Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All previous disclaimers still apply. I'm not making any profit from this story, except peace of mind from finally writing it.

Author's Note: Thank you to all of you who took the time to read the first chapter and give me such inspiring reviews. I already have five and a half chapters finished, but I am slowly and carefully proofreading them before I post them (although I'm sure I missed something). I hope to have the third chapter up sometime this weekend. Oh, I'm going to try and save this in HTML format. If it turns out messed up, I'll upload the Word formatted one ASAP.

Chapter Two – Worse Than Imagined

Pain. It hurt to breathe. Every breath was an effort, agonizing. The only sensation that he could feel was ceaseless pain. Through his torment-fogged mind, he tried to pull away from the knives that the Gestapo kept stabbing him in the chest with. But he couldn't move. Deliriously, he moved his arm to stop the pain, but the stubborn appendage wouldn't obey him! I'm trapped! Chained…can't move! It hurts so bad! Oh, God, help me, please! He tried again to move his arms, but they continued their rebellion.

He tried to open his eyes, to see around him so he could at least know where the guards were that were holding him. He could then know what blows were coming and be ready for them, as ready as he could be. However, he only succeeded in opening one eye, the right one, he thought, although he wasn't sure. And when he opened his eyes, he saw a world spinning about, tilted, with jagged edges and vague shadowy figures. He shook his head slightly, hoping to clear his crazy vision, but pain exploded in his skull, casting a red haze on everything. Great. Instead of black and gray, now everything is red. He could not stop the pitiful moan that escaped his lips, which in turn made him scream in agony, the pain unbearable from moving the left side of his face.

A cool hand lightly touched his face on the side that didn't hurt. Startled, he tried to roll away, but once again his body would not respond. So locked away in his painful nightmarish world, he did not realize that the hand was not trying to hurt him – it was trying to comfort him. But after the past few weeks, every touch brought pain, either real or imagined.

The next thing he knew, a calm, familiar voice was speaking to him, calling out a name over and over. Am I Colonel Hogan? He thought groggily. Yes. Yes, I think I am. It does sound familiar. Who is that? Do I know him? Wait a minute…Kinch! For a moment, the calm voice soothed him, and he began to drift to sleep. That was when he heard the voices speaking in German behind the calm one. Panic flooded his soul as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. What is Kinch doing here? Does the Gestapo have him, too? His moans became louder, as his mind filled with panic, almost crazed. No! No, not Kinch, too! Please, not him! I've already lost one person, I can't loose another! "Run." He tried to whisper but only a weak groan came out. "Leave me. Go away." Why couldn't they hear him? "Listen to me!" But the only sounds that came out were agonized groans and moans.

The voices were coming closer, and closer. Out of the jagged void, another hand reached out and touched his arm, pinning it to the wall. He struggled pathetically to break away, but found his struggles had caused a new problem, besides the never-ending pain that both filled and surrounded him. Can't…breathe…Help…me…He felt himself choking and bright sparks of light flashed before his closed eyes. Something sharp pricked his arm and a brief burning sensation flared. Then everything fell into darkness.

*************************************

Sitting frozen in his seat next to the bed, Kinch remained staring at the unconscious body of his friend for some minutes after Hogan fell back into his drugged slumber. It wasn't until he blinked that he felt the wetness on his cheeks and realized they were tears.

He had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed, exhausted by the day's events and the terrible knowledge of his friend's serious condition. The first signal he'd had of Hogan's return to consciousness was the pain-filled moan that emerged from the heavily bandaged figure. Then, he'd seen one eye open, unfocused, the pupil dilated farther than he had ever seen in his life.

He would never forget the unearthly scream that had emanated from Hogan, one that sent chills running up his spine and made his blood run cold. Hogan's body seemed to convulse and then lay utterly still. The deathly silence was broken as Hogan began to moan and shiver with pain. Kinch could only stare in horror, the shock freezing him in place.

The door slammed open, and Doctor Muller raced over to the bed, next to Kinch.

"What's going on?" Kinch begged, worry for his friend sending his heart pounding furiously.

"He's out of his mind with pain! If we don't get him sedated soon, he could go back

in to shock. We could loose him. I've got to get some more morphine – it's in my car. Try to calm him down! I'll be right back!" Muller flew back out of the room, praying for speed and time they did not have.

Kinch had been nearly frantic, and tried to give comfort to his friend the only way he could think of in that terrible moment – he reached out to touch his face. Unfortunately, his sleep-deprived mind had totally forgotten what the Doctor had told him so many hours ago: "Do not touch him!"

Whenever Kinch had been sick as a child, his mother would lay a cool hand on his brow and he would automatically feel better. It made everything right in the world. It was the ultimate comforting gesture.

Stupid! How could I have been that dumb? I just made it worse! Instead of relaxing, Hogan had shied away from his touch like a wild hare. But this rabbit was too injured to run.

Realizing his mistake, Kinch tried to make up for it the best he could. He talked to him. Tried to calm him down. And it had seemed to be working. Until…

Suddenly, Hogan had become frantic. Kinch felt sure he was trying to say something but nothing was coming out in words, only sounds. The pitiful sounds became more insistent, louder. Like a trapped animal trying to get away from the hunter, the knowledge of its imminent death taking up so much of its mind that no room was left for logical thinking. And then the situation grew even worse.

Colonel Hogan stopped breathing.

One second he was moaning loudly, the next… The tortured gasps tore at Kinch's heart, and literally froze him in place. He could do nothing but watch his friend, his brother, slowly suffocate and die.

Then, a miracle happened.

Muller appeared beside him and pushed Kinch out of the way. Grabbing Hogan's shaking right arm, he quickly plunged a morphine hypo into the pale arm and injected the pain-killing fluid. Finally, the frantic gasping slowed as the figure on the bed relaxed bonelessly against the pillows supporting him.

Now, thinking back to what had happened, Kinch sighed deeply and scrubbed his damp face with hands that still trembled. This isn't real, he told himself. It CAN'T be happening! This is just some horrific nightmare and I need to wake up! NOW!

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that this wasn't real, he could not deny the sight that met his eyes. No amount of pleading or frantic wishing could make this problem go away.

How could this happen?

He racked his mind once again, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. The Gestapo's sudden raid had caught them completely unaware. They had been in the middle of a poker game, laughing loudly at some stupid remark of Carter's, when the door to the barracks had been flung open, slamming harshly against the wall. The black clothed men had entered and had grabbed the Colonel roughly by the arms, twisting them painfully behind his back. The prisoners had protested loudly but their protests were answered only with raised rifle barrels pointed right at their hearts. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly as their Commander was jerked roughly away to the waiting Gestapo truck.

Looking back now, Kinch was still uncertain how Hogan had been found out. But he wasn't the only one to be taken at that time. A few hours later, once he was reasonably sure it was safe to use the radio, he'd received word from one of their contacts that the Gestapo had swept the area, rounding up not only suspected Underground members, but also any person who had been "visited" by the Gestapo in the past. However, as far as Kinch knew, Colonel Hogan had been the only prisoner of war to be hauled away.

He lowered his hands and stared hard at the bandage covered figure before him, searching in vain for the man who had disappeared only a month before. He could not find him. "I'm so sorry, Colonel," he murmured hoarsely, emotion making his normally smooth voice rough. "We failed you. But we tried, I swear we tried our hardest!"

They had made three attempts to rescue him, but nothing had worked. The attempts had been useless – and dangerous, especially the last one. Newkirk still had a rather nasty looking lump on the back of his head – a lasting reminder of the near fatal truck accident he'd been involved in while trying to get away from the Gestapo. Kinch shuddered, the sight of Carter frantically pulling Newkirk's limp, bloody body from the mangled remains of the truck coming vividly to mind. That had been too close. Only then did he realize that he was going to be responsible for someone else's death if he didn't stop the rescue attempts. We've already lost one man, he argued angrily with himself. Colonel Hogan couldn't live with himself if someone died while rescuing him. Heck, who am I kidding? I couldn't live with it!

But now that he'd seen what they had done to Colonel Hogan…

He could have – should have – done more. But it was too late. He had to deal with the present, not second-guess the past.

"What did they do to you, Colonel?" he moaned. His commanding officer, the man who never cried, never gave up, no matter how bad the situation …what had the Gestapo done to him to make him this way? Hogan had shied away from his touch. Kinch still couldn't believe it, even though he had seen it with his own eyes.

His closest friend was terrified of him.

The bedroom door opened as Dr. Muller slipped inside clutching his medical bag. After shrugging off his long, black coat and removing his black, felt hat, he approached the bed. As the elderly doctor studied the unconscious man, Kinch saw that his face was filled with worry lines, his blue eyes sharp with concern. The black sergeant felt a rush of gratitude for the experienced doctor for the excellent care he had given the Colonel. His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor shifted his gaze to meet Kinch's with a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, you must leave. I need to change the Colonel's bandages while he is asleep."

"No." Kinch shook his dark head emphatically, his eyes never leaving Hogan's still form. "No, I'm not leaving."

"Now listen, young man, I understand that you are very…what is the word?…devoted?…to this man." He reached up absently to brush back an errant lock of snow white hair from his forehead. "Ich verstehe…I understand how you feel, but you should not be in here. It is not a pleasant task, even for me."

"Look, Doctor, I've been in battle and seen things that are not 'pleasant.' I've seen more things than you can imagine." He raised his eyes to the man standing at his side and continued with a strong, commanding voice. "Let me stay. Please. I can help you."

Kinch held his breath as he waited for the doctor to make up his mind. While he did have experience as an emergency medic and could ably assist the German, his main reason for staying was quite different.

Fear.

He had the overwhelming, almost paralyzing, fear that if he left the Colonel's side, he might never see him again – alive. Oh, he trusted the doctor – he'd done a good job so far – but he felt as if he had to stay. What he wasn't sure about was whether he needed to stay for Hogan…or himself.

"Very well. You may stay and assist. But if you feel sick, you must remove yourself immediately. I have enough to clean up without anything new."

Dr. Muller reached for his bag and began pulling out vials and fresh bandages. "Sergeant," he ordered, "Turn down the blankets."

The two men set to work. The doctor checked Hogan's left leg briefly, nodding in satisfaction over the white cast that encased the injured appendage, holding it secure.

Next, he carefully cut the stained bandage that surrounded the Colonel's chest. A long, stitched incision held the sliced parts of his bruised chest together on the left side; although the bloody slit looked ghastly, it had been necessary to repair the extensive damage done to the patient's ribcage, which had been nearly crushed. Despite the small, immaculate stitches, clear fluid continued to ooze from the wound.

Kinch swallowed hard at the sight of his friend's damaged torso. I can't believe he can still breathe, he thought numbly. Each breath must be agony.

After helping to gently sponge the incision with warm, soapy water and rebandage it, a process that took several minutes, Kinch had managed to regain a bit of his equilibrium. Up to now, the doctor appeared to be satisfied with Hogan's condition, viewing all his livid injuries through an impassive mask. But Kinch noticed that he took just a second's break before continuing his examination. When he resumed work, he moved towards the patient's head.

Kinch leaned forward slightly, anxious to see for himself the extent of the damage as the elderly physician carefully removed the thick bandage from the left side of his friend's face.

Upon seeing the ravaged visage, he blinked in shock, thinking – no, wishing – that he what he was seeing was not real. It was worse than he had imagined.

The bloody red welt slashed vertically the entire length of Hogan's face, from scalp to chin. The cheek had been laid open to the bone, and a scab had yet to form. The two ends of his cheek were still an eighth – to a quarter – of an inch apart.

Dr. Muller pursed his lips, debating, and then shook his head. "No, this is not working. The cut should have begun to scab over by now. The tape is not enough. I will have to stitch it closed." He finished his diagnosis in a worn voice.

"But…won't that scar him more than the tape?" Kinch cringed inwardly. Colonel Hogan had always been proud of his handsome looks. And now to rob him of that…And to force him to remember his torture every time he looked in the mirror…

"Would you rather he died a handsome man or live as a slightly scarred one?" The tech sergeant winced at the doctor's harsh, but truthful, words. Muller took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. He did not appear pleased about what he was forced to do.

"I apologize, Sergeant Kinchloe. But for every minute this cut stays open, the chances for infection increase drastically. I did not want to use stitches but to be honest…the man who did this wanted to mark him permanently. In this he has already succeeded. Colonel Hogan will have a scar whether I use tape or stitches. It does not matter."

Kinchloe closed his eyes in defeat and replied in a tired voice. "Alright. What do you need me to do?"

The operation passed in a blur. Nothing seemed quite real. He passed the doctor the tools as he requested them and did what he was told. Thankfully, throughout the entire ordeal, his commander had not even twitched, still heavily under the morphine's hold. Within twenty grueling minutes, the cut was stitched, cleaned, disinfected, and rebandaged.

Finally, the two men turned to the last part of the exam, and without being discussed, both mutually understood that this was the worst part – Hogan's burned right forearm. Doctor Muller unwrapped the arm slowly, painstakingly pulling back layer after layer of gauze. After a few layers, the bandage stuck, too crusted to be pulled cleanly away.

Kinch watched as the physician carefully soaked the stubborn gauze until it released its hold on the burn. It came off reluctantly, like a lover separating from his beloved. At last, the lower bandage was pulled away revealing the hideous burn beneath.

Kinch gagged convulsively and stepped away, trying to quell his nausea before he became sick. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gulped the air greedily like a drowning swimmer – only the air did not smell as sweet. The scent of burned flesh, blood, and disinfectant infested the air inside the room, creating a smell like that of a hospital infirmary.

He'd just about settled his stomach when a low moan cut through the room, causing Kinch to jerk his head towards the bed only a few feet away.

The doctor looked up from examining the arm, his lined face filled with concern. "I need some help over here, Sergeant," he called urgently.

Kinch moved over closer and saw that the older man had just begun to clean the terrible burn. Nearly jumping as Hogan moaned again, he met Muller's blue eyes with alarm. "I thought you said he'd stay out! He's waking up! What's going on?"

"He is not regaining consciousness quite yet, but he is also no longer so deeply unconscious that he can not feel the pain."

"Can't you give him another shot?"

"No. I just gave him one an hour or so ago. If I give him another this soon, his heart could slow too much and he could die.

Kinch swallowed, a strangely difficult task, but nodded. "What do I do? You're gonna finish cleaning it, aren't you?"

The elderly physician glanced down for a second, then met Kinch's gaze without wavering. "I need to finish this right now, Sergeant. If I delay, it could easily become infected and that is not something that I believe the Colonel can handle." He stopped and sighed deeply. "I need your help with this, but you must understand that this will be difficult to observe. If you do not think you can handle it, you need to tell me now and I will get someone else to assist."

The black sergeant hesitated, uncertain whether he could truly bare to see his close friend in such pain. "If you have to find someone else to help, it might take a while. He would be even more conscious then, and the pain would be worse, right?"

"Yes," the doctor replied.

"If it's gotta be done, then I can do it. What do you need me to do?" he asked again.

"Stay on that side and talk to him. Perhaps your voice will help calm him down. If he begins to move, you'll have to hold him down by his shoulders – carefully but firmly.

"Got it." The black man leaned over his friend as the doctor resumed his work and began to whisper quietly to him, soft soothing words that his friend would hopefully latch on to for comfort, a necessary distraction.

It didn't work.

The next time Muller touched the burn, Hogan let out a sharp cry of pain. His body twitched and jerked as wave after wave of searing pain swept through his body.

"Hold him down! He's going to injure himself if he keeps moving!"

The next few minutes took on nightmarish form. Unable to calm his friend, he was forced to hold his writhing body down upon the bed, vaguely thinking how strong the Colonel seemed despite being so seriously wounded. His pain-filled moans morphed into shrill cries of agony. The walls reverberated with his screams, Kinch's cries of "Hurry, Doc, hurry!" and the doctor's reply of "Almost done! Just another minute!"

Finally, the doctor shouted, "I'm done," and stepped away from Hogan's side, releasing his patient's right arm, now swathed in pristine bandages from wrist to elbow. Kinch slowly eased his hold upon his friend's shoulders as Hogan's cries softened into whimpers of pain and then stopped all together. A couple of minutes later, his rapid breathing had slowed down almost to normal, and he fell back into the drug's embrace, ashen face covered in sweat from his exertions.

Kinch looked over at Dr. Muller, noting the man's pale face and visibly trembling hands. The doctor caught his scrutiny and spoke softly as he gestured for the sergeant to take a seat. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Sergeant, but I am also very glad that you were here. I could not have finished that alone." He paused. "You are a brave man. Not many men could have done what you did just now."

Silence engulfed the small room. The two men were too exhausted to do anything else but sit side by side and stare at the still form on the bed. The silence was soothing, not filled with apprehension as those previously had been. Each man had gained a solid respect for the other, forged in the face of an arduous task.

It was the doctor who broke the soothing silence. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sergeant Kinchloe, but I believe you need to know. I discussed with you earlier the possibility of psychological damage to the mind of Colonel Hogan. From what I witnessed earlier, I now believe that possibility to be a certainty."

"I thought so. The way he reacted to my touch…he pulled away from me." Kinch sat hunched over, leaning his elbows on his knees, staring at his tightly clasped hands. "They broke him."

He continued in a strained voice, his heart as bruised as his battered friend's body. "I don't know what to do – how do I help him? There's only so much I can do. I can help him physically…but mentally? I don't know where to start."

"I have seen this before, in my own countrymen," the doctor answered quietly. "I promise I will help you as much as I can, but I cannot guarantee anything. Besides, I am a German, and part of the same country as the ones who tortured Colonel Hogan. He may reject any help I try to give. But I will try." The elderly man laid a comforting hand on Kinch's shoulder. "And I know you will, as well. Perhaps together, we can help your commander through this."