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.
A/N: To borrow a quote from my favorite Sawyer Brown song: "And the race is on..."
Chapter 18
Robert Hogan smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the blanket. His hands tingled, reddened from ceaseless hours spent wringing out and applying ice-chilled rags to every unbandaged bit of Carter's skin he could find. Despite antibiotics and cold compresses, Andrew Carter's fever continued to climb. More than once, Dr. Freiling threatened to have him removed to the hospital despite the risk such movement entailed. Only Klink's reminder of the worsening weather prevented the doctor from doing precisely that.
You're so still, Carter, Hogan thought to his unconscious friend. That just isn't natural. You NEVER stop moving. You're always wiggling, even in your sleep. Drives Newkirk nuts, the way you're always making the bunk frame jerk and twitch. Won't you wake up for me, Andrew? Just for a second? Let me know you're still with us? Do these compresses feel good against your skin because of the fever or bad because they're so cold? Let me know, okay? I'll do anything you want if you'll just wake up for me.
"Any change?"
Absorbed in rote movements and internal monologue, Colonel Hogan did not hear the door open or notice the cold draft. Clad in his heavy winter coat, Colonel Klink paused at the foot of the bed to pull off his gloves and look down at its comatose occupant. Behind him, Sergeant Schultz took up a watch station close to one of the stoves.
Hogan noted the shadows beneath Klink's eyes and the deep lines of worry in each outer corner.
Looks like our beloved Kommandant isn't sleeping any better than the rest of us tonight.
"No, sir. No change," Hogan answered.
To remain awake and busy if nothing else, Hogan removed the rolled towel from Carter's throat, dipped it in the chilled water, wrung it out, and tucked it back in place. A sharp, cold burn replaced the prickly numbness in his fingers.
A distant rumble roused him from the mechanical movement. Klink sighed. His shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug.
"Oh, no. Not again."
Hogan blinked exhaustion from his eyes as Klink opened the door of the infirmary. Over his shoulder, Hogan saw a prematurely light horizon. Klink closed the door and turned back toward the bed. A brief swirl of chilled air laden with snowflakes moved around the room until the output of the stoves drove it away.
"At least I can tell Major Hochsetter that beyond any doubt, you are not responsible for this disaster."
"Beyond any doubt, sir," Hogan answered, even as he surreptitiously studied his watch.
The blast is way too early. They couldn't possibly be back yet. Something's gone wrong.
HH
The gentle brush of a snowflake against his closed eyelid roused Wolfgang Hochstetter. He lay there for a long moment, idly contemplating the pretty sight above him as first one fat flake then a dozen then more drifted down from the heavens. Their cold comforted, a perfect match for the chill in his heart.
"Major Hochstetter! Sir, please answer me."
The barn. Explosion.
"Schiller?"
Lieutenant Rupert Schiller knelt at Hochstetter's side. A layer of soot and blood failed to hide a wicked blister on his right cheek the size of a thumbprint. His uniform, particularly the right side of his black overcoat, showed close proximity to the heat of the blast. A particularly nasty burn marred the outer edge of the junior officer's right hand.
"Sir, are you hurt?"
"Stunned only, I think. Demmacht? Zimmer?"
"Both dead, sir."
Hochstetter held out his right arm, palm open. "Help me up."
Becoming vertical and staying that way proved a bit of a challenge. Waves of vertigo flowed over him, making it difficult to stand on his own. His eyes insisted on seeing three or more of every item. Aches and twitches in every joint protested any sort of movement. A particularly painful bruise on his left thigh--from forced impact with the hood of his car--kept the Major from placing his full weight on that leg. It did his pride no good having to rely on a subordinate in order to stay upright, but Hochstetter did so until he could lean against the fender of his car instead. Noting that the car sat lower than usual, he glanced down at the flat tire.
"Replace this tire, quick as you can, Schiller." Hochstetter worked his way to the other end of the car, leaving the junior officer room to work. "The men who did this must not escape me."
"Right away, Major."
While Schiller toiled away to replace the bullet-flattened tire, Major Hochstetter muttered to the enemy he envisioned in his mind. "This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. By car, I can reach the camp before you or your men have a chance to re-enter it by whatever diabolical means you may use to come and go undetected." Hochstetter waved a fist in the air and shouted, "Hogan, I have you now!"
"The tire is replaced, Major Hochstetter," Schiller called.
The Major slid into the back seat an instant before Schiller took the wheel. "Take me to Stalag 13, quick as you can."
HH
The snowstorm, having held off longer than anyone would have anticipated, moved back into the Hammelburg area some ten minutes after the barn exploded.
Four figures, their unrelenting black clothing rimmed with white frost, paused in the blackness beneath a spreading beech tree. In scattered clearings around them, pristine snow lay in ever-rising humps. Overhead, dense clouds blotted out any trace of moonlight, killing any chance they'd be spotted even as it concealed the ground from their eyes.
"Our luck's changing, boys," Evan Furberg said to his three teammates. His breath fogged the air in front of his face. "The trees cut down the wind and snow for us but piles it up for old Wolfgang and his car. Here's hoping it slows him up a bit."
"Can't rely on luck," Olsen rasped, "just fast feet and a sure sense of direction. In other words, stop talking and start running!"
HH
The black staff car, its distinctive fender flags frayed, frazzled and, in one case, half-burned away, battled wind, pot holes, and patches of ice. On three separate occasions, they were saved from a long night spent in a ditch by Schiller's skillful handling of the wheel. In the back seat, Hochstetter huddled beneath a lap throw and braced himself against the unpredictable wobbles and jumps. He did not protest the rough ride--if it got him to Stalag 13 before Hogan and his men, he would ride through the storm backwards on a donkey. Naked.
"Checkpoint ahead, Major."
Schiller pulled to a stop at the barricade and waited. And waited. Snowflakes fell faster, knocked from the front windshield by constantly moving wiper blades. A pleasant, yellow-orange light shone in the hut window. A figure moved around inside but no one appeared in the doorway. A tap of the horn drew no response.
Determined to rouse the guards' attention, Schiller lay on the horn until the unrelenting sound pulled the reluctant sentry from his stove-warmed shelter. The Gestapo Lieutenant didn't bother to put the car in park, leaving it to idle with his foot on the brake. The big black vehicle shuddered in place, its front grill nudging the reinforced wooden bar as though a racehorse rearing to escape onto the track.
Hochstetter rolled down the rear window and yelled toward the slowly moving guard. "Will you hurry up? I must get through!"
"Papers."
Hochstetter shoved his wringled, dog-eared identity and travel credentials from the inside pocket of his coat. A black-edged hole poked all the way through the trifolded document, a reminder of his brush with death back at the barn.
"I must verify these," the guard said. "Wait here."
"No, wait, I-"
The man vanished back into the hut before Hochstetter could protest. By the time the sentry appeared again, this time looking slightly more awake and respectful, the Gestapo Major had built up quite a head of steam. It took every ounce of his willpower to hold back the blistering tirade. He would save his ire for Colonel Hogan.
He shoved the papers back into his pocket, slapped the back of the driver's seat, and shouted, "Drive on!"
HH
The impact of a body against the ground sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent night.
"Ow. Ow ow ow damnit OW!"
Sergeant Brian Olsen staggered back a dozen feet until he reached his downed man. Todd Anderssen lay sprawled on the icy ground, his left boot caught in the branches of a downed tree limb. Five feet away, Evan Furberg leaned against a rock and sucked in desperately needed air. Bringing up the rear, Tony Rivera lurched to a stop, barely avoiding the same snow-submerged obstacle that had brought down his teammate.
"Todd?" Olsen knelt in the snow and touched Anderssen's shoulder. "Talk to me. How bad is it?"
"I twisted my ankle."
"Twisted, not broken?" At Anderssen's nod, Olsen reached out and snapped away the rotting limb. "We can't stop now. On your feet, soldier, keep going. We're almost there."
HH
In the dim glow of a single bare, low-watt bulb, the last in a line of similar lights, Ivan Kinchloe set the bucket of steaming hot water and a stack of thick towels on the small bench at the base of the tunnel entrance. Peter Newkirk did the same on the opposite bench, even as Louis LeBeau hung fresh uniforms for the four men from a metal pole braced between two of the support rafters.
"Well, that's all we can do," Kinch sighed. "The rest is up to Olsen, Anderssen, Rivera, and Furberg."
"The blast went off far ahead of schedule." LeBeau sighed and shook his head. "The Colonél will not be pleased."
"We don't know what happened out there," Kinch said. "We don't know what made them set off the charges."
"Yeah, yeah, Kinch, we know." Newkirk set a cigarette to his lips and lit the end. After a long drag on the precious tobacco, he went on, "An' as the Colonel 'imself might say, 'speculatin' about it won't do anyone any good.' Can't help it though, can we? 's just human nature."
"Either they get back before Hochstetter or Klink calls an inspection or they don't. Let's get topside again, in case something happens."
HH
Major Wolfgang Hochstetter rubbed at the frost that lined the right rear window in a vain attempt to sight a familiar landmark. "Schiller. How far are we from the camp?"
In the glow of their headlights, Lieutenant Schiller studied a milepost as it flashed momentarily into view. "Five minutes, Major Hochstetter."
Hochstetter leaned back in his seat and jacked a round into his Luger. "Make it three."
HH
Sergeant Hans Schultz entered Barracks 2, closing the door quickly to hold in the little warmth produced by the pot-bellied stove in the corner. A flick of a switch turned on the room's only overhead light. With an exaggerated tiptoe walk that sounded louder on the creaky old boards than normal steps, the guard moved over to a particular bunk and poked its blanket-covered lump with a pudgy finger.
"LeBeau. Come, little one, you must wake up now."
An inarticulate mumble came from the bulge beneath the army-drab cover. Schultz poked again, this time with two fingers hard enough to move the body.
"LeBeau. It is time for you to relieve Colonel Hogan."
Someone moved on a nearby bunk. "Hmm? Szzzhulz, zzzat'yew?"
"Yes, Newkirk. It is me. I must wake Corporal LeBeau. Colonel Hogan is very tired and needs to rest. Dr. Freiling says that Hogan has fallen asleep in the chair. He sends me to get one of you to take his place beside Carter in the infirmary."
Mention of their injured teammate's name triggered everyone in the room. Bodies rolled and heads rose on almost every bunk. Four lumps, however, remained unmoving.
Blinking against light from the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling, Kinch beat the others to ask their common question out loud, "How is he, Schultz? How's Carter doing?"
"As far as I can tell, he is the same," Schultz reported. Seeing the prisoners slump in dejection, he said, "I am sorry that I could not bring better news. At least he is no worse, yes?"
"Yes, Schultz. Thanks anyway."
LeBeau untangled himself from his blanket and swung his feet over the edge. A booted toe searched for and found a rung in the bunk's ladder.
"Why are you still in your clothes?" Schultz asked, eying LeBeau's attire with mounting dismay. "You are wearing a coat? Boots, too? Cockroach, you aren't up to anything ... funny ... are you?"
"No, Schultz. It's cold tonight. I'm warmer dressed this way. Now come on, I want to speak a moment with the Colonél before he comes back here to sleep."
Louis held the door open, letting the big German exit ahead of him. In the moments that Schultz's back was to them, LeBeau looked first at Olsen's padded bunk then at Kinchloe. All around the room, men shared worried glances. A vague shrug from Kinch told LeBeau to proceed as best he could. They could do little else.
Schultz escorted the Frenchman across the compound. Even as LeBeau laid his hand on the infirmary building's door latch, activity at the camp gates drew his attention. A searchlight beam from one of the guard towers pinpointed a black staff car as it rolled up to the fenced gates.
LeBeau opened the infirmary door wide enough to admit his head and called inside, "Mon Colonél, someone is here. I think it's Gestapo."
Hogan stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Together, with Schultz standing nearby, they watched the car pass through the checkpoint at the gate. Still spotlighted from the guard tower, the car rolled to a stop in front of Kommandant Klink's office. A single figure dressed in black emerged from the driver's side rear door. The new arrival limped up to the door and banged on the portal, demanding entry.
"It's Hochstetter alright," Hogan said. "Did you notice the way he was limping? Something's definitely happened to him tonight."
"His uniform was a mess, as well." Louis stamped his feet and blew into his hands to ward off the cold. He leaned in close enough to whisper, "Olsen's not back yet. This is bad. Very bad."
"Hochstetter's going to demand a roll call. Spread the word as you fall into formation. We need to stall as long as we can."
HH
Major Hochstetter slammed his fist against the closed door for the third time. He raised his fist to make a fourth attempt and almost hit Wilhelm Klink square on the nose. Only the Kommandant's frantic sidestep saved him from a painful blow to the face.
Colonel Klink squinted against the brightness of the spotlight that remained focused on the black staff car. "Major Hochstetter, what on earth are you doing here at this time of night?"
"Call out your guards, Klink. I want a special roll call."
"Now? But--Major, it's after midnight!" Klink blinked and stared at Hochstetter's scorched, ripped, and filthy uniform. "Your clothes--what has happened?"
"Call the roll, Klink. Now!"
Klink paused a moment, internally debating his options. Seeing none other than to do as the Gestapo requested, Klink reached back inside the door, took his coat off its hook, and followed Hochstetter into the prison yard.
"Schuuuuultz!"
Sergeant Schultz huffed over to them from the infirmary. "I am here, Herr Kommandant."
Hochstetter watched as Hogan and another of his men, the little French rat LeBeau, trailed along in the fat Sergeant's shadow.
"Schultz," Klink said, "rouse the guards for an unscheduled roll call."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz motioned to the appropriate men before he disappeared into Barracks Two, shouting, "Roll call! Everybody out! Raus!"
Hochstetter watched Hogan carefully as the senior POW slinked across the grounds to assume his customary spot in line. The French rat skittered further down the line, weaving in and out and elbowing his way between larger men.
"What's going on, Kommandant?" Hogan asked as he fell into place with his barracks mates. "Little late for a party, isn't it?"
"You look nervous, Colonel Hogan," Hochstetter gloated. "Are you by chance worried about something?"
"Now why on earth would I be worried about anything, Major Hochstetter?" Hogan glanced left and right, as though looking for a particular face in the growing crowd of poorly clad prisoners. "Other than the fact that one of my men is lying in the infirmary, badly injured, and the rest of them have been yanked from their nice, cold beds to stand in the freezing night air. No, nothing to worry about, nothing at all."
"Schultz," Klink, clad in his winter coat over red woolen pajamas, yawned into the back of his hand, "proceed with roll call."
Hochstetter never took his eyes off Hogan as the fat Sergeant moved down the line, counting prisoners and accepting results from the other barracks guards. The American was a hard one to read, but Hochstetter felt sure he saw worry in the way Hogan stood stiff-backed, arms locked across his chest, feet braced wide apart. The Major hardly noticed the way the prisoners shuffled and shifted, insulting the guards and miscounting aloud in order to foul up the tally.
Even with catcalls and diversions, Schultz soon called the report, "Herr Kommandant, including Sergeant Carter who is still in the infirmary, all prisoners are present and accounted for!"
"You are mistaken," Hochstetter insisted, his eyes never leaving Hogan's position at the end of Barracks Two's formation. Was that an expression of surprise on the American officer's face? Surprise at what? "Count again."
Schultz blinked and said, "Major?"
"You heard me. Count again!"
Sergeant Schultz turned to Klink, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, the Kommandant motioned for him to do as the Gestapo officer commanded. Schultz heaved a sigh strong enough to blow away the snowflakes in front of his face and proceeded to count the prisoners again.
"All present and accounted for."
"That cannot be!" Hochstetter protested. "There should be four men missing! There must be four men missing!"
"Obviously, Major Hochstetter," Klink said, "there is not. Now can I send these men back to their barracks? Most of them are not dressed for this cold. I know for a fact that I am not!"
The Gestapo officer stormed up to Hogan and waved a fist beneath his nose. The effect lost some of its energy due to his unsteady, limping gait.
"How did you do it? How could you possibly have pulled off this sabotage?"
"Obviously," Hogan answered, "we didn't."
"You did. I know it. Here, in the pit of my stomach. I feel it!"
With false solicitude, Hogan suggested, "Maybe you ate something that didn't agree with you. That happens sometimes."
A whisper from the crowd of prisoners muttered in a decidedly French accent, "Especially with German food."
"Major Hochstetter," Klink said, "you have asked for a special roll call. I have done so. All prisoners are present and accounted for. Now please, I must insist that you either produce evidence to support your theories or I will dismiss the prisoners back to their barracks."
"You are a fool, Klink!"
"Perhaps you are right," Klink replied with a touch of unaccustomed steel in his voice, "but at the moment, I am a half-frozen fool who intends to return to the warmth of his quarters the instant this assembly is DISSSSS-MISSED!"
Hochstetter could only stand and watch as the prisoners broke rank and returned to their individual barracks. As Hogan slapped the back of a dark-haired young man with Sergeant's stripes on his jacket sleeve and vanished into Barracks 2, he offered the stunned Major a two-fingered salute before pointedly closing the door.
"BAH!"