Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to whoever owns the rights for Hogan's Heroes, except for O'Shea and Wilson – they belong to me. Oh, and I'm not making any money from this story, not that I couldn't use it.

Author's Notes: Sorry this took so long to get done everyone. Now that college is starting, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to post, but I hope to get a chapter out at least every couple of weeks or so. Just hang in with me – I promise I'll finish this story. Thank you all so much for the encouraging comments and reviews. I look forward to reading what you think. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Feel free to leave a review or email me at Adalanta14@yahoo.com.

Chapter Five – Settling In

The sun shone brightly on Stalag 13 out of a beautiful, robin's egg blue spring sky, complete with little white puffy clouds dotting the huge expanse. The yellow light seemed to reach every corner of the German prison of war camp, providing warmth and comfort to those below. And indeed, most of the POWs were in a fine mood. Actually, all of them were. All, that is, except the young Lieutenant sitting with his back against one of the wall of Barracks 2, curled up with his knees to his chest, his head resting on them.

A figure opened the wooden door of the barracks and leaned out to check on the Lieutenant, but upon seeing the young man's posture, sighed sadly and closed the door. Campbell Wilson returned to the table in the center of the room, where everyone else was gathering to eat. It was time for dinner, and, for once, the food smelled good enough to enjoy. He stood on the outer edge of the impromptu circle that ringed a diminutive Frenchman. LeBeau, I think. I'll have to learn quickly. I sure don't want him mad at me just because I can't remember his name. If that food tastes half as good as it looks, this is going to be the best meal I've had since…since before I joined the Army!

Unsure of how the rest of the men would react to the "newbie" in camp, he decided to stand back and see how things worked. Back at Stalag 8, the new men were absorbed quite easily, but he'd heard from some of the transfers that other camps were different. Some men were downright vicious when they learned they had to share with a new prisoner. He didn't think this camp was like that, but he wasn't sure. And even though he was a gambler, he decided, for the sake of the slumped figure outside, that this time it wasn't worth the risk. If something happened to him, if someone decided they didn't like or want him around, they might include O'Shea in that with him. Geez, he thought, the kid's been through enough. I don't want to make things even rougher for him.

He winced as he thought about Danny O'Shea. Wilson had been there the day he'd been practically carried into camp, catatonic and badly injured. The kid had looked so young and vulnerable that he'd immediately decided to take him under his wing. Ever since then, he'd been O'Shea's unofficial protector, and more importantly, his best friend. Separated in age by four year, Danny had instantly reminded him of his little brother Mitch, and just like Mitch, Danny had desperately needed help but refused to ask for it. If anything, Danny was stubborn. That was a miracle after all that had happened to him.

"Captain Wilson?"

The fact that someone was calling his name finally registered. Blinking a few times to clear his mind of his disturbing thoughts, he was mortified to find that all of the other men were staring at him. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he cleared his throat nervously.

LeBeau smiled. "You must be very hungry. Come up and get your food first." He gestured with the ladle to the front of the line that had materialized before him. "It is a welcoming ritual we hold for the new men."

Wilson gaped in astonishment, amazed by this group's hospitality and immense generosity. He realized his mouth was open only after a few of the men started to chuckle and immediately snapped it shut, stammering a sincere thank you.

As he received his plate of food, some sort of potato stew with chunks of meat (real meat?!) in it, he was offered a seat on a nearby bunk by the Englishman he'd talked to briefly several hours earlier.

"Ey, Captain! You can sit 'ere!" called out the brown haired man in the blue RAF uniform. "There's not enough room at the table, so we jus' sit on the bottom bunks usually. This 'ere's my bunk." He grinned slyly. "Try not to spill anything on it though, eh, sir?"

Wilson nodded. "Thanks, Corporal." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, but I can't remember your name."

"Newkirk, Peter Newkirk. Don't worry about forgetting my name, mate. You jus' got into camp a few hours ago."

"Right." Wilson peered down at his bowl, his mouth watering. He didn't really want to eat the stew, afraid that it would not live up to its wonderful smell and shatter all his hopes.

Newkirk apparently noticed his look. "Go on. Taste it."

He lifted the spoon to his mouth slowly and closed his eyes at the same time his mouth closed about the eating utensil. His blue eyes flew open in delight, moaning in pure pleasure. "That's delicious! What – how – I can't believe it! Do you eat this good all the time?"

"Yep, although LeBeau made this up specially for you new guys' first night 'ere."

"Wow! That's amazing! If he – " Wilson cut himself off as he noticed the young blond man, Carter, appear quietly beside him. "Can I help you, sergeant?"

The young man nodded, his blue eyes looking bewildered and concerned at the same time. "Umm, hi, Captain. I was wondering where the Lieutenant was." He nodded towards the steaming bowl of stew in his hands. "I was going to take this to him and see how he was feeling. Is he outside still?"

The Captain was surprised by the man's obvious concern. "Yes, he is. But I don't think he really feels like eating right now." He wasn't sure if he wanted his friend disturbed at this point, even by as friendly a face as this one. But he soon learned that Carter was not easily dissuaded.

"But Captain, he needs to eat, especially if he's sick or somethin'. It's a long time until morning chow."

Wilson hesitated, thoughts warring with one another in his mind, but finally relented. He had the feeling that this young man could be just as stubborn as his friend outside. And besides, he was touched by his concern, his willingness to help. After all, wasn't he the one who had rushed up to help him when Danny had collapsed? Looking at the sergeant from a new perspective, he had the strangest feeling that he might be able to break through O'Shea's thick emotional walls and befriend him. And if Danny needed anything right now, it was another friend to help support him.

"Okay, Carter. The last time I saw him, O'Shea was outside on the left by the wall." He paused for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth tilted up slightly, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, and if he refuses to eat, which he probably will, tell him I said it was a direct order. Don't take no for an answer, sergeant. Got it?"

Carter smiled brightly and tried to salute, almost upending the delicious potato stew all over his uniform. He blushed and quickly made his escape out the door.

Wilson glanced over at Newkirk to see his blue eyes shining, locked onto the retreating figure of Carter. "He seems like a nice kid. I don't think I've ever met anyone else like him." he softly admitted.

"Yeah," Newkirk laughed affectionately still staring at the closed door. "Carter's one of a kind. There ain't anyone like him in London at any rate." He twisted his neck to look at Wilson. "'Ey, speaking of 'ome, where ya from?"

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

Carter stepped out into the prison yard prepared for a long search to find the missing lieutenant, but a flash of red caught his attention after just a few seconds, thus ending his search. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the copper head of a hunched over individual sitting a few yards away.

The closer Carter came to the Lieutenant, the more his uncertainty grew. The officer was huddled against the side of the barracks with his knees tucked up under his chin which was resting on top of them. His impossibly young face gazed absently out into the prison yard. His mind was obviously somewhere else.

The sergeant cleared his throat loudly several feet back, not wanting to surprise the officer, but he failed. The noise caused the young man to jump slightly anyway. The Lieutenant – O'Shea, he reminded himself – twisted his head to see who had interrupted his thoughts. Carter noticed that he seemed to relax his tight grip around his legs as he recognized him. At least, he seems comfortable around me, he thought with a slight wave of pride.

"Hey, Lieutenant. I thought ya might be hungry. It's a long time till breakfast." His heart sank as O'Shea shook his head.

"No, thanks, Sergeant. I'm not hungry." He shifted his gaze back to the yard, apparently mesmerized by the empty expanse. All the other prisoners were inside their barracks eating supper.

Carter chewed his lower lip nervously and paused. He didn't like telling a superior officer to do something, even when ordered to do so by another officer. The only person he had really done that to was Colonel Hogan when he was explaining to him how and when to use one of his explosives. Even then, it still felt awkward. But if the Lieutenant is feeling sick (and he sure looks like it), he needs to eat. He straightened his shoulders and carried out the Captain's order.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Capt. Wilson said to tell ya that it's a direct order. I'm not supposed to take no for an answer." He was surprised when the comment elicited a small smile from O'Shea.

"Yes, that does sound like Capt. Wilson." He paused for a second, then finally turned to his right and met Carter's eyes. "So, what have you got, Carter?"

Carter grinned and hunkered down next to the Lieutenant. "Oh, sir, you're gonna love it. It's one of LeBeau's specialties. He doesn't make it very often, just for special occasions and things like that."

O'Shea frowned, bewilderment showing on his face but took the wooden bowl from Carter's outstretched hands. "Special occasions? What special occasions can there be in a POW camp?"

Carter mentally kicked himself. I did it again – put my foot right smack into my big mouth! I can't tell him about all of our "mission accomplished" parties. Think, Andrew, think! "Well, err, um, there's Christmas, Easter, ya know, sir, all the major holidays. Then there's Roosevelt's birthday, Churchill's birthday, and sometimes one of our own birthdays if he can get the ingredients, and – "

"Okay, okay, I get it!" O'Shea interrupted, although a slight smile softened the bite of his abrupt words. He laughed softly and gestured to the ground beside him with his free hand. "Why don't you sit down, Carter? You squat like that for too long and your knees are going to wear out."

"Thanks, Lieutenant." Carter sank down into the dirt and tried to think of someway to get some more information from this mysterious stranger. "So…what do ya think of the place so far, sir? I mean, I know ya just got here an' all and haven't seen much of it, but how is it compared to your old camp?"

O'Shea paused with a spoonful of potato stew halfway to his mouth. He placed the utensil back into the bowl and then glanced about the camp thoughtfully. "So far, it looks a lot like Stalag 8 – same dirt, same barbed wire. Different guards, of course, although they all sort of look alike at first. I suppose it really isn't all that different. The commandant of Stalag 8, Major Schweigert, made it sound like hell on earth." He snorted slightly. "You should have seen the rest of the men in the truck when they finally saw where they were going. I thought for a few seconds that they were going to bolt, try to escape."

"Gosh, sir. Would you have tried to escape, too?" Carter's tone was deceptively innocent. Now I'm getting somewhere. O'Shea's green eyes snapped over at him, filled with pain and something else – something he couldn't put his finger on.

"With this leg? You must be joking!" He replied sarcastically, his voice suddenly filled with bitterness. "I can't run. For that matter, I can't even walk too well."

The lieutenant turned away, mumbling something under his breath, but the only word that Carter picked out sounded suspiciously like "cripple."

"I'm sorry about your leg, Lieutenant. How did you say it happened?"

"Bad parachute landing." He answered shortly and shifted his position nervously, strangely engrossed in his stew. He picked up his spoon and stirred his lunch, although he had yet to take a single bite.

After fifteen months? It should have healed by now! There's something he's not telling me. "That's tough, sir. Did you break it?"

O'Shea closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the barracks, abandoning his meal completely. "Yes."

It was obvious to Carter that the subject was off limits. He'd neatly sidestepped the question once before and now was replying as little as possible.

The young tech sergeant considered what he'd discovered. It was pretty clear that the Lieutenant was indeed an American aviator, and not a German plant. Carter felt guilty for even thinking that, but with his group's dangerous position, security came first. The officer's story (what little he had divulged) had stayed the same. And that leg…the pain in his eyes had been too intense to fake. He sighed silently. For some reason, he felt relieved. Lieutenant O'Shea seemed like a nice guy. And it would be great to have someone close to his own age in camp for once. Deciding to hold back the rest of his questions, Carter suggested that they return inside.

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

"This 'ere's your bunks, gents." Newkirk gestured towards a set of rough wooden bunks, one on top of each other. "I 'ope ya don't mind the window, but that's the best we can do. All the others are taken already."

"Thanks, Newkirk," came Wilson's calm voice, anxious to smooth over any possible concerns about one of the officers pushing an enlisted man out of his bunk. He would never do anything like that – pull rank for such a petty reason. Besides, the window was exactly what Danny needed. "It'll be fine."

Wilson watched as Newkirk nodded and moved over to a pair of bunks a couple beds down, flinging himself on the thin mattress with ease born of repetition. The Captain turned to O'Shea who was standing nearby, eyes locked on the top bunk with nervous trepidation. The fear in those green depths made Wilson tighten his fists in frustration. He wished bitterly that they had never been transferred from Stalag 8.

He slid over to the Lieutenant, noting that nearly all of the men were already in their bunks and ready for the lights to be shut off. "Danny, come on. You need to get some sleep."

O'Shea nodded tightly, eyes never leaving his bunk and looking as if he wished he were anywhere but there. However, he clenched his jaw tightly and climbed stiffly onto the upper bunk. "Night, Will," he whispered, the mattress rustling as he moved around.

"Goodnight, Danny." Campbell Wilson closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

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

Unseen by Wilson or O'Shea, Andrew Carter had observed the whole previous scene. He had noticed how uncomfortable the red-head had seemed, how reluctant he was to go to sleep. Unlike Captain Wilson, however, Carter had seen how the lieutenant had curled up on his side. That was not strange, but the direction he was lying in was.

O'Shea was facing the window – in full view of the search-lights that continuously swept the barracks, to ensure that no prisoners were escaping. The search-lights were the reason that the top bunk was never used; they tended to keep the occupant awake throughout the night. It was very odd that an officer, especially one with a leg injury that would make climbing difficult, would prefer that particular bunk.

Just another strange habit of O'Shea's, Carter noted. He intended to stay awake for a while and think over all the events of the day, but he was too tired. With Newkirk's gentle snores coming from the bunk below, Carter drifted off to sleep.

A strange noise woke Carter instantly after what seemed like only minutes. He lay motionless on his bunk, trying to figure out what had jolted him from his sleep. For one fearful moment, his sleep fogged mind thought the noise was coming from Colonel Hogan's room. He held his breath and waited, hoping and praying that the Colonel was not having another nightmarish episode and that his condition would not be compromised. His heart thumping loudly in his chest, Carter heard the sound again and was relieved to find it was not coming from the adjacent room.

But where was it coming from?

The noise sounded a third time. This time he was able to identify not only the location, but also the source, even though he still couldn't figure out what the sound was. It was coming from two bunks over – the new lieutenant's bunk. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the room's darkness, he was able to see what was happening.

O'Shea was on his back, moving restlessly on the thin mattress, white-knuckled hands tightly clenching the gray blanket twisted around his body. His head shifted uneasily in his sleep and a low moan emerged from his lips. His chest moved rapidly, pumping up and down, breathe coming in uneven pants.

A nightmare. Carter felt himself relax. It's only a nightmare.

While not everyday occurrences, nightmares were not unknown to the men of Barracks 2. Every man there had seen his share of combat and brought with him more than his share of ghastly images that tended to manifest themselves in nightmare form. Carter himself had only had a few, but then he hadn't had to deal with as much as some of the others.

Like Kohler over there, he thought sadly. If I'd been trapped in a cockpit for five hours watchin' my friend slowly bleed to death, unable to help, I'd probably wake up screamin', too. But then, Kohler has been gettin' better. He hasn't had a nightmare in a coupla months. His thoughts were interrupted by another sound.

He jerked his head up in alarm. Oh, my gosh! his mind screamed. He's choking! Just as he moved to jump out of bed, the dark figure of Wilson sat up in bed and was instantly at his friend's side. Carter leaned over to the left a little to see what the Captain would do.

Wilson gently pried O'Shea's clenched left fist from his blanket, then held it tightly within his own shaking hand. He laid his other hand on his friend's forehead, tenderly smoothing back his damp hair and began to whisper to him.

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

"Shhh, Danny, it's alright…it's okay, go back to sleep…it's just a dream, Danny." Wilson crooned soothing words to O'Shea, trying to disengage the nightmare's brutal claws from his trembling friend's mind. After long minutes of whispering reassurances and silent prayers, he succeeded in coaxing Danny back into a deep sleep. He stood there holding his hand for a little while longer, staring in concern at the sleeping young man, taking in his pale, sweaty face. He gently wiped away the blood on Danny's mouth from the lip he had bitten while in the depths of his nightmare.

For a time, he could barely think. Thoughts chasing themselves around his mind at a frantic pace, around and around dizzily until they ultimately coalesced into one clear, overwhelming conclusion. It's happening all over again. He leaned his dark head wearily against the bottom rail of O'Shea's bunk. That's three attacks today – more than he's had in the last six months combined! If I can't stop them soon, he's going to shut down again, just like before, only this time I don't know if I'll be able to pull him out of it. He sighed deeply, his dark-blue eyes nearly black with worry.

Releasing O'Shea's limp hand from his, he carefully placed it over his chest, then straightened the tangled blanket and tucked it over the sleeping form. He reached down to his own bunk next, snatched his blanket, and spread that over him, as well. This done, he returned to his own bunk at last, satisfied that Danny would sleep at least for a while, and hopefully for the whole night.

He turned over the events of the last few days in his mind. He wasn't exactly sure what had provoked this particular nightmare. After all, Danny hadn't had one in quite a few months. It could be a number of things, he concluded. The sudden separation from the only place he had felt secure in, the touch of the German guard, or the panic attack from earlier. If this keeps up, he'll turn into a living wreck. And he was just beginning to get on with his life! It's not FAIR! he shouted angrily in mind. He's been through so much already! How much more can he take?!

Too upset to fall back to sleep, he lay stiffly on his bunk. Helplessness and frustration flooded his soul. It hurt seeing Danny like that – vulnerable, afraid, out of control. In a mind red-hot with fury, he cursed the Luftwaffe officials who had interfered with he and Danny's lives, using their all mighty power to jerk and twist the confining strings that bound them. He blasted Germany for starting the war and Japan for bringing the United States into it. But most of all, he damned the guns responsible for shooting down Danny's B-17. That single shot had cost nine men their lives, and taken O'Shea not only to the brink of death, but also to the brink of sanity. With every breath he took, his rage grew, turning from a fiery, glowing ember into a full-fledged firestorm. Unused to this strange burning rage, he felt as if his soul was about to be consumed. He floundered mentally, knowing he had to release the fire within.

Not knowing what else to do, he tried to calm himself by taking long, deep breaths, mentally releasing all the anger and tension that had built up in his tall body. He closed his eyes, inhaling cool air and exhaling the fire from within. It worked. Eventually. His last thought before sleep claimed him was At least no one else saw what happened.

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

But unknown to him, someone had. And before Andrew Carter fell asleep, he made a promise to himself to try to find out what was wrong with the young lieutenant and see what he could do for him. Daniel O'Shea was going to be helped, whether he knew it or not.