Page 33 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Bell briefly pictured what the castle must have been like in its heyday, with knights on horseback, ladies in colorful kirtles, minstrels, and grand joisting tournaments. Not that he wanted to live in such a past, but it must have been a sight to see. His revery came to an end when the driver braked hard in front of the keep and the guard put a meaty hand on his shoulder.
The officer didn’t bother menacing Bell with his Luger since it was apparent there was no place for his prisoner to go. They led him into the keep. The first room was large and high-ceilinged. Ancient tapestries adorned the walls and absorbed the sound of dozens of uniformed men pounding on typewriters or having shouted conversations through crackly phone lines. The castle had been electrified, but the overhead lights and table lamps did little to dispel the Gothic dreariness.
None of the workers gave the guards or the captive wearing a British flying suit a second notice.
Bell was prodded down a flight of circular stairs and assumed he was being led to the old dungeon, now converted to a prisoner holding area. The air grew mustier and there were a few wet patches on the walls. Lighting was even poorer here and Bell kept a hand on the wall as he negotiated the uneven steps.
At the bottom was a receiving area ahead of a bunch of iron-barred cells. A pair of guards came forward when Bell and his minders reached the basement level. Bell stumbled into one of them as he negotiated the last of the stairs.
He was ordered to strip and place his clothes on a wooden table in front of a pair of noncommissioned officers. As each item hit the table, the Germans inspected it minutely, turning out pockets, feeling along hemlines, making certain there was nothing hidden between layers of fabric. A gold pen given to him early in his career by Joseph Van Dorn vanished into one of the soldiers’ pockets. His wallet was emptied of all its cash, which was a significant amount. The men gave Bell a look, daring him to object to the obvious theft. Bell knew he’d get a rifle butt in the kidneys if he uttered a sound and so he kept his face blank and made sure his anger never touched his eyes.
Once the inspection was complete, Bell was allowed to dress again. He didn’t bother to put on the heavy flying suit, but carried it draped over his arm. The basement guards walked him down a hallway between jail cells. As they approached one of the cells with a half dozen men already inside, Bell changed which arm he was carrying the bulky flight suit and accidentally jostled one of the guards. The man scowled at him with open hostility, but didn’t think the infraction warranted handing out a beating.
The door to the cell was locked. The prisoners inside had been here long enough to know the drill. They backed up to the far wall with their hands on the backs of their heads as the guard jangled a set of heavy keys to open the door.
Bell was pushed inside, and the door was shut and locked behind him.
The men lowered their arms and appraised the newcomer as Bell gave them a once-over of his own. They were all young, fit-looking for the most part, and dressed in various bits of flyers’ uniforms. He rightly assumed they were all downed pilots, gunners, or observers. More than one had bruises on their faces.
“Welcome to the rest of your war stuck in a German cell,” said the oldest of the pilots and likely the ranking officer. “When did they get you?”
“A few hours ago,” Bell replied, and his American accent caused a bit of a stir.
“Yank, eh? Lafayette Escadrille?”
“No. I was an observer in the back of a new Bristol belonging to your 22nd Squadron.”
“Ah, Major Fairley’s outfit.”
“Not sure how long you’ve been here, but Fairley tried to off himself not too far back. He’s been relieved. Captain Crabbe is currently in charge.”
The officer smiled and held out a hand. “That was a test. I know all about Fairley trying to tango with his Sopwith’s propeller. Every once in a while the Germans sneak in one of their own in a British or French uniform in hopes we spill some vital intelligence in front of them. Hasn’t worked because their English is so poor, but I was cautious that one of them could pull off an American accent to throw us off our game. I’m Captain Liam Holmes.”
“Isaac Bell. What’s the indoc around here like?”
“Indoc?”
“Sorry. It’s a jail term for when a new prisoner arrives.”
“Ah. In a short while they’ll bring you upstairs to the commander’s office. He speaks passible English. He’s going to ask a bunch ofquestions about where you’re posted, type of plane you fly, and any strategic or tactical knowledge you might have. Chances are he won’t like your answers and a guard named Schmidt with hands like hams will take a few whacks at you. Nothing too brutal, but none too gentle, either.”
Grimly, Bell said, “Since I know nothing about anything, I suppose Herr Schmidt and I will get rather well acquainted. Afterward?”
“Back down here. They lock us in pairs at night, but let us stay together in this cell during the day. Meet your fellow prisoners. We have John Denton, John Fox, Andrew Longtree, Lanny Logan, and William Baltimore.”
Bell said hello to each man and shook hands. When introductions were complete he asked Holmes, “How long have you been here?”
“Five days,” Holmes replied. “They interrogate each of us a couple of more times, and then after a week, poof. Gone.”
“Where?”
“We assume to a prisoner of war camp back in Germany, internment for the duration and all that.”
“I don’t think that’ll be my fate,” Bell said and explained, “My pilot was killed shortly after we took out an observation balloon. I am a flyer myself and managed to get into the cockpit. But I was in the middle of a fight with planes fromJasta11.”
“Dear God, are you sure?”
“It was the Red Baron himself that forced me to land, but not before I downed two of his men.” Bell paused as a thought struck him. “Looking back on it they had to have been novice pilots that he was training. I doubt very much I could have gone toe-to-toe with a couple of veteran dogfighters. Anyway, you can see my predicament.”
