As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why.
Sorry for the delay!
Chapter Seventeen
"That ride to the farm felt like the longest of my life. It was crowded in the back of that truck, all of us stuffed in every which way. No, Katie. The guv'nor never really woke up during it, not even when the doc pinched him a couple of times. I see that look in your eye, Benjamin. Just get that thought right out of your noggin, little mate. There'll be no pinching going on around here. No, Benjamin, not even one."
"Good question, Teddy. A very good one. The guv'nor did wake up during Benson and Tivoli's sad encounter with that patrol. But I can't tell you why right now. No and no. That'd be jumping ahead in the tale and doing that would take all the air right out of it."
"Hop right up, little mate. What's your question? Kurt was a good friend. Still is. He'd helped us out many a time, just like this one. Why, he saved Colonel Hogan's life the very first time they met. Went on to have a hand in saving just about all of us at one point or another. And there was a time we had to save him, too. But that's another tale. We need to finish this one up."
"We had some time during that trip to do a little talking.Benson asked thedoc how he happened to be waiting for us in that lorry, pretty as you please. Seems the doc had heard by way of the Underground grapevine that we were missing. He put out a word or two of his own, made it known that he wanted to be kept in the know about the search and if we were found. Word got back to him that we'd taken a tumble into the river. Once he heard that, he hitched a ride with Schnitzer and joined up with ol' Rumple's search party."
"And luckily for Tivoli, it was a good thing that he did."
HH HH HH HH HH
"I can make it."
"Of course you can," Benson growled under his breath, managing not to roll his eyes at Tivoli's stubbornness. He nevertheless kept his hand upon Tivoli's side, steadying the Italian while he stood at the back of the truck. Tivoli hesitated, eyes darting from the ground to either side of the truck, to Benson and back to the ground, clearly considering the best way to get down. Benson sensed the exact moment Tivoli made his choice.
"Don't --!" Benson snapped, somehow divining Tivoli's intent. The warning came too late. The Italian jumped out of the truck. His feet hit the ground, his swarthy complexion went ghostly white, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled like a felled tree into Benson's arms.
"Stubborn, impulsive, thick-headed, impatient, crazy son of a . . . " Benson ranted down at his armload of unconscious Italian. He went suddenly silent. From this angle, he had a good view of Tivoli's back. The material over the wound was saturated with blood, the stain noticeably larger despite Kurt's efforts to staunch the bleeding. "Damn it, Tivoli," he muttered.
Kurt trotted out of the house and down the steps to them. He pulled back Tivoli's jacket and took a quick glance under the bloody wad of cloth, his expression telling Benson absolutely nothing.
"What's the hold up . . . oh." Newkirk wobbled out of the house, one hand clutching a cloth to the bump on his forehead.
"Get back to the couch!" Kurt ordered without looking at him. "Inside, now," he told Benson, bending down to take Tivoli's feet. Benson shifted Tivoli's dead weight, nodded to let Kurt know he was ready to move. They carried the Italian up the steps and past Newkirk, who had remained to hold the door for them.
"Where?" Benson grunted, walking backward through the front room. He glanced over his shoulder, checking for obstacles in his path.
"Bedroom." Kurt pointed to an open doorway with a stab of his chin. Benson adjusted his direction accordingly. Newkirk glanced at Hogan, wrapped in blankets and lying on the floor before the fireplace, his head in Romie's lap. She sat with her back against the couch, her head bent over him. Josef looked up from the stoking the fire long enough to nod to Newkirk, signaling that all was well. Satisfied, Newkirk dropped the cloth on the table, straggled into the bedroom to see if he could help Kurt and Benson.
Tivoli had already been stripped of his shirt and jacket. Helay belly-down on the bed, his head cradled on his arms and turned to one side. Newkirk winced, struck by the Italian's pallor. Kurt stood at the side of the bed, busily pulling medical supplies from his black bag. Benson pivoted in place at the foot of the bed, Tivoli's bloody jacket and shirt clutched in his hands. He glanced around the room, clearly at a loss about what to do with them.
"I will take those." Josef strode into the room, flashed Newkirk a smile in passing.
"Thanks." Benson handed the clothing over, wiped his hands on his pants. Kurt paused in his task, his gaze passing from Benson, to his father, to Newkirk. Newkirk cringed, knowing what was coming. He looked to Josef for support, but the older man just gave him a wink and left the room.
"Did I or did I not tell you to lie down?" Kurt spread a clean cloth on the bed beside Tivoli, started laying out his instruments with meticulous care.
"Yes," Newkirk admitted, nodding even though Kurt was not looking his way. "But –"
"No buts!" Kurt threw him a brief, scalding look. "Just do it. Give your body a chance to recover from all that you've been through." His expression softened. "It is time to take care of yourself, now."
"Listen to the doc." Benson turned Newkirk around and ushered him toward the door. "Rest up. We still have the trip back to camp to look ahead to."
"Hadn't even thought of that," Newkirk murmured, letting himself be taken back to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions rather than sat, wincing as the pounding in his head intensified. He looked up at Benson and sighed. "Thanks, mate. Better be getting back. The doc might need your help."
"Sure thing." Benson studied Hogan, brow drawing down in a frown.
"I believe that he is only sleeping now," Romie offered, smiling lovingly down at Hogan. Her fingers carded through his hair, over and over, gentle and soothing.
Newkirk watched them for a few moments, then suddenly sat bolt upright. "Bloody!" He blanched, shot an apologetic look at Romie. "Sorry, mum." She merely smiled, dipping her head in forgiveness. Newkirk turned back to the Benson. "Our mates. We've got to let them know we're all right!"
"Our radio is not strong enough to reach Stalag 13, Peter." Pipe in hand, Josef calmly walked out of the kitchen and took the rocker near Romie. "But I'm certain that word will soon reach them of your rescue. Many feared for your safety this past night."
"Me, included," Newkirk muttered. He leaned forward, wearily rested his forearms on his thighs.
Josef studied him with concern. "You are most welcome to stay in our home until you are all well enough to travel to Stalag 13."
"Thank you, Herr Metzger." Benson's tone was respectful.
"Josef, bitte." He puffed on his pipe, his gaze coming to rest upon Romie and Hogan. The rocker creaked from his slow, steady rocking; the smoke from his pipe curled toward the beamed ceiling.
Benson scratched at his jaw, fingernails rasping over stubble. "Your offer is really kind, sir. . . Josef. But after what happened out there today, it's safer for you that we don't stay any longer than necessary. The Gestapowill be on the warpath once they hear about what happened to that patrol."
Josef's rocking slowed to a stop, sadness falling over his expression. Romie released a soft sigh. Her hand dropped to Hogan's chest and slowly rubbed back and forth.
"I'm betting Colonel Hogan will say the same." Newkirk stared down at Hogan, his eyelids drooping.
Romie noticed him fighting sleep. "Lie down, Peter," she chided softly. "Rest. We'll keep watch over him now."
Newkirk hesitated, noticed the determined tilt to her head, and acquiesced. Under her watchful eye, he drew his legs onto the couch and stretched out. A yawn, long and gusty, erupted as soon as his body was horizontal. Benson chuckled, reached down and slapped Newkirk's boot.
"Have a good nap, buddy."
Newkirk yawned again, waved him toward the bedroom. Benson started to go, then caught the look Romie was giving him from the floor. With a flick of her blue eyes, she drew his attention to the blanket draped over the back of the couch. Grinning, he followed her direction and spread it over Newkirk.
"Ta . . ." Newkirk murmured, eyes already closed. His breathing slowed and deepened, his head lolling toward the back of the couch. Romie and Benson exchanged smiles, then Benson turned on his heel and headed back to the bedroom. His smile was long gone by the time he entered it, closing the door firmly behind him.
HH HH HH HH HH
Baker sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched into the radio room. Kinch sat by the radio, monitoring the airwaves for news of their missing friends. He ignored Baker's arrival, continued writing on his notepad. Undaunted, Baker strode up to the table. Kinch's writing never faltered, the scratching of his pencil across the paper and the hum of the radio the only sounds in the room. Baker tried to take a peek at what Kinch was writing, but did not have a clear view. He gave a mental snort.
Probably writing down his mother's recipe for cornbread dressing. Anything to look busy and to keep me from trying to get him to leave. Well, I can be just as stubborn as you, buddy.
Baker settled into parade rest, ready to wait as long as necessary. Sooner or later, Kinch would have to acknowledge his presence. Then, Baker could try yet again to convince Kinch to return to the barracks to rest.
"I'm not going," Kinch grumbled without looking up. He flipped the page over; the pencil started scratching across the paper again.
Baker counted to five, took a long look at the stubborn set of Kinch's jaw and added another ten count. All counted out and feeling calmer for it, he opened his mouth to deliver the argument he had practiced all the way from the barracks to the radio room. With instincts rivaling their commanding officer's, Kinch beat him to the punch.
"I'm not leaving until we hear about them – either way. Unless you plan on keeping me company, you can take yourself back to the barracks." Kinch turned another page, checked a few dials on the radio and made some more notes.
Thwarted again. Several seconds passed while Baker regrouped. Kinch's eyes flicked to his face, then zipped right back to the paper. Baker had to admire his fellow sergeant's ability to keep writing without looking. Several more seconds passed, then, just when Baker was ready to make another try, Kinch tossed the notepad down, stuck the pencil behind his ear, grabbed a tattered radio manual off the table and buried his nose in it. Baker's lips thinned in disgust. He should have seen that move coming from a mile away.
He mentally rolled up his sleeves, determined that this time, none of Kinch's avoidance tactics would stop him.
"Kinch—"
Kinch suddenly tensed, one hand pressing an earpiece tight to his head. The manual dropped, unnoticed, to the table. Baker moved closer, wishing for the umpteenth time that they had another set of headphones. Unable to stand the suspense, he dared break into Kinch's concentration.
"Is –"
Kinch's head jerked in irritation, his hand slicing toward Baker in a clear 'shut up' gesture. Baker promptly shut up, rocked on the balls of his feet to relieve at least a little of the stress of waiting.
"Reading you. Say again." Kinch's voice was smooth as honey, completely calm. If not for his tense expression, Baker would have thought his fellow sergeant was discussing what he planned to have for lunch.
Kinch's expression suddenly hardened, his hand clenching into a fist. Baker went utterly still, heart and stomach dropping.
"Bad?" Kinch asked the voice on the other end.
Baker gulped. Kinch glanced over at him; held up a finger. Baker resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wait? That was all they had been doing!
For what felt like forever to Baker, Kinch listened, alternately nodding and frowning in response to whatever he was being told. Baker heard an unpleasant noise and suddenly realized it was his teeth grinding together.
"Roger that. Out." Kinch flipped switches, turned dials, and threw the lever to power down the radio. Baker jittered and bounced on his feet, so bursting with impatience, he thought he would jump right out of his skin. Kinch hung up his headphones, blew out a slow breath and turned to him with a burgeoning grin. Baker threw back his head, clapped his hands to the top of his head and let out a shout of joy. Kinch stood and clapped him on the back.
"That was Rumplestilskin," Kinch said in a shaky voice. "They found them." The underlying sadness in his tone killed Baker's elation.
"Kinch? What's wrong?"
Kinch sat back down, the shadows in his expression deepening. "Papa Bear wouldn't wake up and has hurt a paw. The cub has a headache and 'Italy has a serious case of lead poisoning'."
Baker had a sudden desire to sit, but the only available seat was already taken. "Tivoli's been shot?" Images of the argumentative Italian flooded his mind. "Did Benson do it?" He winced even before Kinch skewered him with a hard stare. This was no time for tasteless jokes. "How soon will they be here? How bad off is he? Where did he get hit? Is the bullet still in him? Oh, geez. O'Malley's too sick to get it out. We'll need to contact—" Kinch held up a hand and Baker brought his runaway mouth to a screeching halt.
"They were going to visit old MacDonald."
It took a moment for Baker's brain to make the proper connections. "The Metzgers' farm." At Kinch's nod, Baker pivoted in place, uncertain what to do with himself.
Kinch rubbed his eyes, his posture slumping. "Good news, bad news."
"To quote Newkirk," Baker sighed, doing his own slumping against the table. "Too bloody right."
To be continued.
Thank you for reading!