Emanations of Hate

Chapter 18

Wilson's calm was annoying Hogan. It wasn't Wilson's fault he supposed; a medic would just naturally be more used to something like this. As they sat in the back of the rattling truck he reflected that most of his irritation was coming from the realization that he wasn't calm. Why shouldn't he be calm? It was almost over - they were bringing Carter home today.

He suddenly noticed that he was tapping his fingers anxiously on his knee, and forced himself to stop. For Pete's sake, am I actually nervous? No, of course not. That would be foolish. Still, he was relieved to see that Wilson had been looking out the back of the truck at the scenery.

But he should have known the medic was sharper than that. "Something wrong sir?" Wilson asked.

"No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure sir? You haven't said much."

"I'm fine Sergeant."

Wilson let it go, but his sympathetic expression suggested that he had a good idea of what was going on, that he had seen it before.

Part of it, Hogan knew, was simply the trepidation that everyone felt the first time they were allowed to see an injured friend - how bad is it? Will I be shocked? I don't want them to see it if I am. It was a different situation here; he had seen Carter after he was 'injured', so that wasn't a surprise, but now it was the man's emotional and mental state that was in question. And that was a subject that Hogan was highly uncomfortable with, both personally and because of his position of command. There were many good reasons why a commander shouldn't grow overly close to his men, and didn't recent events already point to him having done just that?

On the other hand, if a man was having problems that would take his mind off of his job, making him less efficient and possibly even a danger to himself and others, then wasn't it a commander's duty to step in? To try to help if he could?

If I can. And that's the question, isn't it? I'm not a psychiatrist. And this? This is just plain weird! But if I can't help him, then what else can I do but take him off the team? And where am I going to find another munitions man who can impersonate Adolf Hitler himself?

God, how he hated having to think of his men that way - as if they were productive tools rather than people. But that was his job, wasn't it? He had to go in there and face a man that he had lived with for more than a year and evaluate him as to whether or not he was still fit for duty. He sighed and caught Wilson turning to look at him. As the truck pulled up to the hospital, Hogan took a deep breath and steeled himself for the job ahead.


Lying on his bed, Carter didn't move. He looked terrible and Hogan was surprised by the jolt that gave him. Only the bloodshot eyes slowly tracking them as they came in gave them any indication that Carter even knew they were there. Dull and sunken, they went back to staring despondently at the ceiling when Hogan sat down.

"Andrew? Can you hear me?"

There was no answer.

"How are you feeling?" Hogan asked gently.

Carter's brow furrowed. In the end he couldn't think of an adequate answer and so he said nothing.

"That's okay, you don't have to answer that now. Did they tell you that Wilson and I were coming to get you?" Hogan was puzzled at the confused look Carter gave him.

"I…I don't understand," Carter whispered. It was possibly the quietest thing Hogan had ever heard him say.

"Wilson and I are here to take you home, but look, first I'd like Wilson to give you a quick once-over just to make sure you're well enough to come back, okay?" It was more for Hogan's peace of mind than anything; unless Wilson said Carter was dying, the hospital had no plans on letting him stay.

Carter looked at each of them. He didn't seem to understand what was happening, but after a few moments he gave a shaky nod.

"Don't worry Carter, I just want to have a look at you," Wilson said in his best 'trusted doctor' tone. "I'm just going to take your shirt off here, but maybe you'd like the Colonel to step outside first?"

Both of them regarded Carter intently and he began to fidget under their gaze. Though clearly reluctant, he finally nodded and they took that as a good sign. It meant that he not only trusted Wilson enough to let the medic examine him, but also that he was well enough to want a bit of dignity. Hogan also felt a little relieved on a personal level as he stepped out into the hall to wait with Schultz and Bergman.

After a few minutes, Wilson came out to report to Hogan, who pulled him away from the guards so that they could talk privately.

"How is he?"

"Pulse is a little on the weak side, but stable. His bruises are mostly gone."

"Is he alright to come back with us?"

"I believe so," Wilson answered, but his voice was less than confident.

"What is it?"

"His answers to my questions were a little sluggish and vague. He's nearly unresponsive - and that worries me. Though admittedly, that could simply be the after effects of being sedated so often."

Hogan felt his back go up. "How often?" he growled.

"I took a quick look at his chart. I think they've been sedating him pretty much since he woke up. Maybe not enough to knock him right out, but certainly enough to keep him docile."

"Have they done anything else to him?" Hogan demanded.

"I don't think so. He's clean and he doesn't have any bedsores so I think they've been looking after him. He does have marks on his wrists and ankles from the restraints, but they don't appear to be too bad." The expression on Hogan's face told the medic that any marks were bad marks.

"Fabulous." Hogan was being sarcastic, but he heard more defeat in his voice than he liked, and the look Wilson gave him said that the medic had caught it as well. "Anything else?"

"He's complaining about being cold." In the end Carter hadn't let Wilson take off his pyjama shirt; Wilson had had to work around it, rolling up the sleeves and lifting up the back to do his examination. Afterwards Carter had refused even to take them off in order to get into the uniform that they had brought him. Figuring, What the hell, we can send them back to the hospital later, Wilson had helped Carter put his flight suit on overtop of them, and was reminded of once trying to pull a snowsuit on his sleepy five-year-old nephew.

"Cold? Why would he be cold?"

"Different physical ailments like low blood pressure could cause his temperature to be low, but the thing is, he isn't cold. I took his temperature. It's pretty normal. It could be something I'm not seeing, or it could be psychosomatic, or…"

"Or what Sergeant?"

"Well, Lebeau was telling me yesterday about him and Kinch growing cold around Carter and Newkirk while on the work detail at Herr Bauer's farm," Wilson whispered. Schultz and Bergman were looking over at them now, clearly curious. "I mean, I'm not a doctor sir, but I can't think that there's any doctor who'll to be able to tell you what the effects of…well, what the effects of what Carter and Newkirk went through, are going to be."

Hogan sighed wearily. "You still think he should come back with us?"

"To be honest sir, I don't think I can give the hospital any reason that's good enough for them to let him to stay. And like I said, I doubt there's any doctor who'd know what to do for him in any case. At least with us, he'll be in familiar surroundings, and unless his physical symptoms take a drastic downturn, I should be able to handle it." Wilson smiled, "Besides, Lebeau's cooking has got to be better for him than the slop he's probably been getting here."

Hogan grinned a little at this. He believed Lebeau was more excited than anyone at the thought of Carter returning to camp. Planning meals and gathering ingredients had given the Frenchman something constructive to do for his friend; everyone else could only worry.


Hogan had wanted Carter to return to the barracks straight away, feeling that the more quickly he could adjust to his normal routine, the better for him and everyone else. But as he and Wilson had walked Carter out of the hospital, each with a hand ready to shoot out and grab him in case he stumbled, Hogan had seen how weak and shaky Carter still was. He also hadn't missed the way Carter had blinked and shrunk back from the sunlight, or the way he had flinched at Hogan's touch when he had helped him into the back of the truck. And, after watching Carter tense at every noise on the ride home, and yet still somehow manage to fall into an exhausted sleep, he reluctantly concluded that Carter was in no fit state to be in a crowded barracks. Upon returning to camp, he agreed to let Wilson settle Carter in the infirmary.

All the men from Barracks 2, as well as more than a few others, were waiting outside, anxiously watching the gates. Even Lebeau was starting to feel apprehensive. They wondered what Carter would be like and they wondered what they would say to him. When the truck pulled in, nearly all of them surged forward, eager to welcome their friend home, but also eager to simply get the moment over with. Only Newkirk hung back. However, they were surprised when Hogan got out first and waved them away - worried that that his demolitions man might be overwhelmed by the greeting party. He came to talk to them as Wilson lead Carter off.

"Is he alright Colonel?" Lebeau asked, staring at the forlorn figure.

"He's just exhausted. Wilson wants to keep him in the infirmary a few days though. It'll be easier for him to rest where it's quiet." It was a good effort, but both Kinch and Lebeau heard the slightly distracted thread running through their CO's voice, and noticed the quick glance he shot in that direction.

"Louie, do me a favour? Give them a couple of minutes and then take some soup or something warm over to Andrew. But nothing too heavy."

"It's like I told you Lebeau - get out your recipe for macaroni and cheese," Kinch said, hoping to break the mood. He was rewarded with a small round of chuckles from the others, which surprised Hogan.

"Macaroni and cheese? Am I missing something?"

"I'll explain it to you later sir," Kinch told him.


In the end, it was chicken soup and toast that Lebeau brought over, getting past Wilson by arguing that, even for such a simple meal, a good chef needed a review.

Wilson frowned. "Look, go easy, alright?" he said, blocking Lebeau's way for a moment.

Lebeau was slightly offended by this. "Of course," he said with a sharp look.

"I mean, just don't expect too much yet, okay?" Wilson tried to explain.

Lebeau's look softened as he understood what Wilson had been trying to say. "Non, of course not. I will just make sure he eats this and then I will go."

Still, despite the medic's warning, Lebeau was disturbed by Carter's appearance. His normally cheerful and animated friend looked drawn and washed out, giving Lebeau a sad-eyed, perplexed look as he approached.

"Colonel Hogan asked me to bring you something to eat."

"I'm not real hungry right now," Carter answered.

"The Colonel told me to insist. He said to tell you that it is an order." Lebeau reflected on this ruefully - imagine someone having to be ordered to eat my food!

Carter tried, though Lebeau thought that it was mostly to be polite. The younger man was so bone-tired that even sitting up and raising his head to eat seemed to be too much for him. Lebeau watched, a little alarmed, as Carter suddenly clenched his jaw to keep from sobbing and put a hand over his eyes. However, unknown to Lebeau, a string of terrifying thoughts were running through his mind…was it real…the other camps…it's still happening…why didn't they tell me…it can't be real…I must be crazy…do they know…is it true?

Lebeau watched Carter take a couple of deep breaths, as he struggled to get himself under control. The American's hand shook as he pulled it away from his face, and the shudder that went through him when he glanced at the half-empty bowl made Lebeau worry that he was about to be sick.

"Carter? Carter, are you alright? Do you want me to get Wilson?" The medic had stepped outside so that they could have some privacy, but Lebeau knew that he wouldn't have gone far.

"No!" Carter shouted. Then he took another deep breath. "No," he repeated more quietly. "It's okay, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

Carter nodded and settled back. For awhile they just sat there in silence, Carter listlessly turning his spoon around in the bowl. When he seemed more himself, Lebeau attempted to get him to finish his meal. He knew that it was undoubtedly a lost cause, but half a bowl of soup and two bites out of a piece of toast weren't going to be enough for Wilson and the Colonel.

"Please Carter, try to eat a little more. What will people think of my cooking when they see that one of my friends is so thin?" he tried to joke.

Carter gave him a wan smile, but his face was still shadowed. "You could always show'em Schultzie," he finally answered.

Lebeau snorted. "Schultzie? Why would I take Schultzie to Paris?"

He didn't understand the look that Carter gave him. "You'd still take me to Paris?"

"Bien sur! Why wouldn't I?" (1)

Carter stared at him out of the corner of his eye. "And you'd really introduce me to all of your friends?"

Later, Lebeau would feel very foolish for not realizing that perhaps this had been Carter's way of asking if him if he blamed him for what had happened, but at that moment the Frenchman was baffled.

"Mon dieu, what a question! I expect all of you to come visit me after the war. You'll come and eat at my restaurant and I'll show you all of the sights of the most beautiful city in the world - the blondes, the brunettes, the redheads - and then, once we've done that, we can go and see the Eiffel Tower."

Carter didn't laugh, but only peered at him more closely. Lebeau seemed to be sincere, but instead of reassuring Carter, this only confused him, causing a worried frown to crease his face. No matter which way he looked at it, he could not escape the deep-rooted feelings of shame and self-hatred that welled up within him. If the things he remembered hadn't actually happened then he must have gone crazy, just like Newkirk had said, and not only was he crazy, but he had be crazy in a very sick and twisted way to have such awful thoughts and hallucinations. And if he wasn't crazy, if those things had actually happened…

Suddenly he wanted to yell at Lebeau. How on Earth could the Frenchman still call him his friend? How could he not be ashamed to know him? Whether or not Schuler was real, or just part of his deranged imagination, what did that say about him? A panicked sob clutched at his chest and he gasped sharply.

"Carter, what is it?" asked a worried Lebeau.

"I…I just…I don't…" Carter tried, but then shook his head, unable to speak. There were so many things he wanted to know, but he couldn't think of the words to ask them.

It was hard for the warm-hearted Frenchman to see his friend so distressed. "Try not to think about things right now, mon ami. Lay down and get some rest," he advised.

"And that'll fix everything?" Carter asked sadly, not believing it, even as he did what Lebeau told him.

"No," Lebeau answered honestly, "but things are usually a little easier to face if you can gather as much strength as you can."

After a moment Carter nodded and closed his eyes. In hopes of taking his friend's mind off of his troubles, Lebeau sat beside him and quietly described all of the things that he would take Carter and the others to see in Paris after the war. Carter drifted off while Lebeau was describing a café near the Seine run by three beautiful sisters and Lebeau was able to leave him sleeping more peacefully than he had in weeks.


Carter had several visitors over the next few days. Kinch would come with Lebeau when he brought Carter his breakfast each morning, and the two men always found him lying down, yet fully dressed, looking less like a patient and more like a man awaiting his execution. These visits were strained and awkward, with no one speaking much. Lebeau would always sigh inwardly at the effort Carter would make to eat his porridge or his potato pancakes; the younger man still had no appetite and it was obvious that he was only eating so as not to worry them. Baker would think the same thing later on, after persuading Carter to play a game of checkers with him. But it was easier to do that than to deal with a silent Carter, a painfully uncomfortable Foster and Olsen's forced cheerfulness.

Still no one talked of what had happened. It was easy to see - or at least easy to tell themselves - that Carter wasn't ready. However, Wilson noticed that between visitors, Carter tended to sit on the edge of the bed and stare out at the compound. Motionless and despondent, it was if he was waiting for something. Is there something out there that's bothering him? Wilson wondered. Outside, most of the prisoners went on with their normal, everyday activities - a few were playing volleyball at the moment - but even with spending most of his time in the infirmary with his patient, Wilson could sense that they were picking up on the air of tension that radiated from Barracks 2. It was as he stood there behind the oblivious Carter, seeing Sergeant Schultz break up the game and call the men to attention for evening roll call, that the answer came to him.

Mike, you idiot! He cursed himself, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. He had been watching Carter for nearly three days now and hadn't even noticed that, despite all the visitors that had come and gone, not one of them had been Peter Newkirk. He also realized that the Colonel had never come when Carter was awake. It was suddenly easy to figure out that Carter must be waiting to talk to one or both of them. Who else's reactions to what had happened would be the most worrying to him? The medic quickly strode out the door after instructing Carter to stay put. To hell with the curfew, I'm getting them over here now. Carter has no hopes of getting better if he doesn't resolve this.

Fifteen minutes later, a speechless Hogan - astounded by the quick, efficient and completely ticked off way in which his normally stoic medic had told off both him and several large guards with guns - was lead into the infirmary to confront his equally surprised demolitions man.

"You two talk! I'm going to look for the other one," Wilson ordered and then stormed out just as abruptly as he had come in. Schultz, who had followed him and Hogan in, futilely protesting that everyone was supposed to be in their own barracks, stood there a moment puzzling, "Other one? What other one?" Then he realized something and started to whine, "Colonel Hogggan! What other one? And why does Sergeant Wilson have to look for him? Isn't he in his barracks?"

"I don't know Schultz. Maybe you should ask Wilson."

Schultz looked around, saw that the medic was long gone and quickly ran out the door. Hogan and Carter listened to him begging Wilson to stop. Then Hogan reluctantly turned to face Carter.

Despite the fact that Carter had been waiting for three days to get this moment over with, the sudden appearance of his commanding officer - not to mention the dashing in and out of angry medics and confused guards - had startled him. Now that the moment was here, he was too flustered to speak. Hogan saw Carter turn away and begin fidgeting, clearly hoping that he would be the one to start.

"So Carter, uh, how are you feeling?" Hogan began, mentally wincing at how uncomfortable he sounded.

Carter suddenly found more of interest in his shoes. "Fine, I guess, sir."

"Good, that's good," he responded. "I suppose the guys have been stopping by pretty regularly?"

"Yes sir." Great, if he's this formal, he must really be uncomfortable, Hogan thought.

"Look Carter, I've been pretty busy lately; we've had a lot of escapees coming through and…" he started to explain.

"Yes sir, I know. Kinch and Lebeau told me."

Made excuses you mean. "I did stop in a couple of times, but - "

"I know sir. Wilson said. It's alright, I understand."

Hogan sighed and thought, I'm not entirely sure that you do, but I think we've both got bigger things on our minds right now. Seeing the way Carter avoided his eyes told Hogan that they had better stop dancing around and get down to a few of them. He took a deep breath.

"Andrew, I need to ask you a question."

Carter looked at him.

"Did they treat you alright at the hospital?" The question actually surprised the both of them. Hoping to get to the heart of things, Hogan had dived in before realizing that he had no idea of what to ask first.

Still looking at his shoes, Carter's brow furrowed and Hogan noticed that one of his hands began to twist nervously at his blanket. He frowned when the younger man didn't answer.

"Carter, I asked you a question," he said quietly, but firmly.

"I guess so sir," Carter replied eventually. "I mean, I don't remember a whole lot of it." Hogan didn't know it, but this question had set off a cold, squirmy feeling in his stomach. The hospital had positively terrified him. Sedated to the point of being ill, trapped between being asleep and awake, he had been plagued by nightmares that he couldn't bring himself to admit to his CO.

"What do you remember?" Hogan prodded gently.

Carter thought about it for a moment. "Well, I remember being worried about saying anything."

"Saying anything?"

"You know, about things here at camp. About the operation. I mean, I was pretty confused, you know? I was scared I'd wake up and there'd be Hochstetter saying he'd captured you all - or worse - cause of something I'd said when I didn't even know it."

Hogan put his hand on Carter's shoulder. "Don't worry about it Andrew. Hochstetter would have been here by now if you had said anything. I know it must have been scary at the time, but you didn't say anything, so try and do your best to forget about it." He didn't tell the troubled young man that that thought had occurred to him as well. Working with Kinch, he had come up with a hasty plan to get all the prisoners out as quickly as possible, or to at least give them a chance to defend themselves, in the event that Carter let something slip in his delirium; but both men had known that the plan had had a slim chance of succeeding at best, and that Carter himself would have been caught in the hands of the Gestapo with almost no hope of rescue. "What else do you remember?" he went on.

"Not a whole lot more sir," Carter lied. He remembered being miserably confused as to why he was there. He remembered feeling frighteningly alone; sick at the thought that he'd gone insane, and that the others had left him there, locked up in some German hospital without even bothering to get him home for treatment. In his more lucid moments, he had realized that that was ridiculous - they wouldn't have left him in a German hospital if they thought he was sick! They just wouldn't have! Besides, that would have put them in the very danger of exposure that he had been so worried about. But other times, when he was so muddled in his thoughts and nauseous from the sedatives, unable to move his arms and legs, he had been heartbroken, sure that he had done something to cause the others to desert him.

He also remembered a deeper fear. As Hogan watched, Carter began unconsciously rubbing his left wrist with his right hand, right where the marks from the restraints could still be seen. Carter remembered doctors coming towards him, usually with needles. Even in his drug-induced haze, terrifying memories of the things Schuler had done to him - Townsend? - had come through to him. Frantic to get free, he had pulled as best as he could at the restraints. He had tried to scream, but it had always come out sounding mushy and slurred, leaving him with only the power to weep with fear and frustration and all the horrors of being completely defenceless.

Lost in his memories, and confused as to whether they were actually his or Townsend's, Carter started to shiver. Does Townsend even exist? Am I crazy? Is this what crazy people do? Dream up sick nightmares like this? Everything was suddenly right there in front of him, like it was all happening again. He only came out of it when he felt the Colonel shaking him by his shoulder. Hogan had been watching with growing alarm at the way his munitions man had been withdrawing into himself.

"Carter? Listen to me Carter," he ordered. Carter turned to look at him. "Good. Now, I need you to try and pull yourself together. It's obvious something is bothering you and I think that you need to tell me exactly what it is."

"Sir, why are you asking me about the hospital? Are you going to send me back there? Is that why you want to know about it?" Carter asked all in a rush. "Cause I don't want to go back! No sir!"

"Carter, for God's sake, calm down! What are you talking about?"

Oh great, as if going all to pieces is gonna make the Colonel think you're less crazy! He nearly could have cried. Instead, after a deep, shuddery breath, he said, "Please Colonel, I just really, really, don't want to go back to that hospital."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed," Hogan said dryly, hoping to break the tension a little, but it backfired and Carter stared at him, shocked and hurt. Smooth Rob, real smooth, I'm sure he's in a perfect state for being teased. "I'm sorry Carter, I didn't mean to make fun of you. Honestly, I give you my word, I'm not going to send you back to that hospital."

"What about another hospital?" Carter asked anxiously, worrying that maybe the only reason they had gotten him out of that hospital was because they thought he was being mistreated, and not because they thought he was sane.

"Of course not."

Carter gave a relieved sigh. At least the Colonel doesn't think I'm crazy now!

"Well, unless of course you get sick again," Hogan continued.

"But - " Sick again? What does he mean - does he mean crazy again?

"Don't worry about it now Carter. You're going to be fine."

"Colonel?" Kinch's sudden appearance made Carter nearly jump out of his skin. "I'm sorry Andrew, I didn't mean to startle you," the radio man apologized. "Colonel, you said for me to tell you when it was that time."

"Oh right, thanks Kinch. I'll be there in a minute," Hogan said. Kinch nodded and left them alone again. Hogan got up; he knew that he and Carter needed to talk more, but unfortunately Wilson had brought him here on a night when he had something planned. He wondered where Wilson had got to. He'd been hoping the medic would have brought Newkirk over here by now - he really didn't want to leave Carter on his own.

But time was a factor. "I'm sorry Carter, I have to go. I've got to meet with a member of the underground to coordinate a mission, and my contact can only get away for a short time."

"But sir, I gotta ask - "

"We'll talk again tomorrow morning, I promise. But before I go I want to ask you something." Hogan hesitated; for three days he had avoided Carter mainly because he had been trying to come to a decision. After their talk about Fredericksen, Kinch had figured it out and had argued against it, urging him to at least talk about it with Carter. Hogan knew though, that - either way - he couldn't let what Carter wanted be the deciding factor. He had to think of the operation and its mission first, and the team as a whole second. And then there were the other prisoners, and the risk to them if the operation was exposed. What his men wanted or didn't want as individuals had to come last.

The problem was, that he hadn't been sure if he could remain objective if he knew how Carter felt. But after Wilson had dragged him over here, he realized that a decision had to be made, and that maybe Carter's wishes could at least tip the balance one way or another. So he had to ask.

"Carter, do you want to go home?"

"Whaddya mean? Go back to the barracks?" Carter asked, darting a quick look in that direction. He really did want to leave the infirmary - he hated being a patient - but thinking about being around the others again made him nervous. They were all looking at him weird now; they tried not to, but they were.

"No Andrew, I mean your real home, back in the States."

Carter, still worrying about what his friends were thinking, missed the point. "Sure," he said, a little puzzled. "Don't you?"

"Well, I was planning on waiting until the war was over."

Carter's eyes went wide. "You mean you want to send me home right now? But you said - "

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Sir," Kinch hissed from outside, "it's clear."

"Look Carter, we'll talk tomorrow." He patted Carter on the shoulder. "You just think about it, alright?"

"But - " Carter protested to empty air; Hogan was already making his way out the door.

But you said that I was better now! You said that I was fine! Why are you sending me home if I'm fine? Why won't anyone tell me what happened?

I can't take this anymore!


This time, it was a terrible shock to Dietrich Heidemann to see who the SS man pounding at his door really was. His heart in his throat, he wished for a brief, fleeting moment that it actually was one of Hitler's Stormtroopers standing out there in the dark.

He opened the door but said nothing. The man in front of him lifted an eyebrow in cold amusement.

"Are you not going to invite me in then, George?"

(1) "Of course!"