Secret in the Clouds

by Christopher Cummings

  As he did the sound of footfalls made him freeze. ‘Dash for the gun or try to hide?’ his mind asked. Too late! A man wearing stockman’s clothes came out of the entrance tunnel and Stephen saw that he was carrying a sub machine gun. ‘Schmeisser,’ Stephen noted as the astonished man swung the weapon up to point at him.

  “Hands up!” the man shouted.

  Even as the shock swept over Stephen he was able to answer. “Don’t you mean ‘Hande Hoch’?”

  “Shut up! Get your hands right up. Who the hell are you? And how did you get in here?” the man snarled.

  ‘Rolf?’ Stephen wondered. His eyes flickered to the sub machine gun. ‘Is it cocked?’ he wondered. It wasn’t. ‘Would I have time to grab him? Or to grab Old Karl’s rifle?’ His mind instantly came up with an answer. ‘No time to grab the rifle and slip the safety catch off though,’ he reasoned. Even as he did the man saw where his eyes had flickered to and he grabbed the cocking handle on the SMG and reefed it back.

  “Don’t be stupid!” the man snapped. Stephen now experienced a wave of bladder loosening terror that he was only just able to resist. A few years earlier he had been intensely interested in guns and had always thought the ‘Schmeisser’ machine pistol to be a great weapon. ‘Nine millimetre parabellum rounds,’ he remembered. Only pistol bullets but at that range they would be deadly. ‘How many rounds in the magazine, twenty five? Or thirty?’ he tried to remember. It came to him. ‘Thirty two, but the gun works best if only loaded with twenty eight.’

  “You are Rolf?” Stephen queried, remembering the man from Black Mountain.

  “Shut up kid. I ask the questions. Hey Karl! Wake up you old bugger!”

  Karl groaned and snuffled and then opened his eyes. Fear flooded into them and he sat up so fast he hit his head on the bunk above. With muttered curses in German he swung his feet onto the floor then sat rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Bloody great guard you are!” Rolf snapped sarcastically. “Now get your rifle and cover this bloke while I phone the boss.”

  Karl snatched up his rifle, cocked it and pointed it at Stephen. “Against der vall yunger,” he ordered. Stephen did as he was told, all the while battling with mounting fear and cursing himself for not being quicker or more careful.

  Rolf went to a telephone which hung beside the tunnel entrance and quickly called up ‘The Boss’. After that he ordered Stephen to put his hands behind his back and swiftly and expertly tied them tightly with thin rope. When he was finished he ordered Stephen to sit on the floor. Having no option Stephen did as he was told.

  Rolf then snapped at Karl, “Now get to the bloody kitchen and make me some tea you dopey old bugger.” As Old Karl shuffled towards the tunnel entrance he added. “And start the generator. The Boss will want some light when he gets here.”

  Stephen then endured a miserable and terrifying half hour while he waited. He heard the diesel generator begin to throb and the bulb overhead glowed more brightly. Old Karl returned with a cup of tea for Rolf, who sat glaring balefully at Stephen.

  Eventually there was the sound of steel clanging on steel and then of hurrying boots. Up the steps from the front came Jorgenson, Potts, a fat middle-aged man Stephen had never seen and then the two men who had captured Graham and Peter: Theo and Hans. All of them stared at Stephen in angry amazement.

  “Bell!” Jorgenson cried. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  Stephen just sat and stared at him. Jorgenson turned to Potts who said, “Take him to the office.”

  Stephen was hoisted to his feet by Theo and Rolf and hustled along the now brightly lit tunnel past the kitchen to where the two doors faced each other. The one on the left was unlocked by Jorgenson and Stephen was pushed into the room and shoved into a chair. It was an office alright, but the sight of it both shocked and fascinated Stephen.

  There were three tables. Two were in the corners and a larger one stood in the centre. Staring down from the wall behind it was a framed picture of Adolf Hitler. On either side of the picture were hung Nazi flags. The brilliant blood red of the flags struck Stephen’s senses forcefully, the sensation of fear and evil being reinforced by the ugly black swastikas on them.

  “Are you people Germans or Nazis?” Stephen asked.

  “Silence kid! We ask the questions,” Jorgenson snapped. He stood next to Stephen while Potts and the fat man both seated themselves behind the main table.

  Stephen was now so frightened he was on the edge of hysteria. He laughed. “This is ridiculous! The Fuhrer isn’t even alive and living in Paraguay! He must have died of sheer old age years ago.” In fact Stephen could only just remember something on the news years earlier saying it would have been Hitler’s one hundredth birthday if he was still alive. ‘This is fantastic!’ he thought, overwhelmed by the unreality of it.

  The comment earned him a sharp slap over the ear from Jorgenson. “Don’t try to be a smart-arse Bell! You have given me too much trouble for me to be amused. Now tell us how you found this place.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything,” Stephen replied. He had trouble talking and knew his voice was probably quavering with fear. That made him burn with shame. In a vague hope of somehow saving himself he said, “You had better call the police and put an end to this farce.”

  “We’ll put an end to it alright!” Jorgenson snarled. “Now talk!”

  “No!” Stephen replied, amazed at his own stubbornness.

  “Then we will make you,” Jorgenson threatened.

  Stephen could not resist back-answering. He had heard the line so many times in movies and jokes he had to retort, “Don’t you mean ve haf vays of making you talk?”

  A sharp blow to the head was the result. “We have too, you cheeky little shit!” Jorgenson growled.

  Stephen glared angrily back at him, stung by the blow. “Shouldn’t you be in a black uniform to do this?”

  Another smack to the side of his head left his senses spinning. His glasses went flying and he was left blinking painfully at the blurred and angry faces. Jorgenson began to bombard him with questions while Potts sat on the other side of the table looking pasty faced and anxious. ‘Bloody weakling!’ Stephen thought, while still refusing to reply.

  After a while Jorgenson stood close and twisted Stephen’s left ear painfully. “Listen you little bastard, start talking or we will get serious.”

  “No!”

  “How would you like your finger nails pulled out one at a time? Or maybe you’d prefer the electrodes on the testicles?”

  “That might be what you’d like, you queer,” Stephen replied.

  Smack!

  The blow almost knocked Stephen off his chair. His head buzzed and his senses swam but he just shook his head. “You may as well stop this and let us go,” he said. “We left letters explaining everything and if we aren’t home by tomorrow then they go to the state police and to the media.”

  “Very clever!” Jorgenson sneered, but Stephen was heartened to see a worried frown on Potts’s face. “Nice try, but it won’t save you,” Jorgenson added. “If you want to get out of here alive start talking. Now who did you give the letters to?”

  Stephen just sneered and shook his head. Then the beating began. As the smacks and punches rained at him from all sides he had the satisfaction of realising that the men were scared. Through a mist of pain he saw Potts still sitting watching anxiously. ‘The Defence Minister of Australia!’ he thought bitterly. Aloud he said to Potts, “You low traitor!”

  That got him a punch that sent him sprawling on the floor. Boots then came into play, thudding into his face, head and body. Waves of pain swamped him until Jorgenson ordered the men to stop. He then bent over Stephen. “Are you going to talk?”

  Stephen shook his head and cringed, tensing for more blows. Instead Jorgenson said to the men, “Put him in with the others.”

  Stephen was hauled to his feet. His vision was now all blurred and blood was trickling from his nose. As he was hustled out of the room he
heard Potts ask, “What are we going to do?”

  To Stephen’s dismay he overheard Jorgenson’s reply. “Dispose of them and hide the evidence,” he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  SHOT AT DAWN

  “Steve!” Graham cried. “What happened? Are you alright?”

  “Lost my glasses somewhere,” Stephen muttered. His split lips hurt so much he did not want to talk. He slumped to the floor beside Graham.

  “What’s wrong with your face?” Tom asked. “Did they bash you?”

  Stephen nodded. Behind him the door slammed and he heard the bolt slid across. It was dark in the room, as well as crowded. By the dim light coming under the door he saw the room was only about two metres by three. Peter, Tom and Graham sat side by said along the side wall. “What’s this place?” he mumbled.

  “The laundry I think,” Graham replied. “What happened?”

  Stephen shook his head to indicate he didn’t want to talk. “Can you untie my hands? They really hurt.”

  By turning side on he was able to allow Graham to untie the rope. That was some relief. The returning circulation cause sharp pains to shoot up his wrists and he massaged them briskly. When Peter again asked what had happened he put his finger to his lips and shook his head. They move to crouch with their heads together. “They might be listening,” he whispered.

  The others nodded. Peter again asked, but quietly. Stephen then described what had happened since he had last seen Tom being marched away. The story of Annalisa made them all frown but Stephen could offer no hope. “She is liable to cover up to protect her family I reckon,” he said.

  “She helped you get away from the house though,” Peter said.

  “Yes, she did, but I wouldn’t pin my hopes on that. That might just have been to protect herself,” Stephen said.

  “And you think you found my great grandfather’s grave?” Tom asked, his eyes bright with hope.

  Stephen nodded. “I’m fairly certain. I don’t see what else it could be.”

  “We’ll probably soon join them there,” Graham added bitterly. “I can’t see these mongrels letting us go.”

  “Jesus Graham! Don’t say things like that,” Stephen cried. The thought made him shudder as sheer terror gripped him.

  “Do you reckon they’d be game?” Peter asked. “You did tell them about our letters didn’t you Steve?”

  “Yes I did, but I don’t know if they believed me,” Stephen replied.

  “They can’t afford to ignore it. Even if it is bluff they have to take it into account,” Peter said.

  They then discussed whether it was possible for Jorgenson and his cronies to use their authority to track down the letters and confiscate them before they were opened. Graham shook his head. “I don’t see how. If I was them I’d be leaving the country now, while I still could. I wouldn’t be adding to my troubles by doing anything to us.”

  “They might just shoot us out of spite, or for revenge,” Tom suggested.

  The thought of being shot obsessed them all for a few minutes. Into Stephen’s mind flooded images of the projectile slamming into his flesh, tearing skin, blood vessels, vital organs. The horrific pictures of shattering bones and spurting blood mingled with wondering if there was a life after death got him hyperventilating.

  To take his mind off the gnawing terror Stephen asked if they had an escape plan. The reply was negative. “We don’t know the layout of the place,” Peter explained. “We were brought here blindfolded.”

  “We don’t even know where it is,” Graham added.

  Describing the layout and location kept Stephen busy for the next half hour. By then he was bursting for a pee. “Is there a toilet in here?” he asked.

  “Some hope!” Graham laughed. He indicated a washbasin in the corner. Stephen had to use this, burning with embarrassment as he did. He then turned on the tap there and after rinsing the washbasin washed his battered face. That stung, even though he tried to be as gentle as he could.

  “I don’t think much of the service at this hotel,” he joked. “Have you been fed?”

  “No food,” Graham replied.

  At that Stephen hammered on the door. “Hey! Guards! Hey, room service!”

  “Bloody hell! Steady on Steve. They might bash you again,” Graham cautioned.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Stephen replied. He was terrified but also deeply angry as the shock of his beating wore off.

  The sound of boots stopped outside their door. “What do you want?” called a man’s voice.

  “Something to eat and drink please, and my glasses,” Stephen replied.

  The man gave a harsh laugh. “You don’t need food. You’ll last long enough without us wasting any on you.” The man then walked away, leaving Stephen stunned by the callousness of the remark. He found it hard to believe any human could deliberately harm another, much less laugh about it. But his rational mind knew they could. Both history and the evening news were full of examples.

  There was silence for a while. Stephen sat and brooded, cursing his stupidity for getting caught. ‘If only I’d moved faster,’ he thought. ‘We could have been out again before Rolf arrived.’ Fear of their possible fate slowly mounted till he wanted to scream or whimper.

  He was saved by one of the enemy going to the toilet next door. From the next cubicle wafted unpleasant odours. There was a lot of grunting and farting. Stephen waved his hand under his nose. “Phshaw! A least this mob can’t claim their shit doesn’t stink!” he said.

  That got a chuckle from the others and grunt of annoyance from next door. Stephen was heartened by this. He said loudly, “All piss and wind this mob. Probably poofters too. All those Nazis were.”

  Graham gave him some warning glances but Stephen kept on. To his surprise Tom joined in. “I heard that Hitler only had one ball.”

  “And Goering had two, but very small,” Stephen replied.

  They both burst into the third line of the old song, “And Himmler had something simmler, but poor old Goeballs had no balls at all!”

  “Shut up you kids!” snarled the man next door.

  “I didn’t know turds could talk,” Stephen retorted.

  Tom chuckled. “He’s just given birth to another Nazi,” he replied.

  From next door came muttering and then the sound of dressing. The toilet flushed and then they heard the toilet door opened. The man moved to their door and slid the bolt open. As he went to swing the door open Stephen tensed, ready to spring. At that moment another man clattered down the stairs and called, “What are you doing Theo?”

  “I’m going to teach these little turds a lesson,” Theo snarled.

  “Don’t open that door,” replied the other man. “They might jump you. They are just trying to wind you up.”

  There was muttering and then Stephen heard the bolt being slid back into position. He felt a sharp drop in his spirits but tried to grin at the others.

  “Good try,” Graham said.

  They resumed their seats and silent thoughts. Time began to drag and Stephen became very hungry. His stomach began to growl and it kept making him think of the man’s words. Death might be coming. What would it be like? The fearful thoughts dominated his mind for the next hour.

  At last there were sounds of movement outside. Stephen glanced at his watch and noted it was 2250. The door was swung open and a voice called, “One of you come out, with your hands up.”

  Being closest to the door Stephen struggled to his feet. As he did so his bowels squished and nearly voided as terror gripped them. Trying hard not to show his fear he stepped out, hands on head. A solidly built man stood at the end of the passageway. In his hands he held a Schmeisser which was aimed at them. The man gestured to the stairs. “Go up there.”

  Stephen did as he was told. At the top of the stairs he was surprised to find two of the men dressed in the old German Army uniform. One of them, wearing the triangular black and white badges of a corporal, pointed his rifle at Stephen and then said to the ot
her, “Tie his hands Hans and put him over there.”

  Stephen had his hands bound behind his back and he could only stand silently seeking for a chance to make a break. Nearby on the table lay another Schmeisser but he had no chance of getting it. All he could do was wait while Graham, Tom and Peter were brought out one at a time and tied up. The four were then marched along the tunnel by their guards to the office.

  The office door was shut and the corporal knocked. While they waited Stephen was able to peer in the door opposite, which was open. Inside a man sat at a radio set. ‘A radio,’ he thought. ‘I wonder if we could get a message out, if we could get free?’

  But he had no chance to formulate a plan. The door was swung open and he and his friends were marched in to stand in front of the main table. Even though he knew roughly what to expect Stephen’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Seated behind the table were three men in German uniforms: Potts, the fat man and Jorgenson. Potts wore the ‘feld grau’ of the Wermacht and had epaulets of woven silver cord with gold badges on it. Stephen wasn’t up on the old badges of rank so could only guess he was some sort of senior officer. ‘Or pretending to be,’ he mentally sneered.

  The thing that really held his attention was the fine quality grey gloves Potts was wearing. The man kept slowly rubbing his hands together in a way that Stephen found profoundly disturbing.

  Seated on either side of Potts were the fat man and Jorgenson. Both wore the black uniform of the SS, complete with death’s head badges and silver eagles and all. The fat man wore the woven officer’s silver lace epaulets whereas Jorgenson only had black epaulets outlined with silver ribbon.

  Potts did the talking. “We have discussed your situation and find that we can only make you an offer of freedom if you promise to hand us all the letters you wrote, and if you agree never to mention what you have seen to anyone. We would of course keep two of you here as hostages while you collected the letters.”