The Escape

The tent flap lifted and dropped. The prisoner could make out the dim outlines of a man’s form.

“To be shot at sunrise, eh?”

The prisoner stirred quickly. That voice was strangely familiar to him.

The figure moved nearer. A knife flashed and the prisoner’s bonds fell off.

“Follow me, and not a sound.”

They crept out of the tent, past a dozing sentry, and across a dark field.

“Now,” said the guide, as they straightened up in the shadow of a hedge, “a proposition, for cousins will be cousins, even in war.”

He paused, looked warily around, and emitted a low chuckle.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “when I was captured by your side and sentenced to be shot you rescued me, as I have you. You showed me our lines and gave me two minutes to get away. After that two minutes you were to fire, and you——”

He stopped, wheeled like a flash, but too late. A shot rang out, and another.

The two men stiffened, leaned toward each other, gasped, and dropped to the ground.

Around the corner of the hedge stepped the sentry, a smoking automatic in his hand.

“Huh!” he growled, stirring the prostrate figures with his foot. “Relatives have no business on opposite sides, anyway.”


Support this fine website.

Your donations are greatly appreciated.

Thanks, champ.

Share via
Send this to a friend