Carl Levitian
member
The weather had been terrible, and that had been good for the man who hid in the bushes, watching the sentry box down the road. But the storm had been clearing and time was running very short. The meeting with the submarine was for midnight, and it was already 20 minutes till. The sub would not wait if he did not show on time. The packet of information on the German rocket projects had to get to London, and he was out of time for sneaking around through the hedgerows to avoid the two sentrys. In the distance, he could hear the surf braking on the shore. He checked the cheap French made pocket watch yet again, painfully aware of the time. The old watch, like the rest of the items on him, were selected not to bring any attention to him. He carried nothing that any working man would not have. No weapons in case of a search. A gun would blow his cover as a retired Breton fisherman.
The man took out a small flask of brandy from the pocket of the shabby wool peacoat he wore, and splashed it over him like aftershave. He would be reeking of the booze. Then he took a well worn Opinel knife from the other pocket and cut down a small sapling to make a walking staff. Rubbing dirt on the fresh cut ends to disguise the new cut wood, he stepped out in the muddy road and began to shuffle and limp down the road toward the sentry box. As he walked, he mumbled the words to a lewd song off key.
To the two German soldiers on guard duty, he appeared to be an old man, drunkenly staggering down the road. The white stubble of beard had been dyed white, hiding a strong 30 year old in role camoflage. He got closer, and stumbled using the stick to steady himself.
"Halt! What are you doing out after curfew old man?" asked the senior of the two soldiers.
The old man mumbled something unintellagable.
"Christ Franz, he smells like a distillery!" said the younger soldier.
"Ja, I think he may have drunk the contents of one." said the other. "But he shouldn't be out here. You, where's your papers?"
The drunk old man was leaning over his stick, weaving back and forth like he was going to fall over any second.
The one soldier stepped closer.
"I said, where's your papers, you old sot?!"
The man had been standing hunched over, with the top of the stick almost in the middle of his chest. Niether guard had thought much about the fact that one hand had slid down the stout stick, so it was almost a third of the way down. Suddenly, with no warning, the man snapped the shaft of his staff up between the legs of the more aggresive guard, impacting his testicles with a crushing blow. The crippled guard went down with a scream of agony, and the man turned on the young one, who was now desparatly trying to get the Mauser 98 rifle off his shoulder. He was too slow.
The man swung the staff in a fast arc and cought the young German in the side of the neck. A few more blows to make sure, and he turned back in time to catch the doubled over soldier on the ground trying to get his rifle in action. A few more blows in that area and the second soldier was laying still as the first.
Time was ticking, and the man dragged them one by one around the corner of the guard shack, out of sight. He had just dragged the second one when his luck went bad. The sound of an engine came down the road. Peeking around the corner of the guard shack, the dim blackout lights of a vehicle was slowing to a stop.
"Schuler, Hartman! Where are you? God dammit, if your drunk on duty I'm..."
He never got to finish his threat to the now defunct guards. His last sight in this world was a small white bearded man with a Mauser rifle pointed at him. He was dead when he hit the ground.
Cursing now, aware he had a few minutes only and knowing the sound of the rifle shot would carry in the night air, the white bearded man jumped in the Kubelwagon and took off down the road. The air cooled engine rattled as he charged up through the gears, and tore down the coast road at breakneck speed. Almost missing his turn, he skidded down a narrow track that ended at a beach. Running to the waters edge, he took out a battered flashlight and made a series of dot and dash signals. For a few heart stopping seconds there was nothing. Then a reply from the dark surface of the water. He started to wade out in the cold water of the English channel.
In a moment, a rubber boat appeared, paddled by 4 British sailors, with a chief petty officer in the bow with a Sten gun in his hands.
"You the yank needin a lift?" he asked.
The sailors dragged him into the boat and started paddling back out towards a indistinct dark shape in the water. It was a conning tower of a sub, but the deck was not to be seen.
"Captains riding the valves, already partly flooded the tanks. Lets us slip under a bit faster." he explained.
They climbed aboard the sub, and the young captain greeted him tersely.
"Please get below imediatly sir, we have company I believe." he said pointing back along the coast road. At least two sets of headlights were comming allong the road, and one of them was a large truck with a seachlight scaning the beach. The man decended with the other into the red lit control room, and then a claxon sounded and his ears popped when he swallowed.
Later, in the wardroom, the captian asked him if it was a close call. The man told of his escape, and saying that Teddy Roosevelt hepled him on his way.
"Roosevelt? Just how did he help you, being in the next world?"
"An old saying of his came to me. "Speak softly and carry a big stick."
The man took out a small flask of brandy from the pocket of the shabby wool peacoat he wore, and splashed it over him like aftershave. He would be reeking of the booze. Then he took a well worn Opinel knife from the other pocket and cut down a small sapling to make a walking staff. Rubbing dirt on the fresh cut ends to disguise the new cut wood, he stepped out in the muddy road and began to shuffle and limp down the road toward the sentry box. As he walked, he mumbled the words to a lewd song off key.
To the two German soldiers on guard duty, he appeared to be an old man, drunkenly staggering down the road. The white stubble of beard had been dyed white, hiding a strong 30 year old in role camoflage. He got closer, and stumbled using the stick to steady himself.
"Halt! What are you doing out after curfew old man?" asked the senior of the two soldiers.
The old man mumbled something unintellagable.
"Christ Franz, he smells like a distillery!" said the younger soldier.
"Ja, I think he may have drunk the contents of one." said the other. "But he shouldn't be out here. You, where's your papers?"
The drunk old man was leaning over his stick, weaving back and forth like he was going to fall over any second.
The one soldier stepped closer.
"I said, where's your papers, you old sot?!"
The man had been standing hunched over, with the top of the stick almost in the middle of his chest. Niether guard had thought much about the fact that one hand had slid down the stout stick, so it was almost a third of the way down. Suddenly, with no warning, the man snapped the shaft of his staff up between the legs of the more aggresive guard, impacting his testicles with a crushing blow. The crippled guard went down with a scream of agony, and the man turned on the young one, who was now desparatly trying to get the Mauser 98 rifle off his shoulder. He was too slow.
The man swung the staff in a fast arc and cought the young German in the side of the neck. A few more blows to make sure, and he turned back in time to catch the doubled over soldier on the ground trying to get his rifle in action. A few more blows in that area and the second soldier was laying still as the first.
Time was ticking, and the man dragged them one by one around the corner of the guard shack, out of sight. He had just dragged the second one when his luck went bad. The sound of an engine came down the road. Peeking around the corner of the guard shack, the dim blackout lights of a vehicle was slowing to a stop.
"Schuler, Hartman! Where are you? God dammit, if your drunk on duty I'm..."
He never got to finish his threat to the now defunct guards. His last sight in this world was a small white bearded man with a Mauser rifle pointed at him. He was dead when he hit the ground.
Cursing now, aware he had a few minutes only and knowing the sound of the rifle shot would carry in the night air, the white bearded man jumped in the Kubelwagon and took off down the road. The air cooled engine rattled as he charged up through the gears, and tore down the coast road at breakneck speed. Almost missing his turn, he skidded down a narrow track that ended at a beach. Running to the waters edge, he took out a battered flashlight and made a series of dot and dash signals. For a few heart stopping seconds there was nothing. Then a reply from the dark surface of the water. He started to wade out in the cold water of the English channel.
In a moment, a rubber boat appeared, paddled by 4 British sailors, with a chief petty officer in the bow with a Sten gun in his hands.
"You the yank needin a lift?" he asked.
The sailors dragged him into the boat and started paddling back out towards a indistinct dark shape in the water. It was a conning tower of a sub, but the deck was not to be seen.
"Captains riding the valves, already partly flooded the tanks. Lets us slip under a bit faster." he explained.
They climbed aboard the sub, and the young captain greeted him tersely.
"Please get below imediatly sir, we have company I believe." he said pointing back along the coast road. At least two sets of headlights were comming allong the road, and one of them was a large truck with a seachlight scaning the beach. The man decended with the other into the red lit control room, and then a claxon sounded and his ears popped when he swallowed.
Later, in the wardroom, the captian asked him if it was a close call. The man told of his escape, and saying that Teddy Roosevelt hepled him on his way.
"Roosevelt? Just how did he help you, being in the next world?"
"An old saying of his came to me. "Speak softly and carry a big stick."
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