“Interesting, but I prefer to be shot!” As he spoke Stan dived in a lightning-like leap, straight at Minter. The Nazi’s gun flamed and Stan felt a blow like the smashing of a big fist against his chest. The gun flamed again, its fire searing Stan’s neck, then he had closed with the German and had forced his gun arm down. Splinters had dived in and hit the Nazi around the knees. They went down in a twisting, writhing mass with Stan’s blood spattering over all three.
Splinters got the gun and brought its butt down on Minter’s head. He slumped down and rolled free of Stan. Splinters stood up.
“You’re hit bad,” he said.
“I’m all right. Get some water and bring him around. We have to locate his hut and the radio. He must have others helping him.” Stan steadied himself with an effort. He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach.
Splinters got water and doused the Nazi, while Stan tore open his shirt and began plugging an ugly wound in his shoulder. He had to sink down on a bunk to do it. But he refused to give in. He had to get to the death hut and rescue O’Malley and Allison. The medics might be able to save them.
Minter opened his eyes slowly. He groaned and pulled himself to a sitting posture.
“Take that container away from him,” Stan ordered. Minter had pulled a square glass container from under his coat. It was attached there by a leather strap with a snap on it. Splinters grabbed the container and unsnapped it.
“No, you don’t,” he growled.
“We have to make him talk,” Stan said thickly. His head was beginning to feel light and his tongue thick. The corrugated dome of the Nissen hut was wavering and swaying.
At that moment the door burst open. “Sure, an’ I told you the rat would come back here!” That was O’Malley’s bellow. “And there the spalpeen is!”