Chapter 60: Michelle Mallon 31st January 1942
The light breeze shook the windows ever so slightly in the dark, dingy light of an early Saturday morning in the North West. Few were awake at such a time, whether there was a war on or not, though for those that were they were treated sometimes to the most peculiar of weather. The wind whipping up fiercely against houses was not such a phenomenon though, rather an expected occurrence given where they lived. Wind and rain to Derry was the same as bombs and bullets to a front-line soldier. The two came hand in hand, there being little point in arguing otherwise. The weather of Derry usually didn't kill though, that being the stark difference to the destructive ways of the war on the front.
On that Saturday morning, Deirdre and Martin Mallon were amongst those brave few who were up early. There was no particular reason as to why they'd gotten themselves up, but when Martin stirred first in the dark and woke his wife, they decided to just get on with the day. He needed to get a few things done around the house after being busy at work at the back end of the week, and likewise she did too after doing a few more shifts at the hospital. Getting out of working the Friday night shift was a triumph for the woman of the house, which hadn't been the case since the start of the year where she'd worked multiple Fridays. It would often leave her knackered when it came to a Saturday, almost certainly not getting up anywhere near as early. She didn't mind too much though, the incentive of money and the satisfaction of helping others being too great to ignore.
Breakfast was already well on the go as Martin yawned at the kitchen table, stretching his arms out. The kitchen was illuminated by a couple of lanterns which were next to him on the table, dispensing enough light so that his wife could see what she was doing. Unlike Mary and Sarah, who worried terribly when it came to making the most of the rations that they'd been given, Deirdre took it in her stride and quite enjoyed concocting a meal with the meagre resources they held. That morning was going to be bacon and eggs, the smell of the former already invading the nasal passages of the pair of them. Putting a smile on his face, Martin could only think to compliment his wife for the cooking.
"Smells great love". He told her softly, flashing her a smile.
"Me or the breakfast?" She joked in return.
Chuckling, Martin enjoyed the sight of her smiling back at him in return. They'd been in love for so many years that he sometimes forgot how much he enjoyed her wit when they would often be too busy to have such conversations. He worked hard before the war as well as during, leaving him on occasions to wake up later at the weekend and be in no mood to talk. The woman he'd fallen in love with though was quick witted and amusing, a reminder being given that morning as she jested about his loving comment.
"Both…". He sniggered. "… but the bacon is drowning out everything else, so it is".
Finding the jesting just as amusing, Deirdre smiled away as she kept her eye over breakfast. Looking out of the window for a split second, she could see how the wind was making the trees sway, though not as violently as it would on the worst of days. She'd been caught in a storm once around ten or more years earlier, walking home from the city centre in the fiercest conditions she'd ever seen at the time. A branch from a tree very nearly crashed down onto her, which would have done her serious harm if not worse had it made contact. That Saturday could not even be compared in the slightest to the day she remembered, but Deirdre always held a special dislike of the windy weather.
"Windy day…". She thought aloud. "Hopefully it'll die down before we have to go out later".
Their destination that morning was church of all places, thanks to Martin's big mouth. Although they attended every week like the good Catholics that they were, neither were particularly active when it came to assisting the church community. They were not obstructive either, but simply were not interested in getting involved in the additional activities that those who were more devoted organised. Sean Devlin was the man for such things, and it was he who was behind them having to go to church that morning, having roped Martin in to assist. Martin was known throughout the city to be a very helpful man to anyone who required his assistance, and playing on that knowledge, Sean asked if he would help to get the church ready for a special mass that evening. As much as he wanted to say no, knowing that it was for a good cause, Martin agreed, much to the annoyance of his wife. Deirdre knew she would have to go along with him too, which would mean spending time with Sean who she had little time for. Geraldine was a dear friend to her as Clare was to Michelle, but the man of the Devlin house was not held so highly in her thoughts. She was aware, without having the concrete evidence to prove it, that Sean hit his wife on occasions, which disgusted her. Her and Martin held arguments down the years that could become incredibly fierce, but not once had he laid his hands on her. He knew how to treat a woman; Sean did not.
"I'm sure it won't stay rough all morning love…". Martin spoke positively. "… and if it gets any worse then Sean can stuff me helpin', so he can".
"I wish ye'd have said that to him in the first place". She replied, huffing under her breath.
"Love… I couldn't say no to him. Ye know what I'm like when the cause is good, I'll always try and help out".
"I know Martin but it's Sean…".
Sighing, Martin wanted to tell her that she was being too harsh on the man, but he could not disagree. Tentatively, he would describe Sean as a friend but like with how Gerry saw him, there were a lot of differences in character between them. Devoted to religion and ruling with an iron fist, Sean was not unlike the men some of the more traditional families of the city, ruling with their stance as the dominant male figure who was not afraid of resorting to violence to keep the household in line. Martin didn't need to turn to physical acts of aggression to keep order, although he'd given Michelle the belt a couple of times in her younger years when she'd deserved it. That was as far as he was willing to go though, and he would never give his wife or daughter the back of his hand like Sean would offer to Geraldine and Clare. He didn't completely hate Clare's Da, the two having plenty of memories together down the years but could not say he was a good friend if pushed.
"It's not for Sean though, is it?" Martin raised a valid point. "Father Peter was grateful too, as were some of the families…".
"I'm not bothered whether the seventh in line for the throne of Belgium is happy with it. I don't like that we're doing this Martin…".
"Please just do it for me love…". He begged of her.
"Of course I will. I just don't want us being dragged into doing this regularly. I like my Saturday mornings nice and peaceful, so I do, not spent listening to Sean's half-baked shite ideas about where the next dyke in the city might come from".
Sean's inability to accept people who did not follow the normal conventions of life was another part of his character which both of them disliked equally. Somewhat liberal when they did not intend to be for the most part, neither Martin nor Deirdre could care less about whether a fella liked a fella or a girl like a girl. It wasn't for them to judge where someone should find love, the two having agreed so in conversation years earlier when it came up. They could accept anyone no matter who they were or who they wanted to love. If Michelle told them that she was a lesbian then they would have supported her without question, no matter what the church or the local community had to say about it.
With neither content to spending any more time talking about the man in question, their thoughts turned to their daughter while they remained silent. The Americans had only been in the city for a few nights but apart from the Tuesday night when she was still recovering from Monday's excesses, Michelle went out each night, returning at hours which were most ungodly. They knew what she was up to with the Yanks but did not attempt to stop her from doing what she wanted. They'd tried that tactic after Martin caught and beat Johnny Kells a couple of years prior, but they'd not been able to stop her from going out for too long. A wild child if there ever was one, she was still loved dearly by her parents even if she could frustrate them immensely.
It was that frustration which, unbeknownst to the two of them, festered in both their minds in unison. Michelle hadn't come the previous night and when they'd gotten up a few minutes earlier, Martin went to check, and she still wasn't home. They weren't worried for her as it wouldn't be the first time she'd spent her night in a bed that wasn't hers, but her lack of presence in her own bed always made him sigh, and when he passed the information onto his wife, she sighed too. In the early days of his relationship with Deirdre, he remembered the times that she would tell him that her parents would throw fits when she returned the next morning after spending the night with him. Thankfully, Kathy's sudden decision to abandon Derry and flee to England due to her pregnancy, took a lot of the emphasis off of Deirdre, who was also pregnant at the time with Michelle.
"Shall we take bets on when she'll roll in…". Martin commented, catching Deirdre's attention. "I reckon we won't see her before ten".
"Martin!" She initially chastised him, only to join in herself. "I think she'll be back in the next half hour. The wind isn't fierce enough to keep her wherever it is she's gotten herself to".
"Aye that's another game in itself… guess the fella…".
As parents who cared dearly for their daughter, the two made every effort to work out all of the fellas that their daughter had been with, doing so secretly a lot of the time. It wasn't so that they could assess the fella in case Michelle wished to take things further, but so that they might know who they are dealing with. There were certain lads within the city who were trouble, who could cause them a lot of trouble if their daughter got in over her head. Worrying in particular about her getting involved with the O'Connell's, the cousins of Mandy and Tina, who were some of the least pleasant people in the entire city, as well as the Scanlon's, whose reputation proceeded them, their quest to identify the fellas was done out of care. Michelle would never readily admit to who she'd slept with to them anyway, which they expected, but one way or another, they'd find out.
However, the Americans made that method very complicated. With no access to the ships to be able to identify which one of the soldiers or sailors might have been with their daughter, neither Deirdre nor Martin could think of a way to find out. Occasionally Michelle's friends would offer up the knowledge, Orla being the most likely with her habit of saying things she shouldn't at the most inappropriate of times. They'd not seen the rest of the girls since before the Yanks arrived though and wouldn't until church the next day where it would be a wholly unrealistic prospect to start asking questions about who Michelle was sleeping with. There was a strong possibility that they would not know either if it was indeed Americans that she was sleeping with, which both husband and wife suspected she was.
"These feckin' Yanks…". Deirdre cursed them. "… not five minutes after docking were they givin' the girls the eye. Smooth bastards so they are, Mary was right about that".
"Mary's right about everything love, ask Gerry".
Rolling her eyes at the joke, Deirdre couldn't help but chuckle a little herself. They both thought a lot of Mary and Gerry, but as much as Martin would not control his home like Sean did, he equally couldn't be as submissive as Gerry when it came to authority. Although Deirdre wielded her authority and a wooden spoon in their home, his command overruled hers in an unspoken agreement between them. Gerry was far too easily put to one side in his own home, they'd seen it many times when they were at the Quinn house and an argument broke out, Mary being the one who decided the outcome every time, though she was always assisted by Joe. Sympathy for Gerry was generated by how horribly he was treated by his father in-law, which Martin escaped owing to Deirdre's father's passing years before… though he never spoke to him like Joe spoke to poor Gerry.
"But aye, they're right pricks, so they are. Did ye hear about that fight up by the Guildhall on Thursday morning?"
"The one between the Yank and those two Brits?" She asked, Martin nodding. "Oh aye, some of the girls at the hospital were telling me. Yank prick deserved it…".
"My thoughts exactly. They should have known better to take the piss out of the Brits… they never taken a feckin' joke well". Martin bemoaned them.
"Too right, love, too right".
The fight wasn't really a protracted affair, sensationalised by others which distorted the real truth. The American in question was getting a little bit too big for his boots, out in the city on an errand for his commanding officer but unable to pull himself away from interacting with the locals. When a couple of Brits running similar errands for their commanding officer at a camp outside of the city arrived outside the Guildhall at the same time, the American wasted no time at insulting their dental hygiene as well as the lack of money they received for the job that they did. Also going on to mention how the girls all thought the Brits were ugly bastards since they'd seen real American men, the two Brits had seen enough, clocking the Yank with a couple of hits from the pair of them before walking off. The dazed and confused soldier wouldn't be doing it again and was disciplined thoroughly by his commanding officer when he returned to barracks. Specifically told not to antagonise their British Army compatriots, the Yank failed rather spectacularly, with the bruises to show for it too.
"I just worry our Michelle won't see them that way…".
Deirdre's anxious comment was taken in by Martin, as she brought his breakfast to the table along with her own. He didn't say anything at all in reply, which she took to mean that he did not wish to discuss the topic. As annoyed as she was that he was dismissing her fears without as much as a word in return, they both tucked into their breakfasts before they went cold. The wind was beginning to die down outside as they ate away, which Martin noted in his mind when he glanced out to find that the trees were no longing swaying in the breeze. If the day brightened up, then they could at least go to church in a slightly better mood when the skies were kinder.
Martin finished his breakfast first, though a hungry Deirdre was not so far behind him. Throughout the course of eating, her thoughts remained on her daughter even when Martin appeared that he was not going to say anything more about it. She'd been young once too and could understand the ease in which temptation could be given into, she herself having given in to Martin at a young age. Young and foolish, though not so foolish when reflected upon, they'd married early to counteract her pregnancy, unwanted questions never being thrown their way. However, in Michelle, Deirdre saw a horrific parallel with her sister, one which she did not want her daughter continuing the trend of. James might have turned out to be one of the best young gentlemen she'd ever known, but the shame that his conception brought upon the family at the time was not something she wished to experience again. There were so many potential candidates as to who his father might be, it almost wasn't worth trying to correctly guess which one. She did not want to have to investigate in the same manner with her own daughter…
Suddenly, Martin reached out across the table and took her hands in his, looking his wife directly in the eye with what looked like fear in his own.
"I worry for her too… a lot".
Contrary to her prior thought, he had indeed been thinking about their daughter just as much, only finishing his breakfast and considering his answer instead of giving an immediate one. He held identical fears about what his wife did too, expanding upon his thoughts with her a couple of seconds later.
"I don't want her to end up like… and I'm sorry to say this but…".
"Like Kathy?" She questioned, though without anger in her voice.
"Aye, like Kathy". He confirmed in a sigh. "I know James might have turned into a cracker fella but look what it did to yer Da and Ma. They weren't right for months afterwards and I don't want us to be in the same position as they were, trying to defend our reputations to the feckin' vultures at church".
Martin could see the tears in his wife's eyes as she looked at him, a story being pictured in the dark recesses of her mind of them being attacked verbally at church, a pregnant Michelle cornered in shame. Some would demand that she be shipped off to a convent to atone for her sins, calling for the death of the bastard that she produced. Others labelled her with disgusting names such as whore and slut, words that would not describe their beautiful daughter if those people took the time to know her better. Parents always worried about their children no matter how old they were, and with those fears realised, Martin found himself having to grip onto his wife's hands to keep her composure intact. He hated seeing her upset whether it was he or someone else who'd caused the upset, prompting him to reach into his pocket and offer her a handkerchief.
"I'd tell ye to dry yer eyes, but you say it better than me, so you do…". He offered some light relief.
"Ye wouldn't dare…".
The worry was still evident in her voice as she wiped the tears away, with Martin deciding that enough was enough. It hadn't taken much but Deirdre crying out of fear for Michelle did not sit right with him at all… action was needed. Confronting Michelle on any subject always came with the risk of a verbal battle that would make the Somme look like a playground scrap, but she could not escape his concerns. Their home was supposed to be a happy one with a positive atmosphere, and if her exploits with the Yanks was preventing it from being so, then he was more than happy to do something about it.
"I'll talk to her… put a stop to this…". Martin told his wife sincerely, squeezing her hands that he still held tightly.
"But Martin she might…". Deirdre protested weakly in return.
"She won't do anything of the sort". He cut her off, before hearing the noise of the front door opening. "Ach, speaking of the devil…".
Deirdre's guess that Michelle would be back within half an hour proved to be spot on, her daughter barrelling her way through the front door and almost going face first into the carpet. Steadying herself as she rose to her feet, any hope of sneaking in undetected as planned was gone when her father was stood waiting for her from the entrance of the kitchen. Catching his eye, she was angered that the plan failed, Martin watching as her nostrils flared up in his direction, causing him to frown along with Deirdre, who joined him with her arms folded.
"Ye better have turned into a bull, young lady, or yer goin' to have a lot of explaining to do about those nostrils".
"Ach shove off, Da". A weary sounding Michelle replied, shaking her head.
"I beg yer pardon!?" Martin raised his voice. "Don't you tell me to shove off, Michelle. Go on and sit yerself down in the living room, I want a word with ye".
Ordering her around was never going to end well, he should have known, Michelle having a similar fire in her belly to her mother. The look he received in return from his daughter was enough to tell him as much without any noise having to be made. Although Michelle frequently defied his authority, he was always able to reel her back in, but he was smart enough to know that it was not going to be a simple task that Saturday morning, which was confirmed a half second later when Michelle finally did speak up.
"I'm goin' to bed, Da. I need sleep… so ye can wait till later…". Michelle replied, again weary and unable to raise her voice.
"Ye need sleep!?" He reared up angrily. "I think you've done enough sleeping around this week, Michelle. Now sit yerself down in the living room like I asked, please!"
The state that she was in indicated that she was in fact right and not him, which he'd realised the moment he first saw her when she'd risen from stumbling. There were bags under her eyes, which were red themselves, her hair frazzled from a night of exploits which he wouldn't even know where to begin with. The smudged make up around the corners of her eyes and the small bites that she'd been unable to hide around the top of her shoulders were other solid indicators of what Michelle was up to the night before, leaving her Da mortified that others out in the streets may have seen her in that state. He did not want to have their family name spoken about in hushed voices at church…
"Listen to yer Da, Michelle". Deirdre added firmly.
"I will Mammy… after I've had some sleep! Now are you's goin' to be quiet and let me go or am I goin' back out to find somewhere else to sleep!"
The chance to answer her went when Michelle immediately darted to her right to rush up the stairs, her parents unable to react quickly enough to stop her. With more time, Martin would have stood at the bottom of them to prevent her escape, but he'd not anticipated her returning as quickly as she did, even when Deirdre predicted it. The sanctuary of her bedroom was soon reached by Michelle, but not before Deirdre tried to get her to stop.
"MICHELLE MALLON! YOU GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"
It was to no avail, and when she started to move towards the stairs to forcibly drag Michelle back down them, Martin surprised her by not allowing her to. A soft smile etched out across his lips, he clarified his decision warmly.
"Give her time love. If she won't talk on our terms, let's let her talk on hers".
Gingerly nodding an acceptance of the new plan that her husband quickly formed, it did nothing to ease Deirdre's fears about Michelle's safety. She'd slept around a lot and avoided pregnancy, but there was always the chance that her luck would come to an end.
It was her duty to prevent Michelle turning into Kathy… to prevent another arrival into the family like James.
James who, at the very same time, was closer to departing than arriving…
The car pulled up in between two of the main buildings of the compound, the barracks and the old hall, the latter of which housed a great secret.
Or a great nuisance if one were to ask Lieutenant Hans Hartmann.
Acting on his orders as normal, he'd driven himself and Doctor Van Der Heijden to the compound that afternoon so that the latter could pick up some papers that he wanted to work on back in his home in Rome, but also so that they could see their prisoner. James had been left for a few days once more, apart from a fleeting visit where Kurt simply watched him through the slit of the door, James not reacting despite knowing that he was there. Taking a look for himself that day, Hans found the Englishman to be exercising on the pull up bar that was in his room, to keep his admittedly impressive shape intact. Hans would never tell anyone, not least Kurt, but he was somewhat jealous of how muscular James was. He wasn't short of muscle himself, but he was dwarfed by the prisoner's shape, unable to understand Kurt's logic for allowing him to keep it. Locked out of the mind games between the two, he settled for doing his job as a soldier and not commenting, exactly what Kurt wanted.
Whilst Kurt went over to the laboratory to collect what he needed, Hans was given the job of attending to James until he was ready to see him. He would often be left alone with the Englishman, which he did not mind apart from having to fight the desire to shoot him, the language barrier between them preventing any lasting conversation from taking place. If they were to converse, he would only taunt the man anyway in his own battle, though James had proven through the odd comment that Hans did understand, that he was the far better mind between them. Unused to being drawn into battles of the mind as well as actual battles in the field, Hans' lack of experience showed when he lost his temper so easily. He'd been furious to an extent he did not know himself, the night they'd flogged James on New Years Eve. The audacity that came over the prisoner to say he'd felt that some of the lashes were too light incensed the Lieutenant, who was stung by the criticism of the job he'd carried out by the very man he'd carried it out on. James proved he held dominion that night, making it convenient that Hans could understand very little English, unable to be caught out again.
The morning of the final day of January was spent reading about the progress of the war, which was all made to sound very positive… even when it wasn't in some areas. From what he'd read, although the men weren't toasting their success in Moscow, the Soviet forces were due to surrender any day from a lack of supplies, a siege in progress from what the paper reported to him. Although he would have liked to have heard that the final defeat of the Soviets had taken place, sadly it was not to be, but there was at least hope that any day they would surrender. That was the propaganda-laden statement that he was reading, almost certainly from the mouth of Goebbels himself. The reality about the Soviet Winter offensive was one that was very different. The words success and Moscow were poles apart in reality.
Operation Barbarossa had failed.
As much as they suffered, Soviet Russia were still firmly in the war, and in the frozen conditions of their homeland, the advantage was with them. It was the German forces that were sat around starving and frozen, their supply lines stretched and rations thin. A massive Soviet counter offensive in December pushed the German Army further and further back, and from being within a few miles of the city, they were well over one hundred miles away by the time that both sides stopped on the seventh of that month. Exhausted and frozen, the German soldiers were thankful that low fuel reserves and rations on the enemy side prevented the assaults continuing in. Such was the momentum the Red Army carried, they could have pushed them all the way back to Berlin if they wished. The Nazi Government could have never published that knowledge to the people though, or they may have begun to disobey the way of life they'd installed. The Nazi's were outnumbered when it came to civil war, especially if the soldiers began to turn on their commanders too.
However, it wasn't all bad news and the papers did report some truth when it came to other success. Japan was almost unable to taste defeat in the East, running down any enemy whether they were locals in Borneo, the British Army or the Americans. Still trying to adapt to the warfare that the Japanese proposed, they were unable to contain the advancements, which were happening just about everywhere. British forces were all pulled back to Singapore later in the month, but that was soon in the eye of the Japanese armies too, who simply could not be stopped in the jungles of the countries they advanced through. They were beginning to threaten large swathes of Burma as well, already advancing towards the port of Moulamein, which would almost certainly fall within days. The Americans attempted a landing in Samoa to counteract the advances, but whether it would help remained to be seen.
It was also good news in Africa, that overjoyed Hans, who'd began to take interest in Erwin Rommel's achievements. Perhaps the German Army's best battlefield commander of the modern era, he fought toe to toe with the British, who were disgustingly dogged again in Hans' eyes. At the back end of the prior year the British were the ones with the upper hand, pushing the Africa Korps backwards with an impressive offensive of their own. However, they'd not been able to push their advantage while they held it, and being the cunning man that he was, Rommel soon found a chance to strike back. Surprising the British, not for the first time, in just over a week Benghazi was back under German control as he pushed eastward. How much further he would be able to push was in question, as even through the propaganda fuelled statements, Hans could see the logistical nightmares of such a rapid advancement.
A development he'd also been made aware, though through Kurt and not the paper, was his regiment being shipped off to fight on that very front. They'd spent the entirety of the war up until that point in Berlin, as more of a guard battalion, but the Africa Korps needed the troops, and they were called on to make the trip through France to the ports in the south where they would be transported off to join Rommel. He wouldn't have objected if he'd have been told he needed to go with them, but Kurt's influence with Hitler prevented it. He didn't even have to ask though, The Führer already ordering that the Lieutenant stay with Kurt on assignment rather than join the rest of the regiment. Away from the dangers of the front meant that he could spend time with his wife and son, the young man thanking Kurt profusely for having been such a valued friend and mentor. He was sparing him an almost certain death in the deserts.
Walking down the stairs to where the Englishman was being held, Lieutenant Hartmann's thoughts returned to him. He'd spent so much time in the presence of the man who was only one or two years older than he was, knowing more about him than he wanted to but like Kurt, not knowing who he was. At first it hadn't bothered Hans, who was only there to carry out the orders that Kurt gave him but over time, he'd began to wonder who James really was too. The thought bugged him at the most random of times, sometimes the middle of the night, when he would rack his brains to attempt to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Whoever James truly was, Britain needed him rather badly or they wouldn't have attempted to rescue him from Taranto. They were yet to make a secondary attempt though, and pondering it in his head, he couldn't be sure of whether it was because they feared failure or no longer deemed him necessary. Regardless of the reasons, Hans could not be moved from his stance that killing James was the best course of action. If that was to be the case, he wanted the job of doing it himself…
As well as thinking about James, his mind also held thoughts of Elsa and little Leo, who he missed every time he drove to the compound. One day he hoped Kurt might allow them to accompany the two of them, because as long as they kept out of the way, Elsa would not need to be upset by anything they were doing at the compound. Broaching the subject with his mentor would have to happen on the right day under the right circumstances, and aware of the frustration Kurt held from being unable to break James and bend him to his will, that day did not appear to be on the immediate horizon. In time it would be possible, but by that time they may have killed the Englishman and be on their way back to Berlin. Enjoying the Italian adventure, he was not bothered whether they returned to the German capital or not. He'd been brought there to perform his duties and spend time with his young family. He'd completed both tasks well enough, not seeing the need for change unless The Führer demanded it.
At the door to the room that held the Englishman, two Italian guards were stood by, standing to full attention at his presence. Although he was not an officer in their army, his authority as a Lieutenant was respected by all of the Italian soldiers assigned to guard the base. He knew very little Italian, like he knew very little English, though it did not faze the young Lieutenant when he was the superior and they were mere soldiers. They all followed their orders as he did, aware of the consequences of not doing so or attempting to leave the compound. The secrets that the place held in both James and the Laboratory, could never be allowed to get out.
He did know one or two words of Italian though, and utilising that knowledge, he was able to complete his first aim of the day. Dismissing the guards.
"Vai! Vai!"
(Go! Go!)
Inside the room, a man who knew no Italian at all was pondering over what had been said. James wasn't aware of what was being said to the soldiers at all, but he recognised the voice that spoke the order. He'd not seen Lieutenant Hartmann, nor Doctor Van Der Heijden for a few days, locked away in an ever more frustrating confinement. They would go days without seeing him, only to then turn up and torture him for information before fixing the injuries he received and disappearing again. All he wished for was some closure, whether it was a successful rescue or even his own death. How much more suffering he could take… James did not know. In all of his time training as an officer, and for the rest of his life, there was never a lesson on surviving torture at the hands of a sadistic Nazi and his Lieutenant who was more than happy to carry out any orders that he was given.
Hans hated him, James knew, and he enjoyed playing on that hatred in order to provoke a reaction. Sometimes it would have to be wondered who was torturing who, the way in which he spoke to the Lieutenant, who was easily suckered into being riled up. Hans' relative lack of English was a benefit when it came to taunting him, as the most basic of sentences could whip up a veritable storm of rage within the man. Another lesson he hadn't received in his life, James would always feel guilty after the mental battles he held with his fellow young man, a hollow emptiness found even in victory. The problem for him was that mental victories over Hans did not count when it came to removing himself from the predicament he was in. He could nothing about that, hope disappearing with every day lost.
When Hans eventually joined him in his cell, James looked around to see if Doctor Van Der Heijden was with him, but oddly found him to be alone. It wasn't the first time the Lieutenant arrived on his own at the door to the room, yet it was the first time he'd advanced in without hearing Kurt behind him. The dark, mischievous glint that was in Kurt's eyes at all times was suddenly found with Hans', immediately setting off the alarm bells within the Englishman's mind. Hans might have only previously acted upon orders, but the way in which he smiled at him was not a man who was going by the book. The young Nazi was there to enact something against him, whether it was a round of torture of his own or just a random attack of violence.
"Lieutenant Hartmann. Are you well?"
An attempt at engaging the Lieutenant seemed to be his only option, though he knew that the man did not understand English very well at all. There was little else he could do though from his position sat on the bed, where he was allowing his lunch to be digested properly before beginning a session of pull ups on the bar above him. That session looked to be in jeopardy though, the Lieutenant clearly having other ideas in store for that afternoon.
He was right to be wary too, proven so a couple of seconds later when the Lieutenant retrieved his sidearm out of its holster. Hans usually wielded a submachine gun when he made the trip down to the basement that James was held in, but he'd left it back at the car that morning, deeming it unnecessary. Kurt was frequently able to keep James at bay on his own with just a revolver, and he was not planning on fighting back either, not that the blonde-haired German knew or would even be able to take his word for it. It was already fully loaded when the barrel jolted into position, trained on the spot right between James' eyes. Hans would have loved to have pulled the trigger there and then, to end the English bastard once and for all, but he had his orders, and they weren't to kill the man.
What the orders did not specify was that he wasn't allowed to have fun with him.
A rather brutal fun if there ever was one.
Pointing to his right wrist with his left hand, the language barrier was traversed by the use of actions rather than words. For Hans at least…
"My hands?" James asked, words need for him. "Up?"
Nodding, Hans was satisfied by the prisoner knowing exactly what he wanted from him, rather than having to spell it out through other means. With his spare left hand, he began to retrieve some of the rope he'd carried with him specifically for that purpose. That morning whilst he was getting ready, Elsa happened to spot him with the rope, demanding an explanation as to why he needed so much of it. She'd bought the lie that it was needed at the compound to help tie down a loose tent, a lie that even he found surprising when it succeeded.
Holding out his hands, James faced little choice other than to comply, though he could not help but wonder where it was leading. The Doctor would not allow the Lieutenant to kill him, that fact was firmly established and oddly, he trusted the man's words, but that didn't mean that the Lieutenant couldn't explore ways in which to cast pain upon him. Tying him up indicated some thought had gone into what he was going to do, as a split-second decision would more likely lead to fists being thrown rather than hands being tied. Putting all of his strength into the knots, Hans made sure that James would not be able to break out without serious effort, leaving the Englishman to be somewhat impressed by his knot tying skills. The pre-meditated nature of what was going to happen was confirmed when another section of rope was produced from another pocket, one which Elsa did not know about, that was then used to tie his legs together too. Unable to move any of his limbs by the time that the Lieutenant was finished, James was trapped, unaware of the true intentions of the man.
"I must warn you Lieutenant, I do not engage in such activities recreationally…". James informed him, before remembering that the comment would lead him absolutely nowhere. "Right… you would not understand me…".
If that truly was his intention, then James did not know how long he would keep his lunch down. The lice inspection left him dangerously close to throwing up under the touch of another man, but if Hans took satisfaction from him being tied up, he was in a whole world of trouble that he wished to escape from. Meant as a jest at first, the realisation was dawning on him that it was not out of the realms of possibility that Hans enjoyed that sort of thing. Many other men did, though almost all did so secretively, knowing that society would have a lot to say about it should it be public knowledge, and nothing positive at that.
With James secure, Hans began to back away, walking backwards to the still open door. The guards might have been dismissed, but they would still be upstairs in the old manor hall that the prisoner was held under. Requiring as little noise as possible, though forgetting about the barred window at the other end of the room which would equally dispense noise, albeit at the far side of the building, Hans slowly and quietly shut the door with his foot, gun trained on James at all times. The Englishman's focus never left him either, out of James' own fear of what was about to happen. In front of him was a man who'd not so much as bristled under his screams when he was on the rack nor allowed him any relief whilst he was being flogged. He was capable of almost anything that stayed with the realms of keeping him alive. James required significant stimulus to become scared by another man, but by the look on Lieutenant Hartmann's face, he was readily terrified. Still himself though, the stiff upper lip of the British Gentleman battered away the negative thoughts, to present the image of a man who was ready for what was to come, even if deep down he was not.
Every footstep that the young German officer made was careful and precise, an artist at his work rather than a soldier following his orders. To James, it was as if he'd choreographed it in his head beforehand, knowing exactly how many steps were needed to make it from the door to his bed and exactly how long each step needed to be. Although he may have been one step behind in their mental games previously, Hans revealed himself to be the incredible learner that Kurt knew him to be. Developing a strategy to combat James with mental torture of his own, the Lieutenant took control of the room in a move that would have made his mentor to proud.
He was going to hurt James.
Punish him.
Punish him for daring to fight back.
Punish him for Britain daring to disobey the Nazi Empire that he served.
Close enough so that he could reach out and grab him, Hans took hold of the collar of James' shirt. Pulling the prisoner up from where he was sat on the bed, every fibre of his strength was required to be transferred to the muscles in his left arm, James' muscle being difficult to move. With all the power that he could muster, he threw James, leaving his right leg out for the Englishman to trip over, a descent to the floor beginning. Smashing into the cold, damp floor head first, James was briefly stunned by the sudden blow to the head. It was a somewhat cushioned floor given the circumstances, landing more on his wrists which took the majority of the impact, though his head still did strike the floor. All the while behind him, Hans began a demonic giggle which could easily rival Kurt's. He was going to make the English prisoner suffer.
With nothing to lose in speaking a language that he knew the Lieutenant could not understand, James tried to distract himself against the pain that was already beginning within him. A man in his position required a coping mechanism to cling to, and that afternoon, he'd very quickly found his.
"It is more gentlemanly to kiss first, Lieutenant…". James jested, berating himself for speaking of such a topic. "That throw was a little rough for my liking".
Hans didn't understand a word that his prisoner, his in the absence of Kurt at least, was saying but found himself caring very little. He was only there to do one thing when it came to James, and it wasn't to strike up an intellectual conversation. Kurt must have known, he thought to himself as he stood over the prone body, or at least believed that he would enact his revenge on Britain as a country by attacking James. His mentor was allowing him to give the Englishman the beating that he deserved, Hans convinced him. Kurt couldn't just beat up James himself as he would lose the mental hold he held over him, but if Hans were to do it… it would not matter. No ground would be lost at all.
It all made sense when he dwelt on it.
Coming to that truth only spurred him on even further.
He gave James a moment to raise himself up from the floor, but the Pilot knew exactly what was going to happen when he propped himself up. The Lieutenant's intentions were becoming much clearer with the gun back in its holster, and his positioning just behind the Englishman, to the side slightly. The first kick connected with the ribs on his right side, knocking James back down to the floor where he'd began. A further two followed in the exact same spot, the second of which pulled a whelp from the lungs of the young Captain. Music to Hans' ears…
There was another brief pause, Hans sickeningly allowing James to regain his breath after it was knocked out of him. James being James, he couldn't resist throwing another barb at the Lieutenant who did not understand him at all.
"Why not untie me and make this a fair fight…". He wheezed, hauling himself up to his knees again. "… are you afraid I'm going to kiss you?"
Fully perched up on his knees, the chill of the floor penetrating the fabric of his trousers within seconds to leave them chilly, he watched as Hans moved himself around to stand before the Captain. He struck him first with his left fist, driving it into the Englishman's cheek, but it did not even so much as sway James, instead making him chuckle. Aggravating by the mocking tone of the chuckle, which seemed to indicate that James thought he did not hit hard enough, a second punch was administered. The right-handed hook did move him, though even with his lack of control when it came to balance, James remained perched on his knees. It did succeed in bruising his strong jaw, he knew straight away once the throbbing pain started, but could not focus on it when the Lieutenant kicked him in the chest, finally forcing him down onto his back.
From then on, rage took over for Lieutenant Hartmann, launching himself onto James with fury in his eyes. The sins of Britain were to be taken out on the young man, whose hands were tied so he could not fight back. His plan was a poetic one, James restricted from being able to fight back when often Britain were not and did so out of their sheer will to disobey those greater than them. The Pilot could not, which he would take full advantage of. Punches were thrown left and right, some catching James in the face and others missing, hitting his shoulder or, on one occasion the floor, Hans injuring his own left hand in the process. He never felt the pain at all though thanks to adrenaline being pumped all across his body in the bloodstream, developing a lust to cause more pain and suffering for James beneath him.
Snarling rage also prevented him from hearing the door opening, only noticing Kurt's presence when the Doctor started to run towards him. If he thought that Kurt had sent him down to give James a beating deliberately, he was completely wrong. It hadn't been the Doctor's intention at all nor was he willingly turning a blind eye to allow it. Hans was disobeying his orders… to a point.
"Hans! No! Leave him!" Kurt begged his Lieutenant.
The Doctor was soon dragging him off, fighting against the rageous man that he barely recognised from the man he'd mentored for years. In all that time he'd seen different sides to the young man, but he'd never seen him quite as angry as he did there and then.
"But Kurt, he is an English bastard!" Hans argued as he was pulled off of the prisoner. "He deserves this!"
"I said leave him, Hans! I have my orders and my orders are to keep him alive! I will not let you kick him to death because of your hatred!"
As Kurt berated him, Hans back to his feet with an arm separating himself and the Englishman for a moment, he entered a staring match with the Doctor. Kurt needed him to calm down, as all he was doing was making himself, and to an extent them, look foolish. They needed to show that they were better than James was, in every possible way. The Lieutenant losing his cool and delivering the man a vicious beating while he was tied up was not the correct way to do so. Breathing heavily as the adrenaline began to wear off, Hans took a couple of steps backwards so that he was under the chains that had held James when he was whipped. His eyes didn't leave the body of the man on the floor, who was shifting around so that he could return to making eye contact, this time with the both of them. For good reason too…
"Yes, do as you're told, Hans".
Held in reserve for so long, the one secret that he did hold that he hadn't told his captors was thrust out into the open. Stunned into silence, neither Kurt nor Hans could offer up a reply in any language, staring at him in confusion as a wry smile began to appear etched across his face. They'd been caught firmly off guard, with only the Doctor able to recover from the shock somewhat sharply, immediately questioning what he'd heard when he did.
"James… I did not know you could speak German".
"What you do not know, cannot kill you… Kurt".
There was venom in his sentence, especially when he referred to the Doctor by his actual name and not his surname as he would have normally done. The Doctor was still trying to comprehend the new truth that he discovered, in doing so losing control in their mental battle. With such a revelation thrown into the mix out of nowhere, James was winning again when he did not expect it at all. Revealing his ability to speak the German language was always going to raise an eyebrow or two from his captors, but he hadn't bargained on Kurt being unable to find any words at all to counter him with. Behind the Doctor, Hans' jaw was back to its normal state, but an even greater rage could be found in his eyes, which James discovered for himself. He didn't think it was possible to hate the prisoner any more than he already did, yet taunted in his own knowledge by the man, his thoughts were incorrect.
He wanted to kill him. Desperately… desperately wanted to kill him.
"How very fascinating…". A still tentative Kurt spoke with zeal. "… this is an unexpected development! Where did you learn?"
Preventing James from bursting out into laughter was the pain in his chest from where Hans kicked him, but without that pain he would have been a howling mess of chuckles. Kurt asking him a question like that amused him greatly, especially when he'd tried so hard in English to be able to get him to talk, suddenly he thought trying in German would work. Without any answers to any of his questions, the stance would be the same if he spoke Spanish… he did not know who he was. However, in revealing his hidden knowledge of fluency in German, it only convinced Kurt further that he was hiding more under the surface.
"I think you have known me long enough to know I will not answer your questions". He huffed.
"You might in German…". Kurt made the ridiculous suggestion.
"Why would I answer in German, when I would not in English".
Still with the upper hand, the battle of wit between them firmly within his grasp, James mocked, the pain in his chest beginning to subside. His eyes did not leave Kurt, which meant he saw the flash of incensed rage that his Lieutenant had displayed earlier that afternoon. With the advantage he'd held over the Englishman in ruins, Kurt could have delivered kicks and punches in a frenzy if he wanted, if he had no self-control like Hans. The lack of self-control, and ultimately, a lack of maturity, haunted the young man, who was suddenly lunging forward again when James flashed him a mischievous smile.
"Be quiet you English dog!"
Roaring the insult, Hans was only stopped from continuing his assault by a furious Kurt. Neither of the two younger men could tell which of the two of them he was more angered by, though James thought to himself that it was probably Hans. Wound up fiercely by the mental prowess that the Pilot possessed, he was unable to control his rage again for a few moments, before Kurt gently pushed him back towards the wall, out of the way. He couldn't have the short-fused young man getting in the way when he needed to regain control of the room, to put James firmly back in his place so that he would not forget it again.
Sensing an opportunity, a rare one, James did not miss his chance to be able to unnerve the Lieutenant even further with his newly revealed proficiency of the German language.
"Your conduct as an officer is poor, Lieutenant Hartmann". James chided in a mocking tone. "You should treat a captured enemy with respect, not disdain".
"May I remind you, that you are not an officer of German rank, James". Kurt was quick to reply, sending him a furious glance from his position between the two young men. "It is not your place to remind Hans of his".
To James, it didn't matter whether he was an officer in the British Army, the German Army or a Zulu tribesman, Hans' conduct in treating a prisoner of war was far below the standard it should have been. As much as a captured enemy was still an enemy and may still have important information that was required to be harvested from them, they were human beings. Human beings that were most likely a long way from home and scared for their lives. A modicum of respect for the life that they still held was paramount, and as an officer, Hans should have been leading by example even without a detachment of troops with him to assist.
Another couple of minutes were required in order for Kurt to be content with leaving Hans to stand guard rather than attempt to attack the prisoner again. A nodded confirmation from the young man meant little to James, not when he knew how easily he could wind him up and provoke a reaction from him, but it did for Kurt, who turned around fully to face James, his back to Hans. In the time they'd spent cooling down, he'd managed to bring himself around onto his knees again, fighting the pain his chest and ribs from where he'd been kicked. The punches to the face, though one was bruising his jaw, hurt nowhere near as much as the kicks.
Retrieving a small knife from his pocket, Kurt swiftly moved over to bend down next to James, cutting the ropes that held his legs together but leaving his hands tied behind his back for a moment. When he'd seen the small knife, James paled slightly under the thought of what Kurt might do with it, especially in such close proximity, but found his fears to be unnecessary. It did, however, return an ounce of control over to Kurt when he saw it, their battle to be in control of the room raging after Hans dropped out of the race.
Glancing back over his shoulder for a second, Kurt tilting his head towards the chair under the window, the calmer Hans complying with the order to retrieve it. The Doctor hauled James to his feet, fully believing that he would not be attacked by the Captain even though his legs were now freed, an assumption made correctly. There simply was no point in James fighting back… he could not change his circumstances by doing so. Hans pulled up alongside the two of them a couple of seconds later, placing the chair down with a thud next to where the Englishman was now standing. He caught the Lieutenant's eyes again, grinning wildly at him to force a grunt from Hans, but this time there was no physical violence to accompany it. Regardless of what happened with Kurt, James was contented to know that he'd won the battle when it came to Hans.
Kurt soon untied his hands, though under the protection of the pistol that Hans raised from the side of the two men when he realised what his mentor and superior was doing. Standing still and saying silent, a breath of relief escaped James' lips when his hands were free, only for the breath to be taken when he was shoved down forcefully onto the chair by the Doctor. A degree of anger was creeping into his outlook too, James regaining ground he'd lost in fear moments earlier. Beginning to tie him to the chair with rope of his own, that Elsa certainly didn't know about and nor did Lyla, it was not long until James was fully secured and unable to move in the chair. Even the court jester could have worked out that another round of questions was coming his way…
"Now, who are you?" Kurt went straight for the most burning one of them all.
"You think I would fall for such simplicity, Doctor Van Der Heijden?" James snorted, shaking his head with his lips curved up into a smile.
"If you would just answer me, you could have simplicity".
The simplicity that Kurt spoke of was almost certainly his death, but James did not have time to die. He needed to get back to Derry and to Erin, to able to marry her as he wanted to, starting a wee family of their own. It might have been many miles away, but his future lay there, and he only wanted to be at her side. Even with the truth, he would not have given an answer that would have betrayed everything he stood for, to lose his life anyway. The game that Kurt wanted to play was a game that he could not enter, a full poker table where he was an entrant to the game without any chips to play with. The only card that he held was now out in the open, the language that he'd revealed to no one else that he could speak. Back home it was hardly the best time to admit to being able to understand and speak the language of the enemy and it was a secret that he did not want to burden David with whilst they served together. His hand was played… only time would tell if it were a winning one.
An answer to Kurt soon followed.
"I will not answer you in German, English, Italian or Chinese. I cannot answer you, for I have nothing to answer with".
The look of displeasure slapped across the Doctor's face said it all…
"That is a lie and we both know it". Kurt replied coldly, an intense stare trained upon his prisoner from where he stood directly in front of him.
"He lies again, Kurt!" Hans suddenly shouted from the Doctor's left side. "Why must we follow these orders while he laughs in our faces!"
James couldn't help but chuckle when he saw another flash of anger in the eyes of the Doctor that was directed at Hans. Having thought that his Lieutenant was calm again, once more the young man was riled by James' defiance. He could not deny that he was riled up too, but he hid his rage beneath the surface far more effectively. Any hint of control being lost gave James yet more of advantage, one which he was continuing to build in front of them, furthering his margin in the battle of wits that they were fiercely locked in. Internally sighing as to not give his prisoner another victory, Kurt turned his attentions to his Lieutenant, walking over to him and grabbing him by the collar. Dragging Hans away to the corner of the room like a naughty schoolchild provided James with entertainment he'd been without for some time. Clearly furious that his Lieutenant was disobeying orders as well as making them look stupid in front of the man they were responsible for imprisoning, stern words were needed.
"Hans, I have always been fair with you, but I need you to know that you are hindering our progress with your anger".
"What progress!?" Hans whispered angrily. "What progress, Kurt? All this Englishman does is laugh at us… even in our own tongue!"
"We will always have the last laugh, Hans". Kurt insisted, struggling to remain calm himself. "I need you to keep quiet and trust me please".
"I will always trust you, Kurt. I just… I cannot standby and be mocked by a man like him. He is unworthy of the freedom to do so".
"Freedom is something he will not see a lot of anymore, Hans. Please, trust me".
Trusting his superior, and father figure, was something that the Lieutenant could do. Swallowing hard to bury his anger with the Englishman, he confirmed with a dip of his head to Kurt that he would start to behave as he should. It was the second time that he'd needed to that afternoon, and the Doctor was not prepared to give him a third chance. Should the need arise for him to speak to his Lieutenant again, the punishment would be more severe than a telling off.
Having enjoyed the soap opera that saw him feel more in control than he'd ever been, ironically whilst tied to a chair where he had no physical control whatsoever, James knew that his time of having that power was coming to an end. Kurt began to make his way over to the Englishman again, only this time the sinister smile returned along with him. He'd seen Hans' variant of the smile earlier that afternoon and was not enamoured with it yet seeing the gesture back on the face of the man who wore it with such an evil aura emanating from him, James gulped. He'd already received one beating that afternoon; he was fairly certain he was about to receive a second.
"I have to say I am impressed by your skills, James…". Kurt commended him, returning to English. "… but I think we have spoken enough German for the day, don't you?"
Coming to a stop just in front of his prisoner, Kurt crouched down, his knee making a clicking sound as he did. It was hardly the most comfortable position for him to be in, but he wanted to look James directly in the eye. The Englishman was tied to the only chair in the room, leaving him little choice but to take up the almost squatting position.
"I could have gone on all afternoon but… suit yourself, Doctor".
"I will young man… I will. You continue to prove to be a great treasure yet the most inconvenient annoyance James…". Kurt monologued as he rose to his feet once more, before pacing around. "You will not answer my questions, but you will happily mock both myself and my Lieutenant when you are our prisoner. It is… extraordinary".
"Your appreciation for my talent touches my dear heart, Doctor".
Kurt couldn't help but snigger at the comment, amused by James' attempts to fight back against him when he was trying to turn the tables himself. When Molinari profiled the man to him, he was not expecting to face quite such stern resistance when he tried to break down the young Pilot, despite the warning that he was tough after recovering from his life-threating injuries following the Taranto raid. Disappointed he was not though, as James provided him with a challenge that he was yet to face in his life, one which he was determined to overcome. To prove to Hitler that he was the right man for the job, he would find out the truth about James… or whoever the man in front of him really was.
"Now, I suppose I should get to the point of my visit. I do not have all day after all…".
"One would doubt that it is a social call?" James asked with yet another hint of mockery in his tone.
"I am not in the habit of making social calls to the enemies of Das Reich, James…". Kurt replied much more sternly. "No… I need to ask you about someone other than yourself for a change".
Frowning, with brows furrowed tightly, James tried to read the Doctor. Ignoring Hans behind him, who'd taken to aiming his pistol directly at the Englishman again whilst Kurt paced around, he wondered who it might be. He'd survived the questioning about his mother, though he still held questions about her himself, such as to her safety. The spy that the Germans held within Derry seemed to have a lot of knowledge when it came to his life, with his concerns immediately centred on Erin and protecting her if she was the person that the Doctor spoke of. He would keep her safe even if it meant giving his life, which he was resigning himself to believe was extremely likely.
"Your cousin is quite the character, I am told…".
Erin was safe but it was instead someone else that he cared for dearly that the Doctor was going to ask him about. He'd thought of Michelle often during his captivity, hoping that she was well and perhaps settled down. The reality was far different, but cut off from it, he would not know of it, which allowed for him to dream on her behalf. Although he knew that Kurt's information would be correct, it almost always ways, he could at least start by denying all knowledge of her.
"I have no cousin".
"Really James?" Kurt chastised him, shaking his head. "You do not have to lie to me again, I know all about Michelle Mallon…"
Preparing to defend her like he would Erin, James only confirmed with a hesitant nod that she was indeed his cousin. There was no use in trying to argue the point with the Doctor any further, most likely leading to further pain for him if he did. All he could do was listen into whatever it was that the Doctor wanted to say.
"You know, I did doubt whether the report that was passed onto me was correct at first…". Kurt started, pacing around once again. "… you are such a fine young gentleman of clearly high standing but then when I read the report, it appears that your cousin does not act like a lady at all".
He knew immediately where the Doctor was leading with his story, fully aware before he'd left for the war about how loose Michelle was in her affections. She was an adult like he was, able to make decisions for herself whether he agreed with them or not, or anyone else for that matter which left the Captain unwilling to judge her. The way in which she conducted herself might not have been the way in which he did, but it was her life to live and not his, and if that's how she wanted to live it then it was not up to him to stop her either. It was, however, agonisingly useful information for Kurt to have to mock him with. Power was slowly returning to the Nazi's side…
"I am surprised your family allows her to act as a lowly common slut so freely".
Spending much of the afternoon mocking Hans, James was now placed into the same position, having to force himself not to react. Michelle could be described in many ways, but he would not allow for her to be labelled as a slut. As much as she'd been horrible to him during his time in Derry, James knew she held a worthy heart beneath the armour that she wore and was not the gutter-born harlot that Kurt was suggesting that she was.
"Whoring herself out to whoever wants her, though without ever charging…". Kurt continued to dig away. "… such a well-liked young woman I'm told. It would be a shame if anything untoward were to happen… like a pregnancy or… perhaps worse…".
"What are you getting at, Doctor?" James snarled.
"Touched a nerve have I?" Kurt laughed, before his face dropped to reveal the sinister man that hid behind the mask. "Well… I am going to touch a few more! You are going to give me the answers that I want within a week and stop this ridiculous game that you are playing with me!"
"I have no answers to give".
"Then that is a shame…".
The tone of voice that Kurt dropped had never been as sinister as it was at that moment, James fearing for what he might say next and the consequences for Michelle. He needed to protect her, she was his family after all, and he would never do anything that would see her harmed, for he'd never forgive himself. But there was nothing he could do under the conditions that Kurt put to him…
"If I do not get the answers within a week… my contact in Londonderry… will kill her. You have one week James, I suggest you utilise it wisely".
As much as he wanted to protect Michelle, James could do nothing. Kurt flicked his wrist to Hans to announce that they were leaving, not bothering to untie James who was far too busy pondering the threat over in his head, to be asked to be united. There was a difference between the contact that the Nazi's infiltrated into Derry providing them information and resorting to murder, but he knew enough about the Nazi regime to know that killing the innocent was something they more than happy to do. From his confinement in Italy though, he could do absolutely nothing than wait a week to disappoint the Doctor… but at the same time kill his cousin.
He would not cry; he was too strong to give into his emotions so easily, but guilt was already filling his long-suffering heart.
Michelle was going to die because somehow he was important to Britain, an importance that he did not understand when all he was a Pilot.
For the first time in his life, James Maguire started to wonder who he really was…