It was a
submachine gun; light in the hand and touting an impressive 500 rounds per minute. With black plastic cold as real steel, a
blazing orange barrel that moved and made sound when you pulled the trigger,
and a red light adorning the tip of the muzzle that would flash in time with
the realistic recoil. Its status on the backyard battlefield was unmatched. Once,
Sargent Steel took the whole of occupied Normandy with nothing but that perfect
piece of childhood armament and his warrior spirit. It was Zeus’ lightning
bolt, Thor’s hammer, and Mikey’s nun-chucks all combined into one piece of
legendary weaponry. And the guard outside prisoner barracks #21 was holding it.
“Where are we with the plan?” I said to a group of POWs as we huddled in a tight circle inside our prison bunkhouse.
Sargent Steel had just been hauled back to the carport confines of barracks #21, strawberry soda still fizzing on my shirt. The interrogation that I had just endured left me tattered and beaten, but it had also served its purpose.
“Doc hasn’t returned yet, but the boys on latrine duty said they saw him enter without incident.”
Corporal
Doc Nowak was my stuffed Teddy bear and a core member of my GI squad. Small,
with red and black patchwork fabric that I had decided was his camouflage, Doc
was a perfect agent for subterfuge. He was so good at sneaking around, in fact,
that he had actually crept into
Sargent Steel’s POW camp to assist in the escape. Now, with my interrogation
acting as the diversion, he had stealthily slipped through a window and into
the Gestapo officer’s personal quarters.
“Good,” I said resolutely. “The moment he brings us those keys we strike. Got it?”