Facing the Shadows
By Adalanta
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own any of the rights to Hogan's Heroes or its characters. However, I do claim the rights to all the other characters that are mentioned in the story from here on.
Author's Note: Okay, everyone. This chapter is a little different from all the previous ones, as it focuses mainly on a couple of new arrivals to Stalag 13. I hope you'll find them intriguing and enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed creating them. A major portion of the next few chapters will be devoted to introducing them, but I promise to include the main characters as much as possible. Oh, before I stop rambling, I want to say a special thanks to Kits for the encouraging note she sent – your thoughts are truly appreciated! And, as always, feel free to write a review here at fanfiction.net or email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. All feedback is greatly appreciated!
Chapter Four – New Arrivals
Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea lifted his head up as his truck approached the barbed wire fence. The other passengers, all POW's like himself, began muttering as soon as they saw the wooden sign stating, quite simply, "Stalag 13." The muttering that started down by the cab caught on like a brushfire, spreading swiftly from the front of the truck to the back. Within seconds, the unrest had reached the guards placed at the tailgate; the two men raised their rifles, ready to stop the possible stampede of frantic men who considered bolting from their temporary prison and making one last insane bid for freedom. None of the prisoners actually believed that they would make it out of the truck alive, but some still contemplated it. Because once they entered those gates, the only way they would be going out would be as dead men.
So this is the infamous "unlucky 13," huh? O'Shea didn't have to think hard to recall all he had heard about this place. The Kommandant at Stalag 8 had often mentioned Stalag 13 as a threat to any who attempted escape and were caught. Come to think of it, the Kommandant hadn't really revealed any specific details; he had spoken about the prison camp like a child who talks of the Bogeyman – full of fear and conviction but lacking helpful description. Stalag 13's reputation preceded itself – there had never been any successful escapes from the tightly run camp.
Not that I'd try to escape anyway, he thought wryly. I'd never make it. He peered with disgust down at his right leg. Besides, I still don't understand what I did to deserve this transfer. I've never caused trouble, never tried to escape – not like Tanner and Cutler over there. I don't get it.
He thought back two days ago to Stalag 8, his previous prison camp. The Kommandant, Major Schweigert, had had the entire camp assembled earlier than usual for evening roll call. Once gathered, he'd read off a list of fifteen names and ordered them to step forward. Or limp forward in my case. Then, Schweigert had gleefully announced in clear, crisp tones that these fifteen "special" prisoners were being transferred. That was all. No reason, no destination, and no idea what was going on.
Later that night, the men in O'Shea's barracks had tried to come up with some sort of explanation why these specific men were being moved. Most of the fifteen had disciplinary problems, but a few, like O'Shea, did not. Some of his barrack mates were even concerned for his life. For all they knew, the prisoners might be loaded up, sent by truck to the middle of some forest, and then executed. Of course, the official reports would list the cause of death as attempting to escape. Rumors had come through not too long ago of this happening at a nearby camp, although no one knew either the exact location or any of the men executed. Personally, O'Shea did not believe the stories. What would the Luftwaffe gain in executing subdued prisoners?
The truck carrying the prisoners jolted back into motion, throwing O'Shea into the man next to him. Murmuring an apology, he settled himself back down and continued his train of thought. Where was I? Oh, yes. O'Shea had discovered the destination but still no reason for the abrupt removal from his friends. That was another problem – friends. He had just started to feel comfortable with everyone there; now he was being jerked away. And it had taken so long…Running his hands roughly through his copper hair, he grimaced as he contemplated his ability to make friends.
When he had been younger, he'd had no trouble at all. In fact, he had been quite popular at his local high school. Even when he had joined the U.S. military and become a pilot, he'd found no trouble carving a nitch for himself in his squadron. But ever since his plane had gone down in flames and he'd bailed out over Bremen, things had changed. He was not the same naïve eighteen-year old who had entered the service. He had changed. Drastically changed.
"Hey, Lieutenant."
O'Shea was startled from his reflective thoughts and glanced up warily. Turning to focus his attention on the speaker, he realized belatedly that the truck had stopped, and the men were climbing stiffly over the tailgate. Finally meeting the concerned blue eyes of Campbell Wilson, he answered quietly, "Yes, Captain?"
"Danny," Wilson spoke in soft, earnest tones, "do you need any help climbing down?" He shot a murderous glare at the two guards on the ground outside shouting for the men to hurry. "I'm willing to bet a pack of smokes that those Krauts aren't willing to give you a hand. And besides…" Wilson's voice trailed off.
"Yeah, I know, sir." O'Shea disliked accepting help from others, but he knew in this case it was much wiser than attempting the difficult climb himself. At least the captain was kind enough to offer. Danny hated asking. He quickly accepted Wilson's hand and shuffled out of the truck. Once safely on the ground he muttered his appreciation to the man and tried to maneuver into line with the rest of the prisoners. Then, his worst fear happened.
One of the German guards from the truck laid a hand on his back and pushed him.
Danny gave a cry of terror and collapsed on the ground, cowering. His right leg shot pain up into his hip in protest of the rough landing, and he could not stop the whimper of anguish that escaped his white lips. Then the intense burning pain overwhelmed him and sent him spiraling into darkness.
*****************
Awareness slowly returned.
O'Shea could hear people talking nearby but he couldn't seem to understand the words. They were muffled, as if he was under water or was using earplugs. Feeling returned as well. He felt terrible, lightheaded and dizzy.
Opening his eyes, he discovered that his shoulders were resting against Wilson's bent knees, that the captain was cradling his head carefully. Another man, a young blond, was pressing a tin cup to his lips. Sipping obediently, he felt the water clear his mind. In a flash, he remembered what had happened, why he was lying on the ground. He closed his eyes and felt his face burn with shame. Why did it have to happen now? he howled in his mind.
A worried voice brought him back to the present. "Sir…Lieutenant, are you all right?" the young man frowned. "Here, let me help you up, sir."
Just as he reached out a hand, he heard the ominous sound of a door banging open. A loud clipped voice shouted, "What is going on here? Schultz! Report!"
Immediately, the group of men hovering anxiously around O'Shea scattered to line up. All, that is, except for the young man and Capt. Wilson, who helped the struggling man to his feet. By the time he regained his balance, leaning heavily against Wilson's broad shoulder, a man – apparently, the Kommandant – had finished interrogating the portly sergeant of the guards. The Colonel strode over to where O'Shea stood weakly.
"What happened?" he demanded, tall thin form looming over the smaller red haired Lieutenant.
Danny risked a swift glance upward and almost faltered, seeing the hawk-like face and gleaming monocle. "Well, Kommandant, I fell." The lie came easily enough. "Lost my balance." He felt the blond man stiffen next to him, but still remain silent. He must have seen the guard push me. "I'm sorry, sir."
The Colonel scowled. "Try not to be so clumsy! The next time you are, you might wind up in the cooler!" O'Shea watched the thin man turn on his heel and march off. He let out the breath he'd been holding. Only then did he turn to the stranger beside him to offer his thanks.
******************
Sergeant Andrew Carter had been watching the offloading of the prisoners nearby in the doorway of Barracks 2, curious, as always, about the new arrivals. He'd seen the young officer collapse and bolted over to help without a second thought. When he'd arrived, the young man, a lieutenant, seemed to be unconscious and another man - a captain, no less - was holding him, trying to wake him. Only as he pressed the tin cup into the Lieutenant's hands did he remember that he'd been holding it. It took Carter a few seconds to puzzle through this mystery. He finally concluded that he'd been on his way in to see Colonel Hogan when he'd spotted the truck entering the compound and come out to see the new prisoners.
Suddenly, the dreadfully pale redhead had stirred and had blinked, his brilliant green eyes confused and disoriented. Then, understanding had dawned in his eyes. The realization terrible was to see. The green eyes had widened, filled with what looked like pain and shame. Shame? It wasn't his fault! I saw the guard push him!
Carter didn't see how the man could stand but he somehow pulled himself erect right as Klink barged up demanding answers. He was filled with righteous indignity at the Lt.'s false explanation, but did not want to get the man in trouble by arguing. He was impressed by the stranger – his bravery and determination in spite of what appeared to be excruciating pain.
Waving aside the man's soft thanks, he finally introduced himself to the two officers. "Sergeant Andrew Carter, sirs. Welcome to Stalag 13. It ain't much but it's home. Oh, and don't mind Klink, he's just in a bad mood." He grinned and offered his hand to the men. A couple of warm handshakes later, the men completed the introductions.
"Captain Campbell Wilson," offered the dark haired man.
"Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. Thanks again for the hand," replied the green eyed man in a soft voice.
"Gosh, don't mention it, sir. Just glad I could help." Carter's curiosity finally got the better of him. "If you don't mind my askin', what happened? I didn't think the guard pushed that hard."
O'Shea flushed at the innocent question. "I lost my balance, that's all. I've been having trouble with my right leg for a while." Noticing Carter's inquisitive look, he added, "Bad parachute landing."
"Ah. That's too bad, sir. Didn't it heal right? Or did the Krauts take you to one of their fake doctors?"
"Well, let's just say I didn't get prompt medical attention." O'Shea laughed slightly.
Carter couldn't help but notice that the laughter did not reach his green eyes, which darted serepticiously around the compound, avoiding direct eye contact. Something's not right here, he concluded. He's not telling the truth, at least not the whole truth. His suspicions were confirmed when the blue eyed Captain shifted uneasily beside him. Thinking quickly, he decided to let the matter drop – for now. "Where ya'll from?"
The Captain easily took the lead. "We're from Stalag 8, Sergeant. Up near Bremen."
"I know, sir." Carter almost bit his tongue at the admission and thought furiously for a good explanation. "I…I mean, that's what I've heard, sir. You know, you can pick up all kinds of interestin' things from the guards around here." He quickly shut his mouth before he let something else slip out.
Capt. Wilson gave him and an odd look. "Really? Well, don't look now, but here comes one of them right now."
As Carter turned to greet Schultz, he saw Wilson step halfway in front of the Lieutenant. Huh. That's strange. But I guess even old Schultz can look pretty intimidating the first time you meet him. "Hiya, Schultz!" he called out in a cheery voice.
"Ah, Carter! Just the man I wanted to see. Colonel Klink has just finished assigning the new men to their barracks, and since you've got two empty bunks, you get two men. Pretty smart, eh?" he chuckled, impressed with his own logic. "And since your's is the senior barracks, you get the most senior men." He lowered his voice conspiratorially for Carter's ears alone, though his booming voice easily carried to the two men next to him. "Actually, one of the men is a Captain and since Colonel Hogan – "
"Yeah, Schultz, I understand." Carter interrupted before the large sergeant could say anything in front of the new men. He had a feeling that Kinch wouldn't want them to know about the Colonel right away. They had tried to conceal Hogan's condition as much as possible from the other barracks, but that had proved impossible. Word of the torment the senior POW officer had endured had leaked out through the camp within the first few days. He stepped away from the portly man and said, "Sirs, if you'll follow me?"
Wilson and O'Shea followed him as he walked rapidly away, wondering how he was going to explain this to Kinch. Not only did they have a seriously injured commander, but they also had two new men with untested loyalties. Who knew if they could be trusted? But it was Kinch's problem, he decided. Kinch would figure out what to do.
Carter was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice for a few yards that O'Shea had fallen behind and was struggling to catch up. Only then did he notice the pronounced limp that the man had, and slowed his pace to better accommodate the injured lieutenant.
Trying to get some information without being obvious, he casually inquired, "So. How long since ya'll were captured?"
Wilson sighed softly before replying, "One year. One long, boring, frustrating year. I wish to God that I'd never been on that blasted mission! Sixteen planes started out but when I was shot down, there were only ten left." He shook his head. "I can't believe it's been so long. I should have escaped by now. It's pathetic."
Carter soon figured out that the Captain was rambling, trying to keep the Lieutenant from answering the simple question. I wonder why. He refused to be diverted and repeated the question to the young lieutenant.
There was a long pause before O'Shea answered, voice barely audible. "Fifteen months." That was all he said.
Carter almost gaped at him. Fifteen months?! Boy, that must have been some landing to have done that much damage! He should have healed up by now! "That's too bad, sirs, but I got you all beat. Two years next month."
"Two years?" Wilson exclaimed. "And you've never tried to escape?"
Great, Carter thought, nearly groaning in annoyance, just what we need - another escape artist. We'll have to keep an eye on this one. He could ruin our whole operation. "Things don't work that way around here, Captain. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13. And no one ever will." He replied in a soft voice.
Wilson's blue eyes gleamed dangerously. "Then, Sergeant, you're looking at the first man who's going to do it." That said, the trio reached Barracks 2 and stepped through the door.
****************
O'Shea glanced around the inside of the barracks, trying not to appear too curious. It didn't look all that much different from his old barracks at Stalag 8. In fact, it was completely identical, except for one thing.
The closed, wooden door at the end of the barracks.
Carter slipped through it after telling the two officers to wait for him by the barracks door. As he waited, Danny became conscious of the stares from the other men lounging on their bunks. The most obvious of the stares came from two men playing cards at the sole table in the barracks. After a few uncomfortable moments, O'Shea felt Wilson move from his side to the men at the table. Danny wasn't surprised. Wilson always seemed to be able to discern the leaders of any group. And this one wasn't any exception.
"Hi, there. Captain Campbell Wilson, United States Army Air Corps. A Sergeant Schultz just assigned us to your barracks." He held out his hand.
The two men glanced at each other, astonishment written on the face of the smaller, black haired man in a faded red sweater. The taller man's face was emotionless – the perfect poker face. For a moment, no one moved, tension filling the enclosed space. Then the taller one stood up and shook Wilson's hand, his blue British RAF uniform providing a clue to his nationality right before he spoke up in a heavy British accent. "Ah. Corporal Peter Newkirk, mate. This 'ere's Corporal Louis LeBeau." He gestured towards his opponent.
The short man spoke up in a thick French accent. "Pleased to meet you, Captain." He turned his dark brown eyes to O'Shea. "And you are…?"
Danny limped over to the table. "Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea." He nodded and smiled slightly as he shook both their hands.
"So," Newkirk went on, "Klink put you both in 'ere, eh? Well, fancy that." He shot a glance at the closed door at the other end of the building, then turned back to the new men. "You two just get captured or did you get transferred?"
Wilson took over the lead, and O'Shea gladly let him. He looked nervously back the way he had come. He didn't like to be in confined spaces. Not since…
He shut his eyes to hold back the painful memories that flashed through his mind. He shifted imperceptibly towards the door leading to the outside, and opened his eyes. He was startled to find that the world around him was spinning. To keep his balance, he clutched the closest object he could find, which turned out to be a bunk post. The voices chattering at the table abruptly stopped, and, through his whirling mind, he soon felt a hand touch his shoulder. He could barely keep himself from shrinking away at the touch, even though he knew who it was. Wilson.
"Danny, are you okay?" Wilson asked, concern lacing his deep voice.
O'Shea felt an arm go around his shoulders, trying to lead him to a nearby bunk. He pulled away. He couldn't stay inside. He needed air, need to get out! NOW!
Gasping for air, he limped to the door, bursting through it into the cool, refreshing spring air. Taking a few more staggering steps, he sank to the ground against the side of the barracks, head thrown back, gulping the sweet air like a drowning man.
As he settled down, he realized what he had done - what had just happened. He'd had panic attack. He hadn't had one for almost two months. He shuddered and huddled closer to the wall. Why? he cried inside. Why now, in front of all those men? I thought I was all over that.
But even as he ached inside, he forced himself to face the facts. The one place he had felt secure in – Stalag 8 – had been taken away from him. All of his friends, the men who understood him better than anyone else – gone. He felt abandoned. Alone. Adrift.
He felt the black, raging tide of despair flowing over his soul, eating away the control that he had struggled to regain. It was so tempting to just let go and make everything just – go away. So easy.
His senses started receding. First, his sight - the world and its colors blurred to gray. Then, his sense of touch - everything went numb. The only sense left was his hearing. Just as he was about to loose that and disconnect completely, a voice intruded into his thoughts. A familiar, comforting voice. He had to go back to it. He latched onto the voice and pulled himself back to reality, hand by aching hand. Almost there…almost there…there.
He blinked. Two hands were gripping his shoulders firmly, and a voice kept repeating his name over and over. He struggled briefly, fighting feebly. Then, his vision finally clearing, he recognized Campbell Wilson kneeling in front of him, and slumped against the wall behind him, totally exhausted.
"Will?" he whispered.
"Yeah, Danny. It's me. You had me pretty worried there for a while, you rushing out like that. It was almost like…" He paused. "You gonna be okay?"
O'Shea nodded weakly, pushing back the sweaty red hair off his forehead with a shaking hand.
"Look, kid, I know this is hard for you. This is the last thing you need after all you've been through. It's gonna take time." He paused as he locked gazes with O'Shea, blue eyes staring into green. "But I want you to know, I'm here for you. Whenever you need me. You're not alone, Danny. You need to remember that. Okay?"
"Yeah…yeah, Will. Thanks." He sighed deeply, the air coming from the depths of his soul. "It's just…"
"Just what?" Wilson prompted after a brief silence.
Danny stayed silent and shook his head negatively. He did not want to go into that right now. Not here. Especially not here, in plain view of all the other prisoners.
"Okay. Don't push yourself. When you feel like talking, you know where I am." He chuckled quietly. "And apparently, I'm not going anywhere for a while."
Danny couldn't help but smile.
*****************
Carter slipped into the darkened room quietly, so as not to startle anyone inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he identified the man he needed to speak with, sitting hunched over in a wooden chair next to the lower bunk. "Kinch?" Carter softly moved forward when the silent figure did not reply. "Kinch?" He tried again as he touched the black tech sergeant on the shoulder lightly. This time he got a response.
Kinch raised his head to Carter, dragging his brown eyes from the figure on the bed. "What is it, Carter?"
"Uh, Kinch, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's something important that you need to know." He faltered, his eyes locked onto the bandaged swathed man on the bed. Just looking at him made his heart sink. Hogan's right eye was open, staring blankly into the bunk above him. Carter shook his head to regain his train of thought. "I think you need to come outside to see this."
"Alright, Carter."
Carter didn't know whether he liked that answer or not. The last time someone had separated Kinch from Hogan, Kinch had nearly bitten the man's head off for the interruption. The black man had hardly left the room, except to eat and take a shower. Everyone knew not to disturb him – even Colonel Klink left him alone.
Closing the Colonel's door behind him, Kinch looked up at the thin sergeant, the exhaustion showing plainly on his face. Carter didn't want to make Kinch's day any worse but he needed to know about the two officers and soon, before someone let something important slip.
Carter searched the room for the new arrivals but did not see them. Huh, that's odd. I thought I told them to stay right here. He motioned for Kinch to join Newkirk and LeBeau at the table, before asking where the two officers had gone.
Newkirk glanced at LeBeau, then back at Carter. "Well, Andrew, that's a good question. We were sittin' 'ere talkin' to the Captain, when the Lieutenant started looking kinda poorly, like 'e was sick or somethin'. Right, Louis?"
"Oui." The little Frenchman agreed. "The Lieutenant rushed out of here all of a sudden. The Captain said something about 'motion sickness' and rushed outside after him."
"Yeah. It was strange, mate. Never seen someone look that bad from motion sickness before."
Kinch, who had been following the whole conversation with a confused expression, finally butted in. "What Captain? Who are you talking about?" He fixed his gaze on Carter.
"That's what I was going to tell ya, Kinch. We got a whole truckload of prisoners that just arrived and Klink assigned the two officers to our barracks." He screwed his eyes tightly, waiting for the outburst he knew would come.
"He WHAT?!" Kinch yelped. "You've got to be kidding me! How could Klink assign us two new prisoners with the Colonel like he is right now."
Clearing his throat, Carter mentioned what Schultz had told him, how Klink wanted the Captain there because it was the senior POW's barracks. Kinch looked shocked at the German's audacity. The four men talked quietly amongst themselves for a few more minutes before Newkirk said what was foremost on their minds.
"There isn't much we can do about it, is there, gents? The main thing is, do we tell them about the Colonel? And how are we going to keep them from knowing about our operation? We can't hide them it for long." Newkirk glanced at the door, anxious to settle the matter before the two men in question appeared.
Kinch didn't have to think long to make his decision. "No. They can't know about either. Hiding our Underground operation isn't going to be that hard right now. London has already said they were diverting our assignments to other cells until we can…settle things. The only thing we'll have to be careful about is opening and closing the tunnel entrance when we use the radio. We'll have to set up a watch system." He sighed tiredly and blinked hard. "The Colonel is another matter. I think we should try to keep him under wraps for now. After all, we don't know much about this Captain Wilson – whether or not he'd push for the Colonel's senior command position if he knew what condition he was in."
Thinking for a minute, he continued. "Okay, this is what we're going to do. If they ask, we'll tell them the truth about that room being the senior POW's quarters. We can't hide that. But we'll tell them that Colonel Hogan is sick with some unknown disease and only a few people are allowed in." Looking at each man briefly, Kinch concluded his instructions to the command team. "Okay, everybody understand the plan? None of the new prisoners are to know about either our Underground activities or Colonel Hogan's condition. Understood? All right, then I'm relying on you three to spread the word to the rest of the camp – quietly, but quickly, got it? The sooner everyone knows, the better."
After a few more instructions, the quartet broke up to go about their duties – Kinch returning to Hogan's side, the rest of the men slipping nonchalantly through the camp to spread the new orders. Carter sat at the table for a few seconds longer after the rest had left. I completely forgot to talk to Kinch about the new men – and he forgot to ask! Oh, well, he thought as he rose from the table to go about his assignment. I'll just have to tell him later.
