The Haigerloch Project

“Do not worry, friend,” Dirk said. “I shall keep it on my lap.”

The driver gave him a flat stare. He started up. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes at his two passengers. He scratched his nose with his stubby thumb.

“You live in Hechingen?” he finally asked.

“At present,” Dirk answered. “We work there.”

“Hummph,” the man snorted.

For a while they drove in silence.

The man scowled sideways at Dirk.

“You could have left that damned rucksack in back,” he grumbled sullenly.

“Well — I tell you,” Dirk said cheerfully, “I have a bottle of huckleberry brandy in there. I thought, with your permission, it might come in handy after a while.”

The driver suddenly looked cheered.

“Ach, so!” he said. “You have good reason!” He began to whistle. Off key.

“I am going to Oberndorf,” he volunteered after a while, “to pick up a tractor. For my farm near Biberach.”

“A tractor?” Sig asked.

“Yes. A tractor! The Widow Schrader is selling it to me. Her husband died and she will go to live with her sister in Nürnberg. She is giving up the farm.”

“She a friend of yours?” Dirk asked idly.

“Frau Schrader? I have not met her.” He grinned at them shrewdly. “But she will sell me her tractor. For little money. She needs money. She does not know the true value of such a tractor!” He looked enormously pleased with himself. “There are not many tractors in the Schwarzwald. Only on the biggest farms. I, Ludwig Brause, will have such a tractor now.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Dirk commented. He was beginning to dislike the man intensely. He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was one way to discourage conversation….

* * *

He'd actually dozed off.

He jerked awake so abruptly that monstrous shadows from a nightmare — Jan; a gouging of flesh, a crimson splatter in a field — were trapped briefly in his conscious mind.

He sat bolt upright, instantly aware.

The truck had come to a stop.

“We are about five kilometers from Oberndorf,” Sig said. “Let me out, will you? I've got to take a crap. This monster rides on square wheels. I think everything's been shaken loose inside and collected at the bottom!”

Dirk climbed from the cab. He looked around The truck was halted on a narrow road winding through steep mountains. They had obviously left the main road and were cutting across the forest to the Neckar River valley and Oberndorf. He must have been dead to the world for a couple of hours. Good enough. That was one thing you learned quickly in the field. Get your sleep where and when you can.

Sig made for the woods. “Be back in a few minutes,” he called. “Probably several pounds lighter!”

Dirk stretched. He started back up into the cab.

“Moment mal,” the German said, eyeing him. “Just a moment. While you are there, take a look at your bikes. They have been rattling around. You would not want to injure them.”

Dirk stopped. A warning bell went off in his mind.

He glanced at the rucksack lying on the seat. Dammit, he couldn't leave it there! His muscles tensed to grab it, but with a conscious effort he relaxed. No. It would most certainly be suspicious if he carted the damned rucksack around with him like the family jewels. He could not afford to kindle any suspicions in the farmer's mind. He would have to take a chance.

“I will look,” he said.

He walked to the back of the truck and jumped up. He examined the bikes. They seemed okay. On impulse, he quickly walked to the cab and peered in through the grimy rearview window.

A chill shot through him.

The German was bent over the open rucksack. He straightened up. In one hand he held the bottle of huckleberry brandy. In the other — the earphones from the OSS radio!

The bottle fell from the farmer's hand. He stared at the radio head-set….

Dirk leaped from the truck. He lost his footing and fell to one knee. At once he got up and raced for the cab door — as the truck suddenly leaped forward and started down the steep road, spewing dirt from its spinning wheels.

Sig came running from the trees.

“What happened?” he called. “What the hell's going on?”

“The bastard found the radio!” Dirk snapped. He looked after the truck careening down the road. Ahead of it was a sharp hairpin curve to the right. Dirk ran to the edge of the road. He peered down through the trees. A couple of hundred feet below he could make out the road — switchbacking through the steep hills. At once he started to race down the slope.

“Come on!” he called.

Sig ran after him.

The sound of the laboring truck changed in pitch as it precariously negotiated the hairpin curve, gears grating metallically.

Dirk bounded headlong through the trees down the steep slope. He riveted his full attention on the ribbon of road visible below, letting his pounding feet find their own path as he pitched down. The rough branches of the underbrush wrenched and tore at his clothing, a continuous flail of stinging slaps on his face and his hands, held protectively before him. He was oblivious to the gashes. He was aware only of Sig crashing after him — and the strip of narrow road below….