Emanations of Hate
Chapter 7
Sergeant James Kinchloe breathed a tremendous sigh of relief when he saw that the underground radio set appeared to be perfectly intact. Well, nearly perfectly. Giving it a quick once over, he soon discovered where the missing knob fit and re-attached it, and then powered the set up for a test. Sure, it looks fine, but better check it out fully before I speak to Colonel Hogan. He prayed that this was only a joke, or even better, a simple, easy to explain freak occurrence, and not outright sabotage.
He monitored different frequencies for a minute or two, and then decided to contact Jelly Roll, the head of the underground unit that was accompanying them to blow up the ball bearings factory that night. Getting through to them without a problem relieved him greatly. After confirming their meeting place and time, he was about to sign off when he was suddenly accosted by the sound of what he would have sworn were dozens, even hundreds, of voices roaring directly into his ears. Hissing with pain, he ripped the ear phones from his head. All that could be heard now was the one worried voice of Jelly Roll's radio man coming through, asking if everything was all right.
"Repeat, are you there Papa Bear? Come in Papa Bear!"
Kinch replaced the headset and swiftly reassured his counterpart on the other end. "Sorry about that. We're fine here."
"What happened?"
"Didn't you hear it?" Kinch asked.
"Hear what? We were talking and then you fell silent."
"There were voices on this end. I'm going to sign off in case someone's trying to tap in somehow."
"Wait! Do you think they intercepted the message?"
"I don't know, I'll have to speak to Papa Bear. Just to be safe, make it the back-up meeting place tonight. You know the one? Ask Jelly Roll if you don't. If Papa Bear wants some other location I'll get in touch with you. "
"Yes, I know the one. We'll wait to hear from you. Over and out."
"Over and out," Kinch repeated. After he had signed off, he mulled over his options. Obviously he was going to have to report all of this to the Colonel, and soon, but before he mentioned strange voices coming over the radio he thought that it might be wise to have some back-up, especially considering the Colonel's present mood. He ran off to track down Baker.
"Voices?" David Baker gave the senior radio man a quirky smile, "Kinch man, no offence, but aren't we supposed to hear voices on the radio?"
"Baker, just listen alright!" Baker immediately grew serious; he could tell that his friend's usual patience was wearing thin. "If you hear them, you'll know what I'm talking about. They're just wrong somehow."
"Wrong?"
"I can't explain it any better than that Baker. Like I said, just listen."
Baker nodded, put the headset on and started monitoring the frequencies the same way Kinch had done only ten minutes earlier. Getting nothing at first, he could see Kinch's look of frustration and disappointment.
"Sorry Kinch."
"Keep at it Baker, please. It didn't happen to me until I was actually talking with someone, but I can't have you contact anyone in case the goons are listening in."
Baker shrugged and continued to check. Suddenly he heard them. Startled, he nearly threw the headset against the wall.
"You heard them?" Kinch asked excitedly.
"Yeah!" breathed an awed Baker. "I get what you mean Kinch. That's just plain weird! I mean, it's like they're whispering, but they're so loud! Almost as if they're right here in the room with us and not coming over the radio. And there's so many of them too."
"I know. It's like a giant crowd scene in a play or a movie, with everyone speaking at once so that you only get a word here and there."
"And it's not just that either, they sound…well, I don't know, they sound…"
"Malevolent."
"I don't know if I could have come right out and said it, but yeah. Now I know what you meant when you said you couldn't explain it. There's nothing specific, but you get the impression that it's…wrong. Like they're not real voices. Like you shouldn't be able to hear them."
"I know, but can you imagine me going to the Colonel with that?"
"Kinch buddy, I don't envy you."
"I've got to tell him about the voices, and I'll tell him that we both heard them, but I don't think I'll mention how they sound. After all, maybe it's nothing. Maybe it really is the Germans trying to tap in."
"That's nothing?"
"You know what I mean. They just sounded so strange, I had to know if they were really real or not. I thought I might be cracking up."
Baker covertly glanced around, and then looked his friend in the eye. "Kinch, what do you think is going on? I mean, really going on?"
"What do you mean exactly?" Kinch asked, although he had a good idea of where Baker was going with this.
"Do you think it's sabotage? Or do you think it could be something else?"
"And by something else you mean…?" Kinch saw the other man hesitate slightly and take another quick glimpse around to see if anyone was listening, but where most men would have been sheepish and reluctant to say the word, Baker was honest and even curious.
"Ghosts."
"Ghosts? You're really saying ghosts?"
"Yep, I'm really saying ghosts," Baker replied. "Look, I'm not saying I believe in them, or that there are any here, but let's face it, things have been happening that make me want to at least think about what Foster's been saying."
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for everything," Kinch said.
"Sure, but all I'm saying is that maybe we should be covering all the bases. Besides, who's to say that ghosts aren't logical?" Baker argued. "When I was in high school I had a science teacher who warned us about thinking that all the things we know now are absolute fact and won't ever change. He said that science is a method, and that because of that the facts themselves are always changing. He told us the story of how two thousand years ago Aristotle said that the sun moved around the Earth, not out of vanity, or not just vanity anyway, but because the facts backed him up. He argued that the Earth couldn't be moving because when you threw something into the air, it came down in the same place. But the Earth is moving and objects come down in the same place because of something to do with inertia. I don't remember exactly, but the whole concept of inertia was hundreds of years into the future."
"Baker, what are you getting at?"
"From what Aristotle knew at the time, logically he was right. But there are always going to be things we don't know. Maybe ghosts do exist, and maybe there are scientific facts to explain them, but we just haven't learned them yet and so we've got to take it on faith. Not let our ideas of what's logical keep us from seeing what actually is. It's not as if the sun went around the Earth until we figured out that if couldn't. It always did. We just couldn't see it at first. Who's to say there aren't ghosts and that they're perfectly logical?"
"That's all very interesting, but I'm still not going to be the one to tell the Colonel that the place could be haunted. I'll tell him what's happening, but I think I'll leave it to you to convince him that he should keep an open mind."
"I'm not his second in command."
"No, but you're the one talking about Aristotle and the changing nature of scientific facts." With that, Kinch started to head off to speak to his commanding officer.
"Kinch?" Baker called to him, "I know it sounds crazy, and in a way I was just kicking the idea around for fun, but all of a sudden I've got a really bad feeling that this is something we're going to have to consider. And if we don't, we're going to miss something important and who knows what kind of trouble we'll be in then."
The two men gazed at each other and Kinch could see that his friend was perfectly serious. A cold feeling of premonition tickled at his brain. Baker was right. He knew that Baker was right. He knew that even right now, they were missing something important, overlooking some vital sign that something was wrong.
But how to say that to Colonel Hogan? Remembering a few days ago when he had laughed about how glad he was that he wasn't an officer, he reflected that at this particular moment, being a sergeant wasn't a barrel of laughs either. Mom always said that what goes around comes around.
He went to find his Colonel.
To say that it was a difficult conversation would have been an understatement. Kinch began with the facts; that one of the knobs off the radio had been removed and then tossed around outside, and that both he and Baker had heard strange voices on the radio. This put the already stressed Hogan in a vile mood. Immediately seeing the possibility of internal sabotage, he grilled his adjutant over all the facts he could remember.
In the end, Kinch didn't bring up the idea of supernatural interference. After all, he told himself, nothing had really happened that couldn't be explained more easily by natural events. What evidence was there for anything else? Strange feelings and Baker's argument to consider all possibilities. Neither of these were reason enough to further aggravate Hogan with absurd suggestions, especially when they'd be leaving soon to meet with the Underground. It was easy to tell himself that bringing up the idea of spectral forces would be pointless. Hogan was right. If the men got to thinking that ghosts were at work and blaming spirits for every little accident, then they wouldn't look for the real culprit and that could be disastrous. Vowing to get to the bottom of this, the two men filed out for evening roll call and then got ready for their mission to the ball bearings factory. Kinch convinced himself that he was right not to say anything, that bringing up the subject was not only pointless, but could be destructive to the whole operation.
Yet, he couldn't help but feel that he had chickened out somehow.
"Carter" was not having a good day of it. He had interrogated the guards, as well as giving them a quick mental ransacking, and uncovered nothing. Along with Newkirk, he had escaped to town to search through newspapers and various records, and to quiz a few key people. However, other than one article describing his prey in glowing - but maddeningly unspecific - terms, he had again found nothing. Nothing! Already frustrated by his lack of progress, reading the praise that had been heaped on that psychopathic degenerate and his "work" by the Nazi propaganda machine absolutely enraged him. People avoided him on the street. Had the others not had Newkirk under control, he was sure the Englishman would have bolted at the first opportunity. Knowing that he could not return to camp before he had got a hold on himself - even given his abilities, it would simply be impossible to disguise his fury and pass himself off as the agreeable American - he stalked through the streets of Hamelburg.
There was one option, but it was a gamble. A slight one, but still… He had once known a man that may have kept an eye on things. And from the young man's mind, he knew where the man lived and that he was well acquainted with Hogan and his men. Going to him first undoubtedly would have been the simplest solution, but the truth of the matter was that he had no wish to see this man; indeed the emotional repercussions from their last meeting might prove to be an ugly distraction. Deep down, there was also a thought that he refused to acknowledge, that by seeing this man his resolve might waiver. However, he was getting nowhere with his search and he realized that he might have no other recourse. Should he seek him out now? If he did, he would miss evening roll call. This would cause a few problems, and if his friend did not have the information he sought, he could find himself greatly inconvenienced for nothing. Being locked in the cooler or hunted by the Germans as an escaped prisoner could only slow him down, and time was pressing.
Suddenly he came to a halt as his vision blurred. He swayed a bit on his feet and, despite assistance from the others, he felt the Englishman's mind become momentarily stronger. Hissing fiercely, he concentrated and regained control.
Yes, time was definitely pressing.
To Hogan's relief, the mission had gone off without a hitch. They had left a bit early and stopped at the alternate spot. Luckily Jelly Roll and his people had been there waiting for them. On the way back they covertly checked over the original meeting place for any signs that someone had been there, but they didn't find anything. So where does this leave us? Hogan wondered. Were there voices? I can't believe that either Kinch or Baker would make a mistake like that, let alone both of them. So who were they? And what did they hear? Was it just a trick or will the Krauts be waiting for us the next time? After all, Kinch just confirmed the meeting place and time with the Underground, not the mission itself. Once the meeting place was changed to a place they didn't know they might not have bothered to come here, and they wouldn't have known where we meant to go after. But what about next time? We can't maintain radio silence forever.
Cursing under his breath, Hogan prayed that all of this was only some stupid practical joke. Not that he wouldn't rip the heads off the culprits when he found them. Heading in the direction of the tree stump, he swore to himself that he would find some way of sending them to the Russian front, whoever they were.
Exhausted, he paused for a moment behind a tree while Kinch climbed into the tunnel. Glancing around, he looked out at the horizon and nearly jumped out of his skin. He was surrounded! Stumbling back, he tripped over the roots of the tree and fell on his rear. Hundreds of stock still figures were looming over him in the passing searchlight. Lit from behind, he could only see them as outlines, shadows without faces. Staring at him intently. And then, as the light passed away, they were absorbed back into the dark and were gone when the light returned.
Hogan sat there on the ground, mouth open, not breathing. He nearly had a heart attack when he heard Kinch hissing softly for him, wondering where he was. Feeling foolish, he told himself it was a case of stress, and climbed into the tunnel more ready than ever to clobber the very next person to bring up the word "ghost".
There was still an hour or so until morning roll call, yet upon their return, Kinch and Hogan found Foster and Lebeau up and sharing a pot of coffee. They claimed insomnia, but Kinch had a better idea of what was going on. Hogan was not pleased. Telling them he needed a fully rested team, he ordered them to put the coffee down and get back to bed, and then marched off to his own quarters.
"Insomnia, eh? The Colonel's right, the coffee isn't going to help any," Kinch told the chagrined pair. However, he understood. In spite of his own fatigue, he felt an inexplicable reluctance to sleep. He would have rather stayed up with a dose of caffeine as well.
The American sergeant examined the two men closely. They had put their cups down, but had made no move to return to their bunks. "Nightmares?" he asked.
"No," Foster responded, "At least not any that I can remember."
"Lebeau?"
"No, or like Foster, none that I can remember."
Kinch thought about this and wondered if Hogan was having any trouble sleeping. His CO's usual humour had been missing for more than a few days, and it was becoming more and more obvious that he was straining to keep his temper in check. Of course, Hogan had had a fair bit to worry about lately, not the least of which was a possible turncoat among his men. Thinking how good a cup of coffee would go down now, he shook his head. Orders were orders. Waving the other two off to bed, he turned in himself.
On the lower bunk by the window, "Carter" had listened to every word. Unwilling to let himself sleep, there was little else to do but think. At first he had been able to function by his own energy alone, even feeding it into the young man's body when necessary. After he was no longer capable of that, he had began to draw on the body's amounts of reserve energy, but that too would soon cease to be an option. He himself was beginning to feel the limitations of this body's growing weakness. But what could he do? Letting himself sleep was out of the question, but that took an even greater toll on the body, and five nights awake combined with a constant overdose of adrenalin was causing enough queasiness to keep him from eating as well. With an inward sigh of regret, he remembered the enjoyment he had experienced dining on the Frenchman's meals that first day. Such a pity to no longer be able to eat! He spent a frivolous moment wondering what the small man could do with a truly good kitchen and more abundant ingredients.
He cursed himself. Food was unimportant; completely irrelevant to his task. A decision was what was required. Logically, he would be discovered soon. Great energy was required to confuse the minds of the men around him, and the others simply could not work through the English corporal the way he could through the American. No single one of them had the strength to subdue Newkirk, and even together they could not control him to the point where it would be safe to allow him to interact with the others. Beyond simply manual tasks, the most that they could do was to keep him from interfering. The others that were free could provide the occasional diversion, but all of the mental "persuading" rested with him. How much longer could he keep them from seeing that the Englishman was not speaking, that he himself was not eating, that neither of them were sleeping? How much longer could he keep them from noticing the vast differences in his speech patterns from that of their friend? Before they asked about the charges he was supposedly building for Hogan's tunnel? Even with the distractions provided by the others he could not hold out for very many more days. There were simply too many of them and too many differences to hide. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and was displeased to feel a hot wetness gushing from his nose. Without having to look he knew what it was; he could certainly recognize the scent of blood by this time. The pertinent question thus became clear.
How much longer could he go on before this body gave out?
