He was taken to a small shack a few yards back from the canal. There was a stove in the shack and Stan edged close to it. The officer stepped to a wall phone and put through, a call. He talked quite a while and finally began to laugh loudly. After he hung up he turned to Stan.
“The colonel agrees you are a spy and a very dumb one. You will be sent to him and he will have you shot at once. It is easy to see why you Americans cannot fight the Germans. You are careless fools, all of you.”
Stan grinned. He figured the officer was the dumb one. He had not even asked Stan if there were any other men with him.
“I guess you’re right, Captain,” he said. “But if I’m to be shot I should be made comfortable. How about some dry clothes? I may contract pneumonia and die before you get to question me.”
“I will deliver you to the colonel. What he does with you is no affair of mine.” The captain opened the door and called to his men outside.
Stan walked out and a squad of four men marched him to an open car. He was shoved into the back seat and the guards climbed in, three with him and one in front. Stan was grateful for the packed condition in the rear seat, because chill air began to swirl back on him as they roared away. He got a little warmth from the soldiers crowded in with him.
Day was breaking as they moved into a city. Stan figured it was Arnhem. The car pulled up in front of a long stone building and Stan was hustled inside. He was taken into a bare room and left there alone. There was some heat in the room and he ceased shaking.
An hour passed and a tall soldier came into the room. He beckoned Stan to follow him. They walked down a hall and entered another room. Here Stan was served a bowl of potato soup. It was watery thin, but it was hot. His jailer sat watching him as he ate. When he had finished, the man nodded and got to his feet. Stan followed him down the hall again and into a room furnished as an office. A fat German colonel sat at a desk. His bloated cheeks puffed out and he burst into a hearty laugh when he saw Stan. His fat stomach heaved as he laughed, and his bristling mustache made Stan think of a walrus he once had seen in a zoo.
Stan stood waiting. For the life of him he could see nothing so funny about his personal appearance. He looked the colonel over with a critical eye. The colonel ceased laughing and regarded Stan closely.
“Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, U.S.A.,” he said softly. “But for my purposes a spy, caught creeping up on one of our outposts dressed as a German farmer.”