known as a spot, brother!" he whispered to himself.
"Get the old brain working, and get it working fast! There must be some
way to fool them. I bet Freddy would think up an idea, just like that."
Freddy! The thought of his pal sent cold shivers of worry slithering
down his spine. It seemed ages since he had last heard Freddy's cheerful
voice. What he wouldn't give to have Freddy Farmer at his side right
now! Would he ever see Freddy again? Where _was_ his pal and fighting
comrade? What had happened to Freddy Farmer?
He angrily drove the tormenting thoughts from his brain. If he didn't
start doing something about himself real soon, he never would see Freddy
again--at least, not in this world. At that moment voices not more than
three houses away galvanized him into fast action. He spun around and
groped back to the rear of the building again and let himself out into
the court. There he crouched under some bushes and peered up and down
the two rows of buildings. Every now and then a light would flash in
some window, and disappear almost immediately. He watched those flashes
of light and listened to the echo of voices moving along the rows of
houses.
Suddenly he grinned broadly and hugged himself in delight. There was a
perfect way out, and he was a dope not to have realized it sooner. He
was sure Freddy would have thought of it right at the start. Sure! The
way out was via the courtyards in back of the houses. The German patrols
were so busy searching the rooms of the houses, they seemed to have
completely forgotten about the courtyards in back. By sneaking along the
courtyards, Dave could easily work his way to the rear of houses that
the Germans had already searched.
"So get going, before they think of the idea, too!" he ranted at
himself.
A little over half an hour later he was crouched in the dark doorway of
a house and peering stealthily up the street at the figures of a German
patrol moving _away from him_. He watched them until they were lost in
the growing darkness. Then he slipped out onto the sidewalk, turned his
back on the patrols and headed rapidly in the opposite direction. An
hour later he was clear over on the other side of the city and hiding
in a group of parked military cars. Tarpaulins had been pegged down over
the cars, and he could tell that they had been there for weeks. There
wasn't even a lone guard watching over them.
At any rate, it seemed a safe place to hide while he mapped out plans
for further action. He was thankful to have slipped safely through the
fingers of those patrols hunting him out, but at the same time he
regretted that he had been forced to do so. Unless his memory picture of
that part of Antwerp was all cockeyed, that detention prison hadn't been
more than four or five blocks from Rue Chartres. Had those patrols let
him alone, chances were that he would now be close to Number Sixteen Rue
Chartres. As things stood, though, he was way over on the other side of
the city.
"It's a cinch those patrols haven't given up yet," he pondered the
problem to himself. "And ten to one even more patrols have been put on
the job. Having a poor refugee give them the slip has probably burned
them up plenty. And they're just mad enough to take this whole town
apart for the satisfaction of finding me."
He nodded in silent emphasis, and then tackled the problem again. He had
the choice of two things, and both were bad. He could start stealing
back toward Rue Chartres right now and trust to luck that he would spot
Germans wandering about before they spotted him. Or he could wait until
daylight, when there would be other civilians on the streets, and take
his chances then. Neither idea sounded so hot, but he had to do
something.
Suddenly an idea hit him right between the eyes. He grinned, nodded, and
silently snapped his fingers.
"Maybe!" he whispered excitedly. "There's just a chance!"