Chapter 2
General Friedrich Sebastian Mannheim returned to his office, sparing no further thought for his bondsman. More files would be waiting for his consideration, he knew: the Americans from Barracks 1 through 5, with repealed British citizenships. He strongly hoped that a suitable man could be found among them. They would be going to England soon, and Rob would be needing a copilot. The man would also have to be outfitted, if not as extravagantly as Hogan. The German grinned; perhaps he would let Hogan pay for some of that, also.
Hogan. Thinking of PAPA BEAR brought thoughts of his men, his Bear Cubs, to mind. A quick stab on his intercom brought Fräulein Doebrich to his office.
"Jawohl, Mein General?" the woman asked, waiting attentively for instructions.
«Have a Guard sent to North Compound, Barrake 14, to escort the Englander Peter Newkirk and the Frenchman Louis LeBeau to me here,» he instructed. As ever, he appreciated the competence of this secretary, who needed no note-taking to remember her orders.
"Zu Befehl, mein General," she responded, then left with silent efficiency.
General Mannheim looked at the files before him, frowning. Not much choice here, he realized with a sigh. Out of the eight, five could be discarded immediately; they were all infantry, and there was only one officer among the lot. Of the remaining three, only one had had any experience in bombers, and that was as a waist gunner. Two fighter pilots to choose from, then. Well, he could look at those more closely later. If necessary, he would see what else was available in the camp.
Another sigh; then he picked up the phone. «Connect me with Generaloberst Grafner, bitte,Fräulein Doebrich.» He waited patiently while the connection was made, and his receptionist worked her way past Grafner's aides; then:
«General Grafner speaking.»
«Guten Tag, Herr Generaloberst. This is General Mannheim. I wonder if you could arrange some Aircraft for me…»
Mannheim was smiling as he set the phone down at last. He looked up at a knock on his door; perfect timing.
«Herr General, the Prisoners you sent for are here,» Karlotte Doebrich announced, then stepped back to allow the two prisoners and their escort entry into the General's office.
He managed to hide his surprise when the Englander, Newkirk, actually come to attention and offered a salute, which he gravely returned. The Frenchman, LeBeau, did not, but that didn't surprise him terribly. He did not try to hide his small grin of amusement at their actions.
"Thank you for coming so promptly, gentlemen," he said, his voice soft and even, giving away nothing of his intentions. "Please be seated."
Again he paused until both had complied; then he looked at their escort. "That will be all for now; you may wait in the outer office." He promptly ignored the corporal, who withdrew as ordered, studying the two men seated before his desk. "As you are both no doubt aware, we are attempting to return you to your homes. You, LeBeau, being French, are soon to go…Provided.
"Newkirk, I wish you to look over this file and give me your opinion of the contents. Then we will have several matters to discuss."
It was thick, Newkirk saw as he accepted the folder being held out to him. Very thick. And it had his name on it… Cautiously he opened it and began leafing through the forms within. His companion couldn't keep from looking over his shoulder. Suddenly the little Frenchman broke out in a stream of French, echoed by Newkirk's curses in English. As one, they both paused, looking at Mannheim in agitation.
"As you can see, Corporal Newkirk, we have been trying to send you home. I have found a way around the blockage, I believe; it is my intention to see that you, at least, are back in England by Christmas.
"However, that brings me to our second little problem."
"An' just what might that be, General, if you don't mind me askin'?" Newkirk was actually making an effort to be polite; Colonel Hogan was in this man's power, so he was not to be antagonized needlessly.
One side of the General's mouth quirked in response. "I believe you already suspect some of it: You two were Hogan's men. Some of what we now call the Bear's Cubs. It was only for Rob's sake that you were not tried and convicted for sabotage and espionage. The others all are American-born and so are automatically held, or are to be bondsmen. They will be easy to keep track of.
"You two, however, are not to be so held. Yet it does not seem reasonable just to turn you loose without taking some sort of precautions. Do you not agree?"
LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged unhappy looks. "You do 'ave a point there, sir," Newkirk slowly agreed. "But just what sort o' 'precautions' did you 'ave in mind? Ah, sir?"
"There are some who would prefer none of you to be released, even as Bondsmen, but that hardly seems fair. So, the other Cubs are tattooed as Bonds and will have their chance for assignments outside the wire, like everyone else. If anything, I, personally, suspect that they will be more reliable than most. But for you two…
"I think I would prefer it if you accepted the tattoo, like all the rest. You will be required to report monthly to a security control officer, to report your whereabouts. You will not be restricted in traveling any more than any others of your countrymen, but it might be a good idea to report in when you arrive at your destination. We will be keeping fairly close tabs on you, especially at first. Perhaps later these restrictions might be relaxed; I do not know right now."
LeBeau thought about it, quickly. He could see Peter drawing breath to protest and realized that this general had gone out of his way to have this discussion in private. He could have just had them held down and tattooed, or worse…which he still might, if Peter started arguing. "Then we will all be with our compatriots, with the same markings," the little Frenchman quickly said, quelling Newkirk's incipient outburst with a hand on one arm. "It will be a badge of honor, for us."
That thought stopped Newkirk with his mouth just opening to protest, and he looked at LeBeau in surprise. "Y'know, you 'ave a point there, mate," he said, his voice going thoughtful now. "I 'and't thought o' it that way. An' Colonel 'Ogan, 'e 'as one too, now, don't 'e?" He glanced at the German for confirmation.
"He does," Mannheim nodded. "In fact, he goes today for a second. He will be carrying my family's coat of arms as a badge, so no one can mistake him. This he is in agreement with. You will not need to carry that, as you are to be fully freed."
"All right, then guv'nor…uh, General, sir," Newkirk quickly amended as LeBeau rolled his eyes. "I'll take that tattoo. When d'ye think we could be gettin' it done? Now?"
"I see no reason why not," Mannheim agreed, surprised that they had yielded so quickly. "The sooner it is done and healing well, the sooner you will be on your way home. You can be on a train for Paris in several days, LeBeau. And you, Corporal Newkirk, will be on the first plane-load of your countrymen, due to go at the end of the week. So I will call the infirmary and tell them to expect you, ja?"
"Well," Newkirk hesitated. "The Colonel, 'e told us about that Doktor what did 'is…"
"That was in Berlin, not here," the German assured him, his eyes hard now. "That man is now on the Eastern Front, for unnecessary cruelty. They will not mistreat you here."
"They wouldn't dare," Le Beau muttered under his breath with a soft laugh, joined, to his amazement, by the general.
"No. They would not dare. But go. I have work to do, unless you wish to be volunteered to assist? No? Very well, then; you are dismissed. Just tell your escort to take you to the infirmary." Mannheim reached for his phone, the interview clearly at an end. If only his day could be ended so easily.
Newkirk and LeBeau left, shutting the door behind themselves quietly.
Eventually, Mannheim pulled files from the next two barracks also, until he had six men with pilot qualifications to consider. Only one had flown bombers, true, but at least he had some sort of choice now. He had the men sent for and settled back to work, their files the only things marring the clear surface of his desk.
He studied them when they finally stood before him. Each man's file was open to show his picture, taken when he was first processed as a POW. Manheim shifted the files until each was before the man detailed upon its pages. Then he ignored the men to look over the files again. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and studied the men themselves once more.
Most withstood his gaze unflinchingly. One---the bomber pilot, natürlich, glared at him with undisguised hatred. That, he could do without; there were better choices available, and this man, a Squadron Leader(1) Gamble, had already refused to be tattooed once. He had him returned to his barracks, making a notation on the man's file and setting it aside. The others stood quietly at attention, only their eyes moving to indicate their unease.
He nodded very slightly. "You men have been sorely disappointed, I see. You expected to be sent back to England with the men who were born citizens of that land. How did you feel, I wonder, when you learned of what the men you'd fought and bled for thought about you? When they turned their backs on you?" He paused, watching as several shifted slightly, and smiled a tight, grim smile before continuing. "Now you find that you will be no different than your fellow American-born prisoners. You will live out your lives subject to another's whims." He saw several glares at that statement and made careful note of those men, for they still had some spirit, some pride. "You will have the same choices as the others now: to sit out your lives in a prison camp, or to accept letting yourselves be tattooed with your numbers so that you may be assigned work outside your compound. To give your parole, your bond.
"There is an opportunity for one of you as a pilot. As a co-pilot, actually, as the pilot was chosen some time ago. You would be flying again, although for a German this time. I do not need a firm commitment right now, only an indication that you might wish to consider accepting this position."
One man, Senior Captain Lewis it was, could contain himself no longer. "I won't fly for no damned Kraut!" he snarled, barely refraining from spitting at the German sitting so arrogantly before him.
"Very well," Mannheim calmly responded. "You need not. You may, instead, be dismissed. Guards, remove him."
The others had shifted ever so slightly away from Lewis, made uneasy by his open antagonism. None of them wanted to be caught in the explosive backlash that they expected his rudeness to cause. Now they looked shocked.
Again Mannheim grinned coldly. "Come now, gentlemen. This is a job interview, not an interrogation session. You are entitled to your opinions, although the good senior captain could have expressed his a bit more diplomatically."
That made them chuckle despite themselves, and Mannheim could feel the tension recede somewhat at last. He could feel them studying him carefully now, also. It was almost a pity he'd settled on Hogan as his pilot; the two blonds had good records, even if they showed less inclination to...no; he'd discovered that he enjoyed matching verbal wits with his Amerikaner. He would grow bored with the others too easily, would take them too much for granted. Not good.
The third man was a rather nondescript individual, rather stocky, with mousy brown hair. Plain-faced, even, although he carried himself well. The last was tall and dark-haired, much like Hogan himself; perhaps a bit taller and a shade heavier in build, with similar lean, handsome features, but with startlingly blue eyes where Hogan had dark brown. Mannheim could feel himself smile at a wicked thought. He could have a matched set, although Hogan would no doubt find a way to exploit that for his own benefit. Plus, this man would look just as good in the flight uniforms that the former colonel had designed for himself.
He looked down at the files one last time. "You are Captain Dirk Martins, ja? You flew Hurricanes during the war. I believe that you will suit the position admirably. You will consider, seriously consider, accepting the job. Do I make myself clear, Captain?"
Martins looked stunned. Mannheim turned to the others. "As for you three, I suspect that other General Officers will decide that they, too, require personal pilots, so you will probably find yourselves placed. You may return to your barracks; I wish to speak further with Captain Martins." He returned the salutes that they gave him, then turned his full attention back to Martins.
The American had sense enough to wait until the door closed behind the last of the other officers before objecting. "General, I'm a fighter pilot, not a...What type of aircraft would I be expected to fly, anyway?" His voice evened out as he got a grip on his panic.
"Sit down, Captain Martins. That is part of what must now be discussed." Mannheim waited patiently until the Amerikaner complied. "It is a modified Heinkel bomber. It has two engines, and I do not expect you to be able to fly it without training first. The intended pilot has flown one once already; he is trained on multi-engine British bombers and flew Blenheims during the war. For your first actual flight, you will have a trained German co-pilot to talk you through the procedures and give you whatever help you might need. I am not setting you up to fail, Martins."
"I haven't said I'd do it---or don't I have a choice?"
"You have a choice. I would prefer you to accept, but I will not force you. That would be a messy way to commit suicide, and my wife would never forgive me."
Despite himself, Martins chuckled at the German's droll comment. "How long do I have to think about this?" was his cautious query.
"Time is not limitless," Mannheim admitted, his eyes not quite as cold as they'd been. "You may take several days to consider. I need to leave for Paris and London after Christmas, and you will need some time to train first. Your pilot will be able to help with that; I will have you moved to his barracks to facilitate this. Do you have close friends in your current barracks?"
Time for caution again, Dirk thought, and shook his head. "Not really, sir. Most of the guys resented the fact that I was going to England---or, we all thought I would be. Then they seemed to feel---I guess superior is the best explanation---when the Brits repealed our citizenships."
"Very well, then. Pack your belongings; your guard will escort you to your new home. That will be all, Captain. Dismissed."
He wanted to protest. If he moved, everyone would assume that he'd accepted the job. But the General obviously had other things to concern himself with; the problems of a captive American officer would mean little, no doubt. With a sigh, Martins stood and saluted, then quietly accompanied his guard.
"Barracks Four," he said when the Gefreiter escorting him stopped just inside the compound gates.
"I know. But you haf bes' do as Herr General vishes," the man said before giving Martins a light shove in the right direction.
That was a warning to keep in mind, Martins thought glumly as he stuffed his meager belongings into a sack.
"Took th' job, eh?" someone sneered beyond his bunk.
He looked up to see a man he loathed watching him in disgust. "Not yet," Dirk drawled softly, knowing that this jerk wouldn't believe anything he said anyway. "I'm supposed to think about it for a couple of days. He's moving me anyway."
"Good riddance," the man muttered under his breath, but he made no further comments, due, no doubt, to the presence of the German Gefreiter.
Martins just couldn't help but feel the same. He'd come close to punching the guy out several times already; only the thought of a month in the cooler for starting a fight had stopped him. If nothing else came of this "job offer," at least he was getting away from Black. He stood and looked around, nodding to the Gefreiter that he was ready.
"Komm mit," the man ordered, but he didn't sound quite so harsh as he had earlier. He led the way deeper into the compound, arriving finally at the building labeled Barrake 14. He opened the door and stood back, allowing the Captain to precede him, but following closely behind.
"Hey, hi, Hermann," a young sandy-haired sergeant called out a greeting. "Who's this?"
The Gefreiter scowled briefly, then sighed. These..."Bear's Cubs"...were never going to speak to him with respect. At least this one, the simple one, meant no ill by it. Not like that smart-mouthed Englander. "Thiss iss Kapitan Martins, Karter. He iss to be liffing hier in. Perhaps he vill mit dein Oberst gefliegen. Find him a bunk."
"Jawohl, Hermann," Carter answered, his interest piqued. He turned to their new companion, a big smile on his face. "Hi, there, Captain. I'm Carter; welcome to Barracks 14. That's Sergeant Wilson; he's our medic. Most of the guys are out...well, not out out, but..."
Martins looked at this young tech sergeant in numb surprise as the man rambled on and on. Who were these people being talked about? Finally, someone else noticed and gave a laugh, then called out: "Carter!"
"Huh? Oh, sorry," he said, looking first surprised, then somewhat shamefaced. "I get kinda carried away, sir. Just stop me if I get going.
"There's a bunk down here you can have. I'm afraid we don't have any rooms open right now. The Colonel says that's what happens when you don't call ahead for reservations ... sorry."
Dirk went in and set his bag down, quietly spreading the mattress out and laying out his blankets. He wondered what that guard...Hermann...had said to these men, and wondered how they would treat him if they found out that the Jerries had offered him a job flying for them. What would they say if he took the job? He stretched out on the bunk to try to puzzle this out, courteously ignored by his new barracks-mates until such time as he would choose to rejoin them.
He had just drifted off to sleep when a rowdy commotion at the front end of the building caused him to look around, bleary-eyed.
"'Ere, now; 'oo's this, then?"
"That's Captain Martins, Newkirk," Carter started cheerfully. "Hermann says that he may be flying with the Colonel."
"Well, I would make him a cake as a welcome-in," LeBeau said, a bit unhappily, "but I 'ave nothing to bake it with. It is not like the old days." The little Frenchman sounded resigned at this state of affairs, just wistful for days gone by. Perhaps before the war.
Martins thought of his own now-unobtainable plans for the future, but pulled a smile up from somewhere at the latest round of introductions.
"What'd ye fly, mate? Oh, 'scuse me, sir; I'm Peter Newkirk, an' this 'ere's Louis LeBeau. We was in Stalag 13 before this."
"I flew Hurricanes, Corporal," Martins replied, finding himself set at ease by these men. But they were turning their attention to the two latecomers.
"Hey, Peter? What'd the general want with you an' Louis?" Carter asked eagerly, rather like a puppy, Dirk thought.
"Ol' General Mannheim?" Newkirk chuckled and pulled his right sleeve up. "'E's tryin' t' get me 'ome for Christmas, 'e says. An' we each got one o' these, like th' rest o' you blokes."
"They're supposed to be turning all the French and English loose," a major that Dirk hadn't met yet protested.
"'E says 'e will," the Cockney continued unperturbed. "They can't just turn us loose like them, though. They want t' know where we're at most times, an' I don't really blame 'em, now; d'you?"
"No, I suppose not," the major laughed back, then noticed the blank look of confusion on the new captain's face. "Here, let me explain," he said, still laughing. "You're bunking in with the luckiest bunch of guys there ever was. They're known saboteurs and spies, and they weren't even tried, never mind shot or hung. Their CO took all the blame, and even he wasn't shot."
"'E was supposed t' be, though," Newkirk was sober now, for this was a serious matter to all of them. "'E was known as PAPA BEAR during the war---yeah, I see you've 'eard o' him. But th' general---General Mannheim, as is over gettin' all of us settled---'e didn't want that t' 'appen, so 'e took th' colonel as a bondsman. So we don't badmouth 'im, nor give 'im a 'ard time."
"I see...I think," Martins slowly responded. And maybe he would, once he'd had time to assimilate everything. At least it sounded like these men wouldn't make his life hell if he took that job offer. He'd have to give it some serious thought after all.
*******
There was a guard waiting outside the Kommandantur as promised, a young private in, oh, his early twenties, Hogan guessed. He had a car waiting, too, so Hogan calmly climbed in. The man looked over at him and seemed a bit unhappy.
"What's wrong?" Hogan asked, hoping it wouldn't prove to be something major.
"Ich spreche keine Englische," the guard admitted, sounding like this was a horrible shortcoming on his part.
«That's okay,» Hogan responded, easily switching languages. "Ich spreche Deutsche. Wie hießen Sie?"
It took him totally by surprise. "Heine," he blurted, then caught himself. "Ich heiße Heine Jäger, Soldat, und du bist Hogan, ja?"
«That's right,» Hogan answered, totally at ease. «We're supposed to find a good Tattoo Artist. You know any?"»
«Well, yes,» the guard cautiously replied, realizing that he was totally out of control of this situation and wondering when that had happened.
«Relax; I'm not going to get you into Trouble,» Hogan laughed kindly. «I promise.»
********
When would he learn to keep his big mouth shut and not make promises he couldn't keep, Hogan wondered as the local police shut the cell door with a resounding clang. General Mannheim would kill him...maybe even literally.
They had driven into town...Dusseldorf, Hogan saw. He'd been here during the war, but not often; it had been too far from Stalag 13 to be in easy range. Heine had driven very cautiously, for the roads were still icy from the latest storm. He'd known the locations of two places that did tattoos, but he had steered Hogan towards a run-down place on the outskirts of town, near what had once been a large factory.
He hadn't objected, for he knew only too well that exceptional talent could be found in the unlikeliest of places. Inside, he'd been pleased to see that it was very clean, with the equipment kept in sterilizing solutions between customers.
The artist had had no problems working with an American bondsman; he'd brought out his design book, and they'd decided which form of chain would look best with this badge design. He'd proved to have a light touch with his needles, and, in Hogan's opinion, had done an outstanding job. He had tipped the artist very well for his effort, too.
No; the trouble had started when they had gone to the Hauserhoff for supper. There had been a large crowd, and Hogan's uniform had been conspicuous in its uniqueness. They had had to wait at the bar for a table, and there had been several nasty comments made, which the two men from Stalag 16 had carefully ignored. They had finally gotten a table and, eventually, their meals. Not the best Hogan had ever had, not by a long shot, but it was a change from camp food. Then they'd left, after having only one beer each during their meal.
About seven or eight men had been waiting for them near their car, lurking in the shadows. Hogan, having been lulled into a sense of false security, hadn't seen them until it'd been too late. Poor Heine hadn't been trained for this type of fighting, although he'd done his best. If there had been fewer, he might have been able to handle them.
As a bondsman, Hogan knew that he was forbidden to strike a German unless he was acting as a bodyguard for his superior. He wasn't about to just stand by, though, while these toughs took his escort apart.
Most of their attackers were down, incapacitated, when the local police finally arrived. Hogan saw them and stopped himself, but Heine, less experienced, had struck out when he felt a strong hand settle on his shoulder. That cop would recover, although he'd hurt while eating for some time to come.
But now they were here in jail, Hogan back in manacles once more. General Mannheim was gonna kill him...if that police captain didn't, first. He watched the man coming towards his cell, a length of heavy hose in his hands, and sighed. It had been quite some time since he'd had to absorb that kind of abuse, and he'd hoped to avoid any more.
«Captain, meaning no disrespect, but you'd better hold off on that until my Superior talks to you. A little delay now could mean a lot to you later on.» He watched the ugly gleam of anticipation in the man's eyes grow uglier.
«Insolent American Pig!»the captain snarled, starting to unlock the cell door. In the next cell, Hogan could hear his escort starting to yell threats of what would happen when his general heard about his; the police captain just looked meaner.
«SoldatJäger, shut up!» Hogan snapped in his best Offizier voice. «You're not helping; just making him madder!» He turned his attention back to the captain, who'd nearly reached him. «Seriously, sir, you might want to wait. One of two things're gonna happen when General Mannheim gets here: Either he's gonna shoot me, or he'll say, 'Well done, Rob.' If he's gonna shoot me, he'll probably let you beat me first. If it's the second, he'll check me for Damage, and we both know that Bruises from a Rubber Hose don't look anything like those from Fists.
«He's already sent two Men to the Eastern Front, that I know of, for roughing me up.» Hogan stood motionless, holding his breath. The police captain had raised the hose, ready to bring it down in a vicious backhanded blow, but paused at Hogan's last words.
«You lie!» the German snarled, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes now.
«Sir, that would be one of the stupider things that I could do.» Hogan put every trace of sincerity that he could muster into his voice. «It's too easy for you to check. And I know you will check, too. So I'll tell you about them now, and you'll see.
«The first was just a Military Police Feldwebel---actually, a Guard down in the Lockup in Berlin. He got sent for actually beating me, because I objected to him holding back the Supper my General had had sent to me. The second was a Doktor at the Hospital, where I went to get my Tattoo; he just had his Goo...Orderlies, I guess they were...rough me up before my Escort could get in to stop them.»
«You have no Number!» the man cried, ready to strike again, in anger this time.
«Yes I do; it's on the back of my left Shoulder. Says so on my Papers! » Hogan nearly yelled this, his voice almost at the top of its register, trying to prevent the blow from falling, but it landed heavily across the side of his face, knocking him off his feet and into the wall. Twice more the hose struck whatever portion of him was uppermost; then there were voices yelling orders, furious-sounding, and hands were helping him up onto the bunk.
"Rob, are you all right?" It was Weber, Hogan saw, and if Karl was here, then...He looked around in time to see two military police troopers hauling the police captain up from the floor. A thoroughly enraged Mannheim stood over the now-cowed policeman. Hogan didn't even have the energy to grin. And then the General turned to face him.
"What did you do this time, Hogan?" he demanded, his voice frosty.
«Sir, we were attacked as we were returning to our Car after Dinner. There were perhaps eight Men, too many for Soldat Jäger to handle by himself, though he did try. I felt it was my Duty to keep them off his Back while he defended us.
«We had them all down by the time the Police arrived; I saw the Officers around us and stopped. Soldat Jäger did not see them, I think, so when one grabbed his Shoulder from behind, he turned and hit the Officer. They overpowered us and brought us here to lock us up and wait for you. Sir.» Hogan made that report as clear and free of blame as he could. Accusing the cops of needless roughness would be counterproductive, and Mannheim was no fool.
«And this little Scene that I walked in on?» Mannheim was still really mad, Hogan thought as he carefully chose his words.
«I'm not sure why the Captain thought he needed to hit me, sir. I've been watching my Mouth. I tried to tell him, with all due Respect, that he should, perhaps, wait until he'd spoken to you before he began using that Hose he had with him. Seemed like he was gonna wait; then he decided I was lying to him, and he lit into me. He'd just started when you got here, Herr General.»
«They were drunk,» the Captain, groggy but on his feet now, accused. «They attacked my Men.»
«We'd only had one Beer each, with Dinner, sir. It takes a lot more than that to get me drunk,» Hogan snapped back, angered now himself. «And if I'dattacked his Men, they'd be in the Hospital with the Scum that jumped us. You'll only find one Cop there, the Guy Heine hit. I think he's got a busted Jaw, 'cause Heine hit him with a Chair Leg someone'd tried to use on him. »
«I tell you, this American Pig attacked my Men!» The police captain, a civilian, was nearly foaming at the mouth now and clearly beyond caution.
Mannheim looked at him coldly. «Hogan may do many things he should not, but to me does not lie. You will regret assaulting my Man.»
«I have Friends in High Places!» the captain blustered. «You have no Hold over me; I will see you pay for your Interference!»
Hogan and Weber exchanged grim smiles.
"Two days, I'd say," Hogan commented cryptically. "D'you think you can take these manacles off, now?"
"A week at the most, and no, I won't wager on a sure thing," Karl responded. "Hold still; your wrists are bleeding, Rob. And the right one...it does not look good."
"It doesn't feel good. I think I hit the edge of the bunk with it after he knocked me into the wall. On the way down." He sat still as the younger German carefully unlocked the handcuffs, but he couldn't hold back his cry of pain as his left arm swung free. He hadn't noticed that before; no doubt the pain slicing into his skull from the blow to his face had masked it. It felt like it was dislocated. "Uh, d'y' think we c'n go to' th' hospital, Gen'ral?" he slurred, the facial swelling starting to make speech difficult. "Please?"
*********
The doctor looked over the bondsman quickly, then up in icy anger at the two Germans with him. «Which one of you did this to him?» he demanded, ready to...he did not know what, exactly, he would do, but whoever was responsible for beating this prisoner would pay. Too many had ignored such things, for too long.
Mannheim looked at him in shock. «We did not do this!» he snapped, outraged that anyone would think that he would treat one of his people like this. «That verdammt Captain of Police did it, and Rob had done nothing to deserve such Treatment!»
The doctor got such a look of disgust on his face at the mention of the police that it told the others no further explanations were necessary.
"Herr Doktor?" Hogan called, ready to black out by this time. "D' y' think you could...?"
*********
«...Wrists were lacerated by the Handcuffs, and the right Wrist was broken in two Places. The left Shoulder was dislocated, as you suspected, but I have already reduced the Joint. I can only bandage the broken Wrist in a soft Splint, due to the Lacerations, but those should heal with no Problems. Fortunately the Bones in his Face were not fractured, although the Swelling is severe. What was used?»
«Rubber Hose,» Hogan answered for himself, drawing everyone's attention back to him. «Shoulder was from hittin' th' Wall, an' a second Hit from th' Hose. Wrist was broken from fallin' onto th' Edge of the Bunk, I think.»
«You're lucky you didn't break your thick Skull,» Mannheim snorted in disgust, but he looked pleased to see his man awake again. «We will get you back to Camp and into a Bed.»
But the doctor was shaking his head. «No; I wish to keep him here, at least Overnight. Will this be a Problem? Will he need to be guarded?»
Hogan grinned at the general's grimace of distaste. «He will not need a Guard to keep him here,» Mannheim answered, «only to protect him from your local Citizenry.»
«Yeah, Herr Doktor,» Hogan agreed. «Heine and I---he's the Camp Guard who escorted me into Town earlier---we've already sent eight Men here who attacked us around Suppertime. What's happened to them, anyway?»
«They were treated and released,» the doctor responded absently as he wrote a few more lines on the American's chart. «Why?»
«I wasn't done with them yet,» Hogan answered, only half-joking.
«Do not worry,» Mannheim assured in all seriousness. «I will get their Names from the hospital Records. They will be dealt with.»
«Yes; well, I will get Someone to bring your Bondsman to a Room,» the doctor interrupted, for this did not sound good for those other men.
«Do that, Herr Doktor, if you would. I need to return to Camp; some people are waiting for me there. I will send someone to you, Rob, so you may rest easy tonight.»
"Danke, mein General," Hogan answered, and no one could doubt the sincerity in his voice. "Danke schön."
*********
«So what was it this Time, mein General?» Ritter asked with a laugh when Mannheim rejoined the men he had so precipitously left earlier. «Passing counterfeit Bills?»
"Nein, Rudi," Mannheim laughed in spite of his anger. «As usual, it was not Hogan's Fault; at least, he didn't start the Trouble.» The faces of his audience darkened with anger as he told the tale, for they had all met this exceptional Amerikaner and had found himto be a good companion. «But I think that Captain of Police meant to beat him to Death,» he finished his explanation.
«That is a bad Precedent to set, Sebastian,» General Albert Burkhalter muttered, his eyes reflecting his now somber mood.
«Oh, ja, a very bad Precedent. And then he had the Nerve to threaten me---me!---with his 'Friends in high Places,' and said I had no Hold over him! The Insolence of that Scum! I'll show him who has Influence over whom.» The general was beyond mere anger now; he was out for vengeance, for his honor had been attacked by this...person. «Tomorrow I will have him conscripted into Military Service; then we shall see who has Power over whom. He is fat, full-fleshed. No doubt he managed to avoid doing his Duty to the Fatherland during the War, but he will not escape me.»
They laughed, but not at Mannheim. Hogan was his in a way these men could all understand: More than a mere victory trophy, for he had conquered the man's very heart and soul. No one would be allowed to trample over this prize with impunity, especially when he had not deserved that punishment. All agreed that this American had been showing surprising depths lately.
Finally Mannheim calmed down. «Eh, my friends, I am sorry to have wasted so much of our Time carrying on like a Child over one Man, when there are so many in dire straits. I have been looking into the matter of the POWs being held in Italy and have discovered that the Condition of the Men brought into Germany by Major Knust's column was not an isolated Incident. Abuse and Neglect are rampant in the Camps run by the Fascisti, and they show no Inclination to release the Men they are holding. We will quite literally have to capture those Camps if we wish to get those Men out.»
«Do we wish to open that particular Can of Worms now?» General-leutnant Heinz Kimmich of the Heer asked. «This could lead to severe Fighting in the Mountains to the South.»
«Better now than later,» Field Marshall Berrer replied. «If we wait, it may occur to them that we want those Men. And we will have to deal with the Fascisti eventually; Mussolini is acting more and more erratic, much as Hitler did. Better that we pick the Time and Place, nein?»
«Better for those Men that we get them out of there and back to Germany soon,» Mannheim flatly answered. «More die from Disease and Starvation every day. Our troops captured most of them, not the Italians. We are honor-bound to see to them.»
«Just so,» Berrer agreed. «And I believe that Major Knust has shown us the Way. I will speak to Field Marshall Rommel, but I am sure that he will cooperate in this. More and more Units of his Afrika Korp are being assigned to rotate home, replacing Units here in Europe so that those fresh Troops can reinforce our eastern Border. Most convoy their Equipment up through Italy in large Columns.
«I propose that we assign them different Routes, taking the various POW Camps they will pass as they head north. We will send the Men they - we could almost say 'liberate,' couldn't we? We will send those Men north in Truck Convoys where available; airlift them out if we have to. It will be too hard to cover what we are doing if we send them by Train.»
There were many nods and murmurs of agreement among the assembled men; only Mannheim himself looked doubtful.
«That could still take too long,» was his ultimate comment. Again silence fell while they thought; then, «What if I were to take a second Division down from the North at the same Time? Those Men could be shipped by Rail, through the Bremner Pass, which we control. We could meet somewhere in the Middle, and take care of Il Duce and his Cronies while we are there.»
«You are ambitious, » General Major Biffer criticized with a scowl.
«I am realistic,» Mannheim responded. "Do you imagine that the Italians will let us take these Men away from them and do nothing? They will attack; better we strike presumptively, while we have the Advantage of Surprise. And also in that Vein, the sooner we go, the better. Immediately after Christmas, I would recommend. »
«And do you want anything else?» Biffer growled, intending sarcasm, but Mannheim had the bit in his teeth now.
«Ja. Several Units of Paratroopers to drop in just before our main Groups arrive. They can cut the Phone Lines and take out any stray Sentries so our Prizes are not slaughtered before we can reach them, and so Warning does not go out to the rest of Italy.
«As long as our Men do not molest them, the local Peasants will do nothing; most hate the Fascisti almost as much as the rabid Nazis were hated here. I do not believe that they will interfere.»
«Very well, then,» Berrer proclaimed, ending further discussion. «I will contact Field Marshall Rommel as soon as I get back to Berlin and arrange Matters there. Will you be flying down to Italy, Sebastian?»
«I'm afraid not,» Mannheim admitted with a rueful sigh. «My Pilot has a broken Wrist and a dislocated Shoulder, courtesy of the Dusseldorf Police.»
(1) Equivalent of a Major.