TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE
AUTHOR: Meercat
RATING: Strong PG-13
WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst
AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
AUTHOR'S NOTE NUMBER ONE: For those who asked for longer chapters, voila!
AUTHOR'S NOTE NUMBER TWO: The end section of this chapter starts the strong PG-13 content. Just thought you should know...
Chapter 6
Robert Hogan knelt in forest shadows and considered his options.
Time was extremely limited. They had four hours to find Carter, get him out of whatever mess he'd stumbled into, and get back to Stalag 13 in time for morning roll call.
When Carter hadn't returned by 0100, Hogan turned to order the remainder of his team into blacks and loam, only to find them suited up and waiting for him. By 0110, the four men exited the tunnel through the hollowed-out tree trunk and slipped into the forest. For the tenth time that night, he thanked heaven Hochstetter decided against staying overnight at the prison camp. His presence would have severely hampered, if not blocked, any search and rescue effort.
"Looks like our little Andrew ran into a spot of trouble." Newkirk knelt beside Hogan under the spreading branches of a twisted, ancient beech tree and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a dead Kraut over there. Caught one right in the throat. Bless 'im, but I didn't think the little guy 'ad it in him."
"Spread out," Hogan whispered to his team. "Look for any sign of Carter."
Within minutes, Kinch waved them over to show them his finds--Carter's knit cap and sidearm. The black American held the cap to his nose and sniffed. He looked up at his companions, his expression grave.
"I found these here, on the edge of the ravine. There's blood on the cap."
The colonel took the weapon and withdrew its clip. "One shot fired."
Hogan reinserted the clip, set the safety, and slid the barrel between his belt and the small of his back. He studied the ground where Carter had fallen and pointed to slide marks in the leaves and twigs that littered the forest floor.
"Looks like they dragged him off. That way." Hogan pointed to the marks and indicated the direction. "Let's go. Kinch, Newkirk, watch our flanks. LeBeau, the rear. Remember, stay low and keep quiet. That dead German over there means there are active patrols in the area. After all the noise and lights, they're bound to be stirred up. We can't afford to stumble into them, not if we hope to find Carter and get back to camp before roll call."
The team followed the trail until it vanished at the side of the Hammelburg Road. Compared to the shadowed interior of the forest, the moonlit road left the men feeling dangerously open and vulnerable. The four men kept to the deepest shadows, alert for any sign of enemy presence.
Ever the impatient one, Louis LeBeau was the first to break cover. He stepped into the grassy verge of the road, only to be pulled back into hiding by Kinch. Before the little Frenchman could protest, he too heard the rumble of an approaching engine. The team faded even further back into the forest, barely in time to dodge the headlights of three troop trucks filled with German soldiers.
Hogan swallowed his heart back into place and patted his sleeve against his sweating upper lip and forehead. They waited an eternal moment more before wilting with relief.
At Hogan's signal, Newkirk stepped out, his movements small and cautious. When his appearance brought no cry of alarm, he crossed the final distance and knelt beside the narrow, poorly paved lane. A rustle of leaves and a hint of movement behind him was a reassurance--his back was protected.
The pickpocket's fingers skimmed over fresh tire marks in the dirt shoulder.
"Looks like they either had a car here or met one."
Hogan aborted a move to slam his fist into a nearby tree trunk. "Damn it. If they took him away by car, we'll never find him in time."
Kinchloe squinted toward the darkness to their right. A light in the distance caught his attention, so faint as to only be seen in his peripheral vision. Like a distant star, it disappeared the instant he looked directly at it.
"Colonel, there's something over there. Light, through the trees."
"Everybody pray this is the right place. If Carter's not there, there's not a hell of a lot more we can do."
HH
As satisfying as it may be to personally inflict damage to his prisoner, impact pains in his wrist forced von Hippel to lay off the beating. Rubbing bruised knuckles that ached despite the cloth padding, Captain von Hippel moved off to search the barn. A six-foot long, braided band of leather hung from a hook on the far wall. He folded it in half and slapped the creaking, dry band against the gloved palm of his left hand.
"I grow very tired of your obstinate silence. Dawn is but a few hours away, and I would very much like to present my report to my superiors over breakfast. To do that, I will need information from you. So far, I have been lenient."
Carter spat blood from his mouth and worried a loose tooth with his tongue. His face felt three times the size it had that morning. His ribs protested every ragged breath. Lenient. Right. And Hitler's the head of the German Boy Scouts.
"Who are you? How did you know to sabotage the way station on the one night it housed the ordnance convoy? Where did you get your information? Were there others with you? Speak or I will draw out every drop of your blood and feed it to the nearest swine."
I hope you choke on it and get the trots.
"ANSWER ME!"
Von Hippel's arm swung around. The makeshift lash struck Carter over the right ribs and wrapped around his back. Fire burned up and down his spine. A second strike, and third, raised painful welts. Carter sucked in air and did his best not to make a sound. The fourth strike landed across the others. Skin ripped. A warm and sticky liquid rolled down his leg or dripped off his right butt cheek.
"Who are you?" Whish. "Where are you from?" Snap-whish. "Are you German, a traitor to the Reich? Are you American or Russian?"
Colonel? Colonel, help me. It hurts.
"What is your name and rank? What part did you play in tonight's explosions?"
Schultz. Remember. Pretend I'm--AH!--Schultz. I'll see nothing, k--know nothing, s--oh God, please make it stop--say nothing.
A/N: For those who might wonder, "the trots" means, well, you "trot" to the bathroom. A lot.