The Haigerloch Project

He glanced at his companion lying quietly, fully alert beside him The man reminded him of a coiled spring. Dirk. Or Van G-8, as the OSS characters insisted on calling him. Just as he, Sig, was Sig S-2. For ten days the two of them had trained together. Studied, eaten and rested together. Used the latrine together. And yet — he did not feel any real companionship with Dirk. They were two men going through the same motions, separate and independent of one another, giving each other a hand, of necessity. Except, dammit, Dirk was far and away the superior physical specimen of the two — despite the handicap of his injuries.

Sig sighed — much put upon.

Anyway. The immediate problem was that damned obstacle course. The culmination of ten days of grueling instruction and training. They'd been given a crude map with the layout of the course so they could familiarize themselves with it, and they'd walked it the day before with their instructor. It was laid out in the wooded hills, crossing back and forth over a little stream. It was also well marked. He felt confident that part of it would present no difficulties. He always liked to anticipate any eventualities that might arise and have some possible counter-action in mind. He liked to know where the back door was. Always. He thought he knew, this time. He'd studied the obstacles they would be encountering. It remained to be seen if he could master them. He had inspected them all — except one. The barn. The last part of the obstacle course. Station #13. A large, forbidding, wooden building without windows. The barn. The only unknown factor. No one would tell him what to expect in there. It made him uneasy. He wondered if his companion knew. He retraced the course in his mind. It seemed impossible that anyone could actually complete the damn thing — let alone in the twenty-one minutes forty-two seconds that was the camp record. If he, Sig, could do it at all, it would take him more like twenty-one hours….

He shifted again. The course was being readied for them. They were waiting for the signal to start.

He looked at the barbed-wire fence in front of him. Ten feet high. That was the first obstacle. Station # 1. The fence had to be scaled — without inflicting too many cuts on hands and arms and legs. Once on the other side, they would tackle Station #2. At a little distance stood a sentry. He had to be disarmed. He had his back to the fence. He knew, of course, that they would be coming for him, but he was instructed not to turn around unless he actually heard them. If he caught them — it was back to the damned fence again. If they could sneak up on him and punch him on the back, simulating a kill, they had it made. They could then take the vehicle the sentry had been guarding and use it… if they could get it started. There would be one small thing wrong with it. Some little mechanical disorder. Anything. They had to find it Correct it. And the vehicle could be anything from a jeep to a German staff car. Station # 3. Once they got it going, they could drive the half-mile to Station # 4, where the rest of the course began — drive at breakneck speed to save time. If they failed, they had to run a winding trail through the woods, two miles long, which led them to the same spot.

From there it would become really difficult.

He shifted once more. He realized he was getting impatient. Eager to get started. He was surprised how keyed up he felt.

He was suddenly transported back to his high-school days in Montclair, New Jersey He'd been on the school track team. A sprinter. He'd felt exactly the same excitement as he crouched on the line in the start position for the hundred-yard dash. Once when he'd been the anchor man on a relay team, he'd become so excited waiting for his teammates to sprint around the track and reach him that a spurt of blood had suddenly burst from his nose. He'd run his lap with blood streaking out behind him like crimson streamers. But he'd won. He had a twinge of regret that he'd not kept himself in top physical condition. Weekend tennis didn't really do it. His aching muscles attested to that.

He glanced up as two men approached them. One was their instructor, who for obvious reasons was called Slim. The other, Major Rosenfeld.

Come up from the big city for the festivities, no doubt, Sig thought sourly.

Slim was carrying an obviously heavy backpack in his hands. He plunked it down with a thud next to Dirk.

“For you,” he said amiably. “A little something extra.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dirk asked suspiciously.

Rosenfeld answered.

“It's an — afterthought, Van, my boy.” He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Getting through the course just by yourselves is not really enough, is it? In the field you'd have your gear to worry about. Well — that's it. Forty pounds of selected Maryland rocks! Where you go, it goes!”

“Oh, shit!” Dirk said. He stood up, eyeing the pack with distaste.