The White Knight

by Gilbert, Morris

  It’ll be a miracle if I come out of this alive!

  Even as the plane screeched and tumbled, Luke could not help thinking, I could have killed him, but I let him go.

  Finally the plane came to a stop, and Luke hung there upside down, held by his safety belt. He shoved the canopy back, released the catch, and fell to the ground flat on his back. He lay motionless, the wind knocked out of him, then slowly got to his feet as he got his breath back.

  He smelled fire and then noticed that a flame was coming out of the engine, and he ran. When he was barely twenty yards away, an explosion knocked him flat. The plane had burst into a ball of fire, and Luke lay there covering his head. After he realized he was okay, he rolled over onto his elbow so he could see what was going on. Flames danced across what remained of the aircraft, and finally they seemed to be dying down.

  Getting to his feet, he staggered away from the wreckage and started in the direction he thought the airfield might be.

  He studied the sky and saw no sign of Erich Ritter or his parachute. The 109s were still circling over the wreck of his own plane. He felt strange and disoriented by what had happened and wondered how in the world he would find his way back to his base.

  He had not walked more than five minutes when suddenly two vehicles filled with soldiers appeared over the crest of a hill. They pulled up on either side of him, and the soldiers boiled out, laughing gleefully and keeping their rifles trained on him.

  “Put your hands in the air!”

  A lieutenant got out and was pointing a pistol at Luke. “You are a prisoner of Generalissimo Franco,” he said in Spanish. “Do not try to get away or you will be killed. And that would give me great pleasure!”

  Since there was nowhere to run to, Luke simply stood there while two of the soldiers came closer and began prodding him with their guns. They forced him to get into one of the trucks. As he climbed in he turned around, and one of them struck him in the forehead with the butt of his rifle. His world was filled with glittering stars of the most brilliant colors Luke had ever seen, but they soon faded to a soft, dull blackness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Prisoner’s Fate

  Luke was jerked out of a semiconscious state by rough hands and a voice shouting, “Get up, gringo!”

  He managed to open one eye, but the other was swollen shut. He reached up and felt dried blood caked over his left eye. He winced, and the pain was sharp enough to pull him up straight. Someone shoved him off the back of the truck, and he fell sprawling and once again felt a kick in his side that took his breath.

  “Get up!”

  The soldiers were grinning as they stood around him, and the lieutenant once again had a pistol pointed at him. At the man’s gesture, Luke slowly got up.

  “So, you are a norteamericano.”

  “Yes.”

  “You came over to interfere in my country’s fight for freedom. You will be shot.”

  “I’m a prisoner of war.”

  “You are a filthy spy!”

  “No, I’m not a spy.”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  Luke did as he was told, which seemed to anger the lieutenant even more. He slapped Luke in the face and then again with the back of his hand, and the pain bore through Luke’s head.

  “You will have a fair trial,” the man said with a wolfish grin, “and then you will be shot. Lock him up. And you do not have to treat him with gentleness.”

  The soldiers all laughed, and two of them dragged him toward a shed. One of them yanked open the door and shoved Luke inside. He sprawled full-length, and the stench of the place almost gagged him. It had obviously been used as a pen for animals, and the odor was overpowering.

  The lieutenant followed the other soldier inside. “Light the lamp so he can see his home until we shoot him.”

  A blue spurt, a lighted match, and then the lantern was lit and hung on a nail. The faint yellow beams revealed the squalid interior. There was no furniture, only remnants of straw along the walls and dried mud on the floor.

  “Enjoy yourself, Yankee.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Don’t worry about the accommodations. You will not be here long.” The lieutenant laughed again and kicked Luke in the thigh. “Come. Let him think about standing in front of a firing squad. The gringos are all godless. We’ll send him straight to the pit—where all filthy traitors go!”

  “Lieutenant Garcia, let me have a few minutes with him.” The guard, a burly man with a cruel, wolfish face, obviously wanted to have a go at the prisoner.

  “No. That’s enough for now.” He grinned. “But maybe we’ll come back later and have some fun.”

  The lieutenant waved the guards out, and Luke heard the door close. His ribs ached and his head was killing him. There was nothing to sit on except the filthy floor, so he simply pulled himself over to the wall and sat up, leaning against it. Closing his eyes, he knew a moment of despair. Well, at least it’ll be quick, he thought. It doesn’t take long for a firing squad to do its work.

  ****

  General Wolfram von Richthofen was listening as Erich Ritter told about his harrowing afternoon. Ritter had landed safely and been picked up by a patrol. He had immediately reported to the commanding officer of the Condor Legion. The general was a full-faced man, heavy in body and feature, his cleverness revealed by intelligent eyes. Some had suggested he had achieved his rank because he was related to Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron of the Great War, but this was not true. He was intelligent and had learned his trade well. He was now studying Erich Ritter carefully, his eyes hooded.

  “I’m surprised that he managed to get you, Major. You don’t usually have much trouble with the enemy. How did he get the best of you?”

  “He came from behind and above me—out of the sun. I didn’t know there was a plane within a hundred kilometers until the bullets started hitting. It was too late then.”

  “It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you immediately.”

  Erich Ritter shrugged. He was a handsome man, no more than five ten but with a strong, lithe figure. He could have served as a poster boy for Adolf Hitler’s ideal of a true Aryan. He had startling blue eyes, and his blond hair lay in a slight wave off his forehead. “I suppose it was a miracle. But you haven’t heard the rest of the story.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was lucky enough to get out of the plane and my parachute opened. That’s always a miracle to me.” Ritter smiled slightly. “But as soon as it opened, I looked up and there he came. I was as helpless as a man can be.”

  “That must have given you quite a shock.”

  “I was a dead man, General. Winslow was coming straight at me. Of course, my men were getting after him as quick as they could, but there was no time. I hung there and knew that I was dead. I was certain it was all over for me.”

  General von Richthofen smiled. “Did your whole life flash before your eyes, Erich?”

  “As it happens in books?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, it really did. I thought about when I was a boy shooting my first stag in the Black Forest. I thought about growing up, about things I did when I was just a young boy, you know?”

  “You didn’t have that much time.”

  “No, I didn’t, General. And I could see him. The muzzles of those guns . . . They looked as big as eighty-eights!”

  “I’ve often wondered what I would do if I knew I was going to die in the next few seconds.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” Ritter said simply. “I gave it up and then I think I even smiled to think it would end like this. I always thought I’d die in a dogfight, and here I was as helpless as a rag doll. Not at all what I had expected.”

  “How did he miss you?”

  “He didn’t miss me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No, sir, that’s the miracle. Winslow didn’t even fire. He turned the plane over and missed me by a few feet. I just hung there, shocked to be al
ive.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I have no idea, General. No idea whatsoever.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The two pilots with me shot him down. I assume he had a crash landing, but of course, I didn’t see it. I landed in the branches of a tree and got hung up. I had to cut myself down, but I was pleased to find that I didn’t have a scratch.”

  The pilot sat back in his chair. “Too bad about Winslow. He was a brave man. I would like to meet him.”

  A slight smile played around the lips of the general. “I think that can be arranged.”

  Ritter looked at his commanding officer. “What does that mean, sir?”

  “It means we captured him after he crashed. He’s in pretty good shape considering what he went through. Lieutenant Garcia is holding him now.”

  Erich Ritter’s eyes were wide. “I can’t believe it, but I would like to meet him.”

  “Go on over. I’d like to meet him myself, but I don’t have time right now.”

  “I’ll go at once if you don’t mind, General.” Erich Ritter saluted and left the general’s headquarters at a quick pace. He called for a driver, got into the vehicle, and said, “I want to talk to Lieutenant Garcia’s prisoner. Do you know where he’s holding him?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Take me there at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The driver took the words at once seriously and Ritter had to hold on, but he did not mind the rough passage. The driver drove like a madman, perhaps to impress the famous Erich Ritter, the Black Knight, as he was called by many. He pulled the truck up and slammed his foot onto the brake, throwing Ritter forward.

  “Shall I wait for you, Lieutenant?” the driver asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ritter got out and was met almost at once by Lieutenant Garcia. Garcia saluted smartly, and Ritter returned it.

  “It’s good to see you, Major. I suppose you’ve come to see the prisoner.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hoped you might come.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We have him locked up safely. He won’t be getting away.” Garcia was curious. “The rumor is that he shot you down before he himself crashed, but I suppose that’s a lie.”

  “No. It’s the truth.”

  Garcia was shocked. “I can’t believe an American could shoot you down, sir.”

  “You can believe it, Lieutenant Garcia. Now let me see the prisoner, if you will.”

  “Yes, sir. Right this way.”

  Ritter followed the lieutenant, aware that soldiers were watching him and talking behind their hands. He turned to Garcia, asking, “Has he given you any trouble?”

  “No, no. We gave him trouble, Major.” Garcia laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being in the firing squad myself when he’s shot.”

  “Why would he be shot?”

  “Because he’s a traitor, of course.”

  “He’s not a traitor. He’s a prisoner of war.”

  “But, sir—”

  Ritter cut off the lieutenant’s words quickly. “Just take me to him, Garcia.”

  Ritter followed the lieutenant to what appeared to be a cow shed. He stopped and stared at it. “He’s not in there, is he?”

  “Oh yes. He’s there, all right. He can’t get away.”

  When the man shoved the door open, Ritter stepped inside, and the feeble light of the single lantern was so dim he could not see for a moment. The stench was terrible, and he looked around, narrowing his eyes. He found a figure sitting against the wall, but he could not make out the man’s features. “Lieutenant Garcia!” he barked.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Why is the prisoner in this place?”

  “So that he won’t escape, sir.”

  “Turn that lamp up!” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir.” Garcia turned the lamp up, and as the light increased, Ritter gasped. The man’s face was half covered with blood and he had a terrible wound over his left eyebrow. He was filthy and did not move, though he watched Ritter with his good eye.

  Ritter stepped forward and bent over. “I am Major Erich Ritter. You are Lieutenant Winslow, I assume?”

  The answer was feeble, but the one eye that was open looked back defiantly. “I am.”

  “You are the pilot who shot me down?”

  “Yes.”

  Ritter stared at the face. He could not see much about it for the dirt and the blood. “Can you stand up?”

  “I think so.”

  Erich watched as the prisoner got to his feet. “Come with me.”

  Erich stepped aside and watched as the prisoner, carefully holding his side, stumbled out. He followed him and turned to Garcia and said shortly, “I’m taking your prisoner, Lieutenant.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I will have something to say about your actions. We do not treat prisoners of war like this. I hope you’ve enjoyed your rank. You’re not likely to have it long.”

  The two approached the vehicle, and Ritter asked Winslow if he could get in.

  “Yes, Major. I think I can.”

  Erich watched as the prisoner very carefully got into the vehicle. Ritter climbed in and said to the driver, “Back to headquarters, Private.”

  “Yes, Major.”

  Luke did not say a word. He felt sore and weak, but pride kept him sitting upright. He did not turn to look at Major Ritter.

  Ritter did not say anything either, but he carefully studied the other pilot. He knew little about the man except that he was an American and had a reputation for being an exceptional fighter pilot, but he intended to find out more.

  They reached the base and Ritter ordered the driver, “Over there at those quarters.”

  “You mean the officers’ quarters?”

  “That’s right.”

  The driver pulled the vehicle over in front of a line of low buildings. Ritter got out and said, “Get out, Lieutenant.”

  Luke got out carefully and stood there breathing hard. It was all he could do.

  “Come this way.”

  Ritter led the way into the building and called to a sergeant. “Sergeant Mueller, which one of these rooms is empty?”

  “The one on the end, sir. Lieutenant Schiller has been transferred.”

  “I am putting this man in your charge, Sergeant Mueller. I want you to see to it that he’s cleaned up. Then give him something fit to wear, some clean clothing, and then come report to me.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “He’s a prisoner of war. He will be treated as such. Keep two guards at his door.”

  “Yes, Major Ritter.”

  “Lieutenant,” Ritter said to Winslow, “I will speak with you after you’ve had a chance to clean yourself up.”

  “Yes, Major.”

  Ritter left the officers’ quarters and went to the office of Dr. Karl Bittern, the physician of the Condor Legion.

  Dr. Bittern rose when he saw Ritter in his doorway. “Well, I heard the news,” the doctor said. “I thought we had lost you.”

  “You almost did, Doctor.”

  “I heard you were shot down.”

  “I was indeed.”

  “A first time for you.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but I have a prisoner I want you to see. He’s been treated rather badly.”

  “A pilot?”

  “Yes. An American. He’s been injured. I want you to give him the very best treatment.”

  “Why are you so interested in an enemy flier?”

  “He had me under his gun, Doctor. He could have killed me, but he let me go, so I’m in his debt,” Ritter explained. “You understand me? I want him to have good treatment.”

  Usually Ritter’s expression was pleasant enough, but at times he could look very dangerous—as he did now. Dr.

  Bittern cleared his throat. “Why, of course, Major. I’ll give him the very best care.
”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Ritter left the doctor’s office and went to the cookshack. The cook was a small, round man named Adolph Keller who obviously enjoyed sampling his own wares.

  “Sergeant Keller, we have a prisoner. I want you to fix up a nourishing meal for him. Something tasty. Your very best.”

  “For a prisoner?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, sir. Where is he?”

  “He’s in the officers’ quarters. I would appreciate it if you would take very good care of him.”

  “I will give him a feast indeed, Major.”

  ****

  The two guards who had been assigned to watch Luke Winslow’s door were opposites. One was tall and lanky with a sullen-looking face, the other short and rotund with a silly grin. The tall one complained bitterly, saying, “I’ll rot before I treat this American like we’re told. Just give me a chance and I’ll beat him to a pulp.”

  The shorter man laughed. “That’s right. You’ve had a full life, I guess. Just you tell Major Ritter that you don’t like the way he’s doing things.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with the major, but I’m—”

  “Shut up. Here he comes!”

  The two men straightened to attention and saluted as Ritter came to stand before them. “Open the door,” he ordered. He stepped inside without another word.

  “Lieutenant Winslow, you’re looking somewhat better.”

  Indeed, Winslow did look better. He’d had a bath and been given a set of German fatigues. He had a bulky bandage over his left eyebrow and he stood with more ease.

  “I have to thank you, Major, for the bath and clothes—and the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry you were treated so badly. It was not my doing, of course.”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  Ritter suddenly felt at a loss for words. He studied the American’s face and liked what he saw. He’s the kind of man I’d like to have in my squadron, he thought. But he said, “Please sit down, Lieutenant. I have a question.”