Author's note: Carter's turn at the PoV now :o) It's a hard day's night for our heroes … and it's not getting any better!

This chapter is where Rune's German help was especially precious. Thanks a lot!

Disclaimer: The three musketeers (no, not those guys) belong to Fein's estate and Ruddy, but all original characters belong to me. They get their fair share of misery, too.

Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter Three

Carter froze, and for a brief moment everything else seemed to grind to a halt as well. From the corner of his eye he could make out Newkirk's still form on the ground a few paces behind the German pilot, and LeBeau, bloodless face twisted in pain, staring at him with wide eyes … But the gun filled his whole field of vision.

It was a Lüger, sleek, black and shiny, and right now it was the most important thing in the world – at least to Carter. He risked a glance at the guy's face behind the gun, and went cold inside. The German didn't have the look of somebody about to gloat. He had the look of someone who just wanted to survive.

And indeed, he didn't gloat, he didn't make a cutting comment or even smile before he pressed the trigger. Carter didn't even have time to close his eyes in terror.

The gun went click. The sound seemed to echo throughout the woods.

Carter realised he was still alive half a second before the German realised that there was something wrong with his gun. Acting on an explosive mix of instincts, terror and pure adrenalin, he drew back and landed the most beautifully textbook right hook he had ever delivered. Somewhere in the back of his head something wished that Kinch had been there to give his opinion on this punch.

The German went down like a sack of potatoes.

The next second, Carter was biting down a yelp and trying to shake some life back into his hand. He hadn't punched that many guys in his life, and so regularly forgot how much it hurt.

"La vache, Carter! Are you okay?" LeBeau was still walking a little funny, and colour had yet to start creeping back up into his cheeks. He seized Carter's arm and badly flinched when his eyes flicked to Carter's bleeding lip.

Reaction was settling in, and Carter's legs were starting to feel like that funny jelly he had tasted in England before he got shot down. He nodded nevertheless, not even caring that LeBeau would inevitably notice how much his hands were shaking. "Yeah, I … I guess so." He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other while the Frenchman checked that their would-be attacker was no longer a threat. "So, is he, uh …"

"Out cold. You did a great job!" There was a hint of incredulous surprise in LeBeau's voice, and maybe some other time Carter would have shrugged it off. Right now, though, he was tired, chilled to the bone and aching all over, so the remark annoyed him – was it that unbelievable, coming from him?

While LeBeau relieved the German of his weapons (including a knife in his right boot), Carter bent over Newkirk, who was stirring and mumbling something he didn't catch.

"Take it easy, Newkirk," he said as the Englishman slowly raised his head and looked about him, bleary-eyed. "Gee, you're gonna have a nasty bump."

"Reckon I've got one already," Newkirk muttered, rubbing gingerly the back of his head. "Bloody hell … Did you get the number of that locomotive? How many of the buggers jumped me?"

"Just the one guy."

"Really?" Newkirk's eyes fell on the German whose hands LeBeau was busy tying up with the guy's own shoelaces. "Well. Thought he was a lot bigger than that."

"The way he kicked, he didn't need to be bigger. And if he hadn't been alone …" Carter wiped a drop of blood from his lip to keep from shuddering. "I'm just lucky his gun jammed."

Newkirk peered at him a lot more sharply, and Carter was suddenly glad his hands had stopped trembling before he had truly woken up. Newkirk got scared every now and then like everybody else, for himself or others, and he was the first to admit it when a mission sounded much too chancy or when he got badly shaken; but he also tended to say lots of things for the sake of making a joke. The last thing Carter wanted was to advertise just how terrified he had been staring into the muzzle of that gun.

He was still shaking a little, but at least he could pretend it was because of the cold.

"We all got lucky, sounds like," Newkirk finally said as he gripped Carter's arm to get to his feet. "This night just keeps getting more and more interesting."

"Don't say that!" LeBeau almost snapped, stepping over their unconscious prisoner to stare at the Englishman more closely. His sudden outburst made Carter jump a little. "Every time you said that word tonight, something bad happened." Then his half-hearted glare softened a little, and heartfelt worry took over. "Are you all right?"

"Ask me again when me head's back to normal. For the moment it feels bigger than Westminster Cathedral. And it's ringing like it's ruddy Christmas day." Newkirk prodded the inert body with his foot. "So, what do we do about him, then?"

"I'd say we drop him into the pond, but he would float back to the surface," LeBeau muttered grimly. Carter honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not, and for a second he couldn't bring himself to care. It was hard to feel sorry for somebody who just a few minutes before had put a gun against his head and pulled the trigger, just like that.

After one glance at the guy's face, though, Carter decided he could afford a little pity. After all, he must have thought that it was him or them, and in other circumstances he might not have been such a bad guy. Who knows? Maybe he isn't. War does things to people.

"Let's take him with us," he said, surprising even himself with the suggestion. "Perhaps he knows useful stuff. The Underground can take care of him after that and ship him to one of our POW camps."

The other two stared at him.

Just when he started to think this was a really stupid idea and wondering who was going to suggest bumping the German off first, Newkirk nodded. "All right. Maybe our Kraut friend will tell us just what he was doing all alone in his Messerschmitt over Hammelburg when we know for a fact there was no raid planned in the area tonight."

LeBeau seemed to ponder this, and, after a look in Carter's direction, nodded too.

Since Newkirk was still swaying ever so slightly, Carter picked up the German's shoulders while LeBeau took up his feet, and they trudged back to camp into a fog that still vaguely smelled like smoke, side-stepping the puddles as much as they could.

Their prisoner woke up about fifty yards later.

Carter heard him mutter "Was ist passiert? Was …" Then he must have figured out what happened by himself, because he twisted and twitched so much that Carter and LeBeau had to drop him. It was that, or getting yet another bruise.

The German looked around frantically, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice when he barked, "Gebt lieber auf! Ihr seid umzingelt!"

"Stop yelling like that, we're not surrounded," Carter retorted. "You're all alone."

LeBeau had a nasty sort of smile on his face. "In fact, if there's somebody here who's surrounded, it's you."

The pilot tested the knots around his wrists, but they held fast. "Dafür werdet ihr bezahlen!" he snarled. "Schweinepriester!"

Newkirk pointed his own gun at him. The guy closed his mouth and squinted at the barrel. Carter wondered if he was feeling the same terror he had felt in the same situation.

"Lay off the insults, mate," Newkirk said coldly. "You're our prisoner now, so behave."

The German growled something that made Carter frown, perplexed. "Did he just call you a pig hound?"

Newkirk opened and closed his mouth, apparently uncertain whether he should be angry or amused. He opted for something halfway between the two, and his lips twitched. "… No, Carter, he really didn't. Blimey, someone's got a potty mouth." Then he turned back to the prisoner, all traces of mirth gone. "Listen up, sunshine. Don't know if you've noticed, but it's a bit nippy, the weather's bloody miserable, we're drenched to the bone and we don't have all night, so I'll keep it simple. You're coming with us, end of."

"… Oder?"

"Or else? Well, it's your funeral."

"Provided they find your body," LeBeau added conversationally. The German's eyes darted from one to the other, then came to rest on Carter, who shrugged and tried to keep in the spirit of the thing.

"Hey, don't look at me, I voted for letting you live. Told them you probably knew stuff." He cocked his head slightly on the side and narrowed his eyes. "Do you speak English at all?"

The prisoner's eyes went from Carter to the gun then back to Carter, and his glare faded to a sullen scowl.

"I speak a little."

"There you go," Carter said with enthusiasm he didn't really have. Right now, the only thing that kept him on his feet was the knowledge that he would get a hot cup of coffee, dry clothes and a spot near the stove when they were back in camp.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we're making progress. Marvellous." He made a 'get up' gesture with the hand that held the gun. "Now start walking. We're done carrying you."

The German glared daggers at him, but stood up with more bad grace than real difficulty despite his bound hands. Newkirk was sharp enough to leave a few paces between him and the gun, enough that he could not miss if their prisoner attempt to run, but far enough that he could react should the pilot try something more aggressive.

Carter fell in right behind Newkirk, and LeBeau took up the rear again.

After a while, and even though walking warmed him up some, he got so tired of shivering that he unclenched his jaw and asked in a low voice, "So, Fritz, what's your name?"

German, Englishman and Frenchman turned to him with nearly the same expression of disbelief on their faces. It was almost unsettling.

Newkirk recovered first, of course.

"Carter, he's our prisoner, not a stray you picked up in the woods."

"Why do you want to waste time on something like that?" asked LeBeau angrily. "That guy almost killed you!"

Carter shrugged. "I know, but still – he's got a name. I can't keep calling him 'that guy' in my head."

"Yes, you bloody well can, at least for the rest of the trip!" Newkirk stared at him in open disbelief, but his gun was still firmly trained on the German. "Unbelievable."

"You can call him anything you like in your head," muttered LeBeau. "'Fritz', 'Jerry', 'Kraut', 'Boche', 'Fridolin', 'Teuton', 'Chleuh' – it's not like he will mind."

"And if he does mind, well, tough break." Carter thought the American saying sounded strange with Newkirk's Cockney accent. "He'll tell us everything he knows that's useful when we get him to our place. Which reminds me – LeBeau, give us your scarf."

LeBeau opened his mouth to protest, but after seeing Newkirk's expression and glancing at the still-unnamed German, pulled on his soaked red scarf with only a grumbled complain. Newkirk deftly tied it over the prisoner's eyes and somehow made a neat, solid-looking knot behind his head.

"There. No peeking."

"Is supposed to be funny?" 'Fritz' protested. "I cannot see my feet! I'll fall!"

"Don't worry, we're watching you closely," snapped LeBeau, who still looked clearly disgruntled at the temporary loss of his scarf, despite the fact that it was as wet as he was and couldn't be very warm. "We won't let you escape, and we won't let you fall, either. No matter how tempting it is," he muttered, almost too low for Carter to hear.

The look on the prisoner's face made it clear the words had been heard and fully understood.

Between his waterlogged clothes, the scratches on his face that were starting to smart, and his general state of fatigue, Carter was starting to feel more miserable than he had been in a long time. The rational part of his brain argued that a few hours, at the most, had passed since they left Hilda's Hofbräu, but the pretty owner's smile as she waved goodbye now seemed ages ago and very, very far away.

They were still trudging the forest along the road, careful not to get caught in bramble or step into a hole. The ground was treacherous, and Carter was so focused on not letting himself trip that, at the sound of the German's low voice, he almost did stumble.

"Has my plane fallen on the forest?"

"What?"

"My plane. I saw a city near. I tried for the forest, but …"

LeBeau and Newkirk shot him surprised glances. Carter answered immediately, "It crashed in the forest."

"Not – city?"

"No, nobody got hurt."

Newkirk rolled his eyes, and LeBeau had the funny expression Carter had quickly come to associate with 'I can't believe what I'm hearing'. He had the satisfaction of seeing the prisoner's shoulders slump slightly in relief. If he's worried that the plane crash might have hurt someone, he can't be all bad.

"What were you doing on your own like that, anyway?" Carter prodded, stepping over a particularly vicious bramble branch. "Deserting?"

Judging by the way the German's head swivelled in the direction of his voice – almost fast enough to give himself whiplash – and the way the lower part of his face contorted, this was either exactly the wrong thing to say …

"Natürlich nicht! Your planes attacked Frankfurt, the Luftwaffe attacked them!"

… Or exactly the right thing to say.

"You're a long way from Frankfurt, mate," Newkirk countered, squinting at the German – not that the prisoner could see it. "What happened, you got caught up in the dogfight and forgot the time?"

'Fritz' – it really did bother Carter that they still didn't know his name – stiffened, perhaps regretting having said too much, but shrugged and continued nonetheless.

"My plane was hit. Instruments – kaputt. I tried to reach the near base at …" This time he stopped himself before he could give away anything precise, and went on, tight-lipped, "In the end, I jumped."

"That explains why he was in the area," LeBeau said in a low voice with a swift glance at Carter and what might have been a smile. "And now we know there's an airfield not far from here."

"Let's hope our Kraut friend here has interesting information up his sleeve," Newkirk added with a definite smirk, taking the German by the arm and starting to walk again.

After a few seconds, Carter heard LeBeau mutter to Newkirk, "You had to use that word again."

"Oh, please, just because I said 'interesting' …"

"Look, I'm not superstitious, but –"

"Yes you are, if you think one ruddy word is enough to jinx us!"

"What means the word, äh, 'jinx'?" 'Fritz' asked Carter in an undertone, looking puzzled. Carter sighed.

"'Verhexen', I think. They're joking, though. Guys, would you just –" He stopped, and his breath caught in his throat. Soldiers were trudging through the forest not fifteen yards away. Whether they were Wehrmacht, SS or Stalag XIII guards, Carter couldn't tell through the fog and the darkness. He tackled the German pilot and clamped a hand on his mouth. Newkirk and LeBeau paused in their whispered argument, shot one glance in the soldiers' direction, and dropped to the ground at the same time.

The patrol had to be about half a mile from the tunnel entrance.

Newkirk swore under his breath. "Well, doesn't that just top everything."

"They're heading towards the road. We could try going around them," suggested LeBeau.

They agreed, and started walking the long way, putting as much distance as they could between them and the soldiers. 'Fritz' moved stiffly, as though he had hurt something when Carter had pounced on him, and the American felt a twinge of pity – which didn't stop him from making sure their prisoner knew that he was expendable before removing his hand from this mouth. The thought of killing someone like that, up close and personal, made Carter feel queasy and uncomfortable, but if it had to be done – if his buddies' lives depended on it – then he would (should?) do it in a heartbeat.

How different does that make me from this guy, then? he thought.

Carter didn't have time to answer his own question. 'Fritz', still blindfolded, stepped on a twig; the crack sounded loud and clear as a bell throughout the woods, freezing the three Allies into place and inevitably drawing the patrol's attention.

Suddenly nobody was concerned with not snapping twigs or breaking branches any more – they couldn't even hear themselves running in the midst of all the shouting and weapons firing in their general direction. Somehow Carter managed to keep 'Fritz' on his feet as they bolted between the wet ferns and trees, lungs on fire, a mix of self-preservation and terror guiding their feet.

How nobody got killed was a miracle.

How they found the fake tree stump and managed to disappear down the tunnel before the Germans knew what actually happened was another.

So maybe bad luck striking again at that point and preventing a third miracle was fair enough. LeBeau swiftly slid down the ladder, Carter followed, then their prisoner, hastily helped by Newkirk, who lost no time closing the lid.

Carter was five rungs from the floor of the tunnel when he heard a startled Cockney oath and a gasp from 'Fritz', and looked down to see LeBeau drawing breath to shout.

The next second, everything went dark.

Well, you didn't think it would be that easy, did you? ;o)

Translations/Notes:

La vache !: Word-for-word, "the cow" – yes, French does have an expression equivalent to "holy cow", without the holy bit. "(Oh) la vache" is one of the expletives I use most; it's colloquial, but quite mild. Don't ask me what is so special about cows, though …

Was ist passiert? Was …: "What happened? What …"

Gebt lieber auf! Ihr seid umzingelt!: "You'd better give up! You're surrounded!" Plural, informal.

Dafür werdet ihr bezahlen!: "You will pay for this!" Plural and informal as well.

Schweinepriester!: "Bastards" (swine-herders were not very highly regarded in medieval monasteries). Schweinehund (plural Schweinehunde) – literally, "pig-dogs" – roughly means the same thing, although I'm told it's ruder.

Oder?: "Or else?"