The Haigerloch Project

He raised his tormented eyes to Kieffer.

“It is very simple,” he said quietly. “I am not a brave man. My imagination is too vivid to allow me to be brave….”

He looked down at the floor.

“If — if we were caught…” He shook his head. “No. I–I cannot do it.”

“There is a way,” Kieffer said quickly.

Decker looked up.

“We can take you by force. We can make it appear that we are abducting you against your will.”

“How?”

“We will — bruise you on your head. Lightly To make it appear that you have been knocked out. We will tie you up. We will keep you in the back of our jeep.”

Decker looked troubled.

“If we are stopped,” Kieffer hurriedly went on, “you can denounce us. You can say you were taken by force. You can show them your bruise. Your bound hands. No one can blame you. You will be safe.”

Decker stood up. He suddenly looked excited.

“Will you come?” Kieffer pressed. “There is no time to waste!”

Slowly Decker nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “If you do this, I will go with you.”

“Good!” Kieffer felt relieved. It would have been damned awkward if he'd really had to knock the guy out. “Get dressed,” he said. “Our jeep is not far from here.”

“No!” Decker sounded alarmed. “I cannot go with you to your jeep. You must get it yourselves. I will wait for you Here. Alone. I can be seen with you only when I am — tied up. You must both go….”

Kieffer knew it was no use arguing. The man was too afraid.

“All right,” he said. “Wait for us downstairs. In the hallway.”

He shrugged out of his raincoat.

“Wear this,” he said, “and the hat. Give me your officer's coat. Do you have a cap?”

Decker nodded. He opened a closet and took down an officer's peaked cap from a shelf.

“Here.”

Kieffer put it on. It was too big. He looked around. On the table lay a magazine. Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung. He tore a strip of paper from it. Irrelevantly he noticed it was an article headed. ALLIED TERROR BOMRERS RAID DRESDEN CULTURE CENTER. He wadded it up and placed it inside the headband. The cap fitted.

He shrugged into the leather greatcoat.

“We will not be too long,” he said. “Wait for us.”

Decker nodded. “I will be there.”

Kieffer looked at his watch. 0047 hours. There was not much time.

Marshall was at the door. Cautiously he opened it. The darkened stairway was empty. Kieffer joined him. He turned to look back at Decker.

The German scientist stood watching them. He looked oddly forlorn in his striped pajamas and felt slippers, cradling a rumpled raincoat and a battered hat in his arms.

He will be waiting for us, Kieffer thought grimly. He — or the Gestapo….

He left quickly.

* * *

The borrowed leather greatcoat softly slapped Kieffer's calves and shins as he and Marshall hurriedly made their way through the gloomy, bomb-pocked railroad yards to the spot where they'd hidden their jeep.

It was still there, undisturbed.

They exchanged silent glances of relief. Marshall at once removed the camouflaging debris. He opened the hood and turned to Kieffer, holding out his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Give!”

Automatically Kieffer put his hand in his overcoat pocket and froze.

Marshall bent over the engine.

“Come on,” he urged. “The rotor. Our ticket to Home-Sweet- Homesville!”

The rotor…

With the futile urgency born of desperation, Kieffer felt around in the alien pockets of the Wehrmacht officer's great-coat, knowing that the vital little part would not be there.

The rotor…

He knew with bleak certainty where the damned thing was. In the pocket of a grubby mackinaw coat flung across the slimy toilet bowl in a stinking stall of the men's room at the railroad station!

Impatiently Marshall looked up from the engine. His eyes met Kieffer's. The truth rushed upon him. He paled.

“Jesus,” he whispered hoarsely. “Jee-sus…”

For a brief moment the two stood staring at one another. In his mind each blamed himself….

Had I not gotten into trouble…

Had I only remembered the damned rotor…

Marshall shook his head.

“No way,” he said tonelessly. “No way the damned jeep will run without the rotor.”

“There's gotta be a way,” Kieffer said vehemently. “Damn it to hell, we've gotta get out of here. And Decker is expecting us to come for him any moment….”

“Shut up!” Marshall said sharply. “Let me think….”

Frowning in concentration, he looked around the yard, his head moving in quick, jerky motions, his eyes searching the misshapen shadows.

They came to rest on the wrecked tie-tamper nearby.

“What's that thing?” he asked, walking rapidly toward the mangled rig.

Kieffer followed.

“No idea,” he said. “Railroad maintenance equipment of some sort.” He frowned. “Why? It's smashed all to hell.”

“Yeah,” Marshall mumbled. He seemed deeply preoccupied. “Yeah…”

He climbed up on the battered tamping machine. “How's the damned thing powered…?”

He peered into the mass of twisted metal, broken wheel disks and tangled tubing.

“Looks like an internal-combustion engine all shot to hell,” he muttered. He tore at some cracked and buckled metal sheathing. He looked up, his eyes excited. “It is! Give me a hand.”