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 16
Colonel Robert Hogan stood at the foot of the bunk that hid the entrance to Barracks Two's secret tunnel. He wanted to stand in his usual arms-folded-across-his-chest posture, but the pull of his jacket across his back made it too uncomfortable. Now that he'd been reminded of the injury, it burned and stung out of all proportion to the actual damage.
Judging by their disapproving stares, his decision to put off having it treated until after Olsen and his men left through the exit tunnel wasn't sitting well with either Kinchloe or Newkirk.
"You have everything you need?"
"Yes, sir," Olsen answered for his team, giving the pack in his arms a gentle pat. He, like the three men behind him, were dressed in black, from their knit caps down to their fur-lined boots. Every bit of bare skin, metal, or leather had been blackened to prevent reflection. Olsen and Anderssen carried backpacks of explosives. Furberg and Rivera carried the more powerful weapons and would act as sentries for the other half of the team. "We're all set."
A worry line deepened between Hogan's eyebrows, a sure sign of his deep concern. "And the map? Are you sure you can find the place quickly? It's not too late to send Kinch, LeBeau, or Newkirk with you."
Olsen shared a grin with the other men before turning back to his commanding officer. "Sir, we'll be fine. It's not that far from here, actually, and your directions are spot on. We'll find it without any trouble."
Recognizing the mother hen in him trying to come out, the Colonel visibly withdrew his more obvious concerns. "Fine. Just remember. Set it to blow after you get back to camp. I don't want anything to give Hochstetter the slightest hint that we had anything to do with it."
"We understand, Colonel," The black-haired, fair-faced young non-com said. "Don't worry. We'll get it done and be back in plenty of time."
Hogan slapped Olsen's shoulder, did his best to smile in support, and said, "Off you go, then. Godspeed."
The four men disappeared down into the tunnel. Hogan stood at the open entrance, listening to their progress down the earthen passage until Newkirk deliberately slapped the panel that lowered the bunk back into place.
Kinch pulled a large white first aid kit from beneath the pillow of his own bunk and asked, "Now can I treat your back?"
"Now," Hogan answered as he moved into his own quarters, "yes."
"I don't understand why you put it off this long." Newkirk shook his head even as he accepted Hogan's jacket and folded it inside-out to keep the sticky blood from spreading around the inside lining. It needed to be replaced, but Louis could do that--after Newkirk removed the old liner. Having a tailor who fainted at the first sign of blood could sometimes be an inconvenience. "Don't make no sense a'toll."
"It does when you're an officer," Kinch answered for the Colonel, who was too busy sucking in a pain-laced breath.
The shreds of his shirt pulled painfully at the edges of the shallow wound. A damp towel moistened the cloth and loosened the dried blood. Even so, removing the shirt proved to be a painful chore for Hogan, even with Kinch's help. Newkirk accepted the shirt, balled it up, and tossed it onto the seat of the room's only chair, over the back of which hung the inside-out bomber jacket.
"What's bein' a bleedin' officer got to do with anythin'!" the Englishman asked.
Hogan pulled a deep breath through his nose, held it, then released it, along with his pain, in one hard breath. "It has everything to do with it."
Kinch shook his head and carried the thought one step further, "He can't show weakness in front of his troops."
"That's barmy, that is! He's human, same as we are. Seein' you hurt won't make no nevermind to the rest of us."
"Not to you, maybe," Hogan said, his voice tight with discomfort, "but to some of the others, I have to be larger than life. Only a--nngh--superman can hope to lead this operation. They ha--have to see me that way or their fear will take hold, drive them to do something rash ... something that could bring everything down around our heads."
"Well, I suppose I can see it ... from that angle. But still, I can't 'elp not likin' it when you let yourself go like this. That can't be good, either."
Hogan gave him an irritated glower. "I admit it hurts like hell, but it's not like I'm bleeding to death here."
"Maybe not," Kinch said as he used the moistened towel to wipe old blood from around the injury, "but you do run the risk of a serious infection. In these conditions, that can be just as deadly as a bullet wound. There's a chance of that, here. The edges are already red and hot."
"Nag, nag, nag. We've got enough penicillin down in the tunnel to get me through, no problem. Just do what you need to do so I can get back to the infirmary to relieve LeBeau. I don't trust Hochstetter to stay away if he notices I'm not there."
"Hochstetter's not here," Newkirk reported. "I saw him drivin' out the gates while you were briefin' Olsen."
"Not here? Where would he go? He thinks all the answers are in this camp. Why would he leave unle-"
A single, deliberate dab of an alcohol-soaked gauze pad to the wound itself brought Hogan to his feet, his spine arching away from the fire in his own skin. He bit down hard on an instinctive cry of pain.
"Damnit, Sergeant!"
Kinch arched an eyebrow at his superior officer. "I take it I've made my point."
"Make your point without killing me, will ya?" was the closest Robert Hogan would come to admitting anything.
A bare hint of a smile touched Kinchloe's face. "It's just a little alcohol. Don't be such a baby."
Newkirk smirked at the Colonel and said, "An' 'ere you thought you 'ad the men's respect, sir. Just goes to show sometimes, dunnit?"
HH
Sergeant Brian Olsen stared around the barn, its interior dimly lit by a single, shielded flashlight. His mind's eye easily saw the horrors that had happened there less than 24 hours earlier. The three dead German bodies in the yard and the pockmarks of bullet holes in the outer walls testified to the fierceness of the firefight between Hogan's men and the Gestapo. Inside the building, dangling hooks, scraps of cloth, and puddles of blood spoke of a different kind of battle.
Like many others in Stalag 13, Olsen had formed a snap opinion of Andrew Carter, one not initially flattering to the sergeant from Bullfrog, North Dakota. In the months since, seeing Andrew blossom under Hogan's patient encouragement, Olsen's opinion had altered somewhat, but he still sometimes thought of Carter more as a liability than an asset.
After seeing what the sergeant had endured without saying a single word ... Olsen decided then and there, his opinion about Andrew Carter would change again, and he'd never let anyone speak ill against him in future.
When Hogan had placed the task of destroying the barn in his hands, Brian Olsen's first impulse was to panic. He was not the most experienced explosives expert in the camp. Even Carter far outstripped him in ordnance knowledge and experience. Olsen was the camp's "outside man"--his skills were more in line with undercover work. If the cover he was under should just happen to include a pretty fraulein, so much the better.
His second thought was one of pride: Colonel Hogan trusted him with something this important. He would do his commander proud.
Standing there in the barn, he studied the structure with an eye for its destruction. It would not take much to bring the building crashing down. In truth, it was somewhat of a surprise that it still stood at all. Between age, weather, damp and dry rot, and burrowing insects, it would take very little to collapse the walls and bring down the rafters. The trick would be to employ enough incendiary to make certain all evidence of Carter's interrogation was destroyed.
"Sarge!" Corporal Todd Anderssen leaned in the barn door, "car headlights on the road. Sounds like it may be coming this way."
"Damn. Anderssen, Furberg, drag those bodies in here, quick! Rivera, take up position on the other side of the road. Be ready to cover us if we have to make a run for it. I'll set the last charges."
Todd Anderssen and Evan Furberg, their faces covered with kerchiefs, dragged one body each into the barn. Olsen gagged against the ripening smell but continued connecting wires to the explosives, alternating between dynamite and incendiary packets. By the time Corporal Furburg pulled in the final body and Anderssen emptied two cans of kerosene around the room, Olsen had only to set the timer for the job to be finished.
A car engine approached, accompanied by the squeak and creak of a vehicle's suspension as it battled a rough, pot-holed road.
As Olsen and two of his men watched, hidden in the darkness of the old barn, their luck went from bad to worse. A black staff car trundled into the overgrown yard, familiar flags on its front bumpers. The rear passenger door opened, and a single German officer stepped out.
Wolfgang Hochstetter.