"Can anything be more ridiculous than that a man has a right to kill me because he lives on the other side of the water, and because his ruler has quarrel with mine, although I have none with him?" - Blaise Pascal
Silent Night
Don't stop. Keep going.
The words echoed through his head as he dragged one foot in front of the other, took another shaky step through the still-falling snow. His step faltered and he went down on his knees, the weight of the man he supported pulling him to the ground. His teeth clenched to stop the chattering as the ice seeped through his clothes, coating his skin.
He forced himself back up, tugging the nearly limp body with him.
"Goniff?"
There was no answer, not that he expected one anyway. The man had lost too much blood, the crimson still running down his coat despite the heavy bandages and hasty first aid. His face, always pale beneath the fair hair, was practically transparent, chalky against the faint blue tinge of his lips. He didn't have to look at the wound again to know it was bad, but the smaller man was still breathing, chest laboring under the effort, and it was that slim hope that drove them on across the wasteland.
It was pointless..Goniff badly hurt, maybe dying, all of them lost for a worthless mission on Christmas Eve, a mission that had failed from the beginning.
Garrison rubbed a hand across his eyes, the glare of the snow sending fire erupting within his skull. He didn't know what happened to the others. Actor had been closest to the car, there was a chance he'd made it out. Chief had been near the explosives last he saw him, fighting a guard.
And Casino. He pushed down the memory of the safecracker sprawled in the snow, scarlet spreading in an ever-widening halo around his motionless form. There was little hope he had been alive then, even less now. He'd been too far away to reach, and in that instant Garrison had had to choose between his men...Casino or Goniff. Goniff was alive, groaning beside him. And Casino was across the road, seemingly lifeless. He'd chosen between them with only a moment's thought.
Now he could only remember the safecracker and torment himself, studying the final image he had. Had his chest been moving? Could he have saved him? He closed his eyes, grinding his fist against the sunspots.
There was a harsh cough and the limp body twitched. "W-Warden?" The voice was a weak shadow of the cockney timbre, but unmistakably Goniff's.
"I'm here, Goniff."
"Where...?" A rough cough cut off his words, and Garrison grimaced at the wet sound beneath the cough.
"I don't know. Five miles away, maybe."
The Englishman blinked, struggling to focus. "Can't make it.."
"Easy, Goniff." He hitched him higher, holding on to the arm slung over his shoulder. "We'll make it, save your strength."
The blond head lulled forward, transferring all the weight to the officer as his legs sagged.
Garrison squinted against the driving snow, making out a dark object ahead. A cave, no doubt damp and wet but some shelter from the cold. He didn't have much choice. Goniff was failing and he didn't have the strength to go much further himself.
He stumbled into the cave, collapsing to the ground beside Goniff, mercifully unconscious when his body hit the hard floor. Garrison was cold to the bone, weary, hungry for sleep. But when he put a hand to the little Englishman's coat it came back soaked in blood.
He searched his pockets and came up with a handkerchief, cramming it down on the wound with all his might to keep the remainder of blood inside the still body. It turned scarlet within seconds and he bit back a curse of frustration.
There was a snap of a twig, the strike of a match, and even as he turned, Thompson pointed into the dim light, he saw the outline of three men.
They were German, unmistakable in thier uniforms and helmets, with guns trained on the American. The tallest wore thick glasses adding width to a wan and narrow face. The man to his left was heavyset with mismatched patches sewn onto his coat and a bandaged arm. The third and final was little more than a boy, round, childish features staring out beneath a mop of gold hair.
No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity.
"Lieutenant." The first German said in hevily accented English. "It is obvious we find ourselves at an impasse. Each of us have a wounded comrade. Your man will die without proper treatment. No one could survive for very long in this storm, so we are forced to remain here." He paused, casting a glance at Goniff before continuing. "We could take both of you prisoner, or you could take us. But perhaps there is a better solution."
He waited for affirmation and Garrison gave a curt nod.
"I have a little medical training. I could look at your man. And all of us could declare a truce, until the storm ends."
"Or you could shoot me the instant I put my gun down." Garrison said tightly.
"You have my word, Lieutenant. No weapons, no fighting, until the storm passes." A faint smile touched his face, and Garrison was struck by the odd thought that the man could be any American, so commonplace were his features that a simple change of uniform and no one would have seen a difference. "After all, is it not Christmas? The night of peace. There are no wars on Christmas."
For a moment they stood there, watching each other. And then Garrison gave a faint nod. The young German lowered his weapon and the next dropped his knife beside it. Garrison laid down his gun slowly, and the last German followed.
He extended his hand. "Hans." He motioned at the heavyset man. "Dieter. And young Erich."
"Lt. Garrison." He shook the hand cautiously. The grip was warm and firm.
Hans nodded. "Now, let me see to your friend."
-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-
The storm still raged outside. But within the cave the fire was fed, fresh bandages produced from the German had replaced the last of the makeshift ones covering the wound, and canteens and meager rations had been passed between the men, across the fence of abandoned weapons dividing them in the center of the cave.
"Do you have a family, Lieutenant?" Hans said.
He didn't look up from his cramped position kneeling beside Goniff, keeping pressure on the wound. "No."
"A man should have a family." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn photograph, holding it toward the American, a woman and three small children. "My Anna is the best cook in all of Germany. On baking days the neighbors would walk by the windows just to smell her bread and cakes." He smiled fondly with the memory. "My son is just ten. He thinks his papa is a hero." He chuckled. "To the young, all war is a game, yes? My daughter Frida is seven, but already beautiful. There will be young men breaking down the door someday, and I will be fighting them away."
"They're a fine family." Garrison said quietly.
A pained look crossed the older man's face. "The youngest I have never met, only in this photograph. But I dream at night of holding him, singing him to sleep. I will tell him one day of this truce, and perhaps you will tell your own son." He sighed. "It is a strange world we live in, Lieutenant. The young think of war as a game, and we who know better think of the enemy as a faceless horror we must destroy. I think perhaps we lose our own face, our own..humanity, would you say, when we begin to think as such."
"Odd thoughts for a German." He flexed a cramp in his fingers.
Hans chuckled again. "My Anna always said I was an odd man."
"How did you learn English?"
"In my town, I was a school teacher before the war. My Anna a nurse. We worked together, she repairing bodies, I minds. To teach one must understand a people."
Goniff moaned and the German's blue eyes focused on him, hand brushing his forehead. "Dieter, Erich." He spoke a few words of German and the men glanced at each other before shrugging out of their coats and passing them to him. Hans piled them across the Englishman and tucked them in around his slight form.
"He is a good man?"
A smile quirked one side of Garrison's mouth. "A mischief maker is more like it. If he was awake he'd be stealing you blind." His eyes dropped to the faint rise and fall of the injured man's chest, and he sobered. "Yes, he's a good man."
"I have no doubt you are a good leader, Lieutenant Garrison. I see it in you, you care deeply whether or not you show it."
He said nothing, at a loss for words.
"Let me." Hans said gently. His hand tugged Garrison's, fingers sealing over the wound, hands replacing the American's. Garrison flexed his numb fingers, ignoring the tingle of pain as they awoke. Dieter said something and Hans smiled.
"He said it is a white Christmas, Lieutenant, as in your song. A perfect Christmas."
Across the cave, Erich began to hum, softly at first, but growing steadily in volume until words followed.
"Stille Nacht, Heil'ge Nacht. Alles schläft; einsam wacht Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar. Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar, Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh."
Within the cave, the enemies sat in peace.
-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-
Garrison pressed harder with his aching hand, clamping down on the wound as more blood ran slowly between his fingertips.
"There is a way to save his life." Hans said quietly. "I have seen it done, burning the tissue closed to staunch the blood."
"You could also kill him."
"If he loses much more blood he will die anyway." The German scooted closer to the wounded man. "I can save his life."
Goniff's hand flailed out weakly, catching Garrison's arm as pain spasmed through his side. If possible the man was turning whiter by the minute.
He looked up into the clear blue eyes of the German and nodded.
-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-
Hans heated his knife over the fire, waiting as the metal turned fiery hot. Goniff twitched fitfully beneath the coats, muttering words Garrison couldn't make out, even as his side continued to seep a steady trickle of blood. He seemed unaware of their presence now, the pain carrying him to the past and away from this war. When the words were clear he spoke of prison, conversed with men no doubt still there. Garrison scrubbed a hand over his own lightly bearded cheeks.
"Hold him down." The German withdrew the blade from the fire, extending it toward the Englishman as Garrison pulled aside the bandages exposing the gaping wound. His hands gripped Goniff's shoulders.
The other Germans came forward, each taking one of the wounded man's legs and pinning it to the ground.
Hans lowered the flat of the knife to the wound with a hiss and smell of burnt flesh. Goniff screamed, body bucking beneath the hands as Hans held it firmly. His body arched once more, then went limp as the German withdrew the weapon. Garrison pressed two fingers to the side of Goniff's neck, breath escaping when he found the thready pulse.
Hans touched the wound gently, then gave a satisfied nod when his hand came back clean.
"Danke Gott." Hans said quietly, a hushed whisper in the hollow shelter, compassion showing in his eyes for the end of suffering for a man that any other day would have been his enemy.
Garrison's eyes met Hans', hand outstretched. The German clasped it in a steady grip. "Thank you." A nod, and nothing more acknowledged the gratitude.
The Germans retreated to their side without another word, barely even looking over again.
Garrison readjusted the coats and sat down beside the small Englishman to keep vigil.
And sometime in the first light of dawn Goniff opened his eyes and asked for water.
It was morning when the Germans ducked out of the cave and started back out into the snow, returning to the war. Only Hans looked back, a faint smile on his lips as he murmured a wish for a merry Christmas in his native language.
Garrison tossed another stick on the fire and settled down beside Goniff as the hours passed and the wind finally began to die down.
And finally, the day slipped away, and with it the memories of a Christmas spent with enemies that only seemed like friends.
-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-
There was a sound at the mouth of the cave and Garrison's head snapped toward it, gun aimed and ready.
Chief entered first, switchblade in his hand, expression hard and cautious. He snapped the knife closed and stepped forward, casting a look at Goniff before eyeing Garrison for wounds.
"Chief?" It was Actor's softly accented voice, calling from outside.
"Come on in. It's the Warden." The Indian called, stooping to bend over Goniff.
He stepped inside, shaking snow out of his hair with one hand, the other supporting a man with his head down.
Garrison took a step forward, not speaking, eyes focused on the figure with the dark hair and the bandaged shoulder, the arm in a sling. The head came up and dark eyes sparkled with the fiery temperament so much a part of the Italian safecracker.
"Casino?" His voice was incredulous.
"You were expecting someone else?" The sarcasm dripped from the words, and any other time he would be telling him to knock it off, that it wasn't the time for his retorts. But he never thought he'd hear them again, and it somehow makes them welcome to his ears, a completion of their group. It wouldn't be the same without Casino.
And then the safecracker grinned, the harsher set of his mouth giving way to dancing eyes.
"You didn't think a little bullet would keep me down, did you, Warden? I'll outlive all you guys and be free as a bird after this crummy war is over."
"You'll never change, Casino."
He smiled back despite himself, smiled because they'd somehow all beaten the odds again, come through triumphant and alive.
"How is Goniff?" Actor inclined his head toward the sleeping man.
"He'll make it." He nodded at the door. "Come on, let's get out of here."
-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-GG-
They were on their way through the snow, crossing the land in half the time it had taken originally when they saw the Germans on the ridge above them. It was Actor who opened fire, taking down the first one as the others spun, faces too far away to make out, and fired back.
Garrison picked off the tallest one while Actor took down the last. It was over in a matter of minutes, and Chief darted up the ridge to check for signs of life, the others trailing behind.
They were facedown in the snow, motionless. Chief kicked each one over, and Garrison saw their faces. It was the three from the cave. Hans with his glasses shattered against unseeing eyes, Dieter with the lopsided patches sewn into his coat, and Erich with the youthful face and yellow hair. If not for the blood staining their uniforms, and the frozen expressions on their faces they would have looked no different than the night in the cave, the Christmas they'd spent together with the war a million miles away. Hans' face was strangely peaceful, the hands that had staunched Goniff's blood curled limply around his gun.
It seemed wrong, somehow, that it had been Garrison and his men who had shot the ones who saved their lives, seemed wrong that the truce had had to end.
"Warden?" Goniff's voice was faint from the stretcher on the ground. He turned away from the carnage and knelt beside him. "Are they dead?" His face was still pasty from the blood loss, voice weak.
"Yeah, Goniff."
The man's eyes drifted closed. "Not bad chaps." He whispered faintly. "Too bad."
Garrison said nothing. He only rose, lifted his end of the stretcher as Actor took the other. Behind them, Chief supported Casino as they trudged through the snow, heading home.
In the distance guns fired, voices called in two languages, and men died.
It was the day after Christmas and the silent night had ended.