Options
Written by L.E. Wigman
It occurs to me that one doesn't fully grasp how peaceful - and oftentimes pleasant - unconsciousness is until one wakes. I was blissfully unaware of everything. Time and space doesn't exist, nor does reality. My pain level? Zero. Consequences for being uncovered in Stalag 13? Nada. Any worries about what crazy, unexpected thing might happen to me and my peers next? Nope.
All problems in life can be pushed to the side until you wake; however, just as suddenly as I had slipped into blissful darkness, I was jerked awake by what I can only describe as the smell of strong vinegar. My eyes flew open and I jerked away. My stomach rolled and I gagged, curling into a ball and shoving my face into the hard fabric.
"Is she okay?"
The voice was slightly familiar and worried.
"Well, she's awake."
Wilson? I forced myself to turn back toward them. "Oh, lord," I muttered, closing my eyes in a vain attempt to reduce the swimming sensation. Not having my glasses was bad enough, but adding that sensation was really not fair. "I feel like I was hit by a Freightliner."
"Nope," Wilson assured me in his usual deadpan tone. "Just another member from your Time Patrol."
I'm not a very clear-thinker the moment I wake - less so when I'm not feeling well - but even so, this sentence made no sense to me. I opened my eyes again and tried to sit up, intending to ask just what that was supposed to mean when Wilson put his hand against my shoulder. "Don't move too fast," he cautioned.
I opened my mouth to complain when I finally noticed that I wasn't in the barracks. This was a much nicer place with a sofa (upon which I was laying) and wallpaper… and dodads of all kinds. It had a coffee table, which Wilson was sitting on, and on the other side of the room to the right of the door was a dining table. At least they got that correct on the set design.
I spotted Schultz hovering close, just above Wilson and behind both of them was another man stationed at the door. He was in uniform and I stared at him mutely. I couldn't see him clearly, but he was definitely much younger than Schultz and thinner, too.
"Miss," Wilson said softly, nudging me gently. "You should probably lay back down."
"Who's he?" I demanded, ignoring the suggestion as I hugged myself. I was still in the blue uniform and putting a quick hand to my face indicated that the khol liner was still in place. "And where am I? This doesn't look like the barracks. Why am I here?"
Schultz took over. He seemed brighter and sounded less concerned than he had been moments ago. "I am Sergeant Schultz," he said, seemingly forgetting about our meeting in the dog kennel when I arrived weeks ago. But perhaps he just didn't recognize me? "That is Corporal Langensheidt and you are in Kommandant Klink's private quarters. One of the members of your Time Patrol fell on top of you."
"What are you talking about?"
Schultz straightened, the smile faded and a suspicious look was cast at me then Wilson. "You don't know?" he asked.
Wilson covered my mistake easily. "Give her a break, Schultz. She's obviously suffered a concussion and is confused." Turning back to me, he winked twice. "You remember what you told the guys in the barracks…" he trailed off, before adding, "about Konarciq and the Patrol…"
I thought as quickly as I could with my pounding head and nodded along. "Oh, yeah… right. The Time Patrol. That I told you about. In the barracks."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose as I floundered around. "You see," I spoke slowly, hoping to give my imagination time to catch up, "I'm not really a proper agent for the Patrol."
"You're not?"
"No - well, you might say that I'm a, um, probationary field agent." I smiled up at Schultz in what I hoped was a convincing fashion. "As a matter of fact, it's my first mission. I usually do office work. After-action reports. Statistical studies used to extract more sophisticated training techniques. Records. That's what I usually do."
There was a pause. I didn't really know what to say next. I looked down, noticed the bandage wound around my wrist and frowned. Funny, my wrist doesn't hurt.
"Anywho." I swung my legs off the couch and stood, holding onto the medic's arm as he too stood and offered support. "I suppose I should be going back to the barracks," I said cheerfully, "Work like ours doesn't take a holiday."
I pushed my way past Schultz and had made it to the middle of the room when Langenscheidt stopped me. His voice was huskier than I'd expected and it didn't really suit his almost scarecrow-like impression.
"The Kommandant has given strict orders that you are to remain in his quarters."
I looked down at his firm grip on my elbow. This was not the meek, mild-mannered Langenscheidt of the series or the fanon-world. He pointed toward the left side of the room. "You will stay in the Kommandant's guest room. Right, Sergeant?"
Schultz bobbed his head causing the fat around his jowls to jiggle. "Ja. You will stay, fraulein."
"I'll help her to her room," Wilson said, picking up a green musette bag with a distinct red cross. "I want to check her over a little more; make sure her ribs aren't damaged. You understand the need for privacy, eh, Schultz?"
"Oh, ja," he said seriously before gesturing to Langenscheidt.
I was escorted to the appropriate door with Langenscheidt on one side and Wilson on the other. "Well, since you put it that way, I am rather tired. And a good night's sleep would probably help with the headache."
The room I was put in had dark blue wallpaper with a plain white trim. There was a double bed with a quilt of brown, rust, and gold fabrics and at the foot of the bed was a wooden chest. A tall dresser stood against the wall on the left side of the bed and a smaller, fatter one with a mirror hanging above it on the wall closest to the door. There was one window beside the tall dresser with a blue, frilly curtain.
Wilson guided me in and shut the door behind us. "Listen, we don't have much time," he instructed, his voice hushed. "The Colonel will figure a way out, just keep your mouth shut and don't let anything slip to Klink. Got it?"
I shook my head a little too vigorously and the throbbing increased. "No, no. This is not a good plan," I said, wincing. "I need to get back to the tunnels. I want to go back to the tunnels."
"And you will, but that might not happen for a bit. Sit tight."
"But…"
"Sit. Tight."
With the last word firmly secured, Wilson disappeared through the door. I could hear him making his farewells to Schultz and then another shutting of a door. I checked the door for a lock and was dismayed to find it was an old lock that undoubtedly had a skeleton key, probably in the pocket of one bald Luftwaffe colonel.
Turning back to inspect the room, I found myself staring into the mirror. I told them this wouldn't work. I thought bitterly, swiping the khol liner off my face with the sleeves of my RAF jacket. The tune 'Reflection' from Mulan popped into my head. Gosh, was that movie created for my current situation?
I grunted angrily - the fine, beard-like strokes were gone, but the color was still there. I looked like the chimney sweeps from Mary Poppins. (Yes, apparently everything in life reminds me of a Disney movie)
Giving up on cleaning my face, I considered my options.
Option A: Listen to Wilson.
This had a few pros, such as the likelihood of success and the fact that it provided my rule-following self with the satisfaction of doing the 'right' thing. However, my mind told me in no uncertain terms that my big mouth would cause more trouble before they could get me out.
Dismissing this, I moved on to option B: Find a weapon and get myself out through the door I came in.
This had no pros and the con of getting myself hurt; more than I already was, that is. The option was firmly passed over.
Option C: Barricade the door and hightail it out the window.
I pursed my lips and decided on the last one. I tried the tall dresser first, but it was too awkward to maneuver, especially as I found that there was a reason my wrist was bound. The fat dresser was chosen as back-up and I managed to tug it into line with the door. Getting on the other side, I put my shoulder close to the middle and shoved with all my might.
It slid across the wood floor and settled against the door with a soft thud. I winced.
Subtlety was never your strong suit.
I waited a moment, listening, but the two voices in the other room were still speaking. So, I crossed the room and raised the sash of the window. I looked down, judging how far off the ground we were - about four feet, maybe less - before climbing out and dropping down.
I pressed against the building and slid against it, hiding in the shadows. As I reached the corner of the building, I took a deep breath before arting into the bare area between buildings. I traveled that way for what felt like forever. I spotted some guards and froze until they passed.
Sadly, I found that the more I moved, the more twisted around I became… until it dawned on me; this camp is way bigger than it appears in the show. I'd never be able to find Barracks 2 in the dark without my glasses. I had to find something certain.
The Gate!
The gate was the only thing that I knew for sure was visible from Barracks 2. I sought the fence and used it to guide me back. One moment I paused, waiting for the searchlights to pass, and wondered if the fence lifted like in the series.
No, surely that was just used for a visual gag.
Still… I had to know.
Next thing I know the alarms sound, the searchlights go haywire, and I'm being screamed at in German. My hands flew up over my head and I squeaked, "Komerad!"
