Authors: John Anthony Miller
He went to the rear of the truck, stepped up on the bumper, and broke a narrow branch off the fallen limb. He then hurried to the front of the vehicle, knowing Amanda was frantic.
“Nothing in the ambulance,” he called as he approached. “But this tree branch should work. We just have to keep it immobile.”
He broke the branch to a more manageable length and placed it against the man’s wrist and forearm. Amanda wrapped cloth around it, tying it tightly.
“This should keep it stationary until you reach camp,” he said to the soldier.
“How do we get the tree limb off the canopy?” one of the soldiers asked.
“I think if you slowly drive forward it will slide off. We’ll clear the road when you’re gone. You can send someone back for the car.”
They all climbed into the truck, squeezing into the front seat. The driver started the vehicle and eased out the clutch, idling forward, his eyes trained on the side mirror.
York stood in the rear, motioning forward with his hand as the driver gradually increased his speed. The fallen branch slipped from the canopy and crashed to the ground. With a last wave from York, and a nod from the driver, the vehicle drove away.
“We have to hurry,” York said, as he and Amanda pulled the limb from the road. “I want to siphon fuel from the car. Then we need to get away before they come back.”
The car’s fuel gauge showed three-quarters full. York parked the ambulance adjacent to the petrol tank and got the rubber siphon hose. He sucked until he tasted petrol, and stuck it in the ambulance’s tank. For five minutes the fuel transferred, the flow gradually slowing and then stopping.
York put both caps on and hurried back to the ambulance. He stowed the hose, started the engine, and drove down the highway.
“How do we get off this road?” he asked Amanda.
She had been studying the map, approximating their position. “They said the camp was ten kilometers away. It looks like the first crossroad is about six kilometers. Turn right, go five kilometers and turn left. If we stay on that road for about twenty kilometers, it merges back with this one, bypassing the camp.”
York shifted gears, urging the vehicle forward. He doubted the Germans suspected their story. But as soon as they found the staff car with an empty fuel tank they would. He covered the six kilometers quickly, and then turned right. He drove quickly, covering another five kilometers before turning left and slowing to a normal rate.
“I’ll drive until we have less than half a tank of petrol,” he said. “Then we’ll pull over in the woods somewhere and sleep. We’ll be more than halfway. But we have to find more petrol. That’s our biggest worry.”
He looked in the side view mirror and saw a troop truck behind them, rapidly approaching.
Manfred Richter sat at a window table in a restaurant on Wannsee Lake, gazing out at the water. Only a handful of customers were scattered about the dining room, the lake less of an attraction in colder weather. But even in late November he could see a few boats in the distance, one with its sail tilted at an angle to catch the wind and propel the vessel forward. He watched it for a moment, wondering how difficult it was to captain a sailboat. He preferred motors. They were much more predictable.
Trees surrounded the lake, but much of the shoreline showed wide expanses of beach that overflowed with people in the summer, enjoying the sun and water. A few houses were visible, mostly mansions or older cottages that had existed for a century or more, peeking from the seclusion offered by the trees. A handful of boathouses similar to his could be seen along the shore, scattered haphazardly into the distance.
He returned to his sausage and sauerkraut, putting another forkful into his mouth. The food was good, even if it was off season, and he had always enjoyed the restaurant. Spread on the table before him, just beyond his plate, was a map of Germany. He looked at it closely while he ate, studying the arteries and veins that crossed it, rivers and roads, routes and rails. Then he put it away and finished his sausage and sauerkraut.
The three men he was waiting for arrived an hour later. He was still sitting at the same table, gazing at the lake, his meal replaced by a mug of beer. The men sat down, no introductions needed since they knew each other quite well, and Richter removed the map from his coat pocket and laid it on the table.
There was a distinct red line drawn across it, starting in Berlin and wandering southwestward towards Switzerland. Other lines were marked in blue, but not as heavily, signifying alternate and secondary routes. Each man in turn looked at the map, studying all that was identified, examining the natural terrain as well as the highways, knowing both the starting point and final destination.
“What do you think?” Richter asked. He only asked for opinions when he didn’t want them, just to see who agreed with him.
The apparent leader of the three glanced at his watch and shrugged. “I’m not sure how we lost them.”
“Or why they diverted from the route selected,” said another.
“But you did lose them,” Richter said. “There must be a reason why. I want to know what it is, and I want them found.”
“It could be anything,” the leader said with a helpless shrug. “But at this point it doesn’t matter. We know where their final destination is.”
“No, we don’t,” Richter said, his patience exhausted. “We only know the destination we gave them. But we don’t know the destination they’re seeking.”
The three men were silent, furtively glancing at each other, never quite as insightful as their mentor. They knew how critical the mission was, and they didn’t want to disappoint him, but the solution he sought escaped them.
“For all we know, they could have taken a separate route entirely,” Richter said. “What if they became suspicious and changed the plan? They could be anywhere.”
The third man sighed, knowing Richter could be right, and then spoke. “Although we have no reason to believe that’s the case.”
The muscles of Richter’s face tightened and he turned a faint red. “How do you know for certain? You don’t. You don’t know anything.”
The three men were quiet, considering the consequences, knowing it was futile to argue. It was their leader who finally spoke. “No, you’re right,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”
“They need to be found,” Richter continued. “How do you intend to do that?”
“It should be easy enough,” one of the three said. “How many ambulances are on the road?”
Richter was irritated. “More than you think. There’s a war raging, remember?”
“We’ll find them,” the leader said. “I promise you.”
Manfred eyed each in turn, his eyes showing anger, annoyed at their incompetence. “See that you do,” he warned, waving a finger in their faces. “Because if you don’t, the plans I had for them will instead be used for you.”
York kept a wary eye in the mirror, watching the troop truck get closer, maintaining a constant speed. He didn’t want to act suspiciously, or seem like he was trying to flee, but he didn’t want to get captured either. The truck was traveling much faster than he was and, as the minutes passed, the gap between them closed.
“What’s the matter?” Amanda asked, watching him closely, her eyebrows knitted with concern.
“There’s a troop truck behind us. And it’s moving quickly. I can’t tell if they’re coming after us or just on the same road.”
“Is it the truck from the accident?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s gaining.”
They continued on the country road, approaching the merge that would take them back to their original route. But they were still ten kilometers away, and the map showed no intersections. The truck would reach them well before then.
Amanda watched the vehicle in the side mirror. “There are two men in the cab,” she said. “But I can’t tell if the fender is dented. It may be a different truck.”
“They could still be after us. Maybe when the injured soldiers got back to camp and described what happened, someone thought it was suspicious. They could have sent the truck after us. Better tell Erika to keep everyone quiet.”
Amanda opened the port and explained what was happening. The noise from the back, aimless chatter, a child singing, and Millie talking to the teenager, gradually subsided as Erika asked for silence.
York watched the mirror. The truck was close now, only a few meters behind their bumper. He eased up on the accelerator and guided the vehicle closer to the shoulder, waiting patiently for the truck to pass.
It didn’t. The truck slowed to the same rate of speed, hugging the bumper of the ambulance. York sped up, just a bit.
The truck increased its speed also, keeping the same distance. They were so close he could see the driver’s face. It was a man, not the boy involved in the accident. It was someone with experience, someone who may have seen combat.
York was annoyed. “I’m not sure what they’re doing,” he said. “They don’t want to pass. They don’t want to stop us. They want to stay glued to our bumper. Maybe they’re waiting for us to make the first move.”
He watched the driver’s head turn, talking to the passenger, before moving his eyes back to the road. What were they discussing? Was it the ambulance?
They were five kilometers from the merge when they passed a narrow dirt road on the left, barely visible through the trees. Suddenly the troop truck braked, slowed considerably, and turned into the woods.
York breathed a sigh of relief. “That lane must lead to the camp.”
The strain so visible on Amanda’s face slowly dissipated. “This has been the longest day of my life,” she said. “I’ve never dealt with danger before. Now it never leaves me.”
“Tell Erika another fifteen minutes or so and we’ll stop. I’ll find a spot in the woods somewhere once we’re on the other road.”
Five minutes later they were back on their original route, the road little-traveled and surrounded by forest. After driving for fifteen kilometers, York saw a slender dirt trail. He pulled off the road and into a grove of evergreen trees and got out of the ambulance, stretching.
The children remained well behaved, and once again York was struck by their innocence, their absolute trust in Inga, the teenage girl that managed them, and in Erika. They seemed incapable of thinking evil thoughts; it would never occur to them that someone might treat them badly. They were content with what they had, trusting who they were with, and marveling at what most take for granted: the height of the trees, the sound of the birds, the beauty of a flower. As York watched them, eating and skipping around the forest, he realized that his life would always be a bit richer because they had walked into it.
Samuel and Sarah quickly adapted to their new family, clinging to Millie, Erika’s mother. She was so frail, so thin and tired, that they felt compelled to care for her. York wondered if they had any family left. He wasn’t sure what to do with them when they reached Switzerland, but he was sure someone would be willing to care for them.
York studied the map as Amanda chatted with Erika. It was another two hours to Nuremberg, which was more than halfway. The route had them take rural roads around the city, almost in a semi-circle, and then remain on country roads the rest of the journey, bypassing the last metropolitan center, Stuttgart, on their way to Switzerland. The remainder of the trip would be through forest and farm fields, safer and more secluded than the first half.
They got back in the ambulance an hour later, still ahead of schedule, and continued on. York watched the needle on the fuel gauge slowly move, knowing he had the ten-liter tank as reserve. They drove two more hours, until darkness slowly consumed the skies. He pulled the truck into another dirt lane, this time at the edge of the forest just before a stretch of farmland, the fields fallow for winter.
York walked to the edge of the trees and studied the farm beyond. He could see a barn in the distance, built sturdily of stone, a long sloping roof to ease the winter snows to the ground. It was several stories high, rising in a steep triangle, the top of the pyramid stucco and timber. An outbuilding extended perpendicular to the barn, one wall open to the weather. He could see a tractor and another vehicle, maybe a small truck, parked in the lean-to. A large house sat on the other side of the barn, its roof line and chimneys visible from where he stood.
He emptied the ten-liter can into the ambulance’s petrol tank and did a quick calculation. If he could get ten more liters, they would be close. But maybe not close enough. Nothing would be worse than being stranded near the Swiss border, but not near enough to get to it.
Amanda and Erika were sitting with the children in and about the ambulance, all wrapped in blankets. York finished filling the petrol tank and walked to the rear of the vehicle.
“I’m going to see what’s at that farmhouse,” he told them. “I should be back in about thirty minutes.”
A flicker of fear crossed their faces, the thought of being alone overwhelming. He realized how traumatic the journey was for two people more accustomed to violins and concert halls.
“I won’t be long,” he promised.
He set off with the fuel can, working his way through the darkness and staying near the edge of the trees. It took him longer than he thought, the distance across the open field farther than he estimated, but he soon reached the edge of the lean-to. He could hear rustling in the barn, probably cows or chickens or whatever livestock the farmer had. He paused, waiting, but heard no voices. Hopefully the farmer was done for the day and was now sitting in front of a fire or radio, having enjoyed a good supper.
York slipped into the building, moving stealthily to the tractor. Its fuel tank sat high, making it easier to siphon. He slipped the rubber hose in until it touched the bottom, and then withdrew it, trying to gauge what was in the tank.
It wasn’t much, definitely less than half and probably closer to a quarter. But it was a large tank. He might get ten liters. He sucked through the hose, spitting out petrol, and stuck the end in his can.
It took about five minutes and, as the level increased in his can, he pulled the rubber hose from the tractor tank, letting the remnants drain in his container. He was getting much better at siphoning, and hadn’t spilled a drop. He put the lid back on the tractor’s fuel tank and secured his container.
He was about to slide out from underneath the tractor when he heard a noise. It was faint at first, maybe an animal in the fields. He remained still, listening intently, watching.
He heard the noise again, louder, footsteps, someone walking. He peeked from around the tractor’s tire. A pair of legs came into view, coming from the barn.