Emanations of Hate
Chapter 12
A timid and nervous young woman answered the door before Townsend could knock more than twice. He hated to waste the time for even this nicety, but he forced himself to remember his situation. There were only the two of them, against perhaps an unknown number of Nazis inside. He had to stay strong to finish this. Ripping the door off the hinges might alert Schuler a few - perhaps crucial - minutes early.
The woman - the housekeeper he presumed - was young, maybe in her early twenties, but her thin body and the way she hunched her shoulders as she cowered there, avoiding his eyes, made her appear old. Not just older, but old; as if she was near the end of her life and would welcome the release from fear that it brought. A fading bruise darkened one of those downcast eyes. At the sight of it, Townsend's serene sense of mission was shaken. He had not thought of how he would find Schuler, of what Schuler would be doing. Somehow, on some level, he realized that he had believed Schuler would be waiting for him. Driven by a sense of destiny, having overcome death itself in order to enact retribution, it was hard to discover that Shuler could not feel it. That he was not waiting for Townsend, aware that his end was coming, forced to realize that justice had caught up with him at last. Finding that Schuler had simply gone on with his life, continuing to do all the vile and brutal things that he had done before, undoubtedly not sparing a thought to Townsend in the last seven years, made Townsend burn not only with rage, but with a sense of betrayal. Was Fate on his side, or was he alone?
"Where is Schuler?" he asked the housekeeper. His tone seemed positively inhuman to her, and though it was not directed at her, she shrank back from it.
She scurried to lead him down the hall and towards the back of the large and richly furnished house. "If you please, Herr Standartenfuhrer," she answered, obviously familiar with the ranks within the SS, "he is down there." She meekly pointed to a door that led to the cellar.
"He is alone?" It was a tone that made the woman think of the frozen dead that littered the plains of Siberia.
"Y..y..yes H…Herr Standartenfuhrer. His assistants left half an hour ago." She nearly fainted from terror when she caught the way his eyes blazed at the word "assistants".
"There is no one else in the house?"
"N…No, Herr Standartenfuhrer. The Major did not entertain tonight."
He turned to stare at her intently and she nearly screamed. If possible, his voice grew even colder. "What about down there?" he demanded.
"Down there? I do not understand, Herr Standartenfuhrer." Puzzled, for the first time she raised her head. He looked into her eyes and, as he saw the truth in hers, she saw such a look of sadness in his, that it would bring her to tears once they were gone and the fear had left her.
"Listen to me," he asked. It was a request this time, no longer an interrogation. Horrified, she realized that she had been looking him in the eye, and dropped her head immediately. "No, look at me," he told her. It was a little more forceful, but still a request. He raised her chin and she tried her best to hide the flinch she made at his touch.
"Take this," he said, and handed her some money. "Watch, do nothing to stop us, and when you see us leave, go and search his basement. I'm sorry to ask that of you, it will be very hard, but there still could be someone down there. If you find anyone, help them out of this house. Take this money and Schuler's car and go to Gretel's Bakery in Hammelburg and ask for Edith Appenzeller. Tell them Papa Bear sent you. They will help you. Do you understand?"
"But Herr Schuler will - "
"Do not worry about Herr Schuler. He will be leaving with us. He will not be coming back." The brisk but gentle tone was gone and she was once again terrified. "Do you understand?" he repeated.
She bobbed her head up and down. Unable to look him in the eye any longer, she was shivering too hard to speak.
"Good. Go now."
She raced to do as she was told. From as far away as she could, she watched the two SS men enter the basement, and despite the ominous silence, she did not interfere.
Amon Schuler was whistling as he washed his hands. Nothing could have prepared Townsend for that; that the monster would be whistling a cloying tune from some heavy-handed German opera as he washed the blood off his hands. Townsend could only stare.
Sensing someone behind him, Shuler whipped around angrily. "Lena, how did you get - " he demanded, but broke off when he spotted Townsend and - more importantly - the rank insignia on Townsend's uniform. The two men in the doorway to his inner sanctum were ranking members of the Waffen SS, Hitler's elite corps of race guardians, an organization to which he was an honorary member, and therefore they were his superiors. Quickly adjusting his voice to sound ingratiating, yet still managing to sound smarmy and patronizing, he asked, "My apologies, Herr Standartenfuhrer, is there something I can do for you?"
Cold, sick rage twisted and consumed Gerald Townsend. Even for a man who had spent his life in strict control of his emotions, it was nearly too much. How does one face the person who had brutalized their body and mind, destroyed their soul, and then finally murdered them? Memories of the terrifying powerlessness that he had felt as this arrogant, psychotic bastard had forced him to watch as he performed his inhuman work; the white-hot, rabid fury burning through him as he was made to witness every cry, every unholy scream those poor children had made along with the maddening and sheer overwhelming horror at not being able to stop it; were suddenly and painfully in front of him. And then he saw that same face, that thin, condescending face now just starting to flesh out with decadence, as Schuler had then performed his degrading and humiliating experiments on him - killing him in the end. Gerald Townsend wanted to whip out his stolen Luger and plough bullet after bullet into that sallow, reptilian visage; to carve out those flat, dark eyes; to beat those odious features until they were nothing but a pulpy mass. And then just to keep beating and beating until all the pain and rage and fury were purged.
But that was not the plan.
What he did took more self-control than he had ever had to use before in his life. Literally. His voice was calm, even friendly in an evil, conspiratorial way.
"Come closer, Herr Strumbannfuhrer. I have something I must discuss with you."
"Of course, Herr Standartenfuhrer." As he crossed the room Schuler said, "If I may ask, how did you get in here? I have not given my housekeeper a key."
"Is there some reason we should not be in here Herr Strumbannfuhrer?" Townsend asked dangerously.
"No, no, of course not, Herr Standartenfuhrer." Schuler feigned contrition, but smirked almost imperceptibly; as if to say that he knew who he was dealing with now. A petty official with more power than he deserved, who would not understand his work, and his ignorant enforcer. Townsend could sense Schuler's self-satisfaction at his own cleverness, and his confidence that his important connections would give him the clout to deal with the two of them, despite his lower rank.
"There is perhaps something that you wish to keep hidden from us?"
"No, of course not, Herr Standartenfuhrer. There is nothing I would keep hidden from the SS. We are all in the same organization, are we not? In fact, it would be my pleasure to explain my work to you. Would you like a tour?"
Townsend's face twitched. "That will not be necessary. We are more than familiar with your work," and with that he pistol-whipped Schuler across the temple.
Peter Newkirk saw what happened. More and more, he seemed to be coming back to himself. He had no control over his own body, which was an extraordinarily frightening sensation, but he could think more easily and was aware of his surroundings. Perplexed, he watched as Carter, who wasn't Carter, struck the man whose sleeves were still rolled up from washing his hands. Seeing this, and remembering the two guards outside, he contrasted that behaviour with the man he had watched give money to the battered young housekeeper. None of it made sense, but once the initial shock wore off he found that he didn't question it. He had no idea who the unconscious man was, but the bile had risen in his throat at the first sight of him. Nasty piece of work, he had thought and his revulsion had only grown from there. Now, looking at him, the blood from the gash on the man's head running down his ear and onto the floor, Newkirk wanted nothing more than to kick him in the head.
Carter, but not Carter, had other ideas though. "Bring him," he ordered and started up the steps. As always, whatever - or whoever - was in control of Newkirk responded without question. Suddenly the Carter impostor caught his eye. Newkirk felt himself freeze as the man in front of him examined him closely, with an expression of harsh enquiry.
"So, you are there as well," the Carter impostor finally said.
Newkirk knew that this was said to him personally, but he could not speak.
"Let him answer," the impostor directed.
A bond within seemed to loosen. "Yes," Newkirk finally managed. His voice was hoarse. It was the first word he had said in God knew how many days; it felt like the first word he had ever been able to utter in his entire life.
The man who looked like his friend but wasn't, seemed to consider this, and then was resigned.
"It no longer matters." He started walking up the stairs.
"Carter?" Peter croaked.
"He is here," the impostor said, and then he did something that Newkirk was not prepared for. This man, who from what little Newkirk had seen, was vengeful, vindictive and more than likely completely barking mad, gave him a deeply consoling look. "Try not to worry Corporal," he told Newkirk, "Hopefully, it will all be over soon."
As - though unknown to him - two of his men found themselves caught and forced to undergo a horrifying journey, Robert E. Hogan was running down his own passage to Hell. He tore through the tunnels yelling for Kinch and the others. He knew they were down here but he didn't know where. Convinced that something drastic had happened, he knew every minute counted and the impulse to panic grew as a thousand of them seemed to race by and he still couldn't find his men.
After an eternity, he came upon some men from other barracks. Wilson and five of the men from forgery and counterfeiting had been talking and now stared open-mouthed at their panting Commanding Officer.
"My God! Didn't you men hear me yelling? What in the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.
"Sir?" one of the counterfeiters asked, confused.
"Never mind," Hogan barked. "There's been a cave-in. I think. We need to find the guys!"
"You think? Don't you know sir?" Wilson questioned.
"Damnit Wilson, there's no time to explain! All of you, spread out and start searching!"
"Do you have any idea as to where sir?" Wilson asked.
"No! And don't ask me to explain, just do what I tell you or I'll have you all court-martialled!" Hogan ordered. Even Gilmour, who had only been in camp three weeks and had only spoken to Hogan once, knew enough to hop to at that tone, and the six men dashed in different directions as if trying to outrun the Germans.
Over five chaotic minutes went by before the call went out that someone had found the cave-in. Hogan, Wilson, the forgers and a few stragglers who had been lingering in the tunnels, frantically followed the sound of the voice crying, "Over here! Over here!"
"It sounds like it's coming from one of the tunnels leading to the storage areas!" Wilson shouted as he met up with Hogan. More and more men joined them as they ran off in that direction.
When they reached the tunnel outside of the room where they kept the spare uniforms and German civilian outfits, they discovered a massive wall of dirt blocking their way and an excited Gilmour pointing to the wall. "I think I can hear someone back there sir!" the young private told Hogan. "Sounds like they're digging from the other side!"
The way the men leaped to action would have given pride to the most skilled Mine Rescue Unit. Organizing themselves hurriedly to the tasks of digging and shoring up, all the time watching the ceiling for any dangerous signs, they were soon rewarded with the sight of a dark hand poking through a small hole from the other side. Hogan recognized it.
"Kinch! Kinch, can you hear me?" The fingers struggled and twisted between the debris and the loose dirt in an attempt to wave and they could hear the muffled sound of someone yelling on the other side.
"Keep at it! Keep digging!" Hogan ordered the surrounding POWs. Turning back to the hole, he shouted, "Kinch, hold on! It won't be much longer!" The hand pulled back inside.
"Colonel? Is that you?" The voice was still a little muffled, but they could make out the words and it was clearly Kinch.
Quickly the hole was widened. Hogan signalled the diggers to stop and yelled again, "Kinch! Can you hear me now? Is there anyone else in there with you? Is anyone hurt?"
"There's a bunch of us sir!" came Kinch's voice. "No one's hurt, but we're trapped back here!"
"Don't worry fellas, we're going to have you out in no time!"
There was a lot of dirt, but it was fairly easy to pull away; a fact which confused a digger on Hogan's left. He couldn't remember the man's name at the moment, but seemed to recall that he was a miner from Canada. Focused on the crisis at hand, he only listened to the man's puzzled comments in a distracted way.
"I don't get it," the digger remarked to Gilmour beside him. "Where'd this dirt come from?"
"What do you mean?" Gilmour asked.
"Well, the ceiling's fine. And this loose stuff here doesn't match this part of the tunnel. Different colour and all. It's like someone dumped it here. Just piled the jeezly damn stuff right in the way."
That made Hogan glance at him, but he had other things to worry about.
Finally the hole was big enough to see through to the other side. As the unnamed miner braced the sides, Hogan spoke to Kinch. "Everyone alright in there?"
"Yes sir."
"Okay, we're going to start bringing people through." He and the miner then leaned forward to grab hold of the arms of the first man pushing his way out. It was Olsen.
"Hey Matt, how you doing?" Hogan asked.
Olsen spat some dirt out of his mouth and then grinned at Hogan. "Oh fine, sir. Never better."
"That a fact?" Hogan smiled as he held him up while the miner helped him get his legs free.
"Yup. In fact, I think I'm just about healthy enough to desert."
Hogan snorted. "Soldier, you've got my permission to desert - exactly ten minutes after the war's over." But he was nearly laughing as he turned Olsen over to Gilmour, who helped him move to the back, out of the way of the others.
One by one, they pulled the trapped men out. As Foster was brought over to where Olsen was sitting on the ground with his back against the tunnel wall, he heard Olsen say, "You know, when I was a kid and scared of the ghosts, my Pop used to tell me: Don't worry about the dead kid - it's the living that'll get you every time." Covered in dirt, he turned to Foster and gave a rueful laugh, "Helluva time the old man picks to be wrong!"
An equally filthy Foster grinned. "Lost our scepticism, have we Matt? We'll have you believing in witches next."
"Hell, I'm one up on you there Tom. I already believe in witches."
"What?" An incredulous Foster sat straight up and stared at Olsen.
"Sure, Pop used to chase them all the time."
Baker and Garlotti, recovering nearby, started to chuckle at the mystified Foster. A straight-faced Olsen continued, "Hell boy, you should've seen the string of'em the old man brought home after my mother died. Personally, I wouldn't have touched those hags with a ten foot pole, but what can you do? Whatever floats yer boat right?" The three Americans started laughing out loud, partly from the joke, but a good deal from relief. Foster finally clued in and gave Olsen a light punch on the shoulder, and then began to laugh himself.
The laughter had subsided though, by the time Lebeau and Kinch were brought over. Wilson told the diggers to fetch the men some water and then set about examining them all more closely. The recuperating prisoners grew quiet and turned their gazes to Kinch; they knew what was coming. They all watched the radioman as he watched his Colonel, who was looking around and just realizing something important.
"That's everybody?" he questioned. "What about Carter and Newkirk? I'd have thought they'd have been with you."
Kinch didn't know what to say. An uneasy feeling grew in Hogan. He told himself that there was no reason why they weren't up top somewhere, but one look at Kinch told him that something else was going on.
"Kinch? What about Carter and Newkirk? Do you know where they are?"
"No sir. I can say that I truly and honestly don't know where they are."
"However, I do."
All the men had been so intent on Kinch and Hogan, that they started violently at the sound of the strange voice from behind them. The tall form of Dietrich Heidemann stood in the tunnel.
He was speaking English.
"Heidemann?" A confused Hogan finally asked. "What the hell? I didn't know you could speak - "
"Colonel Hogan," Heidemann interrupted brusquely, "I'm afraid that's going to have to wait."
Hogan straightened up. "Where are my men?" he demanded.
"In more trouble than I can explain. You'll need to come with me. I'll tell you about it on the way."
Hogan glanced around at his men. At Heidemann's mention of trouble they had jumped to their feet and now stood at attention, waiting for his word.
"Alright, Foster, Olsen, Lebeau, try to find some uniforms from the rack of stuff we use the most often. I think it's still by the main entrance to the barracks. Bring one for me as well. Kinch - "
"I'm coming sir." It was a statement, not a request.
"I am too," Baker said.
"Right." As much as Hogan wanted Kinch in charge of the men here, he knew there was no sense in arguing, even if there had been time. "I'm going to see about borrowing a truck from the motor pool."
"Do you have a medic?" Heidemann asked.
"Wilson," Hogan answered, nodding towards him. "Why?"
"He'd best come along."
Hogan didn't stop to question it. He sent Wilson to get a uniform and to tell Lebeau to get one for Heidemann as well. He turned to Garlotti next. "Tony, go and find Lieutenant Dodd in Barracks 7. Tell him what's happened and that I'm leaving him in charge."
Hogan was suddenly struck by a deep feeling of dread. He looked around at the rest of his men, the ones who would be staying, the ones who would be caught by the Gestapo if he and the others didn't come back.
"Tony, tell him it's an emergency situation. Have him get the men ready to go out. If we're not back by a half an hour before roll call he's to evacuate the camp and then blast the tunnels."
The remaining men all stopped and stared gravely at their CO.
"Sir?" Garlotti hesitated, unsure that he had heard right. Hogan merely nodded. Tony turned to go look for Lieutenant Dodd, and then turned back.
"You have a question Garlotti?"
"Yes sir. Who's going to set the charges?"
Hogan paused. Oh damnit to Hell - Carter's backup is Newkirk, he thought.
"If the charges are made, I can lay'em out," the lanky miner from Canada spoke up. "I've blasted tunnels before. I sure to frig can't build the sons-a-whores, but I can use'm."
Hogan looked to Kinch, who nodded. "I think Andrew has some made up. Come with me and we'll take a look in his lab." The radioman led him off.
Fifteen minutes later, their effort to rescue the men trapped by the cave-in looked like a haphazard and casual Sunday affair compared to the speed at which they readied themselves to go. Hogan conned a truck out of the motor pool so fast that the guard was still baffled and scratching his head by the time Hogan had gotten himself and the others out of camp with it.
