“It must be that way, Dave!” came the whisper. “I insist! We’ve got to do it my way. Blast it, Dave! It’s the only way possible. This is no time to think of each other. Don’t you see?”
Dave bit his lips, but the absolute truth of Freddy’s words was too much for him. After all, what mattered most was the fate of the Panama Canal.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But if anything happens to you, pal, I’ll—”
He couldn’t finish. Then he felt Freddy’s head pressing lightly against his left knee, and he knew that Freddy understood without being told. Dave swallowed hard and wondered if the guards could see tears showing in his eyes. For a crazy moment he was tempted to call it all off. Perhaps there was some other way out. Perhaps at dawn he could add to von Stutgardt’s obvious worries, and get the Nazi to postpone striking his terrible blow. Maybe that crack about X-62 could be used again. Of course, Dave didn’t know of anybody who was known as X-62. But mentioning that, as von Stutgardt herded them up from the beach, had made worried lights flash in the Nazi’s eyes. The Nazi didn’t know the truth about X-62, and maybe—just maybe—
Dave let the rest slide as Freddy Farmer groaned again and rolled over on his back, and then up to a sitting position.
“Did stretching your legs help any?” the English youth asked in a loud voice. “Very well, I’ll try it. But, frankly, I think it’s silly to worry about our health now. It’s all over for us. We two are finished, blast it!”
Freddy spoke the last in distinct German, and openly glared at the two guards. If they didn’t understand the English words they most certainly understood the German words, and Freddy’s glare. They both grinned wolfishly and nodded their heads slightly. Freddy glared at them for a bit longer, then coldly turned his back on them and started slouching about the hut floor. Dave glanced at the guards, saw them chuckling in amusement at Freddy’s obvious discomfort of body and mind, and hoped he could put on as good an act as his pal.
He remained where he was for a couple of minutes, a perfect picture of dejected defeat and misery. Then he sighed and got slowly up on his own feet. But he didn’t start walking immediately. He just stood there a moment absently rubbing his two hands up and down the sides of his face, and staring sad-eyed out past the guards. When he could tell that they were no more on the alert than usual, he stopped rubbing his face, jammed his hands in his pockets, grunted, and started shuffling about the place in a circle.
One minute—two minutes—three minutes ticked slowly by, and it was all that Dave could do to stop from screaming at the top of his voice. Every nerve and muscle in him was drawn tight, close to the snapping point. Each second had seemed an hour longer, and each minute a whole eternity. With every step he took he was seized with the wild desire to sneeze the signal and dive headlong through one of the windows. Anything, anything to break this torturing suspense. Anything so long as it meant action. That was all he craved, now, and nuts to the results.
He maintained a steely grip on himself, however. Three minutes weren’t half enough to soothe away any sneaking suspicions that the two guards might have. Every time he snapped a glance their way from up under his brows he saw that they were tensed and watching Freddy and him as two cats might watch a couple of mice. Not time, yet, for the do or die effort. Not until the guards got used to their shuffling around and relaxed a little. They were still on the alert too much. Their trigger fingers were still too itchy and ready.