Summary: A quiet interlude before the gathering storm.

Acknowledgement: I think it's time I reiterated my undying gratitude to DocII and her endless patience. When I say that her critical eye and comments have helped me make this a better story is an understatement.

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

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Copyright: December 2005

Escape to Stalag 13

By Syl Francis

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2245hrs local

Holding Cell, Gestapo HQs

Hammelburg, Germany

Doc leaned, exhausted, against the cold, hard concrete wall. He and two other men sat in a holding cell, waiting for whatever fate the Gestapo intended for them. He thought back over the events of the past few hours.

The Allied prisoners had been brought to Gestapo Headquarters a few hours ago, still stunned from the cold-blooded murder of their comrades, and immediately hustled into a large holding tank. Then, before they had had a chance to catch their collective breath or regroup, they had been quickly and efficiently processed and moved into individual cells. At least, Doc and his two cellmates, Owens and Briggs, had been moved into this cell by themselves; however, he did not know where any of the others were, or even if any were still alive.

As he and the others had been shoved unceremoniously into the cell, Doc had had a brief glimpse of his new prison. The ceiling was thankfully high enough for him stand. The walls were cinder block, while the floor was made of rough, uneven stone. There were no furnishings of any kind, forcing him and his companions to sit or lie uncomfortably on the cold floor. Worse, in the corner stood a single bucket, its intended use obvious from the foul odors that reeked from it.

Before the door had been shut behind them, Owens had started yelling at the top of his lungs for his buddy Benson. The guards had put a stop to his shouts with a rifle butt to the solar plexus and a hard fist to the left temple. Owens had instantly crumpled to the floor, dazed.

The guards backed out of the cell then, shutting the heavy metal door with a resounding clang. Doc immediately knelt down next to Owens, but the injured soldier turned away, refusing any offer of help.

"Just leave me be," he whispered raggedly. "Leave me be."

"They'll kill us all, Doc," Briggs intoned, his voice dull. As he spoke, he slid down the wall to a sitting position. "They're gonna kill us all."

"You stop that kind of talk!" Doc said sharply. "You hear?"

Briggs shot him a lackluster glance. Shrugging, he looked away. "Don't matter anyhow. Better to be shot like Schaefer and Mueller, than left here to rot in this stinkin', black hole--"

Doc was on him before Briggs had a chance to finish his sentence, grabbing him by the lapels. "Now you listen to me, Briggs, and you listen good. Whatever happens we ain't giving up! As long as we're alive there's hope." He gave the despondent soldier a rough shake for added emphasis. "I don't know about you, pal, but I still got me a whole lot of living left to do."

A glimmer of something--hope, perhaps?--flickered in Briggs' eyes momentarily, but it was quickly gone again. Closing his eyes, he turned away, his body limp and unresponsive.

Disappointed, Doc released him and moved back toward Owens who lay curled in a fetal position, his back to the others. As soon as Doc touched him, Owens' entire body tensed.

"Owens, I need to see how bad you're hurt."

"I'm okay, Doc," Owens muttered. "I just want to be left alone."

"Are you sure you ain't hurt?" Doc asked.

Instead of answering Doc's question, Owens asked, "You think Benson's all right?"

Doc shrugged, and then realizing Owens could not see his response, said, "I'm sure he's fine, Owens. Or as well as can be expected."

"We've been buddies since basic, Doc," Owens said softly. "We've done everything together. Shared foxholes, rations, even our last pair of dry socks." At last, he turned to face Doc. "I'm closer to him than I am to my own brother back home."

Doc could not think of what to say. He thought of Caje and Saunders--and the rest of the squad. What Owens said was true, Doc realized. He, too, was closer to the men in his squad than to his own brothers back home.

"Why couldn't we at least have gotten to share the same cell?" Owens asked. "What if one or both of us gets killed, Doc? It ain't fair. We never even said goodbye."

"Don't you think it's a little early to start saying goodbye? You ain't dead yet!" Doc spoke a bit more sharply than he had intended. Still, his cellmates' pessimistic attitudes were beginning to wear thin. Exasperated and feeling unable to find words of comfort, Doc repeated what he had already told Briggs. "You gotta believe that we're gonna get out of here, Owens. You gotta believe that as long you can draw a breath, there's hope."

In answer, Owens again turned away to the wall. Sighing helplessly, Doc sat back on his heels. He stared at Owens' back for a moment longer and then turned to Briggs. Both men were pictures of despair. Doc could almost feel their hopelessness seeping into his own bones. Momentarily defeated, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes...

Images of Saunders and Caje invaded his thoughts. He worried about his friends, Caje especially. Had Saunders succeeded in extricating him safely from the farmhouse? For that matter, did Saunders know yet that he had been taken prisoner by the Gestapo? He thought about Anna and wondered if she had somehow managed to get word to the Sarge of his capture. He mulled over what he had said to Owens and Briggs--that as long as they lived they had hope.

Did he really believe that, he wondered? As if in answer, Doc could suddenly feel Saunders' steady presence standing next to him.

"Like I told Caje, Doc, we're all gonna make it back together." Saunders spoke softly, but earnestly. He ran a hand through his thick shock of blond hair, as always somehow managing to make it look worse than before. "Now, you've gotta believe that, Doc, 'cause, well--" Saunders shrugged and gave Doc a boyish grin. "--there's not much point in worrying yourself sick about the alternative…."

Doc jerked awake, momentarily lost in the dark. Where was he, he wondered? The next instant his memories returned with the same force as that of the cell door slamming shut. Blinking to clear the cobwebs, he sat up.

A weak tendril of light tantalized him from a small space under the heavy, iron door. It broke the otherwise total darkness, allowing him to make out the vague outlines of the other two men. At irregular intervals, the sharp ring of hobnailed boots approached the cell in slow, measured steps, and for a brief moment cast a shadow across the lower edge of the cell door.

Doc knew it was only the guard making his rounds, but somehow the deliberate steps outside his cell also served to remind him that he was at the mercy of a man who would not hesitate to kill just to prove a point. He recalled Mueller and Schaefer's bullet-ravaged bodies pitching uncontrollably forward and being swallowed by the open maw of the newly dug grave. He shivered suddenly and hugged himself.

Maybe Briggs and Owens were right, he thought darkly. He and the others were never going home. Hochstetter would see to that…

Again, Doc was suddenly hit by the eerie feeling that Saunders was in the cell with him, his piercing blue eyes penetrating his own in the darkness.

"That kind of thinking will get you killed, Doc." Saunders spoke with his usual, sharp intensity, using his Sarge voice, the one reserved for pouncing on slackers like Kirby or green soldiers who called him 'Sir' or cowards like Trenton who faked injuries to avoid combat. "I promised you and Caje that we'd all make it home together. You've gotta believe it, Doc!"

"But--"

"I'm not asking you, Doc! I'm telling you!" Saunders stood over him, his stance defiant and formidable. "We're gonna make home together! You got that, soldier?"

"I--yeah, Sarge, I got it…but--"

"No 'buts,' Doc! And that's an order!"

Doc jerked awake for a second time that night. This time there was only a brief moment of disorientation that passed quickly. He must have fallen asleep once again.

"Sarge?" he called out, not expecting an answer. Somehow, Doc could still feel Saunders' presence near him, the sergeant's words echoing in his head. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Doc nodded at last. "I heard you, Sarge," he murmured. "We're gonna make it home together."

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2300hrs local

Barracks 2

LuftStalag 13

Hogan paced in his quarters.

He had sent the others to bed, but he knew that for him, it would be an exercise in futility. The need to devise a plan to rescue the Allied prisoners was gnawing away at his gut--and his conscience. He would not be able to sleep even if he tried.

The earlier reports from the Underground of finding the bound and bullet-riddled bodies of Allied prisoners had haunted his waking thoughts all day. That, coupled with his hours-long worry over Kinchloe's safety and his concern over the prisoners' fate, had eaten through most of his personal reserves.

Somehow, he knew that the lost souls of those he had been unable to save now lay in wait to assault him in his dreams. He ran a hand through his dark hair and paused to light yet another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he let out a long stream of smoke through his nostrils. Opening the window shutters, he leaned out of the windowsill on his elbows and looked up at the night sky, here and there identifying stars that had been old friends since his boyhood.

Savoring the night's peacefulness, he smoked quietly, his face bathed by the silvery light of the full moon. A bomber's moon. He sighed a bit wistfully. No sense wanting something you can't have, Colonel. Besides, his mission was critical--with no other operation quite like it in the ETO--and, if he thought about it honestly, there were few men who would be able to do the job he was doing.

Gazing out upon the still compound, which lay awash in the moon's gossamer shroud, he thought about each of his men--their expertise and unique skills, their loyalty to him and the mission. A fella couldn't ask for a better bunch of men. Silently reflecting on the good he and his team had accomplished in the past two years, while operating behind enemy lines, Hogan felt the day's tensions slowly start to recede. Turning to look at his bunk, he considered sacking out. He knew that with the nonstop pace he had been setting, exhaustion would catch up to him, sooner rather than later.

As Hogan stared at his bunk, he suddenly saw the lifeless body of an American G.I. materialize out of thin air. The dead soldier lay facedown, his hands tied behind his back.

At the lurid sight, Hogan felt a cold shudder go through him. Suddenly, the intangible form sat up and stared coldly at him.

Hogan blinked, and the apparition was gone.

"I'm hallucinating," he muttered. I must be even more tired than I thought. He needed to go to sleep. "To sleep, perchance to dream--" he murmured." Thinking of the ghostly night visitors his dreams might further conjure, Hogan shook his head. "To dream…ay, there's the rub."He glared at the offending bunk. "Who needs sleep?"

No. He was not yet ready to face the mute, accusing eyes of the dead. He knew that the only way he would be able to put his demons to rest was to prevent their tragic fate from happening to the others.

And so, he paced.

And planned.

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2300hrs local

Tunnel Under Barracks 2

LuftStalag 13

Saunders lay in his bunk, smoking quietly. He watched the cigarette smoke curl silently upward, disappearing into the tunnel ceiling's shadowy recesses. One thought kept playing over and over in his mind like a broken record.

Doc is in the hands of the Gestapo, and it's my fault.

His friend and confidant was possibly being tortured even now for information he did not have. To offset his worry, Saunders wordlessly contemplated several possible reasons against such a probability.

First, Doc was only a private first class in the medical corps; therefore, he could not possibly have any information that would interest the Gestapo.

Of course, if the Third Reich's infamous secret police needed information on how to properly dispense aspirin, then Doc was their man. After all some of the directions were a bit misleading and could easily confuse anyone. For example, if the instructions called for two aspirins, Doc sometimes recommended that the patient take three instead, because two never really did the trick. Also, there was the whole 'washing your hands before you eat to prevent the spread of disease' campaign. And let's not forget the really important stuff like wearing a pair of clean socks every day.

Saunders took a deep drag from his cigarette, let it out slowly, and continued his mental count.

Second, he, Doc, Caje, and the other prisoners had been captured almost a week ago. Any 'vital' information they might have had was long obsolete.

No, the Gestapo knew that the escaped prisoners had no necessary information. Saunders had been the ranking NCO, and he was only a buck sergeant--the lowest of the low. Any information he had when captured would have been of an immediate nature and of limited tactical value. Since their capture, the situation had changed, rendering any information he might have had of no import.

He shook his head.

If the Gestapo did anything to hurt the prisoners, it would have nothing to do with any knowledge the prisoners might have, but rather as punishment for escaping en masse.

And it was all his fault.

Doc was in the Gestapo's hands, and it was all his fault.

Saunders ran a hand across his eyes. He knew that this type of self-flagellation was unproductive, but he could not help himself. If he had not planned and executed the escape in the first place, Doc would never have been turned over to the Gestapo. Instead, they would all be real cozy in a prisoner of war camp right now, sitting out the rest of the war.

The only question that remained was what did he plan to do about it? How was he going to get Doc back--?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Caje's soft voice. "Sarge?"

"Yeah?"

"How are we gonna get Doc back?"

Saunders grinned in spite of himself. "I'm working on it."

"Oh." There was a short silence. "He's gonna be okay, Sarge. You'll see."

Saunders did not answer for a long while. Finally, he said softly, "I know. Now, go back to sleep, buddy. You heard the colonel. We'll need it before this is all over."

Rather than obeying his sergeant's orders like a good little private, Caje asked, "What do you think of them, Sarge? Colonel Hogan and the others, I mean."

"I'm not sure yet," Saunders said quietly. Then, knowing sleep was eluding him, he sat up and leaned back against the tunnel wall. He smoked in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on Hogan's unorthodox methods and had to swallow a wry chuckle. There was nothing ordinary about these people or their operation. In fact, Saunders would not doubt that he had fallen down a rabbit hole. "They've got quite a setup here."

"You're not kidding!" Caje agreed, awed. "Can you believe this place?"

"Sergeant Kinchloe seems like a pretty good soldier." Saunders recalled the trick with the guard dog and shook his head. Moreover, from what Saunders had observed of Kinchloe, the black sergeant had been a steady presence on the way to and from the farmhouse. His quick thinking with Trudy, the guard dog, had prevented their capture and possibly even saved their lives. Also, he had willingly gone along with whatever Saunders had asked of him--no, Saunders amended, whatever I demanded of him--without once pulling rank.

He then thought of the enigmatic Colonel Hogan. Saunders was still unsure of how to read the man. He recalled Hogan's demeanor before and after Hochstetter's visit.

One minute the officer acted like everyone's pal, smiling warmly, slapping everyone on the back, helping maintain everyone's spirits. The next, he became all business, a sudden coldness overtaking his formerly easy-going manner. The thoughts behind his dark eyes turned unreadable--no longer warm and friendly.

Instead, the mastermind behind this clandestine operation took over--cool, focused, dangerous--regarding and disregarding ideas at lightning speed.

While Hogan could not promise that Doc and the others would escape from the Gestapo unscathed, he did give Saunders his solemn pledge to do everything in his power to launch a rescue mission.

"Caje…you asked me what I thought of these guys?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we can trust them."

End of Part 10