Major Hanson disciplined his face, and said,
"Well, why not call him Papa, sir?
After all, it's just such human touches as these that make history."
"Ah, yes—History." The General paused reflectively.
"Hmm, perhaps so, perhaps so.
They always called Napoleon `the little Corporal'."
"The thing that really bothers me, General, is how we're going to get through without our own people listening in.
I guess they must've worked out something on it, or they wouldn't have scheduled the—the offensive for five o'clock. That's only four hours off."
"Now that you mention it," said General Pollard, coming out of his reverie, "a memorandum did come through—Oh, Miss Hooper, bring me that memo from G-1, will you?—Thank you.
Here it is.
It seems that they have decided to—er—scramble the broadcast."
"Scramble it, sir?"
"Yes, yes. And I've issued operational orders accordingly. You see, Intelligence reported several weeks ago that the enemy knows how to unscramble anything we transmit that way.
When Mr.—ah, `Papa' Schimmelhorn goes on the air, we will scramble him, but we will not transmit the code key to our own people. It is assumed that from five to fifteen enemy monitors will hear him.
His playing of the tune will constitute Phase One.
When it is over, the microphones will be switched off, and he will play it backwards. That will be Phase Two, to dispose of such gnurrs as appear locally."
"Seems sound enough." Major Hanson frowned.
"And it's pretty smart, if everything goes right.
But what if it doesn't?
Hadn't we better have an ace up our sleeve?"
He frowned again.
Then, as the General didn't seem to have any ideas on the subject, he went about his duties.
He made a final inspection of the special sound-proof room in which Papa Schimmelhorn would tootle.
He allocated its observation windows—one to the President, the Secretary, and General Pollard; one to the Chief of Staff, with his sea and air counterparts; another to Intelligence liaison; and the last to the functioning staff of Operation Gnurr, himself included.
At ten minutes to five, when everything was ready, he was still worrying.
"Look here," he whispered to Papa Schimmelhorn, as he escorted him to the fateful door.
"What are we going to do if your gnurrs really get loose here? You couldn't play them back into the voodvork in a month of Sundays!"
"Don'dt vorry, soldier boy!"
Papa Schimmelhorn gave him a resounding slap on the back.
"I haft yet vun trick I do nodt tell you!"
And with that vague assurance, he closed the door behind him.
"Ready?" called General Pollard tensely, at one minute to five. "Ready!" echoed Sergeant Colliver.
The tension mounted.
The seconds ticked away.
The General's hand reached for a sabre-hilt that wasn't there.
At five exactly:
"CHARGE!" the General cried.
A red light flared above the microphones.
And Papa Schimmelhorn started tootling
"Come To The Church In The Wildwood." The gnurrs, of course, came from the voodvork out.
The gnurrs came from the voodvork out, and a hungry gleam was in their yellow eyes. They carpeted the floor. They started piling up. They surged against the massive legs of Papa Schimmelhorn, their tiny electric-razor sets of teeth going like all get out.
His trousers vanished underneath the flood—his checkered coat, his tie, his collar, the fringes of his beard.
And Papa Schimmelhorn, all undismayed, lifted his big bassoon out of gnurrs' way and tootled on.
"Come, come, come, come. Come to the church in the vildvood ..." Of course, Major Hanson couldn't hear the gnurrpfeipfe—but he had sung the song in Sunday school, and now the words resounded in his brain.
Verse after verse, chorus after chorus—The awful thought struck him that Papa Schimmelhorn would be overwhelmed, sucked under, drowned in gnurrs ...
And then he heard the voice of General Pollard, no longer steady "R-ready, Phase Two?"
"R-ready!" replied Sergeant Colliver.
A green light flashed in front of Papa Schimmelhorn.
For a moment, nothing changed. Then the gnurrs hesitated.
Apprehensively, they glanced over their hairy shoulders.