AN: prompts marked with an asterisk.
Gunfire cracked across the forest, followed by shouting and cries of pain. Both men, jammed under the roots of an old, half-fallen pine, flinched at the sound. The shouting ebbed away in some other direction, leaving them alone with the cold, hissing rain. "Well," Hogan said quietly. "That settles it. *We won't go home till morning."
"Just what I always wanted," Newkirk grumbled. "Lovely hotel you've found for us to spend the night at."
Hogan sighed, dropping further back into the hollow under the root mass. He hadn't been able to see much anyway. The operation's two jobs had collided in the worst way. While most of the team had been out wiring up a bridge, a nearby Stalag had had at least two dozen prisoners escape and cut them off from Stalag 13. With patrols and prisoners flooding the woods, they'd gotten split up. Somehow, he and Newkirk had wound up in the middle of the patrols. He hoped that Kinch and Carter had made it out unhindered, but there was no way to know. As it was, he and Newkirk had gotten lucky. Hogan wasn't nearly as good as Carter at some of this woodsy stuff, but he'd done his time as a scout. Under the tree they had gone, letting hobnail boots pass them by.
Cold rain slithered down the back of his neck, and Hogan bit back a curse. Quarters were too tight to squirm, so he settled for digging his fingernails into his palms in frustration.
"What I wouldn't do for a cig right now," Newkirk murmured, barely audible above the rain. Sensing the disapproval in Hogan's silence, he gave a sigh that was felt more than heard. "I know, I know. 'Don't give away our position.' Bloody officers."
Hogan settled back in the damp soil as comfortably as he could, trying not to hit Newkirk by accident. He had reason enough to complain. Hogan's legs were already cramping, and they'd both been shivering for what felt like a half hour but was probably only ten minutes. Nothing to see, nothing to do...waiting had always been one of the worst parts of this war.
Something creaked nearby. They held their breath, listening intently. Drops spattered against leaves. A gentle wind rustled through the trees. In the distance, a faint snap could be heard. Maybe a branch, or maybe another distant gunshot. It was hard to tell.
They started to breathe again, close enough to share body heat, if only a little. Newkirk gave another one of those soundless sighs. "*Pleasures of the town." He seemed to read Hogan's confusion without the colonel having to say a word. "My aunt Dina. She'd always say that when things started getting rough. Every *evening in the kitchen at Dina's, when she'd run out of something, she'd sigh and say 'pleasures of the town. Mum never should have left Broxburn.'"
"The pleasures of Stalag 13," he whispered back, patting the damp earth. Newkirk made a stifled sound that would surely have been a snort. Hogan could imagine the exact way he had rolled his eyes, though he couldn't see it himself.
Another bout of gunfire rang out, from behind them this time. It was farther away than the last, but still too close to risk moving. What little good humour they'd scrounged up faded fast. Hogan gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait. There was nothing they could do to help the escaping soldiers. If they left their cover they were liable to be shot and take the whole operation down with them. They weren't in uniform, they were wearing blacks now covered in mud. If they were spotted before the bridge went up, even if they got away free, it would put the sabotage mission at risk. Much as he might want to help, they couldn't.
Newkirk shifted, the tension in the air boding ill. Hogan caught his shoulder in time to pull him back from climbing out.
"They're dying," Newkirk hissed. "Isn't it our job to help our men escape?"
"We can't. Not right now."
"We could at least point the way."
"And bring the Germans right along with them. Getting ourselves killed does nothing."
"Colonel—"
"Our operation is our top priority, Newkirk. Even if we could help, where would we put that many people?" He took a breath, reminding himself to keep his voice down. "They're burning German resources, and keeping them from disrupting our mission. They're doing their part and we're doing ours."
"Nobody's 'part' should involve execution, sir." The words were still so quiet that they were hard to make out, but the anger was loud enough to make up for it. He felt it in the way Newkirk set his shoulders.
"I wish we could," Hogan said soberly, letting go of him.
After a dozen heartbeats, Newkirk settled back into the mud. Whoever ended up on laundry duty after this would wind up *fetching two buckets of waterinstead of one Hogan thought ruefully.
The underbrush rustled faintly, some small animal moving through the forest. An owl gave a wavering, disconcerting call. The rain continued to trickle down on them, and this time Newkirk was the one to get dripped on. He could tell by the way he muttered something vile into his glove to stifle it.
In the distance, a dog barked.
The silence was oppressive, but Hogan didn't dare break it. They shouldn't have talked as much as they had already. Now they were back to uninterrupted waiting and shivering, and it was hard to take. His legs were definitely cramped now, and his arms were following suit. It sounded like the escapees might have moved out of their immediate area, but that's what they'd thought last time. They'd just have to wait for the time being; wait, and dream of warm beds. When Newkirk started to talk again, he shook his head. Newkirk might just be quiet enough to go unnoticed, but if he replied Hogan knew he wouldn't be.
Something brushed the back of his hand, making Hogan flinch. He didn't want anything to do with the kind of bugs that might live down here. But when the touch repeated, firmer this time, he recognized it as Newkirk.
He let the corporal flatten his hand against the dirt, bemused, until Newkirk tapped his hand in a familiar rhythm. Dead.
Hogan frowned, and Newkirk gave another of those soundless sighs. K. C. Dead? He finished the message by drawing out a question mark instead of tapping it in proper Morse, but it got the point across.
He shook his head emphatically in response. Even if they were, they couldn't afford to start thinking that way. They still couldn't do anything without putting themselves at risk, and that wouldn't be any help to Kinch or Carter. But he trusted them. They were smart and good at their jobs, and Kinch was the most level-headed person he knew. There was no way they'd been caught. He set a hand on Newkirk's shoulder, tapping out a response of his own. Back at the Stalag. Waiting for us.
Can't know that. Newkirk's taps were firm almost to the point of being bruising.
No. But trust. Hogan gripped his shoulder firmly once more, supportive this time. He waited until Newkirk relaxed before tapping again. Morse?
Newkirk hesitated, unfamiliar with the pattern for the question mark, but he put it together soon enough. Learning, he answered. Baker.
Hogan nodded. He was too slow at it to take a shift on the radio just yet, but as this situation had made clear, there were other uses for knowing Morse code. He'd encourage both Baker and Newkirk to continue their lessons, assuming that they made it back to camp. Good thinking, he told him for now.
The atmosphere lightened a little, if momentarily. If he'd known it was that easy to brighten Newkirk's mood, he'd have done it sooner.
Distant shouting made it clear that they weren't going anywhere soon. Hogan grimaced. They were both soaked to the bone. It was going to be a rough march back to the Stalag, and Wilson wasn't going to be pleased with them when they did. They could count themselves lucky if there was no *catching of fleas from whatever animal must have used this space as a den.
Newkirk started to tap, but stopped. Started again, and stopped part way through the first letter. Hogan cut him off with a bump to the shoulder. Talk, he ordered.
He breathed out, his breath whistling just a little. "Gov," he said quietly. "We've...got to get back for roll call. Don't we?"
He nodded. He wasn't sure how they were going to get around that. Assuming that Kinch and Carter had made their way back, he trusted them to come up with something.
"Or at least you do."
No, he tapped, scowling.
"If I lead the Krauts off—"
NO, he repeated, emphatic.
Newkirk's tone sharpened. "Then what's your brilliant plan, sir? We've been stuck down here—"
A snapping branch cut him off. They both froze. Now that they were paying attention, they could make out the slow, deliberate movements right next to their hiding place. Hogan cursed himself for getting distracted, digging his nails into his hand again as water slid down the nape of his neck.
The distinctive sound of a safety being switched off made his heart jump into his throat. He hardly noticed as Newkirk grabbed his hand, too busy squeezing his eyes shut. He'd tried to disguise their trail, but he wasn't a woodsman—
Thunder deafened them both, making them jump before the shouting and crashing started up again. Pained pleas were cut short by another gunshot, followed by dead silence. The pressure of his gritted teeth was going to give Hogan a headache soon, but it was hard to relax. While he did nothing, Germans were killing the men that he had set out to help at the start of this operation, using that age-old excuse of "shot while trying to escape." If he'd had the manpower—
"Pity about the neighbours," Newkirk quipped, sounding strained.
Hogan bit his knuckle to stifle his completely inappropriate laughter, leaving his shoulders to shake instead.
"You alright, Gov?" Newkirk asked, grabbing his shoulder. He must really be worried to be so touchy. Hogan managed to nod, still laughing. The alternative was the dark rage brewing in him, and he knew where that led. This was not the time to indulge it. He was going to get them both home. Home to the Stalag or home from the war, it didn't matter. He wasn't about to let some cold hearted, trigger-happy sons of bitches change that. Once again, he had to talk himself down from putting the operation at risk for uncertain gain. It was harder this time than it had been so far.
Germans shouted to one another across the forest, calling "all clear" back and forth. The cold Hogan felt had very little to do with the rain as the tromping boots passed them by. Dog tags jingled together. They'd been collecting them. Hogan closed his eyes, wrapping his own arm across Newkirk's shoulders as the enemy soldiers laughed about the foolish Allies.
The sudden wave of pressure made the tree shift above them, showering them with more mud. Shouting from the Germans was drowned out by the roar of destruction and fire, while the rain was superceded by the rattle and thuds of debris, scattered from the explosion.
The shock they'd felt strike through them as the bridge went up was tempered with vicious satisfaction. The soldier's laughter turned to fear as they ran from the explosion, debris raining down on them. Hogan signalled Newkirk, and followed him out of their hiding place, trying to get enough feeling back in his legs to move. It was now or never.
They hadn't accomplished everything they'd hoped to this time around, no, but one out of two would do for now. It was one more step to ending the war, and keeping his men and himself together long enough to see the end of it.
fin