Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All characters belong to whoever owns the rights to Hogan's Heroes. However, I do claim O'Shea and Wilson as my very own. I've gotta have something, don't I?

Author's Notes: Wow. I'm back. I'm sure you all thought I'd dropped off the earth or something like that. I sincerely apologize for leaving you hanging for so long, and I'd go into exactly why that happened, but there's not enough room and I really want to get this uploaded sometime today.

Thank you to everyone who left a review on the last chapter, and special thanks to Kits, Emma K., Shandy M., Diane M., Barb M., and marylinusca for sending me personal emails. Your messages meant so much to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you! (I just can't say that enough.)

Please, take a second to leave a review or feel free to email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. I love to get emails from readers!

One last thing (if you're still reading this, I apologize again), this first scene was supposed to go in the last chapter, but I didn't want to disrupt the flow from Kinch's point of view, so I decided to put it in this one. Hopefully, this won't confuse anyone, but I just had to include it here.

Chapter Nine – You Have to Trust Me!

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Three hours earlier…

Daniel O'Shea sat outside of Barracks Two on a short stool, legs stretched out in front of him, heals in the thick, brown mud that covered every inch of the compound - an unfortunate aftereffect of the melted snow. It gave the camp a damp, dreary look that fit in perfectly with the barbed wire fences, the watchtowers, and the camp guards. The more he examined the camp, the more depressed he became. But when he looked up at the sky or closed his eyes…well, things were better.

He gazed up at the sky, a deep blue expanse filled with puffy white clouds. It was a beautiful spring day. The weather was just right - not too cold and not too hot. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the building, enjoying the feel of the sun warming his skin and the gentle breeze drifting through the compound, listening to the other men playing volleyball and soccer games or just talking. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine that he was back home.

Almost.

A cloud covered the sun, cutting off his warmth and casting a cold shadow over the camp, causing him to shiver slightly. He wrapped his arms around himself, more for comfort than for the warmth it would provide. There was no way he was going inside yet. Today was the first day Captain Wilson had allowed him outside the barracks, and he was determined to stay out as long as possible. He hated being stuck indoors. It reminded him of all the time he'd been -

His expressive green eyes snapped open as he viciously cut off the thought.

Turning his thoughts to safer things, he tried once again to sort out exactly what had happened to him three days ago. He remembered limping around the compound, going from building to building, inspecting the entire complex for curiosity's sake. Then, he was relatively sure that he'd gotten tired and sat down against a building. The rest of his memory was composed of brief images and feelings - bone-chilling cold, the sight of white snowflakes swirling around him, lethargy, the ground turning white, numbness, and then…warmth, peace.

If Will hadn't found me when he did, I'd be dead right now.

The thing was, that thought didn't bother him as much as it should have. No, he didn't really want to die – well, he didn't actively seek it anyway. He hadn't intended on dying when he'd started off on his jaunt around the camp that day, but…it was impossible to forget the feeling of peace that had surrounded him, the warmth that had filled him. For one brief second, everything had felt right with the world, and he'd been able to forget all that had happened to him.

He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the morbid thoughts. Slowly getting to his feet, he moved towards the barracks door to fetch the blanket from his bunk. The sun had yet to come back out, causing him to grow cold, but he was still unwilling to go back indoors permanently.

Opening the door, he limped inside, blinking so his eyes could adjust to the dim interior and then making his way to his bunk a few feet away. He grabbed the blanket, turning back around to leave, when something caught his eye. Actually, it was someone, not a something.

At the very end of the barracks lay the black sergeant he had seen at roll call his second day in camp, and not a single time since. The man lay motionless, covered with a couple of dark blankets, so the white bandage that swathed his right hand stood out like a white dove among crows. What happened? he couldn't help from wondering. Concerned at seeing no one with the injured man, and, admittedly curious, he moved to check on him.

"Lieutenant?"

He started and spun around as quickly as possible (which wasn't really all that quickly because of his leg) to see where the voice had come from. The British corporal, Newkirk, stood right beside the mysterious door at the other end of the barracks, a slight frown upon his face. Danny sighed inwardly, chiding himself for becoming so absorbed in his thoughts that he had neglected to hear the door opening just a couple dozen feet away.

"Can I 'elp you with anythin', sir?"

The words were courteous, though they sounded stilted and forced. The corporal didn't seem to be pleased about his appearance. O'Shea warred briefly with himself whether to stay or go, but in the end his curiosity came out on top. "Yes. What happened to this man?" He gestured towards the man in the corner.

"Sergeant Kinchloe?" replied Newkirk, shifting his eyes uneasily between the sleeping man and O'Shea.

Ah, so the mystery man has a name. "Yes."

"Oh, just an accident, sir. 'E burned 'is 'and on the stove, that's all."

Danny nodded. "When did this happen?"

"Not that long ago. Thirty minutes or so."

The lieutenant glanced sympathetically at the injured man, then back at the corporal. "Keep a close eye on him," he ordered softly. "Burns can be tricky." He was caught between wanting to help the sergeant by examining the wound himself and just giving advice. But if he did either, the corporal might become curious and want to know where he had learned so much about burns. How could he answer that without revealing more about himself and his past? No, I'd better just leave him alone. If he seems to be feeling worse by evening roll call, I'll take a look, but not until then, he finally decided.

Newkirk's face relaxed a bit, and his eyes seemed to thaw, loosing some of their iciness. "Don't worry, sir. I'll look after 'im."

"Good." He thought for a second. "Is Sergeant Kinchloe assigned to this barracks, Corporal? I've never seen him around." O'Shea watched as the Englishman swallowed, the Adam's apple in his neck bobbing visibly.

"Well, sir, that's a tricky question. You'd have to talk to the Kommandant about that."

O'Shea narrowed his eyes, frowning. "This wouldn't have anything to do with his being a Negro does it, Newkirk? Because if it does – " He cut off his words abruptly. What can I do, really? I'd have to take the matter up with the Senior POW, but as far as I know, this camp doesn't even have one! And the Germans as a whole see the blacks as inferior, which means talking to the Kommandant wouldn't help, either. He reluctantly let the matter go. "Never mind, Corporal." He turned to leave, his shoulders bowed by the heavy realization of how little he could truly help.

"Lieutenant O'Shea?" Newkirk called just as he reached the barrack's door.

"Yes?" He paused, twisting slightly to look at the Englishman, his hand still on the rusty doorknob.

Newkirk's blue eyes were sharp and clear, piercing with intense emotions. "Sir, it's not because of segregation that 'e's not…well…there's more to it than that. Sergeant Kinchloe is a good soldier and an even better man. We'd never do anything like that to 'im. I don't know 'ow things were run in your previous camp, sir, but they don't work like that at Stalag 13. Everyone 'ere is treated just the same…'cept for officers, of course," he added with a slight smile.

O'Shea nodded, relieved that whatever the deal was, it wasn't a racial problem. We have enough people to fight without fighting amongst ourselves. "That's good to hear, corporal," he said softly and then left the building, stepping out into the bright sunshine. So much for needing the blanket. Oh, well.

Outside, he settled once again on his stool and wrapped the thin blanket around his shoulders, leaning wearily back against the wall of the barracks. Eyes closed, his thoughts turned to the injured sergeant inside. Going back over the brief conversation he'd had with the corporal, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that swelled within his chest. It just doesn't add up. We've been here for four and a half days already, and I've only seen that sergeant once before. Where has he been all this time? I've never seen him out in the exercise yard other than that first morning, never seen him at mealtimes getting his food. Shoot, for that matter, I've never even seen him enter or leave the barracks! And that corporal seemed, well…nervous. But why should he feel nervous about a burned hand? It's not as if that's never happened before – accidents do happen, even in a POW camp. No, it doesn't make sense.

He intended to stay awake and give the matter more thought, but the day was so pleasant and the sun so warm upon his chilled body that before he realized what was happening, he was fast asleep.

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A muffled scream jolted him awake, his body reacting by automatically sending him to his feet before his foggy mind could fully comprehend what he'd just heard. For a few seconds, he stood there just staring at the door, wondering who or what could have caused such a terrible sound. Then, it clicked.

The injured sergeant. Something must have happened to his hand. Without another thought, he rushed through the barracks door, prepared to help the soldier in any way he could, regardless of the uncomfortable questions that might arise about his knowledge. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned towards the far end of the barracks and the sergeant…

But the bunk was empty.

He blinked, confused. What…where is he? He quickly glanced around at the rest of the bunks, even at the floor, wondering how far a man in so much pain could have gotten in so little time. I know I heard him. He shook his head slowly, frowning, and then turned back towards the door to leave.

Another scream pierced the stillness of the room, louder and closer than the last one, so filled with terror and pain that it was all he could do to remain on his feet, his mind flooding with terrifying memories – images, feelings, and sounds that nearly overwhelmed him, and sent him staggering to the nearest bunk for support.

For a moment, his heart nearly stopped beating, the memory of other tortured screams blurring the lines between past and present until both became one. His hip ached fiercely as shooting pains lanced down his leg, up his spine and into his head. His vision began to tunnel, the edges turning a misty white-gray, as his breathing morphed into laborious gasps for air with lungs that refused to work. He clung desperately to the bunk, his fingers digging into the rough wood, his whole body shaking and threatening to collapse into a shivering heap on the floor.

In a small corner of his frantic, chaotic mind, he knew he was having a panic attack and that he was hyperventilating. He knew that at any minute he might collapse or something even worse, and for the very first time, he was angry. No, not just angry – furious. The intense emotion flowed through him, bringing with it an energy that seared through his paralyzed body, and he latched onto it, feeding the flames more and more until he finally broke free and found himself hanging onto the bunk in the middle of Barracks Two.

He stared at the door, anger pushing him forward, fear holding him back. He didn't know what he would face if he opened the door, what situation he might become involved in. A part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up and block out the sounds of pain coming from within the other room, but the other fury-filled part could not – would not – ignore it. That sergeant needs me, O'Shea thought to himself, and I refuse to let my weakness – my failures – keep me from doing anything about it. I have to help him.

Pulling the remnants of his tattered confidence together, he released his death-hold on the bunk and moved the few remaining feet to the door, grasping the doorknob and turning it with a shaking hand.

Upon entering the room, he noticed two things. First, Carter and the Frenchman, LeBeau, were trying to restrain a struggling man on the lower bunk.

Second, the struggling man was not Sergeant Kinchloe.

He froze for a second in the open doorway, too shocked by the unexpected sight to speak… until he heard the man scream again. Galvanized into action by the audible anguish and suffering in the man's voice, he stepped inside confidently. "What do you think you're doing?!" he demanded in an unwavering voice. "Stop that at once!"

A sudden movement off to his left caught his eye, and he turned to face the threat, only to find himself facing Corporal Newkirk, and, of all people, Sergeant Kinchloe, staring back at him with stunned expressions. They stood next to a small wooden desk where Newkirk was just removing a needle from a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid. At the sight of the tall sergeant, he mentally stumbled. All of his energy has been focused on helping the injured black man, and now…

What is going on here? he wondered, glancing quickly towards the bed, shifting his body a bit to gain a better view of the writhing figure. Who is he? And what are they doing to him? He couldn't see anything at first, only heard the tortured moans and cries as the men attempted (with little success) to control him. Finally, the small Frenchman dodged to avoid a flailing arm, and Danny got a brief glimpse of the man's face – or rather, what could be seen under the mass of bandages and thick, dark beard. It was the eye that told him all he needed to know.

The Englishman took a step towards him. "Carter, get 'im out of 'ere! We don't 'ave time for this right now!"

O'Shea ignored his angry words and limped over to the black tech sergeant by the desk. Although he knew and trusted Carter the most of those present, for some strange reason he was drawn to Sergeant Kinchloe. The man exuded a calm, quiet competence despite the utter chaos in the room, a confidence only someone used to commanding others can possess. "Sergeant Kinchloe?"

The tall man blinked once, the small action the only indication of surprise on his otherwise impenetrable face. "Yes," he said softly.

Danny saw Newkirk shift nervously, visibly torn between backing up his superior and helping his mates with the man on the bunk. The sound of fist meeting flesh and Carter yelping in pain made them all jump and abruptly ended his indecision. The lieutenant heard him mutter something under his breath as he hurried over to the bunk.

His attention focused back on Kinchloe. "Is that morphine?" O'Shea gestured with his left hand towards the glass bottle on the middle of the table. He thought it was, but he wanted to be certain. It might be some other medication, but…

"Yes," came the reply.

"Don't give it to him."

"What?!" Newkirk interrupted, his voice filled with disbelief. "Are ya ruddy crazy? The man's out of 'is mind with pain!" He grabbed at the flying fist that nearly took off his head, but missed. "Ya see?! Just look at 'im!"

"Yes, I see. He is out of his mind, but not with pain – with drugs. He's having nightmares and those drugs only make them worse! Don't give him that shot!"

Kinchloe stared him down, brown eyes boring into green. "Are you a doctor?"

Now it was Danny's turn to shift nervously. "No."

"A corpsman?"

"No."

"A psychologist? Do you have any medical experience?"

"No," he said tightly, clenching his fists. By now, he was sweating, the cold moisture beading on his forehead, turning his copper hair a dark reddish-brown. He knew where this was going and dreaded it.

"Kinch, enough with the twenty questions! Toss 'im out!" Newkirk stood up and stepped forward, blue eyes snapping dangerously.

"No, wait just a minute, Newkirk." Kinchloe held up his right hand in the man's direction to stop him and then flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as the slight movement pulled on his burned hand. "No!" he said hoarsely, as Newkirk reached out to steady him. The two men's eyes met and held briefly, and then slowly, reluctantly, Newkirk nodded. After a brief pause, the tech sergeant moved closer to O'Shea. "Then why did you say that? Why should we listen to you? For that matter, why should we even trust you? For all we know, you could be some German plant here to finish him off!"

He made one last, desperate attempt to deflect the question without revealing any more information but knew he was grasping at thin air. God, please, he begged, let this satisfy him. "Look. I just know, all right?"

"No," the other man replied decisively, stepping still closer, a few inches from his face. "It's not all right. How – do – you – know?"

"Because – " O'Shea's voice caught, and he glanced over at the man on the bed, now held firmly in place, the moans tearing huge chunks of his carefully reconstructed walls down, revealing his fragile spirit. "Because I've been in his place," he whispered shakily, taking a few steps away and closing his eyes in shame.

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"What?" Carter was the first of the stunned men who regained his voice. "You mean – you've been – "

"It was the Gestapo, right?" came O'Shea's emotionless voice, his face still turned slightly away.

Kinch examined the pale, young man and only then saw how tightly he'd been clenching his fists, the white knuckles close to bursting through the skin. He wasn't completely sure he believed the Lieutenant – after all, what are the chances? – until O'Shea looked up, his green eyes haunted and filled with a terrible knowledge. Kinch's mother had once said that 'the eyes were a window to the soul,' something he still firmly believed in, even after all he'd seen and been through. Looking into O'Shea's eyes, he'd just seen a tortured soul so much like the Colonel's that it gave him chills. And yet, while it frightened him, it also gave him a small, tiny feeling of hope. For if this Lieutenant could make it through, then so could Colonel Hogan. I wonder…he began mentally, but was interrupted as O'Shea spoke again.

"Listen. Newkirk is right. We don't have time for this right now. I know that I just arrived, and you don't know or trust me. I'd tell you to take it up with Captain Wilson, but you wouldn't trust him any more than you would me, and plus, there's not enough time. I can't make you change your minds." The copper headed young man paused for a second, and then shook his head, speaking with a voice of absolute conviction. "But I can help him. I know what he's going through, what he's thinking and feeling. He needs me – and so do you. You have to trust me!"

The heavy silence echoed throughout the small room, engulfing the men as they glanced uncertainly at each other. LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter all exchanged long looks, and then turned as one to Kinch, who remained in place by the desk, staring at O'Shea. His outwardly calm appearance belied his inner turmoil and the thoughts racing through his mind.

Could this be the person that London promised us? The "new cub" that was to arrive? he wondered, leaning weakly against the solid, wooden desk as his legs grew suddenly unsteady. Could it have been O'Shea and not Wilson as Carter tried so hard to convince us all? Part of the idea made sense, but not all of it. There were too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends. If London sent him, why didn't he try to contact us earlier? It was the same question he had asked before when they had considered Wilson. He's been in camp for five days. I don't understand why he would have waited.

He mentally sighed, feeling frustrated and uncertain. He cast a fleeting look at Colonel Hogan, his closest friend and commanding officer, lying on the bed, still struggling weakly against Carter and LeBeau, seeing his emaciated, bandaged form clearer than he had for days. If we do nothing, he'll die, he admitted, despising himself for the hopeless thought, but unable to hide from the truth any longer. Is there really anything to loose?

As he turned back to O'Shea, he was amazed by the grim, determined look on his youthful face. He looks like he's going into battle. I guess, in some ways, he is. "All right, Lieutenant," he agreed quietly. "What should we do?"

TBC…