He was certain that no one had expected this base to come under attack. Not that it was a base, mostly an island with several radio stations, a small collection of troops, and the home of the American general Roads. All in all, it took less than an hour to overwhelm the small number of forces and capture the island.
Dietrich was certain it was more a matter of ego than the strategic value of a small, somewhat idyllic Mediterranean island. Given that his commanding officer was one of ego and pomp, he wasn't too surprised when the thought popped into his head, and he knew better than to voice it aloud.
"Herr Hauptmann," turning from the work of arranging for prisoner transport, he caught sight of a distinctly uncomfortable private standing at attention. "There is a disturbance in the main house."
"What disturbance," glad to put his word aside, he pulled hat onto his head as he ventured out of the guardhouse.
"We located General Roads' son," the private said, "Colonel Richter is interrogating him."
"Son?" Bemused, he followed the private into the spacious mansion and into an office where Colonel Richter was standing, triumphant and pleased, over the hunched-over form of a scrawny teenager. The teenager, doubtlessly General Roads' son, had a hand to his face, trying to stem the flow of blood from his bottom lip. No wonder the private had scurried out to fetch him. Ignoring his rising fury, he saluted the colonel. "Colonel Richter." The American's head turned in his direction, and the youthful, pale, skinny face was a stark difference from the wild, unfocused eyes. "The prisoner transport is nearly complete, and we have seized the remainder of the documents for intelligence."
"Well done, Captain." Colonel Richter stepped away, stomping around the desk as the young man flinched violently. "The defective son of that American coward," Richter gestured broadly at the young man, who was in the process of feeling around the floor for a pair of dark eyeglasses. Blood had splattered his shirt and each moment that passed, more dripped onto the carpet.
"Will he be processed along?" His question was met with a derisive laugh.
"We will ransom the brat," Richter snorted. The stark memory of Miles Simmons crying silently aboard the boat swam to the forefront of his mind, and he refused to look down at the young American as guilt yanked at him. At least with the Miles Simmons, the colonel hadn't been vicious enough to strike him. "And see what he is worth to his father."
"I see ." He watched the American stand slowly, rising to his feet, and he felt for the edge of the desk. "Does he not have a caretaker?"
"A local woman, she was shot for collaboration."
"Shot?" Long used to hiding his true feelings on these matters, he asked instead. "Does the boy have any information?"
"I only managed to find his attitude," the colonel snapped, going through the desk with little to no care of the items in or on it. "He speaks with the same lack of respect these Americans are known for." He hefted a paperweight in his hand, visibly preparing to hurl it at the unsuspecting teenager. The young Roads was still trying to keep his blood from dripping onto his dark glasses.
"Sir," another soldier entered and, saluting, stared straight ahead. "A call for you from the general." Cursing at the lack of a phone in the office, Colonel Richter left the room, and Dietrich took another moment to survey the young man. Still a callow youth with curly dark hair that lay close to his head, his eyes were a soft, unfocused blue that we're searching for something to focus on. There was a marked delicacy to his entire body that spoke of a lifetime of confinement. His shirt, previously white, was stained with blood and soot and what looked like a bootprint on his side.
"What is your name?" Dietrich asked, switching to English.
He jerked his head to the side and then up as if to see where the voice was coming from. Hesitating, he swallowed and tried to mop at his bloody nose with his sleeve, "Bartholomew...Bartholemew Roads."
"You are blind, Herr Roads?"
Pausing a beat, the American gestured with his bloody sleeve, "as you see."
Amused, despite himself, he smiled. "You must understand, Herr Roads, that you are now a prisoner." He nodded and gave a whole-body flinch as the door slammed open; Colonel Richter had returned with a fury that he turned on the slight teenager
"Get him out of my sight!" He ordered. Taking no pleasure in the flinch that came when Dietrich took hold of the young man's arm and guiding him out of the office, he paused in the entryway. The same sallow private who had fetched him stood behind him.
"Where is your room?"
"My...room….why?"
"Unless you wish to be confined in a closet or the basement," he raised his eyes to inspect the house—warm, comfortable, with definite American stylings.
"To the right," Bartholomew said, "and up the stairs, second door on the left."
"Very well," he still held the boy's elbow as gently as possible and watched as he trailed his bloody fingertips along the walls to find the banister, which he used to guide himself up the stairs and down the hall. When they reached the door, in an effort to rid himself of the presence of his enemies, he went in without protest and shut the door in Dietrich's face as quickly as he could.
"He wasn't asking him questions," the private said hastily as Dietrich turned his suspicious gaze on him. "He struck him and didn't even ask a question." He continued to stare, and the man swallowed. "He isn't a soldier, Herr Hauptmann." Refusing to meet the captain's eyes as if ashamed of himself.
"Guard the door," Dietrich ordered and went down the stairs to find Colonel Richter standing in the office, fuming. "Sir?"
"I have been recalled," he relayed, eyeing Dietrich for any signs of pleasure or glee. His control was iron, and after a moment of staring, the colonel returned to his orders. "You will maintain this island, Hauptmann Dietrich, and comb through the information found here." Doubtlessly infuriated that he would not be able to spend time in a comfortable house, pawing over an American general's belongings and humiliating his son, Colonel Richter took his anger out on his miserable aide and the rest of the soldiers on the island.
Dietrich took the time to observe the house, building in the latest century; it nonetheless had the modern amenities that Americans enjoyed. Electricity and indoor plumbing, including a spacious bathtub in the master bath. Still, it was obvious that General Roads took great care of his things and his home. The house had been spotless before it had been overturned for information, but the rooms were organized, and everything obviously had its place. He found a small desk in the parlor room, stacked with thick books with even thicker paper. Not a word to be found in printed English, but in Braille. There was an entire bookshelf dedicated to these books, and Dietrich found himself admiring the general for the obvious care he had for his son. Even a modified typewriter, with the keys having been covered in a resign bearing the same bumps in the books. The page was littered with a few sentences in English, and only a few typos were visible. Propped against the desk was a long white cane, and he spotted a second pair of dark glasses.
Behind the house was a garden and a garden path that seemed to extend on a loop around the back of the property, into the small wooded area further away from the house and back again. Nodding to himself, he returned to the house and began to dispatch orders to ensure that the island's occupants were well in hand.
He had nearly forgotten about the teenager until the sight of a medic carefully packing away bandages reminded him. Ordering the medic to follow, he made his way back to the house and found the general's son anxiously pacing his room in his bloody shirt.
"Herr Roads," he cleared his throat. He stopped and faced the door; his medic's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the teenager's face and his eyes. "I have brought a medic."
"A medic?" He stared around, "what are you….who are you?"
"I am Captain Dietrich, my medic is Sergeant Muller."
"What are you," the boy drew back, "what do you want," and added a belated, "sir?"
"Sergeant Muller is a medic, and he is here to look after your nose."
"My nose is fine."
"Your nose is broken," Dietrich inwardly sighed at the obstinance of Americans. "Sit down, Herr Roads." Slowly, with visible suspicion, Roads stepped toward the chair in the room and lowered himself into it. Sergeant Muller knelt beside the chair, and he flinched.
"What is he doing?"
"He is reaching into his bag. Muller," he switched to German, "make sure he can hear you."
"Don't panic," Muller said, and Dietrich relayed his words, but the boy still flinched when his hand settled across his face. Muller worked quickly and began to mop up the blood around his face and from his hands. When he was finished, the young man was still young, tired, and cocked his head to follow the footsteps of the medic as he left. His hands clenched and unclenched as he waited.
"You must understand that while you are a prisoner, you must answer to my men and to me. I will not accept or tolerate any disobedience or attempts of sabotage."
"Sabotage?" Disbelieving, the boy shook his head. "What are you going to do with me?"
"Nothing, provided you do not get in the way of my men."
"That's not," he shook his head, "I mean...why am I...still here? "
"You may be useful."
"I will not ," with a striking amount of courage; he shook his head. "I won't help you."
"Not directly," he agreed, "but should you obey and keep quiet, no harm shall come to you."
"What happened to Mrs. Alanis?" The words trembled and knowing the boy wouldn't be able to see the close of his eyes, nor the guilty expression, meant he had to tell the truth.
"She was your caretaker?"
"Was?" He was smarter than he gave him credit for. " Was ? Is she...dead?"
"Mrs. Alanis is dead, Herr Roads." He took no pleasure in the horrified expression on his face. "You will have to manage as best you can without assistance."
"She's dead ?" The boy started to sag backward but stopped himself. "Are you going to kill me?"
He shook his head before realizing that the boy wouldn't be able to see him. "No. You will remain here, Herr Roads; tomorrow, we will reach another arrangement."
"Another…" Now thoroughly frightened, the boy's bottom lip trembled. "If you're….going to send me somewhere...can you give me my cane?"
"I do not intend to send you anywhere," he let out a slow sigh. "You are understandably wary, Herr Roads, but if you follow my instructions, then you have nothing to fear." He waited until he nodded. "Very well. I will leave you." Standing, he excused himself from the room and went back to his duties.
#$#$
Bartholomew laid in bed, peering into the ever-present darkness as he tried to thinking of something to do. Someone had brought him some rations, which were pretty much disgusting, but he wasn't picky enough to go hungry, and he'd washed up enough to get the feeling of blood off his body. His own blood, too, the bully-like Colonel who insulted him and hit him without warning had been replaced by a much kinder man whose voice was deep, authoritative, but not cruel. According to Dietrich, the colonel was due to leave the island, but he was supposed to stay.
It was the end of a long, hard, and terrifying day. Which had started so innocently, with his alarm going off and Mrs. Alanis bustling in with breakfast the same way she did every morning and ended with him being locked in his room as Germans patrolled the grounds. He didn't know where his dad was or even what to do. He was, as best he could tell, in huge trouble.
His nose hurt, his face was one unhappy bruise, reminding him sharply of the colonel's violent slap that had sent him reeling to the floor of his father's office. The terror that had clogged his throat then rose again, and he pulled the blankets over his head to muffle his terrified cries.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep because the next noise he heard was his alarm clanging away. Someone opened the door, and Bart rolled to the side to smack it off.
"Ow," his face ached , and bits of it had to be swollen.
" Guten Morgen !" Someone called, and he turned toward the door, bleary and confused.
"What?" He yawned, winced as his bruised face stretched out, and pulled his drooping shirt back over his shoulder. Remembering yesterday, he froze, waiting to hear someone across the room, but the door shut, and he was alone. "Shit...invasion."
With little else to do, he washed his face and ventured to dress. Not knowing what he was wearing, he pulled on his clothes and hoped he looked somewhat acceptable. Usually, there was someone there to tell him if he had picked the wrong thing. Just as he was rolling up his shirt sleeves, the door opened again.
"Herr Roads!" The voice called. "Komm."
That was easy enough to guess, and as soon as he felt comfortable, he ventured warily to where the voice had come. He could smell the man the closer he got, a mixture of sweat, gunpowder, and iron, but when they grabbed his wrist, he helped and tugged himself backward and free. "Don't touch me!" He yelped, only for the soldier to grab his shoulder and yank him forward. The shoulder wasn't as bad as the wrist, but he still wasn't all that pleased to be grabbed randomly, and by the time he'd been pulled down the stairs and into the dining room, he was still trying to get himself lose.
Another voice rang out, the iron voice of the captain from the night before, the guard responded, and after a few sentences, the man's attention turned to Bartholomew. "What is the meaning of this?"
"He...he grabbed me." He pulled himself free, staggering into the side of the table. He heard dishes rattle and paused. "You can't...you can't grab me. I can't see you; you'd get freaked out too! I can navigate the house just fine...I don't need to be dragged." He could hear his grandmother in his ears, dragging him along with the impatience that came from being closer to Death than she wished.
The captain gave a low hum, and his next response was in German, followed by a retreating pair of boots. A chair scraped back, and Bart froze as a pair of clipped, measured footsteps approached. He was taller than Bart remembered, his voice coming from higher up than before but still as measured. "You can navigate this room?"
"As long as you haven't changed anything," he wanted to reach out but kept his hands at his side. "I should be able to."
"Describe the room as you know it."
"What?"
"Describe the room, please."
"It's about...twenty paces long, fifteen paces wide at the widest, but there's an alcove there," he pointed to the side. "That's got a phone on it, and it's next to a chair. The table is six paces long, three wide, and it's got six chairs around it—one at each head and three on the sides. There's a dumbwaiter on the wall perpendicular to the phone, I don't fit into it, and the window over here," he waved, "have scratchy drapes. Oh, there's a fireplace too, but it's little." The feeling of being observed closely came again, but unlike the judgemental stares, this one was more curious and intrigued.
"Then find your way to the chair on the far right of the table, Herr Roads," Dietrich stepped away, and wondering why he was bothering with it, Bartholomew navigated toward the chair. "There is breakfast."
"Breakfast?"
"Did you assume you would not be fed?" Captain Dietrich moved around the table, taking the seat at the end. It was usually Dad's seat, and he tried not to show just how much the usurpation irritated him.
"I didn't think I'd get to eat with the captain," he answered and felt across the table. "What is it?"
"A sandwich." Disappointing but understandable. "There is water to your right."
"Thank you." He reached for the glass and took a sip, listening to the scrape of a knife and fork against the plate. "What are you eating?"
A lengthy silence carried on, "eggs."
"I can eat with a knife and fork," Bartholomew told him, tilting his head in Dietrich's direction. "Are you surprised?" Was this being rude? He couldn't tell.
"Yes," the man admitted, which surprised Bartholomew in turn.
"I can drive too." He added, and when the dumbfounded silence dragged on, said. "That was a joke."
"Ah," he resumed eating, and they suffered through a painfully awkward silence.
Did you make a conversation with an enemy officer? His dad had never talked about it, and he'd only spoken about the war in vague, clinical terms. He hadn't even anticipated meeting an enemy soldier before, much less having one eating at his father's place at the table. He settled for silence.
"If you must be directed," the man spoke again, "how is it done?"
"You," he paused, "you have asked me...or tell me, don't grab my shoulder or my wrist, only my elbow….if I give it to you. I need my cane...and you have to keep your language clear and direct. It's...why do you care?"
"I am the only one of my men who speaks English well. While you are in my custody, you will doubtless see much of me."
"Oh…" Well, that was a surprise. "Alright."
"There will be guards posted throughout the house, so long as you do not disturb them, you will not be disturbed."
"Yes, sir." He prodded the remainder of his sandwich and wolfed it down. It was going to be a long while before he was rescued.
#$#$#
Dietrich had met only a few blind people in his life; the girl from the desert, so beautiful and tragic but more than helpful. He found himself watching Bartholomew Roads with keen interest, having never seen someone navigate a house blindly. He hadn't considered the boy could use proper utensils and blushed at the mistake. Still, he was not ashamed to say he watched keenly as the boy moved from the dining room to the parlor, and before more than one curious guard, felt for his cane and pulled his glasses on. As he reached for one of the large books, Dietrich decided to return to his duties and left the young American alone. It would only be a matter of time before either the ransom came through or rescue was launched; he wanted to get as much done before the entire assignment went to hell.
#$#$#
"Sarge!" the hissed whisper jolted Sam Troy from his sleep, and he rolled over to eye his driver. "Sarge, orders just came down from on high." He passed over a paper, and Troy lit his lighter long enough to read the order.
"Get Tully and Moffitt," he ordered, "pack it in; we're wanted at headquarters."
"I got them, Sarge," the blond grinning innocently at Troy's frown. "We're waiting on you."
"Right," he got up, "wonder what it is this time."
#$#$#
As much fun as Shakespear was, it wasn't enough to distract him from the random shouts in German he heard and the occasional noise he wasn't familiar with. It rattled his mind enough that he tapped his way out of the living room and toward the back door. No-one stopped him, but he could easily guess that the guards were watching his every step.
He wanted some space, someplace where he didn't feel like a prisoner. His home was full of strange men, scents, and noises, and a caretaker was gone. Her absence ached, and he tried, futilely, to distract himself from the reality of his situation. Prodding at his nose, he settled in on the bench, content to be miserable.
#$#$#
"I'm not going to lie to you, men." Captain Boggs stared at the four rats. "This one isn't going to be easy." The office was hot and stuffy despite the fans whirring away. General Simmons, General Roads were gathered in the room. "General Roads?"
"Gentleman," the man nodded, "just a day and a half ago, German soldiers infiltrated and took over the Island of Romona." He pointed to a spot on the map. "It's small, not particularly interesting, and was used as a radio station, but not much else. My...residence is there as well, and since the German's overran it, they've….they've taken my son captive." Troy glanced at General Simmons; the Englander nodded to his silent question. "You were good enough to rescue Miles Simmons without incident, and we're going to have to ask you to do the same here. They've issued a steep ransom demand that high command has no interest in caving to. Your mission is to infiltrate Romona and rescue my son before the deadline is up." No wonder the man was so frantic; he was clutching at his pocket watch and turned to Simmons. "I'm here to give you any of the intelligence and layout of the island that you can use."
"I'm sorry to hear about your son, sir," Troy thought a moment longer. "But if the island has no military value, then why would the German's bother?"
"I imagine they thought I kept military information in the house," he shook his head. "I never did anything so reckless, and…." He took a steadying breath. "Assume the German's wouldn't be interested. Not to mention the island isn't on many maps, and its location has been kept a secret."
"How old is your son?"
"Barry will be sixteen in a few days, but the problem is that my son is blind." Another complication Troy didn't want to deal with. "Being blind will put him on a bad foot with the Germans, and they may not keep their own deadline."
"Sergeant Troy and his men are some of the best, General Roads," Captain Boggs spoke up.
"Yes, yes...Miles Simmons told me all about his rescue." Faintly abashed, Troy nodded.
"He borrowed one of my men's hats," Simmons added, "and as with Miles, we cannot give the German's leeway to try this sort of thing in the future."
"As far as we know, the abduction wasn't intentional, but the longer the Germans have him, the more danger he is in."
"I understand, sir."
"Good, then let me explain what you're going to be facing." General Roads unrolled a smaller map. "And you can plot your attack."
#$#$#$
"If you are intending to escape," Dietrich's voice echoed from the side of the garden, and Barry jolted out of the world of Illyria, "you have certainly made a poor effort of it."
"I was going to sail away," he answered before his brain caught up with his mouth. "But I lost my compass."
"Fair enough," the same measured footsteps approached, pausing a foot or two away. "You have a fair collection of books, Herr Roads, and all in braille."
"You know braille?" drawing his fingers over Molvolio's soliloquy; he listened for the answer.
"I know of braille," Dietrich admitted. "I find it curious that none of the titles are written along the side."
"They are," he waited.
"In type."
"Well...they're my books," he wondered where this was going. "Why would they be typed?"
"Fair point," the officer conceded after a moment's hesitation. "What are you reading?"
"Twelfth Night," he shrugged, and placing the bookmark in between the pages, closed it. "What time is it?"
"Just after two o'clock."
"What's the weather?"
"It is cloudy," Dietrich paused. "But there is sunlight."
"Oh," he tilted his head to the side. "What does the sea look like?"
"I cannot see if from here," Dietrich replied, and Barry stood.
"Oh," holding his book close, he ventured down the path that he knew should take him on a loop of the wider grounds, including atop a small hill that supposedly overlooked the sea. The officer followed curiously, and when they crested the hill, made a slight noise of understanding. "Can you see the ocean?"
"I can."
"What does it look like?"
"Dangerous, white caps, high waves, and only a short distance between them."
"A storm could be coming in," he mused and tapped his cane for the bench that was supposed to be alongside the path. When he found it, he sat down, and setting his cane to the side, started to open the book again. Listening for the retreat of the footsteps, he tilted his head to the side when the shift of fabric and a gentle sigh reached him. Dietrich had joined him on the bench. Was there something he wanted? Did he want to watch Barry read? Did he want to have a conversation with him? "Have you ever...read the Twelfth Night?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I attended a German military academy," he didn't sound upset; he actually sounded amused. "We did not read Shakespeare."
"What about outside school? Did you have the chance to read it then?"
A lengthy pause followed, and he moved his finger idly over the scene he'd been reading. "No," the captain said finally, "I did not."
"Did you read any Shakespeare?"
There was a definite smile curling around his answer. "No."
"But you know about him?"
"Maybe people know about him," he replied, and Barry chewed on his bottom lip. "I cannot imagine knowing lines from a play would serve well in the army."
"No, but you can't just be a soldier."
A faint laugh fell across his ears. "I am a soldier."
"But what about when you're not fighting or when you get out of the army."
"That's not how it works, Herr Roads. A soldier is a soldier."
"I suppose, but why can't a soldier read? I mean, you...are at war with the British, but it's Shakespeare! His stuff transcends war!"
"As bemused that you are that I haven't read his works, I am bemused that you have read his works. I would not have considered old plays to be the book of choice for a young American."
Barry shrugged, "I like to read, and it's a funny story."
"Is it?"
"Hmm," he traced over some of the words, "it's my favorite." He turned to the front of the book, and tracing the words he'd nearly memorized, said, "If music is the food of love, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die."
"Dramatic," Captain Dietrich mused.
"This is a comedy, not a tragedy, the count is in love with Olivia, but she doesn't want anything to do with him." He grinned. "It's funny, there are these twins and a shipwreck, and there's a fool. I think he's my favorite." As he stopped, the words died in his throat, considering the idea that Captain Dietrich probably wouldn't want to hear about a British playwright while he was fighting the British. Remaining still, he took a lungful of the sea air and let it out. "Nevermind."
"I will admit this much, Herr Roads, that now you have aroused my curiosity."
"Oh." Before his father had left, they'd sat in the parlor quietly reading together. He could still smell a faint scent of the cigar he'd been smoking, carried on the salty breeze, and the steady breathing from across the room had nearly been enough to put him to sleep. There was a reason Twelfth Night was his favorite play, and it wasn't just because it was funny. Sniffing, he dabbed at his eyes, avoiding his still aching nose. If the captain noticed him brushing away a stray tear or three, he didn't say anything.
"How is your nose?"
"Broken."
A low hum, and eventually the snap of a lighter, and then cigarette smoke wafted over.
What was he supposed to say now? Make idle conversation with the man who had taken over his home and was probably trying to find information? Probably stealing his dad's cigars too. He settled for standing, tucking his book under his arm; he guided himself back to the gravel pathway and turned the direction of the house.
"What are you doing?"
"I," he floundered, "I haven't eaten since breakfast." He wasn't a soldier; he wasn't used to half rations or no rations. But even in a house full of enemies, he still knew where some of the food was.
"Ah, of course," hearing the man stand, Barry bit back an aggrieved sigh as he was joined. Familiarity with the gravel path meant he did not need his cane too much here, he didn't need it in the house very much, but it felt better to be around these soldiers with something weapon-like in hand.
"Did your officers decide what they wanted from me?" His cane tapped against the steps leading into the plaza; he lifted his feet carefully up the steps. "I'm not so good with maps."
"No? What is it?" Barry had paused.
"I can't remember where the door is," he said, "I got distracted."
"In front of you, 60 degrees to your right."
"Oh, I am turned around." He moved across the plaza and reaching for the door only to find it already open and a warm body running into his fingers. "Oh!" In his rush to escape the new person, he slipped backward off the step and fell to the ground. His glasses and book went flying, and he heard his cane fall.
"Herr Roads!" The new voice was younger, panicked, and concerned as he babbled away in German.
"Stop!" He shoved the hands away, fear zinging through his system. "Stop touching me!" He tried to right himself, only succeeding in falling against a broad, warm chest.
"Calm down," Captain Dietrich ordered, and Barry froze, he snapped something in German, and the other man stopped moving. "Private Zimmer made the unfortunate mistake of attempting to open the door for you. It is not a mistake he will make again."
"Okay," cursing the trembling words, he reached up to ground himself by clutching at the arm beside him. The uniform fabric was smooth, worn down by use and wear, and vastly different from what the G.I. wore. "I...I just." He wasn't sure what Dietrich could see on his face, just that whatever he could see was enough to give his shoulder an awkward pat. "Where did my things fall?"
"Zimmer is retrieving them." An order followed in German, and a moment later, a book and his cane were pressed into his hands. "Your nose is bleeding."
"Oh," he reached to his nose, hot blood dripping over his fingers. " Oh . Don't let blood on my book!"
"Very well, follow me, please," Dietrich ordered, and trembling faintly, he ventured into the house and around until they were in the kitchen.
"Herr Hauptmann!" A few men jumped up, but the jumble of footprints and voices didn't do enough to show who was in the room.
A few lines in German followed, and the voice of Zimmer joined the mess as the captain directed him to a chair.
"The medic is coming," the assurance didn't help too much, and he turned his head as another voice piped up.
#$#$#
"Is he really blind, sir?" The American turned his head to followed the question, and Dietrich favored the idiot with a glare that could have busted him down a rank with each second of exposure.
"He is," taking a deep breath; he wondered if it was worth the effort of untangling his arm from the teenager's iron grip. He could not fathom the world around him being anything but darkness, not seeing where he was going or who was coming. He tried to contemplate just how frightening the entire situation would be for a normal teenager and compounded by a severe disability. Miles Simmons might not have been able to speak, but at least he could see what was going on around him...the fear in his eyes had been painfully visible. "Or have you lost your own eyes, Corporal?"
"No, sir!" The man's eyes widened as Bartholomew Roads turned his head again to follow the voice.
"He doesn't speak German," Dietrich told them, "or understand it. When you are near him, ensure you announce your presence, so he does not run into you." These were mostly guards, and while silent guards were impressive and good, he could only imagine the teenager tripping over one.
"How many people are in the room?" The teenager lifted his head again, only as the medic bustled into the room.
"Sir?" The medic eyed the American and then Dietrich with a curious gaze bordering on suspicion.
"Medic!" Bartholomew said, and all eyes turned to him as he finally unlatched his hand from Dietrich's sleeve to seize upon the medics. "Oh, I recognize his voice."
"He recognizes your voice," he relayed as the medic set about cleaning up the blood and finally bandaging his face. If the boy had been able to appreciate his appearance, he would have been depressed by the size of the bandage, the swollen bruise that covered most of his face, and the wane look it gave him. Corporal Zimmer appeared, and as soon as the men caught sight of the book, they set upon it, admiring the various bumps and avid curiosity and wonderment that anyone could read something like that.
"He cannot see, but he can still read," Corporal Zimmer explained, flipping through the book. "That is impressive."
"Is it another language?"
"Is it still English?"
"What's going on?" The boy turned toward Dietrich. "I hear Zimmer's voice, but."
"They are admiring your book," he noted, "They are not certain if it is another language."
"Please, please don't let them destroy it." He felt around for Dietrich's sleeve. "They can't!"
"I have already given such an order," he glared at his men, and Zimmer returned the book to Bartholomew's hands and then his cane.
"I feel like I'm being stared at," he relayed nervously, turning around as if trying to meet the eyes of the people around him. "Are they staring?"
"Yes, come." He went, protestingly out of the kitchen and through the house.
"Is my shirt ruined?"
"It has blood on it," Dietrich admitted. "However, the medic has cleaned it from your hands and face."
"Oh, good," he followed him into the parlor room, "how do I look?"
"Does your appearance truly concern you?"
"Well," he guided himself to his desk and sat down. "No, but my face hurts, and...usually that means it doesn't look great."
"It is heavily bruised," the apologetic tone was met with a faint nod. For now, the boy would accept his answer. Venturing to the shelves of books, he stared at the incomprehensible labels popping out of the sides and ventured a question. "What other titles do you have, Herr Roads?"
"Uh...Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Macbeth, There's a poem in there too," he stood and tapped his way to the shelf. Dietrich stepped out of his path. "I've got Byron, Keats, Browning, oh. There's a book by Robert Frost too." the light fingers shifted over the titles, scanning each one before removing one of the thinner books. "Robert Frost." To Dietrich's immense surprise, he flipped the book open. "I've got a few philosophy books, Plato and Socrates, oh, and Mark Twain too."
Impressed by the collection of titles and names, as well as the boy's obvious enthusiasm for his books. Bartholomew Roads was nothing like his father was reported to be and certainly not like any American that he had met before. The fear from before was chased away as his fingers slipped over the open page, a smile stretching his face as far as his injury would let him. "What are you reading?"
"The Road Not Taken." He paused, "it's a small poem, but it means a lot. Listen to it." The shock was insufficient an emotion to describe his feelings as the prisoner recited the short poem with a smile on his face. It was a short poem, and the words resounded again and again through Dietrich's head as the American set the book back on the shelf.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood .
"Oh, I forgot to eat." the American said faintly, and Dietrich made an agreeing noise.
I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference .
He was seized the urge to ask the boy to read it again but managed to refrain as Bartholomew tapped his way back to the kitchen.
#$#$#
The picture of Bartholomew, presented at the tail end of their briefing, was of a skinny boy with curly black hair, dark glasses and sitting in an armchair with his fingers spread out over a book. Only 15, he was lankier than Troy expected and probably wouldn't be as easy to move around as easily as Miles Simmons was.
"The passcode is 'lemon soup,'" he told the rats, and at their confused expression, explained. "Barry is blind, and when someone says they've come to pick him up, he can't tell if they're lying or not. To make sure he's going with the right person and not getting kidnapped. He won't go with you if you don't know the passcode."
"Lemon soup," Troy repeated, "yes, sir." It was pretty damn clever to have a code phrase when you had a blind son.
"Good, you'll all need to say it to him, so he knows you're on the level."
"When do we leave?"
"As soon as you're packed, the jeep will take to the plane and the plane to the coast. Any further questions?"
"No, sir," He turned to look at his boys, Jack's jaw was tight with anger, but he only ventured a salute. When they had been dismissed and making their way down to the jeeps, he finally turned on the Brit. "What is it?"
"I don't like this," Jack admitted quietly, "The Germans haven't been playing cricket...and to use a blind boy as ransom...and that poor boy Miles…." Abruptly Sam remembered that Germany had once been Jack's home too, and finding this out had to be something like a betrayal. "Colonel Richter is a violet, brutish man," Jack continued, "and reports of him across the desert paint him in a poor light."
"Then the sooner we get him out of there, the better off it'll be."
"Right," Jack nodded, "of course."
#$#$#$
His face hurt , and he'd made a complete fool of himself in front of the captain. Fallen flat over, busted his already tender nose again, and then babbled on about Robert Frost . What did a captain care for Robert Frost? Why would he be interested in a poem or plays? Why would he care?
Trying to distract himself with reading wasn't working. He didn't usually spend all day reading; he talked with people, he went on long walks around the island. Now he was alone, and the only other person who spoke English on the whole damn island was his captor.
"Guten Abend," Corporal Zimmer's voice caught his attention. He turned his head toward the soldier, knowing he probably looked a little lopsided from his bandages. "Herr Roads."
"Good evening," he was spitballing here, "Corporal Zimmer."
"Komm...bitte."
"Okay," he set his book aside and reached for his cane. He didn't need to reach for the corporal but felt a little better when he had the man's sleeve in his hand. Unlike the morning, he wasn't dragged into the dining room, and when he entered, the smell of something delicious hit his nose, and his stomach rumbled. "Same place?" He asked.
"Yes." It was, as before, Captain Dietrich. He paused, wondering if Dietrich was using him to get information on his hadn't spoken about his father, but what did they want from him? What sort of information could he have? The door shut behind him, and he could hear the man-eating while simultaneously flipping through some paperwork.
"What's on the menu?"
"Soup and bread," came the reply, and Barry carefully explored the placements. A bowl of hot soup, with bread perched on the side and a cup of water to the right. He ate slowly; the food was decent enough but pretty bland. Since he wasn't in the place to complain, he didn't try. It was better than sitting in his room, alone and scared. He paused, realizing something as he finished the last of his soup.
"You've met a blind person before," he lifted his head, turning toward Dietrich. "Haven't you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You don't react the same way as some of the others...and you just told me."
"You are a clever young man," the admiration was grudging.
"My.., you should see how I play chess." He sipped the water.
"Chess?"
"You're surprised?"
"I imagined chess is a visual game," he mused, "However, I have only heard of prodigies who can play without seeing aboard."
"I can't see anything." He tried to joke, only to grimace when the man's heavy stare was a physical burden. "Look, it isn't too hard. People just how to tell me where they're moving."
"Would you care for a game?"
"I'm only telling you because you don't seem to believe me." His dad could play chess well but preferred checkers."
"Would you," the man asked again, "care for a game?"
"I won't say no." He wasn't sure he could say no. "But if you're only asking to see it and to gawk, I won't play."
Dietrich gave a faint, amused huff of laughter. "I assure you, Herr Roads, I am curious to see how you play."
" How I play, or if I play well?"
"The later."
"Oh, unless someone moved it, there's a board in the living room on the round table." Barry was mostly sure that's where it was. "But...it might also be destroyed or missing. You guys did kick down the door, and I heard furniture being overturned."
"The chess board is still there."
"Oh, then you don't have to go digging for one." He stood, pushing his chair back against the table.
In the living room, he took his usual seat on the couch, curling his feet beneath him and settling sideways against the armrest as he heard the captain move the board onto the small coffee table.
"I'll play black," he smiled, "you go first."
"Very well," the sound of wood clicking against wood echoed across the room. "Pawn C2 to C4."
#$#$#
Bartholomew Roads was good at chess. Not just at remembering where the pieces were, but anticipating attacks and movements. He didn't need to look at the board; he was slouched over an armrest in a manner Dietrich would only describe as feminine; and paid no mind to the entrance of Sergeant Wolfgang. The man had been watching the match with a bemused, excited expression as he watched.
Dietrich, for all of his skills, could not visualize an entire chessboard and the moves. He moved the pieces around the physical board and found himself startled by how quickly the boy could come up with his responses.
"Who was she?"
"I beg your pardon?" Board ignored momentarily; he watched the young American lift his head onto a fist.
"The blind girl," a shallow sigh compressed his lungs. "Who was she?"
How ? "I did not say it was a woman."
"You didn't have to." At least he had the grace to gloat but clearly possessed the infuriating ability to infer information from the barest hint of information that Troy did.
"How did you guess?" The enigmatic shrug prompted a sigh.
"Was she nice?"
"It is no concern of yours," he told the boy.
"She was nice."
Knowing that he was changing the subject and not caring, he asked, "did your father teach you how to play chess?"
"My father?" Bartholomew pursed his lips.
"So he did ." Turning the boy's own intuition against him was a simple pleasure, which fizzled out as he shook his head.
"No, he didn't."
"Who taught you to play chess?"
"It is no concern of yours," Bartholomew answered, tilting his head toward the door to hide a smile. "Have you made your move yet?"
"No."
"Okay," he lapsed back into silence, seemingly content to wait.
It wasn't the oddest interaction he'd ever had with an American. That was reserved for the time Troy had hauled him out of an underground ammo dump before blowing it sky-high, but this was pushing it. Playing chess with a general's blind son.
"Your father is very accommodating. I have never seen a household or living space so adapted."
"Hmmm," the boy tensed, cocking an ear in Dietrich's direction as he moved a piece.
"Rook A1 to C5." And cursed as he caught sight of the carefully hidden trap.
"Ahhh, Bishop F8 to C5, my piece." Dietrich shot Sergeant Wolfgang a glare as the man re-examined the board, now smiling.
"How does he see them?" He wondered, picking up the white bishop that he'd set aside. "If he blind?"
"He keeps them in his head," the sour reply afforded him another subtle smirk that he favored with a glare. "Yes?"
"It is impressive, Herr Hauptmann."
He agreed with the sentiment, but perhaps not the enthusiasm. Dietrich's skill at the board was not inconsiderable; he had played it often enough in the military academy as a practice for the field. Not that it worked with the Rat, he considered sourly. Chess had rules and regulations...he was fighting men who threw both out whenever they pleased.
"What does he want? Oh!" From across the room, an alarm jangled violently. Both German's startled, and Bartholomew sat up.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Good night?" Bemused, he watched the boy stand, reaching for his cane?
"It's always dark," he tapped his head, "so it's hard to know when to go to sleep." Maneuvering over to the alarm, he switched it off. "So the alarms keep me on a schedule."
"Very wise," People naturally wanted to sleep when it was dark; perhaps it was difficult to keep on a daily schedule with the rest of the household if the sleeping schedules were staggered. "Shall we pick up the game later?"
"Sure," he nodded, cane sweeping out in front of him to knock against Sergeant Wolfgang's boots. "Sorry." He vanished; his slow paces heard ascending the stairs before moving down the hall and into his room.
"Did you find anything out about his father?"
"General Roads is an indulgent father," he replied, "and very thorough in his paperwork. I have found nothing of significant value in the household documents. I cannot tell you where he is or what he might be planning, or who he is with. I can tell you that an American general makes excellent money and that he has ordered a typewriter for her personal use." Shaking his head, he tried to focus on the chessboard. "Do you play?"
"Not anymore." Sergeant Wolfgang. "I have heard that true prodigies can play without seeing the board."
"An adaptation to overcome his blindness," Dietrich assured the man but turned his attention back to the board, unsure of what he was going to do.
#$#$#
Bartholomew was startled awake at the sound of thunder in the distance, rolling across the sky and sea, echoing endlessly. He didn't hear the rain against the window, but there was a sharp nip in the air that he could feel on his nose.
"Oh." With a quiet sigh, he pushed the blankets back and stood. It wasn't so cold to be late at night, and he wasn't feeling too restless to fall back asleep. Dressing, he ventured into the hall, sweeping his cane around and listening for the German guard to announce his presence. When it didn't happen, he ventured down the stairs, listening for the buzz of electricity, the sounds of German, or people moving and breathing. Bemused at the near-dead silence of the house, he exited into the garden and down the garden path.
Cold, the scent of rain, and the sounds of branches whipping around were all the warning signs of a coming storm that he needed. He probably shouldn't be outside, but he needed space. The more distance he put between himself and the house, the better he felt, the more clearly he could analyze the situation.
"Oh," he reached the part of the path he knew would take him to a cliff overlooking the sea and felt his cane tap against the boulder there. He sat beside it, leaning against the familiar contours that were cold to the touch; he shrugged against the onslaught of ugly fear that clawed its way up to his throat. It was cold . The grass, the rock, the air, the warmth had fled back to the house. "Fuck." He blurted, throat clogging up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Slamming a fist against the grass did nothing to alleviate the burn in his eyes, so he dug his teeth into knuckles, trying to push away the fear with pain. "Damnit!" Tears soaked through the badges still pressed over his nose, some dripping onto his bleeding knuckles.
He tried to scrub the tears from his eyes, but his hands shook, and each breath came out in sharper rasps as he failed to get himself under control. Tears came, harder and faster, until he was clinging desperately to keep himself upright to spite the violence of his sobs. A heady cocktail of pain and grief that flooded his veins, freezing him further.
Bartholomew tried to suck back his tears, only making his breath shudder traitorously as familiar footsteps approached. He was sure the captain could see him, so he was less concerned with the tearful quality of his voice when he finally ventured to speak.
"I'm a hostage, aren't I? That's...that's why you're keeping me around...that's why you're...I'm just a weapon against my own dad."
A measured sigh followed his pronouncement. "Yes."
"I," words drowned in his throat. Pressing his forehead against the cold rock, he felt his shoulders shaking and knew that as pathetic as he might look, it would never match how he felt. "FUCK!" Ripping his glass off, he flung them to the side. "FUCKING SHIT! The perfect fucking hostage, aren't I? Blind and helpless!"
"You may be blind," the captain's guilt startled him, "but you are far from helpless, Herr Roads."
"That's easy for you to say," he snorted.
"You're going to freeze," Dietrich's voice interrupted and was followed by a large jacket settling over his shoulders. It was warm, well-worn, and he felt as if he was drowning in sudden heat. It was not the violence or derision he'd been expecting—none of what he'd been taught and experienced what German officers were like.
"Herr Roads," he paused. "It is 3 in the morning."
" Oh ," scrubbed at his teary eyes, he turned toward the sounds of crashing waves. "I thought it was six...maybe seven…." No wonder it was so cold. It was the dead of night, and he hadn't posted any guards...because he hadn't expected Bartholomew to do anything crazy. He was still cold but managed to keep himself together long enough to turn toward the captain when a hand settled on his shoulder.
Why did he feel guilty? He was a soldier and an officer, and he'd probably killed people before, so why did Bartholomew's situation seem to make him uncomfortable?
"Come inside before the storm breaks, Herr Roads."
"I don't," he pulled the jacket closer, humiliation sweeping through him as a gust of wind swept over them. "Oh...it's coming." Standing slowly, he clung to the borrowed jacket and his cane, taking slow, measured steps away from the boulder the subsequent cliff face until his feet slipped over gravel. He jerked away from the man's attempt to guide him. " I'm fine ."
"Very well."
#$#$#
It wasn't a total surprise to see that Bartholomew Roads had figured out his purpose for remaining on the island. It was a surprise to see that Roads had made it out of the house and onto the gravel path without alerting anyone of his absence. It was hardly a skill to sneak past a lack of guards, but it was impressive nonetheless. He had considered the boy to be helpless, but there was a strength that he hadn't considered before.
Bartholomew had learned how to navigate the world without his eyes, how to function with something so basic that Dietrich hadn't considered half of what he could do possible. Reading, writing, chess, and going for walks. Everything was made more difficult by his lack of sight, and he still insisted upon his independence and freedom, even with his captors.
To see him so rattled, weeping alone in the darkness, just steps from a premature watery death as a storm brewed around him, left the captain more concerned than he was willing to admit. The death of an innocent boy was a weight he did not want to carry. What if he had thrown himself into the ocean? To protect his father and the soldiers he led, he could have taken his own life, and their bargaining power would have been gone.
They shouldn't even have this bargaining power. A man of honor and dignity would have returned him to his father.
"Listen." As they reached the back garden, with a foot on the doorstep, he turned back.
"What?" Above the thrashing of trees against each other, waves colliding against the shoreline and rocks, a faint rushing sound. First slowly, and with increasing strength as a wall of rain approached. It poured rain, thundering against the roof tiles and rattling the gutters. He could easily imagine Herr Roads getting turned around and dying of exposure.
"Good night," the jacket slid to the floor as the boy once more re-ascended the staircase, silently sliding into the darkness of the house as the storm raged outside.
#$#$#
When his morning alarm rang, Bartholomew rolled over in bed to slap it off before rolling to face the window. An endless drum of rain thundered against the glass, and a chill had settled over his room. Pulling his blankets to his chin, he languished beneath them, listening to the storm and the men wandering around his father's house.
It was when he'd gone blind all over again. The fear of the unknown, unable to stop shaking, too afraid to face the house outside his bedroom...to0 afraid to face people.
At some point, he dozed off, and the world faded away until a sharp rap on the door startled him awake.
"Herr Roads." His heart sank at Dietrich's voice. "I will not have you languishing about and worrying yourself into a fever." He approached, and Barry yelped as a book was dropped onto his lap. "Sit up and read."
"What?"
"Sit up and read," he ordered, and Bartholomew obeyed with deep reluctance. Not that the captain was wrong; wasting away in bed was the fastest way to make yourself miserable, and company and distraction could clear some of the metaphorical rainclouds. He just didn't want to hear it from the man holding him hostage.
"Did you make your next move?" His fingers skimmed over the title page—Much Ado About Nothing .
"No," there was shuffling of paperwork and the scratch of a pen. "Read."
"I'm reading," he muttered, doing his best to reign in his temper.
"Outloud."
"Outloud?" He paused, "I...this is a Shakespeare play….it's British."
"It does not concern me." The scratching continued.
"You're German. "
"Well noted, and you are American. "
"Well...noted?" He blinked. "It's just...you're...well. Alright then." Did Dietrich know that he used to read to his father? When was he just learning how to read Braille? Was it somewhere in the house that he couldn't feel or find? "Uh...Act 1...scene 1...before Leonato's house."
It wasn't his favorite play, but it was reliably amusing, and by the time he had reached Don Pedro's, Benedicks, and Leonato's argument, his mood had lifted enough to realize that he was famished. His stomach growled an embarrassing noise that was loud enough to cause the scratching noises to stop.
"The result of childish petulance."
"Childish petulance?" He gasped, feeling the heat in his face. "Excuse you?"
"I had wondered if your maturity was a constant or if you were prone to childish fits of temper."
"Childish fits of temper." Pressing a hand to his chest, he gaped and scoffed as he turned away from the captain. "I do not have childish fits of temper."
"Hmmm," a hand settled against his wrist and set a small plate against it.
"Oh?" It felt like a sandwich. "I don't have fits of pique." He said in between hasty bites.
"It is only natural given your delicate constitution," Dietrich had to be teasing him, and he huffed past a mouthful of food. It did beat getting his face punched in, though, so he wasn't going to complain too much.
"Don't you have paperwork to do? Is that what you're working on?"
"Something of the kind."
"Oh," hunger sated; he pressed his fingers back to the book. "What does the weather look like? It sounds like the rain has let up a little."
"It has; the clouds are still heavy, but the storm is predicted to be over by the morning."
"What time is it?"
"It is half-past two."
"Hmm," he'd sulked most of the day in bed and felt a twinge of guilt imaging what his father might say. It was better to function with darkness than wallow in it, so he continued to read until Claudio's, and Hero's romance came to an end, and the sour pair of Benedicks and Beatrice opened. By the time he finished, a faint chuffing noise was echoing across the room. "Are you breathing?" He asked, "Captain?"
#$#
Dietrich was laughing as silently as he could manage. His shoulders shook, and he pressed his hand against his face in an effort to avoid making an undignified noise. The play was funnier than anticipated, with the dry British humor made twice as amusing with Bartholomew Roads' American accent and the fact that the jokes were somehow universal in their writing. It explained a great deal about Jack Moffit and the rest of the English he'd met if this was a sample of the literature they'd grown up with.
"Are you breathing, Captain?" Roads reached out, and Dietrich drew back.
"I am well," he answered, knowing that some of his amusement was audible.
"Oh," Barry's narrow face, bruised as viciously as it had been, lightened into a smile. "You're laughing!" For the first time since he'd met the teenager, his face showed genuine pleasure, not a trace of fear or resentment. "I can't believe that I got you to laugh! Well, the Bard did, but that's great!"
"Only an Englishman would needlessly complicate romance."
"I think that's just romance." He responded sagely, "and Twelfth Night is funnier."
"Is it?"
"Hmm, everyone falls in love by the end of one of the comedies, and everyone dies at the end of the tragedies."
Was he in a tragedy or not? No word had come from the Allies over their demands, and in his last conversation with Colonel Richter, the man had made subtle comments about the boy reaching the end of his usefulness. If the Americans didn't respond, how likely would it be that he would be ordered to execute him?
He couldn't, of course. It went against every code he held dear, and as much as it was beneath the dignity of an officer to strike an unarmed man, it was brutish to exact vengeance from a blind child.
With a sigh, he traced over the sketch he'd made of the young man. Bartholomew Road, resting against a stack of pillows, his fingers tracing over his book as a storm raged outside the windows. Was it needlessly dramatic to capture the image? Perhaps, but it was a moment he wanted to remember. Committing the story to memory as he added more lines and details until the callow youth was copied in near exact likeness on paper.
Excusing himself as guilt threatened his peace of mind, he entered the hall and had to take a steadying breath. As he entered the general's office, he sidestepped the bloodstains before the desk and took a seat as Sergeant Wolfgang entered.
"Herr Hauptmann," he hesitated, "Colonel Richter is planning to arrive tomorrow morning at 1200 hours. He is coming with General Muller."
Annoyance and grief swept through him, and he nodded. "Very well, Sergeant."
"He has sent orders for the men to fall out for inspection," the grimace was audible in his voice but cleared from his face. "All of the men."
He was either here to kill or humiliate the boy, either way; it would be an unmitigated disaster.
#$#$#
"You've moved?" Barry asked, fiddling with the pages in his book as he waited.
"Yes."
"Oh, great. Rook takes pawn."
"Damn!" The sudden expletive caught him off guard.
"When was the last time you played chess?"
"I have not played a decent opponent in years," he muttered.
"Ah, well...At least I'm a decent player."
"Are you certain your father never taught you how to play?"
"Positive."
"Positive? Who did teach you?"
"That would be telling," he replied. He wasn't about to tell him that his first chess teacher had been the cleaning lady at the hospital. Teaching him in secret so he could surprise his father with his newfound skill. Of course, he'd never actually won a game, so this was a pleasant surprise.
"I must know."
"Get used to disappointment," he waited for the next piece to move. "You're acting strange. Is there another storm coming?"
"No, another storm is not due."
"Oh," Barry wondered why the man sounded so irritated. Surely the identity of his chess teacher wasn't that important.
The captain's strange mood lasted well into the evening as the chess game intensified, and they were joined by Corporal Zimmer and a man by the name of Sergeant Wolfgang. By the time the alarm rang of his evening routine, they had both lost a significant number of pieces, and Dietrich's king was in dire straits. Of course, he had an unconventional plan for winning that Dietrich hadn't cottoned onto yet, and probably wouldn't for another few hours yet.
As he slid onto the bed and then off again to brush the crumbs from earlier away, he tried to think of a way to escape. It wasn't as if he could manage to sail a boat or swim, but by being a hostage, he was putting his father and hundreds of men in danger. He had to think of something .
#$#$#
A typhoon delayed the rats on their mission. Rain, lightning, and choppy seas that were too dangerous for even the most experienced fishermen to navigate; meant that they were further behind their timeline than they wanted to be.
There was an antsiness that every single soldier in the mission felt, from the commander of the sub to the radio operator. Rescuing the boy had taken on a greater priority as, with each passing hour, the German's demands increased.
By the time that Troy and his men were paddling silently toward the island on somewhat calm seas and heavy overcast skies, he was more concerned with the idea that he'd be taking back the worst news to the general.
If they made it off the island alive.
As they followed the detailed instructions to land on an isolated beach, visible and useable only at low tide, protected by an overhanging cliff face, he wondered where the hell the sentries were. Through a gorgeous wood, traced with a gravel walkway, he caught sight of a slight figure that had to be Bartholomew Roads.
Bartholomew Roads was just as advertised, a tall, coltish teenager with curly black hair and unfocused blue eyes. His nose was bandaged, and from a distance, Troy could see the makings of an ugly bruise. A long white cane leaned against the side of the bench, and thin, delicate fingers brushed over a page. He was reading, as far as Troy could tell, and was entirely heedless to the men watching him.
They ducked away as footsteps approached, two German soldiers on patrol of the gravel pathway who ignored the American entirely and continued to chat amongst themselves as they strolled past the hostage and then the Rat Patrol when they had passed out of sight, he turned to Jack for translation.
"They're talking about an inspection," he whispered, "for their commanding officer. Richter is due back, and they're not keen about standing for an inspection."
"Damn." Troy considered the possibilities and hissed to himself as another soldier came over the top of the ridge.
"Herr Roads!" He called, and the boy turned. "Herr Roads, Komm."
"Damn," he hissed but closed his book and, setting his cane out in front of him, moved toward the pathway. As he did so, he turned toward the house, and a groping hand reached for the elbow the corporal offered. The two moved away, and Troy cursed their poor luck.
Still, they knew he was alive and mostly unharmed, and that was good enough for now.
Sneaking further into the property, he nodded at Moffitt to inspect that noise going on out front and left Tully behind as a guard as he and Hitch followed them toward the house.
#$#$3
"I hope you understand, Herr Roads," Dietrich said, "that for the time being, you must be confined to this room."
"I suppose?" He shrugged and tilted his head to the side. "Have you made your move yet?"
"Yes, Bishop C1 to B3."
"Oh," he nodded, "alright." The pieces moved, and he sighed as he sank into the couch. Something was happening, and he tried to shrug off his concern. His gut churned as the man stepped toward the door. They paused as if he wanted to say something more, but after a moment, continued. The door shut behind him, and Barry tried to think of something he could do.
After only a few minutes of silence, the door opened again.
"Pawn C7," he said, "takes knight, checkmate."
"What?" An American accent had him scrambling off the couch. "Lemon soup," he snapped, and Barry froze. "Bartholomew Roads?"
"Yes? How did you know the passcode?" He reached out, encountering a calloused hand that dwarfed his. "Are you here to rescue me?"
"Yes, and we don't have a lot of time."
"The captain was just here, he...you just missed him."
"Good." The hand settled on his elbow. "What were you doing?"
"Winning," Barry answered, "I just checkmated him. No one ever remembers the pawns." He smiled, pride sweeping through him. He'd beaten the captain at the game, and now he was being rescued. "Oh, this is going to bite him. Can you move my piece? It's a black pawn."
"Hitch?"
"Sure thing, Sarge." A new voice entered, and the chess pieces moved. "A white knight."
"Perfect."
"Who are you?" Barry asked; the man was a little bit taller than himself, but not by much and not for much longer.
"Sergeant Sam Troy, That's Private Hitchcock, and there's two more. We need to go."
"Right," he nodded, "lead on, McDuff."
$#$#
"The Americans certainly know how to live," General Muller observed the house in the distance and the island. I am curious about this boy, Colonel Richter."
"There is nothing to be curious about, Herr General. The boy is insolent and pathetic, and another example as to why they will lose the war. Our men," he gestured to the soldiers standing at attention and more than ready to be inspected. "Are a fine example as to why we will win the war."
"Are these all of your men?" The general's attention focused on Colonel Richter.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "All of my men."
He didn't even have a man guarding the prisoner, which was the height of stupidity. Herr Roads was blind, not useless. No matter what Colonel Richter seemed to think. It would be an unpleasant surprise to introduce the boy to the colonel and the general. He cast an apology toward the house and hoped nothing would come of it.
By the time the lengthy and tedious inspection was over, and he was escorting the officers toward the house, his patience had worn very thin indeed, but he managed to remain courteous as he opened the door to the living room.
It was empty.
"Where is he?" General Muller asked, turning to Colonel Richter. I do not see an American."
"Captain! Did you leave him here?"
"As ordered, sir."
"Why was there no guard on the door?" The colonel, desperate to save face, turned on him as easily as breathing.
"It was as ordered, sir. You ordered all men to fall out for an inspection." Richter glanced at General Muller, whose furious an accusatory gaze didn't lessen.
"Search the house," the general ordered, "if he is lost, then our bargaining power is lost. Find him, Colonel Richter, for your sake." Turning red, the man vanished, and Dietrich turned to inspect the room. It had only been an hour, and he must have wandered off.
"This is a fine mess," the general took the seat on the couch, and Dietrich wisely remained silent, and it was only when his eyes were drawn to the chessboard that he realized that had been moved.
Balanced on the shift key of the typewriters stood the white knight. The paper fed through the typewriter read.
Pawn C7 Takes Knight
Checkmate
It was an assisted typewriter, the keys were studded with braille, and yet...he knew it had to have been the fault of the rescuers. He had seen Bartholomew Roads try to move a chess piece and had proceeded to knock several pieces over by accident.
He lifted the knight as his eyes slid shut, torn between relief and fury at the realization that the boy had been rescued.
#$#$#
Troy didn't say anything as Bartholomew clung to his arm with a grip that belayed just how frightened he was of the cramped, smoky submarine. He managed it well, swallowing nervously every few minutes.
"So, what happened to your face?" Hitch asked, catching Troy's eyes as the kid tried to take a slow, shuddering breath. "Run into a tree?"
"A fist," he replied, "a few times, actually."
"Oh," the blond grimaced. "Wait, you're telling me that someone hit you?"
"Oh, yeah." He shrugged, "he left..the captain wasn't so bad."
"Colonel Richter?"
Shame, both unearned and unfair, flitted across the boy's face. The same expression that Troy sometimes wore when he thought too long about his time with Colonel Backmann. Ashamed at not being able to fight back and being helpless to the pain. Troy squeezed his forearm, and Barry nodded.
"Yeah, he left after the first few hours...the captain wasn't so bad."
"That's who you played chess with?"
"Yes, he...he wasn't bad at all. No one seemed to think I was a threat."
"We saw you on the bench before the kraut came to get you."
"Oh."
"That's braille, right?" Hitch leaned across the short space separating them. "That's how you read?"
"Yes, it is."
"What were you reading?" Moffitt asked, and to their surprise, Bartholomew ducked his head.
"I was reading the Twelfth Night."
"Shakespeare!" delight, Moffitt shot them a triumphant grin. "A man of discerning taste."
"Thanks," with a shy smile in Jack's direction, he raised his head again. "Thanks for the rescue."
"No problem," Tully answered.
"Can you tell us anything?" Troy asked, "about Richter or the captain?"
"Richter is a bastard, don't tell my dad I swore, and Captain Dietrich was real polite."
Troy shifted, straightening as best he could. "Dietrich?"
"Hmmm."
"Can you describe him?"
"He was tall."
"Can you tell if someone is tall?" Hitch wondered, and the men all shot him a look.
"Where their voice is coming from. I know that Sergeant Troy is tall but shorter than the rest of you. Sergeant Moffitt is tall too."
"Go on," The Englander urged.
"He was tall," back on track, he paused. "With a deep voice, very commanding, and he was...strict but oddly guilty. I think he was guilty, but maybe I'm a little crazy."
"Trust your instincts," His driver advised.
"Well, broad shoulders too...large hands….very polite."
"Sounds like Dietrich," Tully muttered.
"Sorry, do you know him?"
"We might," Troy grunted, and Moffitt nodded with something approaching approval. If it had been Dietrich in charge of Barry's capture, then there was nothing wrong save for the initial violence. Dietrich was a soldier, but he wasn't a bully, and beating a blind kid wasn't his gig. Not to mention that he'd see Barry in decent health being utterly ignored by guards while he sat unattended a ways from the house.
"I think he was sad," the kid answered, and Troy nodded. "But I'll be happy to see my dad." The rats exchanged a silent stare, and Hitch offered a bemused shrug. "I hope he's alright. He gets worried really easily."
"His son was captured by the Germans," Troy tapped his free knuckles to the kid's arm. "He's got every right to be worried."
"Not the Roads we thought was going to end up getting captured," he tried for cheer. "I hope the captain doesn't think I threw myself into the ocean."
"Nah," knowing that it would be Dietrich seeing the white knight, that it would be Dietrich finding his prisoners gone, was too amusing to ignore. Another point scored off the good captain. "He'll figure it out."