When Gregory came to he was at first conscious only of the agony that racked his body. Vaguely he realised that he was being carried and that at every step his bearer took an intolerable spasm of pain shot from the region of his hip up towards his heart. He began to whimper and, indistinctly, he heard a voice speaking to him. But he had been temporarily deafened by the nearby explosion of the bomb that had brought the tree down upon him. He wanted to implore the man who was carrying him to stop and put him down, but he could not formulate the words. The stabbing pain increased with every step and again he fainted.
The next time he became semi-conscious it slowly penetrated his thoughts that he was lying in a shallow ditch and that someone was heaping earth upon him. He felt certain then that he really must be dead and that whoever had found him was giving him a perfunctory burial. Knowing that anyone might lose a limb yet still feel an ache in it, he told himself that agony from wounds that a body received before death must continue for a time in the consciousness of the spirit that had departed from it. Resigning himself to that conclusion, he lay still and prayed that it might not be very long before he was relieved of the ghastly throbbing that racked him. After a while the pain subsided as his mind again blacked out.
When, once again, his brain began to stir, his eyes flickered open and he saw that it was full daylight. His still pain-racked body had a weight upon it, as though he were lying beneath a dozen blankets, but his face was not covered and, as with lacklustre eyes he lay gazing upwards, he saw the branches and tops of trees.
Suddenly his mind cleared. He recalled that it was a tree that had felled him. The events of the previous night flooded back: his desperate race to stop Kuporovitch from entering the camp, the Experimental Station going up in flames. He no longer supposed himself to be dead, and the sight of the trees about him led him to assume that he was still in the coppice where he had been struck down. It seemed that someone must have found his unconscious body, carried it to a ditch and cast a light covering of earth over it. Yet why had they not covered his face? That puzzled him; but the gnawing pain in his thigh prevented him from concentrating on the question.
For a long while he lay comatose. Then he roused again. The thought entered his mind that, although hundreds of people must have been killed in the raid, sooner or later the soldiers of the guard who had chased and found him would return to bury him properly. He must not fall into their hands. Somehow he must get away from the coppice before they came back to it.
Gritting his teeth he tried to sit up. But the pain became too agonising and he fell back. After a time he succeeded in turning over. His arms and right leg were still sound; his left leg a dead weight, red-hot and throbbing madly. Clutching a tree root, he levered himself up on his good knee, hauling his body out from under the heap of leaves and top soil. Foot by foot, and fainting twice on the way, he managed to drag himself some twenty feet, to the side of the coppice nearest which the trees ended.
After lying there a long while he recovered sufficiently from his efforts to raise himself on his elbows and look about him. In the near distance he saw a village from the middle of which rose a church spire. To his amazement he recognised the spire as that of the church in Kröslin.
How he had got back to the mainland side of the creek he could not imagine. No guard would have brought his presumably dead body there. Perhaps he had only dreamed that he had been carried for some distance, and his subconscious will to survive had given him the strength to stagger back through the screen of trees and, undetected owing to the confusion caused by the raid, get across the creek. Yet to have done that with a smashed leg seemed impossible.
For a time his pain-racked mind rejected the problem; then as the church spires in Peenemünde and Kröslin looked much alike, he decided that it must be that of the former, but from an angle at which he had not previously seen it.
Throughout the day there were long periods during which his mind blacked out entirely. During others he strove vainly through a mist of pain to think of steps he might take which would give him some chance of survival; for he felt certain that unless he could secure help, or somebody found him, he would die there.
Twilight came and, eventually, darkness. Hours afterward, as it seemed to him, he caught sight of the beam of a torch flickering among the trees. For a long time past his sufferings had been added to by a terrible thirst. Now, resigned to falling into the hands of the enemy as the only possibility of receiving relief, he called feebly for help.
Footsteps came hurrying towards him, then a voice that he did not recognise cried in German:
‘Here he is! Bring along the coffin.’
As the man spoke he thrust both his hands under Gregory’s shoulders and began to pull him up. The pain caused by his being lifted was so excruciating that he fainted.
When he came round he was submerged in complete darkness. Now his memory of previous events returned immediately. The man who had found him had called to someone else to bring a coffin. By feeling about with his hands he realised that he was lying in one; then, with a gasp of relief, that he had not yet been buried, for the coffin was jolting and evidently being taken somewhere.
Panic seized him. His having called for help had shown that he was not dead. Yet the fiends of the Gestapo were capable of anything. Perhaps they meant to lower him into a grave while still alive. Frantically, with clenched fists, ignoring the increase of pain it caused him, he began to hammer on the coffin lid and plead to be let out.
The coffin lid was not nailed down, so lifted a little as he pounded on it. But his cries were feeble and were not heard. His effort caused him to swoon, but he soon came round and frantic thoughts again seethed in his brain. Perhaps, since he had fainted when half-lifted, the man had thought that he was already in extremis and had then died. If so, he was probably being taken to a cemetery for proper interment. But why should the Nazis trouble to do that with his body when, as the result of the bombing, they must have so many of their own dead to look to?
So far, during his periods of semi-consciousness, he had been thinking of himself as an Englishman and British agent. Now it occurred to him that he must still be wearing the uniform of a German Major, and there was no reason to suppose that the men who had found him should believe him to be anything else. If that were so they would regard him as one of their own casualties and, most probably, were about to give him a respectable burial. There was, then, still a chance that when they reached their journey’s end he might get himself taken to hospital.
Hopes and fears continued alternately to agitate his bemused mind. The rocking and jolting of the coffin had the same effect as if someone were constantly pummelling his injured thigh and, crazed by pain, his mind wandered from the present to scenes of the past.
After what seemed an eternity the vehicle on which he was came to a standstill. He caught the sound of footsteps on boards near the coffin and the lid was taken off. Dimly he realised that it was still night, for a torch was shone down into his face, blinding him. It had been very hot in the coffin and, as he felt the cool air on his face, he knew that it was damp with sweat; so he must be running a high fever. A hand was eased into his tunic to feel his heart, then a gruff voice said:
‘Holy Virgin be praised! He has survived the journey.’
In normal circumstances he would have been certain that it was Kuporovitch who had spoken; but his last glimpse of his friend had been in silhouette against the glare of the burning camp on Usedom, so he believed himself to be the victim of hallucination. His right arm was lifted. By the light of the torch he saw that the sleeve of his tunic had been cut away. He felt the jab of a hypodermic needle and in another few moments lapsed back into unconsciousness.
For a long while, each time he came out of his drug-induced stupor, he dimly realised that he was shouting in delirium, then the kindly needle sent him off again. When at last he opened his eyes with a clear mind he gradually took in the fact that he was in bed in a vaulted stone-walled chamber. As he feebly raised a hand he heard a movement beside him, then Kuporovitch’s face came into view above his.
‘So, my poor friend, you are conscious once more,’ murmured the Russian. ‘St. Nicholas and all the Saints be thanked. For the past week I have feared you would die, but now you will turn the corner.’
Gregory strove to reply but could only mumble, and the excruciating pain again shot up from his thigh to his heart. Kuporovitch gently raised his head, gave him a soothing drink, then, with another injection, sent him off.
During the three days that followed he awoke several times to lucid intervals, his powers of comprehension increasing with each. On every occasion he found Kuporovitch beside him and gradually learned from him what had taken place after the great raid on the fatal 17th August.
His friend had heard his last shout, turned and seen him struck down by the falling tree. Only the Russian’s great strength had enabled him to lift the splintered trunk from Gregory’s body. Finding that he was still alive, Kuporovitch had carried him back up the road, then left it and entered the belt of trees that screened the interior of the island from the creek. The confusion resulting from the raid, and the fact that the arc lights had been switched off, had enabled him to get Gregory through the wire fence unobserved. By a dispensation of Providence it had been low water in the creek, so he had been able to cross it by the nearest ford. On his early reconnaissance of the mainland bank one of the places he had marked down as an emergency hideout had been a group of trees not far from Kröslin. Almost exhausted, he had got Gregory there, then taken an hour to recover from his terrible exertions and consider their situation.
His first idea had been to walk into Wolgast and get help, but it had suddenly struck him that Gregory must have left his boat on the far side of the creek, so in the morning it was certain to be discovered. Sooner or later the wireless would be found in it. When that happened the Germans would swiftly put two and two together. They would jump to it that Major Bodenstein and his servant, Janos Sabinov, had been spies and it was messages sent by them that had brought about the raid on Peenemünde. The whole police network in northern Pomerania would then start buzzing like a hornets’ nest with imperative orders to hunt them down and, if Gregory were in a hospital, he would promptly fall into the hands of the Gestapo. Yet with him lying at death’s door it was out of the question to remain in hiding and hope later to slip safely out of the district.
Kuporovitch had then decided that the only hope for Gregory was to leave him there and try to get help from Sassen; so, the better to conceal him from any passer-by, before setting off he had partially buried him.
On reaching Wolgast he had found that the marshalling yard there had also been bombed and that part of the town was in flames. Skirting it he had reached the road to Greifswald and after a while got a lift in a lorry that took him through the barrier and to the town. From Greifswald he had somehow managed to walk the seven miles to Sassen, arriving there at seven o’clock in the morning. Taking great precautions against being seen by anyone, he had gone to the ruined Castle. There he had found Malacou up and, by his own mysterious means, already acquainted with a general outline of the situation.
The doctor had given him a potent draught that had temporarily restored him, and they had consulted on what best to do. Their decision had been that the following night Kuporovitch should accompany Willi von Altern in the lorry back to the coppice near Kröslin and pick up Gregory. Owing to the chaos caused by the raid, the Russian thought it unlikely that the wireless would be discovered during the course of the day. Unless it was, the hunt for them would not start immediately so his pass for going to and fro through the barrier would still be good that night, but he had been quick to see that to the plan there was another danger. Although Willi was half-witted, he might later give away having brought Gregory back to Sassen.
Malacou had got over that hurdle by saying that people whose brains were in such a state were very easy subjects to hypnotise; so he would send for Willi and while talking to him about some farm matter put him under. He could then be made to forget permanently everything that took place during the next twenty-four hours.
There remained the problem of getting Gregory back to Sassen through the barrier, as it would have later proved their undoing if it were recorded at the guard post there that Major Bodenstein, suffering from wounds that made him incapable of escaping from the district, had been brought out in the Sassen lorry. That problem had also been solved by Malacou thinking of the coffin. For a dead body no pass would be required and, well lined, a coffin would serve just as well as a stretcher. He had added that Willi while under hypnosis could be made to knock up a rough one during that evening.
Their plan being settled, Kuporovitch had fallen into a sleep of exhaustion. In the evening the doctor roused him for a hearty meal and gave him morphia and a hypodermic to take with him. After dark he had set off with Willi. At the barrier he had had some anxious moments, but all had gone well. On reaching the coppice he had been terribly afraid that he would find Gregory dead and, on finding him gone from the shallow grave, had feared that he must have been stumbled upon and carried away by the Germans.
But Willi had heard Gregory’s cry for help so had been the first to reach him and had foolishly tried to lift him up before Kuporovitch could give him an injection. That its effects had worn off during the latter part of their journey, Malacou said later, must have been due to the acuteness of his pain having pierced his consciousness; but otherwise everything had gone according to plan.
In the early hours of the morning they had cut off his clothes in the room in the ruin now used as a kitchen, and on the table there his terrible wound had been cleaned and bandaged up by the doctor. They had then carried him to an upstairs room, the roof of which was still sound, and Kuporovitch had remained there with him ever since.
Gregory also learned that the raid on Peenemünde had proved an outstanding success. Hauff had let it out to Khurrem that the Germans estimated that the better part of six hundred bombers had been employed in the raid. They had come in accompanied by a force of Mosquitoes that had bombed Berlin and the Germans had been deceived into thinking that the whole air fleet had dropped its bombs there. But, a little short of the capital, the Lancasters had swung north, passed over Rügen island, then come in from the sea and swooped on Peenemünde, coming down to eight thousand feet to make certain of their targets. The German night fighters had intercepted them on the way back and had shot down forty aircraft, but the havoc caused by the raid had been terrible. Many hundreds of the labour force in the crowded hutments had been wiped out or burned to death, scores of German technicians had been killed or wounded, the whole Station was a shambles and it would be impossible to resume work there for many months.
About Hauff himself there was also news. On the night of the raid his wife had died. His account of the matter was that the sound of the distant raid had reached him just as he was going to bed. Looking out of a window he had seen the fierce glow in the sky and realised that Peenemünde was being attacked; so he had gone downstairs, got out his car and driven into Greifswald in case his S.S. unit there should be required to give help in the emergency. When he had got home the following morning he had found his wife at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken.
Normally, being a chronic invalid, she rarely left her room; but it was assumed that, frightened by the roar overhead of the returning aircraft, and the firing of an anti-aircraft battery stationed not far away, she had thought she would be safer on the ground floor of the farm or, perhaps, had gone down to make herself a cup of coffee, but had tripped at the top of the stairs and fallen to her death.
Recalling what Khurrem had told him about Hauff’s designs on herself and the Sassen estate, Gregory thought it by no means improbable that the Sturmbahnführer had suddenly decided that the raid provided a good opportunity for him to rid himself of his unwanted wife. However, Kuporovitch went on to say that but for Hauff they might by now be in the clutches of the Gestapo.
On the third day after the raid the wireless had been found in Gregory’s boat, with the anticipated results. A description of them both had been issued and a big reward offered for their capture. Oberführer Langbahn had arrived at the Manor with a carload of his S.D. thugs and everyone there had had to submit to hours of questioning.
The farm people could say only that they had had no reason whatever to suspect that Major Bodenstein was not a genuine Rhinelander or his servant a simple pro-German hilfsfreiwilliger from some part of Czechoslovakia. Willi stated that owing to his war injuries his memory had become extremely faulty but he could recall nothing suspicious about the two men. Malacou had sworn that Gregory had shown all the symptoms of a man afflicted with heart trouble, Khurrem had declared that he must have undoubtedly known her late husband when he was Military Attaché in Turkey as otherwise he could not possibly have imposed upon her; and all concerned indignantly repudiated the suggestion that they had knowingly harboured enemies of the Reich.
Nevertheless, the angry Oberführer would have had them carted off to a concentration camp had not Hauff been present and seen his plan for marrying Khurrem about to be ruined. He had swiftly intervened and pleaded with his superior. Knowing Khurrem so well, and of her father’s voluntary work at the clinic, he was able to vouch for their patriotism and his offer to be personally accountable for their future activities had been accepted.
No-one on the farm, of course, had the least reason to suspect that Gregory and Kuporovitch had returned to Sassen and were living in the ruin; so they could now consider themselves safe there until Gregory was fit enough to leave.
When he asked Kuporovitch if he had any idea when that might be possible the Russian sadly shook his head. ‘Alas, my poor friend, it will be many weeks; perhaps months. Every day Malacou comes up here to see you and dress your wounds. He does so always at times when he knows you to be unconscious from the dope he gives you. But his report on you fills me with distress. The tree-trunk that struck you down fractured your left thigh and it is a compound fracture. He thinks that there is little chance of your regaining the full use of that leg until after Christmas.’
Gregory gave a heavy sigh. ‘I suppose I’m lucky to be alive; and that I am is certainly due to your courage and loyalty, Stefan. But Christmas is four months off; so you mustn’t remain here all that time. Malacou will look after me; so you’ve no need to worry that you won’t be leaving me in good hands. You must return to England and give them the good news of what our bombers did to Peenemünde.’
Kuporovitch laughed. ‘You are becoming delirious again, dear friend. Reconnaissance ‘planes will tell them that better than I could; and wild horses could not drag me from your side. Come now, it is time for me to give you another injection and so relieve your pain.’
It was their first long conversation and it had taken a lot out of Gregory. For some days past the acute pain that had caused him to groan with every movement had subsided to a dull ache, but it was nagging at him badly now, so he submitted without argument.
The next day Malacou came up to see him during one of his spells of full consciousness. For a while they talked of the raid and the events that had followed it. Then Gregory asked the doctor about his prospects.
Malacou replied gravely, ‘Your leg was completely crushed; so it will be a long time before you can get about again. Most fortunately there was no indication of gangrene setting in, so the question of trying to save your life by amputation did not arise. You are over the worst now and should soon be able to consider yourself convalescent. But you must be very patient and put your faith in me.
‘Owing to my studies of the Microcosm, the human body is, to me, an open book. I need no X-rays to inform me of the exact extent of your injuries; and how, in relation to the Macrocosm, the most favourable influences may be brought to bear on their alleviation. Each part of the body comes under the influence of one of the signs of the Zodiac. The thighs are the province of Sagittarius—the Archer—and by correlating the hours in which I treat you with those when that sign is in the ascendant we shall ensure your full recovery.
‘But I must warn you of one thing. I have never practised more than minor surgery, so I could not undertake to operate upon you. Yet there is no way of restoring your leg to near normal except by an operation. It would, too, have to be a major one, as your femur is fractured in several places. It should be reset by an expert and strengthened with plating; but, placed as we are, there is no competent surgeon whom I could call in without the certainty that it would lead to you and all of us being arrested by the Gestapo.’
Having contemplated this most unpleasant piece of information for a few seconds, Gregory asked, ‘When my leg has healed will it hamper me very much in getting about?’
‘I fear it will. For many weeks it will bear no weight; so you will have to use crutches. Later, well …’ Malacou sighed, ‘… it would be no kindness to give you false hopes about the future. You will always have a limp—and a bad one. Your left leg will be three or four inches shorter than your right. Still worse, it will be twisted with the knee turned a little outward. These distortions will, in due course, affect your spine, so that when standing up you will be bent forward and sideways.’
Gregory gave a sudden bitter laugh. ‘So I’m to become a human crab, eh?’
The doctor nodded. ‘I’ll not dispute your comparison. But, remember, you are very lucky to be alive.’
‘So I gather. And I certainly agree that to call in a German sawbones would be asking for all of us to be lined up opposite a firing-squad—or worse. Well, there it is. I suppose I’ll have to make up my mind to becoming an unsightly cripple.’
They fell silent for a moment, then Malacou said, ‘One other thing. For the past eleven days I’ve been drugging you very heavily so that you should remain unconscious when I dressed your wound. But now you are over the worst I must reduce the size of the injections. That means I shall have to cause you considerable suffering; unless, that is, you are willing to agree to my putting you under hypnosis.’
Gregory considered the suggestion for a moment, then he shook his head. ‘Thanks, Doctor, but I’ve always had a prejudice against surrendering my will to anyone, so I think I’ll put up with the pain.’
Malacou shrugged. ‘Just as you wish. But think it over. Hypnosis is now recognised by the medical profession as perfectly legitimate treatment; and the less you suffer the quicker your recovery will be. You can always change your mind.’
Kuporovitch rarely left Gregory’s side and had stood silently by listening to the conversation. When the doctor had gone the Russian did his best to console his friend for the sentence that had been passed upon him. But there was little he could say to lighten Gregory’s gloom.
On the three days that followed the injections were reduced; so that on the fourth, when Malacou dressed Gregory’s wound, he was not fully under. With the further reduction of the drug he remained conscious through those gruelling sessions, and woke each day to spend hours dreading them. But in other respects he steadily gained ground. The hunchback Tarik was an excellent cook and, tempted by the attractive little dishes he produced, Gregory’s appetite greatly improved. He also became able to talk without each breath he drew hurting and, for short periods, he managed to take his mind off his wretched situation by reading for a while books that the doctor brought him.
It was on September 7th that Kuporovitch sprang a sudden unwelcome surprise on him. That evening the Russian said, ‘Dear friend, I have been thinking. Now that three weeks have elapsed since your calamity there is no longer any fear of your having a relapse. While your life was in danger you know well that nothing would have induced me to leave you. But you will have to remain here for a long time yet. You are safe here and well looked after. Others will perform for you the small services that are all you now require; so would you think very badly of me if I attempted to make my way home?’
‘Of course not, Stefan,’ Gregory replied, endeavouring to force a smile. ‘No-one could have a more loyal friend. Had you not stuck to me on that ghastly night I’d be a rotting corpse by now. The hunchback will do all the chores that you’ve been doing and I’ve lots to read. Naturally, I’ll miss you terribly; but it would be absurd for you to remain here kicking your heels for another three months or more. Of course you must go home. In a way I’m glad you have decided to, because it’s three weeks since we’ve been able to communicate with London, and Erika and Madeleine, not to mention dear old Pellinore, must be getting very worried about not hearing from us. Have you thought of any plan yet for getting out of this damned country?’
‘No,’ Kuporovitch shook his head, ‘I wished to obtain your agreement first; then I thought we might talk it over with Malacou.’
‘You’re right. He’s a wily old bird. I’m sure he will produce some good ideas that will help you to evade trouble on your journey.’
For some while they discussed the project, then Kuporovitch settled Gregory down for the night, undressed and got into the bed that had been fixed up for him in one corner of the room.
Now that Gregory was being given only a sedative at night, when its first effect had worn off he was subject to long periods of wakefulness. That night he lay awake for hours, thinking of Kuporovitch’s imminent departure. He knew well enough that it was quite one thing to display high courage, exceptional endurance and devotion to a comrade during periods of emergency; and quite another to continue for weeks on end, cooped up, bored to tears and sticking it only because that seemed to be the right thing to do. So he felt that he could not blame his friend for leaving him, but he knew that when the lovable and ever-cheerful Russian had gone a desperate loneliness would be added to his other miseries.
Next day, when Malacou came to dress Gregory’s wound, Kuporovitch told the doctor of his decision. Instantly the tall, dark-faced master of the ruin swung round upon the Russian. His black eyes flashed, his big, hooked nose stood out like an eagle’s beak as he thrust forward his head and his full red lips trembled with anger.
‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ he declared harshly. ‘You must be mad even to think of such a thing. Do you wish to have us all stripped and bleeding in one of the Gestapo torture chambers? Three months here has made your German fairly fluent. But you could never pass as a German. And the papers you brought with you are now your death warrant. You’d not get twenty miles before you were halted and asked to give an account of yourself. Within a matter of hours they would be flogging you with their steel rods and pulling out your toe-nails. No-one can stand up to that sort of thing. Despite yourself, you would give us all away. No! No! You will put this crazy idea out of your head and remain here looking after our invalid.’
It had already occurred to Gregory that if Kuporovitch were caught he might bring disaster on them all, but he had not wished to appear to be taking advantage of mentioning such a possibility as a means of dissuading his friend from leaving him. Now he remained silent; but he could not help feeling a reaction of selfish pleasure when the Russian looked uncomfortably at the ground and muttered:
‘Pardon me. I had not thought of that. I see now that I must abandon the idea.’
The next three days were uneventful. Sweating and moaning, Gregory submitted to the doctor’s ministrations. Kuporovitch continued to bring up his meals, wash him and perform the functions of a nurse. For the rest of the time he sat on his own bed in the corner, talking a little, reading a little and apparently resigned at having had to give up his project of trying to get home.
On the morning of Saturday the 11th, Gregory awoke about seven o’clock and saw that Kuporovitch’s bed was empty. To that he paid no special heed, assuming that his friend had left the room for some normal purpose. Ten minutes later Malacou burst in, gave one look at the Russian’s empty bed, then lifted his hands, wrung them and wailed:
‘I knew it! The moment I awoke, I knew it! He is gone! He is not downstairs; he is not here! Iblis defend us from this madman. He will be caught! He will betray us. What are we to do? Oh, what are we to do?’
For the first time since they had met Gregory found himself regarding Malacou with a faint contempt. He felt no doubt that the doctor was right and that during the night Kuporovitch, ignoring the danger into which he might bring them, had slipped away. But nothing could now bring him back. The doctor’s loss of control seemed lamentable and his outburst entirely futile.
As Gregory lay looking up at the suddenly haggard face of the occultist he felt a little sorry for him, but he was far more grieved for a different reason. He took it hard that his friend had not told him of his secret intention; nor even left a written message near his pillow, bidding him good-bye.