“We will play leapfrog here,” Martin said, sweeping his hand across the field. “And I will try to make you step in the manure, and you will try to make me step in the manure. Do you understand?”
Now I got it.
Dear Pete, Is Martin nuts or what?
Dear Warren, Yes he is. But I can’t wait to see what happens next.
“And what if we do step in…in the poo?” I asked, wondering if I’d ever talked about manure this much before.
Martin scratched his chin with a muscled hand. “Then that person must do ten push-ups. Agreed?”
To an observer watching us, it would have looked like we were both insane. And the sight of two guys bouncing over each other’s crouched bodies, between piles of cattle dung, would have been a first in Queens County—maybe even the world. But I have to admit, I never had more fun playing a children’s game.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
At first, we cleanly jumped over each other and easily avoided the crap heaps. Martin tried hard to direct me to the left or right, toward “dump-sites,” but I always managed to clear the piles at the last second. That is, until my legs began to burn.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
It was now painful to vault over Martin’s huge back, and impossible to find the energy to alter direction in mid-air. My thighs were on fire.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
Gracefully he leapt over me, guiding me into a minefield of crap. I glanced up and saw that I didn’t have a chance. Oh, no! Without the strength to avoid the mounds, it wasn’t long before I had my foot planted in dung.
Squish!
I did my ten push-ups without complaining. My legs thanked me for the break.
The game continued, and all around the cows stopped eating to watch us bounce among them. Three more times I failed to clear the cow poo that littered the pasture. But I was determined to get Martin before my legs failed.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
I saw a heap of crap off to my right and headed there. If I could jump over Martin’s head and land three feet beyond him, he would be forced to plant his enormous boots in fresh poop.
Come on, Warren, push!
Hop. Hop. Splat!
“Ach, you!” Martin cried out and laughed. “I will get you for that.” Jumping on one leg, he chased me around the pasture, threatening to smear me with his manure-stained foot.
I screamed in mock terror, and hobbled in circles. Finally I could take it no longer, and fell exhausted to the ground.
Martin dropped down next to me still giggling.
“That,” I said, gasping for breath, “is a great game.”
“I have done this many times in Germany,” he puffed. “It is good for the legs. But I have never had so much fun playing it.”
“You mean you play leapfrog in Germany around piles of dung?”
“Oh, no. That part is my idea. Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you still have ten push-ups to do.”
Suddenly, Dad’s voice joined in. “I’ve seen a lot of different things in my day. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that.” He stood twenty feet away, pushing the wheelbarrow. A block of salt sat in the middle.
Embarrassed, Martin and I scrambled to get up. “We were just, ahh, playing a game,” I said, brushing grass from my body.
“A game, eh?” Dad looked doubtful. “What do you call a game like that?”
It was there, in the pasture, that I finally explained to Dad that Martin was a world-class sprinter. I told Dad how he’d been training and coaching me to win the one-hundred-metre race at the Summer Games. Dad didn’t object, of course, but he sure didn’t look convinced that hopping around in the cow poop was going to help either.
Dad saw that I was serious about being coached by Martin. He even went as far as giving us the afternoons off. “But I wanna see at least four good hours of work from you two each morning,” he said.
And that’s just what we gave him.
We finished lining the sewage pit with rocks. Then we dug a trench from the house to the pit, laying old pipe down as we dug. Finally, we helped Dad with the addition to the house that would serve as the new laundry room and washroom. Every day after lunch, Dad dismissed us with a wave or a nod.
I’m not sure what was harder on me, working for Dad in the morning, or letting Martin abuse me for the afternoon. But there was no doubt about my progress. After only five days of training my legs felt stronger and my sprints faster. Much faster.
Each start from the blocks began to feel natural. When Martin said “go,” I now exploded from the blocks with a confidence I’d never felt at school. And Martin noticed too. He found fewer and fewer faults with each start. But he was never totally satisfied.
If he wasn’t attacking my sprinting style, it was my eating. I couldn’t believe it when one morning he said, “Eat more food. Much more.” And then at lunchtime it was the same. “Here,” he’d say, shovelling food on my plate, “eat two more eggs.” Even during supper he was heaping stuff in front of me.
Mom and Dad thought all this was funny. I thought I was going to blow up. “How can I run anywhere,” I protested, “if I’m too stuffed to walk?”
The days passed, and I got stronger still. And our plan to avoid Rake was working. So far, anyway. We only trained at the track when we practiced sprints and starts. And even then, we approached the gully trail with caution—always scanning the far side of Tilley Creek carefully for any movement.
Thinking back now, we should have never used that track again.
My two weeks of training flew by, and before I knew it, it was the Thursday night before the Games.
Dad threw a box on my lap. “Here,” he said, “these may come in handy.”
I opened the lid cautiously (Dad was known to be a practical joker). Wow! I was staring at a pair of brand new runners—honest-to-God, proper track and field shoes. I’d never seen such beautiful sneakers in my life. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Martin.”
“Martin?” I turned my head in his direction.
“Well, yeah,” Dad said. “He’s the one who paid for them. Used up all his wages, too. I just picked them up.”
I bit my lip. “Thanks, Martin.” My voice cracked. “These are great.”
Martin smiled. “But do not get manure on these. They are for running and racing only. Okay?”
I slid my foot into the soft leather. Perfect fit. “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, admiring the blue lightning bolts stitched to the sides. “These shoes will never be near the pasture.” I bounced up and down on the kitchen floor. They were so light—like socks.
“They fit all right, Warren?” Mom asked, putting the food away.
“They’re fantastic!” I cried out, grinning like an idiot. I turned to Martin. “Can I try them out today? Right now? It’s my last chance before Saturday.”
Tomorrow was my rest day before the race, and that meant no training. Not that it mattered, though, because we’d be driving to Moncton. Dad’s plan was for us to stay there with Uncle Stuart while I ran at the Games.
“Yes,” Martin said. “It would be good to try them. I do not want to see you trip on Saturday because of new shoes.”
Chapter 12
“Wait here, and do your warm-up,” Martin said. “I will examine the other side.”
I already had my old runners off, and was tying the laces on my new ones. “Okay.”
Stretching my legs, I watched Martin lope down the gully and up the far side. As a precaution, he had patrolled the ridge each day, before we neared our track. If it looked safe—free of Rake and his thugs—he’d give me a wave and cut back to the starter’s blocks.
I bounced lightly up and down. Man, these runners were great. I imagined them knocking another tenth of a second off my best time. Martin gave me
the “all clear” from the distant bank, so I jogged to the track.
After more than a hundred starts, the blocks felt like home. I had my new shoes firmly set, when Martin pushed his way through the thick brush next to the start line.
He walked to the forty-metre mark, and scratched a fresh line in the track. Cupping his mouth, he shouted, “Three, two, one, GO!”
I shot from the blocks like a bullet, and flew past Martin. Whoosh! For the last four days he had been satisfied with my start, my beginning, and my sprinting in general. But he always said, “You could be faster still.”
I pulled up next to him and grinned. “That was fast, Martin. You have to admit it. Very fast!” I laughed out loud and bounced up and down. “And it’s because of these shoes. They make me faster than ever.”
Martin put his hand on my shoulder. “No, it is because you are finally doing everything I have asked.”
I looked up at him and suddenly realized he was my friend. I didn’t think of him as a P.O.W., or a German, or even a soldier. He was simply my friend, and now maybe my only friend. In the past few weeks, Tom had stopped by once or twice, but he could never stay long.
I knew why too.
Tom’s crazy Uncle Oliver had probably convinced Tom’s parents that Martin really was a menace to society. It made me sad that I couldn’t change their minds, because we’d always been best friends.
“– will win the race,” Martin said.
“Huh?” I hadn’t been paying attention.
Martin smiled. “I said that if you remember to run with your legs and your arms, you will win the race.”
“Yeah?” I thought so too, but I liked hearing it from him.
“Yes,” he said. “Run just as you have trained—always sprinting relaxed—and you will be first at the finish.”
“But he ain’t gonna finish, ’cuz he ain’t gonna be there.”
Martin and I spun around to find the source of the voice. I felt like puking even before I saw Rake standing half-hidden in the brush, twenty feet away. I knew it would be him.
And he was holding a rifle.
I checked left and then right. There! Hiding in the shrubs were Brent Slater and Vance Peterson. Leaves hid most of Vance’s body, but I could see he had a gun too. It looked like a shotgun. My hands began to sweat, and my legs threatened to fail me.
I felt Martin’s fingers gently touch my forearm. It was like he was saying, “Relax. Take it easy.” I pulled in a deep breath and waited. Neither of us spoke.
Rake spat a chunk of tobacco on the ground. “Run if you want, Rabbit,” he said. “I’ve been practicing, and I don’t think I’ll miss you this time.”
The three of them closed in, crashing through the brush like elephants. But the guns stayed pointed at us.
“Didn’t I tell you they’d come back?” Rake said to Brent. “It took some time. No doubt about that. But I knew they’d be back.”
Rake stuck the rifle in my face. “You see, Vance and Brent here, they’d been getting kind of tired of hiding in the gully waitin’ for ya. They even wanted to give it up. But I just knew you’d return.”
Brent stepped forward and took the rifle from Rake.
Rake lightly touched his nose, which was still puffy from my fist. “I have a little something for you,” he said.
I cringed as I watched Rake cock his arm. I knew what was coming. He swung, aiming for my nose, but I twisted my head at the last second.
Smash!
The blow missed my nose and connected with my eye. It would be a shiner for sure.
But Martin wasn’t about to stand there and do nothing. He let loose with his own right, slamming his fist into Vance’s jaw.
CRACK!
Through the stars in my own head, I saw Vance drop the shotgun and stagger backwards. Martin’s brazen punch, with two guns pointed at him, caught Brent and Vance off-guard. But not Rake. He snatched the rifle back from Brent and swung the butt at Martin’s head. The heavy wooden gunstock caught Martin under his right temple. He wobbled for second, and then fell backwards like an oak. He was out cold.
Oh, no!
I glanced down at him. Blood oozed from a four-inch cut on the side of his head.
Recovering from the blow to his jaw, Vance scrambled for the shotgun and stuck it against Martin’s head.
I kicked the barrel away. “Are you nuts?” I screamed. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “What are you doing?”
Vance blinked and looked around. His eyes darted back and forth between Rake and Brent.
He wanted to shoot Martin.
“Should I kill him?” he asked Rake.
“Kill him?” I said. “Don’t be insane! You’ll go to jail for life.”
Rake looked flustered. I’m sure he wanted to give Vance the okay, but he seemed hesitant now. “No,” he said. “Don’t shoot him. Let’s stick to the plan.”
Brent looked relieved and took a deep breath.
Vance scowled. “But we could end it now and…”
Rake shook his head. “I said no. Now let’s get moving.”
I bent over Martin and examined his head. A deep gash ran from his ear to his temple. The blood pulsed from the wound in a steady flow. I had to do something, or he’d bleed to death right there on the track. First aid. He desperately needed some kind of first aid.
Dear Pete, Help me. I can’t think straight.
Dear Warren, Remember what Dad taught us in Boy Scouts: apply immediate pressure to the wound with a compress.
Right.
Thanks, Pete.
With shaking hands, I ripped the sleeve off my T-shirt and tore it in half. Crap. It wasn’t enough material. Frantically, I yanked off my other sleeve. I folded it up, pressed it against Martin’s head, and tied it firmly with the ripped one.
Good enough.
Rake rammed the gun into my ribs. “Get him up,” he said.
“What for?” I was getting mad. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”
“Yeah, that’s really sad that the killer Nazi cut his head.” Rake spat a stream of tobacco from between his teeth. “Now get him up, or I’ll let Vance finish him right here.”
I shook Martin gently and whispered in his ear. “Come on, Martin, wake up. Please.” His eyes opened and blinked, but then closed again. “MARTIN! You have to stand up or they’re going to kill you.”
Rake kicked Martin’s foot. “Get up, Nazi. You’re going for a walk.”
I pulled Martin’s arm and tried to make him stand. He groaned in protest, but kept rising. Like a drunk, his body wavered. If his arm hadn’t been draped over my shoulder, he would have toppled to the ground.
“Isn’t that nice, boys?” Rake said. “The Kraut and the runner—arm in arm. Now let’s get going.”
“Where?” I said.
Vance jabbed my ribs with the shotgun. “Shut up and follow Brent.”
I did as he said.
Walking behind Brent and Vance, I hobbled down the trail toward Tilley Creek and the swimming hole. With Martin leaning heavily on my shoulders it was slow going. I was soaked in sweat after only a hundred metres.
They kept a slow pace so I could keep up with them, and I did my best to lug Martin through the trees. At the same time I tried to think of a way to escape. But I had no idea where we were going. What was their plan, I wondered?
I had a sinking feeling they were going to kill us. In fact, as we neared the creek, I was sure Rake intended on drowning us. That would be the smart thing for him to do. They could hold our heads under water, until we were both dead. It would be a perfect accident. The police would think we had been goofing around and drowned.
Without warning, Martin’s feet suddenly stumbled and we fell to the ground. He landed on my side with a thump. Ouch! Rake and his goons stood by and waited for me to get him up again. No
one moved to help.
It took all my strength to get Martin to stand. He seemed to be awake—his eyes were half-open—but he was obviously in rough shape. My first aid was lousy too. The cloth on Martin’s wound was saturated and slipping around like a blood-soaked beanie.
My mind raced ahead to the swimming hole. Would they drown us right now? I started to doubt it. It was a hot evening, after a hot day. There could be dozens of other kids swimming there at this time.
No, I decided, they couldn’t drown us. At least not immediately.
Just then, Brent turned off the trail and climbed up the far side of the ravine.
Now what?
We were near the creek, I knew that much, but still too far away to try and yell for help. Not that that would do any good. Rake would knock my teeth out as soon as I opened my mouth. The path up the gully was shallow, but it was still awkward for me to drag Martin up alone.
Rake turned to Brent. “Give Turd a hand with the Nazi.”
Brent yanked on one arm while I pushed under the other. Together we managed to clear Martin over the lip of the gully. I glanced around, catching my breath. I knew where I was. We were standing on the abandoned Semenko farm, a mile from my house.
A rifle rammed into my spine. “Keep moving, Webb.” Rake spat on my new runners. “You’re almost home.”
My fists clenched in anger.
Dear Warren, Stay calm.
I acknowledged my brother’s advice with a nod.
If Rake had been alone, and without a rifle, I would have jumped him right there. I mean, I know he would have killed me. But even if I could have got only one punch in first, it would have been worth it.
I adjusted Martin’s arm around my neck, and got his feet moving forward again. Man, he was heavy. We wound our way over the unattended fields toward the main yard. I didn’t know what they had in store for us, but I was relieved to see the farm buildings ahead.
I needed to rest.
Except for the house and the main barn, the Semenko farm was unlike any other in Queens County. Piles of gravel and sand dotted the yard. Concrete pads and building foundations were scattered about—many without walls. A rusty concrete mixer stood next to the barn, attached to a tractor.
Prisoner of Warren Page 9
