Summary: Saunders, Doc and Caje escape from a POW transport train only to be captured again!
Acknowledgement: A heartfelt thanks to DocII for her generosity of time and random acts of patience--especially for the continuous repeats and re-dos. DocII was also instrumental in any of the medical jargon included. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
Note: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue."
Disclaimer: Combat! and all related characters belong to ABC, Image Entertainment, and Disney; while Hogan's Heroes and all related characters belong to Paramount, Viacom and others. This is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged.
Copyright: December 2005
Escape to Stalag 13
By Syl Francis
Friday 4 AUG 1944/1800hrs local
Somewhere in Bavaria
Saunders stood watch over the group of soldiers who were working diligently on the flooring of the railcar. This was an old freight car, not designed for the transportation of personnel. It still permeated with several years' accumulated stink of livestock. It seemed that the Allied air forces not only controlled the air, but also once the fighter planes' escort missions were completed, they had standing orders to seek 'targets of opportunity' on the ground.
Apparently, the Allied fighter pilots loved 'seeking out' the Third Reich's railroads; therefore, several of their freight trains had been destroyed in the last few weeks--along with their troop transports. As a result, Saunders and his fellow prisoners were being shipped in less than optimal conditions. However, shortly after the train had started on its long trek east, Saunders surmised that the current situation could work to their advantage--but only time would tell.
Leaning against the side of the railcar, Saunders thought about the past few days. As he, Doc, and Caje were about to be taken from the hospital, the night nurse--the pretty one with the soft brown eyes and cute nose--surreptitiously slipped him a small packet. She hissed something in his ear that he did not understand, but the desperate look in her lovely eyes spoke volumes.
Saunders took the package from her and hid it inside his field jacket. Only after they were loaded onto the back of a transport truck and were halfway to their debarkation point did he take a furtive look at its contents--medical supplies.
An hour later, the truck pulled into a railroad station, and the Gestapo handed them over to an SS military police unit. Apparently, the SS and not the Wehrmacht were in charge of this particular prisoner of war train. The thought made Saunders uneasy, as he had seen what the SS were capable of doing. Although he tried to keep his misgivings to himself, one look at Doc told him that the medic had the same reservations.
They had been traveling for almost two days now. So far, they had stopped only twice for food and water. The first time they had pulled into a train depot in a small village just on the other side of the French/Belgium border. There, the Allied prisoners had been fed--one slice of bread per man and a single ladling of cabbage soup, so weak that it had been little more than warm water, and not very nourishing.
The second stop had been about twenty-four hours ago. By then, the men were suffering from thirst, and a few were starting to succumb to the heat and intolerable conditions. Caje especially since he had not fully recovered from his wounds and surgery when he had been placed in the same railcar as Saunders and Doc. At the depot, Doc protested the lack of sufficient water to the sergeant-of-the-guard, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Raus! Raus!" The impassive guards had been more intent on pushing them into a ragtag semblance of a troop formation than listening to any complaints.
When an officer walked down the line inspecting the POWs, a Canadian corporal stepped out of formation and requested permission to speak. He was immediately struck on the back of the head with a rifle butt. As a result, Saunders grabbed Doc by the arm and shot him a look of warning, stopping the dedicated medic before he tried to help the injured man. Sensibly, Doc nodded in understanding.
This was not the time--yet.
Later that day, as the men waited to be served chow, Saunders wove his way among the prisoners from his railcar, urging them to eat whatever they were given and drink what water they could. The soup, at least, was liquid and would help keep them hydrated. The single slice of bread would make their stomachs feel full.
Taking his rations, Saunders sat down next to Dickinson, a British RAF corporal who was assigned to his group. Saunders spoke out of the side of his mouth, never looking directly at the corporal.
"Did you scope out the security on the train?" he asked.
Taking a spoonful of his cabbage soup, Dickinson grimaced and swallowed before nodding in response. "Sure did, mate. And a bad hand we've been dealt."
"How so?"
"Besides the guards sitting on top of each roof--" He let his eyes roam toward the alert guards perched on the roofs of each car. All were armed with machine pistols. "--We have a pair of guards in the rear car, standing on the outside railing."
"Anything else?" Saunders asked.
Dickinson snorted. "What else do you need, Yank?" Without actually facing Saunders, he could feel the American's irritation. "All right already, Yank...don't get your knickers in a twist." He shook his head. "The engine has an armed guard riding shotgun twenty-four/seven."
The RAF corporal took a spoonful of soup and swallowed. "I can't be sure, of course, but I think the engine guard only gets switched out when we come to a stop--like now." Dickinson thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, I noticed that the same guards who were positioned on the rooftops at the last stop were still there when we pulled in here."
Saunders nodded. "That could be of help to us."
"How's that?" Dickinson asked curiously.
"If you were perched up there all night with little chance of anyone checking on you, would you stay alert for the several hours between stops?"
Dickinson shook his head, and then had a sudden grim thought. "Saunders, it's been almost twenty-four hours since our last stop. You don't think--? I mean...not even the Krauts would leave those poor blokes up there for that long?"
"Probably not...but I'm willing to bet that they won't be changed at night. Too risky on a moving train."
Dickinson shuddered. "I think you're right. With the steep hills around this area, I wouldn't want to be walking around those roofs and risk taking a tumble."
Changing the subject, Saunders asked casually, "Dickinson, how fast do you think we've been traveling?"
Dickinson shrugged. "I don't know. Thirty...maybe forty kilometers per hour?"
Saunders nodded reflectively. "I suppose we'll slow down on the inclines?" It was more a statement than question, so Dickinson did not bother to answer. Instead, he merely nodded. "How far apart do you estimate those steel wheels are?" Saunders asked, his eyes looking directly at the train's iron wheels.
Dickinson shook his head. "Not sure...ten, maybe twelve feet apart?"
Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Saunders stared impassively at the massive iron wheels. "Hmmm...? Ten to twelve feet--it could work." He smiled suddenly. "Uhm-hum...it just might work."
Without further explanation, Saunders nodded, rose casually to his feet, and returned to where he left Doc and Caje. He felt happy at the sight of the tired-looking Cajun gamely trying to eat some of the soup that Doc was insistently spooning into him.
Feeling inexplicably relieved to be back with his own men, Saunders took up a position next to them. This allowed him to study the train guards again, and unable to help himself, Saunders eyed their Schmeissers hungrily. If only he could get his hands on a few of those...
Twenty-four hours later, Saunders looked around the decrepit conditions inside the railcar and again thought of the guards' weapons. Disgusted at himself for obsessing over the impossible, he muttered, "If wishes were horses...as Mom would say."
Saunders shook his head. Those weapons might as well have been a million miles away for all the good thinking about them would do. No, if they were to succeed in escaping, they would have to rely solely on their wits and survival skills.
Having reached this conclusion, Saunders put the Schmeissers out of his mind and concentrated on the job at hand.
His thoughts returned to the previous stop twenty-four hours ago. Dickinson's scouting job had proven fruitful and given Saunders sufficient food for thought to occupy his waking thoughts for the past day. A plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind. Risky, but then any escape attempt came with a certain amount of risk. He shrugged.
Saunders' stomach suddenly growled. He couldn't remember when he had last felt this hungry. He thought of the bread and watery soup that probably awaited them at the next stop. Not much to look forward to, and it did not satisfy long enough to make a man forget about his hunger. Thankfully, they were even now pulling into the train depot.
Saunders checked out the situation from a small crack on the side of the boxcar. There was a line of heavily armed guards with dogs standing approximately five meters apart along the outer perimeter of the depot. In addition, he spotted three machineguns strategically placed on the roof and two windows overlooking the depot area.
"Heads up!" he called to the rest of the prisoners. "Put that stuff back!" He added, addressing the men in the middle of the railcar who were still working on the flooring. They quickly did as told. "This place is lousy with heavy security!"
Saunders quickly described the situation to the others. "Remember, follow orders! You need to keep up your strength, so eat whatever slop they give you. And do what they tell you without complaints. Whatever you're thinking about the Krauts--it's still not the time!" Saunders glared at the rows of upturned faces. "Got it?"
He received several "Yeah, Sarge!" and "We gotcha, Sarge!" and a few nods of the head in reply. Satisfied, he sought out Doc and Caje.
"Doc, you and Caje stay together the whole time. And Doc? Make sure he eats something." He gave Caje a long look. "How're you doing, buddy?"
Caje smiled weakly and nodded. "Like I told you back in the village, Sarge--I'll live."
Saunders gave him a brief smile. "I'm holding you to that, soldier." Giving Caje's arm a light pat, he added, "I want you to try to eat more than you did last time, Caje. You need to keep your strength up." At Caje's nod, Saunders stood. All he could do now was wait...
The sign over the depot entrance read 'Aschaffenburg.' From some of the map exercises he had participated in, Saunders knew that they were now in Bavaria in southeast Germany. He recalled Major Wulf stating that they were being placed on a POW train bound for Nuremberg also located in Bavaria. They were getting closer, he knew. If they were to get off the train before it arrived at its final destination, then they would have to make their move soon.
It would be dark by the time the train resumed its journey. Saunders hoped they would be ready by then.
"We'll have to be," he murmured...
Moving quietly around the train station among the huddled groups comprised of soldiers from several Allied nations, Saunders managed to exchange a few quick words with a US airman, a B-17 waist-gunner who had been shot down over a week ago. The US airman passed on a wild rumor that Saunders dismissed out of hand.
Apparently the members of the Eighth Air Force all 'knew' of an underground network supposedly operating out of the Germans' own Military District XIII, the same district to which the Nuremberg POW facility was assigned.
"Look, Sarge, I don't know all the details," the airman admitted, "but I'm telling you...I know of a crew chief who heard it from a tail gunner who got it straight from the radio operator of a B-17 that went down over Hamburg six months ago that if you get to 'Papa Bear,' then he'll find a way to return you home."
Saunders started to walk away, but the airman grabbed him by the sleeve and held him back.
"Sarge, wait!" he hissed. "Don't you want to hear the kicker?"
"Not really," Saunders growled with a shake of his head. He again tried to put some distance between himself and the delusional airman. But the waist gunner was not to be denied. Practically following Saunders at his heels, the airman continued his enthusiastic storytelling unabated.
"Sarge, the kicker is that Papa Bear supposedly operates in the general area of LuftStalag 13, under the very nose of the toughest POW camp commandant in all of Germany. The word is that there has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, which is located outside the small town of Hammelburg." He shrugged. "I know it's a little hard to swallow, Sarge. But there's gotta be some grain of truth to the tales, don't you see?"
"No, I don't see." Saunders' tone took on some of its customary surliness. "And you shouldn't see any either."
"If there's no truth to the rumors, then why is it that after almost two years, the rumors about Papa Bear persist?"
"For the same reason that rumors of the Loch Ness monster persist," Saunders shot back.
By then, Corporal Dickinson had joined them in the middle of the American airman regaling Saunders with the 'known' exploits of the legendary Papa Bear--bridges blown, railway tunnels destroyed, German generals kidnapped, Allied flyers sent back to their own lines.
Saunders rolled his eyes. "You're describing some kind of fairytale hero. Guys who can do stuff like only exist in comic books."
However, Dickinson jumped in quickly and confirmed that he, too, had heard of 'Papa Bear.' In fact, he added that should he manage to escape, his aim was to try and find his way to the Hammelburg Underground and contact the elusive Papa Bear.
Two hours later, the train was chugging along the Main River valley. There was a full moon out, casting a silvery sheen upon the Bavarian countryside. To the right of the railroad tracks, the moonlit night exposed a sheer drop to the wide river below. From a crack on the side of the car, Saunders could see the moon's reflection on the dark water.
In the far distance, he could make out a darker mass that indicated the other side of the river. He shook his head. It was too wide for Caje to swim across.
To their left, the rocky walls of a steep hill glistened in the moonlight and disappeared into the darkness above. Feeling a sudden headache, Saunders pinched the bridge of his nose. Even if they managed to break through now, there was no place for them to go. Whatever happened, they would have to wait until the ground leveled off sufficiently for them to make a run for it.
He thought of his conversation with the B-17 waist-gunner and Dickinson. "'Papa Bear'!" he muttered. Who was next? Goldilocks?
"Hey, Yank!" Dickinson was gesturing to Saunders to join him.
"What is it?" Saunders asked.
The corporal pointed triumphantly at the floor of the train car.
Saunders looked at the spot where the corporal pointed. A fairly large hole, big enough for a man to drop through, gaped back at him.
Friday 4 AUG 1944/2300hrs local
Somewhere in Bavaria
Between the towns of Aschaffenburg and Wurzburg
Saunders studied the opening on the floor. He looked at his watch, 2300 hours. Every hour brought them at least another fifty kilometers closer to their ultimate destination. It was now or never.
"Okay! Listen up!" Saunders had to yell in order to be heard over the excited voices of the Allied prisoners. "This is the deal. We're in a bad spot right now, but it could actually be working to our advantage. With the train having to slow down to go uphill it may make it all the easier for us to avoid the steel wheels when we roll across the tracks."
"What?"
"Roll across the tracks?"
"Are you out of your bloody mind, Yank?"
"Yeah, Sarge! Why don't we just lay low until the train passes over us?"
Saunders held his hands up for quiet. "That's enough!" he yelled. "We can't take a chance--!" he began but was interrupted.
"He's right, mates!" Dickinson broke in. "At each stop Sergeant Saunders and I studied the layout of the train guards. There are guards sitting on the roof of each railcar, facing forward. However, the last car has at least two guards standing outside on the rear railing." He let the words sink in.
"I guess that means that we would be easily spotted if we waited for the train to just pass over us, right, Corporal?" a young private asked.
His companion, another private, rolled his eyes. "That's what I like about you, Liebowitz. You have a genius for the obvious!"
Liebowitz smiled. "Gee, thanks, Johnson...you really think so?"
In answer, Johnson gave his friend a long-suffering smile and simply patted him on the back. "Just stick close to me, kid. I'll get you back to our lines."
"You mean Liebowitz' knowledge of German will get you back to our lines, Johnson." Another private had spoken up--Thompson, Saunders recalled. Crossing his arms in front, Thompson gave Johnson a wry look. "I think I'll tag along with you two, and keep you both out of trouble."
"That's fine by me, Tommy," Johnson said with a broad smile. "The more the merrier, I always say."
"Okay, that's enough!" Saunders snapped. "We'll go in twos and threes. Anymore and it'll be too hard for you to slip through the countryside undetected." He paused. "I don't need to remind you of what you're getting yourselves into. The war is going badly for the Krauts and our air forces have been pummeling their cities. There's no love lost between the Kraut civilians and our downed airmen--not to mention any escaped POWs. So don't expect any great humanitarian aid from the civilians."
Saunders glared at each man in turn.
He continued, "Travel at night whenever possible and lie low during the day. And unless you speak German like a native, don't get into conversations with the locals!" He paused again, letting that warning sink in. "Okay...to orientate yourselves, this train is heading in a general east to southeast direction. Therefore, north lies in that direction--!" He pointed to the left of the car. "South is that way--!" He pointed to the right side. "West--and our lines--lies in that direction." He pointed toward the back of the railcar. "Any questions?"
More than four-dozen upturned faces shook solemnly in unison. "Okay, remember...once you drop, time the wheels, then roll over the track. Regroup with your team and start for home. The teams will move out in three minute intervals." Saunders stopped, giving each man time to digest the combined need for urgency and caution. Wanting to lighten the mood, he added, "Oh, and if I see any of your ugly faces back home again, the beer's on me."
"Beer!" A wag spoke up. "Sarge, if any of us get home, I think you'll owe us a nice bottle of whiskey!"
"Make that bourbon!"
Smiling, Saunders quieted them again. "Okay...I'll buy you fellas your drink of choice. Now let's get ready." He gave the men one last look, then spoke briskly, "Johnson, Liebowitz, Thompson--you're first!"
Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0030hrs local
Somewhere in Bavaria
Between the towns of Aschaffenburg and Wurzburg
Saunders shook hands with Dickinson.
"Good luck, Yank!" Dickinson said, preparing to lower himself through the opening in the floor. The rest of his team had already exited.
"Same to you," Saunders murmured. With a wave, Dickinson disappeared into the darkness below. Saunders turned to Doc and Caje. "It's our turn. Doc, you'll go first."
"Me?" Doc shook his head. "I think I should go last, Sarge, to make sure that Caje makes it."
"No, Doc," Caje said. "I'll only slow you down." He turned his dark gaze on Saunders. "I'm not going with you, Sarge. I'll never make it."
"Hey, Caje, you listen to me," Saunders said. "You're coming with us, and we're all gonna make together. You got that?"
Caje merely shook his head. "You know that I'm right, Sarge. I barely have enough strength to sit up, much less hike any distance...No, like I said, I'll only slow you and Doc down. You're both better off leaving me here."
Doc broke in. "Look, Caje...I ain't leaving this train without you. If you stay, then I'm staying, too."
"Doc, that's crazy," Caje protested.
"Maybe so, but that's the way it is," Doc said matter-of-factly.
"You see, Caje?" Saunders spoke quietly. "You've gotta come with us." He shrugged. "If you stay, then Doc stays 'cause you're his responsibility. And, if you and Doc stay, then I have to stay, too, 'cause you're both my responsibility." He grinned boyishly. "Now you wouldn't want that on your conscience would you?"
"I think you're both crazy," Caje replied, but with an answering grin.
"Well, we're about to drop under a moving train and then roll across the tracks, hoping that we're not cut in half by the train's wheels," Doc summarized. "I'd say that 'crazy' just about covers it."
Caje gave him a weak grin. "Y'know, Doc...that makes me feel so much better."
"Okay, enough talk!" Saunders broke in. "Let's get the lead out. Doc...you first!"
Doc looked like he was about to protest, but one look at Saunders' expression, and he swallowed his words. "Okay, Sarge." He stood and paused at the opening. "Ummmm...Sarge?" He gave Saunders a doubtful look. "I ain't so sure about this."
Saunders walked up to him and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be snap, Doc. Just lower yourself until your feet are touching the ground--you'll notice the cross beams striking the backs of your heels, I think."
"Oh, that's real nice."
"Get's better. When you let go, make sure that you drop straight down, and for God's sake, Doc--don't roll! Give yourself a moment to get your bearings and time the wheels. Then go!" He paused, giving Doc a look of quiet encouragement. "You can do it, Doc. Now come on, the war's waiting."
Doc nodded resignedly. Then with no further word, he squatted down next to the hole, swung his legs over, and lowered himself carefully. With one final look at Saunders and Caje he dropped into the darkness.
Saunders turned to Caje. "You're next, buddy."
Caje nodded, an almost identical look of resignation as Doc on his face. "And here I thought the Krauts were the ones who were gonna kill me," he said ironically.
Saunders grinned. "Hey, what are pals for?" Turning suddenly serious, he added, "Remember, when you drop--"
"--Don't roll," Caje finished for him. "Try to drop straight down."
"You know...you're a lot smarter than Kirby says you are," Saunders teased. "And Caje, I don't want you try anything stupid--you wait for me, got it?"
Caje nodded tiredly. "I got it, Sarge."
"And don't worry, buddy. We're gonna make it all the way back to our lines. That's a promise."
As Saunders helped him to his feet, Caje asked, "I've never doubted you yet, have I?"
"Well..." Saunders mused, walking his friend to the waiting black hole. "That's true, but then I've never asked you to do anything like this before either."
"You have a point," Caje admitted, taking his position next to the hole. "Sarge...you really think we'll make it?"
Not answering immediately, Saunders helped him swing his legs over and then gently, but firmly grabbed him by the underarms.
"I gave you my word, didn't I?" With that Saunders began painstakingly lowering the injured man into the waiting depths below until all he had was Caje's wrists.
"Okay, Sarge," Caje said. "Let go!"
Saunders released his hold, and anxious over his friend, he hurriedly swung his legs over the lip of the jagged opening, lowered himself and dropped. Taking a desperate chance, he quickly turned himself around until his head was turned toward the rear of the train, instead of facing forward. Next, Saunders scrambled at a semi-low crawl until he reached Caje who was lying, unmoving, where he had dropped. He had lost consciousness.
Wrapping his arms securely around his friend, Saunders counted the seconds between the train wheels. Sending up a short prayer, he took a deep, calming breath and rolled them both over the train track. They just managed to clear it, when the heavy iron wheel passed immediately next to their heads. Saunders actually felt the air displacement as it passed by.
Chest heaving, Saunders gasped for air, sucking in several lungfuls before collapsing next to Caje. The next minute, Doc was there, his very presence offering comfort to the two spent men.
"Sarge! Caje! Boy, am I glad to see you two. Sarge, don't you ever ask me to do any such durn fool thing again! 'Cause I ain't gonna do it! Nosiree, I ain't."
Catching his breath, Saunders finally managed to wheeze, "I didn't ask you to do it, Doc. I ordered you to do it." He paused. "There's a difference."
"Oh, yeah? Well, next time you can just court-martial me, 'cause I ain't--!"
"Doc--?" Caje's voice was barely a croak.
Doc was instantly cradling him by the head and shoulders. "Yeah, Caje...what is it? How're you feeling? Blast it...you're bleeding again! I knew it!"
"Doc...willya shut up? You're giving me a headache."
"Well, ain't that a nice 'how d'you do'?" Doc asked. "Here I am trying to show compassion and concern for a buddy, and--"
"Shut up, Doc!" Saunders and Caje said together. Both men started to chuckle at Doc's nonplussed look. Slowly, an embarrassed grin softened Doc's features, and soon all three were shaking with silent laughter. The brief respite broke the tension of the previous minutes.
Saunders knew they needed the moment to regroup mentally and physically. His restless eyes searched the starry sky and immediately identified the North Star. Returning his attention to his men, Saunders felt a wave of relief wash over him. They were safely off the POW train and were still alive. He stood slowly, his action bringing the others back to earth.
Doc looked up at Saunders and then down at Caje. Without having to be told, he re-bandaged Caje's wound, and satisfied that he had stopped the bleeding again, Doc began helping him up. "Come on, buddy. Time to go."
"I know, Doc," Caje said. He looked up at Saunders. "'...Miles to go before I sleep,' huh, Sarge?"
"Something like that," Saunders replied. Then with a wry grin added, "Just be glad it isn't snowing."
Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0430hrs local
Somewhere in Bavaria
Between Hammelburg and Wurzburg
"Okay, Doc," Saunders gasped. "Let's take ten."
They had been hiking in the thick Bavarian woods for hours, the rest stops growing more frequently as the night progressed. Saunders had opted not to travel directly west, believing that when the Germans got wind of the escape, they would start their search for the escaped POWs in that general direction. Instead, Saunders had his little party head north.
Saunders felt that if they could avoid the Krauts' dragnet for the first twenty-four hours and find food and shelter, then they might stand a chance for success. Only then, would Saunders start on a westerly course.
"Take ten?" Doc panted. "Like 'ten hours,' I hope?"
Despite his state of exhaustion, Saunders grinned at Doc's attempt at humor. "I'll see what I can do," he replied, chest heaving.
Gently, they lowered the makeshift litter that they had put together to carry Caje. As the Louisiana native had predicted, he could barely sit up without help, much less walk. In addition, he kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
As soon as they laid the litter on the ground, Doc dropped down next to it. Feeling drained, his actions were closer to that of a state of collapse than a deliberate move on his part. His motions were slowed due to his being on the verge of total exhaustion, but he determinedly checked his patient's condition.
"How is he?"
Saunders spoke from behind and above him, but Doc was too tired to turn. "Not good, Sarge. He's running a fever." Doc paused, feeling his shoulders slump in resignation. "What he really needs is a hospital. Not to mention a bed..." He paused, then continued in a tired litany, "...food, water." He finally turned and faced Saunders. "He was right, Sarge. We shouldn't've taken him off that train."
Saunders did not reply. Instead, when he spoke it was on another topic. "It'll be light in another couple of hours. We need to find shelter." He hesitated over his next statement. "Doc...I need to scout ahead to search for a place to hole up for the day." He paused, not liking the idea of leaving his friends for any period of time. "Will you two be all right?"
"We don't have much choice, do we?" Doc asked.
Saunders again did not reply directly to the question; instead, he said quietly, "Take care of him, Doc." He turned to go.
Doc nodded, the gesture gone unnoticed by Saunders' retreating back.
As soon as Saunders disappeared into the darkness, Doc again checked Caje's bandages. He wanted to build a fire but knew the danger of it being spotted. Sighing, he sat back on his heels. He and Saunders had already sacrificed their field jackets for the litter, so he had nothing else to offer Caje for warmth.
Looking around the heavy underbrush, he got a sudden idea. Getting to his feet, he searched the immediate area for loose branches lying on the ground. Hurrying, he collected as many as he could carry and dumped them next to Caje. Checking the wind direction, he gently dragged Caje to a spot that was a bit more protected.
Doc then started rigging a crude shelter from the leafy branches he had collected earlier. Working steadily, he soon forgot his own exhaustion and before long had successfully constructed a fair cover.
"Well, it ain't much to look at," he said softly, "but it sure beats laying out in the open." Looking down at the opening, he addressed Caje. "What do you think, buddy?"
"I think that I'd like to see you put your hands up, mate!" a voice growled behind him. "Hande hoch!"
Before Doc could reply, he heard the distinct sounds of multiple machinegun bolts being pulled. The frightening sounds came from all around him, telling him that he was surrounded. Doc slowly raised his hands, disgusted with himself for allowing the enemy to sneak up on him.
As luck would have it, Saunders had been reconning for less than twenty minutes, when he came upon an opening in the woods. A good-sized long house lay situated in the center of the clearing. The structure was rather large for a single family home, at least by the standards he had come to expect in his brief travels across Europe.
It looked vaguely familiar to a farmhouse in which his squad had stayed overnight in early July. In fact, it appeared to have the same overall layout: On one end, the timbered house boasted two-levels and a thatched roof. Its outer walls were clean, whitewashed stucco.
Its windows were covered with well-maintained shutters, a flower garden welcomed visitors from either side of the front door, and a precise, cobbled walkway led out to a picket fence. Keeping to the edge of the woods, Saunders circled the house, noting two main openings in the front and another in back.
Attached to the farmhouse, was a long, single story addition with several small, utilitarian windows running along its sides. In the center of the attachment was a set of large double doors that Saunders had come to associate with barns and other farm outbuildings.
Admittedly, it was an attractive setup, and he wondered if it was a common local construction. As he studied the house, a light suddenly came on upstairs. As it did, he remembered that the design of the house probably served two functions. The family residence was located on the two-storied, neatly maintained side. Perhaps the upstairs is where the family bedrooms were located, while downstairs would probably have the day rooms.
On the other hand, the long attached structure probably served as a barn. Saunders shook his head and shrugged. Families living side-by-side with their farm animals was something new to him. And yet, he remembered Littlejohn's explanation. The giant, Midwestern farm boy informed him that the setup was quite efficient and that it saved in heating costs.
Apparently, the family relied on the body heat from the farm animals to keep the house relatively warm in the winter. Of course, since it was early August, perhaps the animals were bedded down for the night somewhere else?
As if in answer to his question, a young woman in her mid-twenties walked out into the early morning gloom. As soon as she was outside, she kicked off her slippers and stepped into a pair of wooden clogs. Once properly attired, she started making little clucking noises and sprinkling the ground immediately outside her gate with feed. She was soon being eagerly followed by a flock of clucking chickens.
Next, the girl made her way to the large double doors, and opening them, she disappeared inside.
Saunders waited tensely. He needed to get an idea if she would be of any help. Of course, he recalled his own words to the other men prior to their jumping off the train. There would be little or no help from the locals, he had told them.
The voice of caution spoke insistently in his ear: Don't risk it. There are other farms.
But how many farms would likely be occupied by only one girl? Saunders countered stubbornly.
Oh, and of course you have proof that there are no other people living there? Saunders sighed. The inner voice was unfortunately making good sense.
On the other hand, they could all still be in bed, he argued.
Yeah, and she could be Cinderella and her evil stepmother and stepsisters are all waiting for her to finish her morning chores.
Okay, okay...you win. Saunders shook his head, hating to admit that it was too risky. But it was. The outbuildings were little more than rickety shacks, leaving little room to hide from the farm's occupants. And, with the barn directly attached to the house, it would be relatively impossible to even attempt to use it in the first place.
Arriving at his decision, he turned to go.
At that moment, a group of men all dressed in dark, non-reflective clothing emerged from the other side of the woods--the same direction from which he had just come--the same direction in which had left his men.
Suddenly, to Saunders' dismay, he saw Doc stumble out of the trees, carrying the front end of the litter. The other end was being carried by one of mysterious men. A tall, dark-haired man, his features disguised under a layer of black soot, casually held a Schmeisser behind Doc's back. Following them, two others also carried machine pistols. The dark-haired man, the obvious leader, gave a silent command to the two, which they promptly obeyed.
As the men hurriedly crossed the farmyard, Saunders noted that one was rather short, while the other seemed a bit clumsy. This was shown almost immediately when he stumbled over the uneven ground and fell headfirst into the flock of peaceful chickens, scattering them in all four compass directions.
The shorter man simply shook his head in disgust and without a word offered his companion a hand up. The clumsy man gratefully took his hand and soon was dusting himself off.
Meanwhile, the sudden commotion had brought the girl running outside to investigate. At the sight of the men, she suddenly smiled, yelled something in German--Saunders assumed it was a greeting--and gave each of them a welcoming hug. She paused shyly in front of the tall leader, but he gamely took her hand in his and kissed it gallantly.
By the breaking light of dawn, Saunders could see the color rise in her cheeks. He rolled his eyes. This guy's a real player.
The happy reunion did not last long, however. She noticed Doc for the first time and Caje. As soon as she saw the wounded Cajun, her smiles turned to concern. Immediately, she pointed toward the farmhouse. Nodding, the leader indicated that they take Caje inside; meanwhile, he placed the other two in different strategic points to watch the approaches to the house.
Saunders had to hand it to him. "The guy knows what he's doing."
"You got that right, pal," a menacing voice growled behind him. "Now, be a good boy, and hande hoch!"
End of Part 2