"Carter?" Newkirk's voice carried a sharp edge of worry. It was an edge of worry bordering on panic. "Carter?" Disturbed by something in Newkirk's voice, Hogan turned to face the Englishman. Newkirk was squatted beside Carter, hand on his shoulder, trying to shake the young American gently awake.
"Newkirk?" Hogan questioned softly.
"I thought I 'eard something and turned to look. I wasn't turned away for more than a minute…" Newkirk's voice trailed off a little as he turned back to Carter, this time reaching up a hand to lightly slap a cheek. "Come on, mate, wake up."
Carter responded by turning and depositing his supper on the forest floor. Newkirk, lucky enough to be on Carter's other side, reached out to grab Carter's other shoulder to stop him from falling face first onto the ground. "Easy now," Newkirk said, that edge of panic dulling a little. But only a little.
"We'll move out as soon as he's done," Hogan declared. "We don't want him falling asleep again." It was a tough decision to make. The other airman had unknown injuries and Hogan knew enough first aid to know that transporting him, no matter how gentle they tried to be, could make some of the injuries worse. But Carter, who had already proved willing to risk his life for a stranger, was a known member of the group. And the only way he would stay awake was if they kept moving. And that meant moving the other man.
All but the worst of the stranger's wounds seemed to have clotted, and only the worst ones were still leaking blood through the makeshift bandages. Aside from wrapping another layer of torn cloth around them, there was nothing more that they could do for him, except to get him back to the camp where their medics could take a look at him or Hogan could convince Klink to send for a doctor. It was unfortunate that the night had gone the way it had; if things had been different, the airman could have been back on his way to England within a matter of days.
When the sounds of retching had died down, Hogan asked quietly, "How are you doing, Carter?"
He only got a low moan as an answer. The night wasn't looking up. "We're going to walk for a little while longer, mate," Newkirk explained, his voice falsely cheerful. "Let me 'elp you up."
Carter didn't help Newkirk at all as he was hauled unceremoniously to his feet. Pale and shaking, the sergeant looked absolutely miserable. And he was rapidly getting worse. When they had started out back at the bridge, he had been able to converse easily and walk unsupported. Now, he was barely coherent and couldn't seem to get his feet beneath him.
Hogan scooped the dead weight of his own injured man up into his arms. His muscles were still protesting from the last leg of the journey. But they didn't have the materials to make a carry, so they would have to make do with what they had. And that was nothing but themselves. Newkirk was practically carrying Carter, but as Newkirk was still trying to keep Carter on his feet, it couldn't be comfortable for either of the two men. With that not-so-cheery thought in mind to bolster him, Hogan picked up his own burden and trudged off into the forest, trailing behind Newkirk and Carter for once. Usually he led the way, but with his arms full, it was difficult to forge a track through the forest. Newkirk had the advantage of being able to free at least one of his arms from time to time.
They got about ten steps from their last position before Carter and Newkirk stopped abruptly. Carter, still held upright by Newkirk's supporting arms, was throwing up whatever remained in his stomach. Hogan couldn't set the airman down, there wasn't enough empty space, and he had to be content with resting his back up against the trunk of a tree, taking some of the weight off of his back, if not his arms.
"Newkirk, do you know what time it is?" Hogan asked.
Newkirk extricated his arm and brushed the cuff on his chin to push it back far enough so that he could squint at his wristwatch in the dim light. The trees hid the sky and they couldn't tell whether the sun had finally broken over the distant horizon. "Well, guv'nor," Newkirk responded, not taking his eyes off of Carter's heaving form, "Klink's perfect no escape record has officially been broken, at least until the guards catch us. Search should be starting about now."
"Good," Hogan answered. Carter had finished and lethargically reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let's set about making it easy for them to find us."
"What exactly do you mean by that, colonel?" Newkirk queried, pulling Carter upright again and wrapping one of the sergeant's arms around his shoulder.
"We take the road, heading straight towards the Stalag. We need to get these two help as soon as we can find it," Hogan stated. "Let's just hope that they're looking in the right direction."
"If Kinch has anything to do with it, he'll send them right for us," Newkirk said reassuringly. Hogan wasn't quite sure who he was trying to reassure, maybe everyone. But he started directing Carter to the road, only making detours when the path became impassable and only stopping when Carter needed to throw up. Or rather, when Carter needed to bend over and take dry heaves, because he didn't have anything left to throw up after the first two stops.
Every muscle in Hogan's arms and back were screaming with the effort of holding the airman. With every step, the weight seemed to almost double and Hogan was amazed that he still managed to keep a hold on him. He had been surprised by a lot tonight. The first time had been when the bombers arrived over the bridge. The second was Carter's heroic dash across to the airman that he now held in his arms. If their mission weren't classified, that would have earned him a mention in dispatches, if not a medal. Hogan would have to add mention of it to the file he maintained down in the tunnels. When the war was over he wanted to make sure that his men got the citations they so richly deserved.
After that, the night had been surprising in a way that wasn't nearly as good. Carter's injuries, the airman's injuries, the hellish march back towards the camp, the rest of the night had blurred into one of the worst sort of surprises. But Carter had stayed on his feet, even if Newkirk was almost carrying him. That was something that was at least less bad. And they hadn't been picked up by anyone other than Shultz and their familiar guards. That was neutral at best.
Hogan had stopped paying attention to the road before him. It was almost too much just to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. One more step. Right. Just a little further. Left. Maybe Shultz would be around the next corner, a truck ready to take them back to the camp. Right. He almost collided with Newkirk and Carter on that step. Carter had had to stop again, gasping and sputtering as he tried to throw up something that wasn't there.
Over the sound of Carter, Hogan could hear the faint sound of a vehicle. At this point, he didn't care if it was military or civilian, so long as it was someone who could get them some help. "Wait here," he ordered, lowering the man in his arms to the ground. He didn't take the time to stretch out his aching muscles; he just started walking toward the bend in the road, and the sound of the motor. The sound was getting louder, so the vehicle was approaching them, but it was still a ways off.
Hogan was around the bend and out of sight of the three men he had left behind when he saw the vehicle. It was still distant, but it was close enough that he could recognize it as one of the Stalag trucks that he and his men maintained. He tried lifting his hands above his head to wave at the truck, to attract the attention of the driver, but his arms at first refused to co-operate. The muscles were seizing up. It took two tries before his body finally obeyed the command.
The driver had obviously seen him, and his attempt to get their attention, because the truck sped up. It had been moving slowly, at what Hogan recognized as a search pace, so there must be men in the woods somewhere behind them. The truck and its passengers were the advance guard, sent up ahead to check the road. When he was sure that they had seen him, and perhaps even recognized him, he let his arms fall leadenly back to his sides, immensely grateful that he wouldn't have to lug the dead weight of another man any further. Newkirk would be equally as glad to surrender Carter into the arms of someone else.
"Colonel Hogan?" came the yell from the window of the truck as it drew close enough. It was Shultz.
"Shultz?" Hogan yelled back, sure that the bulk in the passenger seat couldn't be anyone else.
"What are you doing here? And where are the others?"
Hogan would have shrugged but it would have taken too much effort. So he just shouted back. "Carter and Newkirk are further back on the road. Carter's hurt, got hit on the head by a falling branch."
"Carter's hurt?" The truck sped up again. Hogan saw that Shultz had reached over to prod the driver into going faster. Hogan turned to walk back to the others, to let them know that help was on the way, even if it was help in the form of the Germans. "Where are you going, Colonel Hogan?" Shultz called. He actually sounded panicked.
"To tell Newkirk and Carter." He left it at that and didn't turn around. When there was no bellow from behind him, Hogan knew that Shultz wouldn't do anything about it. So he hurried toward the group he had left on the side of the road, just around the bend.
They were still right where he had left them. Newkirk had let Carter slump to the ground at the side of the road, a signpost in the middle of his back to hold him up. Newkirk was bent over the surprise addition to their group. Now that there was enough light to clearly see by, Hogan could see that Carter's face was pale, almost green. But it wasn't ashen, like Hogan had been worried that it was. The cuts and abrasions on his face had scabbed over. By his appearance at least, he could have been hit by a falling tree branch.
The truck wasn't far behind him and if Shultz continued his prodding, it would be quickly approaching. There was precious little time to concoct a story, but Hogan had practice. And they had a cache of ready-to-order stories already cooked up. He just had to pick and choose the bits that fit the best with the circumstances. They hadn't used a Dear John letter in a while.
"Newkirk," Hogan called softly, "what's the name of the girl that jilted you?"
Newkirk gave Hogan a quizzical look at first; it took a second for him to figure out what Hogan was getting at. Then it clicked. "Hillary, sir. She was a perfect 36-34-36. And it's a shame to have lost her like that to an air raid warden," he answered, putting an appropriately heartbroken look on his face. It was perhaps a little over-dramatic. "And my mate Carter, 'e came with me for moral support."
Hogan nodded crisply. He stepped over to Carter, looking over his shoulder to see if the truck had rounded the bend yet. "Carter?" He got a mumble that sort of sounded like a 'Yes, sir'. "You escaped with Newkirk last night because he got a Dear John from his girl, Hillary. Don't worry if you can't remember, you took a pretty hard knock on the head from that falling tree branch."
"A tree branch, guv'nor?"
"Yeah. Broken off by his parachute as he fell," Hogan added, looking over at the pilot. In the light it was possible to see the wings embroidered on his flight suit. "It was a bad night for the RAF."
"RCAF, sir," Newkirk corrected.
"Corporal Newkirk? Sergeant Carter? Colonel Hogan?" they heard Shultz bellow as the truck rounded the corner. "I'm so glad that we have found you."