By that time he was hobbling badly, so he went well back among the trees, sat down against one, and focused on the dark and murky aura around his legs. You did good work, he told them, damn good, and I appreciate it. Now let’s see what I can do for you.
He began to touch the sore places, willing increased blood flow into them, touched the energy vortices in his hip joints, knees, ankles, feeling their energy. Then he began manipulating the energy threads. The tissues were heavily loaded with fatty acids, and responded more slowly than he’d expected.
30 minutes though, the soreness was much reduced, and he got to his knees, to work on his buttocks by feel and visualization. That done, he took off his boots and gave attention to his bloodblistered toes. Finally he found a patch of feather moss, and lying down on it, went to sleep almost at once.
He awoke famished, and realized he had nothing with him to eat. In his intensity of the day and evening before, he’d failed to put any rations in his pockets; they lay in his musette bag, behind the TNT he’d piled in the south wing room.
His watch read 1833 hours. He’d slept the whole afternoon. And to his surprise, his legs had stiffened again, somewhat, so he sat down and began to work on them. Guys, he told them, I’m sorry, but I really didn’t have any choice. He’d never “talked” to his body before while healing it– not as if its parts had a sentience of their own. When he’d thought to them, it had been to direct them, guide them, not apoligize or acknowledge. But somehow it seemed the thing to do now.
This time he continued till the soreness was gone. His watch read 1911. He drank again, to put something in his stomach, and gave his attention to the evening.
Tonight some of the SS men would be on pass, would ride a truck to Kaufbeuren, probably; it was somewhat nearer than Kempten, and not a lot smaller. He really didn’t know much about their lives, he realized. Presumably they’d bring back girls, and the cellar beneath the north wing would be dangerous for him. If he could blow the stack he’d made beneath the south wing, though, that should collapse the south wing interior, and the Voitar would end up part of the rubble. A train of gunpowder could serve as a fuse, with a candle for a timer if he could find one. But he’d need a detonator of some kind in lieu of the blasting caps.
He could always blow the stack with a plasma ball, as he’d done on the ridge, but it would be his dying act.
So. Detonators. Somewhere in the north wing, probably on the first floor, the SS would have its ordnance room. Find it, steal a few grenades, get the detonators out of them … The potato masher grenade was one German weapon he hadn’t been taught to dismantle, but it was easy enough with American grenades; the German were probably no harder. The tricky part would be getting the grenades.
Once again topped off his canteen at the lake, then headed briskly for the schloss. Dusk was settling. The guardsmen on pass would have left for town already; maybe the cellar door would be unbarred.
When he reached the manor’s grounds, he stopped, chagrined. Two men stood guard by the cellar entryway, one on each side. Clearly something had happened, and the only thing he could think of was, they’d discovered that a large amount of TNT was missing from the magazines. If so, they might have searched, maybe found the stash he’d made beneath the south wing.
For a moment he stood uncertain, then crossed the yard opposite the north eII and moved along the front of the building just far enough from the wall not to leave tracks in the flowerbeds. There were two guards at the front door, too; there’d been only one before. On the porch, he used the additional concealment of a pillar, and waited. Within a few minutes, Captain Kupfer arrived, a driver letting him off in front of the entrance. Daring, Macurdy followed him closely through the door.