The Haigerloch Project

Dirk stared at his companion in astonishment. Quickly he shrugged the heavy pack off his shoulders. Without a word, he handed it to Sig.

Sig at once unsnapped both the shoulder-strap hooks from the pack rings.

“Get on the wire,” he ordered.

Dirk obeyed.

Sig snapped one of the strap hooks onto the bottom wire and let the pack hang below it. The other hook he linked to Dirk's combat-boot strap.

“Slide it across,” he said. “Go!”

At once Dirk began to cross the wire. The heavy pack acted as a stabilizing weight on the lower wire and he quickly and easily pulled it along as he moved his foot along the wire. He was across in a few seconds. Sig followed as Dirk hoisted the pack back up and reconnected the shoulder straps.

Sig was within a few feet of the far platform when his foot slipped. He caught himself — but he was thrown off balance. The wires started to spread. Desperately he struggled to check their swaying. Bleakly he knew it was a losing battle.

He heard Dirk call to him.

“Grab my hand!”

In a glance he saw his partner holding on to a tree branch with one hand and leaning toward him with the other arm stretched out. Only a foot from reaching him. Twelve lousy inches….

The wires were swinging, the momentum increasing as they kept spreading farther apart. Any second he would lose his footing and be left hanging by his fingers on the thin top wire. He knew with absolute certainty he would not be able to hold on.

Dirk's voice seemed to reach him from an enormous distance.

“Let go the wire, Sig! Grab my hand!”

Let go?

He glanced down at the ground — miles below….

He let go.

He thrust both his arms toward Dirk's outstretched hand. He felt his feet shoot off the wire. He felt himself fall….

And his hand found his partner's reaching arm. With desperation he grabbed hold. As he swung down, one knee hooked over the bottom wire and checked his plunge Straining, Dirk hauled him to safety.

Sig's legs were trembling. His hands were sore. He ignored them.

He'd made it!

Dirk turned to him.

“You're okay, Siggy baby!” he said with a huge grin. He began to climb down the tree. “Onward and downward!” he called. “Station Ten waits without!”

Slim and Rosenfeld were nowhere to be seen as they arrived at Station #10 at a trot.

Sig was breathing heavily. The pace was beginning to tell. His legs were leaden. His chest ached as he gulped air.

How long?

It seemed hours….

At Station #10 a small spring trickled down the hill toward the creek, running parallel to it for a short distance before joining it. Erosion had carved out a narrow stream bed, providing a hundred feet or so of defiladed area. A shallow ditch. On the side away from the creek the hill rose again.

Ducking down in an awkward, crouching run, it was possible to move through the muddy stream bed of the little tributary, protected from enemy observation — and fire.

Sig was running in the lead. His back hurt. The muscles in his calves and thighs knotted and pulled from the cramped, crouched gait. He suddenly dreaded getting a charley horse. Not now, please God, not now…!

Suddenly the staccato coughs of machine-gun fire shattered the silence. Sig jumped with shock. Then he remembered. Blanks They were shooting blanks — to give realism to the problem.

Blanks?

They were not blanks! He was all at once vividly aware of the plops and sprays of dirt that erupted as the rounds slammed into the hillside beyond.

They were shooting live ammunition, dammit! Another of their goddamned surprises.

“Hit the dirt!” Dirk shouted.

Sig threw himself into the muddy water at the bottom of the ditch.

“And keep your butt down — unless you want a second crease in your ass!” Dirk finished.

Sig crawled on as fast as he could. He had been badly startled, even though reason assured him the bullets were whizzing well above him. He did not raise his head to find out.

After the shooting-gallery crawl, Stations #11 and #12 were almost like amusement-park rides — easy, had he not been exhausted to the point of pain:

Climbing the tree at #11, leaping into space to grab hold of a rope six feet out and sliding down… Making like a GI Tarzan at #12, swinging on a chain across the stream at a widened stretch…

Every muscle in Sig's body protested at the abuse, and fatigue dulled his brain.

Dirk's old injuries were obviously giving him trouble; he was favoring his left arm.

But they both plodded on. Running, stumbling — making headway.

Finally they stood before Station #13.

The barn.

A vehicle was parked at the corner of the massive, windowless building. An Army ambulance. Two attendants were sitting on the ground, leaning against the barn. They eyed Dirk and Sig curiously as they made for the single door leading into it.

Sig had a twinge of apprehension. Ambulance? What the hell for?.

And Dirk threw open the door.