"And so there you are, sir," he finished up. "A very unfortunate incident, but I've already told you it was my fault."
The big German, shrugged, started to speak but checked himself and swiveled around in his chair to peer at the well marked map that took up most of the wall in back of him. Presently he turned front again and fixed his eyes on Dave.
"And you?" he grunted. "Where were you forced to leave your car? And where is this French Army lieutenant your friend mentioned?"
"I don't know where he is," Dave said. "When the German planes started shooting and bombing those refugees I...."
"One moment!" the Colonel grated harshly. "Our pilots do not shoot or bomb helpless civilians. Those were undoubtedly French planes, or British ones, made to look like German planes. Go on."
Anger rose up in Dave Dawson. He had seen those planes with his own eyes. And he knew enough about foreign planes to know that they were neither French nor British. They were German, and there were no two ways about that. He opened his mouth to hurl the lie back in the German's face, but suddenly thought better of it.
"The spot was about seventy miles north of Paris, I think," he said. "I know that a few minutes before, we had passed through a small village named Roye. And I remember looking at my watch. It was a little after one this afternoon."
"I see," murmured the German, and an odd look seeped into his eyes. "And when you awoke it was night? You saw the ambulance of this English boy's, and he picked you up?"
"That's right, sir," Dave said with a nod.
"And so?" the German said in the same murmuring tone. "So from a little after one this afternoon until your friend picked you up you traveled over thirty miles ... while unconscious? You expect me to believe that?"