"I told you I saw something shining in the road didn't I? I said swerve, didn't I!?" Wilson screeched yet again, pacing on the rough road with his flashlight pointed in the distance instead of helping with the warped jack. "Unbelievable. This is…unbeli-"
"Wilson, so help me, if you don't get over here and start cranking I'm gonna lay you out with this tire iron and leave you here!" Olsen barked, only his legs sticking out from under the truck that still leaned dangerously toward the ground on a deflated tire.
Olsen heard Wilson's jack boots scraping on the gravel, then the rustle of clothing as the man went to his knees again in the dirt and started grunting over the impossible handle. It took four minutes of swearing and straining to gain an inch. Olsen spent most of his breath cursing Klink for being too cheap to keep new, working jacks in all the trucks.
Five minutes later and Olsen was able to slide the last two-by-four onto the stack propping the truck up far enough, hopefully, to lever the flat tire off and the new tire on.
"That's not gonna move is it?" Wilson asked, swinging his flashlight beam low enough to eye the stack.
Olsen flinched away from the beam and gave him a perturbed look instead of answering. Wriggling out from under the truck he grabbed the tire they'd already wrestled out of the back."It's a flat tire. I don't know what you're so worked up about."
"You don't- It's past dark, and we're American POWs in a stolen German truck, in the middle of enemy territory with two wounded men who can't defend themselves. And a kid besides!"
"Hey!" A voice shouted annoyed from the truck. "We can defend ourselves!"
"With what?" Wilson countered wincing at his own tone, but too worked up to be kind anymore.
Olsen swatted the back of his hand at Wilson's chest and said, "We're Luftwaffe officers with medical corp badges, and a…perfectly good excuse for being on this road."
"We don't have any papers or orders or anything." Wilson argued, pacing nervously away from the truck until he could send his flashlight beam around the bend in the road, then back again.
"Details…" Olsen muttered, concentrating on wrestling with the dead wheel.
"Hey, Olsen!" The voice from the back of the truck called again. "You sure you don't need my help?"
"You stay on that cot and don't move, Carter." Wilson shouted angrily, then finally realized that Olsen was still struggling and stepped in to help the man. Together they managed to lift the flattened wheel free and placed the new tire with relative ease.
"Cranky sod, isn't he?" Another voice rose over the grunting and as Olsen tightened the bolts Wilson stood and shuffled to the back of the truck shining his light into the dark recesses.
The beam flashed briefly off of Carter's pale face, then rested square in Newkirk's line of sight raising a groan of protest from the wounded man before his hand flew up to shield his now temporarily blinded eyes.
"Newkirk, how are you feeling?"
"Blind..." the Brit muttered, through a pained grunt.
Wilson was about to respond when he heard the squeal of a tire echoing distantly. Adrenaline spiked through him and he shone his light back toward the bend in the road, "There's a car coming!"
"So…" Olsen said, concentrating on one bolt that didn't want to go on.
"So!? So what do we do?"
Olsen gritted his teeth, forcing the bolt tighter until he felt the strained threads snap. The wrench jumped, slicing open his finger from the second knuckle to the joint where finger met hand. It hurt and he shouted, jumping to his feet and backing away from the truck.
At the same time Wilson had swung his flashlight beam back across the truck and noticed Carter trying to escape the confines of his cot. He was fully prepared to force the man back into bed when Olsen gave his shout and jumped away from the stalled military vehicle and into the path of the car that had just swerved to avoid the broken down truck.
The car was moving too fast, the driver was panicked, but he managed to miss Olsen, even as Wilson jolted and grabbed the front of the sergeant's coat, yanking him to safety. The car went off the road, kicking up a spray of dirt, headlights bouncing wildly. It bumped down the slight decline then came to a rest with a squeal of brakes.
"What were you thinkin'?" Wilson shouted, his body vibrating now in reaction to the adrenaline rush.
"I hurt my hand." Olsen hissed, reaching for his kerchief so that he could wrap it around the bleeding wound on his finger.
Wilson was silent for a few minutes, panting hard as he stared at the back of the truck, then stepped in to look at Olsen's wounded hand.
"I gotta go make sure they're ok." The medic said a second later, his feet already taking him down the hill.
"Are you crazy? A minute ago you were whining about a flat tire, now you want to involve yourself with German civilians?" Olsen's words fell on deaf ears as he watched Wilson trip down the steep hill. "Hey, Carter!"
"Yeah?"
"You guys alright in there?"
"Uh…sorta." Carter said with a soft grunt.
"Stay put, we'll be heading out in a minute." Olsen said, then turned back to the wheel, tightening the rest of the bolts by feel, before he knocked over the stack of wood and released the jack. Before Olsen could leave the truck to head down the hillside he caught sight of Wilson backing hurriedly away from the crashed car.
Moments later the medic was scrambling back up the hill shouting for Olsen to start the engine.
"We gotta go! We gotta go right now." Wilson shouted scooping to gather the scattered tools and tossing them in the back.
"Wilson, what-" But Olsen was cut off by the medic's, "Aww…Carter."
Rounding the truck he was surprised to find Carter lying on the truck bed, struggling with deadened legs to get back onto his cot. Newkirk was working on getting upright and Baby Bear was doing her best to help the American sergeant.
"Carter, what happened?"
"I was just tryin' to help, and I got up…but my legs wouldn't work. I can't feel 'em.." Carter said, the panick slowly building in his tone. The wound on his back was stretching his face with pain and he could barely hold himself up off the floor, let alone get himself into the cot. His legs were twisted behind him in a way that betrayed his leverage.
"What about that car, Wilson?" Olsen demanded tossing the last of the supplies into the back of the truck even as Wilson climbed into the back to help Carter onto the cot.
"That car is full of Nazi's, now will you get in the front and drive?"
"We're in the middle of Germany, what did you expect to find? Circus clowns?" Olsen muttered to himself, securing the truck hatch before he jogged to the cab and climbed in. The wound on his hand was beginning to throb, and it had done a good job of soaking through the kerchief he'd applied, but there wasn't time to worry about it.
Olsen turned the engine over, threw the truck into gear and guided the vehicle forward through the darkness.
About an hour after morning roll call the following morning, Hogan watched as Klink left his quarters and bustled angrily to the building in which the cooler sat. After a brisk conversation with the guard the commandant of the camp came to visit, clearly in a fury.
"Colonel Hogan, I would like an explanation from you."
Reclining on the hard bench that served as a bed, Hogan gave Klink the most vague, clueless look in his arsenal and asked, "Explanation, Colonel? For what?"
"For what? For the missing men, Sergeant's Olsen and Wilson. You're men claimed that they went with Carter and Newkirk. They weren't given permission."
Hogan poured on a little anger and rose to his feet. "If you'll recall, Colonel, those two quack doctors didn't have my permission to take any of my men. If Wilson and Olsen went with them it was to protect my men from whatever sadistic intentions those doctors had for them."
"Hogan! You will refrain from making hateful accusations."
"You're worried about my language and four of your prisoners are missing. You don't even know what hospital they were taken to."
"It can only have been the hospital in Hammelburg." Klink bit back, straightening his spine a little.
"Alright, what room are they staying in?"
"I...I..I-."
"You see! Permission to visit my men and make sure they are being treated humanely."
"Denied!" Klink snapped and turned to the door.
"Colonel, all it takes is one word about the way those men left camp and you're under investigation. They'll want to know why the doctors were in camp in the first place. Why they were using the recreation hall. They'll want to know who those two important patients were."
"Let them investigate. I have nothing to tell them."
"And you don't see that as a problem?"
Klink paused, backtracking the conversation, trying to decide where he had gone wrong. Hogan watched him do it and waited for the glimmer of the first light bulb before he nodded his head.
"That's right, Colonel. What good are you as a camp commandant if anybody and everybody can waltz into camp, take over your rec hall without your permission, then take one of your trucks and four of your prisoners and leave camp again!"
"Better than if I let my senior POW out of the camp so that he could escape too!"
"Let me go with Schultz into town, we'll find the doctors and make sure they sign the appropriate forms. I'll reassure myself that my men are being cared for, and you'll have everything in good order. I promise I won't escape."
"You!? Why should you go?" Klink stiffened angrily. "I will go. Those doctors think they can make a fool of me?" Klink paced away then jumped back a step. "Nobody makes a fool of Klink. I will track down those men, and you…you will remain in this cooler until you have learned the proper respect for your superiors."
"Good." Hogan said, "That will give me time to draft my complaint to the Red Cross."
Klink stiffened, his back turned to Hogan, his hand going still on the unlocked cell door.
"Don't worry, Commandant. I'll mail you a copy if you don't make it back..." Hogan finished, "By way of Minsk."
Ten minutes later Colonel Hogan watched Klink step into the back seat of his staff car then ducked into the tunnel entrance that led from the cooler to the nerve center of the underground of Stalag 13.
