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.
NOTE TO CARTERFAN: I thought to go to you for a check of the German in this section, but your posts are anonymous...bummer! Could you email me any corrections? Before I post the final version to the Stalag 13 website, I'd like to fix any mistakes. Thank you!
Chapter 10
Hans Schultz counted three times. The result was the same. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.
Who was missing? The little Frenchman, LeBeau, bounced from foot to foot as though he stood on burning coals from his cooking stove. The Englander, Newkirk, could not stand still, either, rocking on the balls of his feet, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The big American, Kinchloe, stood quietly but still, somehow, Schultz felt he was anxious to move as well. All three showed signs of a brisk face wash, including hair still glistening with drops of water. Hogan--
"Where is Colonel Hogan?"
"Oh, he's, uh," Newkirk said in a most flip, almost sugary sweet voice, "well, you know the gov'ner, Schultzie."
LeBeau leaned forward as though revealing a terrible secret and said, "He likes to sleep late, you know. He is a man who enjoys his comforts, limited as they are. He could almost pass as a Frenchman, don't you think?"
Sergeant Schultz shook his head hard enough to jiggle his double chin. "He cannot sleep through roll call. He knows this. I know this! I must-"
The barracks door snapped open ahead of the camp's senior POW officer. Hogan's hair stood up in all directions, tiny black spikes glistening with water. His face was flushed and his breaths came hard and deep. The Colonel slipped a second arm into his bomber jacket as the door closed behind him.
Even as Schultz slumped in relief, he noted the expressions of the enlisted men, those from Barracks Two most especially. Anxious. Begging for information? Comfort? Reassurance? Help? What question did they ask with their eyes?
Whatever the problem, a small nod from the senior officer answered their question.
"All present and accounted for, Sergeant," Hogan said in his most no-nonsense officer's voice. The American slipped into his customary place in line and snapped off a perfect salute. "Carry on."
"Yes, sir." Schultz was halfway turned to report just that to Kommandant Klink when the impropriety of the situation dawned on him. He turned back to Hogan, glared at him with a half-hurt expression, and muttered, "Jolly joker."
Colonel Hogan shrugged. A tiny smile raised the corner of his mouth, yet something was missing from the teasing--a light of humor in the American's eyes, perhaps. Something was very wrong.
Hogan shrugged. "Just thought I'd help."
Sergeant Schultz moved back to the corner of the formation and counted again, pointing to each man and muttering a number until--still one short.
"Colonel Hogan-"
Kommandant Klink strode out of his office, riding crop tucked under one arm, monocle firmly in place. Boot heels echoing off the wooden porch, he called out, "Schultz, repooort!"
The big man swallowed twice. He silently begged Hogan for a way out. When no help came, he turned most reluctantly back toward his commanding officer.
"Sir. Kommandant Klink. I beg to report that . . . I mean . . . there is one prisoner missing."
"Very we--" Klink blinked like a startled owl. The monocle dropped from his face to dangle at the end of its tether. "What did you say?"
"One prisoner is missing from roll call. There were two missing, but Colonel Hogan came out late so now there is only one." Schultz looked to Hogan and added, "He is maybe still sleeping in, too?"
"Who?"
"Sir?"
Klink waved the crop handle in the air beneath the big Sergeant's nose. "Schultz, don't be a bigger idiot than you have to be. Who is the missing prisoner?"
Colonel Hogan spoke up from his place in line. "It's Sergeant Carter, sir. He must've used last night's explosions as a diversion."
"Sound the alarm! Let loose the dogs! Find him, Schultz!"
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant! All prisoners back to the barracks! Raus!"
Hans Schultz would later wonder why the other prisoners were so quick to obey his order. Under normal circumstances, they would have dallied and stalled to buy their friend time to get further away. Instead, they practically ran for their individual barracks. Within thirty seconds of the first siren wail, only uniformed Luftwaffe guards stood in the compound.
"Psssst, Schultz."
Sgt. Schultz followed the hissed voice. Louis LeBeau stood in the partially open door to Barracks Two. Though he needed to get the search teams moving, curiosity made the German Sergeant of the Guard step closer to the little Frenchman.
"What is it, LeBeau? I am in a hurry."
"I know." LeBeau looked around as though seeking anyone who might be eavesdropping on them. His voice softened even more. "Listen. I heard Carter say something about heading toward the river. I think he means to use it to find his way north."
Eying him with suspicion, Schultz asked, "Why are you telling me this? Don't you want him to get away? I thought Sergeant Carter was your friend."
"He is my friend, Schultz. That's why I'm telling you. Carter is an idiot. A loveable idiot, but an idiot nevertheless." Inside, Louis apologized to his injured friend. "He wouldn't know north from a stick in the sand, river or no river. With his luck, he'll end up at the gates to Berchtesgaden. No, no. He is far safer back here, where he has friends to look after him."
"Ahhh. I understand. Thank you, LeBeau. I will concentrate my search near the river."
After dispersing the other search teams, Schultz personally led a team of four men and two dogs south of the camp, in the direction of the river. Within minutes, the dogs whined and strained as they picked up the scent.
They heard voices raised in anger. Hurrying their pace as much as they could, considering Sgt. Schultz's great bulk, the search party stepped through the trees and stumbled upon the sight of three men surrounding and hitting a form stretched out on the ground.
"Weg! Rückseite weg von ihm! Was tun sie? (Away! Back away from him! What are you doing?)"
"This American was escaping." It took a moment for Schultz to recognize the speaker as Frederick Schleig, the butcher from Hammelburg.
"Herr Schleig? Herr Dietrich, Herr Rugart! What are you doing here?"
"Someone must patrol when saboteurs strike. We must protect our homes and families from American filth!"
A tiny sigh, the weakest groan, from the naked form huddled on the ground brought the sergeant's attention back to business. The rags that had once been the American's clothes lay around him in bloody clumps, torn and cast aside even as he'd been beaten to the ground.
Schultz waved the three townsmen away.
"Go home. All of you. I do not want to see you around this camp again, is that clear?"
Trusting his men to see the three away from the scene, Hans Schultz lowered his oversized form onto one knee and stared down at the unconscious American. He hissed at the sight of the metal rod that impaled Carter's left side.
"Ohhh, Carter," Schultz crooned in sympathy. "What could you possibly have been thinking?" He turned to the nearest soldier, a corporal. "Gehen sie zum lager zurück. Rufen sie den Doktor sofort zusammen. Hast! (Return to camp. Summon the doctor at once. Hurry!)"
Schultz shrugged out of his great coat and swathed the unconscious man in its voluminous folds. The material wrapped twice around Carter, cocooning him in its folds. With a care most often expressed between a father and a newborn child, Hans Schultz knelt down, gathered Andrew Carter into his arms, and carried him back to camp.