Before the old man could speak, Dave had straightened up and moved away. In another few seconds he was some ten feet in front of the center one of the three doors. Fading twilight seeped through the cracks—the fading twilight of freedom outside. Dave steeled himself and sucked air into his lungs. For a sharp instant panic overcame him, and his whole body trembled. He beat down his terror, took a quick look around, and then lunged straight for the door. He crashed against it half bent over, shoulders bunched, like an All-American halfback blocking out a particularly dangerous tackler.
The aged door groaned and creaked in protest, and for one horrible moment Dave feared that it would not give way. He had charged it with battering ram force, however. The hinges snapped off, the door sagged, and then it split straight down the middle and went crashing down onto the ground outside. Dave tripped over something and fell sprawling, but he bounced up like a rubber ball and pinned wings to his feet.
Behind him a bedlam of sound broke out. The startled cries of the refugees seemed to pour out through the broken door like flood waters pouring through a broken dam. Dave thought he heard a wild hoarse challenge to halt hurled after him. A split second later the sharp bark of a rifle shot cut above the babble of voices, and something whined past just a little bit above his head. Still crouched over, he darted quickly to the side and sped around the corner of the nearest lumber shed. Halfway down its length, he saw a spot where some of the boards had fallen away, leaving an opening. He swerved and ducked through inside. Slowing his pace a trifle, he cut directly across the floor of the shed and wriggled out through an opening on the other side.
He pulled up to a halt, hugged the shadow cast by the shed and strained his ears. He heard angry voices on the other side of the shed, and the unmistakable sound of pounding feet. He grinned and silently congratulated himself. It had certainly been a bright idea to duck inside the shed. The Germans chasing after him had missed the opening completely and were racing down toward the swamp.
He didn't linger long, though, to congratulate himself on his cleverness. As soon as he got his second wind, he started cutting across lots, hugging the shadows until the lumber sheds were far behind him and he was scurrying along the dark and smelly streets of the deserted poor section of the city. He sneaked along for two or three blocks, then ducked into the pitch dark entrance of a building and paused to rest.
His breath was like fire in his lungs, and every square inch of his body was drenched with sweat. But he grinned happily and his heart sang a song of joy.
"Score one for the good old R.A.F. over Hitler's lads!" he chuckled to himself. "Right through the old line, and how. Boy, what a sensation I'd be in a Rose Bowl game!"
He chuckled a bit more and then snorted at himself.
"Sure, you're a wonderful guy," he grunted derisively. "But you can thank your lucky stars that door was weak. And—"
He cut the rest off short and pulled back deeper into the dark doorway. From up the street came the familiar sound of hobnailed boots on the cobblestones. A second later a harsh order in German hit the early night air.