Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story are owned by whoever holds the rights for Hogan's Heroes. In other words, not me. Campbell Wilson and Daniel O'Shea, however, are all mine.

Author's Notes: Okay. When I started this chapter, I never dreamed it would turn out exactly like this (or this long). But the idea took over and, before I knew what was happening, this chapter was written. It's been done for a while, but I wanted to proof read it before I posted. Sorry about the delay. Oh, and for those of you who are wondering how long the Heroes can keep Colonel Hogan a secret…well, you'll find out in the next chapter. I guess I should also say that I have no medical training so don't try any of this at home! Please, take a second to leave a review or send me an email at adalanta14@yahoo.com. Thanks!

Chapter Seven: One Long Night

Dear God, please tell me I'm not too late!

The cry rang through Campbell Wilson's mind, echoed quickly by his heart. His soul cringed in terror as he clutched the limp body closer to his own, staggering as quickly as possible through the blinding, swirling snow.

"Just a few more yards," he gasped aloud, though to reassure himself or the blanket covered bundle he carried, he did not know. He was not a weak man. In fact, he had been one of the strongest men in his squadron. But twelve long months in a prisoner of war camp, subsisting on small, stale meals and surviving with enforced inactivity had weakened his body, lowering both his weight and muscle tone. He nearly groaned with relief as he came to the door of Barracks Two.

Unable to open the door because of his awkward burden, he balanced cautiously against the doorframe and kicked the wooden door loudly several times. Suddenly, the door opened, spilling warm, bright light out onto him. He blinked at the brightness, his eyes tearing slightly, trying to adapt from the darkness they had become accustomed to. As he stepped inside, his eyes adjusted just enough to identify his erstwhile doorman. Thank God! Carter! The young man stood only an arm's length away, already holding a blanket to wrap around the silent body he cradled.

The last ten feet seemed like a mile to Wilson as he stumbled towards his bunk and gingerly laid down the still body of Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. As he straightened his aching back and stamped his numb feet, he watched the young sergeant gently wrap the blanket around his friend, and, for the first time, he got a terrifyingly clear picture of the Lieutenant's condition.

O'Shea's head lolled limply with the slightest movement of his boneless body. Wilson reached out a chilled hand to support his head and nearly cursed. O'Shea's skin felt like marble – cold and white. Even to his frozen hands, the body was like ice. He moved his now unsteady hand to the bloodless neck and found a sluggish, weak pulse. Alarmed, he raised one of O'Shea's eyelids, only to find the green eye, pupils almost fully dialated, staring fixedly straight up at the ceiling. Wilson swallowed the large lump that threatened to choke him. He didn't have much time. If he was going to save his friend's life, he needed to move fast.

"He's hypothermic," he stated shortly, speaking in rapid, clipped sentences, so the men around him wouldn't hear his teeth chattering. "I need warm blankets – lots of them. Hot water, too. I'll get him out of these wet clothes and into something else. Hurry!"

By now, a ring of concerned onlookers surrounded both himself and Carter. Upon hearing his sharp orders, the silent prisoners shot off in ten different directions at once, snatching blankets, shoving wood into the stove, and filling various pots and pans with cold water from a nearby wasser (water) bucket. He spared them a brief glance, touched by their willingness to help a virtual stranger. After all, he and O'Shea had only arrived the afternoon before; they had been in camp barely twenty-four hours.

Carter's soft voice brought his attention back to the issue at hand. "How is he, Captain?"

Wilson shook his dark head wearily. "Not good, sergeant. Look at him." He gestured down at the pale, still body. "He's not even shivering. His body has nearly given up. We've got to get him warmed up quickly without throwing him into shock." He began to ease the covers off of O'Shea to reach the cold, frozen clothes beneath. "Carter, could you work on his boots?"

That should keep him busy for a while – those shoelaces are frozen into one solid mass of ice and laces. I should have enough time to – He broke off the thought as he finally burrowed down far enough to touch the wet, stiff uniform. He grimaced in frustration and pain as he tried to undo the buttons on the uniform top, his fingers refusing to cooperate. They felt wooden, uncoordinated.

Panic welled up inside him, and for a long moment, it was all he could do to close his eyes and try to regain some semblance of control. Get a hold of yourself! He muttered angrily in his mind. You're not helping Danny by acting this way. Besides, you're supposed to set an example to the other men. He remembered a quote from the Army Air Corps Officer's Manual – "An officer is at all times to remain calm and in control. He is to be an example to all subordinates in his manner and dress."

He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes, ready to do whatever he was needed to help his friend. He rubbed his frozen fingers together to try and regain some feeling, then attacked O'Shea's shirt buttons once more. As he labored over the lieutenant's upper body, he could hear Carter mumbling to himself down below, wrestling with the ice-incrusted boots. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young sergeant struggling with the laces. It did not look like he was having any success.

Within minutes, Wilson had managed to strip O'Shea of his long-sleeve shirt and had instantly covered his still body with a warmed blanket that one of the other prisoners had set beside him moments before. Relief swept through him like a warm, summer breeze. He had finished his task while Carter was still occupied with his own. No one had seen –

Carter glanced up, his blue eyes desperate. "I didn't want to cut his laces, sir, but I don't think these boots are coming off any other way. They're frozen solid!"

He instantly nodded his permission. Bootlaces were hard to come by in P.O.W. camps for some odd reason. Who knows, he thought darkly, maybe the Germans are afraid we would try to hang ourselves with them. Finding laces for O'Shea would be a problem, but weighing the condition of a pair of laces with the life of his best friend – there was no comparison at all. He would just have to scrounge around somewhere or barter with someone to get another set.

At the Captain's nod, the blond man pulled out a small knife from his back pocket. Quickly sawing through the laces, he tugged off the wet boots, socks and pants following soon thereafter.

Corporal Newkirk came up beside Carter just as he was finishing, holding a couple of brown blankets warmed by the stove. Once Carter was done wrapping the lieutenant, he pulled him a few feet away. Wilson watched the two men for a moment, puzzled by their private conversation. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his friend.

"Danny. Come on, Danny, w-wake up." He didn't really expect a response, but somewhere in the very back of his mind, he had still hoped for one. He was not surprised when Danny didn't reply. He tried shaking him a bit, but that didn't work either. O'Shea was completely unresponsive. All right, Danny. You're going to make me work here, aren't you? Fine. Just don't give up on me, okay, kid?

Leaning awkwardly between the two bunks, Wilson set to work rubbing Danny's extremities, working his way slowly up and down each arm starting at the hands, doing the same with his legs. He cursed softly to himself at the aching in his own hands, still sore from the time he had spent outside looking for O'Shea.

All the time he massaged his friend's limbs, he kept up a steady stream of conversation. "N-now, listen, Danny. I don't mind you going outside to get away from everybody, b-but why couldn't you stay a little c-closer to home, huh? How come you h-had to abandon y-your usual spot outside our hut for B-barracks Eight? Honestly, is t-the v-view that much b-better o-over t-there?"

He stopped as another wave of cold air swept over him, making him shiver uncontrollably. He huddled in on himself, trying to warm himself slightly before he resumed his actions. He was so cold he could barely feel his body. Everything felt numb. His eyelids slid closed on their own, forcing him to grab hold of the bunk frame to keep from collapsing. He barely heard the voice talking to him or the hand that led him over to a nearby chair and sat him down. Looking up with blurry eyes and clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he was surprised to see a black man looming over him.

"Captain Wilson?" the black man asked in a firm voice. "Sir, can you hear me?"

He blinked dazedly. The voice seemed muffled, far away. He shook his head, trying to clear it and reeled dizzily to the side. He would have fallen off the chair if someone hadn't caught him. He closed his eyes, too tired to speak, half listening to the voices that swirled around him.

"Carter, get his uniform off."

"Geez, Kinch. His skin's like ice! I'm gonna need some help here."

"I will help." A pause, during which Wilson vaguely felt someone pulling at his shirt. "Mon Dieu, Carter is right! This uniform is frozen stiff!"

The next thing he knew, his shirt was gone, and he was shivering violently. "Newkirk! Get those blankets over here!" A voice shouted nearby.

"I'm comin', mate. Just waitin' for the last one to get warm." Suddenly, something warm and dry touched his bare skin. He let out a gasp of relief as his freezing body was engulfed with warmth. He was so mesmerized by the warmth around his shoulders that he did not even realize that someone had removed his wet pants and boots as well and swathed him in warm blankets. Slowly, his trembling eased.

It was only as a warm cup was placed to his lips with someone urging him to drink that he opened his eyes. A handsome, black man with chocolate brown eyes smiled slightly at him when he saw his eyes were open. "That's it, Captain. Drink some of this if you can. It'll help."

He pried apart his chattering teeth and took a large gulp of sweet, warm liquid. Some of the liquid slipped out between his numb lips and slid down his chin, a warm trickle that felt wonderful. The liquid seemed to flow right down his throat, through his chest, and into his stomach, bringing warmth to every part of his insides along the way. Mmmm, hot chocolate. I haven't had that since I was a kid in upstate New York. Slowly, the fog seemed to dissipate from his mind and his eyes, leaving them clearer and sharper. Several more sips followed before he could manage to ask the question that had been floating vaguely around in his mind the entire time.

"W-who are you?" he asked the black man, now sitting beside him at the table.

The man smiled again. "I guess we haven't really met, have we, sir? I'm Sergeant Kinchloe, but you can call me Kinch if you want. Everyone else does."

Wilson nodded and held out a less than steady hand in greeting. "Captain Campbell Wilson." Kinch shook his hand briefly, allowing him to pull it back inside his warm cocoon of blankets.

The tall sergeant looked at him with concern. "Are you feeling better, sir? We were kind of worried about you for a few minutes there. You practically collapsed." He paused for a second before adding, "You know, Captain, you really should have taken care of yourself. Exposure is no small thing."

"I know, but I had to take care of O'Shea. He's my responsibility…and my friend." He twisted his entire body around to check on the lieutenant and was relieved to see Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau working on him, rubbing his limbs and piling on warmer blankets. He couldn't see his friend because of the men surrounding him. "How is he?" He turned back to see the sergeant staring at him with a strange look on his face.

"He's begun to shiver again, which is a good sign." He cleared his throat. "I think you should go lay down as well, sir. It's been a long night, and your body's taken quite a beating."

Wilson shook his head emphatically. "No. I'm not leaving him until he's over the shakes. He'd do the same for me."

Kinch chuckled. "Somehow I thought you were going to say that. Well, since I obviously can't order you to rest, at least stay here until you finish your drink."

Looking down, the Captain was surprised to see that the mug of hot chocolate that sat in front of him by his right hand was completely filled to the brim. He glanced up and met Kinch's eyes, nodding. "All right, sergeant. Until my drink is gone."

Not long afterwards, Wilson finished up the last drop of his hot chocolate. He shuffled over to his kit by his bunk and pulled on his now dry uniform. It was not only dry, but also warm, confirming his suspicion that it had been left to dry by the stove. Once he his uniform back on, he grabbed a blanket for his shoulders and sat down by the shivering, shuddering body lying on his bunk.

His heart clenched seeing Danny like he was now - his face pinched tight with pain, teeth chattering, his whole body shivering uncontrollably. To be honest, there wasn't that much he could do for his friend, except keep piling on the blankets and talk to him. But I can at least do that much. It's better than nothing. He took over for LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter, thanking them, and then ordering them to bed. He could tell they were all tired, especially Carter. Well, he considered, Carter was out with me searching for Danny. I only sent him back to get things started here after we found him.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Carter?"

"Can I pull up a chair and sit over here for a while?" Carter looked down at his feet nervously. Wilson couldn't help but feel touched by this slight, young man's devotion. "I won't be any trouble, sir. I'd just…rather stay close."

"Are you sure you want to do that, sergeant? These chairs aren't that comfortable."

Carter snickered. "Neither is my bunk, sir."

Wilson laughed at that and nodded to the young man. "All right, Carter. Pull up a chair."

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

A faint, rustling sound drew Sergeant Andrew Carter out of his light doze. For just the briefest second, his sleepy mind thought he was back in his old bedroom on his parents' farm, listening to one of the milk cows grazing beneath his window. He tried to fall back asleep and snuggled up underneath the warm, blue and yellow patchwork quilt that his grandmother had given him on his twelfth birthday.

Instead, he toppled to the floor.

Shocked, his eyes flew open, taking in everything there was to see - specifically, the short, stubby legs of the rickety wooden chair that he now lay beside and the figure of a man, leaning over another person's bunk, staring at him in puzzlement. In the space of a few heartbeats, reality slammed back into him.

He felt his face flush as he stuttered, "M-morning, Captain Wilson, sir." He pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor, trying to look completely normal.

The corners of Wilson's mouth turned up as he replied in a hushed voice, "Morning, Carter. Are you all right? That was a rather rude awakening."

"Yes, sir. I'm just fine."

The Captain nodded and turned his attention back to the man on the bed. Carter jumped as he heard the same rustling sound as he had in his dream. A strong gust of wind blew through the camp and under the door, slipping its cold, frigid fingers around his slight body. Shivering, he stood up, realizing that sitting on the floor in a drafty barracks in freezing weather was not a smart thing to do.

As he stood there, he glanced to his right and studied the man lying on the lower bunk. Lieutenant O'Shea was moving about restlessly, tossing his head from side to side, his near constant movements beneath the mound of blankets piled atop him creating the unique rustling sound that had awakened Carter in the first place. The lieutenant's youthful face had regained much of its color but still looked far too pale to completely reassure him.

The young sergeant's eyes swept around the room to see who else was awake and might be listening. It appeared that everyone else was asleep. Rubbing his burning eyes, he looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that it was three o'clock in the morning. But the lights are still on. Why would the guards let us keep the lights on all night long? Surely they would have busted in and forced us to turn off the lights. He paused, wondering about this unprecedented action. Another gust of wind made him shiver.

"Sir, is it still snowing outside?" He asked quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone.

Again the Captain nodded, though this time his gaze did not shift from the figure on the bed. "Yes. At least, it was the last time I checked a few hours ago."

Ah, ha! He crowed triumphantly in his mind. The snow is coming down so heavily that the guards can't even tell that the lights are still on! Holy cow! That's never happened before! Ever since he had arrived at Stalag 13, he had never seen such a blizzard.

A soft moan brought his mind back to the present and the unconscious man on the bunk before him. The lieutenant shuddered in his sleep, a long shiver that wracked his entire frame from head to toe causing the blankets to slide off of his shoulders a little. He watched Wilson quickly, yet tenderly, pull the blankets back up to his neck. O'Shea shifted and mumbled weakly.

Carter stepped closer to the Captain, watching the dark-haired man's face for his reaction to O'Shea's behavior. His face was tight with worry, his blue eyes dark with concern. And Wilson wasn't the only one concerned right now, either. "Captain, how is he? I mean, how is he really?"

The Captain took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "He's better than he was. His temperature is just about back to normal I think. The best thing right now is for him to rest, but…" The bundle of blankets moved again, and he paused until the movement ceased. "He's sleeping but he not resting, if you understand what I mean."

Carter's brow wrinkled with confusion at that last comment and opened his mouth to speak, but someone else beat him to it.

"J-jesse?" O'Shea muttered, still stuttering from the shivers that shook him every few minutes. "Jesse? Where are you?"

"Shhh, Danny. It's okay. Go back to sleep." Wilson soothed the unsettled officer. He placed a hand lightly on O'Shea's forehead, searching for fever. He frowned.

"What is it?" Carter asked, his voice hushed. "Does he have a fever?" He looked down at the pale face, not seeing any visible signs of fever - he wasn't sweating and his face was not flushed.

"No. He's not delirious. I think it's a -"

"Jesse!" the restless man called out louder. "No! Don't do it!" He abruptly started to struggle beneath the blankets, trying to shove them off, to get out from underneath.

Carter moved quickly to restrain O'Shea, reaching out to grab hold of his legs that were kicking weakly at the blankets that weighed down his body.

"No!" Wilson snapped, just as he was about to touch the writhing body. "Don't touch him!"

"Sir?!" Too shocked by the sharp command to move, he froze where he was.

Wilson blinked as if coming out of a trance, then gently placed his hand on O'Shea's red hair, smoothing it back from him face, now slightly flushed from his exertions. "Just…don't touch him, Carter," he repeated in a softer voice. He winced as the sleeping man jerked away from his touch like he was the enemy. "Danny, listen to me…it's okay…you need to wake up."

O'Shea opened his eyes, staring directly into Wilson's. Carter finally unfroze and joined the Captain at the head of the bunk. He was about to voice his relief when he got a clear look at the lieutenant's eyes. They were glassy, overflowing with utter terror and agonizing pain. Carter's breath caught in his throat as he gazed into the unfocused, green depths. He was looking into the eyes of a captured, beaten animal that knew it was about to die.

"No…no, he doesn't know…I swear…" O'Shea cried, now shaking uncontrollably, his trembling body radiating a tangible fear that seemed to fill the entire barracks with a suffocating stench.

Carter was vaguely aware of the movement in the barracks behind him, of other men waking up to see what all the commotion was about. He heard Newkirk's distinctive voice call out sleepily, "What the bloody 'ell is goin' on?" but was too busy to answer him.

Wilson was still talking softly to the lieutenant, trying to reach inside his nightmare-trapped mind, but it wasn't working. The young man continued to struggle against the blankets that surrounded him, his glazed eyes wide with horror. Suddenly, his tone of voice changed and broken pleas tumbled out between his white, bloodless lips. "Please…I can't tell…you d-don't…un-understand…I can't…"

Breaking his intent gaze away from the pleading man on the bunk for a second, Carter glanced over to his left at Wilson and was startled to see the man's blue eyes glinting suspiciously. He looked…helpless…powerless to stop what was happening. In that one instant, Carter knew that however much O'Shea was hurting, Wilson was hurting just as much. And he also knew that these men had been through this same ordeal before.

"NO!" O'Shea screamed in a strangled voice, his breaths coming in gasping sobs. "JESSE…DON'T!…I w-won't…l-let…you." Without warning, O'Shea's fist came free from the blankets, flying straight for Wilson's face.

Time seemed to stand still.

Wilson was paralyzed, unmoving. Carter grabbed O'Shea's wrist just before it contacted with the Captain's face.

O'Shea screamed "NOOOO!" in an agonized voice. His unfocused, panic-stricken eyes abruptly rolled back into head. His arm went limp in Carter's grasp. His body slumped back onto the thin mattress as he passed out.

Carter just stood there, unable to move. He had never seen anything like what he had just witnessed. Except for that time with Colonel Hogan, he reminded himself faintly. He shuddered involuntarily just from the memory of that nightmarish episode. He briefly closed his eyes to try to calm his thumping heart. When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at the white, limp wrist he was clutching…

…and just stared.

O'Shea's right wrist had a thick, red scar that surrounded it completely. It looked familiar, like he had seen it before…but where? How? His fuzzy brain couldn't remember. He was still staring uncomprehendingly when he saw and felt the arm pull from his grasp. At first, he thought that O'Shea must have woken up, but belatedly realized that it was Captain Wilson who had removed the arm.

He raised his eyes to meet the Captain's, but Wilson would not meet his gaze, keeping his focus on the unconscious body of Daniel O'Shea. Carter observed the man's actions as Wilson quickly placed the bare arm on the mattress and began to cover it gently with the blankets.

But something was wrong. The Captain's movements were furtive, suspicious, like he was trying to hide something. Then, as he lifted the blankets back to put O'Shea's arm underneath, Danny got his first glimpse of the lieutenant's chest -

A chest that was covered in scars.

Long thin scars covered his entire chest, as if some crazy person had attacked him with a blood, red pen and drawn lines all over him. There was also several oddly shaped red scars, some small, some large, that marked his chest over the thin scars. It was a horrifying sight.

Wilson bowed his head wearily as he heard Carter gasp, but then raised it again, this time turning to look the startled sergeant directly in the eye. Carter stared right back, unflinching. Finally, when Carter couldn't take looking into that haunted blue gaze one more second, he shifted his attention to the pale man on the bed, now covered to his neck with blankets. "What happened to him?"

Wilson followed Carter's gaze. "That's for him to tell you, sergeant." His tone of voice said that this was a command, not a request. The Captain paused, his voice softer. "I made a promise to him - never to tell. Some of it, well…some of it he hasn't even told me."

Carter nearly jumped when he felt Wilson's hand touch his shoulder. When he had Carter's full attention, he continued, his voice hoarse with concealed emotion. "I trust that what you saw will be kept between you and me. Danny - Lieutenant O'Shea - would be horrified if he knew that you'd seen his scars."

Carter nodded, quick to reassure the tired man. "Yes, sir. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you, Sergeant Carter." He reached down and absently pushed back a few strands of hair from O'Shea's face. Clearing his throat, he changed back into command gear. "I know it's pretty late, well, I guess you could say pretty early, but I think we should both try to get some sleep. It'll be time for roll call in a few hours. The lieutenant should be fine for the rest of the night." He pulled himself slowly up onto the top bunk which was normally O'Shea's. "Goodnight, sergeant." He said softly.

"Night, Captain." Carter turned and slowly made his way the few feet over to his bunk, feeling too tired to pull himself up onto it. Just as he was about to scramble up, he felt a hand tap him on the chest. Too worn out to jump, he lowered his hands and looked down, straight into Peter Newkirk's curious face.

Pointing over Carter's shoulder at the bunk he had only moments ago left, Newkirk put a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet. Carter leaned against the bunk and waited. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long. As soon as the Captain had settled on the top bunk and rolled over, instantly falling asleep, Newkirk spoke.

"What 'appened, Carter?" Newkirk asked quietly.

"Nightmare." He replied shortly.

"Yeah, a bloody awful one. I thought for a few minutes that someone was killin' 'im, the way 'e was screamin'." The British corporal glanced over at the silent man on the lower bunk, now in a deep sleep. "Poor bloke. Is he alright?"

"Yeah. I think he will be. His temperature's just about back to normal. Captain Wilson thinks that if he just gets some rest and stays warm, then he shouldn't have any problems." Carter's voice was neutral, and as he finished his brief report on O'Shea's condition, he hopped up onto his bunk, thankful to be able to stretch out. And, even though he was exhausted both emotionally and physically, he could not help but go over the recent events in his mind.

He didn't really believe everything he'd just told his friend. True, the lieutenant shouldn't have any physical problems from nearly freezing to death, but he wasn't sure if he would be all right. With nightmares like that, how could anyone be "all right"? He shuddered slightly, the echo of O'Shea's cries bouncing around his skull like a pin pong ball on too much coffee.

Still, Captain Wilson knew what to do. He'd been basically calm and had handled the situation without panicking, even though it had obviously unnerved him. He had known exactly what to do. And the way he had treated O'Shea…with dignity tinged with tenderness. Besides that, he was honorable; he had refused to tell Carter what O'Shea had told him.

Lying there with his eyes closed, a single thought floated through his mind, wispy and cloud-like. Gee, it would be great if London would send someone like Captain Wilson to help with Colonel Hogan.

His eyes snapped open as he bolted upright in bed, his mind whirling from the thought. What if London had sent Captain Wilson to help? But if they had, why hadn't he said something, asked about Colonel Hogan, pulled one of them aside and told them?

He sat there for a while, trying to make sense of the idea. Every time he answered one question, another two would pop out of nowhere and blow his theory out of the sky. After a while, he gave up, deciding that he was too tired to make much sense anyway. I'll talk it over with Kinch tomorrow. Maybe he can figure it out. With that final, comforting thought, he laid back down and quickly fell asleep.