Facing the Shadows
By Adalanta
Disclaimer: Everyone but O'Shea and Wilson belong to Bing Crosby Productions (but I have no clue who actually owns that).
Author's Note: This is going to be very brief because I want to get this posted today. Sorry it took so long. I got about three-quarters of the way through, and then I just couldn't seem to find the correct words. But finally, here it is. I'd like to say a special thanks to Marylinusca and Kits for their entertaining emails. You both really brightened my days! Also, thank you to Lisa C. for your glowing note. I have to admit that it made me blush. The stories that you mentioned are my favorite ones at fanfiction.net. I am truly honored to be counted among them.
Please, take a second to tell me what you think by leaving me a review or by emailing me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. You've opinion is greatly appreciated!
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Chapter Ten – Things Said and Left Unsaid
Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe paced nervously near the doorway of the Senior POW's quarters, relieved beyond measure that Colonel Hogan had finally stopped struggling and seemed to have fallen into a deep – and hopefully dreamless – sleep, thanks mainly to the incredible effort and baffling knowledge of one person – Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. While it was true that Carter, Newkirk, LeBeau, and himself had assisted for the last hour, without Lieutenant O'Shea the Colonel would now be lying on his bunk in a morphine induced slumber instead of a drugless, healing sleep.
It hadn't been easy to get Colonel Hogan to settle down, but the actual method used was mind-bogglingly simple. When the earnest Lieutenant had asked them to get a bucket of cold water and some clean rags, Kinch had assumed it would be the first in a series of orders, but when O'Shea had remained silent, the black tech sergeant had become filled with doubt. How is water going to help anything? he remembered thinking to himself. He'd drawn the young man slightly away from the others and started to protest, but had gotten no more than five words out before O'Shea had fixed him with those haunting green eyes, and the words had died stillborn in his throat.
During the next hour, O'Shea had worked a miracle simply by continually sponging off the right side of Colonel Hogan's face. At first, he'd needed LeBeau and Carter to help hold him still, but then, ever so slowly, Hogan's struggles had abated. He'd remained restless for a time, mumbling incoherently, causing Kinch's ironclad stomach to knot for fear of what might be said. By the time that phase was over, he could feel the sweat dripping off his face and knew by the concerned glances from his men that they saw it, too. Unable to sit by any longer, he'd stood up and begun to pace. Now, out of curiosity, he checked his watch and was surprised to find that he'd been pacing nonstop for the last fifteen minutes. They say 'time goes fast when you're having fun,' but this is about as far away from fun as possible.
"Sergeant Kinchloe?"
The quiet, weary voice interrupted his thoughts, and, reluctantly, he paused and turned his attention to the speaker, waiting wordlessly for him to continue.
Lieutenant O'Shea slowly sat back in his chair, cautiously straightening up from the crouch he'd maintained for the last hour. "I've done all I can for him for now, Sergeant. He's finally sleeping, which is what he needs more than anything."
Kinch nodded, although he could thing of several things right off the top of his head that he thought his friend desperately needed in addition to sleep. He shoved those thoughts aside to concentrate on the present. "How long do you think he'll sleep?" he asked, mind already jumping ahead to the next gut wrenching, nightmarish episode.
O'Shea grimaced and raked a hand through his red hair. "I don't know. It depends how strong the nightmares – his memories – are. I'm hoping he'll get at least a couple of hours, but…" His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "We'll just have to wait and see."
"All right, sir." He shifted his gaze to the other three men in the room. "I'll take the first four hour watch, then Newkirk. Carter, you'll follow him, and, Louie, you're last. Everyone got it?" he asked, wrapping up the instructions.
Silence met his ears. It wasn't what he had expected to hear.
"Uhhh, Kinch?" Carter spoke up hesitantly. "Why don't you let Newkirk take the first shift?"
"What?" Kinchloe narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Why would I do that, Carter? I just made the assignments. Why should I change them?"
"Because, well, um…" the young man stammered nervously. "You see, we don't…uh, that is, you…" Carter jumped, startled, as Newkirk whipped off his blue cap and smacked him on the shoulder. "All right, all right! Louie, could you…?"
The small Frenchman quickly agreed, much to Kinch's amusement. Andrew is the greatest with explosives, but when he gets flustered, he's lucky if he gets a single sentence out in five minutes' time.
"Kinch, can we…?" LeBeau waved his hand at the other side of the small room, throwing a quick glance at the Lieutenant who remained by the Colonel's side, obviously not wanting the officer to hear their conversation.
He nodded, and they stepped a few feet away. "What is it, Louie?" he asked quietly, concern filling him at the troubled expression that looked up at him. "Do you need something?"
"Yes," his friend said evenly. "I need for you to take a rest."
I can't believe this, he thought, annoyed by his friend's concern. "If this is about my hand, LeBeau, I'm fine. It's no excuse to abandon my post."
"This is about your hand partly, yes," the smaller man admitted, shrugging slightly, "but, more importantly, it is about you. You need to rest – "
Kinchloe broke in before LeBeau could really get started. "I told you, I'm fine!" The words came out a little louder and with more force than he'd intended, drawing worried looks from Carter and Newkirk and a puzzled one from O'Shea. "Why do you have to fuss so? If I can take care of the Colonel, then I think I can take care of myself!" Immediately, he felt guilty about his outburst and at the hurt look that marred his friend's expressive face. Great, he thought sarcastically, now that they know I'm angry, they'll never believe me. "Listen, Louie – "
"Non, mon cher ami, you listen! You have been by le Colonél's bedside constantly ever since he was returned to us." LeBeau said heatedly, dark eyes glaring defiantly. "I can count on my right hand alone the number of times you have left this room since he was brought back to the barracks. You have eaten little and slept even less! You begin to resemble le Colonél! Do you not see how thin you have become? Why do you insist on treating yourself this way?"
Shaking his head dazedly, the sergeant tried to explain his actions to the little tornado formerly known as LeBeau. "I…I'm the Colonel's second. It's my job to see to his health and welfare. It's…my duty," he finished helplessly, reluctant to say any more for fear of what might slip out unintentionally.
"Your duty?" LeBeau stared straight at him, a gaze that seemed to peer into his very soul. "Why is this your duty? Do we not all work for le Colonél? Why do you insist on baring this responsibility alone? Colonél Hogan is our commander. We have always been a team, mon ami, in all that we have done. Why are you now pulling away? Do you not trust us with le Colonél's well-being?"
The wounded look on the French corporal's face had now extended into his eyes, making Kinchloe feel even worse. "Of – of course, I trust you, Louie!" he reassured him loudly. "How can you say that?! I trust you with my very life!"
The room was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, LeBeau nodded, appearing to accept the comment as the truth. Finally, he spoke clearly and quietly, holding Kinch's gaze the entire time. "Then if you trust me, go out into the other room and take some rest."
Trapped. There was no other word for it. He was trapped, so expertly caught that there was no way to maneuver an escape. If he protested in any way, it would be a slap in LeBeau's face, impugning his honor. If he agreed, he would be admitting that he couldn't handle the tremendous strain that he'd been under for the last several weeks. It was a hard decision to make, but in the end, he chose to wound his own pride rather than LeBeau's. His was the easier of the two to mend. And plus, he didn't want to be eating burned meals for the next week, an unfortunate side effect resulting from the preoccupation that occurred the last time the Frenchman had considered himself dishonored.
"All right, Louie," he sighed. "You win. I'll go rest." He started to leave, but then stopped and retraced his steps, coming to rest by the young officer still sitting by the bed. "But I'll not be the only one leaving. Lieutenant?" He gestured to the door, remembering to use his left hand this time and not his damaged right one.
O'Shea looked up at him with eyes that were slightly unfocused, a lost expression upon his face. "Yes?" he said absently.
Oh, man, he thought, worried about the officer's foggy response. This kid's about ready to collapse. I forgot that today was his first day out of bed. He heaved an inward sigh. He needs to get to his bunk fast. "Will you join me in the main room, Lieutenant O'Shea? I'd like to speak with you, if you don't mind."
The young man blinked a couple of time, then replied, "Of course, sergeant."
The airman found it impossible to miss the way he used the bunk frame to pull himself up from his chair and onto his feet. The Lieutenant let go of the frame, took one step…and crumbled.
Kinch lunged forward and grabbed for him with his left hand just as Carter moved in on his right. Between them both, it would be an easy catch. And it should have been.
But it wasn't.
The Lieutenant flinched violently and shied away from their outstretched hands, twisting his body awkwardly in midair to avoid any contact. Kinch did manage to grasp his left arm and control his fall a bit, guiding him down to a sitting position on the floor instead of landing hard on his side. He released his hold on the arm immediately when the young man tried to pull loose.
For a long moment, no one spoke, too stunned by the sight of the crumpled officer on the ground bent over and clutching his right leg in agony, his entire body trembling. The only sound in the room was his laborious gasps for air, an excruciating thing to hear.
"Lieutenant?" It was Carter who broke the heavy silence, kneeling down by his side on the floor. "Can I help you, sir?"
O'Shea shook his head vehemently, though it took him a few seconds to reply, his voice rasping, "Just…just give me…a minute, Carter."
When the young officer raised his head a couple of minutes later, Kinchloe was horrified by the grayness of his complexion. He looks worse than he did when Captain Wilson brought him in out of the snow, and he was half dead! It was not a comforting thought. "What happened, sir?" he questioned quietly, glancing over to where LeBeau and Newkirk stood uneasily, not sure of what to do.
"My hip went out on me, sergeant." The words were nearly inaudible with weariness, but the hardest thing to hear was the tone of acceptance that emerged as he continued a bit louder. "It happens."
"Can you walk, Lieutenant?" He nearly offered his hand to help him up but remembered what'd happened just a few minutes earlier and withdrew it, shaking his head at Carter's questioning look.
Without answering, the Lieutenant used the bunk frame to climb to his feet, slowly increasing the weight on his weak leg. At one point, it looked like he was about to collapse again as his eyes slammed shut and his face tightened in pain, but he continued the slow procedure until he was at last standing on both feet. He took a deep, shaky breath and lifted his hand from the bunk. Finally, he nodded. "It seems that I can, Sergeant Kinchloe." With that, he began to make his way out of the room, his limp more pronounced than ever, clearly exhausted, yet managing to hold his head up.
It seemed to Kinch that whatever had just happened had obviously occurred before, and, while it appeared to be a setback, it was by no means viewed as a defeat. Step by grueling step, he watched the Lieutenant make the strenuous journey out of the small room and into the main barracks. He seriously doubted that the young man would make it, but soon there he was, standing beside his bunk. Kinch waited for him to crawl in, but the pale man did not move, just stared at the bunk frame with trepidation. With a start, he remembered that O'Shea' bunk was the top one, and he was trying to figure out a way to climb up with his bad hip. Kinch watched in silence, hesitant to interfere, but was forced to when he saw the Lieutenant's slight body sway before his eyes.
"Captain Wilson sleeps below you, doesn't he, sir?"
O'Shea blinked and snapped his head towards the black man, seemingly surprised to see him standing there watching. It took a second for the question to register. "Yes, he does."
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you borrowed his bunk for a little while, Lieutenant," he offered kindly, wanting nothing more than to be able to help the exhausted man onto the bed, but knowing that would be improper due to the difference in rank. The young man hesitated, apparently still unconvinced. Okay, then I'll just have to push a little harder. "If you want, sir, I can try to find the Captain outside and ask him for you."
"No! Don't do that. He'd…he'd just…" He shook his head. "No. He won't mind." With that decided, he crawled painfully onto the bunk and lay down.
Relieved that the injured Lieutenant was finally settled, Kinch let his own weariness catch up with him and moved towards his own bunk several feet away. He was halfway there when he heard O'Shea's voice.
"Sergeant Kinchloe?"
"Yes, sir?" He turned his head to look at the young man, and found him studiously examining the bottom of the bunk above him, devoid of expression. "Your men care for you and respect you a great deal, Sergeant. There aren't many people who can inspire such intense devotion in others. You should be proud of that…and of yourself. Don't ever forget that." That said, his eyelids fluttered closed, hiding his green eyes from the puzzled sergeant.
Where did that come from? he wondered, completing the short walk to his own bunk, and stretched out on it, laying his bandaged right hand gingerly by his side. Shutting his eyes, he quickly drifted to sleep, too drained to stay awake a moment longer.
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Captain Campbell Wilson opened the wooden door of the recreation hut filled with high spirits, having just spent the last several hours inside talking and becoming familiar with some of the other airmen at his new Stalag. His happiness lasted approximately three seconds, which is all the time it took for him to move off of the wooden step and down into the thick, brown mud that covered the entire prison ground. Grumbling mentally, he slopped his way through the disgusting, clinging muck that threatened to hold his feet hostage and cruelly demand his shoes for ransom. However, Wilson refused to give in and determinedly crossed the yard, making his way slowly but surely to Barracks Two.
A few yards away, he noted that Lieutenant O'Shea seemed to have deserted his stool, a fact that left him slightly unsettled, and then, when he drew even closer and spied the blanket forlornly abandoned in the mud, he feared that something might have happened to his friend. He bolted for the door, his heart pounding crazily in his chest, his mind whirling with possible scenarios, each one worse than the one previous. Stepping into the barracks, he was surprised to find O'Shea lying down on his own lower bunk.
"Danny?" he called, moving towards his friend and stretching out a hand that hovered uncertainly over his shoulder. At that moment, though, the younger man shifted in his sleep, turning his gray face in Wilson's direction. Wilson gapped at his friend's frightening pallor. What the – ? What on earth happened to him? Suddenly feeling as if he was being watched, the black-haired Captain twisted around to find the black tech sergeant – Kinchloe, was it? – sitting on one of the bunks at the other end of the room. "What happened to him?" he demanded, fear and concern making his voice harsh. "Did he have a relapse?"
The tall man stood and moved towards the bunk across from him, shaking his head as he went. "No. Well, not from anything that I know of," he amended, reaching his seat and sitting down.
Wilson felt his heart begin to slow a bit from the rapid staccato it had been only seconds before. "All right. Then, what did happen?"
"He stood up to walk but collapsed after taking only one step. When I asked, he said that his hip went out on him."
"Oh, no," Wilson moaned, weakly lowering himself down into the closest bunk and closing his eyes. Everything that could possibly go wrong has. What is it about this place? Is it jinxed? He took a deep breath. "Did he try to walk afterwards?" he asked, his tone mild. The innocuous question was more important than he let on. As long as Danny had tried to get back on his feet, he should be okay. If he didn't…Wilson didn't even want to think about that possibility.
"Yes."
Thank God, he uttered silently, rubbing his handsome face with both hands. When he looked up, he saw that the sergeant was looking at him curiously, his dark head tilted slightly to the right. Realizing that he hadn't yet replied, he answered simply, "Good."
"Sir," Kinchloe spoke after a short period of silence. "Has this happened before?"
"Yes," he dragged the word out, "but not for several months. His hip was…injured…over a year ago, after his plane was shot down. He's had problems with it ever since. I'm sure you've noticed his limp."
The other man nodded, although he did not appear surprised. Wilson was confused at first as to how he could have known, but then it came to him…Carter. It made sense. Carter was the only person (other than himself) that O'Shea had really spoken with. "You've been talking to Sergeant Carter, haven't you, Sergeant Kinchloe?" The sentence was more a statement than a question, even though he had phrased it as such.
The black man smiled faintly and nodded. "I admit I have, sir. I hope you don't mind, but I was concerned for the Lieutenant. Is there nothing that can be done to help him?"
"No, the damage done to his hip socket was quite severe. It's a miracle that he was ever able to walk again." And that he lived, he added mentally, remembering in a flash the fight he'd had keeping the poor kid alive and then helping him struggle to relearn how to walk.
"That's too bad, sir."
Wilson cleared his throat and pushed the memories aside. "Yes, it is. Thank you for your concern, Sergeant." The conversation slacked off once more, each man ostensibly busy with his own thoughts. He glanced over at Sergeant Kinchloe who appeared to be wrestling with something, his face studiously blank, his dark, intelligent eyes focused inwards.
Finally, the sergeant appeared to make up his mind. "Captain Wilson…why are you here?"
"What?" he frowned.
"Why are you here?"
"I don't understand what you mean," Wilson said, completely baffled. "How was I captured? My B-17 was shot down over northern Germany, and the Krauts grabbed me and two other men from my crew as soon as we hit the ground."
Kinchloe shook his head and leaned forward on the bunk. "No. Why are you here?"
He paused to consider the question, trying to determine what information the other man was looking for. "At Stalag 13?" he asked to clarify the question.
"Yes, sir."
Wilson shrugged as he quietly confessed, "Honestly…I don't know."
"You don't know," the sergeant repeated dully, sighing heavily as he slid off his Army issue cap and placed it carefully by his side on the bunk.
He looks…disappointed, Wilson thought, watching the man with his dark blue eyes. What did he want – no, expect – me to say? He's not making any sense! The simmering frustration and helplessness just below the surface suddenly burst in his chest just like it had his first night in camp after O'Shea's vicious nightmare. "Sergeant, I don't know what you want to hear. I have no clue why we were transferred. Neither of us has ever tried to escape, never made any trouble – not like the other men who came with us from Stalag 8. But Kommandant Schweigert chose to transfer us, and, unfortunately, he didn't ask our opinion. If it was up to me, I'd have us back there in a heartbeat, but…there's nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied," he ended, his voice filled with defeat, averting his eyes.
"Captain," the older man spoke carefully, "You said 'we' and 'us.' Who did you mean by that? You and Lieutenant O'Shea?"
He glanced up from the ground. "Yes. I wish to God that Schweigert had left us back at Stalag 8. Or," he added as an afterthought, "at least left O'Shea there." He'd have been okay there with the rest of the men to look out for him, guys who understood him. I would have missed him, but it would have been better for his mental welfare if he'd stayed there.
"Sir…what really happened to Lieutenant O'Shea? He didn't injure his leg in a parachuting accident, did he?"
Wilson's face hardened into granite at the sergeant's skeptical tone, too shocked for a moment by the sudden shift in the conversation to form any words. It took a few seconds for his jumbled thoughts to make sense, and when they finally did, he didn't even try to hide his rage. Unable to attack the one he longed to, he lashed out angrily instead at the only person available, his words sharp and piercing. "Why? Why do you want to know? You have no authority to be asking these questions, no right to be prying into other people's lives! That kid's been through enough, and I will not allow you or any other man to bring up what happened! Some things are better left unsaid, sergeant, buried so deeply that they are never spoken of again!"
Furious now, the words continued to pour from his mouth, a raging torrent as powerful and overwhelming as water that bursts from a shattered dam. "And speaking of questions…where is your Senior Allied Officer? Each camp is required by law to have a Senior POW. Why haven't I met with him yet? I haven't even seen or heard a single thing about him since I stepped foot into this camp!" He stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to rein in his temper. When he was able to continue, he spoke in an even tone, the perfect officer's voice. "Sergeant, as your commanding officer, I demand to see the senior officer in charge of this camp."
In the thunderous silence that followed, the man across from him went preternaturally still and stared at him, scrutinizing his face, searching his eyes intently for…something. Wilson stared straight back at him, meeting his eyes, refusing to back done on a matter of such importance. Time seemed to stop. He didn't know how long he sat there, staring into that dark intelligent gaze – it might have been a minute, it might have been ten minutes – he couldn't tell. The silence grew longer and heavier until he thought he would be forced to break…
"Fine." The answer came so suddenly that Wilson blinked. "I think it's time that you saw the Colonel. Follow me, Captain." Kinchloe stood up and walked towards the door at the end of the barracks, the one door that Wilson had never seen anyone enter or leave. The black man paused just outside the door, his hand on the doorknob, hesitation written in every line of his lengthy body. Then, in a split second, the hesitation disappeared, and he twisted the knob, pushing the door open and revealing a small room.
When the Captain stepped through the doorway, the first thing he saw was Sergeant Carter jumping to his feet in alarm. "Kinch? What – ?" he stuttered, giving the black man a shocked look.
Kinchloe shook his head and gave a half smile. "It's okay, Carter. I think he needs to know, if only for Lieutenant O'Shea's sake. Why don't you take a break?" he suggested quietly. "I'll let you know when I need you, all right?"
A frown creased Carter's face but he obeyed nevertheless, a fact that puzzled Wilson. Carter is higher in rank than Kinchloe. Why would he obey an order when he outranks the man who gave it? That doesn't make sense. What is going on here? His thoughts were abruptly cut off as he finally glanced around at the rest of the room.
"Oh, my God," Wilson breathed, gazing in horror at the bandaged, motionless figure on the bed. There was only one other time he'd seen someone look like that, so horribly wounded, swathed in bandages. Dread filled his soul at the sight, leaving him feeling physically sick, nausea twisting his stomach into knots and nearly making him vomit his lunch. A part of him wanted to bolt out of the room and head for the nearest latrine, to leave the room and pretend that what he'd just seen didn't exist.
But he didn't.
Instead, as if in a fog, he found himself actually stumbling forward, moving closer to the bunk to get a better look and then collapsing onto the chair nearby, his legs suddenly unstable, unable to hold his weight. Staring at the sleeping man, a scene from the past materialized before his very eyes. The black hair morphed into red, the dark, thick beard disappeared, the tall, gaunt frame shortened by six inches. He knew that he was looking at some unknown individual, but a part of his mind told him he was seeing Daniel O'Shea, his best friend, instead. "Danny," he whispered, barely able to breathe, his lungs frozen inside his chest. The moment seemed to last forever, going on and on…
And then he blinked. The past dissolved and reality took its place.
"Captain Wilson." The voice came from behind his left shoulder, causing him to snap his head in that direction, only to find Sergeant Kinchloe watching him intently.
It took a moment for Wilson to steady himself, his shocked mind racing, trying to find the connection, the reason he was here. He'd demanded to see the SAO and had been led here. He blinked again, the realization hitting him as hard and as abrupt as when his parachute had opened so long ago, stunning him just as badly. But that means that this man is… His wide blue eyes met Kinchloe's gaze. "This…this man is the Senior POW?" he asked, already knowing that what he said was true. The pained look on the tech sergeant's face confirmed it before he could even open his mouth.
The older man nodded his affirmation. "Captain Wilson, this is Colonel Hogan, United States Army Air Corps, Senior POW at Stalag 13."
"Gestapo," Wilson spat out the word like a curse, his left hand unconsciously balling into a fist, wishing for all the world that he could get just one minute with the animals who'd done this, just sixty seconds to show them how it felt to be beaten, tortured, and driven to the brink of sanity.
"How did you know?"
His mind was so filled with anger that he answered without really thinking about it. "Because I've seen this before," he seethed through gritted teeth.
"With Lieutenant O'Shea?"
Wilson whipped his dark head up, startled, and stared up at the black man, his shocked expression melting to horror as he made yet another connection. This second revelation hit him even harder than the first, literally knocking the air from his body. Kinchloe mentioned Danny to Carter. What did he say – 'He needs to know, if only for Lieutenant O'Shea's sake?' And the only reason he would say that would be …
"Oh, my god," he uttered in a hushed voice, "Oh, god, please tell me he didn't see this. Not this. Not now." He met Kinchloe's gaze, eyes pleading with the other man to tell him that he was wrong, that his imagination was just running wild.
The sergeant nodded once.
Will covered his face with two pale, trembling hands and leaned over in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees as his stomach once again revolted. "Oh, no," he whispered shakily. This can't be happening, it just can't! He swallowed hard, trying to keep down the bile that was rising thickly in his throat, the acidy taste making his eyes burn. No wonder he looked so gray and haggard, he thought to himself. He came in, saw this, and had another panic attack. He closed his eyes in pain at the thought of Danny seeing the Colonel and the terrifying, paralyzing memories that the sight would have dredged up. In all the months that he'd known the Lieutenant, he'd seen him combat the lasting effects of his time with the Gestapo – the physical and mental scars that covered him both inside and out. He'd helped as much as humanly possible, and he knew for certain that Danny would need his help again. I need to know how bad it was, what exactly happened, in order to help Danny when he wakes up. He's going to be a wreck after being confronted with this. He took a deep breath and raised his head from his hands, ready to ask the hauntingly familiar questions, but before he could say a word, Kinchloe spoke.
"You've seen this before, haven't you?" the man asked softly.
Wilson hesitated briefly before replying. "Yes."
"Was it Lieutenant O'Shea?"
He shook his head and ran a hand through his thick, black hair in frustration, torn between answering and keeping silent, between helping someone else and keeping an oath to a friend. After a moment of concentration, he decided to compromise. "I'm sorry, sergeant. All I can tell you is that I've seen and dealt with this situation before."
Glancing over at the injured man, his mind once again flashed to what Danny had looked like when he'd arrived at Stalag 8 – bruised, bloody, and broken, with vacant eyes that stared mindlessly off into space. Wilson hadn't known what to do and had watched and waited helplessly, trying to devise a way to repair the damage inflicted to the young lieutenant. Now, looking up at Sergeant Kinchloe, he recognized the same agonizing helpless look upon his face. But this time is different, he said mentally. I know what to do now – how to handle this. And I can't sit idly by and not do anything to help this man, no matter how hellish this is to see and go through again.
"However," he added, catching the tall man's gaze, "I'm willing to help in whatever way I can." With that said, he solemnly held out his right hand and shook Kinchloe's, steeling himself for what was to come and praying for the strength he'd need to help the two men who needed him most.
