Haus of War.
July 10th, 1943.
Captain John Watson of the XXX Corps shouldered his medical bag and drew his limbs closer to his body as the armoured boat rocked upon the grey waters. The seawater accumulating in the bottom of the vessel was beginning to soak through his trousers, the smell of fishy saltwater mixing with that of sweat and fear. At least twenty men sat huddled together, brimmed helmets obscuring everything except the metal walls of the boat and a thin strip of the churning sulphuric sky. Over the sound of waves, distance cracks and booms of artillery echoed into the night. Rain began to spot the thick, scratchy fabric of their uniforms.
Lt. General Leese rose to his knees, careful not to expose his head over the rim of the boat, and roared over the ever increasing noise, "We're landing at the shores of Pachino in five minutes men! Operation Husky will commence!" Leese was interrupted as a shrill deafened them and a shell impacted with the water not three feet from the boat, sending a crescendo of water and debris crashing over their heads. John blinked away the droplets from his eyes as he struggled to hear the rest of Leese's pep talk.
"Once this boat lands," Leese continued, voice growing gravely and hoarse from shouting, "advance up the beach to the checkpoint. No one stays behind! Take out as many as you can, then clear the buildings."
John looked around the boat to the other soldiers, their eyes bulging and breath mixing with the air in white clouds. His own heart hammered hard against his ribcage. A bullet ricocheted off the side of the vessel with an ugly twang, and every head snapped toward the sound. If the water filling the bottom of the boat did not drown them, the tension would.
The boat jolted and lurched unevenly as the hull scraped against sand and stone, signalling their landing. The protective metal door slid open and landed with a bang on the ground, revealing the battleground for the first time.
"Move! Move! Move!" Leese screeched, the power of his words like whips at their heels, sending the reluctant soldiers sprinting into the chaos.
John shot to his feet, running awkwardly with the large bag bouncing against his back and the rifle balanced in his arms. Faster men had already slid behind shelter. The singing artillery shot past him as he ran. Sweat mingled with rainwater as it dripped off his nose, eyes straining to calculate all the motion around him- screams, people dropping to the ground, the adrenaline coursing through him made everything blur. John barely had time to register the body he leapt over, or that he recognised the face. Finally reaching a barricade, he slid down into it, helmet askew on top of his ashen face. A shell hit the sand twenty meters away, and John felt the shockwave ripple beneath him. He waited and listened.
"Medic!" someone screamed, "Medic!"
John flipped to his stomach and crawled toward the screaming soldier. He couldn't count how many times he had done this: crawling out into the open, bullets flying past him or hitting the ground near him in an explosion of dust, the smell of iron blood close to his face. There was nothing more thrilling.
As he neared the source of the desperate cries, he could see the red blood soaking into the sand. A young boy kneeled behind the barracks, cradling the head of another. The boy raised his tear streaked face, dirty and flushed red.
"Please, you gotta help him."
A young Canadian, distinguished by the vertical bar of red shining from beneath the mud and grit caked on his uniform.
John looked at the fallen boy, jugular ripped clean through by a bullet. His brown, doe-like eyes stared skyward as he choked on clotted, black blood. He had seconds. Instead, John focused on the pleading Canadian boy. His arm was torn up, but obviously forgotten in the other soldier's peril.
"What's your name?" John asked over the gunfire, pushing the boy back and away from the dead man.
The boy babbled before spitting out, "Private Walliams, what about-"
"Forget him," John said as he wrapped the boys arm. "Can you hold a gun?"
The boy nodded frantically, terror racking his thin frame.
"Then keep moving! Onward, son!"
Such was war.
John pushed forward, deeper into enemy territory, diving into ditches and squirming toward the constant summons of the wounded. He frantically dressed their wounds and then pushed the terrified men back on to the battlefield. Some were beyond his help, and were given the privilege to lie were they had fallen. But being a higher ranking officer, John could not show his fear, which was as real as the others he pushed them all further into the madness. He showed no pity to the dying boys, barely of age, or to those too terrified to continue. They needed to be strong and relentless. Kindness did not win wars.
"Captain!" a voice called out.
John turned to the shout, only to find a man in an Italian uniform standing over his prone body, bayonet pointed down between his shoulder blades. John felt panic take him and he struck out, knocking the weapon to the side as it discharged into the bloody sand beside him. Relying purely on training, John flipped and swung his own rifle up and blindly fired. The projectile punched a hole through his assailant's chest and out the other side. John looked up into the eyes of the man, wide with shock and pain as he leaned forward and effectively impaled himself on the blade end of John's rifle. A few drops of blood dripped onto John's cheek before gravity took the body the rest of the way down, landing spread-eagle beside him.
Working the blade out of cartilage and bone, John quickly scooted back into the shelter of a barricade and removed himself from the line of fire. Drawing out his canteen and taking a mouthful of stale, metallic water, he tried to purge the memory from his mind. He had seen worse.
He flinched as the buzz of aeroplane engines sailed over top of his head.
.
.
After a few hours, the gunfire had ceased, save for a quick rat-tat-tat of the 'clean up' crew. John worked his way around the blackened beach with a few other soldiers, carefully stepping over bodies and wreckage. They collected dog tags and made a list of the fallen, while the wounded were hoisted back to camp by his assistants.
The sand around the beach smoked as gulls began to settle among the carnage.
.
"Alright corporal, I need you to take a deep breath for me," John said in a soothing voice to the writhing figure below him. Two other medics pinned his arms and legs down, but the man's struggles still made the extraction of a splint of wood embedded in his calf difficult. He wouldn't take the whiskey they'd offered him.
"I'll pull on the count of three…one…" He yanked, the fragment sliding out much smoother than he had expected. The corporal's eyes rolled back as he caught sight of the bloodied splint.
The entrance of the hastily erected medical tent was pulled open, and Lieutenant Gregson, from an Allied American division, stepped inside.
"Captain Watson," he greeted with a salute, "Lieutenant General Leese requires your presence at the check point, sir."
"Concerning what?" John asked, not taking his eye away from his current patient.
"Medical treatment, sir"
"He's hurt?"
"No sir, it's considering the wellbeing of a prisoner."
This caught John's attention. Rarely was he called to examine an enemy personal. They usually weren't alive by the time he got there.
"Who have they captured?" John asked, leaving the other medics to finish dressing the corporal's wound.
"I don't know much more than that sir, I've just been asked to lead you there."
Dusting off his trousers, John stood and followed the lieutenant out into the crisp night air. They walked by lantern light up the beach until they reached a street lined with white buildings, plaster walls cracked and crumbling. In the building directly at the end of the rugged road a few soft lights twinkled faintly in the windows. Unsurprisingly, the lieutenant led John straight its door.
"Captain Watson has arrived sir," the lieutenant quipped as he pushed open the door.
John stepped into the dimly lit room and quickly scanned its occupants. Lt Gen. Leese stood with another higher ranking officer whom he did not know. Between the two men sat a third on a dirty cot, dressed in an SS uniform. The rank on his shoulder boasted the insignia of a senior assault leader, the alarmingly red armband his allegiance. The man wasn't young, but wasn't old either. John placed him in his early to mid-thirties, but it was difficult to be certain due to the gag and blindfold wrapped around his bony, drawn face. His hat had been knocked to the floor, revealing a shock of dark hair, shorn at the sides but a bit longer on the top, the locks' ends hinting of loose curls. His hands were bound with what looked like a strip of the bed sheet.
"Ah captain, glad you could make it," Leese said, sucking the last drag of a cigarette before stomping it into the concrete floor.
"He requires medical attention, sir?" John asked, standing at ease but with his spine rigid, intimidated slightly by the larger men.
"Yes, I found this spineless git hiding in here. He surrendered immediately, but I gave him a kick for his cowardly conduct." The SS officer stifled out a low growl, but Lt General Leese ignored it. "I need you to check his ribs, I think they've broke."
"We're taking him as a prisoner of war then, sir?" John asked as he knelt in front of the Nazi.
"I think we should just kill him now and save ourselves the trouble," grumbled the unknown man beside Leese. John was slightly inclined to agree with him; he saw no use in taking prisoners. He also couldn't say he had much forgiveness for anyone involved with the SS.
"If he was of lower rank, I would say the same," Leese agreed. John reached to unbutton the black jacket and inspect the injury, but the man flinched, violently pulling away.
"Steady," John warned, and unfastened the stiff buttons.
"However, considering his rank is not low, he may be some use for intelligence. Didn't your fathers ever tell you to milk the cow dry before selling it to market?"
John reached his hand inside the captive's jacket and tested the pressure on his ribs. It was easy to find the break as the man's ribs jutted pitifully from his skin. The man hissed though his nose as he touched the spot with cool hands. Lifting up the man's undershirt, John examined the damage. A darkening bruise spread across the bony valleys of his chest like an infection, but the bruise wasn't split. It seemed a cracked rib was the worst damage done.
"I can patch it up when we get back to camp, it isn't serious enough to need immediate first aid," John diagnosed, re-buttoning the man's shirt and jacket.
"As I suspected," Leese sighed, sounding very tired. "Colonel Dimmock, run back to camp and have a separate tent set up with two sentries posted, then send a message to headquarters. We'll follow behind."
Colonel Dimmock saluted and walked out briskly.
"Captain Watson, if you would be so kind," he gestured toward the man.
John slid his arm around the man's thin waist, admittedly not as concerned as he should have been for the man's injury, and hoisted him to his feet. The man grunted, and took a few cautious steps as John led him forward, unsure of his footing while blindfolded.
The SS officer fidgeted slightly as they slowly made their way back to camp, but not in order to pull away and escape, rather, he shied away from John's touch like it burned him. John responded to this by wrapping his hand tighter as he steered him around a rather large rock lying on the path. A deep part of him wanted to feel a bit of sympathy for the fellow, being paraded like a wild animal, but he promptly pushed the absurd idea away.
Soldiers meandering around fires and tents turned and stared as John walked into camp, supporting the captive. A few rude remarks were shouted into the air by some more ambitious young men, others looking like they needed to be restrained in the sight of an enemy. John swore he heard a catcall followed by low chuckles, but ignored them, and instead fixed his eyes on the newly erected tent. One of the sentries positioned in front of the tent stepped aside and opened the flap to receive them.
Once inside, John lowered the man on to the thin cot leaving him bound as he had his medical supplies sent for by a sentry. In only a few moments the guard had returned, handing the bag to John and casting an odd look at the SS officer sitting on the bed.
"Thank you, you may leave now," Leese said, and ushered the guard out the door. Before turning to follow, he said to John in a stern but assuring voice, "Leave him bound, if you would. I'll be back around in an hour." John nodded, and the Lt General disappeared into the camp.
He was alone.
For a few moments he sat in silence with the SS officer, casually observing him. He had never been up close and personal with a Nazi, at least not a live one. Also, John had never interacted with a prisoner of war before. He didn't know if he should try to talk with him, or just give him the silent treatment as he wrapped his ribs. Hell, he didn't even know if the man spoke English. Perhaps initialing conversation wasn't the greatest idea. But still…
He began to draw out various supplies- gauze, scissors, tape - and set them on the floor beside him. He moved to undo the man's jacket and shirt, and was once again met with a flinch. The man muffled something past the cloth stuffed into his mouth, but all John could hear was ridiculous, guttural sounds. For a moment, he feared the man might choke, and he didn't want to have to explain that situation to the Lt General. Hesitantly, John reached up to the knot tied at the back of the man's neck. He was curious, and perhaps it wouldn't hurt to know if the man spoke his language or not.
He untied the knot, but before pulling the cloth away, he said calmly into the man's ear, "If you scream I'll shove this straight back into your mouth, alright." Despite the lack of response, he unwound the gag and pulled it away, revealing the man's full lips. The man took a few much needed, deep breaths. Other than that, he didn't say a word.
"Now," John said as he threw the offending cloth beside him to the cot, "what were you trying to say?"
"Don't touch me."
John felt his inside turn cold. The man's remark took him a bit by surprise, and he quashed the urge to shove the cloth back down the man's throat. His voice was deep, and considerably powerful, a voice that did not quite match his lanky frame. It seemed to echo in his ears a few seconds longer than it should have, uninviting and icy. His accent also caught John off-guard. While it had a crisp, throaty enunciation, it held a very light German accent, almost as if the man had been speaking English for a long time.
"Glad to see we can understand each other," John said, still unsure of why he was trying to engage in small talk. It made him rethink how lonely he might actually be getting. He attempted once again to open the man's jacket, and again the man pulled away from his touch.
"I said-" the man began, before John, frustrated with the man's immaturity, seized his jacket by the lapels and pulled him closer.
"Stop being such a child," he scolded the man, "I can choose not to help you, you know."
This seemed to produce results, as the man stopped squirming, and instead settle for setting him mouth in a thin, tight line. John could handle that at least.
"Is everything alright in there, sir?" one of the sentries called from the tent entrance.
"Yes, just fine thank you," he called back. Then, "actually, could you bring me a mug of tea?"
"Yes sir." He heard footsteps walking away.
John made quick work of the man's jacket and uniform top, draping them over the edge of the cot, leaving him shivering in his undershirt. John began to lift that up to, when the man suddenly let out a hiss.
"Oh come now, I didn't even press hard."
"No," he said, wiggling a bit where he sat. "Your fingers are cold."
John rolled his eyes and furrowed his brow; he was momentarily glad the man could not see him. It was like dealing with a five year old who couldn't keep still.
"Sir, your tea," the sentry announced on his return, handing the steaming cup to John.
"Thanks mate."
John held on to the mug for a few moments, staring into the dark liquid. For some reason it felt genuinely good to have even the smallest of comforts in such an uncomfortable situation. He took a sip, careful not to scald the roof of his mouth, before he resumed trying to wrap the man's ribs. He pressed the gauze to the bruised area and wrapped around once, before looking up into the man's face. He was sitting perfectly still.
Suddenly, "Thank you."
"Thank you?" John asked, as he wrapped the gauze around a second time. "Thank you for what?"
"You warmed up your hands."
"Oh," John said simply.
They sat in awkward silence as John finished. The man's face was set into a grimace; obviously the pain of a broken rib was bothering him. John rummaged through his bag and pulled out a bottle of standard issue painkillers. Four tablets remain in the bottle. He couldn't spare them. In fact, he wouldn't spare them.
"Now is your chance to tell me if anything else is hurting," John said, dropping the bottle back into the bag. The man just sat silently.
John began to pack his things, and stood, retrieving the gag.
"I'm going to have to put this back on. I wasn't supposed to remove it in the first place." As soon as the cloth touched the man's mouth, he drew back.
"Wait."
John quirked an eyebrow, but obliged him.
"The other man… he said your name was Watson?"
John hesitated, part of him felt wary about confirming the fact. "Yes."
The man's mouth tugged slightly upward.
"The name is Sherlock. Sherlock Haus."
John felt something drop inside him. He felt confused, unsure, and incredibly put off. It felt wrong for his enemy to be talking to him; it felt wrong for him to be talking as he had to the enemy. John, now contemplating the past quarter of an hour, realised that without intending to, he had softened, shown weakness, considered compassion. And that scared him. Surely this man was trying to lure him into something, and John would not have it.
"Captain Watson, are you all finished with him?" Lt General Leese's voice asked as he stood just outside the tent's entrance. John visibly jumped, and hastily shoved the rag back into Sherlock's mouth, who struggled and gagged as he was taken by surprise. He quickly tied the knot tightly at the nape of his neck, grateful to have their short conversation put to an end.
"Yes! Yes, come in," John called out a bit too loudly, struggling to keep in voice in control as his heart raced. He disregarded the uniform shirt, and merely threw the black SS jacket across the man's shoulders. John turned to face his superior, tripping lightly over his booted feet. His face was flushed as he saluted, painfully aware of the man's wheezing breaths filling the silence as he adjusted to breathing through his nose again.
"At ease," Lt General Leese ordered, eying him suspiciously. John lowered his hand, but certainly wasn't at ease. "You're free to leave now," he said. John nodded and strode past Leese, but was stopped as his hand came down heavy upon John's shoulder.
"Don't worry, I won't discipline you for roughing him up a bit," Leese whispered, throwing in a wink.
John resisted the urge to smack his hand to his forehead, and simply walked out of the tent into the dry night air.
Author's Note
Haus - German for Home, an obvious reference to Holmes. Many of the German sided characters will have their names roughly translated into German.
Operation Husky – British, American and Canadians' efforts to take back Sicily from the Axiz. Lt General Leese was the commander at the time.
XXX Corps – British infantry, part of the eighth army division. The story will follow the squadron.
Thanks for reading; this may turn out to be a huge story if I stick with it. Also, I'm no war historian, (hell I'm not even British), but I'm trying to make it as historically accurate as possible. Excuse any errors.