Prisoner of Warren

by Andreas Oertel

  Martin’s eyes closed for a long blink. “Oh, Varren,” he sighed. “You are such an arsch mit ohren.” This was his favourite way to insult me—to call me a butt with ears.

  “I do not know what you have done last night,” he continued, “but I think you have saved my life. I think you have become a soldier. A hero.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a soldier, Martin. And I don’t want to be one.” I’d decided last night that I no longer wanted to join the army.

  Martin’s eyes widened. “Please do not say it is because of me. If you wish to be a soldier, you should do so.”

  His voice was so quiet I could barely hear him. I held my head closer and he went on. “It is not a bad thing to join the army, Varren. It is not bad to fight for your country, if you want to stop the war. It is only bad if you wish to become a soldier to kill people. Do you understand the difference?”

  I nodded. I understood. I didn’t have to say anything.

  Martin smiled and closed his eyes for a minute. “Now,” he said, obviously changing the subject, “are you ready to win the race?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes closed and he didn’t open them again. He was asleep.

  Chapter 16

  “How is he?” I said into the telephone receiver.

  “Well, honey,” Mom said, “he’s about the same. Mrs. Agostino dropped off some iron pills and cod liver oil, and I’ll see if I can get him to take those. He needs to get his strength back.”

  I was standing in Uncle Stuart’s kitchen, in Moncton. Dad and I were about to leave for the Games, but I had wanted to find out if Martin was better. Mom wished me good luck (for the hundredth time) and told me not to worry about Martin.

  Dad had talked to Mom first, and she provided him with an update on the situation with Rake. The police had gone to the Semenko farm and found all three still locked up. I was relieved. Rake was now at the police station and charged with all sorts of crimes. They were going to transfer him to a larger detachment later today. Brent and Vance were charged too, but released to their parents. Mom said Mrs. Slater had phoned her to personally apologize for Brent’s behaviour.

  The closer we got to the Moncton Stadium, the more nervous I got. Dad sensed it too, and told me not to worry. He said I should think of it as any other track meet.

  But I couldn’t. These were the New Brunswick Summer Games. This was big.

  Dad parked the truck in the biggest parking lot I’d ever seen, and we made our way through the crowds in search of the registration desk. Coach Roberts had said that he’d secured a place for me in the one-hundred-metre event, but that I still had to register and sign in when I got to the track.

  After asking three different volunteers for directions, we finally found the registration desk. Dad waited with me while the athletes ahead of us checked in.

  I told the official at the table my name and he slid a finger down his list.

  “Ahh, here you are,” he said, stabbing my name on the roster. “Mister Warren Webb. You’ll be running at nine fifteen.” He looked up at me and seemed to notice my black eye for the first time.

  I figured he was going to ask me about it, so I quickly said, “I fell during training yesterday.” To prove that no one beat me into signing up, I gave him a huge smile.

  “Well,” he said, “don’t be falling down today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at his paper again. “If you finish first or second, you’ll go straight to the final. The final is at eleven. If you finish third, or fourth, you’ll have to run in the semi-finals to qualify. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right then. Good luck, Warren. Next please.”

  Nine fifteen came fast.

  I had thought it would be too early for people to show up to watch a foot race. But I was wrong. The stadium was packed. There must have been five thousand people watching as we lined up to set our blocks.

  I had never seen real blocks before, and I had to be shown how to adjust them. But thanks to the hundred starts I’d done with Martin, I had no problem positioning them to suit me the best. As I waited for the other runners to finish with their blocks, I continued to stretch my muscles.

  I forced myself to ignore the noises of the spectators, and to concentrate on nothing but the race. Martin’s voice sounded in my head. “Relax, Varren. Always run relaxed.”

  The starter walked to his post, and everything Martin had taught me came back at once.

  I could win this.

  I stood above my blocks and waited for the starter.

  “ON YOUR MARKS…GET SET…” BANG!

  It was exactly as I had trained.

  My legs reacted to the sound of the gun, thrusting my body from the blocks like a rocket.

  The second my feet left the blocks, I concentrated on my running form.

  Big strides…open hands…smooth cadence….

  Without even looking, I knew I was ahead of the other runners. But I didn’t want to take any chances. I ran as fast as I could all the way to the tape.

  First place. First place!

  Dad met me at the finish line, grinning from ear to ear. “Fantastic, Warren!” he said, giving me a hug. “You were miles ahead of those other guys. Miles!”

  We waited for the officials to come around and tell us our times. Eleven point eight seconds, they told me. I was shocked! That was the fastest time I’d ever recorded. The official even announced on the PA system that it was a Games record.

  Dad and I watched from the sidelines as three other sets of runners ran the hundred. Each township and county had sent its best, and some were incredibly fast. Two guys from Fredericton had matched my time. And another runner, a short kid from Edmundston, ran it in eleven point seven.

  Now that was fast!

  He was the runner I’d have to beat in the final. But could I run any faster? I had given it my all, and only ran an eleven-eight. How could I do better?

  I sat in the shade brooding, trying to think of a strategy. What would Martin tell me to do if he was here? I went through the start again in my head. I did everything right. Didn’t I? What about the first ten metres? I wondered. Did I run them like I was supposed to?

  I thought so.

  But there had to be some way I could run faster.

  I analyzed my morning race. The gun had sounded…I concentrated on my form…I used my arms to help my legs…everything was done right….

  Wait! Maybe that was it…my form.

  When the gun went off, I was concentrating so much on my form—my sprinting style—that I wasn’t relaxed. I had felt relaxed, but I wasn’t running relaxed. Maybe that was the problem. What was it Martin had said about the start? I was not to worry about my form until I reached the imaginary ten-metre mark in front of me.

  That was it!

  In all my practice starts with Martin, I’d never thought about my running form until I passed the scratch he’d made on the track. Only then did I put everything into my sprinting technique. That’s what I would have to do for the final.

  I wasn’t hungry, but Dad shoved a cheese sandwich at me, and told me to eat it. Without tasting it, I ate. Then I closed my eyes, ignored the clamour of people around me, and ran the final in my head. Over and over I sprinted down the track and was the first to reach the finish.

  “Okay, Warren. That’s you.” Dad gave me a little nudge.

  I wasn’t sure if I had been sleeping or not, but thank goodness Dad was there. I would have missed the race announcement.

  You could feel the tension as we re-set our blocks. The other events in the stadium all stopped for the one-hundred-metre final. A hush fell over the spectators. Someone across the field sneezed, and I could hear it perfectly from my lane—lane six.

  The starter cleared his throat. “ON YOUR MARKS…GET SET...�
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  BANG!

  Again, the gun sent my legs into motion, propelling me forward like a bullet. And when I hit Martin’s ten-metre mark—that’s when I really sprinted. But that was also when I heard the second BANG from the starter’s gun. Huh? I glanced to the left and right and noticed I was alone, but not because of my speed. Something was wrong. Rats! I’d gone halfway down the track before realizing the starter was signalling a false start and calling back the runners. Someone jumped the gun and would now be disqualified.

  Was it me? Was I about to lose the one-hundred in the most embarrassing way imaginable—without even running?

  The other runners stared at me as trudged back to the start line. I was convinced now that I had left my blocks before the gun sounded. All that training for nothing and….

  “False start!” The official pointed his finger at a wiry blond-haired boy. “Athlete in lane four is disqualified!”

  A groan of sympathy came from the stands as the runner hung his head and slowly walked off the track.

  I tried to calm down as the starter lined us up again. But that was nearly impossible. I was sweating like mad, and my heart felt like it was trying to bash its way out of my chest. I had been the only dummy who ran most of the distance before stopping, which made me the only dummy who’d now have to run the one-hundred back to back. This was a disaster!

  I took a deep breath. Just stick to the plan, I reminded myself. Stick to the plan.

  Another deep breath. Follow Martin’s instructions.

  “ON YOUR MARKS…GET SET…” BANG!

  I bolted from the blocks like I’d done a hundred times before, and I stuck to the plan. Back straight…powerful strides…arms swinging….

  I sensed runners near me on either side, but paid them no attention. Even a glance left or right could cost me the race.

  Near the finish now…keep up the speed…get ready to lean…LEAN!

  The crowd roared. Everyone was on their feet. But who’d won? I’d been so busy sprinting, I had no idea who came first.

  Dad caught up to me at the finish, and gave me another hug.

  “Who won?” I asked, shouting to be heard above the crowd.

  “I couldn’t tell,” he said, passing me a paper cup full of water. “It was too fast. But you were right there at the tape, Warren. Guaranteed it was you or that Edmundston boy.”

  The judges and officials had a quick huddle, and then the PA system crackled to life. “Ladies and gentleman, a new Summer Games record of eleven point four seconds has just been set for the one-hundred-metre sprint.”

  Everyone in the stadium screamed enthusiastically, even though the winner was still to be announced. The noise died and the speaker continued.

  “The winner and record holder is thirteen-year-old Warren Webb, of Gagetown. Second place goes to….”

  Dad picked me up off my feet and hugged me so hard I thought my spine was going to snap. “You did it, Warren. You really did it.” He still wouldn’t let go. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

  For the first time in years, I hugged him back. “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Thanks for taking me.”

  When he finally let me go, I realized there were people standing around waiting to talk to me. Two newspaper reporters asked if they could take my photograph. I wanted to leave and go home, but Dad said it would be rude to leave before the medal presentations. So I got my photo taken.

  The medal ceremony took place at noon. And as soon as it was over, we slipped out of the stadium and left. Uncle Stuart and my cousins, Janet and Carolyn, were somewhere in the crowds, but we never did see them. Dad and I had said goodbye before we left their house that morning so that we could leave for home as soon as the races ended.

  I held my gold medal in my hand the whole way home. And the more I examined it, the less important it seemed. I mean, I was happy to have it, and I was pleased with my time. But I think I was more proud of everything I had had to go through in the last two weeks to get it. I wasn’t sure if that even made sense—it’s just how I felt.

  But I still couldn’t wait to show Martin. It meant much more to both of us together than it did to me alone. It was a goal that had been out of reach only two weeks ago, and it was Martin who had brought it closer each day. I think I wanted to win it for him as much as for myself.

  And in eleven point four! He’d like that.

  Mom must have heard the truck approach, because she was already standing on the porch when we pulled into the yard. I watched her carefully as we neared the house. Her face would tell me if Martin was still alive, or had died.

  Dad deliberately parked the truck so that his side was closest to Mom. They made eye contact, and I saw her shake her head ever so slightly. My heart sank. I was sure Martin was dead.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “Warren won,” Dad said. “He won the gold medal and…” his voice cracked “…and he set a bloody Games record.”

  Before Mom could congratulate me, I jumped from the truck and said, “How’s Martin? Is he okay?”

  Mom frowned. “I’m sorry, Warren. He’s no better. He’s still very weak and he hasn’t eaten a thing since you left.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Congratulations.”

  I mumbled, “Thanks,” and went in to see Martin.

  He looked the same as when I’d left yesterday. His face was still waxy-looking and grey. I closed the door carefully behind me and sat on the floor next to his bed. He didn’t move. I took the medal, placed it over his head, and let the medallion rest on his chest.

  The phone rang in the kitchen and the noise made him stir. He opened his eyes.

  It took a few seconds for him to see the medal, but when he did, his face lit up and he smiled. “Ach, Varren,” he murmured, “you have done it. You have won.” Tears began to slide down his face.

  “Yes,” I said, “but only because you trained me. Without your help I would have lost.”

  “And how fast were you? Do not tease me any longer. Tell me.”

  “Eleven point four seconds,” I said, trying to see him through my own tears.

  “That is super! I could not be any happier right now.”

  “I made you a promise, Martin. And I kept it. Now you have to make me a promise.”

  “I will do anything you ask,” he said.

  “You must promise that you’ll do everything you can to get strong again. I don’t want you to die.”

  “Ach! I will not die.”

  “Then promise me,” I challenged.

  Martin sighed. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Good,” I said, searching the table next to his bed. “Now, I think there’s a bottle of yummy cod liver oil around here.”

  I found the iron pills and stuck three in his mouth. Then I poured a tablespoon full of cod liver oil onto his tongue. “Please swallow that, Mr. Keller.”

  He swallowed and shook his head in disgust.

  “You know, Varren,” he said grimacing, “I think that when I have regained my strength, I would very much enjoy teaching you how to box. I was also an accomplished boxer in Germany.”

  I smiled. “Oh, yeah?”

  I heard Dad cough behind me and I turned around. He had a worried look on his face.

  “What is it?” I said, not sure I really wanted to know.

  “The police just called,” he said. “Rake Chambers escaped while they were transferring him from the Gagetown police station.”

  “He’s out there on the loose?” I said. “Again!?”

  “There are only three officers here in town,” Dad continued, “but they’re calling in more men to help look for him. They know he’s a danger to the community.”

  I looked back at Martin. He had already fallen asleep again.

  “Don’t worry,” Dad whispered, “he’s probably already snuck across the border into the St
ates.”

  I nodded.

  “He’d be stupid to stick around Gagetown,” Dad added.

  I nodded again. Sure, that made sense. But I broke his nose, burned his truck, ruined his business, embarrassed him, and then had him arrested. So maybe Rake had stopped caring about what was smart and sensible. Maybe he was more interested in getting revenge—against the person who caused his demise. Me.

  Dad left the bedroom, leaving me alone to ponder that good news.

  Just like that, my life went from happy and exciting, to sad and terrifying.

  Dear Pete, Can you believe this mess I’m in?

  But before Pete could get back to me, Martin stirred and opened his eyes.

  “What is wrong?” he asked. I guess my face gave away how worried I was.

  So I told him about Rake’s escape.

  “That is not good,” Martin murmured. “He will come here…looking for you.”

  As hard as it was to hear, I appreciated Martin’s directness. I know Dad didn’t want me to worry, but if you worried about something you could plan for it. I knew a battle was coming and I needed to make a war plan.

  I held a glass to Martin’s mouth and let him drink some water. “But what can I do?” I said.

  “He is bigger and stronger than you,” Martin said. “But you are faster and smarter.”

  “Yeah, but how’s that going to help me?”

  He closed his eyes and I poked him. “Martin, wake up.” I knew he needed to rest, but I needed help.

  He opened his eyes.

  “What should I do?”

  He smiled. “You are a gentlemen and….”

  Oh, brother. He was getting delirious. “And?” I said, prodding him for more. “And what?”

  “If you must face him…if you have to fight him, do not fight like a gentleman. He will expect a gentleman. He believes you will be scared…frightened…a coward. Surprise him and strike first.” His eyes closed and he was gone again. He started snoring so I let him sleep.