"Come on, you," the officer snapped.
Stan moved to the iron grating. Pulling a bunch of keys out of the side pocket of his tunic, the guard unlocked the door. Stan stepped out on a narrow walk which led to a row of doors. The officer marched stiffly at his side. At a glance Stan saw that the place was well guarded. Not less than a dozen men with rifles were spotted within sight of the guardhouse and of the buildings grouped around it.
"You will do well to answer all questions truthfully and in detail. Colonel Kittle is a man of action." The officer gave decided emphasis to the last words.
Stan did not reply. They were entering a big room with wall cabinets and a desk. Chairs ringed the desk on which lay various trophies and gadgets such as might have decorated the room of any flight lieutenant. Stan spotted a piece out of a Hurricane fighter. There was an American Colt forty-five automatic and a Russian helmet.
Behind the desk sat the tall officer with the saber scar across his cheek. Stan sized him up as a Prussian military man of the old school. Now that he had a good chance to look at the colonel he saw that the man was hollow-eyed, his skin was drawn tightly over his cheekbones, and his short, cropped hair was streaked with gray. Stan snapped a salute, not knowing exactly why he did it.
The colonel returned the salute and waved a bony hand toward a chair. Stan seated himself. The officer went on regarding him intently. The junior officer seated himself beside Stan and waited. Finally the colonel spoke in German. The young officer frowned, then began translating.
"The colonel wishes to compliment you. The Americans have done very well in Africa."
"Thanks," Stan answered warily.
"He sees no reason why you should not be classed as a prisoner of war." The young officer's lip curled. He turned to the colonel and waited.
The colonel spoke for some little time. When he stopped talking the young lieutenant faced Stan.