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.
Chapter 12
None of the POWs gathered in the exercise yard or clumped around the various barracks buildings noticed the bite of a chill northeast wind that sprang up shortly after lunch. Less than half of the 1,978 men had even bothered to visit the mess hall. Those few who did more often than not pushed their potatoes or sauerkraut around on their plates or picked their bread to pieces and left crumbs for the birds. Trash, dead leaves, and puffs of dust swirled from once fenced border to another.
A few men tried to look busy, dragging rakes or hoes around shrubbery or flowerbeds, only to have the wind undo their every effort. Their attempts were half-hearted at best and only added to the overall air of gloom.
Silence, fueled by an oppressive sense of breathless waiting, lay over Luft Stalag 13. The guards, each and every one of them unnerved by the uncharacteristically solemn prisoners, patrolled with extra vigilance. The dogs lay despondent in their kennels, whimpering occasionally as they picked up on the somber atmosphere. More than once, Schultz, who had yet to move from in front of the Kommandant's office, dabbed at his eyes with a large white handkerchief or blew his nose into its folds.
Despite the brisk breeze that snapped the swastika-decorated flag atop the Kommandant's office, the air felt heavy against the skin. Something pressed down on every shoulder and chased away any thoughts beyond standing the vigil.
Every half-hour since Schultz returned to camp with the injured prisoner, Kommandant Klink stepped out of his office and onto his covered porch. Riding crop firmly tucked under his arm, monocle in place, and cap perched at what was meant to be a rakish angle over his right eye, he would study the camp, in particular the clump of POWs from Barracks Two who had stationed themselves directly in front of the infirmary. Twice, he ordered a change to the camp's guard rotation, adding extra men to each of the towers and doubling up the gate guards, but otherwise did no more than watch the Allied servicemen who waited for news.
Robert Hogan paced back and forth in front of a short bench with on one broken leg that leaned against the outside wall of the camp's hospital. He pushed back the cuff of his bomber jacket and eyed his watch: 1548 hours.
God, will this day ever end?
A better question to ask himself might be: did he really want it to, considering Andrew Carter's poor chances of survival?
Seated beside Ivan Kinchloe on a second bench on the far side of the door, Peter Newkirk spotted the time-check and asked, "How long 'as it been, Colonel?"
Hogan straightened his sleeves and resumed pacing, following a distinct trail in the tan dirt beneath his feet. "Ten minutes shy of six hours."
"Six hours!" Louis Le Beau hugged himself and fidgeted in place.
"The good news is," Kinch said with deliberate optimism, "he's hanging in there. As long as he's alive, there's hope."
"The bad news," Hogan countered with even stronger pessimism, "is it's been six damn hours since the doc threw us out to start the operation. My God, Carter's condition is so critical, the doctor couldn't even wait for an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital." Hogan jabbed a flat-palmed hand toward the infirmary door. "He's called for blood donors nine times!"
"Carter's young, sir, an' strong," Newkirk said, his Cockney accent thickened with emotion. "If our Andrew can survive nearly blowin' 'imself up a 'undred times with that 'omemade chemistry set of his, the lad's not about to let some ruddy ol' Kraut take 'im down."
The other Barracks Two men murmured their agreements, some more convincingly than others.
"I'm trying very hard to believe that," Hogan whispered. He looked at his watch again and sighed. "Six hours."
A particularly strong blast of wind caught Hogan's crush cap and sent it flying straight at LeBeau's face. The French chef caught the hat, tried to smile, and handed it back. Hogan set it back on his head and pulled it tight down over his crown. The senior POW, his skin pimpled with goose bumps and reddened by the chill, turned his back to the wind and hunkered deeper into his jacket.
Kinch eyed the roiling, gunmetal gray clouds overhead. "That storm front London warned us about is almost here. Looks like it might have some snow in it."
"I don't care if there's a blizzard. I'm not moving from this spot until we know about Carter." Hogan's entire body braced as though expecting a blow. "One way or another."
The men were silent for some five minutes before Kinch muttered, "Uh oh. Trouble."
In the corner of his eye, Hogan caught a change in the black Sergeant--a shift in posture and a dawn of concern on his face. Focusing his attention, the Colonel followed Kinchloe's line of sight. He turned in time to see a black staff car decorated with the double-lightning bolt fender flags of the SS pull through the second gate and slide to a gravel-tossing stop in front of Klink's office.
Sergeant Schultz stuffed his handkerchief back into his coat pocket and disappeared into the building, presumably to alert the Kommandant to the new arrival.
Newkirk spit on the ground and groused, "Bloody 'ell, looks like ol' Hochstetter's back again. Still playin' his silly little games."
"Damnit," Hogan muttered as the Barracks Two men and some of the other prisoners moved to stand behind him in an impromptu show of solidarity, "let him play in someone else's yard."
The driver stepped out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. Major Wolfgang Hochstetter slid out of the vehicle and immediately sought Hogan in the hundreds of Allied prisons. He found the senior POW in front of the infirmary, standing with legs braced wide apart, arms crossed over his chest, and head held high. At his back, some two dozen men watched the new arrival with varying expressions of concern or loathing.
Hochstetter sneered at their display of support, his expression one of unmistakable contempt. He could not see beyond the threadbare clothing and prisoner status to the fighting men beneath.
The two men locked eyes. The German Gestapo officer's expression morphed into one of zealous, almost maniacal anticipation. Hogan returned it with a combination of hatred, cold defiance, and scorn.
"Doesn't he have anything better to do," Kinch sighed, "than to chase after us? I can hear him now, ranting at the top of his voice and blaming everyone from the lowliest cook in the kitchen to Colonel Hogan for the destruction of the way station."
"He will want to question Carter," LeBeau warned as the first fat snowflakes drifted downward, "especially if they've found their missing patrol."
Hogan's voice lowered to a guttural growl. His fingers tightened into white-knuckled, trembling fists.
"If he gets within ten feet of that boy," Hogan vowed, "it'll be over my dead body."