Author's note: Don't worry, I wouldn't kill off Carter – and certainly not in the first chapter :D I'd be too scared to be dragged off in front of Fanfic Court; since most judges and lawyers are from shows I didn't watch, I'd be completely lost and scared stiff :P
Anyway. Pick Yourself Up is a rather lovely 1936 song by Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields; Diana Krall's version is one of my favourites. You pick yourself up/Dust yourself off/And start all over again :o)
Disclaimer: I own the crew of the Lovely Joan – the B-26 that got shot down prior to the story – and that's about it. The rest is property of CBS and Bing Crosby; I'm just a wannabe writer who likes these characters a little too much.
Into the Woods
Chapter 2: Pick Yourself Up
Sergeant Dickins paused for a second to glance at his watch, because it was hard to keep an eye on both his wrist and his feet, and he didn't want to trip. Half an hour had passed since he had met with Squadron Leader Bannister and Flight Lieutenant McBride and got down from his tree, and it had only been five minutes since he had last checked the time.
It felt a lot longer.
The trees, bushes and ferns he was trudging through were completely foreign, but they reminded him a lot of the ones he'd seen during his training back home. It had been rather short – they were at war, after all, and they needed all the men they could get as fast as they could get them – but it had made a lasting impression on him.
Dickins had lost a good four or five pounds in the process, a head full of curls that were just starting to grow again, and a lot of illusions about war.
All the same, even after four successful missions and – perhaps more importantly – one failure, even as fear gnawed at his stomach (a different fear than the one he felt when he was manning his post in the nose of the plane, but a very cold, real fear nonetheless), his determination was still intact. They had to defeat the Jerries, and they had to protect the folks back home. Liverpool had been bombed during the Blitz, more heavily perhaps than any other English city besides London, and although his mum and dad's house was still standing and their letters hadn't mentioned any air raids since last year, the thought of his parents, his aunt Mildred and uncle Alfred and little cousin Richie, or old Mrs Collins next door being left without a home – or much, much worse – was enough to keep him going even when the going got tough.
The trees cleared, and Dickins spotted a low, grass-covered mound; on the other side, half-covered by bushes, was the opening of a small cave barely high enough for a man to stand on his knees. Bannister stopped, took off his cap and ran a hand in his short dark hair.
"Right – this is the place. Dickins, take a look around to reconnoitre, and be careful. McBride, help me with those bushes. Maybe we can arrange a better cover for the entrance."
"Yes, sir."
Dickins straightened the field service cap on his head and grabbed his pistol. It took all his self-control not to drop it when an intense light hit his eyes, immediately followed by a distant, but no less ear-splitting boom.
"Wh—what was that?" he yelped as Bannister and McBride ran up, weapons in hand. They were silent for a few minutes, eyes wide open in the dark. Bannister frowned.
"Whatever it was, it didn't come from a plane."
"What do you think exploded, sir?" asked McBride, the tension in his voice belying his calm demeanour.
"Too far west to be Hammelburg, at any rate, and unless the mapmaker boys back home need updates, there's no plant, no factory at all in this direction." He holstered his gun and started back to the mouth of the little cave. "Probably the local Underground bombing something small, like a bridge or summat."
"Didn't sound small to me," Dickins muttered, trying to slow down the pounding of his heart. Bannister gave a rare, small smirk.
"Perhaps somebody got a little over-enthusiastic with the dynamite. For the moment, though, it's none of our concern," he added, reverting to his usual brisk manner.
"Yes sir." Dickins tightened the hold on his gun – making sure his finger was not on the trigger – and walked into the woods, trying not to gulp too audibly.
I really hope Murray and Berkowitz were nowhere near there, he thought fervently. Of all the nights to be messing about with explosives …
Flight Sergeant Jack E. Murray had not heard nor seen the bridge exploding. He was currently sitting with Corporal Berkowitz in the back of a German patrol car, with a Luger pointed towards his ribs, and since he was quite tall, his head bumped against the roof of the car with every pothole on the road. There was a great many of them.
It was the second time he was captured. The first time had been two years ago; he had then managed to escape from Stalag 10 on a strange combination of sheer dumb luck and evasive action tactics. The perspective of pulling another fast one on the Krauts and the look of quiet terror in the young Corporal's eyes were what kept his boiling anger – and shame at having let himself be caught a second time – in check.
If there was fear somewhere in there, he flatly refused to acknowledge it.
An umpteenth bump in the road made his head bang against the ceiling again, and he breathed slowly through his nose, making an effort to unclench his fists.
"You know," he told the man who held him at gunpoint, in the calmest voice he could manage, "you really should be careful how you hold your gun. Another bump like that and you'll be scraping bits of prisoners off your officer's seats. And believe me, son, brains and blood make an unbelievable mess."
Berkowitz's face lost what colour it possessed, and Murray kicked his ankle lightly. The boy bit his lip, but to his credit continued to stare in the distance as steadily as though he'd heard an officer ask for a volunteer.
One of the NCO's most important rules – never volunteer for anything.
How old was the kid, anyway? Twenty-four, twenty-five at the most? He had been part of the crew of the Lovely Joan for the last two missions, and apart from the fact that he was a bloody good gunner, Murray had not learned a lot about him. He was a quiet, hard-working young man who mostly kept to himself.
Dickins had been the one who had gradually got him to open up a bit. But then, Ronnie Dickins was one of the most open, friendly people he knew. If it wasn't for the fact that he tended to trip on his own two feet and blurt out things that made you want to slap him silly, he would make a damn good soldier.
The German soldier pointing the gun at Murray slowly shifted his hand, and while the muzzle was still digging in his ribs on occasions, at least it didn't look like it might accidentally go off. Berkowitz seemed to notice that, too, and imperceptibly relaxed.
Lights in the distance grew closer, and turned out to be searchlights behind a double wire fence. Here we go again.
"Remember, Corporal, name, rank and serial number only," he said in a low voice while Berkowitz stared at the fence and gulped.
As he got out of the car and stretched his body from head to toes – ignoring the various popping sounds from his back and knees – Murray took the opportunity to study his surroundings. This camp was smaller than Stalag 10, with not as many barracks, but it gave off the same impression: as though everything was there to impress upon newcomers that they were in prison now, useless to their country, and would remain so until the end of the war, whatever the outcome. It was the middle of the night, so he could not assess the physical and mental state of the prisoners; this would have to wait until later.
The German Lieutenant led Berkowitz and he up to the steps to the Kommandantur, where they waited a while until the door opened and a thin, balding man wearing a dressing gown and a – a monocle? – peered at them, both face and pyjamas looking rumpled from recent sleep.
"Yes, yes, what is it?"
"Herr Kommandant," said the Lieutenant, saluting promptly, "we caught these Engländer in the woods near Hammelburg. Their plane was shot down, and we believe there may be more of them out there right now."
From the face the Kommandant was making – reminiscent of a man being treated to a healthy dose of turpentine – he could have done without the officer's zeal. But he nodded tiredly.
"Very well, Lieutenant. Bring them into my office."
Murray saw him repress a yawn, and barely refrained from smirking. The odds in their favour looked better now than they did just a few minutes ago.
The Lieutenant followed them inside the building, but once inside the Kommandant's office he saluted and said, "With your permission, Herr Kommandant, I will leave these two prisoners here and take my men to search the woods for the rest of the survivors, if there are any. I can take them off your hands tomorrow at eight, and we will take them to Gestapo headquarters to be processed."
The odds against a successful escape suddenly stacked higher. If they could not stay there …
The Kommandant saluted and dismissed him, leaving only two camp guards in the room with Murray and Berkowitz. He half-sat, half-slumped on a chair behind his desk and looked up at the two Englishmen, obviously still sleepy, but making an effort to be assertive but polite.
"My name is Colonel Wilhelm Klink, I am the Kommandant of Stalag 13, which is the toughest, most escape-proof prisoner of war camp in all of Germany, I am proud to say." And he did look proud. The blue eyes livened up slightly behind the monocle. "Now, who are you and what was your mission before you were shot down?"
Murray instantly assumed what he privately called 'the brick wall position': straight-backed, straight-faced and gazing into the far distance to give the impression nothing could penetrate a skull that thick. From the corner of his eye, he saw Berkowitz do the same.
"I asked you a question, Sergeant."
"Murray, Jack E., Flight Sergeant, serial number 82050512."
"Oh, fine." Kommandant Klink leaned across his desk to look at Berkowitz. "It would be better for you to tell me what your mission was, you know. I can speak in your favour to the Gestapo tomorrow if you give me a few details. So, where –"
"Berkowitz, Eugene, Corporal, serial number 7909 –"
The boy's voice hardly shook. Good show, lad.
Klink made an impatient, dismissive gesture, and if Murray had any people-reading skills, he was finding this whole thing to be more trouble than it was worth and was itching to go back to bed.
"All right, all right, I know how this goes. But frankly, you're really being unreasonable. I could keep you in here all night for interrogation –" Hah! Perhaps if somebody else was doing the interrogation. So far, he was terrible at it. "So you had better – what?"
The door had opened, and a man walked in – an American colonel, by the look of his jacket and cap – as though it was completely normal for him to be there. Which was obviously not how Klink viewed things.
"Hogan, what are you doing here, out of your barrack after lights out? Have you looked at the time?"
"Actually, Kommandant, my watch stopped – d'you have the time?"
Murray was rather fascinated by the newcomer. His terrible posture, apparent laid-back and happy-go-lucky attitude and winning smile could be put down to typical fly boy manners – fighter pilots were the kings of the sky as far as they were concerned – but it was quite hard to reconcile this attitude with the man's rank.
Klink glanced at his watch mechanically, and then changed colour. His expression was a funny mix of anger, nervousness and a hint of desperation. "Hogan, all you need to know is that it's much too late for a prisoner to be out of the barracks. What brought you here anyway?"
Colonel Hogan gave the Kommandant a serious look – somewhat – and pointed a finger. "Tsk tsk, Kommandant, you know that according to the Geneva Convention the senior POW officer must be present when you interrogate new arrivals. You know that, I know that, so let's skip the pleasantries, hmm?" He turned to Murray and Berkowitz and flashed a bright smile that had a sharp edge to it. "Hi. Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Forces. Hope you'll enjoy your stay in the Stalag 13 Grand Palace – granted, it's not the Excelsior, but I'll think you'll like it all the same."
Murray and Berkowitz saluted; Murray's eyes were still on the American, unsure what to think.
"Flight Sergeant Jack Murray, Corporal Eugene Berkowitz."
Hogan's grin widened, and he saluted back. "Royal Air Force, eh? Boy, won't Newkirk be happy. He was complaining the other day about Americans prisoners starting to outnumber the British. Or the English, I'm not too sure. Since he always forgets the Australians anyway –"
"Hogan!"
If the situation had not been so serious, Murray would have found the whole scene very entertaining. Klink and Hogan made a perfect contrast, Klink vainly trying to get back in control of the interrogation and Hogan verbally ducking, dodging and manipulating him. In the end, Klink threw in the towel and sent both NCOs to the cooler without further questioning.
Hogan caught up with them as their guard – a skinny private – opened the outer door.
"Colonel Hogan," said the guard uncertainly, "I do not think you should be here."
"Relax, Solf, I'm just wishing the two new prisoners good night. No rule against that, right?"
He walked ahead of them, and Private Solf appeared to follow him rather than lead the two Englishmen. Finally they stopped at the last door on the right, and the private fiddled with his key ring.
Hogan clapped a hand on Murray's arm.
"Sorry about the housing arrangements, Flight Sergeant. At least you won't be disturbed much till tomorrow morning if the rats leave you alone."
Berkowitz stiffened. "Rats, sir?" Hogan gave a non-committal shrug.
"There's always one dumb enough to try and sneak in rather than out. Keep an eye out, that's all I'm saying."
As Private Solf closed and locked the door of their cell, Murray still stared in front of him, thinking hard. There had to have been some kind of message hidden in the American's words.
Question is, what is it?
"Think 'e's coming around."
"Shh, not so loud. Carter? André, can you hear us?"
Andrew Carter was starting to emerge from the queasy, sticky fog that was filling his head with cotton and his ears with lead – or was it the other way around? He knew he had a very good reason to shake off that darn fog and wake up for good, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was. Five more minutes, Mom, he heard himself say in his head.
Those voices sounded awfully familiar, though.
"See? Told you nagging in French was useless."
"I'd like to see you speak a foreign language when you're scared half out of your mind. Si je connaissais le con qui a fait sauter le pont …"
"And there he goes again. What?"
"The … bridge …"
Finding you can recognise your friends' voices and understand words is a wonderful thing. Finding your brain finally made the connection with your own voice is even better.
"Carter, you're awake!" That was LeBeau, ecstatic.
"Are you all right, mate?" And Newkirk, worried.
It was taking a huge effort and a lot of concentration, but Carter managed to lift a pair of eyelids that seemed to weigh a ton each. They didn't stay up very long. "Who … blew up the … bridge?"
"Maybe someone who really doesn't like Adolf Hitler bridges," came Newkirk's voice, sounding low, rough and all kinds of wrong. Carter worked harder on getting his eyes to stay open and work properly, and this time he succeeded.
There were trees above him with a patch of night sky and a few stars in the middle, and below it were the concerned faces of Newkirk and LeBeau. Both of them looked as though a giant puppy had flung them to the ground, rolled them around for a bit and started to nibble them for fun. Carter couldn't help but wince at the mental image.
They were very pale, too.
"Hey, guys … You look terrible."
LeBeau snorted, and Newkirk shook his head; both were smiling the same wide grin.
"Well, I don't have a mirror on me person, but believe me, you're not exactly looking your very best, either," Newkirk said in a voice that was still low, but thankfully sounded much more normal. "How're you feeling?"
Carter took a moment to ponder the question. His head was still feeling as though a herd of elephants were using it to play bowling, and his whole body was sore – Boy, he thought, isn't that gonna be fun tomorrow morning – but at least he hadn't been singed. This realisation came as a relief; he could recall a few less than pleasant experiences when explosives he was working on had gone off a little too quickly and too close.
"Think I'm okay, considering. What the heck happened, though?"
"The bridge blew up," LeBeau deadpanned, gently steadying him when he tried to sit up.
"Yeah, I figured, but who? Why?" The world tilted, then went back to normal, turning his stomach upside down but at least clearing the last of the fog from his vision. He grabbed the first thing he could grasp – which turned out to be his friends' arms – and tried not to be sick. "I mean, the Underground would have warned us if they had something planned for tonight, wouldn't they?"
"Well, they probably wouldn't have told us to go to rendezvous point P–05 to get a bunch of downed flyers if they knew we'd need that bridge," Newkirk pointed out. "Doesn't make much sense."
"If I knew who it was, I'd wring his neck," said LeBeau darkly. "Newkirk, let's see that map again."
The flashlight, while dented, seemed to have miraculously survived the whole ordeal, and Carter pointed it toward Newkirk's map. "Where's the nearest bridge, then?"
"There – the Hammelburg bridge, about two miles east from here. No, wait, hang on – I'd say just over three thousand yards."
"One kilometre and a half, then – three if you count the trip back. Do you feel up to it, André?"
Carter frowned. "Hold on, you're not thinking of leaving me here, are you? 'Cause I can walk, no problem." He stood up best he could to prove his point; his legs were still shaking mightily when he put his full weight on them, but thankfully, they didn't buckle. "See?"
"Relax, Carter," said LeBeau with a small smile, "we were not going to leave you behind."
"Yeah," Newkirk added, taking out his garrison cap from his pocket and smoothing the creases best he could, "maybe take you back to camp or something, but leaving you all alone here? With all the German patrols on the prowl, and exploding bridges, and wolves all over the place? That would just be nasty."
He had had Carter up until the wolves. The little smirk the Englishman couldn't quite hide made him roll his eyes.
"That's not very funny, Newkirk."
"No, mate, I guess it's not." Newkirk put a friendly arm on his shoulder. "But next time we cross a bridge, let's make sure it's bomb-free, shall we?"
Carter nodded, and fell silent as he concentrated on putting one foot after the other. To his relief, it turned out less difficult than he'd thought it would be: the night air was still hot, but the slight breeze was clearing his head and he felt a lot more steady. A glance at his shirt showed him it had suffered from the blast, and his hands were covered in cuts and bruises – his face probably was no different, and he vaguely tried to get his hair back in order.
Shame, really. I liked that shirt. I know it's just standard uniform, but still …
Maybe he could ask London for a new shirt next time? Or he could write a letter to his mom for more shirts. After all, he'd only just received the package of warm winter socks she had sent him last autumn, so maybe the post was working better now and he'd have his shirts by Christmas.
Following one train of thought after another was a nice way to pass the time, and since he was saving his breath to walk and any sound louder than a whisper was a bad idea so close to civilisation, it made up for the lack of conversation. They reached the bridge – and the dark outline of the outskirts of Hammelburg right behind it – before it even occurred to him to look at his watch.
The three of them inspected the Hammelburg bridge for four minutes before tiptoeing across as inconspicuously as they could, and veered west to the previously intended track.
It was the first time Carter was glad to see nothing explode.
Translations/notes:
Si je connaissais le con qui a fait sauter le pont: "If I knew the bloody idiot who blew up the bridge." "Con" is a ubiquitous insult, which can mean just about anything from somebody who's being mildly stupid at the moment (Qu'il est con, celui-là! – "(What a) bloody fool!") to a really bad insult (C'est un sale con – "He's an arsehole"). The meaning depends a lot on the context and the speaker's tone and body language, but it's a bad word that children are definitely not encouraged to use (and I'm not sure anyone would have got away using it on TV in the 1960s – even American TV ;o). There's a lot (and I mean a lot!) of other insults and profanities available in French (and I'm not even talking about regionalisms), ranging from quite mild to downright obscene through entertainingly rude, but this one crops up most often.
'My' version of the geography of Stalag XIII is based on the real Hammelburg in Bavaria, but I'm taking a few liberties with it.
A garrison cap is the same thing as a field service cap (namely, what Newkirk wears on his head); the terms are just respectively the US and UK expressions.
Oh, and if I can spend the rest of my life without having to make sense of miles, yards and kilometres, I'll be very happy. I'm just terrible at maths, so converting even the simplest distance into different systems was the hardest thing to write in this chapter :D
Next chapter next week! Hope you liked :o]