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CHAMELEON FEVER

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The Story of Oskar Danzig

Master of Disguises, Famous (Female) Impersonator

and

Esteemed Leader of the Underground

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A lonely car wound its way through the countryside south of Hamelburg. The headlights were dimmed, conform the regulations. Behind the wheel sat a thirtyish young man with a brown fringe, his leather cap drawn down over his eyes.

A faint smile played around his lips. "If only you knew, Colonel Hogan," he chuckled softly. "If only you knew how many times we have met without you realizing it was me in disguise. I'd just love to see your face when you find out!"

A slight sigh. It would have to wait. Until the war was over. How much longer? He had to get the information on those Panzer divisions! Their immobilizing could mean a great advantage for the Allies – he had to get the information! He hoped, he really prayed that Colonel Hogan had managed to find out...

Another curve, and... Suddenly, as the car turned into the bare winterwoods he felt a chill going down his spine. He tensed instantly. Danger?

There was no sign of it though. The woodland lay deserted – at least it appeared to be. If everything went according to plan, his ally-slash-enemy Colonel Hogan would be waiting for him here.

Well, quick in, quick out then. They could have their revealing tea-party after the war.

Some twenty meters ahead of him a light flashed from among the trees. It was Hogan's sign. He slowed down and answered by flashing his headlights; then he steered the car to the side of the road.

Cautiously, ready to run, he climbed out of the car. "Colonel Hogan?" He knew his English was terribly accented, even though his understanding of the language had improved tremendously since he had been assigned to the camp.

A few figures rose from the bushes. Blimey (a funny sounding curse he had picked up from the prisoners), they were all here: the Colonel, the little Frenchman, friendly young Carter, the young black sergeant, and that pain-in-the-neck Newkirk.

"Danzig!" Hogan approached him; he, too, came closer. And the Colonel greeted him in a teasing tone, "I was expecting someone with high heels and a tight girdle."

Oskar Danzig held his eyes. "One does not wear one's disguises when they are no longer disguises." Thank goodness, that came out pretty well, if he may say so himself. Those tongue-twisting English passwords sometimes took him hours of practice before he could somewhat master their pronunciation.

A slight nod from Hogan. The necessary recognition codes over with, he cut down to business immediately and took out a folded piece of paper. "Here are the troop movements and locations of five Panzer divisions."

Danzig looked up in surprise as he received the paper from him. "This is more than I expected! Good work! We are very grateful to all of you."

A quick smile from the American. "Good luck!"

A final nod, and Oskar Danzig turned back to the car.

But at that moment, the silent woods turned to hell.

From across the road, shouting was heard. In a flash, Danzig saw black uniforms appear – half a dozen or more. He didn't wait to count them; with this information on him, there was but one thing to do: get the hell out of here!

He jumped behind the wheel and sped off before he had even closed the door properly.

Vaguely, he made out more shouting. And machine guns firing. A quick prayer that Hogan and his men would evade capture. And that his gas tank and his tyres wouldn't get hit, or he'd be toast himself. Another hundred meters or so and he'd...

With a crash, the rear windshield shattered to pieces, and he gasped audibly as at that same instant, something slammed into his back.

For a moment he lost control over the wheel, and the car swerved across the track, barely missing a tree. But with superhuman effort, he managed to get it back under control and continued down the sandy track, with the machine gun firing still flashing around him, occasionally hitting some part of the car with a sharp clang, but apparently never doing any real damage.

"Keep going," he hissed to himself. It felt like he'd been hit, for the spot under his right shoulderblade burnt with a fiery pain at even the slightest movement. But at least he was still alive. Alive – with the type of information on him that would get him shot the very moment he'd get caught. He couldn't let that happen. Not when...

Something trickled down his back. Was it blood? Sweat?

He forced himself to ignore it. "Concentrate on the road. You can do it!" There was the curve coming up – the curve that would save him for now, getting him out of range from those Gestapo Lugers. If he could just keep the car on the road and...

He bit his lip in anticipation of the red-hot pain as... Groaning with the effort he turned the car along the curve. Just keep the car on the road. At least he was out of range from the shooting now.

Cautiously, he let go of a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. But even that cautious relaxation hurt like hell. He wanted to screw his eyes shut in agony, but he knew all too well that he couldn't. Mein Gott... he'd been hit before – plain fleshwounds in his arm and his shoulder. But this...!

He tried to ignore it. First he had to get to some semblance of safety; then he could worry about being hit. For there was no guarantee that they wouldn't come after him. Or that others wouldn't stop him on the way. So he had to go on. He could take the pain – he simply didn't have a choice. For if they'd catch him with this information on him...

But cold sweat was dripping from under his cap, impairing his vision since he didn't dare to make the necessary movement to wipe it away.

He tasted blood in his mouth. He was probably biting his lip to shrapnel.

Thank God, there was the main road. There was still no sign of pursuit, but if they would, the paved street would make it pretty much impossible to follow his tracks the way they could in the woods.

Or perhaps they were going after the Colonel instead. Bad enough in itself, but he had other things to worry about right now.

The sharp turn onto the Flenzheimer Straße caused a renewed wave of pain to throb through him. Bright spots and flashes were dancing in front of his eyes now, and only when they subsided did he prepare for his next trick. No cars in sight, so...

He braced himself for another flash of hell, then – easy on the brakes, a quick spin of the steering-wheel, and within moments, the car headed back in the direction of Hamelburg. Traces would be minimal on this paved road, and if indeed they were pursuing him, they'd probably – hopefully – continue towards Flenzheim instead.

Now all he had to do was to put some unobtrusive speed into...

He couldn't. He was still gasping from that turning manoeuver, and bright coloured spots kept dancing in front of his eyes. In fact, he felt as if he were about to faint, and it was all he could do to merely keep the car on the road. It'd be suicide to drive quickly in this condition, so much was obvious. And as long as there seemed to be no pursuit, he'd rather not die in a stupid car accident. Not when he'd been putting his life on the line fighting the Nazis for so long. Not when the end was so near. Not when he'd promised Maryse...

He struggled to keep his eyes open. His vision seemed to be dimming as it was, and those wild flashes and spots kept impairing it even further.

"Concentrate on the road," he told himself through gritted teeth. "Just concentrate on the road. You can do it. You've been hit before. Just concentrate on the road."

And there, finally, was the big chestnut tree that marked the turn-off. He slowed down, and moaned openly with the effort of turning into the narrow lane. The movement seemed to rip up his entire back, but at least...

There was the house - an even darker shadow in the dark landscape. The threshing-floor, the barn...

He stopped the car and finally allowed his left hand to wipe his face. He made it - for now.

Slowly, very slowly, he managed to open the door. A growl at the sudden tearing flash of pain as he climbed out. Close the door, catch your breath... Unsteadily he staggered towards the door. Dimly he noticed it being opened. A blond woman peered out in the dark, whispering, "Who is there?"

He groaned in reply. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there was a certain phrase – another one of those terrible tongue-twisters – he had to say in return. But his brain was so shattered by the now infernal pain that he could not possibly recall his line.

"Maryse," was all he remembered as he staggered closer. "Maryse, I've been..."

The last thing he noticed were her eyes growing wide in realization.

Then he fainted in her arms.

"Little Red Ridinghood calling Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear."

Slowly he opened his eyes. Where was he?

Papa Bear... Ridinghood... He tried to focus on the girl at the radio. Ridinghood... Maryse... Yes, it was Maryse. And that brown bulky form bending down over her, would that be the big bad wolf? Then he had to stop the ravenous beast, before...!

He tried to push himself up, but with a gasp he sank back on the sofa. And as a wave of the forgotten pain seared through his body, he was still vaguely aware of the bulky bad wolf now bending down over him instead. The beast uttered some worried sounds; its voice sounded familiar. Had he ever met the big bad wolf?

His survival instinct got the better of the pain for a moment, and cautiously he peered through his eyelashes. Was he about to be eaten, or...?

A mental sigh of relief as he closed his eyes again. It wasn't some big bad wolf. He was home... no, at their hide-out. And it was Karl bending down over him.

No, wait a minute... he was Karl.

Wasn't he?