Summary: Caje arrives a decision; Doc bears witness to a tragedy.

Acknowledgement: See Part 1.

Note: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "/Dialogue./"

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Copyright: December 2005

Escape to Stalag 13

By Syl Francis

Date/Time: Unknown

Place: Unknown

He walks through yet another bombed out village. His orders are to clear all the remaining buildings on this side of the street. Saunders takes the other side of the street. The rest of the squad has fanned out to other streets, other buildings. This is routine but dangerous work. Each door, each window a potential den of Kraut vipers. His responses are hair-trigger, jumpy. This is the third straight day of relentless battles and patrols. He needs sleep, but then, so does every other member of the squad.

He cautiously approaches the next building, a small shop with living quarters attached, his senses on full alert. Movement inside the building catches his eye. He fires and throws a grenade through an open window. He ducks in time to avoid being caught in his own explosion. The next instant, a shadow appears in the window. He fires automatically, grimly satisfied that his Garand hit its mark.

To his horror a civilian immerges from the doorway, staggering out into the open. Stunned, he realizes that he has killed a French civilian--an innocent. A sudden, savage cry is torn from the depths of his very soul, the pain almost too much to bear. The back of his mind registers someone next to him, offering quiet comfort and support. However, he is too far-gone to acknowledge Saunders' steadying presence….

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1700hrs local

Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house)

10km west of Hammelburg

The scene changed abruptly. Caje found himself in a small, confined space. He felt hot, cramped. This was real, not a dream. Momentarily, he had returned to the present. He looked around the dark interior of the wardrobe. The hour was late. He had to get out of this thing. He made a futile attempt to haul himself out, but fell back exhausted from the sudden exertion, his shoulder throbbing. He thought of his friends. What could have happened to them?

Doc? Sarge? Where are you?

Exhausted, he fought against the ever-present darkness that continued to lay claim to him. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Caje was aware of an unrelenting thirst. He yearned for something cool to sooth his parched throat. As he did, the scene deliquesced to a small galley located in a houseboat.

Date/Time: Unknown

Place: Unknown

He wonders how he got there, and then remembers his thirst. He finds a bottle of cognac and eagerly brings it to his lips. He tastes the bittersweet wetness as it sooths his dry throat. However, the cognac offers no comfort to the sick emptiness in his soul. Overwhelmed by guilt, he drops his head onto the table and cries, while silently recriminating his carelessness.

If only he had held back his trigger finger. If only he had waited a split second before opening fire. If only…

Wallowing in self-pity, he gulps down the remaining cognac in three long swallows. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he is about to throw the empty bottle across the tiny space, when a young, frightened voice brings him out of his self-imposed fugue.

/Who are you? What are you doing here? Where's my father/ The voice is feminine, her French a musical lilt in his ear.

Its owner, a dark-haired, soulful-eyed angel shocks him speechless. Her father? He killed her father? If he had felt an inconsolable loss before, now he sees only an endless chasm of pain and regret that will be impossible to bridge. He experiences a sense of falling in deeper and deeper, unable to latch onto his former self to safely anchor him.

He tries holding onto Micheline, but he knows in the back of his mind that she will not be able to give him the safety line he needs. She is too young, too frail, and in too much need herself. And what she needs--her father--he has taken from her. Every time he gazes into her wide, dark eyes, the overwhelming tidal waves of self-reproach engulf him yet again.

He is drowning in his guilt, and he knows it. He neglects his duties, goes AWOL, and even lets Saunders down. He is in so deep that he does know how to save himself.

As always, Saunders proves to be both a good friend and a wise leader.

"Caje, will you listen to me? As long as we're together, you might get through this. But when it's over, this squad, the patrol, all of it, it's gonna -- it's gonna disappear. Everyone's gonna go his own way. And what happened to you here will be forgotten."

"Forgotten, Sarge? If anything happens to that girl--"

"If anything happens to that girl, you won't know about it. You'll see what we see, do as we do. No more, no less. Now you keep taking this personally, and you're gonna destroy yourself."

In other words, the only chance they stand to come out of this thing whole, physically and emotionally, is by being there for each other. Not as crutches, though--Saunders would never stand for that. If the squad is to survive, each man has to pull his own weight when the chips are down.

At last, Caje understands what Saunders has been trying to tell him. The squad--collectively and individually--serves as a safety net upon which each man can rely when the need arises.…

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1830hrs local

Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house)

10km west of Hammelburg

Caje blinked his eyes open. He judged the numbness in his legs from sitting in the same cramped position for what must have been hours. He slowly moved his arms, attempting to regain some circulation. Carefully, he stretched his back and neck muscles. As quietly as possible, he pushed the clothing that hung overhead to one side.

Tired from his exertions, he took a moment's respite, regaining his strength. Closing his eyes, he recalled Saunders' promise that they would make it home together and Doc's promise that he would come back for him. He thought of the heavy burden he had been on his friends from the beginning. For the briefest second, he felt a twinge of the old guilt, but he determinedly tamped it down.

No, they had done what he would have done had their positions been reversed. They had willingly served as his safety net in his time of need. Now, he felt that something had gone wrong, and his friends needed him. "It's time I started pulling my weight around here," he murmured.

Reaching for a handhold, Caje gathered his legs underneath him and simultaneously pushed up with his leg muscles and pulled with his arms. Soon he was teetering on shaky legs, holding onto the wardrobe to keep from pitching forward. The world spun in a weird merry-go-round for a second longer. At last, it settled down long enough for Caje to chance climbing out.

Stumbling to the bed, Caje held onto the bedpost, gasping for breath. The room insisted on tilting and spinning crazily around him. Swallowing determinedly, Caje closed his eyes, allowing his equilibrium time to settle down. It was no wonder he was dizzy. He had been lying on his back for the better part of a week. Blinking his eyes open, he was relieved to see that the world had settled down.

He took a moment to get his bearings. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for so long, he was not even sure where he was. He remembered that they were in Germany and that they had escaped from a POW transport train. He vaguely recalled being carried into a farmhouse, but everything was a bit fuzzy. There had been girl, he suddenly remembered, smiling at the memory. Of course, he would remember a girl. And Doc…he remembered Doc's presence clearly.

And Saunders? Caje closed his eyes in concentration, trying to remember. Try as he might, he had only flitting images of his squad leader: Saunders looking worried, Saunders giving him an encouraging smile or placing a warm hand on his uninjured shoulder. Most of all, he recalled Saunders' unwavering determination that they would get home. He felt Saunders' resolve within himself and knew that even absent, his friend's decisiveness was continuing to drive him.

Taking a cautionary step, he made his way to the doorway, pausing at the opening, listening for anything suspicious. Hearing only the sound of his labored breathing, Caje walked unsteadily to the steep stairway. Looking down into the darkness, he almost felt his resolve fail him. Closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath, Caje took hold of the banister and began his slow, unsteady descent.

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1830hrs local

Hammelburg Road

En route to Gestapo HQs, Hammelburg

Doc sat in tense silence, staring straight ahead, his midsection aching from an earlier encounter with a Kraut's rifle butt. The truck was traveling at a slow, but steady pace through the local Bavarian forest. It was part of a four-vehicle convoy with a staff car in the lead, followed by the truck Doc was in. In turn a second transport truck followed his, and a machine-gun mounted quarter-ton truck brought up the rear.

Doc wondered how many prisoners were in the other truck. This one was already filled to capacity, carrying well over eighteen prisoners and two very nervous, very trigger-happy Krauts. The truck was so overcrowded, in fact, that the soldiers were squeezed in shoulder to shoulder on the benches and the truck bed, with little or no breathing room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Doc tried to gauge his fellow prisoners' state of mind. So far, he had recognized most of the men from the POW train. The men had to have suffered from a severe psychological blow to be recaptured so soon after escaping. Most looked just as tense as he felt. Several had streaks of perspiration sliding down their cheeks. Only a couple dared meet his eyes but quickly averted them. The soldiers that really worried him, though, had vacant eyes, their minds apparently having been turned inward. They looked like they were lost within themselves.

The prisoners were not allowed to talk and were forced to keep their eyes straightforward. If one were caught sneaking a peak at a fellow prisoner, or trying to get an idea of what lay beyond the back canvas flap, he was likely to receive a rifle butt to the temple. That had already happened to a prisoner prior to Doc boarding the truck. Sadly, the soldier did not survive the incident and his body was summarily tossed out the back.

Doc worried about the other soldiers' condition. Besides the subtle signs of emotional trauma, Doc spotted a variety of minor and serious wounds when he first climbed onboard the truck. While he only had a cursory glance, he clearly saw one head wound, a shoulder wound, a wounded arm, and several minor cuts and abrasions. He had asked the guards if he could check on the more seriously wounded but had been rebuffed. Not to be denied, Doc had insisted on talking to the NCO in charge. Annoyed by his 'insolence,' the guard struck Doc in the solar plexus, which explained the current ache radiating from the medic's midsection.

Saunders' words when they were first captured came to him: "Take it easy, Doc. Now's not the time." Doc nodded in agreement, knowing that Saunders was right. Still, he surreptitiously studied the other prisoners.

Abruptly, he heard the truck's gears protest as they were downshifted. Next, the vehicle began slowing down. The truck came to a halt, accompanied by the harsh squeal of brakes. The next instant, the guards jumped off the truck with loud shouts of, "Raus! Raus!" Standing back, the Krauts brandished their weapons, ordering the Allied prisoners to disembark.

Doc no sooner landed on the ground than he was simultaneously shoved and prodded with a rifle muzzle until he and the rest of the prisoners were formed into a semblance of a military formation. They stood in a small clearing in the woods, the late afternoon sun gamely dappling the trees that had been lying in deep shadows with soft, burnished gold. To Doc's agitation he saw that in addition to the gun mounted on the trail vehicle, they were covered by two heavily-manned machinegun nests.

As soon as the ragtag line of prisoners was more or less in line, an officer in the black uniform of the Gestapo strutted to the front. The collar insignia showed his rank as that of an SS-Sturmbannführer, or Major. His right arm had the requisite Nazi Swastika armband, while from his left breast pocket hung the Iron Cross 1st class, and proudly centered on his tie was the Golden Party Badge.

Doc could not help but wonder what the man had done to merit the awards.

Facing the men, the Gestapo officer glowered at them, his eyes in deep shadow from his cap's visor. He was much shorter than Doc would have believed. With the power the small man wielded, he should have been well over six feet, not closer to five and a half. Still, what the man lacked for in height, he made up in fear tactics.

He pointed at two prisoners at the farthest end. They were immediately dragged out of formation and brought before him. Looking them over contemptuously, he nodded at the guards who forced the prisoners to move toward a trench that had been previously dug. There, the guards prodded them onto a kneeling position.

Stepping to the side, the officer finally addressed the group of prisoners. "You have all been tried and found guilty of crimes against the Third Reich. As such, it is my duty to carry out the sentence." At his words a low growl that quickly increased in volume grew out of the prisoners standing in line. The men each took a threatening step forward, but were stopped by short, warning bursts from the machinegun emplacements.

The Gestapo major actually smiled. "The two men you see before you are not only guilty of crimes against the Reich, they are traitors to the Fatherland!"

At the major's words, Doc felt as if time had slowed down. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but he could not. Traitors to the Fatherland? What did he mean? Doc wondered. The soldiers' names suddenly came to him. Privates Schaefer and Mueller were both of German descent. Doc remembered their self-deprecating smiles and jokes about joining up in order to kick Der Fuehrer out of their parents' homeland.

The German officer casually raised his closed left fist. Feeling an icy hand grip his lower intestines, Doc's eyes remained glued on the kneeling soldiers. A gentle breeze picked up at this moment, carrying Schaefer and Mueller's whispered prayers.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…"

At the major's nod, the Krauts standing guard over the two kneeling prisoners stepped back. Meanwhile, Doc had taken up the soft refrain of Psalm 23.

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…"

Soon, the entire formation of helplessly watching prisoners joined in.

He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…"

Angered by the prisoners' show of support, the major abruptly brought his fist down, his face a contorted mask of rage. The quiet woods suddenly rang with a long, staccato burst of machinegun fire. The kneeling figures fell face forward into the black maw of the waiting trench.

The gunfire ceased just as abruptly as it began.

"Their fate shall also be yours if you attempt to escape--!" The officer's words seemed to fade into the background as for the briefest space in time, the still woods swelled with the murmured prayers from the remaining prisoners' broken voices.

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"

"Should you fail to follow even the least order from a soldier of the Reich--!"

"I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…"

"You will be shot immediately--!"

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…My cup runneth over."

"I give this warning, not as your enemy, but as a friend--!"

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life..."

"For we are all soldiers…comrades in arms."

"And I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. "

"Cooperate…tell us what we wish to know, and you will be richly rewarded." He looked around. "Well? What shall it be? Cooperation and reward? Or--!"

"Fritz, you can take your offer, and you can shove it where the sun don't shine!"

The major turned in the direction of the voice. "Who said that! I want to know who said it, or I will personally start shooting each man in line, one-by-one!"

At his words, a tall soldier proudly stepped forward. "I said it, Fritzy!"

"Take that man and shoot him!"

"Jawohl, Herr Major!" A guard sharply saluted the major and then moved to pull the soldier of formation.

Watching helplessly, Doc acted without thinking. Stepping forward out of line, he called out, "No! He didn't say it! I did!"

At Doc's words, the major's face began turning the same shade of magenta that he had exhibited earlier. "Arrest that man!"

Before the guards could react, yet another soldier stepped forward and cried out, "No! He didn't say it! I did!"

"No! I did!"

"No! It was me!"

"No! Me!"

Before long, the entire line of prisoners was crying out that he had been the instigator. The German guards looked bewildered by the unexpected turn of events until at last the sergeant of the guard turned to the Gestapo officer.

/"Major Hochstetter! What shall we do? Whom do we arrest/"

/"Dumkopf! Stand aside/" Hochstetter glared at the defiant row of prisoners. Nodding his head as if in approval, he grinned appreciatively at his audience, much like a rattlesnake must look before it strikes. "You are all very clever...and very brave. We shall see just how clever and brave once we are done with you."

His eyes abruptly resuming their previous crazed gleam, Hochstetter shouted at his men. "/Arrest them all! They are all enemies of the Reich!" Gesticulating violently, he pointed at the waiting trucks. "Load them all on the trucks! When we are done with them, they will beg to join their dead comrades./"

End of Part 8