-Elizabeta Héderváry-
"What kind of word is 'howdy' to greet your enemies with?" Ludwig spat.
"Enough! German, get back!" The Russian yanked Ludwig back by his collar from the American. The new soldier seemed completely unfazed, considering he was surrounded by unfamiliar Europeans, some of which bore the mark of the enemy on their lapels. She wondered briefly how he could speak German, she would have to ask later. To the American the Soviet said, "My young comrade, what is your name?"
The other locked eyes bravely with the intimidating Soviet, his chin up. A sort of foolish-looking bravery. "Flight Sergeant Alfred F. Jones."
"I Mladshiy serzhant Ivan Braginsky. Infantry. How you come here? Are there others?"
"There was a bad fog. I lost radio communication after completing my mission over Vienna and we started adriftin' in some weird wind…. Freaking Luftwaffe hit two engines on my B-17. I was forced to eject, dunno' what happened to my crew."
She heard Ludwig sneer victoriously from behind her at the word 'Luftwaffe'. Gilbert joined in a snicker. The young American flashed his teeth in a ferocious snarl at the two SS, who laughed openly at his misery.
"Silence! Have some respect, krautfaces!" The Russo -who to the ally had revealed himself as named Ivan- roared. "Now, condition?"
"Fine 'nuff."
"You understand you are covered in blood, da? Should be inside of you."
"American, go back to your own war with the Japs. At least the British belong on this half of the world." Gilbert leered, "Why can't you mind your own damn business and stay out of Europe?"
"Gilbert, don't call them Japs, that is disrespectful." Ludwig said coolly. But the blond made no objection to mocking the American.
The American seemed suddenly full of rage, his attention quickly turned to this new subject. "Don't even get me started on the Japs man, those freaks," the soldier –Alfred- breathed, "I've seen what they've done to good Americans. Sly, cowardly little dogs they are attacking like that! I'll tear apart those traitorous little kamikazes like stupid ricepaper. Bomb Pearl Harbor the day they send peace emissaries, will they? If I ever get my hands on one of those I'll wring his sorry neck. You krautfaces are nasty, but the Japs better be praying to Buddha that I'm ov-"
The Russian stood between the three arguing men, just his presence alone seeming to have a subduing effect. "I understand you hate Jap, comrade, no need say more. Everyone quiet now, please."
"Yes, Mom." Feliks giggled from behind her. The Russian fixed him in a stare and the blonde ducked behind Elizabeta.
"Yes, now, Quiet. First order of business: we make camp. We stay here tonight, too dark now move. Anyone have fire?"
Gilbert fished his lighter out of his pocket and nodded once at the Russo in answer.
"Good! Red-eyes, start fire. Blondes, come with me. You will get firewood." The Soviet soldier ordered. He adjusted the RPG-7 on his shoulder, silently reinforcing his threat.
"I wouldn't mind it if he like, bothered to learn our names," Feliks muttered. Ludwig narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He appeared to understand why the Russian was reluctant to learn them. He seemed aware of the high chance that the Russo could just get fed up and kill the two Germans anyway, despite their tales of helping prisoners. It was difficult to kill something once you knew its name.
It's probably why the Nazis gave Feliks and I numbers instead.
Gilbert started ripping out grass and collected it in a firenest about two meters in front of the American. Ludwig and Feliks filed out in front of the Russian.
"How are you gonna help us pick up logs with that big gun on your shoulder, Mister-Russian-Man?" Feliks inquired, stopping. The Russian prodded his backside with the bazooka like a cattle who had stopped walking.
"I not picking wood, I watch you. You pick wood. You do something wrong, I water tree with brains."
"Oh, cool."
Elizabeta drilled the heel of her shoe nervously into the soft detritus of the forest floor. "What about me?" she questioned.
"Ah, yes! I have very important job for Girl." He actually leaned his bazooka on the ground and slid off the small backpack from his broad back. He reached in and fished around, pulling something small and white out, then slung it back over his shoulders. He subsequently slipped a gloved hand inside his trenchcoat and pulled something metallic and shiny out. Ivan bent down to her level and firmly placed the two objects into her hand.
"You heal American."
It was 1944! Women were going to college for crying out loud! Just because she was female didn't make her anybody's maid! She wasn't trained to heal things. The soldiers probably had better experience at dressing wounds than she did!
"You understand me, yes? Heal him."
"Uh, yessir. I'll do my best." Her voice raised slightly with irritation at the end, as if it were a question.
He smiled sweetly and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Good!"
He turned back to the American leaning against the tree. "Sergeant Jones, if red-eyes and girl try to kill you or escape, you shoot them, yes? If can't shoot them, scream loud. I shoot blondes, then I come back here and finish job. Okie?"
"Yessir, captain Commie!" the American shouted with a smirk, performing a mock salute from his sitting position. She shivered. The Russian chuckled at the American, although she would bet if Ludwig or Gilbert had said that same line to his face they'd be missing a body-part of some sort.
"Yes, we three go now. Be returned in twenty minutes with wood." The Russian ushered Ludwig and Feliks out before him.
"Bye," Elizabeta gulped. Ludwig marched stonily forward into the darkness in front of the Soviet. He carried himself with a quiet, cold pride before his captor. As a soldier he understood his position in the hierarchy, but he was doing the bare minimum when it came to being submissive. Feliks looked back at her nervously, before flashing her a goofy smile and a thumbs-up. She turned back to Gilbert. He lurched towards her once they were alone.
"What do you say we have ourselves a little fun with the American, hmm?" he purred, an evil smile gracing his features. He patted the pocket that held his dagger twice. Light danced playfully in his red eyes.
"Gilbert," she taunted, a knowing look in her eyes. "You know Mr. Crazy Russian wouldn't appreciate you torturing him for amusement. Plus, he'd scream."
"That is why we cut his tongue out first, no?"
"Is that what passes for fun in your country?"
"Fine, fine. I was only joking." He waved her off. She heard a shuffling behind her as the American shifted to get a better look at the spectacle.
"Ah sure could use a might of fillin in, folks."
Gilbert crossed his arms and stared contemptuously over at the seated American. "Fill you in bout what, cowboy?"
"Like why the hell a Nazi is kissing a skinny girl in her pajamas! And why you're both hangin round with a Russian!"
Elizabeta gaped at her description. "H-he… he doesn't know…."
Gilbert sighed. "I guess it makes sense. Most of the camps are in the far East so the German civilians don't see them. I'd be willing to bet that the American Air-Force soldiers know the least about it out of everyone, since they're up in the skies of the west. I'm sure their superiors know though, shame they haven't been told anything."
"Don't know bout what?" the blond asked.
"We'll explain it in full later," Elizabeta said. "Right now I'll see if I can help you. My name's Elizabeta, and this is-"
Gilbert looked at her and shook his head slowly. Elizabeta cut off her sentence, understanding. "I'll build the fire. Eliza, call me back when you're done with him and we can talk." he said.
"Right." she confirmed. It was about time she got started with this anyway. She looked at the two small objects the Russian had handed to her. The first was small and white. A spool of gauze for wrapping wounds. She unraveled the end slightly. That will be useful.
She then examined the second object, this one heavier than the first. It was a flat, square-shaped metal flask. It was curved slightly, as if built to fit in the concave of someone's boot or coat. A red star with a gold hammer and sickle was in its center, circled by golden laurel wreaths. The silvery metal was engraved with designs and runelike Russian characters, but displayed nowhere near the caliber of craftsmanship of Gilbert's lighter. She swirled the top off and brought it to her nose. The acrid scent was unmistakable.
Vodka. Of course. From the Russian. She should have expected it.
She looked over to the American. "How long have you been lying there?" she asked.
"Bout six hours or so?" He seemed rather unconfident of his answer. He was probably unconscious for most of it. Either way: plenty of time for the seeds of infection to set in. Wordlessly, she walked off a short way from the clearing and brought back a small twig, about as thick as a finger and as long as her hand. She carefully peeled the bark off and sprinkled some of the alcohol over her hands. She knelt before the American, on his left.
"Can you tell me where you're hit the worst?" she asked earnestly, her voice soft as she looked him in the eyes. She was impressed by how the young soldier managed to hide the pain from their depths.
He picked up his M1 rifle and laid it gingerly on the ground, as if it was a part of him. He pulled off his leather bomber jacket and displayed the underside of his right arm. Viscous red blood oozed out from a thick, cleanly cut wound. Likely lacerated by a hot shard of metal from his aircraft. But there appeared to be no major torso injuries. She wasn't sure if she should be happy or not. With only an external wound, as soon as he recovered from his blood loss he'd be functioning again. He'd be another pair of eyes hindering their escape from the Russian.
Could she kill him? And make it look like he died from his wounds? She looked over to Gilbert, who was still toiling a few meters away with the start to a fire. Back on the road, she found herself willing to kill the Russian if someone else's life was on the line, but she found herself reluctant to kill this young allied soldier before he had wronged her. Certainly if Ivan found out –who knew how smart or dumb he actually was, behind that kiddish smile of his- she could kiss their chances at life goodbye. She wished it was Gilbert in her place, dressing him. He had been hardened: he would know how to do what was best.
She picked up the stick and leaned closer to him. "Your name is Alfred, right? Can I call you that? Or would you prefer Sergeant Jones?"
He blinked. "Yes'm, I s'pose Alfred is okay Miss, if you're not an enemy…. Your name is Elizabeth, right?"
"Elizabeta. Or 'Veta. I realize in English you actually have very different sounds for 'b's and 'v's."
"Yeah, sorry. That's a similar name from my country."
"I want you to bite down on this, okay Alfred? It's going to hurt a lot." She handed him the stick, "Please don't scream," she added.
He carefully placed the twig between his teeth and held out his solid arm. Muscles lay thick over the bones, he must have worked on a farm or something. She noticed above the muscles was a bit of fat. Such a phenomenon she had not seen on young men in years. Or maybe that was just in comparison to her. Elizabeta realized she probably looked pretty scrawny next to him.
"Uh, Gi-," She cut herself off before she could finish the name. She was sure the American would figure it out as soon as Ludwig came back and called his brother by his name, but she didn't want Gilbert to be disappointed in her for telling him. Soldiers had their pride to look after, after all. They wouldn't want anything held back. "Can you come over here; I need your help for a moment."
He looked up from his work, but seemed pleased to be of use. Swiftly, he lit the tinder. It was small so the flame would probably be able to sustain itself until Ludwig Feliks and Ivan got back with more wood. "Yes Eliza?" The Prussian padded over, scrutinizing the young man who sat against the tree trunk. Blue ice clashed with red flames challengingly as the eyes met. She felt the air crackle with every step the two enemies gained in proximity.
"I want you to hold him down. Move him off the tree and lay him on the ground," she ordered.
Gilbert less-than-gently pulled the larger American to the ground. Alfred narrowed his eyes, muttering something about how he was perfectly capable of moving himself. He probably was, given how the wound was only on the underside of his arm, but she wouldn't take any chances. Especially if the Russian decided someone's fate based on whether the American pulled through or not.
Elizabeta unscrewed the cap from the flask. She readied it over the wound.
"Hold his chest down. Alfred, are you ready?"
Gilbert braced himself over the young man's shoulders. He looked back to Elizabeta and nodded once.
"I'm ready." Alfred declared around the stick in his jaws, his voice high and clear.
Elizabeta took a breath and started pouring the alcohol over the wound to cleanse it. The blood ran in dilute oranged rivers from the glistening gash and soaked the thirsty, dry ground. The American's pupils contracted to pinpricks in a sea of blue, his brows rising considerably. He bucked suddenly, violently, like a bronco from the plains of the man's homeland. Gilbert cursed and pushed down on the American's shoulders to keep his arm still. The pilot thrashed vehemently, but to his credit uttered not a word of grievance around the stick.
Slowly, Elizabeta tipped the flask of vodka vertical. Gilbert restrained the man to the ground for a few moments more, protecting Elizabeta until she was a safe distance away. He carefully pulled his palms off of the other man's chest, and Alfred released a long, slow breath.
"Thanks for that, Jerry." Alfred breathed. With his unhurt arm he removed the stick from his teeth.
"My name's not 'Jerry,' idiot." Gilbert growled.
"It's American slang for a German soldier. Unless you'd prefer me to keep calling you and that other Nazi 'kraut one' and 'kraut two'. Doctor Seuss style, y'know im?"
"No. I don't."
"Oh. Well, you should! Dr. Seuss's got German grandparents or somethin. Although t'day he mostly draws these anti-Nazi political cartoons which are really funny."
Gilbert grunted in response, quite obviously not caring about for whatever passed as pop culture in America, and went back to stand by Elizabeta. She was unraveling a long strip of gauze and wrapped it around Alfred's lacerated underarm. It was quickly soaked, and she saw the American wince as the fiery alcohol on his wound was ground back into his nerves, but she quickly pulled the two ends of gauze together.
"Stitches would be preferable, but I don't think we have the resources for that now. You'll have a nasty scar, but if it's not infected in a few days it shouldn't be life-threatening. We just need to get you some water and food to replace all the blood you've lost."
"Don't help 'em too much, Liz." Gilbert said offhandedly.
Normally she would agree, but it didn't look like the American would be shooting any semi-automatics with that arm any day soon. They'd probably escape by then. But the boy was stronger than he looked…. A feeling of doubt crept into her chest.
"Thanks Elizabeta. Means a lot."
"It's nothing," she replied.
There was a pause as the American pushed himself back to lean on the tree trunk. He wrapped the leather jacket around his shoulders like a blanket, rather than actually putting it on.
"Can I ask what's goin on now?" Alfred voiced.
Gilbert and Elizabeta looked at each other. "You want to do the honors?" she prompted.
"I'm not sure if the American bastard deserves to know anything, but if you want."
Alfred looked at the Prussian expectantly. "Yes please?"
"Alright you fat American fuck, we'll humor you. I was an SS guard at a concentration-extermination camp. The biggest one in all of Europe, called Auschwitz. They are these huge facilities where Nazis deport the Jews to, along with anyone else they don't like. Like Slavs, gays, gypsies, and Russian POWS," Gilbert gestured with his chin in the direction that the Soviet disappeared to. "That's why he especially doesn't like us. I met Elizabeta there. She was a prisoner, was with the Hungarian antifa or somethin."
"Why do they only put captured Russian soldiers in these camps with the Jews, and not American or British or Canadian ones?" the American questioned. She didn't expect this to be the first question to come out of his mouth.
Gilbert shrugged. "If you asked my brother, he'd say they're there because they're inferior."
The American's lips were pressed into an uncomfortable line as he digested this.
"Anyway," the Prussian continued, "The conditions in such a place are worse than you can imagine. There are four crematoria running nonstop, just to burn all of the bodies. Well actually, back in '43 a bunch of girls blew crematorium III up with explosives and they never got around to fixing it, so there's only three now…"
The American shifted apprehensively against the tree, but Gilbert showed no signs in stopping the story halfway through. He had no sympathy for the American.
"The exact details of the camps aren't important. Hell, I'll bet you'll hear all about them someday. But the main thing is that I fell for Elizabeta there."
"I didn't think Nazis could love." Alfred snickered.
Elizabeta laughed, but it appeared as if Gilbert had to restrain himself from slapping the American across the face.
"She was almost killed in the gas chambers, but due to a fluke she survived underneath the other bodies. I changed the records to make it look like she died. We escaped. We failed. Before we were executed we my brother actually succeeded in breaking us out –and I'll admit right now his plan was brilliant- but unfortunately,"
He swept his arms around him,
"We ran into a certain Russian and an American and this happened."
The American was quiet for moment as he absorbed this, his brown brows low over his blue eyes. He held a finger to his chin, chuckled, and shook his head with a smile. At first Elizabeta was afraid he didn't believe them.
"You wanna' know what I realized the whole time you was speaking?" the American asked.
"What?" Gilbert grunted.
Alfred Jones looked at the Prussian knowingly, with a sly smile and a glint in his blue eyes beyond his years. "I noticed throughout your whole speech, not once did you refer to the Nazis as 'we.' You always called 'em 'they.'"
"So what?"
"I'm saying that maybe you don't align yerself with em anymore."
Gilbert glared at Alfred viciously, not offering a response. She and Gilbert knew that what the American said was true of course, to some extent, but for whatever prideful reason Gilbert was reluctant to admit his treachery to the enemy. Carefully, Gilbert shifted Elizabeta off and stood over the American.
"Yeah? What does that make me, a fucking saint now?" His voice lowered a dangerous octave. "Let me tell you something, Ami, what did you say you were: a flight sergeant of a B-17? A pilot? You go around bombing and killing my innocent civilian people from the safety of your little flying fortress. You're no hero. If that Russian wasn't here, I would personally tear your liver out right now with an honest-to-God smile on my face. Don't be getting friendly. I've killed dozens of your allies without a thought; I certainly don't deserve your pity."
The boy was sitting down, his red life soaking the ground around him, yet he still met the Prussian's challenging words with that same cocky smile.
A/N:
Americans really didn't like the Japanese at this time. Much worse than their dislike of the Germans.
I'll be translating military slang that Mr. America uses for the next few chapters. Right now we've got:
Jerry: American/British slang for a German soldier.
Kraut: Derogatory term for a German. From 'Sauerkraut'
Ami: German slang for an American soldier.