Kommandant Klink stood before his portly sergeant. "So, you are telling me that there was an 'airborne virus' in Barracke 2, and you did not even check to see that the men were all there?"
"Kommandant Klink, the men looked awful! There was no way that they could have been pretending. I was going to tell you earlier, but I did not think you would want . . . to be . . . disturbed. . ." Schultz's words trailed off at the expression overtaking Klink's face.
The Kommandant clenched his fist, but it denoted his worry rather than his anger. He was certain that Hogan couldn't be up to anything. There was no way. Klink was the toughest Kommandant of any Prisoner of War camp in all of Germany. Surely the very thought that Hogan could sneak something—anything whatsoever!—past him was inconceivable!
But what if Hochstetter found something? He was fiendishly clever. If Klink were being truly honest with himself, he wondered that the two of them were even on the same side of the war. After all, Klink saw himself as fair and impartial, a good leader but concerned with the lives of those underneath him. Sure, he wanted the best for himself. It was only natural! Who wouldn't? But that didn't mean he was as cruel a taskmaster as Hochstetter. In fact, just last week, he had heard that one of the men in Hochstetter's command had lost his life after being force—
A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts. He rushed over to answer it, overcome with the (terrifying) thought that it might be the Major himself. "Yes? What is it, Herr Major?"
Instead of a seething, short Gestapo man, Corporal Langenscheidt stood at the door. "Herr Kommandant? Major Hochstetter has left the camp. He left alone."
Klink couldn't help but sigh. Relieved, he sank into the nearest chair. "And the prisoners?" He lifted his head wearily.
"Resting, sir," came the answer.
~\*/~
An hour later, Sergeant Schultz opened the door to the barracks. He began his head count, speaking the words softly. "Ein, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht . . ." He paused, looking at the face of Hogan, who slept on Newkirk's bunk. He smiled fondly and lowered his tone so as not to wake the man. "Colonel Hogan, I am glad you and your men are safe, monkey business or not. . ."
If the colonel heard him, there was certainly no implication of that fact. He remained still, his quiet snores undisturbed. He seemed so at peace, especially considering the fact that he was seriously ill.
With a shake of his head, Schultz began counting once more. He couldn't resist peeking into the colonel's room to check on Carter and Newkirk. The sight of them both resting warmed his heart.
Carter was curled up on Colonel Hogan's bed, an arm dangling off the edge. Inches from his hand was the face of Newkirk, who was so still that he might have rivaled a statue. If it were not for the rise and fall of the Englishman's chest, the generously proportioned guard would have begun to worry. Neither were coughing—but maybe it's because they are asleep? Schultz wondered.
Right as he decided to depart, he heard a weak voice murmuring colorful (if slightly incoherent) insults to "Krauts." He did not know why Newkirk was complaining but smiled anyway. With a jovial jiggle of his head, he turned to take his leave. Things would be able to return to normal soon.
~\*/~
Consciousness returned to Colonel Hogan suddenly and all at once. He jerked into a sitting position, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong. He scanned the room with his gaze. All the men were sleeping in their bunks. His mind registered the soft sounds of men breathing. The sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the wall. He could hear the stomping of the guards outside. All of these were normal things. So why did he feel like something was off?
His scrutiny of the surrounding area came to an abrupt halt as he realized what that sense of wrongness was. The light! It's never light out when we have roll call! He glanced at his watch, and his eyes fairly bulged from their sockets when he read the time. 10:06?! How did it get to be so late? If he were perfectly honest with himself, though, the extra sleep was much appreciated, even if it was unexpected.
A thought struck him then. He jumped from the bed and barged into his office, practically throwing the door off its hinges. To his relief, Carter was perched on the edge of Newkirk's bed, talking to him.
"So, Peter, do you know where you are?" Carter's voice was steady, even. Although he surely couldn't have missed hearing Hogan's spectacular entrance, he did not tear his eyes away from his injured friend. "You feelin' all right, buddy?"
Newkirk nodded, eyes heavy. After a moment, he blinked. When he opened his eyes, the man seemed sharper, more focused. "I'll be fine, mate. Just—" He yawned— "a tad bit knackered. Where did you say we were again? St—stali—stela—?"
"Stalag XIII," Carter supplied helpfully. His eyes were bright with happiness.
Newkirk nodded. "Right. The stalag, then? That's where we are?" He looked around as if trying to memorize the room. At length, he made to sit up, muttering, "Well, if we're to be of any use to the colonel, I guess we'd better get cracking."
Carter put up a hand to push Newkirk back down into a sitting position. "No, I don't think so. How's your leg feeling?"
The Englishman furrowed his brow and shifted his gaze to his wounded leg. "But I'm fine. . ." His face was a touch flushed and yet seemed pale against the dark blanket. "It doesn't hurt all that much, I'm sure." He attempted to lift his leg and promptly grimaced at the pain. "All right, so it hurts a bit," he conceded, "but that doesn't mean it won't get better. Tell me, how's that ankle of yours, anyway?"
Carter brightened. "Actually, I hardly feel it if it stays still! Funny how that works, isn't it?" He continued to chatter on cheerfully, confirming Colonel Hogan's theory that he was far more worried about his friend than he had let on.
Hogan leaned his weight against the doorjamb, content to watch his men. After a moment, he nodded. All seemed in order. I wonder when London's sending the penicillin. Probably tonight. He grunted, wishing he had stayed awake until he had received an answer. With that cheery thought, he left the room.
He found LeBeau stirring a simmering soup. The Frenchman crooned at it, pursing his lips. At the sound of his commanding officer approaching, he turned. "Mon colonel, how is Pierre?" Eyes wide, he began to fiddle with his fingers, a sure sign of his nervousness.
"Still alive and kicking. I've got to admit that I am a bit worried about the amnesia." Hogan paused to sniff LeBeau's concoction. A smile worked its way across his face. "I'm sure a few bites of this will cure him, though. Or maybe it'll bring back some of his fighting spirit! Who would've thought we'd miss his complaining and bickering?" he chuckled, eyes twinkling.
LeBeau shook his head. "Non, he is English and therefore cannot appreciate it the way it deserves!" He tilted his head haughtily. With a laugh, the proud persona cracked, and he smirked. "The soupe de nouilles au poulet is almost done. I shall see if he feels up to eating anything."
Colonel Hogan acknowledged this statement with a nod and made his way downstairs to talk with Kinch.
~\*/~
"But, Peter, I'm not sure that—"
Peter interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "Listen here, mate, it's called a 'biscuit.' I may be missing a few memories here and there, but I do know what's the proper name for a sweet cracker."
Carter huffed, "But it's a cookie! Biscuits are what you butter. Crackers are the tasteless things you eat with cheese or soup. Cookies are sweet and taste amazing with milk!"
"Non, you are both wrong. C'est un gâteau." At that exact moment, a rather short man entered the room, holding a bowl of something he must've made. Face disfigured by a sneer, he spat, "Peasants." His mock-disgusted tone just barely balanced out the exaggerated facial expression.
Peter blinked, trying to mentally sort out who this person was. I couldn't quite catch some of those words he said. It's as if he weren't even speaking ruddy English! But he looks a mite familiar. If I've seen him before, does that mean he was from my past? Or was it just . . . that I met him sometime after Carter—What did happen? Did Carter find them? Did they find us? How did we get back here? I think . . . I think we must've go—
The sound of the newcomer setting down the bowl tore Peter away from his thoughts. "Pierre, it is good to see you awake! Are you hungry?"
Peter stared at him, eyes wide. He couldn't remember the man's name, let alone recall if he were trustworthy. He chanced a quick glance at Andrew, only to find that the blond seemed perfectly at ease. Maybe they knew each other? I think that rather confirms my theory. This bloke must be one from my past. But at the stalag? Andrew told me the names of the others, the ones what pull barmy stunts with us. So what's the name of this cheeky blighter? I've already met the colonel. What was his name again? Ho—Ho-something. Hogan! That's it. Hogan. That leaves . . . Kinchloe and L-LeBon? Was that it? No, that sounds off somehow.
Before Peter could ponder this more (and before the short man could ask him any more prying questions), the door to the room opened, and in entered the colonel himself. Unlike any other time Peter could vaguely remember speaking to him, the officer seemed irritated. He slammed the door, a scowl distorting his face.
The man's eyes darted to the blond. "Carter, how's your ankle feeling?"
Confused, Carter glanced down at his wrapped appendage. "I think it's pretty okay. It hurts a little bit but not as bad since Wilson took care of it. Why, Colonel?"
Hogan grimaced. "We'll need you to run a short errand for us. How good do you think you are at being a Kraut doctor?" His tone was short and clipped, an obvious indication (aside from the obvious visual signs) that he was upset.
Andrew's brows furrowed, but he straightened his back. Almost as though he were becoming another person, his expressions and body language transformed until he seemed every bit a professional, cold and calculating. He spoke something in an odd tongue then, and Peter's mind sluggishly provided him with the translation. "Herr Doktor Carterbaum at your service, my good sir. How may I be of service?"
Colonel Hogan slapped him on the back. "Good job."
Andrew smile, his eyes widening. With a shrug, he said, "You know, I was actually considering being a doctor at one point! It didn't work out, what with the war happening and all, but I still think it would've been a lot of fun to—"
Hogan's eyes snapped up to meet Andrew's. "Carter, London can't get us the penicillin until Tuesday." His words were deliberate and far more serious than the chemist's had been. "There's no way we can wait two whole days for it. Newkirk needs it as soon as possible. And the Underground's been down for the last week, even since that run in with the Gestapo—" He sighed— "The only place that would have a readily accessible stash would be the hospital. You'll pose as a doctor and steal some." His attention shifted to LeBeau. "Can you have him ready by the end of lunch? We'll send him out and have him back by evening roll call."
The shorter man—LeBeau?—seemed to think a moment. "Oui. It shall be as you say, mon colonel."
Newkirk blinked, thinking, Here he goes again, spouting off nonsense! I wonder, do they put up with it for the sole reason that he's their friend? Is he all right in the head? And how can a city—London is a city, right?—send something to the colonel? It's not a person. Well, I expect it doesn't rightly matter. After all, Colonel Hogan said it wasn't going to work out, anyhow. His head was beginning to hurt again. He lifted a hand to press against it, knowing the action was futile. He groaned, closing his eyes.
When he opened them again, the three men were turned to him. When had that happened? He could hear them speaking, and yet he couldn't decipher their words. He waited a moment, hoping that the time would allow his brain to catch up to the conversation. It must've been tired, for he had noticed such things happening recently.
Unfortunately, the waiting period did nothing to assist his brain along in the decryption of what they were saying to him. Whatever it was, was it important? For all he knew, they were merely attempting to use that gobbledygook from before. Gobbledygook? Was that the right word? Poppycock? Balderdash? Waffle? No matter. It's all a bunch of rubbish. He yawned.
That wound on his leg was really starting to ache. He was halfway tempted to rub it but just barely squashed down the urge in favour of letting out another jaw-cracking yawn. His eyes seemed to burn. Perhaps if he closed them for just a moment. . .
I realize that this is a bit later than I try to post chapters. Sorry about that. I forgot to tell you that I was visiting my family for Thanksgiving! :D It was so amazing! I've missed them a lot. Anyway, I had most of this done before break, but the chapter wasn't quite right. It needed a bit of tweaking before it would be ready to post. To my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving (a day late)! To the rest of you, I hope you had a great day yesterday, too! :3
Anyway, I can't remember if it was a doctor or a brain surgeon that Carter wanted to be (I believe he mentioned it in that one episode where he tells the story of how he blew up the science lab in Rutherford B. Hayes Polytechnic High School, a story which always cracked me up! XD) Does anyone remember? I haven't been able to find the information, and my memory's unreliable. If you remember, I'd love to hear!
This is rather a long Author's Note. Oops. Well, before I head out, I wanted to tell you that this story is technically just a bit AU 'cause the others were aware of LeBeau's reaction to blood. To my admittedly spotty recollection, none of the other members of the team were aware of that until that skirmish with Danzig in season 6's "That's No Lady, That's My Spy!" episode. I've been meaning to mention it since, like, chapter 6.
Also, thank you to all of you who have reviewed, favorited, followed, or even read this story! It means the world to me! :D Enjoy! I'll be back with the next chapter soon-ish!
Soli Deo gloria!
~LHDD