Chapter 8
Hotch's eyes gave nothing away when the door opened and Rossi casually walked into his office. But despite that, the older man suspected his friend was putting on a front for him. So without asking permission, the older man plopped down in a chair in front of his friend's desk and crossed his legs. He folded his hands in his lap and stared at the younger man.
"How did I know it was you?" asked Hotchner with a reserved expression.
Rossi shrugged. "I have no idea. Perhaps it's my Italian ancestry. I'm sneaky." He glanced at the half-eaten sandwich and half-filled cup of coffee on the desk before turning back to the younger man. "I see you didn't finish your lunch. That tells me something else occupied you instead. Want to tell me what?"
"I simply got involved in a case file during lunch. I wish you'd stop assuming something's wrong. I'm fine. Besides, we're not supposed to profile each other, remember."
"Uh-huh. And I'm on my honeymoon with Strauss," was the sarcastic retort. "C'mon, Hotch. Who do you think you're talking to here? You're my best friend and I want to help you. So talk to me. What's going on with you?"
Hotch paused as he tapped his pen on the desk as he mulled something over in his mind. Rossi was an ex-Marine. And since the journal dealt with World War 2, he might be able to help or have some insight. This made Rossi the best choice. He breathed out through his nose and put down his pen.
"All right," he replied opening his middle desk drawer. "What I'm going to show you stays for now between us. I might let the rest of the team in on it later if need be." He handed Rossi the journal. "There were ten journals in a box sent to me by my late mother a while back shortly after my dad's death. I had no idea what was in them, but I thought I'd check them out to see if they were something I could pass on to Jack. I started reading this first one so I can't tell you much. With a nod of his head, Rossi's eyes narrowed as he studied the cover of the journal. "FAIRYTALES OF A PAPA BEAR," he read and started thumbing through the pages. "The title is certainly conducive to it being for a child. Any idea who wrote this?"
"Yes. My grandfather. It appears he was a prisoner-of-war during WW2 and was assigned to a Stalag 13."
"So you've been reading during your lunch hour instead of working as you told me earlier."
"Pretty much," Hotch said sheepishly.
The older man examined a random page of the journal. "Hmm. Corporals LeBeau and Newkirk, Sergeants Carter and Kinchloe, and a Colonel Robert Hogan." He looked thoughtful for a few minutes. "I'm not sure, but I've heard the name Hogan before but I can't remember where." As he closed the book, he stared at his friend. "You find out anything?"
"Nothing yet. But I did find a photo inside of six men, one of whom is my grandfather, and one I suspect is this Colonel Hogan. I have no idea who the others are. I gave Garcia the photo and asked her to work her magic as Morgan puts it. I hope she finds something."
"Who or what is this Papa Bear your grandfather mentioned in the title?"
"I have no idea so far."
Rossi handed the journal back to Hotch. "You read anything interesting so far?" he gestured toward the book with his eyes.
Hotch took a deep breath. "What I've read sounds exactly like the title. It sounds too fantastic to be true; like a fairy-tale."
"How so?"
"Well, and again I based this on the little I've read. There seems to be what can best be described as an underground network for lack of a better description operated by this Colonel Hogan beneath Stalag 13. I mean, from what I recall of WW2 from my school days, there's no way such thing could even be remotely possible."
Rossi pyramided his fingers in front of his face. "I remember you telling me your grandfather was an avid storyteller when you and Sean were kids. You think this might be one of his make-believe stories written by him?"
Hotch shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "Possibly. I mean, there's no way it can be real. No, that's not exactly true. I can't really say for sure one way or the other. It could very well be a fairy-tale mixed with a touch of reality."
"You mean because of this so-called underground network beneath Stalag 13 along with your grandfather being assigned to a prisoner-of-war camp."
"Exactly." Hotch was so glad Rossi understood and he didn't have to go into detail.
Rossi nodded and grinned. "You're gonna ask for my help in checking it out, aren't you?"
Hotch glared at his mentor but not in anger. "You're an ass, I hope you realize that."
The older man smirked. "But you still love me anyway. So, how can I help?"
"I'm not sure exactly," Hotch told him. "At least until I hear from Garcia anyway. But you were in the Marines so I thought perhaps…"
Rossi smirked and held up a hand. "Say no more. Let me know what kitten finds and I'll put a few feelers out and see what I can find out for you."
"Thanks, Dave. I mean it."
Rossi chuckled as he started to get out of the chair. "Don't thank me. Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"Promise me when you're finished reading it you let me borrow it so I can read it."
Hotch chuckled. "Sure. No problem. Besides, Jack is too young right now to read them. If they're all right, I'll save them until he's older."
"Good idea," the older man replied as he reached for the door handle.
"Dave…"
Rossi paused and turned his head. "What is it?"
Hotch pursed his lips. "I just had a thought. Maybe I might have these journals published before I give them to Jack. In fact, even if the stories are not real they could be interesting for others to read."
The older man nodded. "Tell you what. After you finish reading everything and we check everything out, if you still want to do it, I'll put you in touch with my publisher."
"You don't have to do that…"
"It's no trouble, believe me. Glad to do it." He turned the door handle and opened the door. "Come see me when you're heard from Garcia."
(Flashback – March, 1944):
The four German guards gathered around the body of the deceased with rifles pointed downward. They all could tell their victim was dead, its eyes with their vacant stare and a bullet hole right above them. One of the guards, studying the body chuckled as he looked at the others.
"We got him," He said gleefully. He smiled at the patrol leader. "Tonight we have fresh meat for dinner."
The patrol leader, a sergeant, smiled a twisted smile as he placed the rifle strap over his shoulder, and reached for the knife attached to his belt. "I say we stop here for tonight, and set up camp. I will slice up the meat and we will eat until we're full." He knelt down and began to cut up the dead deer at his feet.
Hogan's men, now believing they had left the German patrol behind them, stopped to rest for a few minutes before heading out again.
Newkirk and Carter carefully concealed the crates in the heavy foliage before sitting down beside them, while Hotchner and LeBeau continued to stand watch despite kneeling down themselves.
"Boy I'm tired," Carter huffed.
Newkirk looked at the younger man, annoyed. "Yeah, well, don't get too ruddy comfy, mate. We can only rest for a few minutes and then get movin' again. The Gov'nor's gonna be worried enough." He checked his watch. "We shoulda been back ten minutes ago."
LeBeau rolled his eyes at the Englander. "Of course Mon Colonel would be worried with you outside the camp. He knows you always get into trouble."
"Now hold on a bleedin' moment. Who are you talkin' 'bout gettin' into trouble all the time? Can I help it if the bleedin' Krauts take a fancy to me? Besides, you shouldn't talk seein' as you can't even speak bloody English and…"
"Knock it off, both of you," stated Carter with as serious an expression as any of them had ever seen. "It doesn't matter who gets into trouble the most. What matters is that we get these supplies and ourselves back to camp in one piece."
LeBeau looked ashamed. "You are right, Mon Ami. We need to get these supplies and ourselves back to camp. That is most important." The Frenchman glanced at the Englander. "I am sorry, Pierre. I did not mean what I said to you."
Newkirk grinned at the little Frenchman. "I'm sorry too, Louie. And you speak pretty good English…at times, that is."
LeBeau chuckled before his eyes fell on Hotchner who was trying not to grimace.
"Mon Dieu!" he cried suddenly looking pale. "You've been hurt!"
Hotchner glanced down at his arm. "It's only a scratch. No biggie."
"Let me take a look then," Newkirk said moving close to the newbie. He examined Hotchner's upper arm gently. "Blimey, you've been grazed by a bullet. Doesn't seem serious though. Here, hold on a sec while I wrap it." He tore a part of the bottom of his sweater and quickly wrapped it around the wound to stench the blood flow. "Musta been a lucky shot fired by the bleedin' Krauts back there." He placed a hand on Hotchner's shoulder and grinned. "There, mate. Can you still handle a gun?"
"Try me," Hotchner replied with a grin which still looked more like a grimace up close.
Newkirk nodded in response. He patted the man's good shoulder. "That's good enough, mate." He noticed LeBeau appeared white as a sheet and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, LeBeau, don't you go and faint on us now. I can't carry you and a crate at the same time."
"I am not going to faint, Mon Ami. I just felt a little light-headed. But I am fine and you don't have to carry me." Everybody knew LeBeau fainted at the sight of blood which Newkirk found strange as they sometimes saw blood on the job from injuries or death.
Newkirk grumbled and looked at the others. "Okay, let's head outta here." He and Carter picked up their boxes and with LeBeau again in the lead, and a wounded Hotchner bringing up the rear. Carter slowed down until he walked beside Hotchner.
"You okay?" he asked seeing Hotchner wincing.
Hotchner grinned at the younger man appreciating his obvious concern. "I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me."
"I'm really sorry you got hurt on your first assignment outside camp."
"It's only a graze. Don't worry about it. I'm just glad the one that hit the tree back there didn't make contact with my head."
"Yeah," Carter agreed with a chuckle. "I bet that woulda hurt like heck." He and Hotchner both chuckled.
"Carter, stop botherin' the man, will ya, and get yourself up here?" said Newkirk with a glance.
"All right already. Hold your horses, will ya? I'm comin'." Carter quickened his pace and caught up with the Englander. He looked at Newkirk. "Boy, are you in a bad mood. I was just checkin' on Hotchner to make sure he was all right. You don't have to be such a grouch."
Newkirk glanced at the younger man, his face softening. "I'm not being a grouch. I just wanna get back to camp."
"Where are they?" Hogan asked pacing back and forth while his radioman sat on Carter's lower bunk bed watching him. "They should've been back already."
Kinch shook his head knowing his commanding officer wasn't angry, but increasingly worried.
"I'm sure it's just Newkirk messin' around with the new guy," the black man joked.
Hogan paused in his pacing and stared at him. "Yeah, messing around with a girl if you ask me. I swear I'm gonna be old and gray before my time if Newkirk keeps this up for the rest of the war."
Kinch continued to watch Hogan resume his pacing. "I'm sure they're all right, Colonel," he tried to assure the officer as well as himself. "But the guys know what they're doing and will be okay."
Hogan kept pacing. "I know and you're right," he said not looking at his radioman. "But my gut keeps telling me something's gone wrong."
Kinch glanced at his watch. "Want me to go look for them?"
The Colonel paused and stared at the man. He also looked at his timepiece. "We'll give them another thirty minutes and then I'll go look for them."
Just then, the lower bunk in the corner rattled upward as it rose. Hogan and Kinch hurried over and waited impatiently as the ladder dropped and LeBeau hurriedly climbed up the ladder and stepped into the barracks.
"Where have you been?!" Hogan demanded with both hands stuffed in the back pockets of his trousers trying to control his temper.
"Sorry, Mon Colonel," LeBeau apologized as Newkirk and Carter climbed up next. "But we had a bit of trouble with a patrol."
"What trouble?" asked a concerned Kinch.
"Kraut patrol took a coupla shots in our direction but not at us, Gov'nor," Newkirk continued. "In fact, the ruddy Krauts never even saw us."
"Anybody hurt?" asked Kinch.
"Oui," the Frenchman replied as he helped Carter step over the bed frame and into the barracks. "Sergeant Hotchner was shot, but Pierre took care of it."
"And?" asked Hogan nervously.
"He's all right, Gov'nor. Just a graze is all. We left 'im in the tunnel and had somebody get Wilson to have a look at 'im."
Hogan shook his head and let out a deep breath. "Thank heavens all of you are for the most part all right. And the supplies?"
"They're all downstairs, sir," Carter added. "Safe and sound."
Hogan nodded. "Okay. I want you guys to go back downstairs, get cleaned up, and changed into your uniforms. Then get some rest. You guys did a good job." He headed towards the tunnel entrance.
"Where you headin', Colonel?"
"I'm gonna check on Hotchner and make sure he's all right," Hogan replied as he started down the ladder.
Stepping off the ladder once below, Hogan pulled down the ribbed part of his leather jacket before heading off in the area he knew Hotchner and Wilson would be. It didn't take long to locate them.
Hotchner sat on a wooden bench in the changing room, naked from the waist up, with the camp medic examining the injured area closely.
"How is he, Joe?" asked the officer.
"He'll be fine, sir," Wilson replied as he removed gauze and sulfur from his bag. "It's only a graze. Looks worse than it really was. He'll be good as new in about two-to-three weeks. But he shouldn't try to use that arm during that time."
Hogan stood with arms wrapped around himself as the medic worked quickly first putting the sulfur on the wound to ward off any infection, and then wrapped the injury.
"I'm sorry, Colonel," Hotchner said ashamedly avoiding Hogan's face. "I screwed up and let you down the first time I went out."
Hogan smiled. "In no way did you let anybody, least of all me, down, sergeant. According to Newkirk, you kept your head out there and helped get everybody back safely."
"But sir…"
The officer held up a hand stopping him. "No buts, sergeant. You handled yourself well out there. Don't beat yourself up because there's no reason for it. You did well." He let out a breath through his nose. "When Wilson's done, clean up and get changed, then get some rest. You all did a great job out there."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome, soldier. Take care of him, Joe."
"Always do, Colonel," Wilson replied with a chuckle as he continued wrapping the arm with gauze.
(End of Flashback)
Penelope Garcia had been back at work for about an hour and working furiously. She studied the contents of the computer screen in front of her. She couldn't believe what she was reading, or lack of what she was reading.
She stared with narrowed eyes at her main computer screen. "Oh no," she mumbled. "Oh no. No. No. No. No. Bossman is not gonna be happy."
A/N: I hope all animal lovers will forgive me.
