“Why, it’s a nice day if it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” Don said, laughing a little. “I said cross steering rods are often weak and ditches handy. That’ll fix these teufels so they can’t get to the front.”
“Who wants to fix them?”
“Why, don’t you and I both want to? What use are they there, anyway? The Fatherland doesn’t want anyone there; that I know.”
“Say, who are you and what?” the driver quickly demanded.
“You can see,” Don said. “Liaison officer messenger, Red Cross. I’ve got enough to keep them from even guessing who I may be. You don’t need to tell who and what you are; I know.”
It was an awful bluff, barely a guess, but Don reasoned that nothing ventured nothing have, and now that he had started to burn his bridges he would go ahead with his quest.
“Get out; you don’t know nothin’ ’bout me,” denied the driver.
“Nothing about where your orders came from, eh? When I get mine from the same general source? We’ve all got to work together. Say, if you haven’t the nerve to ditch her, let’s start on and give me the wheel; I’ll do it. And I know a way we can get off unsuspected, too.”
“Aw, gwan! You’re kiddin’ me, Sarge.”