Page 31 of Firefly

Williams answered from across the tent. “The war is over. We’re going home.”

All around him, men cried out, sucking in gasping sobs. They hugged one another, eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears.

Simon was grabbed roughly around the waist and squeezed. Soon, the group encircled him. A cheer rose, and every man had hope in his eyes.

His chest buzzed with a warm sort of joy, but underneath it was unease. He had observed the soldiers and scientists in this camp for more than a year, and no part of him believed they would so easily let the men go.

He extracted himself from the group and slipped outside.

Simon scaled the back side of the tent, following the shadows until he reached the commander’s tent. Something bumped his shoulder, making him spin around. Williams was beside him, pressing a finger to his lips.

“If you’re thinking what I am, you’ll need me to translate,” he whispered. Simon nodded, tilting his head toward the door.

They moved silently, Williams putting Simon to shame for all his stealth. It was obvious the man hadn’t been a run-of-the-mill soldier. They stopped under an air vent outside the commander’s tent and listened.

The words were distorted, but Simon could make them out. He murmured in Williams’ ear; the man went pale beside him. He motioned for them to go, and they stepped lightly, returning to the prisoners’ tent.

Williams grabbed his arm just outside the flap. “Wait.” Simon stopped. “They’re going to take us to another camp. They’ll march us there and let us die along the way. They’ll never give us up.”

Simon nodded. It was no less than he’d expected. “Then we escape tonight.”

The other man bobbed his head in agreement, and they stepped inside the tent.

Chapter 23

Simon

Simon hated seeing the light dim from their eyes as he told the men the truth. They had survived unimaginable torture, only to be killed at the end of the war. It wouldn’t come to that—not if he had anything to say about it.

He raised his hands, and a hush fell over the group. All eyes were on him, and he felt the weight of their hope.

“We’ll make a break for it tonight. I’ve been watching their patrol routes for months.” There were several nods and murmurs of agreement, but some of the men looked dubious, and he knew they would need more convincing. “We’ve got one shot. I can’t promise we’ll all survive this, but I know we won’t if we put our trust in the Nazis. Will you take your chances with me? Or the soldiers?”

A cheer rose from the crowd, followed by another, and doubting faces turned to ones of conviction as backs straightened, some of their old resolve returning.

Simon nodded, and they crowded closer, everyone listening intently. “Here’s the plan…”

When Simon had selected eight other men to lead groups of ten, they went on the same rotating schedule he’d drawn out for them in the sand. Six soldiers passed by their tent every forty-three minutes, and, directly after, sets of two marched by every four minutes. There was a nine-minute break between the last set and the first.

When Simon had cut through the barbed wire fence behind the cook’s tent, making a space large enough for them to pass through, the men used the nine-minute break to steal through the camp and out into the night.

The cook was a liability they couldn’t afford, but Simon felt no guilt taking the life of a man who regularly slipped poison into the prisoners’ food on the scientists’ orders.

Every three hours, the last set of soldiers checked inside the tent to ensure the prisoners had not escaped. While they had used objects around to stuff some of the beds, prisoners needed to be present—moving and breathing—to make it believable.

Simon was part of the last two groups to leave, bringing up the rear—the strongest and the fastest. It gave the first seven groups a three-hour head start on the soldiers.

His group and Willams’ would need to outrun the dogs.

He shuffled under a thin blanket, groaning, and the other men did the same as two heads leaned into the tent. One of the soldiers said something to the other, and Simon tensed.

After a moment, the tent flap closed, and he sighed. Beside him, Williams tore back his sheet, and the others shot up.

“Nine minutes,” Simon mouthed to the group.

Williams went first, followed by nine other men. Simon dipped his chin, and his group followed. When they reached the cook’s tent, he stopped, looking back. In the distance, he could just see the group of six soldiers coming around a tent. He set his mental clock for forty-three minutes.

In forty-three minutes, the might of the Nazi army would begin the hunt for them.

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