Fool's Gold

PUFFIN CANADA
 

FOOL'S GOLD

ERIC WALTERS
, a former elementary school teacher, has written over forty acclaimed and bestselling novels, including
War of the Eagles
,
Trapped in Ice
,
S.T.A.R.S.
,
Rebound
and
Run
. He lives in Mississauga, Ontario.

Also by Eric Walters from Penguin Canada

The Bully Boys

The Hydrofoil Mystery

Trapped in Ice

Camp X

Royal Ransom

Run

Camp 30

Elixir

Shattered

Sketches

Other books by Eric Walters

Triple Threat

The True Story of Santa
Claus

Grind

Overdrive

I've Got an Idea

Underdog

Death by Exposure

Road Trip

Tiger Town

Northern Exposures

Long Shot

Ricky

Tiger in Trouble

Hoop Crazy

Rebound

Full Court Press

Caged Eagles

The Money Pit Mystery

Three-on-Three

Visions

Tiger by the Tail

War of the Eagles

Stranded

Diamonds in the Rough

STARS

Stand Your Ground

CAMP X FOOL'S GOLD

ERIC WALTERS

PUFFIN CANADA
 

Published by the Penguin Group

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M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in a Puffin Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),

a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2006

Published in this edition, 2007

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)

Copyright © Eric Walters, 2006

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Walters, Eric, 1957–

Fool's gold : Camp X / Eric Walters.

ISBN 978-0-670-06542-4 (bound).—ISBN 978-0-14-331255-0 (pbk.)

I. Title.

PS8595.A598F66   2006     jC813'. 54          C2006-902302-6

ISBN-13: 978-0-14-331255-0

ISBN-10: 0-14-331255-3

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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CHAPTER ONE

SEPTEMBER, 1942

I TOSSED THE NEWSPAPER
and it skimmed over the railing and onto the porch, landing just off to the right side of the front door of the house.

“That makes three perfect pitches in a row!” I shouted.

“Impressive … that is, if you'd said
ten
instead of three!” Jack yelled back across the street. He heaved another paper and I watched as it soared onto the porch, skidding to a stop right in front of the door—a perfect strike.

“Make that, I'd be impressed if it was
eleven
in a row!” Jack called out.

Eleven in a row for me wouldn't just be impressive, it would be impossible. I didn't have my big brother's arm—yet—or his amazing ability to be a pain.

This was our second paper route. When we'd lived in Whitby for a while we'd delivered papers there. Then we moved here to Bowmanville. I was hoping this was going to be our last stop in working
our way across the province delivering papers.

We continued to move down the street, Jack on one side, me on the other. Our route had nearly two hundred houses and already I knew every one. Maybe I didn't have my brother's arm, but I was definitely his match when it came to memory.

My brother finished the last house on his side of the street—perfect toss number twelve, I was sure—and he crossed over and joined me.

“Which job do you like better,” I asked, “paper route or delivering the mail to Camp 30?”

He thought for a moment as we walked, then said, “Delivering the mail. I miss the camp.”

Camp 30 was the prisoner-of-war camp just outside of town. Some of the most important, highest-ranking German prisoners were locked up there, sent to Canada after being captured in the war. That's where our mother worked, as an assistant to the commander, Colonel Armstrong. Our father was fighting in Africa, with the St. Patrick's Regiment, and it felt like he'd been gone forever.

During the summer we'd been hired by Colonel Armstrong to pick up the prisoners' mail from the post office in town and bring it up to the camp. That was our
official
job. Our unofficial job—something that nobody at the camp, not Colonel Armstrong, not even our own
mother
knew about—was to secretly gather information about the prisoners. After all, who would
suspect a twelve-year-old and his fourteen-year-old brother of being spies?

I guess that should have been a pretty safe job— delivering the mail and keeping our eyes and ears open, passing on anything important that we picked up—but somehow the words “Jack” and “safe” don't usually go in the same sentence.

It turned out the prisoners were planning an escape through a tunnel they'd been digging. Because of Jack's pushing and prodding we discovered the tunnel—and the prisoners discovered us. They grabbed us and took us along on the escape. They hauled us all the way to the St. Lawrence River, near Cornwall, where a submarine was coming to pick them up and take them back to Germany. We'd probably have been eating sauerkraut and schnitzel today if the good guys hadn't shown up just in time to blow that submarine out of the water.

What a story—and we hadn't told a soul. The only people who knew what had happened to us were the guys who'd asked us to be spies in the first place, the guys we'd first met at Camp X, when we'd lived in Whitby. Camp X was a training camp for spies, and Jack and I had discovered it almost by accident. That's where we'd met Bill, our contact at the camp, and his boss, Little Bill. Little Bill was the top boss, sort of the head spy of everybody. And, of course, nobody knew about what happened to us there, either—Nazi spies
trying to break into the camp, us almost getting our heads blown off, stealing a jeep and … again, it seemed hard to believe that any of it was true, or that it had actually happened to me and Jack.

“I still don't know why they wouldn't let us continue to deliver the mail after the escape attempt,” Jack said.

“I guess they just wanted us to do something safer.”

“And you think delivering papers is safe?” Jack asked. “We could get hit by a truck or attacked by a big, mean dog.”

“Or get a paper cut,” I added.

Jack smiled. “Maybe it's best this way, anyway,” he said.

“It is?” That didn't sound like Jack.

“Yeah. We've been dodging bullets.”

“A couple, I guess.”

“I don't mean like real bullets … although there have been a few of those … I mean like bad things happening. So far we've managed to avoid everything.”

“Well, not everything. I got two concussions and you had a broken arm and a broken jaw and—”

“But we didn't get
killed
. We've been lucky so far, and we can't count on being lucky forever.”

“I guess you're right.”

“It's good to get out while we're still alive and in one piece,” Jack said.

“Yeah, that makes sense. But do you think we're
really
out of it … is it all over?” I asked.

Jack tossed another paper and it hit the railing and bounced back, landing on the grass. I stifled the urge to laugh. As he walked over to retrieve the paper I grabbed one out of my bag and tossed it—it sailed over the railing, hit the bottom of the door with a loud thud and landed on the doormat.

“That makes four!” I exclaimed.

Jack picked up his off-target paper. I half expected him to throw it at me but instead he stuffed it back in his bag.

“To answer your question, I do think that it's probably all over,” he said. “I think that we stumbled into the first adventure and then bumbled into the second. There's not going to be a third.”

That made sense. But I wasn't sure if I should feel relieved or disappointed.

“Do you think we'll ever see any of them again?” I asked.

“Bill and Little Bill?” Jack asked.

I nodded.

“Maybe Bill. He turns up at the strangest times and places. But I think Little Bill is probably too busy.”

“I guess you're right. Besides, Bill is just down the road at Camp X, and Little Bill could be anywhere. Didn't Bill once say that Little Bill worked from New York and London?”

“I think I remember that. Let's just hurry and finish delivering the papers.” Jack looked at his watch. “Supper is going to be ready soon.”

That was all the incentive I needed. I was hungry. And we only had three more streets to go.

“I'll take Maple, you can do Elm, and I'll meet you on Staples,” I suggested.

“Works for me. Make sure you don't miss any houses,” Jack warned.

“It's guaranteed that I'm
going
to miss houses,” I said.

Jack skidded to a stop.

“I'm going to miss the houses that aren't supposed to get papers.” I laughed and hurried off, leaving Jack standing there looking annoyed. Hey, he wasn't the
only
one who could be annoying!

We moved along Staples Street as quickly as possible. We were half walking, half running. I was quickly working up a sweat. It was almost five o'clock but it was still really hot—a lot hotter than you'd expect for the middle of September. I wanted to slow down and catch my breath but there was no way I could do that without getting a tongue-lashing from Jack. This was the last street on our route. The way we had the route planned, we finished with the papers on the street just over from ours. Jack showed no sign of slowing down. He probably wouldn't stop until we got home.