Summary: When a top secret British operative goes missing, a new arrival at Stalag 13 has the Heroes wondering just how important he is to the Allies
Author's Notes: * * * * * denotes time passing, ~" "~ denotes German being spoken, italics are written words
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters, obviously; I'm just borrowing them for a bit to try my hand at fanfiction. Any other characters that appear in this story, with the exception of the brothers Kincaid, are not mine either, they are names taken from various episodes or recurring fanfiction characters. I apologize in advance for not asking permission, but I'm not sure which is which.
He limped painfully through the fallen leaves, aware that each step could result in a dangerous, untimely fall. No one was following him… yet. However, he had no doubt that the rather spectacular crash of his plane had not gone unnoticed. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with its pilot.
Stumbling on an exposed tree root sent him crashing to the ground. Breaking his fall with a timely, instinctive roll, he sat up a moment later cursing rather colorfully and clutching at his right ankle. It had been injured in the parachute drop, and this run-and-stumble through the dense German forest wasn't helping any. Another fall like that and he doubted he'd be able to put any weight on it at all.
Lieutenant Liam Kincaid, Royal Air Force, had been in worse case scenarios than this before… he was sure of it. Just because he couldn't think of any right at the moment didn't prove anything. Of course, he had to admit things looked pretty bad. He had a piece of shrapnel from the explosion of his plane lodged in his left shoulder that was causing his arm to go numb, and every jerk, stumble, and fall he took reopened the nasty cut on his forehead, soaking the airman's scarf he was using as a bandage with fresh blood. His labored breathing had revealed several bruised or cracked ribs, and his right ankle was badly sprained, possibly even fractured.
As night fell, so did he. More than once, the rough terrain got the best of his unstable footing, causing his injuries to get even worse and costing him precious energy. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't go any further tonight. Another fall in the darkness could leave him completely incapacitated. He would just have to find some place to rest and hope that he had put enough distance between himself and the wreckage of his plane to avoid detection until morning. Shivering, he stumbled into a pile of leaves near the trunk of a fallen tree and buried himself within them, offering up a prayer of thanks for his survival this far before succumbing to total exhaustion.
He awoke the next morning to the twittering of birds in the trees… and aching pain throughout his entire body, combined with a deep chill that he just couldn't shake. The events of the past twenty-four hours came rushing back with crystal clarity and he groaned. He wasn't exactly sure how to get himself out of this mess. Here he was, a downed, injured pilot smack dab in the middle of enemy territory. Only blind luck would get him out of this one, blind luck and a chance run in with the German Underground. None of his training had prepared him for this possibility. He knew he was supposed to avoid capture, but you could only do that for so long in a forest that was probably crawling with German patrols. The chances of him running into anyone who would help him were less than none out here.
Then there was the matter of his injuries, and how long they could go untreated. The cut on his head needed stitches, the piece of metal from his plane that had taken up residence in his shoulder had to be removed before infection set in, and he wasn't sure how much further he could make it on his sprained ankle before it completely gave out. Maybe he should just turn himself in. It was a hopeless cause anyway, and at least they might take care of his injuries before interrogating and imprisoning him… Wait a second! Who was he kidding? No Kincaid was going to give in to the Nazis without a fight! Of course, that meant he'd have to get moving now, before they had a chance to find him. He was a sitting duck out here in the woods, especially this close to his plane.
He struggled out of the leaves, brushing them off his uniform as he climbed slowly to his feet. He was just shaking the chill out of his bones and preparing to move out again when he heard the crack of a stick behind him. He turned around quickly and found himself facing the business end of a German rifle.
It shocked him so badly that he placed too much weight on his right leg and it buckled underneath him with a sickening *crack*. Gasping in pain, he collapsed back onto the ground, the German's rifle following him down. He looked up into the soldier's expressionless face and, gritting his teeth through the pain, said, "Fancy you showin' up when ya did. I was just about ta come lookin' for ye."
The soldier stared at him with a puzzled expression on his face, uncertain of how to respond to this greeting. Then, as several more men came out of the forest to join him, he growled in heavily accented English, "Get up!"
Liam tried, but he was unable to put any weight on his right leg. "Sorry, mate. No can do. My leg seems to be well and truly broken, thanks to your surprisin' me."
The soldier in front of him, seemingly the officer of this patrol, signaled to two of his men, who came up behind Liam and grabbed him by his forearms, dragging him upward. He yelled in pain and nearly passed out, surprising the two soldiers so much that they dropped him again. ~"Sir! I believe the prisoner is badly injured!"~ one of the men reported in German.
The officer stalked over and knelt down beside Liam, who was trembling in silent agony and the renewed pain in his ribs and left shoulder. ~"We should just shoot him now and save ourselves the trouble,"~ one of the soldiers remarked.
Liam paled at his words and tried not to show it, because he didn't want to give away the fact that he understood German. He was preparing himself for a gunshot to the head when the officer turned on the opinionated solider and snarled, ~"Dumkopf! Didn't you hear the general's orders? We are supposed to bring this flyer back alive! He may have important information regarding the mission he was on when he was shot down! We cannot risk the success of the war effort because you are inconvenienced!"~ Then, he turned back to his prisoner, who was trembling in relief on the ground. "Do not panic, Lieutenant," he said as he glanced at the insignia on Liam 's jacket. "We have orders to bring you back alive. Your injuries will be treated, but we will expect information from you regarding the mission that caused your untimely landing in our fair country."
Liam shrugged outwardly and managed to say, "Well, I can't guarantee how much useful information I can give you, but your generosity is greatly appreciated." He pushed himself up to a sitting position and fought to bring the pain in his chest under control. "However, there is the little matter of my leg. Not that I want to inconvenience you, but…"
The officer cut him off. "Oh, you won't be any inconvenience at all, I assure you. You see," and here his polite smile turned into a rather dangerous-looking grin, "our orders were to bring you back alive, but not necessarily conscious." Liam barely had time to think before he saw a rifle butt speeding towards his face and his world exploded in pain and darkness.
When he struggled back to consciousness again, all he felt was pain. This whole waking up in agony in strange places was starting to get a little annoying. Everything hurt this time, and not just a dull ache of bruises and scrapes. There were things broken, and deep cuts, and a killer of a headache! There was also the whole not knowing where he was thing to worry about. Liam tried to open his eyes, only to find one of them swollen shut, thanks to that Nazi bastard and his rifle. The least he could have done was given Liam some warning before smashing in his face. He opened his other eye and saw only a gray concrete ceiling. He guessed he was in a prison cell somewhere; the exact location didn't really seem to matter. He was a prisoner of the Germans; all the details seemed fairly inconsequential in comparison.
As he lay there, trying to clear his head of the pain, he realized that some of his injuries had actually been taken care of. He could feel stitches in his head and shoulder, and his ribs seemed to be taped up rather nicely. The majority of the pain was coming from the nasty bump on his head and his broken ankle, which hadn't been treated. He figured they did that so that he couldn't try to escape. He was also suffering from several nasty scrapes to his face and arms, along with more than a few bruises that he knew hadn't been there when he'd been knocked out. He guessed that the Nazi patrol hadn't let an unconscious, injured prisoner slow them up much in their march back to base.
As he closed his eye and let himself relax, he began to wonder just how long he'd been here. His stomach was starting to growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since supper the night before the mission. He knew that hunger was a great motivator in getting prisoners to talk, so he decided against sitting up and asking for food. The less they knew about his weaknesses, the better. Besides, he needed to conserve his energy and concentrate on letting his injuries heal, because he had no idea how long a respite they would give him before the interrogation began.
He lay there for what seemed like hours, thinking about everything that had happened and trying not to think about what they were going to do with him, which meant that visions of horrible torture were foremost in his mind. Then, he heard the cell door open and several pairs of booted feet marched in. One of them was saying something about useful information, but the voices fell silent as they entered the room.
~"Do you think he's woken up yet?"~ one of the voices asked. ~"You know, Captain, your men could have been a little more gentle with an injured man, even though he is one of the enemy."~
~"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir, my men got a little carried away. It will not happen again."~ Liam recognized that voice as the German officer who'd found him in the woods.
~"See that it doesn't. Now, let's see if we can't wake him."~ Footsteps came closer to his bed, clicking menacingly across the floor.
Liam slowly opened his one good eye into the face of a tall, thin, sallow-looking German general. The man twitched a bit in surprise at Liam's gaze, clearly not expecting his prisoner to be awake. After a second of silence, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, it's good to see you awake, Lieutenant. As I'm sure you've noticed, our doctor has taken care of many of your injuries and you seem to be recovering nicely. I hope that, when you are feeling up to it, you will return our kindness by consenting to answer some simple questions for us?"
These Germans sure though they were sneaky, but a guilt trip wasn't going to work on this Kincaid, no sir! Liam was feeling brave enough to croak out, "Well sir, you know I canna give information to the enemy. It's against reg'lations. Besides, your doctor dinna do a very good job, the way I see it, as I still seem ta have a nasty broken ankle. The pain makes it difficult ta think straight, if ya know wot I mean."
The general looked rather taken aback at the prisoner's brazen attitude, but it would do him no good to take his anger out on an already injured man. That would have to wait until the interrogation began. However, there were other ways of making him talk… "Well, young man, if you believe that to be the case, we have no other choice than to comply with your regulations. Wouldn't want you to be court-martialed, now would we? However, I believe I will give you some time to think it over. Maybe you will find a way to think through the pain, eh?" With that, he got up and turned to go, giving orders to the guard on the door that the prisoner should not be fed until he was ready to talk. As he was leaving, he turned back one last time. "I suggest, Lieutenant, that you decide which is more important: your so-called regulations, or food and medical attention. Good day."
The door clanged shut and the clicking of the lock reverberated ominously through the concrete cell. "Oh bloody 'ell, I've really done it this time," Liam mumbled as he closed his eyes again and drifted off to sleep, trying hard not to think of food.
The next day and a half passed uneventfully except for the growing ache in Liam's stomach. When he finally gathered the strength to sit up and look around, he found himself in a bare concrete cell with nothing but the metal cot he'd been lying on and a washstand and latrine in the corner. His broken ankle, however, made it almost impossible to get up and move about, so he spent all his time just lying on the bed, resting and thinking about home.
Thoughts of home brought many painful memories to the forefront of his mind. He'd been away for almost six months prior to the mission that had brought him back to his home soil for the briefest of moments. Though he and his brother had been working closely together, as they had been since this war started, he hadn't seen his parents or his three little sisters in months. Not to mention his soon-to-be fiancée, Kathleen. Beautiful Kathy, his childhood sweetheart and the love of his life.
Thoughts of Kathy brought to mind something else, something he had recently risked his life for. On a curiosity, he reached under his shirt and pulled out two items that were hanging around his neck, amazed that the Germans hadn't taken them from him. One was a straggly piece of leather on which was hung a beautiful sapphire ring. An engagement ring. He had snuck out onto the town one day while on a mission in Paris, France, two weeks ago to buy it for Kathy, and had been planning to present it to her during his leave in another two weeks' time. The two of them had written each other daily for the past six months, mushy love letters full of endearments that Liam had loved to read out loud to his brother just to disgust him. The thought that he might never see Kathy again hurt more than Liam could bear at the moment, so he tucked the ring away safely under his shirt again, vowing to keep it, and thoughts of her, close to his heart until he returned home safe and sound.
The other necklace he wore was actually a rosary; it served as a good-luck charm of sorts and was one of Liam's most treasured possessions. The beads were black onyx, linked together by tiny gold rings, and the cross that hung at the bottom of it was inscribed on the back with the words, "Lord, guard and guide the men who fly through the great spaces of the sky," along with his given name and the date when he was issued his commission in the RAF. It had been a gift from his father, and Liam had never seen a man so proud of his sons as Colonel Darien Kincaid had been on that day.
Liam wondered what his father must be thinking now. It was impossible for him not to have heard that his son had been shot down; after all, he had been in charge of the mission, and he was the one who had requested Liam's temporary assignment to the squadron, pulling him away from his previous mission for a "chance to stretch his wings again." The colonel probably didn't know, however, that his son was now a prisoner of war; and he wasn't sure which would weigh more heavily on his father's mind: that, or thinking he was dead.
The thought of his mother and sisters thinking him dead, though, bothered Liam more than imagining his father's guilt. His mother had never wanted her two boys to go into the military, regardless of the fact that it was in their brains and in their blood. She would certainly blame Father for his 'death,' and how would she explain it to the little ones? His three sisters were only five, three, and two; the concept that big brother Li wouldn't ever be coming home again would be a hard one for them to grasp. He knew his loss would be deeply felt by all of them.
His brother, though… what would he do? Liam and Kier had been close all their lives, and working together had deepened that bond until it was hard to tell where one Kincaid ended and the other began. Liam had felt bad about leaving his brother to go on another mission, but Kier had shrugged it off, telling him he didn't get a chance to bomb the hell out of the godforsaken Gerries every day. They had parted on good terms, with the promise to meet up again at camp in five days' time. That would have been today.
Would he have gotten the news? Would he believe his only brother to be dead? Or would Kier know the truth? He guessed only time would tell. With a tremulous sigh, he slipped the rosary back under his shirt as well, offering up a prayer to the God of his Irish Catholic upbringing to keep his family safe and to maybe enlighten their hearts so they would not believe him dead, no matter what the Germans told them. As long as he had his love, his family, and his faith, there was still hope for tomorrow.
The next morning, Liam was awakened by the door of his cell slamming open. He sat up slowly, blinking in the dim light of the single bulb that swung over his head. The general came stomping in, followed closely by a soldier carrying a covered tray, from which the mouth-watering smell of food emanated. Liam's stomach growled and twisted knots around itself, and he found himself licking his lips, his eyes fixed on the object of his salvation. The general chuckled.
"Well, young soldier, I hope that we have given you sufficient time to reconsider our not unreasonable request. I hear that regular meals do wonders to speed up the healing process, so if you just consent to answer a few questions, I will see to it that you are well-fed and that your broken leg is taken care of." He trailed off, looking patiently expectant at the bedraggled pilot lying in front of him.
Liam struggled to push himself into a sitting position, seething with hatred at the general's callous ploy to get him to talk. As he pondered his options, however, a rather ingenious plan came to him. He had a fairly good idea of what the general was going to ask him; the best way to get food and medical care out of this whole charade would be to answer his questions without really telling him anything. Since Liam knew absolutely nothing about the mission in the first place, it shouldn't be too hard to convince the general that he was wringing valuable information out of his prisoner when in reality he was getting less than nothing.
"What exactly do you want to know, sir?" he queried shakily, doing his best to sound like a desperate man, which wasn't a far stretch.
The general smiled thinly, a frightening sight. "Let's start with your identification?"
"First Lieutenant Liam Patrick Kincaid, Royal Air Force, Serial Number 9274741."
"Very well then. Lieutenant Kincaid, what squadron do you fly with in your Royal Air Force?" The general's grin widened as he expected a chance to beat the information out of the young Englander. He knew as well as any Allied pilot that the only information they were supposed to give out were name, rank, and serial number.
Liam's heart was racing, and his mind was full of doubts concerning what he was about to do, but he swallowed and said, "I don't have one, sir. It varies from assignment to assignment." Which he guessed was true for the most part, considering that he hadn't flown with a squadron in close to a year before this latest mission.
The general blinked, his only showing of surprise, but clearly that was far from the response he was expecting. Getting bolder, he asked, "What squadron were you flying with on your latest mission?"
"I honestly don't know their official ranking, General. They don't tell me the squad ranking, just the code name for the mission, and those vary on every mission that I fly."
The general's eyes were getting wider by the word, so surprised was he at the young man's candor. Liam only prayed that he could feed the general enough of this information to get what he wanted out of him without the general realizing that he was getting absolutely nothing in return.
"What was your squadron's mission over German airspace?"
For a brief moment, Liam wondered if the general was asking these questions just to get a "Sorry, sir, can't tell you that," so he could use that wicked-looking nightstick on the injured man sitting in front of him. Well, he wasn't going to get the chance this early in the game. Liam's mind worked too fast for that.
"Just attacking your flyers, mostly. It's war, that's what we do after all. If there was an ulterior motive, I surely didn't know about it. I signed on solely to fly and fight."
The general was shaking his head, clearly not convinced. "That's all very interesting, Lieutenant, but you haven't told me anything worth knowing."
Liam shrugged. "Not much I can do about that, sir. I canna tell you what I don't know, and making things up wouldn't be terribly beneficial to my current position, now would it?"
The general stared at him for a moment, wracking his brains for a question that would really catch his prisoner in a trap, or at least give him some relevant information. Then, he appeared to pause and reverse his train of thought, as if something else had just occurred to him.
"Lieutenant Kincaid, just how valuable are you to your Allies? I have never heard of a pilot assigned to duty among squadrons, or at least not one who would ever admit it. You also seem very young, but your answers speak of much experience in aerial combat and the ways of war. Are you truly everything you seem to be?"
Uh-oh. Here was where things would get tricky. Liam knew he couldn't reveal the truth about his importance to the Allies without putting others lives in danger. However, if he understated his importance too much, they might just wring him for all the information he seemed to know and dispose of him as a spy. How could he have been so stupid, thinking he could shoot his mouth off without having to pay for it later! Right now, he was sitting between the Gestapo and a POW camp in the best-case scenario, and he knew which one he'd prefer. The general was looking impatient, so Liam decided to play his bluff to the fullest and run with everything he had.
"Well, sir, you are correct in noticing my experience, despite my youth. While I haven't been flying in the military for long, I had training as a boy, courtesy of my father, who was also a career officer. The reason I have not yet been placed in a squadron is that the brass were still evaluating my abilities at the time of my latest mission. I'm really nothing special, sir. Just honest."
The general nodded, taking Liam's bluff for all that it was worth. "Explain your candor, Lieutenant. Why answer our questions?"
"I just want to get out of this in one piece, General. I don't see why any other flyer wouldn't feel the same way. You extended me a semi-reasonable offer, and considering the circumstances, I really didn't have any other choice, did I?" He absolutely hated the words coming out of his mouth at that moment, but he also knew that they were the exact words the general wanted to hear. He only hoped that his little show had worked out as he hoped it would.
The general pondered this statement for a moment, then he nodded, slowly. "It's good to hear you say so, Lieutenant." He motioned to the soldier holding the tray of food, and the man came forward and set it on the bed. Then, he continued, "I will consider the information you have given us very carefully, and I hope we can expect your cooperation if we have any further questions. The doctor will be by shortly, so I suggest you simply relax and enjoy your meal." With that, he made a sharp about-face and left the room. The guard followed, closing the door behind him.
Liam was so relieved he almost fainted. It worked! It really worked! With any luck, they would send the information off to headquarters and ship him off to a POW camp so he could go about the business of escaping and heading back home. These Germans were way too easy to fool.
He finally caught his breath and realized he was shaking with relief. And hunger too, he supposed. He hadn't eaten in at least four days. He turned to the dish sitting next to him on the bed and whipped off the cover; eager to devour whatever it was they had given him.
The meal before him was the most meager of prison fare: a rubbery piece of old, overcooked meat, a crusty roll of coarse brown bread, and a few limp leaves of boiled cabbage, but to Liam it was a feast. He wanted to bolt it all down immediately, but realizing that he had no idea when he would eat again, he decided to savor every last bite. Which he did, and he even tucked half of the roll into the breast pocket of his shirt for later, as emergency rations. Then, feeling some of his strength returning as his stomach was sated, he slowly pulled himself off the bed and hopped over to the washstand on one leg, being careful not to move his broken ankle too much. He drank several handfuls of water, washed his face and hands, and even ran his wet fingers through his hair, doing his best to make himself feel somewhat normal and presentable once again. Feeling much cleaner, he settled himself back down on the bed and waited for the doctor to show up, clearly pleased with his sly maneuvering of the Germans that had bought his chance at freedom.
The next few days passed uneventfully with the exception of the doctor's visit and the return of regular meals, poor as they were. Liam still made a point to save whatever morsels he could; considering how well he was used to eating, he did his best to stretch everything they gave him out as long as possible. The Germans seemed to be leaving him well enough alone, and Liam was thankful that there had been no more questions; he wasn't sure he could fake them if they had gotten any more in-depth. Though he hated being cooped up like this after a lifetime out under the open sky, he was grateful for the chance to rest. He supposed, also, that he'd better get used to it, seeing as he wasn't going to be flying again for some time.
Then, two days after his interrogation, he was woken once again to the door of his cell crashing inward. As he struggled to sit up and see who it was this time, he wondered why these Krauts couldn't open doors quietly, or maybe knock like any civilized person to let him know they were coming in. He wasn't the least bit surprised when the general came stomping in again, a satisfied, evil grin on his face.
"Good, you are awake, Lieutenant. It will make things progress much quicker."
Liam felt his heartbeat quicken. "What things?"
"You are being transferred today, my young flyer. I sent the information you were so kind to provide us to High Command; they were extremely intrigued and sent it in turn to Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin. You are being sent to a Prisoner of War camp while the Gestapo assess the usefulness of the information. However, expect that they will be 'getting in touch' with you if they feel you could provide them with any more information."
Liam swung his legs off the bed, trying to look sufficiently cowed while not being in the least bit surprised or frightened. He'd be long gone before the Gestapo got ahold of him. However, there was one question that was niggling him. "I've heard much about your Prisoner of War camps, general. If I may be so bold, to which one are you sending me?"
The general's creepy smile widened, giving the impression that he was about to go for someone's neck. "Stalag 7. I believe that it is fairly well-known among the Allies, yes?"
Yes. Oh yes. And… oh schist. Liam's face went pale. He didn't think he was going to be able to stand up, but he didn't really have a choice as the general signaled two guards to come in and drag him to his feet. They pulled his arms in front of him for a set of handcuffs, which he hardly seemed to notice. His gaze was glued to the general's cruel, glittering blue eyes, and the expression on the other man's face told Liam that he could tell he'd just spoken a name that had struck real fear into the heart of his prisoner.
Liam had heard of Stalag 7. Every flyboy this side of the Atlantic had heard the horror stories from the POW camp nicknamed "The Death-Trap" because more prisoners escaped there in pine boxes than ever made it under the wire. It was the second worst POW camp in Germany to be sent to for that very reason, and by the look in the general's eyes, he knew it.
"I've made certain that the camp Kommandant knows about your special circumstances, and he will be sure to keep a close eye on you while you are there. We wouldn't want an important source of information disappearing right under our noses, would we?" He signaled the guards to lead Liam out; they grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him bodily towards the door. The general turned to watch him go. "I hope you enjoy your stay in our beautiful country, Lieutenant Kincaid," he snickered as Liam was pulled from the room. "I'm sure you will find the locals most… hospitable."