Warnings/Content: Contains male/male SLASH plus torture and non consensual. Also some full-bodied soldier type language. Adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.
PART SIX: Attack
Oh God it hurt!
Deeper and more painful than anything Peck had ever felt before. He was barely conscious, floating on a grey sea of pain. He dare not move, not even a muscle for in doing so he knew that the numb ever present thrum that he drifted on would intensify and sear through him in burning anguish.
Nothing, even death, should hurt this much.
He tried to rise above it. Tried to focus his thoughts into some sort of logical order but every single cell that made up his body was screaming at him. He did not have the strength to overcome that, to quieten them. And so he sat, not moving, not thinking, simply feeling and the feeling was complete agony.
"Confess!" the voices beseeched him, sometimes calmly instructing him and other times screaming even louder than the cries of his own body. They pulled him back from the brink, from the sanctuary of oblivion, forcing him to feel once more.
He licked his bloodied lips, his tongue running abrasively across the blistered skin. He would confess, he had tried to say so many times but his voice was lost in the overarching din of his pain. Water, he craved water. If they gave him just enough to moisten his parched throat then he would find his voice once more. If they gave him water he would confess, would make them hear but how could he ask for water when he had no voice?
He opened his eyes slightly; they were swollen and tacky and his vision was not good. Still bound as he was with his head forced down all he could see was his own crotch and thighs. He forced himself to concentrate, to try to pick out the different colours of the stains on his filthy fatigues but the world was made up of simply grey; no colour, no detail, only pain.
"Confess!" the voice urged him.
He jerked slightly and groaned as the flame of agony sliced through his foggy conscience burning him even with that unbidden movement.
Confess. He would confess if only he could but confess to what? There were so many things in his pitiful life that he was guilty of, all of them tumbling into his fevered mind. Should he confess to Father McGill that he was the one who had hot wired old Father Scott's car, gone for a joy ride in it and left it in that bush on the corner of Fifth and Seventeenth? Or that he had stolen Mrs O'Connor, the cleaner's purse, when she left it unattended in the kitchen? Should he tell Lesley Bectall that he was not the upstanding All-American boy that she considered taking home to meet her folks? Or should he tell Collins the fat boy from boot camp that he had stolen his dress uniform tie when he'd lost his own? Or Major Estevez that he had lied about his age when he signed on or tell Colonel Rosser that his Special Forces training scores were faked? Or was it Colonel Smith he needed to tell that he was never a soldier or should he tell Murdock he loved him ……..
…..Whoa! Where did that last one come from? A vision of the pilot's twinkling smile swept into Peck's tortured mind and he tensed. The resultant pain forced further coherent thought from his mind for a long time.
He whimpered and grasped for breath until the stabbing pain retreated to the numbing ache of before. He needed to focus, to find something to cling on to against the soul destroying, grey pain. He needed to find colour, sense, passion – why not Murdock? He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the image of Murdock's face into his mind, minutely building every feature, every contour, the subtle shades of his colouring; the honest beauty that Peck suddenly knew was there.
"Confess!" the voice came again.
Ignoring the pain it caused him, Peck shook his head. He could bear this, he told himself. This was no worse than other tortures he had suffered in his life and he had endured those. As long as he survived he kept the others safe. He had so much to confess that he deserved this punishment but the rest of his Team did not; he must keep them protected. Physical pain was nothing. In order to overcome it all you had to do was force it away, focus on something else. And so Peck did. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and focused his whole being on his vision of Murdock.
And for some time it worked…..
Smith let out a frustrated snort and banged his fist into the bamboo bars of the cage in disgust.
"Relax, Colonel," came Ray's tired voice. "You can't do anything."
"It's inhuman!" the Colonel spat. "No one should be forced to go through that!"
Ray got to his feet with a pained grunt and left his place at BA's side to stand beside his commanding officer. "Easy Colonel," he soothed. "We have to stay cool. It breaks my heart too but he's doing it for us."
"He's a good kid," Smith muttered.
"The goddamn best," Ray responded, a spark of pride shining in his eyes that had been dull as death until that moment. He shuddered as he looked across the camp compound to where Peck sat in the marshy area. His legs were stretched out in front of him, bound all the way up from ankle to thigh too tightly with jungle twine. His head had been thrust forwards and down towards his crotch and his arms….. Hell, Ray still remembered the scream of agony the kid had been unable to bite back when they tied his arms. They had lifted them above his head, and then repeatedly cinched them until Peck's elbows had been forced together. They had then placed handcuffs on his upper arms, pinching them as tightly as possible to cut off all circulation. As Peck had sat silently biting his lip, ignoring the pain, they had simply rotated his arms downwards until his shoulders had dislocated, the hushed camp had echoed with the appalling popping noise. That was when the kid's self control had finally deserted him and he screamed. Ray had had to physically restrain the Colonel at that point. Even so his reaction had been noted by the guards and their smiles had widened knowingly.
That had been days ago – Ray was unsure of just how many but Face still sat in the same position, his shoulders joints bulging unnaturally, hands and feet black from lack of blood. Regularly the guards would go over to him and beat him with sticks, swear at him, abuse him as they saw fit and as soon as Face began to fall to the side, strong hands would prop him back up so the torture would start again. At first Ray and some of the other men had tried to shout encouragement but each one had been pulled out of their cages and beaten. Now nobody shouted but every morning in the dull dawn light all eyes went first to the stooped form of the young lieutenant and each took just a little comfort at his continuing resistance.
Ray did not think it would last. Gooks weren't stupid and the longer it went on, the more hope the prisoners would take from it. Ray didn't like to even think it but he figured that Charlie would have to crush Peck soon. He could see from the growing anxiety in his Colonel that Smith felt the same way too.
As Ray looked across at Peck he squinted trying to see if the kid's condition had worsened – was his head a little lower, his breathing more laboured? Even from this distance Ray could pick out the damp spots on the lieutenant's ragged uniform from his sweat, his blood and other bodily fluids but also from the swampy ground on which he sat. God knows how many bugs were making a meal of his body right now, sapping his strength as much as the humid climate and the cruelty of his captors and yet the kid still managed to regain and hold on to his control.
Ray turned his attention back to the Colonel still standing beside him. Hannibal's eyes were on Peck too but Ray could tell they were not seeing the kid. As he had done hundreds of times since their capture Smith was re-playing the mission in every precise detail, trying to find the reasons why they had failed, trying to see what had brought them to this horrific present…..
Something had spooked Peck. Since he had been back from his enforced R and R following the stomach wound, the lieutenant had been as sound as any of them – no return to the petrified little kid, just a cool, controlled and professional soldier. The Team had completed a dozen successful missions together and no-one would have guessed that their lieutenant had ever had a problem. But this time something made him hesitate and then aim high with his assassination shot. He had cursed, taken another shot but those few moments had proved fatal as Charlie had the two rifle discharges with which to pinpoint their position.
"Go!" Peck had screamed as he shouldered his rifle and turned. Behind him the trees had parted and what appeared to be a whole battalion of Viet Cong lurched into view.
They had run as quickly as the booby trapped jungle had allowed but suddenly the gooks were everywhere. BA was hit in the leg. Ray tried to carry him out with Hannibal and Face covering but it was no good. They had no chance of making it back to the pick up point. The Colonel had considered ending it in one violent blaze of glory but had decided against it – now that decision came back to haunt him in the terrors of the camp.
Within seconds they were on their knees, arms stretched behind their backs until their shoulders ached, hands roughly and tightly tied. BA was fighting to stay conscious as a soldier spat gibberish and waved a pistol in his face. Something had to be done to deflect the man and Hannibal wracked his brains but Peck was ahead of him.
The Colonel lifted his head at the sound of the lieutenant's voice pitched to be as annoying as possible. "Awh come on!" he whined. "You're tying that far too tight. I can't feel my h…..!" He was cut off by a blow to his jaw that sent him sprawling. The rest of the gooks turned on him instantly and Hannibal used the opportunity to crawl across to BA, Ray was already on his other side.
"Sergeant," Hannibal said. "You OK?"
BA bit back his pain. "Hurts like hell, Hannibal," he groaned. "But I'll survive."
"They may march us a ways," the Colonel continued. "Lean on me or Ray if you need."
"Don't need no help!" BA spat. "No gook bullet gonna stop me!"
They turned back to where Peck was kneeling meekly; his head had been forced into the ground by a Viet Cong soldier who was standing astride him. The lieutenant had obviously been beaten into submission. The rest of the group now seemed to be arguing, Smith tried to pick up the gist but they were speaking too fast. It soon became clear what the issue was when one of them raised Peck's sniper rifle.
"Shit," Hannibal muttered.
The leader of the men, a Captain, grabbed the weapon from the other man and in two strides was standing in front of Peck, his eyes blazing in anger. "Is this yours?" he spat in a heavily accented voice.
Peck lifted his head and gulped. The rifle butt hit him on the jaw and threw him back on to the moist jungle floor again.
"Up!" the Captain shouted.
Groggily and with difficulty Peck climbed slowly back to his knees, his mouth set firm but a stream of blood dripping from its left hand corner. He swayed slightly as he gazed up into the uncompromising eyes of his captor again. The man threatened him with the rifle once more and Peck flinched at the movement. But the Captain did not hit him; instead he bent down so his face was only inches from Peck's.
"Confess," he said. "Murderer!"
Face focused his eyes on a point in the middle distance and remained motionless. The Captain spat at him, the globule of salvia hitting him on the cheek just below his right eye and running downwards. After a few seconds Peck moved his head away from his tormentor and drew in a long, controlled breath.
"You killed her, didn't you? Cowardly American pig! You will pay!" The Captain lifted the rifle but again did not deliver the blow instead he threw a staccato sentence to the man behind Peck who roughly lifted him to his feet. He pushed him towards where the other three waited. Peck stumbled and fell, skidding to a halt on his knees next to the Colonel.
Hannibal fixed him with a considering eye. "The target was a woman?" he whispered.
Face shrugged as well as he could with his arms pinned behind his back. "A girl. That's why I blew it, Colonel," he confessed. "Didn't expect a pretty face at the other end of my bullet. I screwed up…. My fault ….. I'm sorry."
"Did you get her?"
He nodded; his face expressionless. "Second shot - mission accomplished, Sir."
Hannibal sighed. "Not yet, Face. We have to get out of here, too."
Face rolled his eyes. "Better start working on your plan. I reckon these guys are pissed at us."
Hannibal nodded. "And you're making it worse. Less of the heroics, Lieutenant. I don't want you dead!"
Peck's dirty face cracked into his most stunning smile. "It's gotta be me," he said. "BA's hurt, Ray's gotta look after him. You got to lead us – I'm the dispensable one, Hannibal – it makes perfect sense!"
The Colonel opened his mouth to respond but one of the enemy soldiers stepped up and let fly a barrage of orders. They were pulled roughly to their feet and forced to march northwards away from the recon site where Murdock was supposed to pick them up.
They marched for the rest of the day and then again the following morning until judging by the position of the sun, barely glimpsed through the sweeping canopy above them, noon. By this time BA was in a bad way, barely conscious he was marching by pure instinct. The others had been throwing each other increasingly desperate looks and it was with some relief that they found themselves pushed to their knees in what was obviously the small encampment deep in the jungle that was their destination.
Relief was somewhat short lived, however, as they took into view their surroundings. There were a number of small huts built from bamboo nestled together at the northern point of the camp. A number of Vietnamese scuttled around a massive cooking fire in front of them. There were six bamboo cages to the right, housed in a ditch that had been dug into the ground so that only the top half of each of the cages was visible. Three were empty and three housed a scrawny, battered assortment of dull eyed prisoners, currently staring at them lifelessly. On the south side of the camp ran a small stream, the land around it was swampy. Sitting on this land on a small stool was the bizarre sight of one lone American prisoner.
Hannibal stared at the man for a long time. He was sitting on a small four legged stool, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands tied by his sides to the stool. Smith had heard of such torture techniques before, the man would be left there day and night with no liquids or food and forced to sit upright whenever he fell asleep. The soldier was in a bad state; his head slumped on to his chest. There was no movement, no possible hint of whether he was alive or dead.
The Colonel was pulled back from his assessment of their prison by the harsh voice of the slant eyed Captain behind them. Strong hands lifted him ungently and began to strip him of his boots. Barefoot Hannibal found himself forced towards one of the empty cages. From behind him BA groaned in pain and fell forwards as two gooks tried to get him to his feet. There was a harsh babble then as the Captain made a dismissive gesture. One of the soldiers reached for his gun, his eyes glowering at the big black man.
"Not my boots!" Face's whining voice came to the rescue once more. As the soldier in front of him tried to pull off his right boot Peck kicked out and managed to kick the soldier square on the jaw. He fell over with a grunt and then Face was on his feet sliding and slithering towards the stream as he cast a meaningful glance from Hannibal to BA and back.
The soldiers moved to intercept the lieutenant as Ray and Hannibal took BA's massive form between them and dragged him towards the cage. Both would have preferred to take him out of the encampment but they knew in his current condition further travel was out of the question. Instead they laid him down gently on the cell floor and then turned back to see how Peck was faring.
Not very well, was the answer. He had been tackled to the ground by the first soldier to catch up with him and others had piled on, leaving him at the bottom of the heavy heap. Slowly the soldiers got off him and pulled him to his knees once more, he had come to rest only a few feet away from the GI on the stool, but the soldier remained completely oblivious to all that went on around him.
The Captain moved in and pointed his revolver at the side of Peck's head. "Up!" he commanded. Gulping fearfully Face did as he was told. The Captain had to stand on tiptoe to keep the gun barrel embedded into Peck's temple. He spat out a command to the nearest soldier who bent down to remove Peck's boots.
As nonchalantly as he could in the circumstances, Face kicked off first one boot then the other. "All right, all right," he moaned. "You can have the damn things!" Hannibal sucked in a deep breath. "Easy kid," he whispered. "Don't do or say anything stupid!" The inhabitants of the other cages plus Ray were stupefied by the events, standing motionless, afraid even to breathe; afraid but also so relieved that it was happening to someone else.
After his boots were gone Face was forced back to his knees next to the soldier on the stool. The Captain was terrifyingly still as he stood over Peck gun still at his temple. "Stupid, soft American," he spat. "You pay." He cocked the pistol. Peck shivered slightly, closed his eyes and waited.
"No," Hannibal breathed as the gunshot rang around the jungle.
But it was not Face who fell to the floor instead the soldier on the stool jerked and then slumped further forward. Peck opened his eyes, took in a long ragged gulp and looked out through a face splattered with the brains of the dead soldier beside him. The Captain behind him began to laugh, a brittle detached sound that clattered around the camp. Soon the other Viet Cong joined in but the captives stood silently quaking until one of them muttered, "Rest in peace, Jimbo."
Hannibal pulled himself away from the scene. "Was that his name, soldier?"
The GI nodded. "Been torturing him for days. He just wanted an end to it – guess he got that now. Don't think your man will fare much better though."
Hannibal sighed. "He's a lot tougher than he looks!" he muttered wishing he had something to fiddle with. The desire for a cigar was almost overwhelming but he forced it away.
They watched in silence as the Captain barked another load of orders and his troops rushed to obey. He looked down at Face still kneeling below him. "New play thing," he spat. "Let's see how long you last!"
It was then that they had bound Peck. He managed not to say a word although it must have been painful, not until they dislocated his shoulders, then he screamed. After he was tied he had managed to lift his head for the briefest of seconds. His eyes wide and wild sought out and fixed on to his commanding officer's. An understanding passed between the two and though Peck's head was forced brutally downwards Hannibal did not allow himself to forget the clarity of purpose in the young man's eyes.
He remembered it now as he stood and looked at the dirty subdued figure over in the swamp. The Colonel knew that he had to find a plan, had to get them out of this. "How's BA?" he asked.
Ray shrugged. "Fever's bad, he needs antibiotics, Colonel."
Hannibal sighed, flexed his fists into balls of impotent rage and then released them. Two of his boys hanging by a thread and the third Ray, although he was trying to ignore the fact, doubled over with stomach cramps so bad it had to be dysentery. Not only that but since they had arrived here the rest of the prisoners had accepted Hannibal's superior rank. He now had the lives of fifteen malnourished, despondent GIs as well as his own Team to consider.
A dull throbbing began deep in the Colonel's temples. He felt suddenly old, too old for this sort of shit. How the hell was he going to get them out of this one? Then he remembered the complete trust he had seen in Peck's eyes. The lieutenant had known he was about to suffer, was going to be taken to hell but he had accepted it, been prepared to endure it for the good of his Team. How different he was from the arrogant, selfish young man Hannibal had found in the brig just a few short months ago. Hannibal knew he owed it to him to get them out. A plan would come he knew, he just had to be patient and pray that both BA and Face had the strength to live long enough to benefit from it.
Murdock took a long draw on his cigarette and shivered. He felt detached from the motions of the camp as people went about their business around him. How could they be so indifferent? How could they carry on regardless as if there wasn't a horrific hole punched through the world? Did they not understand the monumental disaster that had occurred?
He snorted. Of course they did not because for them it was no greater than any other disaster that they suffered in this place. Only Murdock's world was blown apart, only his heart was fluttering dangerously as it considered whether it should take another beat or just give up the effort here and now
The pilot's mind went back to the pick up. There had been lots of Charile action but nothing that he hadn't experienced before. He had hovered in the sky, waiting for the signal to go in. And as he waited his adrenaline rush changed to apprehension and then on to downright fear; a fear that clutched deep into his bowels. He tried to force it away, tried to tell himself it was an easy mission, nothing worse than any other the Team had been on in the past. And they always came back, maybe bruised and battered as hell, maybe moaning graphically, but they always came back. So why not this time?
God! He scanned the jungle below, eager eyes desperate to pick out a familiar form; longing to see BA's scowl or Hannibal's grey hair, Ray's muscled form or the slim, slight figure of the Faceman, but there was nothing; the trees simply regarded him with indifference and Murdock's fear grew.
He had ignored the order to abort. They just needed more time. They would be here soon. The rest of his crew had had to plead with him wide-eyed and desperate before he had finally turned the chopper for home. He got back to the base telling himself that they had missed the pick up but they would hit the next one. He switched duties, made sure he was on the run the next day and waited….. the coldness in his groin spreading out to the rest of his body.
Still they did not come. There were no more scheduled pick ups but Murdock convinced himself the Team would simply march out. Every time he heard the cry go up that grunts were back from the jungle he legged it down to see, his heart pounding with hope that slowly bled out through his boots when none of his Team returned.
He questioned everybody but it had been a covert operation, no one knew of it and no one had seen them. He went to their hooch ran his hands and eyes over their things, imagined them all there, even began to talk to them. The rest of the guys began to look at him with knowing eyes, shaking their heads and moving away. Murdock still flew his missions but he was distracted, distant, and strange. Every twilight he went to the edge of the wire, oblivious of the danger from snipers, to smoke and to stare into the jungle.
He missed them all so much it was a physical pain to him. He could not believe they were gone and so he watched and waited and slowly went out of his mind.
TBC