The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. “I am indebted to you,” he said slowly.
“If I don’t get you to a doctor, you’ll be as bad off as if you were still in that bonfire,” Stan snapped. “Talk and I’ll see what I can do. And hand me that Luger.” He reached down and jerked the officer’s gun from him. The Nazi had been too weak to make fast use of it.
“I suppose you are right.” The officer coughed again and his hand slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with blood.
“I might as well talk.” Fear was showing in his eyes.
“Good. Who tipped you off?”
“A man who has quite an inside position with you. His name is—” The Jerry paused and coughed.
“Yes?” Stan bent and steadied him. He was afraid the Nazi would pass out before he spoke again.
“Arch Garret,” the Nazi said, then went limp in Stan’s arms.
Stan stared down in the gray face for a moment. His lips were drawn into a tight line and his eyes were blazing. Then he remembered his promise to the unconscious Nazi. Picking the man up he carried him to the stone fence which separated the field from the road.
An old car had halted and a man and a woman sat staring at the smoking Nazi plane and the trim Spitfire. When Stan appeared they started to get the old car into action.