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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Fantastic Adventures, June 1944,
with "Hitler's Right Eye"
RICHARD STANTON, JR., wriggled uncomfortably on the davenport, trying to turn the troublesome newspaper until he could study the picture section upside down as it should be. The folds would not cooperate, resulting in a wrinkled mess that could be seen well from no angle. Finally he lost his patience. His nose wrinkled distastefully.
"Darn old paper! You be good or I'll spit all over you."
The threat resulted in immediate repercussions from his mother.
"Richard!" Madge Stanton, her face hidden behind a magazine, tried hard not to smile. "How many times have I told you—?"
Richard Stanton, Jr. wadded the entire sports-section into a large ball, let it fall to the carpet, and slid carefully to the floor.
"I is gonna go hunt dwagons. They is in my bedwoom."
At the opposite end of the living room, Bill Stanton, Sr., emerged momentarily from behind the front page, stared over his glasses, and smiled at his wife. Stanton had that comfortable, middle-aged look that comes with slightly gray hair and long hours of work in an office. He sometimes wished he could hunt "dwagons" with his son. The imagination of a four-year-old was as refreshing as it was startling.
This time, however, drastic measures were called for. He scowled, carefully tightening his facial muscles until every pretense of a smile was gone.
"Richard! Come here!"
Dickie Stanton was already out of the room, on his way to slay a dwagon. He returned slowly, one hand held tightly over the seat of his pants. He went to his father with head hanging.
"Yes, Daddy." The greeting was as sweet as an angel's. Dickie knew the power of the swinging arm. He had no intention of inviting an onslaught. Mommy didn't hurt much; but Daddy kept hitting the same place until it turned red. "Did I do somethin'?"
Stanton waited until his son was close, reached out and gripped small shoulders with both hands.
"How many times have we told you not to use nasty words, young man?"
"You mean dwagons? Is they nasty, Daddy?"
Dickie looked up with round, blue eyes, and an expression of innocence that had been rehearsed through four hard years of living.
"I mean, what you said about that newspaper," Stanton said sternly. "If I hear you use the word 'spit' again, I'll—"
Dickie tried to draw away, anxious to be on with a dwagon hunt.
"You say spit, Daddy," he protested. That was always a good way out. "Only a little while ago you say 'spit' in Hitler's face."
Richard Stanton turned a trifle red. He released Dickie.
"Grownups can say lots of things children shouldn't," he explained hurriedly. "When you grow up--"
"When I grow up, can I say spit?"
A hurried hand clamped over his mouth. Dickie struggled for a minute, forgot the word he was trying to say, and relaxed. The hand was withdrawn.
"Go hunt dragons," his father commanded shortly; and as his offspring hurriedly followed these instructions, he said in an embarrassed voice:
"Madge, sometimes I don't know what we'll do with that brat."
From the other room Dickie started to shout at the top of his high, uncontrolled voice.
"I is a bwat. I is a bwat."
"Shut up," Stanton howled. "By the great God, I'll--"
"Stop that, Madge," Stanton said sharply. "That's exactly how he learns all those words."
Silence settled uncomfortably over the room for several minutes. From the bedroom came occasional sounds, like "Giddap, horsey," and "Take that, you nasty old dwagon."
Richard Stanton continued to read the paper peacefully. The offspring was forgotten.
IN the safety of his own room, Dickie had a swell dwagon hunt.
He managed to corner a number of the fire-spitting, green-scaled
monsters. They tried to hide under his bed, and he went after
them with a tinker-toy that he had cunningly-shaped into a sword.
The sword had keen, razor-like edges, and Dickie proceeded to
make steaks out of the dwagons.
After they were, all slaughtered, no other sport presented itself. Dickie sat quietly under the bed. He knew it was getting very late, and if he wasn't quiet, Mommy would put him to bed.
Dickie hated bed. He hated it with every little fierce bone in his body. Bed wasn't any fun at all. When he grew up beds were going to be thrown away. People would "stay up" all the time. There were going to be thousands of dwagons and he'd spend all his time hunting them.
Dickie wasn't sure that he wouldn't let the dwagons eat Daddy before he killed them. Daddy was growing troublesome. It was Daddy who said "spit on Hitler," but he wouldn't let Dickie say spit. He said "damn" and "shut up" and any number of swell words; but Dickie wasn't supposed to say any of them.
Now, take spitting in Hitler's face, for example. Dickie didn't know much about Hitler. He knew that Hitler was the leader of all the Germans. Dickie hated Germans because all the older boys went around shooting at them with wooden guns.
Dickie had a gun too, but he didn't dare shoot anything tonight. That would make a lot of noise and remind Mommy that he wasn't in bed yet.
It would be kinda fun, he thought, to spit in Hitler's face. Dickie remembered just what made Daddy say it. Daddy had been reading the paper, and he opened a page and said:
"Every time I look at this ugly mug, I want to spit on it."
Mom said:
"Shhhh!"
It was all very secret, and Dickie wasn't supposed to hear it. Daddy held the page for Mommy to see, and Mommy said:
"Hitler again. There should be a law against even printing his picture."
Daddy sighed.
"Keeps us aware that he's still alive," he said. "I'll be glad when someone puts a bullet through his head."
Dickie wondered if he could shoot a real gun. That would be more fun than spitting.
He decided to get the picture of Hitler and spit on it, just to find out what would happen. Probably Mommy would catch him, and he'd have to kick and squeal, and end up by going to bed.
It was worth a try. Dickie adopted commando tactics, crept carefully around the corner into the hall, and crawled slowly toward the front room. When a paper rustled suddenly, Dicky froze, not moving a muscle until Daddy's face was deep in the paper again. Then he wriggled slowly ahead.
He reached the place behind Daddy's chair where the discarded sheet of newspaper had been tossed. With it held firmly in his hand he backed away and safely reached his bedroom.
He studied Hitler's picture for a long time. If he had been able to read all the words under it, he would have known that: "Hitler, his cause lost, has retreated into the hills, a hunted man. English and American sharp-shooters have made more or less of a game of finding him. Every nation had placed a price on this man's head. Who will be the first to place a bullet through his skull?"
But Dickie couldn't read it, and he wasn't interested anyhow. He placed the picture on the floor and started to roll saliva on his tongue. He had a nice big blob of it ready to let go.
"Dickie?" His mother's voice was sharp, questioning. "Heavens, I completely forgot to put that boy to bed."
Dickie grew tense. He heard her footsteps in the hall. His mouth was full of saliva now. He aimed at Hitler's right eye and let go. The shot was excellent. The hit was direct.
Dickie rolled over contentedly on his back and waited as his mother's footsteps approached.
AT that identical moment, Adolph Hitler crouched in the
water-soaked brush, high in the mountains near his former
retreat. Hitler was facing a last opportunity for escape.
He was on his knees, a dejected animal-like figure, eyes shining like a cornered rodent, drenched to the skin. His weapon, a powerful deer rifle presented to him years before by the hunter, Goering, lay ready across his knees.
A sound came from below him in the small gulley. Hitler's body tensed. The rifle came up. Someone was there, stalking him, ready to kill. He had been stalked thus for days, never alone, never safe.
He waited. The movement came again, this time bringing a man into sight from beyond the edge of the gulley. Hitler's rifle was steady. The man below carried a telescopic rifle. He was brown and gaunt from days of travel in the forest.
Hitler's rifle was aimed, but the rain troubled him. It ran down his face and dripped on his legs. He sighted carefully, his finger closing about the trigger. The figure in the gulley was outlined perfectly.
"Gott im Himmel!"
His arm had touched a wet branch and a blob of water fell from it, hitting Adolph Hitler squarely in the right eye. Startled, his nerves worn to a thin edge, he cried aloud with surprise and anger.
The man in the gulley dropped quickly, turned, sighted into the brush and fired three shots in quick succession.
There was no movement—no sound after that. The paper-hanger was a scrawny, half-starved corpse when they found him the following morning.
DICKIE STANTON, JR., the little boy who had spit in Hitler's
eye, slept the sleep of the avenged. He dreamed that Hitler was
going to shoot a "dwagon," but he, Dickie, spit in Hitler's eye
and spoiled his aim.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.