The next fifteen minutes placed a serious strain on Newkirk's self-control. Carter had never been the most physically co-ordinated of Hogan's men; good with his hands, inept with everything else. His attempts to follow the fencing master's instructions were alternately pitiable and hilarious, when they weren't both at once.
"Front foot forward - step forward, step forward, front foot first. Keep doing it like that, and you will fall over. You see? Now, get up and try again. And keep your body upright. Pay no attention to your friend. You should be looking at your opponent. Emil, go and stand at the other end of the piste. Now, Emil is your opponent. Look at him. Step forward, again, again...Gott im Himmel... Get up and try again."
It was better than a Saturday night at the Palladium.
After some time, however, Carter started to get the hang of it, and managed to negotiate the length of the fencing strip, forwards and backwards, without landing on the floor. Herr Schmidt smiled. "I think we can proceed," he said. "Emil..."
The assistant scurried away. A few moments later he returned, with two full-face wire mesh masks under one arm, and a pair of fencing sabres in his other hand. Newkirk, interested in spite of himself, edged forward for a closer look.
They were lightweight weapons, intended for sport rather than for any serious form of combat. Emil passed one of them to Schmidt, and with a courteous gesture at odds with the barely-suppressed grin on his face, presented the hilt of the other to Carter, but Newkirk reached past him to take up the sword.
He was astonished at how perfectly balanced it was, and how lightly and comfortably it fitted into his hand.
"Just use your fingertips," said the fencing master. "Thumb and forefinger, the others just resting against the grip. You should be able to switch your guard from right to left by moving only your fingers."
Newkirk gave it a try, turning the grip in his fingers, and the weapon responded as if it were part of him. "Oh, that's nice," he murmured.
"You wouldn't like to reconsider, and start training now?" suggested Schmidt.
"Yeah, Newkirk, maybe you could have the duel with Klink, instead of me," added Carter. He wasn't joking.
"No, not me. You're the one who challenged him." Newkirk hurriedly passed the sabre to Carter, who clutched it as if he thought it might run away at the first chance.
"You played baseball as a child, didn't you?" observed Schmidt gravely.
"Yeah, sometimes. I wasn't real good at it, though," admitted Carter. "I used to drop the bat a lot."
"You astonish me," said Schmidt, glancing at Newkirk, his eyes bright with amusement.
Carter didn't like the fencing mask. "Gosh, this is awful. It's like being in the cooler, only smaller. And it smells worse."
"If you would rather lose an eye," replied Schmidt serenely, "be my guest." Carter didn't take up the offer.
With the arrival of the weapons, some new element had entered the lesson. Newkirk, watching with keen interest, knew that this was still only a game, but it didn't feel like it. Having drilled Carter in the correct way to salute his opponent, a courtesy apparently considered indispensible, Schmidt dismissed Emil, and took the other end of the strip himself. And suddenly this precise, rotund little man stopped being comic, and started to look like very serious trouble indeed. He was neat, agile, and lightning fast, and he didn't hold back, just because his opponent was a beginner. In spite of Carter's best efforts to use the defensive moves he had been shown, the fencing master still had no difficulty getting past his guard, and they weren't gentle hits.
"You're too slow," said Schmidt, in a tone of austere disapproval. "You should be aware of my attack almost before it starts, and react to it instinctively." His blade, with a whistle of displaced air, whipped around to land with a loud thwack against Carter's upper arm. That had to hurt. "Stop watching the blade, it's not going to tell you anything. Watch me. Fence the man, not the weapon."
Whether it was the pain, or annoyance at Schmidt's manner, something had an effect. Carter blocked the next attack. And the one after.
"Very good." There was just a touch of scorn in Schmidt's voice. "Now, let's see if you can't grasp the idea of riposte. That means, when you've successfully parried an attack, make the most of the opportunity and get one in yourself. And you might try making the first attack yourself occasionally, instead of waiting for your opponent to slay you where you stand. It's quite simple, even a child can do it."
Carter was not a child. So of course, it wasn't simple at all.
"Take a break," said the fencing master at last. "Two minutes." He raised and lowered his sword in a brief acknowledgement, and removed his mask.
"How's it going, Carter?" asked Newkirk brightly. "You looked like you had him worried."
Carter, his face scarlet and damp with perspiration, shook his head. "Yeah, sure," he panted. Then, as he started to get his breath back, he added, "I look like a joke, Newkirk. I can't do this stuff."
"No, you're doing fine." Newkirk clapped him gently on the arm, and Carter winced. Schmidt had landed a couple of hits, good and hard, just there. "Sorry. Look, it's like he says. You just have to hit him back a few times."
He was starting to worry. If Carter was going to get discouraged, this whole idea was a washout.
"Did you see how fast he moves?" replied Carter. "If I had a machine gun, I still couldn't hit him. You wouldn't think a funny-looking little guy like that..."
He trailed off, dispirited.
"Time!" called the fencing master imperatively, and Carter, with a sigh, turned back towards the piste, while Newkirk moved out of the way. He glanced at his watch as he did so. Almost four o'clock. They had to be back at camp by six.
He looked up, his attention drawn by a movement at the studio entrance. Then, with a startled gasp, he vanished precipitantly into the changing room. Carter, facing away from the entrance, gazed after him in perplexity.
"I'm sorry, this is a private lesson," said Schmidt, looking past Carter towards the door.
"Please excuse the interruption, Herr Schmidt. It's an emergency."
At the sound of that voice, a cold prickle of horror went over Carter's entire body. Then, unable to think of anything else to do, he jammed the fencing mask back over his head. He didn't turn around.
Schmidt seemed unfazed. "I hate to be disobliging, Colonel Klink," he said coolly, "but this gentleman was here first."
"But this is a matter of life and death." Klink's voice veered from baritone to countertenor and back again in his agitation.
"We all have our problems, Colonel. Monsieur André, here, is competing in Hannover next week. He's ranked second in Europe, you know, and he's looking forward to improving his standing."
"I didn't think they were still running that kind of competition," said Klink.
"My dear man, if we let the important things lapse, just because there's a war on, where are we going to end up?" replied Schmidt, in a voice of sweet, inarguable reason. "I can see you tomorrow afternoon," he added.
"Tomorrow afternoon will be too late," protested Klink. "By that time, I could be...well, let's just say I won't be needing a lesson by then. Either way."
Schmidt gazed at him thoughtfully, then turned to Carter. "Monsieur André, perhaps it might be possible to oblige the Kommandant. You are about as ready now as you will ever be. I was going to suggest that you finish with a practice bout against Emil, but you could just as well face Colonel Klink, and give him a bit of a workout. Would you be so kind...?"
It was the last thing Carter wanted to do right now, but he could hardly refuse. He nodded, without speaking.
"Excellent. Emil - " Schmidt nodded towards the changing room.
Newkirk barely had time to take cover behind the cupboard where the masks were stored. He flattened himself against the wall on the far side, and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, as Emil conducted the Kommandant into the changing room. Klink wasn't the type to notice odd noises, especially when he was agitated, but better not to take chances.
In the studio, Schmidt had already commenced the delicate task of calming down a thoroughly alarmed Monsieur André. "There's nothing to worry about," the fencing master said. "Trust me. I know how Klink fences. You can take him."
"But what if he recognises me?" quavered Carter. He'd yanked off the mask as soon as Klink was out of sight. "Maybe I should just make a break for it."
"Dressed like that? And leaving your friend behind?" Schmidt drew himself up. "That's hardly what I'd expect of one of my students. Never run away from an engagement, young man. You'll only end up wondering whether you could have won it."
Carter stared at him, as he assimilated this new perspective. It wasn't so hard; it sort of made sense to him. "Okay," he said uncertainly.
"Good. Now, it's a breach of etiquette, but under the circumstances you'd better leave the mask on. I will excuse it this once." Schmidt glanced over his shoulder, then gave Carter a quick warning look, and Carter hastily replaced the mask, just in time.
If Carter in fencer's kit was an amusing spectacle, Klink looked utterly ludicrous. Newkirk, creeping back to the changing room door and opening it a crack, was hard-pressed to keep his laughter in check. But it was no laughing matter.
What's that Schmidt think he's playing at? Newkirk asked himself. He couldn't come up with an answer. All he could think of was the risk of Carter getting caught. Or worse - getting hurt.