Codeword Golden Fleece (46 page)

The date was that of the day before, so it seemed highly probable that this was the pass on which his Polish assailant had left the camp the previous afternoon. The camp authorities would have had no time yet to get proper forms printed, and the circular stamp was probably part of the office impedimenta that had been flown out with one of the Headquarters.

Rex grinned. It really looked as if his luck were in, and that he was receiving very valuable compensation for his bruises. Having no further use for it, the Pole had probably forgotten to remove it from his pocket when he collected his other things. In any case, whether it was a pass to the camp or not, it would serve admirably to flash under the nose of the sentry in the semi-darkness.

He now felt hungry, so, having peeped cautiously from his hiding-place to make certain there was nobody about, he emerged from it and walked into the town. After visits to several of the miserable shops he secured a loaf of dark rye-bread, some liver sausage, chocolate, half-a-dozen apples, a flask of some sort of spirit, a new torch with a spare battery, a bottle of disinfectant, some cotton wool and rolls of bandage.

Carrying his purchases back to his hide-out under the bridge, he first had a meal, then set about washing and dressing his wounds more thoroughly. When he had done, his face as well as his head was half-swathed in bandages, which he had so adjusted on purpose as they partially concealed his features and made it less likely that any of the guards who were acquainted with the Pole whose pass he now believed himself to carry would recognise him as an impostor. Many of the Poles were, he had noticed, bandaged for wounds they had received before escaping from the battle, so his would not make him particularly conspicuous. In addition, as he had tied a big pad of the cotton
wool under his jaw he had only to point to it as a good excuse for not answering if he was questioned.

He then lay down to sleep again and spent most of the day dozing. About five o’clock he ate some more of the bread, sausage and chocolate and, not feeling inclined for any more sleep, began to contemplate the tricky business that he meant to undertake that night.

He was full of confidence that he could get away with an aircraft provided that it was in a condition to take the air. Even if the wind were not in a favourable direction, and he had to taxi her round to get off, he knew so many tricks that the feat of taking her up before he could be stopped presented no more difficulty to him than a cowpuncher would have had in mounting a bucking bronco. The only real snags were getting into the camp and finding a plane with an adequate supply of petrol. The question of petrol had to be left on the knees of the Gods for the moment, but it seemed that his prospects of passing the guards were now pretty good. It was not as though they were posted to protect some vital headquarters or even an operative air station, so they would probably be slack and lazy. It was a comfort, too, to think that the Rumanians would almost certainly have deprived the interned Poles of everything except their rifles and side-arms, so the odds were against their having machine-guns with which to try to bring him down once the noise of his engine raised the alarm and he was in the air.

The evening dragged by very slowly, and about seven o’clock he suddenly began to wonder what would happen to him if he were caught. Rex was such an optimist by nature that it had not even occurred to him to think seriously of such a possibility before; but now that he had thought of it he was quick to realise that he ought to have some excuse ready to offer for trying to get into the camp, or getting into it, under false pretences.

After cogitating for a little he decided that the best line would be to use the assault that had been made upon him the night before. He could say that he had been laid up by his injuries all day and now presented himself full of righteous indignation to claim compensation for the assault made on him and the theft of his clothes by a Polish internee.

They would soon find out that he was not one of the local inhabitants, so he had better come clean about being an American. If they wanted to know what he was doing in that neighbourhood he could say with a certain amount of truth that, like hundreds
of other people of all nationalities, he had fled from the Nazi-Soviet invasion of Poland and landed up here as a piece of the flotsam of the war.

The story was based on such a nice substratum of truth that it seemed pretty good to him. With luck they might only put him under open arrest while making enquiries, in which case he would stand a good chance of getting away with a plane the following night.

There was only one rather disquieting factor about it. If the guards did not know about his assailant’s desertion, before checking up on it they might disbelieve the story and insist on searching him. If that happened it was hardly likely that the money-belt round his waist would escape them, and they would come across the option. Should that fall into the hands of an interpreter he would realise at once that no man carrying such a document was just a casual refugee.

For a moment he thought of going straight to the camp, demanding to see the Commandant, telling him the whole business from start to finish with complete frankness, and asking to be given one of the Polish aircraft for the purpose of flying the Golden Fleece out to Yugoslavia. But he discarded the idea as having too many imponderables.

The defeated Poles had been honourably received by the Rumanians and would have now given their word not to allow any of their aircraft off the ground. Any Polish officer would hesitate to go back on his pledged word and, in addition, risk serious trouble with people upon whom they were relying for food and shelter. Again, if the Commandant proved to be some old Cavalry General who knew a lot about horseflesh but nothing at all about Economic Warfare, he might even fail to see the immense importance of the document and think that Rex was just some get-rich-quick Yankee out to feather his own nest. He might even be one of Mack’s people and hold the secret belief that the best outcome for Poland would be a short war, after which his own country would be allowed semi-independence while enjoying the protection of a greatly strengthened Germany against the Soviet.

If he were caught, Rex decided, he would play that as a last card, but not before. Far better rely on his own wits and courage, and with a little luck he would be in Belgrade by this time tomorrow. But, in the meantime, he must certainly hide the option from any preliminary search as skilfully as he could.

Had he had a needle and thread he would have sewn it up in the lining of his jacket, but he lacked those useful requisites, and the packet was too thick for him to get it into his boot, as his foot would not go in with it there. After a little thought it occurred to him to put it in his cap, and removing the oilskin lining, which disguised its colour to the casual glance when put back, he secreted it there.

Another two hours dragged by, then about ten o’clock he crawled out of his hiding-place. On his way to the camp he saw only two Poles, and, in view of the hundreds of them that were interned in the camp, he judged that they were allowed out only on passes granted for special reasons. That made him a little more anxious about the validity of the one he was carrying, seeing that it was dated for the day before, but he went forward with a firm step.

When he reached the first wire he slowed down his pace and gave it a careful scrutiny again. The day before he had come to the conclusion that the strands were too close for a man of his size to get through without having most of his clothes and a good bit of his flesh torn from his back and legs by the barbs; and, although he could not be certain, he thought that some unbarbed wires which ran through the lower part of the fence were probably connected with burglar alarms in the guardhouses. If so, he would be caught long before he could painfully wriggle through such a tangle. His second examination confirmed his first impression, so he felt that he would stand a much better chance of getting in uncaught by slouching past some bored sentry at one of the gates.

At the first gate he came to three men were talking under an arc lamp, so he maintained his unhurried pace and went on to the next. Here, too, there was an arc lamp, but the solitary sentry, evidently taking advantage of relaxed discipline, was leaning against one of the posts smoking a cigarette. Producing with his free hand the piece of paper that he hoped was his late antagonist’s pass, Rex marched boldly towards the gate and stepped inside it.

The sentry came to attention and muttered something. Rex acknowledged the salute and proceeded a few paces. The man repeated the words he had said in a much louder voice. Halting for a moment, Rex waved the paper so that the sentry could see it, then made to move on. Again the man spoke; his tone still held the normal difference usual in a private addressing
an officer, but underlying it there was a definite note of firmness.

Rex had hoped to get through without having actually to present the paper for inspection, but he saw now that he would have to do so. If he ignored the sentry the man would call his sergeant, and, if the paper were not after all a pass, the fat would then be in the fire; but there was still a chance that a sight of the rubber stamp would be enough to satisfy the sentry.

Turning back a little, Rex walked over to the soldier. He tried to remain calm and to appear completely indifferent; but his heart was in his mouth as he held out the paper.

The sentry took the paper and read it carefully. He was so long in doing so that Rex wondered if he were semi-illiterate. He was a big, blue-eyed, fresh-complexioned man who looked as if in normal times he might be a labourer from some Polish farm.

His blue eyes left the paper to search Rex’s face, then went back to the paper again. Rex was worried now. He felt instinctively that there was something wrong. Next second he had proof of it.

Suddenly the sentry thrust the paper into his pocket, took two swift paces backwards, presented his carbine at Rex’s chest and shouted something that Rex instantly guessed to be the Polish equivalent of:

‘Guard! Turn out!’

There was a clatter and shuffling in the nearby hut. Out of it came tumbling a squad of soldiers, still hastily adjusting their accoutrements. A small, wisened man with a sergeant’s stripes on his arm hurried over to the sentry. While the others lined up the sentry produced the piece of paper and gabbled something to
the sergeant, who stared at Rex and asked him a question in Polish.

Rex was seriously alarmed. The sudden belligerence of the sentry and the turning out of the guard seemed excessive measures to take against an officer simply because his pass was out of date, or because he had produced some other document in lieu of it, and, as might reasonably be assumed, by mistake.

As he did not understand a word of what was being said and could not answer he pointed to his heavily bandaged jaw and shook his head.

The sergeant turned and spoke to one of his men, who promptly turned and ran off towards some hutments further inside the camp. There was then a pause while nobody said anything, but the whole of the little group of Poles stood about eyeing Rex curiously and, he felt, with a definite hostility.

After a few minutes the soldier returned with a young Lieutenant. Having examined the paper and spoken about it briefly with the sergeant, he addressed Rex.

As before, Rex pointed to his bandaged jaw and shook his head.

Again the Lieutenant spoke, but this time in halting German.

‘You are Captain Kilec, are you not? Or I should say the man who is passing for him.’

Rex hardly knew what to make of this. Kilec, presumably, was the man who had attacked him, and he certainly had endeavoured to pass as the Captain for the purpose of getting into the camp. But how did these people know that anyone was impersonating Kilec? That unscrupulous individual would hardly have attacked a stranger, robbed him of his clothes, left his own uniform behind and then returned to the camp with a story that someone had stolen his uniform and was now masquerading as himself. It did not make sense.

While Rex was still wondering what sort of a mess he had got himself into a car coming from the centre of the camp drew up just inside the gate. It was empty except for its driver, a fat little Major with a dark moustache, who leaned out to present his pass.

The Lieutenant went over to him, saluted smartly and showed him the paper with which Rex had endeavoured to enter the camp. They exchanged a few rapid sentences, then the Major got out and came over to Rex.

‘So we’ve caught you, eh?’ he said in fluent German. ‘Saints
alive, what a nerve you’ve got attempting to get back into the camp on your own pass! What do you take us for, a pack of fools?’

The Major’s sneering outburst gave Rex the first clue to the situation in which using his attacker’s uniform and pass had landed him. Evidently Kilec had not been a patriotic Pole made desperate by the thought of a long internment and prepared to take any measures which would enable him to get out of Rumania to a place where he could resume the fight against the Nazis. It seemed that he must have committed some misdemeanour against his own people. Perhaps he had even already been under arrest and awaiting court-martial. In any case, it was clear now that he had assaulted Rex and stolen his clothes for the purpose of escaping from Polish military jurisdiction.

Rex saw at once that his only line now was to tell the story of how Kilec had attacked him, and say that he had come to the camp to claim compensation.

Shifting his bandage a little, he said in German:

‘You’ve got this thing all wrong. I’m not Captain Kilec.’

‘We know you’re not—now,’ the Major cut in. ‘We succeeded in tracing up the real Kilec this afternoon. He was killed a fortnight ago in the fighting outside Lodz.’

‘Well, I’m not the fellow who impersonated him, then. I’m an American citizen recently escaped out of Poland. I was …’

‘You can tell that story to the Rumanians,’ the Major interrupted again, with a grunt of disbelief. ‘You’re an optimist if you think it will prevent them from having you put up against a brick wall and shot.’