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 #1: Many thanks to those of you who have contacted me regarding the German and/or French translations. I apologize for any errors. I used an online translator that apparently wasn't worth its bandwidth. i (facepalm) /i Again, my apologies.
AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: I go to the doctor today for tests. Depending on the results, I may be a few days posting the next part. Please be patient. To make up for the delay, I present the longest chapter yet...
Chapter 9
Carter's breath came in short sobs, punctuated by gasps. His fingers were numb. Twice he dropped the pick but managed to catch it in the bloody palm of his hand. He worked the tool in the lock, all the while praying not to hear the sound of the Germans returning. His fogged mind could not connect the sound of gunfire and screams with anything relevant to his situation. The Germans were outside. They would come back. He had to escape.
The lock gave way. Impact with the ground jarred every bit of air from his lungs. Bright stars danced before his eyes as his body screamed in pain. His back and side burned like acid. Blessed unconsciousness called to him. Oh, so now it showed up when he didn't want it.
He had to get out. Had to get away. He crawled, inch by torturous inch, toward the door. His groping hand fell on something cold, metallic. He recognized the knife more by feel than by sight. The rubber grip settled into his palm like a familiar friend.
A dark shape moved between him and the exit. Carter sobbed and reared up onto his knees, brandishing his only weapon. More figures, little more than poorly defined silhouettes in the lanterns' light, moved into the barn.
"Stay away from me!"
The first figure stopped moving. Was it holding out its hands?
"Whoa! Carter, it's me--Colonel Hogan!"
Andrew blinked blood and dirt from his swollen eyes. The blurry forms around him took on vaguely familiar shapes. They looked like his commanding officer and his friends. Could he trust his injured senses or was it delusion? Had the torture driven him into madness?
"Andrew? Mon ami, we are here."
Carter's head bobbed in the general direction of the smallest shadow but he didn't lower the knife. It sounded like Louie, even looked like Louie, but how could he be sure? Did he dare take the risk?
No.
"You German son-of-a-bitch," Carter whispered to the closest apparition. "You won' hurt me any more. You w-won' force me to be-(gasp)-tray his friends. You won'."
Still horrified by the unmistakable evidence of rough torture on his friend's body, Robert Hogan read the fierce expression on Carter's battered face an instant before the knife turned inward. "No!"
The Colonel leaped forward and grabbed Carter's hands, pinning the bloody fingers to the rubber handle. The struggle lasted only a moment and was over before any of the others could intervene. Andrew had neither the strength nor the awareness to win the fight. He surrendered to unconsciousness even as Hogan wrestled the knifepoint away from Carter's chest.
"What just 'appened 'ere?" Peter Newkirk whispered as Kinchloe spread out the German officer's discarded coat and Hogan lowered Carter onto it. "Did our Andrew just try to--to--"
He swallowed despite an unbearably dry mouth and throat. He couldn't finish the thought, let alone the sentence.
Kinch stared down on his unconscious friend and said, "He'd rather kill himself than betray us."
"Why are you all so surprised by this?" LeBeau groused even as he tried very hard not to see the blood that covered his friend from crown to toe. This was definitely not the time to faint. "He does no more than we each would do for all others, yes?"
Newkirk knelt down and stared at the item that pierced Carter's left flank between the bottom rib and the peak of his hipbone. "What's that in his side? My God, it's a tine from a 'ayfork. The Kraut bastard skewered him straight through!"
Newkirk reached out, desperate to remove the abomination from his friend's body. Hogan caught his wrist, stilling the motion.
"No, leave it. It's plugging the wound. We'll bandage it as best we can to hold it in place until we can get him back to camp." Hogan hurried to put action to words, using scraps of Carter's shirt to augment their scant first aid supplies.
"You should not have killed the Bosch bastard so quickly, mon Colonél." LeBeau's jaw locked in hot rage. "He should have lived long enough for me to carve his skin from his bones with a dull butter knife!"
"At the very least," Hogan agreed. He swept one hand in the direction of Carter's discarded tools. "Gather up everything. Be sure you get it all, including every scrap of cloth. We can't leave the Germans any clue as to what went on here," he eyed the puddle of blood on the floor and amended his command, "at least no more than we have to. Once you're finished, let's get the hell out of here. All that shooting may draw a patrol."
Peter Newkirk and Louie LeBeau gathered up all of Andrew's equipment, stuffing it into any spot in the discarded tool belt, along with what remained of his clothing. Ivan Kinchloe helped the Colonel lift their unconscious teammate off the filthy floor, wrap him in the coat, and settle his slight form across Hogan's broad right shoulder.
The two men shared a look heavy with anxiety—Carter had not reacted to the movement, not even with a weak groan.
Five minutes after the final shot, the commandoes exited the barn and vanished into the darkness of the woods.
HH
"Sir," Newkirk said as the party moved through the pre-dawn German forest, "I hate to be a wet blanket but . . . 'ow are we going to explain all this? He sure as 'ell can't come to roll call lookin' like death on a plate."
Hogan's voice was breathless beneath the unconscious man's inert weight. "Kinch. Run ahead . . . send an urgent message . . . to the nearest underground operatives. I need two or three men to meet me . . . ugh . . . 50 yards this side of the stump. They need to bring at least one club or stick . . . and either a switch or a dog whip. Tell them to hurry--the secrecy of our organization depends on it."
Kinch nodded and took off running.
The closer the group came to the camp, the smaller the item had to be to trip Hogan up. More than once during the nightmare trek, he'd stepped on a rock, fallen acorn, pinecone, or dry twig and almost wrenched his ankle. Twinges in his calves and knees warned that he'd be feeling the effects of the abuse for days to come. His arms, shoulders, and the small of his back had their own complaints to file.
The only thing they didn't run into, at least to that point, was a German patrol.
A hand from pressed against Hogan's back, steadying him as he staggered once more under his load. Hogan smiled his gratitude to LeBeau but could spare no breath for thanks.
"Newkirk." The Englishman trotted closer and leaned in to better hear Hogan's winded orders. "As soon as we get close . . . you and LeBeau get back to camp. Clean up. Get ready for roll call. I'll stay with Carter until the men from the Underground arrive. Lay out my uniform . . . and some wet towels. I'm going to have to make . . . a quick change. If I'm late . . . stall . . . as long as you can."
"Wot are you plannin', Gov'ner?"
Speaking with difficulty, Hogan replied in gasped segments. "Sergeant Carter made a rash . . . escape attempt last night . . . hoping to take advantage . . . of the confusion . . . surrounding the explosion. . . . He's going to be stopped . . . by local citizens . . . loyal to the Fatherland."
"Ahh," LeBeau nodded, "and these 'loyal citizens' will take out their wrath and frustration on the unfortunate American."
"We have to time this just right. . . . Carter's going to be missed at roll call. . . . Klink will send out . . . guards and dogs. They have to find them . . . in time to see what they think is Carter . . . being beaten to death."
"I will make certain they go where they are supposed to," LeBeau swore, "even if I have to trot ahead of them and sniff the ground like a silly little dog."
"I'll even draw them a bloomin' map," Newkirk said.
"But would the stupid Bosch be able to read it?"
Newkirk stopped, studied the land around them, and reported, "We're about 50 yards from the stump, Colonel."
Newkirk and LeBeau helped Hogan ease his unconscious burden to the ground and tucked the SS Captain's coat closer around his body. The Colonel, arms trembling with the night's emotions and exertions, propped himself against the trunk of a gnarly oak tree and held Carter against him, chest to chest, for body heat and comfort. Peter shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over the two men for additional warmth.
"Take off, you two," Hogan ordered.
Newkirk paused, his hand hovering over Carter bloody hair. Unable to find an uninjured area to touch, he finally withdrew the gesture and followed his French teammate toward the tunnel entrance. Within moments, the forest was silent except for the ever-present sounds of night insects and wind through the trees.
Hogan sat there, cradling Carter against him, and waited. Fever had a tight hold on the younger man, generating a false warmth beneath the shivers of infection, blood loss, and shock. Hogan tucked the coats tight around them both.
Left alone with his thoughts, the forest seemed blacker, more ominous. Shafts of moonlight were muted and tinged with gray. Shifting tree limbs became arms. Swaying trunks twisted themselves into bodies moving through the woods. The scrape of one branch against another or the passage of night-hunting ground animals became whispers of German soldiers.
I should never have let Carter go out alone. To hell with what London wanted, to hell with those bombs. Someone else could have gotten them further up their route. They weren't worth one ounce of this boy's blood. Hang in there, Andrew. Help is coming.
To the east the sky lightened, a muted blush of multi-toned violet against an otherwise purple-black sky blanketed by both clouds and stars.
Had Kinch been able to reach anyone in the Underground? Had the Americans' absence from Barracks Two been noticed by the guards? Were his men even now being interrogated? Hochstetter would be called. They would lose the dubious protection of the Geneva Convention, and that would mean--
Get hold of yourself, Rob. You're letting your imagination run away with you.
If the prisoners had already been noted missing, the woods would be swarming with German soldiers and dogs. Ivan, Louis, and Peter were safe enough. Kinch would find someone to respond in time.
Dawn was only minutes away. Damnit, where are they?
Freed of the need to concentrate on where he placed his next step, Hogan's mind automatically worked on a contingency plan. If the men from the Underground didn't show, would Colonel Klink--or more importantly, Major Hochstetter--believe Hogan if he claimed to have noticed Carter's absence and slipped out of camp himself in order to bring the boy back? He could say he found Carter after someone else had already worked him over and left him for dead.
No, that won't work. We're not dressed right. Black clothes, black loam on the skin, no identification, not even our dog tags. Even Klink wouldn't believe me. It has to be the Underground or nothing.
Using spit and a scrap of cloth, Hogan cleaned away the thickest part of the loam still on Carter's skin, being careful not to aggravate his injuries any more than absolutely necessary. What he couldn't wipe off, he hid under rubbings of dirt and mulch from the forest floor.
Someone moved through the woods, three gray figures coming closer with every step. Hogan snatched up the Luger and thumbed off the safety. Burdened with an unconscious Carter, he could neither run nor hide. Should the newcomers prove to be enemies, their only chance would be to take them out quickly.
Three men stepped out of the shadows. All had familiar faces and were dressed in civilian clothes. Two held clubs fashioned from a table leg and a wheel spoke. A whip dangled from a cord around the smallest man's wrist. All three knelt beside the Americans.
Hogan's gun arm slumped to the ground. The barrel of the weapon buried itself in forest mulch as through dragged down by an unbearable weight.
"It is I, Papa Bear. Albert Dietrich," said the man with the table leg club. "Frederich and Erik are with me."
"Thank God," Rob Hogan rasped as he reset the Luger's safety and laid it to one side. "I was beginning to think you'd never get here."
Dietrich, a Hammelburg barber and largest of the three men, replied, "We had to dodge a checkpoint on the road. The explosion has upset them. Your man--he is hurt? Your transmission did not ask for a Doktor."
Hogan pushed away Newkirk's jacket and the German's coat then pulled scraps of cloth turned makeshift bandages from Carter's back. The man in his arms didn't move, even when the material broke partially clotted blood and opened up fresh rivulets. The material glowed red with blood. In the indirect glow of pre-dawn, bruises darkened and swelling intensified. His injuries looked lethal.
"Got in Himmel," Dietrich gasped.
The local butcher, Frederick Schleig, swallowed his discomfort and asked, "What do you ask of us, Colonel?"
"I need you to take responsibility for these injuries when the guards and dogs find you. I need it to look like you three took it upon yourselves to patrol the woods because of last night's explosions. You happened across an escaping prisoner and decided to beat him down."
All three men fell back.
"Nein! You cannot be serious! I could not possibly claim to do something this . . . this . . . horrific!"
Hogan eyed the mustard glow now clearly visible on the eastern sky. Rosy hints of sunlight painted the edges of the more distant clouds.
"Look, Dietrich, I don't have time to argue with you. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get back inside, clean up, and appear for roll call. Unless you can pull off your part, our operation is finished. No more Papa Bear. No more Underground. No more way out for hundreds, maybe thousands of Allied soldiers and German nationals who hope to escape this madness. No more messages to or supplies from London. No more anything."
Erik Rugart motioned toward Carter and asked, "But why must we-"
"He's been beaten, whipped to strips, and stabbed with a hayfork tine. These aren't the kind of injuries we can explain away with a barracks brawl. Either you claim to do it or our entire operation becomes suspect. Dietrich? Rugart? Schleig? Can you do this?"
The three Germans stared at each other. Hogan wanted to scream but managed to hold his tongue. The three at last nodded to one another and turned back to the Americans.
"Very well."
Hogan slumped with relief. The second-hardest task was done. Now all he had to do was get back to camp and wait for others to do their part. Waiting would be the hardest task of all.