As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why.
Chapter 19
"Missed."
"Did not. It went over the goal post. That counts."
A frown creased Carter's forehead. "I don't know." Wanting to be fair, he called for an unbiased opinion. "Graham? What do you think?"
Graham raised his head off his pillow far enough to look across the room at Carter, who was sitting atop Newkirk's bunk. His gaze slid from there past the barracks door to Olsen, perched cross-legged atop Braveheart's bunk. Olsen raised his eyebrows at him in a hopeful, somewhat pleading expression. With a long-suffering sigh, Graham turned his gaze back to Carter.
"Was it toward the outside of the post or the inside?"
"Outside," Carter proclaimed decisively. He tapped the top of the bunk's support post with his index finger, showing the exact spot where their paper football had flown over it. Their game had been going on for some time, a way of distracting themselves while they waited for word on their friends. After a blistering competition, the score was dead even.
Roused by the argument, LeBeau slowly rolled over in Olsen's bunk to see what was going on. He dully noted Carter sitting on Newkirk's bunk, then slowlylifted himself up far enough to clearly see Hogan's quarters. The door was shut. Biting his lip, LeBeau looked around the room, searching for Hogan and Newkirk. Not seeing them, he fell back on the bed, pulled his fists tight against his chest and curled onto his side.
"It was inside, I tell you." Olsen braced his hands on his knees, pulled his shoulders back to their fullest extent. Using a stilted baritone, he announced to the room, "The kick was good. Game to Olsen's Outstanding Orange Ocelots."
"Hey!" Carter scowled at him.
"Aye, for pity's sake!" O'Malley groaned, rolling onto his side so that he could see them. "Off-side penalty. Re-kick!"
Olsen, thinking that sounded like a wonderful ruling, nodded enthusiastically. Carter shook his head, totally disagreeing with them both. He jabbed his finger into the mattress beneath him.
"I didn't move from my stance one bit." He scanned the room for support. "Not at all!"
O'Malley flopped onto his back, grabbed his blanket and yanked it over his head.
"Sorry, Carter," Braveheart called weakly from the bunk beneath his own, which Olsen currently occupied. "The popcorn vendor distracted me. I didn't see a thing."
"Anybody see the beer guy, send him over," Parker said under his breath. His face scrunched up as his stomach cramped again. "On second thought, don't send him over."
"Got that right," Paxton growled, walking by with a fistful of clean towels. He glared at Carter, shook the towels at him. "Don't you go overdoing it and get yourself sick again. I'm running out of towels and buckets."
Carter did his best to look contrite, his wan face taking on a faint, reddish hue. "Promise," he assured Paxton, swiftly crossing his heart.
"Re-kick, re-kick, re-kick," Olsen chanted, pumping his fist with enough vigor to rock the bunk frames. Braveheart let out a strangled groan, reached up and smacked the underside of the bunk.
"Knock it off or I'll come up there and puke on you!"
Olsen flinched, his shoulders hunching about his head. He leaned out, sent an apology down to Braveheart.
"Oh, all right," Carter sighed with ill-grace. "Re-kick." He plucked the paper football off his mattress and with a flick of his wrist, tossed it back to Olsen.
Smiling ear to ear in triumph, Olsen positioned his hand on his mattress, teed up the folded paper football between his thumb and index finger, hunched over and lined up the shot again. Carter frowned, but in the spirit of sportsmanship, remained stock still. Around the room, those who had been following the impromptu game made a few fast wagers. Blocking out the crowd noise, Olsen closed one eye in concentration, finger drawn back to flick-kick the ball out of the tee and through the air. The betting stopped; everyone froze in position. Even O'Malley peeked from under his blankets. Olsen took a deep breath, prepared to deliver the blow that would send the football toward the goal posts.
The bunk entrance clattered open, startling Olsen just as his finger snapped, making contact with the football. It sailed two feet wide of the goal posts and fell to the floor beside the common room table. Carter's victory cry cut off as he caught sight of Baker climbing out of the tunnel. Silence fell as Baker walked to the center of the room.
"They're safe," he said simply, a smile spreading across his face.
Cheers of relief and happiness broke out. Baker let it go on for a few moments, then motioned for quiet. His smile faded, his voice turned somber.
"There's a but."
A collective groan went up. LeBeau pulled himself upright, weaving with dizziness. His quavering voice somehow carried over the noise, his questions capturing everyone's attention.
"Le colonel? Was he hurt? Newkirk?"
Baker turned his head, locked eyes with him. "Yes, but--"
More questions erupted around the room, drowning out the rest of Baker's words. Frustrated, he waved his arms over his head and yelled for quiet.
"I can only tell you what we know at this point and that isn't much. One of the colonel's arms got hurt, Newkirk got knocked in the head, and it's probably safe to say they're both sore as the dickens."
Carter blanched. "Newkirk got hit in the head?"
"Ah, no," O'Malley sighed, casting a pleading look heavenward. "Please don't let the colonel's shoulder be messed up again. I swear there's some kind of trouble magnet in the darned thing."
"What about the other guys?" Olsen asked, fingers plucking nervously at the blanket.
Baker sighed. "As far as we know, Benson wasn't hurt, but somehow, Tivoli got shot."
"Shot?" Several questioned at once.
"Tivoli can be a mean S.O.B.," Graham said, casting a look around the room. "but I'd never want him shot."
Braveheart shook his head. "Me, neither. Plenty of times I've wanted to slam him upside the head, but not shoot him."
"I didn't know there was a bullet made that could get through that hide of his," Parker muttered from his pillow.
"Apparently there is." Baker started to say more, but spied a neglected coffee cup on the table. He leaned toward it, far enough to see it was half full.
Paxton noticed him looking. "I poured that coffee an hour ago, Baker. It's stone cold. The pot's empty, too."
Baker straightened, face falling in disappointment. LeBeau stirred, pushed at his blankets with trembling hands, preparing to stand.
"I will—"
"Stay put!" Baker snapped, thrusting his hand, palm out, in LeBeau's direction.
O'Malley's head jerked off his pillow, his angry gaze homing in on LeBeau. "Don't even think about moving from there!"
Faced with such strident opposition, LeBeau nodded meekly and lowered himself back on the bunk. O'Malley watched until he had settled, then did the same, muttering irritably under his breath.
"At least we know where they are now." Olsen stared, unseeing into the distance. His fingers continued picking and worrying at the blanket.
"Yeah, but they're still in danger." Baker slowly turned in place, focusing for a moment upon each man's health. With the exception of LeBeau and Parker, everyone seemed to be feeling better.
Graham sat up on his bunk, tucked his legs into a cross-legged position. "What's the plan for getting them back?"
"Kinch wants us to sit tight until we hear from the colonel. He may have something --" Baker suddenly frowned, turned toward the barracks door. It swung open and Schultz walked inside, looking even more like himself. With a nod to Baker, he started circling the room, pointing to each man, counting aloud. Panicked gazes flew back and forth behind his back as he neared Hogan's quarters.
Baker's sudden appearance in Schultz's path caught him by surprise. Each time he tried to conduct a head count, he was given a different reason for Hogan and Newkirk's absence. This time, he intended to see the two men in person. His chin lifted with resolve, his hand delivering a crisp, backhanded slap to Baker's shoulder.
"Move aside."
Baker hesitated, quickly weighed his options, then nodded and moved out of the way.The unexpected cooperation surprised Schultz yet again. Suspecting a trap of some sort, he stayed put, his pale blue eyes drilling into Baker's.
"What are you waiting for, Schultz?" Baker waved him on. "Go on in."
Schultz nervously considered Hogan's closed door, then turned back to Baker. "Please tell me that Colonel Hogan and Newkirk are in his quarters sleeping."
Baker shook his head. "Sorry, Schultz. No can do."
The other men watched and listened with interest, their eyes swinging between Baker and Schultz, following the flow of the conversation.
Schultz licked his lips; his eyes doing a nervous back and forth dance between Baker and Hogan's quarters. "They just left?"
Again, Baker shook his head. "Nope."
A pleading note entered Schultz's voice. "They are in the rec hall, dusting the Tommy Dorsey records?"
"Uh, uh." Baker folded his arms and leaned toward Schultz. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You really want to know where they are?"
Schultz's nod swiftly changed to an emphatic 'no'. He gave Hogan's closed door another glance, then turned a pitiful expression upon Baker.
"Just tell me that they have not escaped," Schultz whined, wringing his hands.
"They have not escaped," Baker parroted, obliging him.
Schultz's hangdog expression evaporated. "Then there is no need to count."
"Nope," Baker confirmed, looking pleased.
Schultz did a quick about-face and hurried to the barracks door.
"Hey, Schultz," Baker called after him. Schultz paused, hand upon the door knob; brow knitted in obvious trepidation. "How's the kommandant doing? Still sick?" Hearing the question, a little of Schultz's tenseness bled away. He huffed out a breath, sadly shook his head.
"Ja. He is quite ill. A little water is all that he is able to keep down for now."
O'Malley's head came off his pillow again. "You make certain he keeps drinking, Schultz. Otherwise, he'll get dehydrated and then he's got real trouble."
Schultz nodded, tossed off a lazy wave and stepped outside. Baker waited until the door had swung shut behind him, then deflated with a long sigh.
"Quick thinking," Olsen commented.
"Hopefully, he won't darken our door for awhile." Baker turned and headed back to the tunnel entrance.
O'Malley rolled up onto an elbow, watched him slap the hidden lever in the bunk frame to open the entrance. His voice held an accusing note. "Where are you going?"
Baker stepped over the bunk frame and onto the ladder. He paused long enough to answer. "Back to check on Kinch and to let the rest of the goon squad know what's going on." He disappeared below and the bunk rattled back down on its hidden pulleys.
"Goon squad?" Olsen peeked over the edge of his bunk at Braveheart. "Did he say goon squad?" Braveheart smiled up at him, nodded.
Olsen pulled back, stared into space, expressionless. Then he grinned. "I like it!" A moment later, the grin fell away as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. "Wait a minute. What'd he mean by 'the rest of the goon squad?' "
To be continued. Thank you for reading!