Newkirk was still a few minutes away from the rendezvous point when he heard the first shot, and instinct had him diving for cover before his conscious mind had even recognized what it was.
He crouched behind the low dense undergrowth a few yards from the road, every sense alert. The shot had come from somewhere ahead, so it was unlikely to be the guards in charge of the roadwork detail. It could be that a foot patrol from Stalag 13 had come this way. The guards were often nervous, and had been known to start firing into the trees at the first bird-call. Or it might just be a local farmer taking a pot shot at a fox. But it had sounded more like a pistol than a rifle.
This kind of trouble was the last thing Newkirk needed. His only weapon was the broad-bladed knife known informally around camp as "the pencil sharpener", which was always somewhere about his person. Useful up close, but no good at all against firearms. Retreat was probably the prudent choice, but he knew Hogan would expect him to at least find out what was going on.
He stayed still for a couple of minutes, but heard nothing more. He was going to have to make a move, one way or the other. Without making a sound, he rose and set off again, keeping away from the road and threading his way between the trees so as to keep out of sight.
Then came the second shot, and he dropped to the ground again. Definitely a pistol, no doubt this time.
After a few moments he moved on again, this time staying low. He stopped as soon as the Flensheim road came into sight. There was no sign of Weber, or of anyone else. Newkirk glanced at his watch. He'd gotten here ahead of time, so there was a chance Weber hadn't turned up yet. But the gunfire in the woods indicated something had gone badly wrong.
Making a swift, wide circuit around the rendezvous area, Newkirk kept going, along the line of the road. At the first bend, he stopped. There was a small saloon car standing on the edge of the road, possibly Weber's, but the driver was nowhere to be seen.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Newkirk began to retrace his steps, but he didn't get very far.
"Halt!"
The command stopped him in his tracks. For a second he stood immobile, debating whether he could run fast enough to get out of sight before they shot him in the back. Not a chance, he decided, and put his hands up. "Kamerad," he called back.
His heart thudded so loud, he was sure they'd hear it back at camp, as two SS men emerged from the woods, both with semi-automatic rifles. "Was machen Sie hier?" one of them demanded harshly.
Newkirk played dumb. "Sorry, chum. I don't understand," he replied, with a nervous, conciliatory smile.
"Engländer?"
"That's right. Engländer. Prisoner of war. Understand? Prisoner of..." He broke off, as the man gave him a shove in the direction of the road. "All right, no need to get pushy."
"Halten Sie den Mund." This was accompanied by another hard shove. Any trouble, and these men were likely to get rough. Newkirk held his tongue, and started towards the rendezvous point.
"His name's Lewis."
Carter squatted on the ground a little distance away, watching as Wilson worked on Staller, making no effort to help. The medic had been forced to improvise, using Staller's own shirt, torn into strips, to try to stop the bleeding and to bandage the wound.
"Who? This one, or the one that shot him?" asked Wilson distractedly.
"Weber," said Carter. "He was calling himself Lewis when he was at 182 Squadron."
"And you knew him there?"
"Yeah, I knew him."
"Carter..." Staller whispered. He was drifting in and out, but Wilson saw no particular need to be gentle with him, and the discomfort of the makeshift bandage was enough to rouse him back to consciousness. He broke off, gasping as Wilson raised the injured arm slightly, then tried again. "Listen, Carter, you have to understand..."
"Don't you say one more word," Carter interrupted, and even Wilson flinched. "You want to know something, pal? We don't have to send spies back to London. We're allowed to shoot 'em right here."
"I'm not a spy," Staller panted. "I made a mistake, but..."
"You got that right," Carter shot back.
"Take it easy, Carter," Wilson put in quickly. "You know you're not going to shoot him out of hand, so just calm down. Newkirk's supposed to be meeting Weber, right? He's likely to show up any minute, you better go and tell him what's going on. And then we gotta work out how to get this guy back to camp. Even if he is working for the Krauts, we can't leave him here."
Carter flushed at the rebuke, and stood up. "You should keep out of sight," he said, focusing on the practicalities to avoid thinking too much about the broader situation. "You're in the open here, better get behind the trees a bit."
He helped Wilson to move the injured man to a more sheltered position. It was too much for Staller, and by the time they settled him, he'd passed out. "This is going to be one hell of a trip back to camp," muttered Wilson. "It's okay, Carter, I'll handle it now. Get going."
Carter nodded, and headed off without a word, ashamed of his momentary loss of control. The reaction had left him feeling shaky, and his steps slowed as he made his way down the slope towards the road.
Before he got there, the sound of voices reached him. For a moment he thought it might be Mills and Kellet, and he was on the point of calling out when he stopped abruptly. He couldn't make out the words, but the rhythm and intonation were characteristically German. He stood irresolute, then started forward again.
Two men were at the rendezvous point. One of them was dressed in civilian clothes, the other was SS. Carter dropped to a crouch against the nearest tree, trying to figure out what to do next. If Newkirk landed in the middle of this...
Just as he reached that point, the SS guard straightened up, raising his gun. Carter raised his head slightly, fearing the worst. Sure enough, a figure in the blue uniform of the RAF came into sight, escorted by another two SS men.
The plain-clothes man - he must be Gestapo, Carter realized - strode forward, snapping a question at his men. Newkirk glanced sideways, apparently contemplating making a break for it, then rejecting the idea as suicidal.
They were too far away for Carter to hear what was being said. He rose, and edged his way through the trees to get closer. The guards were frisking their prisoner, and as Carter got within earshot, one of them turned to his superior, holding out Newkirk's knife.
The Gestapo man held it up. "Was ist das?"
"Would you believe it was a present from my Mum?" said Newkirk.
"Woher kommen Sie?" the man demanded curtly.
"Listen, mate," Newkirk replied irritably, "Sprechen Sie English? Because I don't sprechen Kraut. I'm a prisoner of war, not a ruddy linguist."
The Gestapo regarded him impassively. "You say you are a prisoner of war?"
"That's right." Newkirk returned the man's gaze without blinking. "From Stalag 13, just down the road there."
"How does a prisoner of war come to be so far from his prison?" the man enquired, in a mildly interested tone.
"Ah, well, you've got me bang up to rights there," admitted Newkirk. "We're doing some repair work on the Hammelburg Road, and, well, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss, so I legged it."
"And you just happened to come this way?"
"Just my rotten luck, wasn't it? How was I to know you lot was here?"
"You weren't planning to meet someone at this road junction?"
Newkirk's expression was a masterpiece of bewilderment. "No. If I'd known anyone was here, I'd have gone a different way, wouldn't I?"
The man stared at him in silence for a few moments. "Where is Captain Weber?" he barked abruptly.
The surprise attack didn't work. "Captain who? Don't think we've got anyone called Weber at Stalag 13," said Newkirk, with a puzzled frown. "There's a Sergeant Werbel - no, wait a minute, he was transferred to - "
"That will do," the Gestapo broke in.
He turned, and walked a few steps away, pursing his lips as he considered. Then he stopped, and turned his head to look at Newkirk.
"So, if you are not the man Captain Weber was to meet here," he said coolly, "then you are of no interest to us."
"None at all, sir," Newkirk agreed. "So I suppose that means you'll be taking me back to Stalag 13, then."
The Gestapo laughed. "We do not have time for that." Then, as Newkirk realized what that meant, the man threw an order to his men.
"Shoot him."