Don't mind the sadistic voices in my head that wrote this. R+R Please.
Less than a second later, another unseen hand closed around his mouth and he felt something hit the back of his head. The little he could see in the half light exploded into bright orange which faded to red, purple and then black. He knew nothing from that moment onwards.
He came around slowly on a sparsely filled sack of straw with a square of material hardly resembling a pillow under his head. There was a wooden cover over the barred window which barely let any light in. In the half-light he could see that he was in some sort of cell. It wasn't very big, evidently only designed for one person. He must be in some kind of prison. If this was so, then why was he hit over the head trying to escape? As far as he knew, no one bar him and Eric knew about the plan, but Archer seemed to know that his association with Eric was linked to an escape. What if it had been a trap all along?
A while later, the door scraped open, and a mug of what seemed to be remnants last night's meal was pushed inside. The door closed with a bang and the key scraped in the lock. The footsteps departed.
It seemed to Tom like an eternity, but in reality, only a few hours had passed when the door grated open, and the officer that had questioned him on his first day strutted in, a triumphant smile on his face.
"We meet again, 2nd Lieutenant," he sneered, with emphasis on lieutenant as though it was some inferior rank.
"It would appear so, yes," replied Tom, he was in no mood for conversation with the pompous son of a bitch.
"As we foiled your hastily planned escape, you are to spend a week in this cell, as punishment, I'm sure you understand," he said with a sickening sense of authority. "To prevent any further misdoings, I personally suggested that, for your distinct lack of cooperation during our brief talk, you should be questioned further, and any resistance will be futile, as you will find out. Don't worry, a friend popped in from another camp about a week ago, you'll have him for company." With that the officer turned on his heel and left. Who does that bastard think he is? Tom thought moodily, and as his week-long solitary confinement started, he had a lot of time to brood over the question. The week was uneventful, as the only thing that broke the monotony was a hand pushing in a mug of the disgusting soup that they managed to pass off as edible.
The week seemed to last for months, but eventually a German private entered and took him roughly by the arm, leading him, not outside as he expected, but through into what must be the brick building. As they walked past the numerous closed doors Tom heard loud voices from behind a single one, and it shook him to the core.
"Well, Von Stalhein, I do hope that you will be able to make an impression on the ginger one, he seems to be quite stubborn,"
"Of course, Mein Herr."
It was the voice of Eric Still. So, it had been a trap, one to entice him into escaping and catch him in the act, but why?
He was left to his musings as he was led down a set of stairs into what was evidently a converted basement. This was obvious through it's lack of windows and thick vertical bars that split the room in two. An NCO had followed them down and opened a door set into the centre of the bars. Tom was pushed ungraciously inside, and the door slammed shut behind him. He noticed a form hunched in the corner, regarding him with shrewd eyes. He was thin, had bright ginger hair and was dressed in an RFC maternity tunic with pilots' wings and sergeant stripes.
"Hullo, I'm Tom,"
The slight figure said nothing but continued to look at him stonily. Tom decided to pay no attention to the boy in the corner, but leaned against the wall, cursing himself for smoking all his tobacco during his stay in solitary. He slid down the wall in despair as he remembered the officer's words. "Any resistance will be futile." That must have meant for the duration he chose not to answer any questions that were put to him, he would stay in this cell with a pilot that didn't even have a commission. He was torn between getting away from the dull lifeform and defying the Germans.
"Oh, Biggles would know what to do." he sighed hopelessly, cradling his chin in his hands.
"Biggles?" questioned a voice from the corner, it was the sergeant, he looked brighter for some reason. "Do you know him?" he urged.
"Yes, he came up to my squadron the day before I was captured, he was on his way back from seeing someone, Wilkinson, he said his name was"
"Did he mention anyone else?" he inquired hopefully.
"Yeah, he said some fellow named Ginger, his protégé, was shot down and he was seeing if anyone had any news,"
"Good old Biggles, of course he would," he said smiling, "Oh, did I mention, I'm Ginger."
"That's fine, it's just we're stuck here I suppose, if you're in here for the same reason as me,"
"They want me, because they know I'm Biggles' protégé and they want me to tell them how he has managed to stay alive and shoot down so many Germans without landing on the wrong side of the lines permanently. They also think that if they cut off any contact to him, then he'll come looking for me,"
Tom nodded "I'm here because I didn't answer that young arse's questions, you know the one that doesn't seem to know what a razor is,"
"Yes, I don't like him much either, I don't think that many would answer any questions we're not required to, but since I was the only one in here until you turned up, you must be something special."
"I suppose. You've heard about the suicides or murders that have been going on, right?"
"Yes, they bring the people who might be involved in here for interrogation, which is why I was in the corner trying to figure out whether you were affected or not. There was one survivor who came in here, Archer, his name was, he didn't really seem to be grasping reality, kept mentioning ghosts and the dead, if I hadn't known why he was in here, I would have said he was drugged or something."
Tom mumbled his agreement, and as neither had anything meaningful to say, they sat in silence.
A long while later, an NCO appeared and motioned for Tom to follow him. He was led to a small room with crude desk and chair, not unlike the one he had been taken into on his first day in the camp. A well-dressed man in a civilian suit was sitting behind it regarding him icily.
"How did you come to be here,"
"What's that to you?"
"I need to know, so that we can be certain of your identity, you probably know that we don't take lightly to spies,"
"I was shot down,"
"Well, to prove your story, I want to know when and where you were shot down, and some information about a certain fellow, Bigglesworth, one of GHQ's pet officers. We have knowledge that he made contact with you and asked you to do something."
Tom leant over as if to divulge a secret. "To tell you the truth, I'm terrible with names,"
This did not seem to have the desired effect as the officer turned purple and hissed at him, "You do not seem be taking your situation seriously enough. Perhaps we can help you." The officer tidied his desk and walked out.
In response to this Tom's arm was twisted up behind his back and while the other NCO gave him a few quick jabs in the stomach. He collapsed to the floor, struggling to breathe and curled into a ball. He was yanked unceremoniously to his feet as the officer walked in again and waved a sheet of paper in his face.
"What does it say? I don't speak German."
He seemed delighted to translate. it was an order from the commandant. It said that if the prisoner calling himself Tom Talbot failed to provide satisfactory proof that he was a downed pilot, he was to be shot as a spy on October 4th, 1916. Tom asked what the date was.
He leant over and whispered, "October 3rd," with obvious enjoyment. It shook Tom heavily, but his brain raced for any shred of information that would back up his more than feeble story. The officer pressed his advantage and asked what Bigglesworth had been doing so far from his own squadron.
"I landed somewhere over at St Quentin, on September 13th, check with the men in those monstrosities you manage to call observation balloons, if you don't believe me. I was on morning patrol."
"What about Bigglesworth?"
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting him,"
The officer yelled back that if he wanted to avoid being shot, he should start giving details of why Bigglesworth was at Amiens. Tom brightened and again leant forward in spite of the searing pain in his stomach "Is he the one in the RFC uniform?" Something in the delivery must have seemed less than totally sincere. He stood up. "That's it. You have not cooperated. Events will take their course."
He was dragged out of the room by the 2 Boche soldiers, feeling slightly let down that he was going to be shot without a at least a little bit more haggling. The shoved him back into the basement cell and clanged the door behind him. Ginger was absent.
RFC- Royal Flying Corps- Precursor to the modern day RAF
Boche- Derogatory term for Germans