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: My apologies for the delay in posting the next chapter. My computer monitor died. I had this chapter written but I couldn't get to the file!!! Had to wait for payday...I hope it is worth the wait.
Chapter 11
Kommandant Wilhelm Klink could not believe his own eyes. From the shaded porch in front of his office, he watched his Sergeant of the Guard return to camp. Behind him, the other men from the search parties returned in groups of three to five men. Two dog handlers cut away from their respective teams, headed for the kennels. Their dogs whined and strained at the leash, protesting being returned to the fenced pens until a sharp command from each handler settled them down.
All perfectly ordinary, unworthy of note. What made Klink's jaw sag and his eyes bulge was the battered, bloody form draped across the big Sergeant's arms. Even half-hidden in the voluptuous folds of Schultz's coat, Klink could see extensive injuries. The boy's face was unrecognizable beneath the swelling, bruises, and blood. Was the American even still alive?
The big Sergeant, his face red with strain and bathed in sweat, stumbled to a stop in front of Kommandant Klink. Exhausted to the point of lightheadedness, Schultz wobbled in place like a tree threatening to topple over. Only by bracing his feet wide apart was he able to stop the teeter-totter motion.
Klink held out both hands and waved them at the unconscious prisoner in a what-is-this gesture.
"Schultz, what--who did this to him? You?"
"Me!" Hans Schultz answered. Though his voice was a bare whisper due to serious lack of breath, his horror at the mere thought could not be misinterpreted. "Nein! Nein, Herr Kommandant! I could never do such a thing!"
"Was it one or more of the other guards? No? Then who-"
"Sir, I saw three figures, men in civilian clothes, running from the scene." True enough, Schultz thought to himself. I did see them running away. I will simply not mention talking to them beforehand. "I believe citizens from the area caught him away from camp and-"
Klink shivered like a dog shedding rainwater. He waved Schultz toward a small, windowless building four structures down from his office--the camp infirmary.
"You can give me a more detailed report later. The doctor has been called. In the meantime, take him to the infirmary hut. Corporal Gephardt, get someone to start treating this man's injuries. I believe Sergeant Wilson acts as camp medic for the prisoners. Send him to the infirmary hut then bring Colonel Hogan to my office."
His arms filled with Andrew Carter's unconscious body, Hans Schultz could not salute, but he did nod, mumble a hasty acknowledgement, then shuffled off toward the infirmary building. The big man huffed and wheezed the entire way but refused to pass his burden to anyone else, even when several of his men made the offer.
Corporal Gephardt saluted and trotted over to Barracks Five on the first of his two assigned errands.
HH
Colonel Robert Hogan slipped through the door into Klink's office even before Corporal Gephardt had it halfway open.
"You asked to see me, Sir?"
"Not 'asked,' Hogan. When will you understand that--ohhhhhh, never mind." Klink sank down into his chair with a resigned sigh. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "You will continue to act as you see fit, no matter what I say to the contrary."
Standing before the desk, Colonel Robert Hogan twisted his crush cap between his hands until the material squeaked in protest. He shuffled from one foot to the other and back again. Klink had never seen the senior prisoner so pale or his eyes so haunted.
"Sir, I saw Schultz coming back. Andrew--Sergeant Carter--is he-"
Klink did not know how to respond to a Colonel Hogan too choked up with emotion to finish a sentence. Hogan was never at a loss for words--the man could talk the Devil himself into buying a furnace. As Kommandant of Stalag 13 and a loyal German officer of the old Prussian school, he really should not comfort an enemy, but the raw fear in the American's eyes stirred Klink's sense of compassion.
"He was alive when Sergeant Schultz reached camp. Though I have no details, I can say that his injuries are serious enough that I have summoned a doctor. Your own Sergeant Wilson is with him now."
There, he had said the words that would comfort but delivered them in such as way as to be nothing more than basic information. Not words for comfort's sake alone.
"But he's alive." The tone of Hogan's voice practically begged for reassurance.
"For the time being. As for the future, who can say?" Klink shifted in his chair. Wooden slats popped and creaked. Klink grappled for the right words, the right blend of compassionate human being and strict disciplinarian. "Colonel Hogan. You realize, I trust, there will be repercussions from this misadventure. If he survives," Klink noted the way Hogan shrank away at that statement and, hard as it was to believe, paled several more shades, "he will face severe punishment for his attempt at escape."
"Yes, sir." Hogan seemed unnaturally fascinated by the play of early morning sunlight reflecting off the silver decoration on Klink's World War I pikelhaube. "That's understood."
"However," Klink continued, "given the extent of his injuries, I have decided to hold off on implementation of his punishment until such time as he is capable of understanding its cause and significance. Confinement to the cooler for two months on half-rations would mean little to an unconscious man."
Hogan swallowed twice before finally answering, "That's generous of you, Kommandant. On behalf of Sergeant Carter, thank you."
The Kommandant wagged a warning finger in the air between them.
"Don't thank me yet, Colonel Hogan," he said. "His punishment will not be a pleasant one. Not only did he attempt an escape from a luft stalag famous throughout Germany as being escape-proof, he managed to entice local civilians into an act of violence."
Klink regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.
Hogan's attention latched onto Klink with a vice-like grip. "Local civilians, Sir?"
"That's not important," Klink said and hurried onto the next topic with almost panicked haste. "Due to the circumstances, that being Sergeant Carter's very serious condition, I hereby give permission for one person from Barracks Two to be at his bedside at all times until the doctor deems him out of danger. There will, naturally, be guards posted both in and around the infirmary during his confinement. I will not have a repeat of this incident. I will leave the scheduling of the bedside vigil in your hands."
"Understood. Thank you, Kommandant."
When someone knocked on the office door, Klink called, "Come."
The door opened. Schultz, his face still alarmingly red, stepped in. His salute, while militarily correct, lacked a definite snap and polish.
"Herr Kommandant. Sergeant Carter has been moved to the infirmary as you ordered. Sergeant Wilson is with him, as is the doctor."
"Thank you, Schultz. I have given permission for one person at a time to sit vigil at his bedside. See to a posting of at least two guards, with at least one in the room with the patient at all times."
"Yes, Herr Kommandant."
"With your permission, Colonel," Hogan said.
Before Klink could object, the American officer had vanished through the door.