Introductions
He was awake. That struggle drained him. He knew he'd lost control, but what difference did that make? He knew absolutely he was a captive. Little did he know that some of what he'd received while in Robertson's clutches was making him think he was captured again. He just wasn't quite sure who had him this time; whether it was Robertson or the Gestapo. They were both equally evil and merciless. And equally able to speak perfect English. He did not want to look just yet. He knew, whatever was coming, it would be bad. With the fever and pain, he could not last long. He wanted the shield and warmth of the sheet, the blanket. Some modicum of comfort before the horror he knew he had to endure. But they were gone. He folded his body towards his center, guarding, husbanding his strength.
"Go ahead and get that boot off. Don't cut it off unless that's the only way. The shears aren't meant for that. Don't twist it. Ease it off. His leg is probably broken. It will be swollen." Dr. Zimmermann supervised.
"Dr. Zimmermann, wouldn't it be better to give him some morphine before you start? He looks like he's hurting pretty good," one of the orderlies asked.
Zimmermann looked at the man on the table, judging, then the orderly. Dupree. Ah, new. Well, time for a little lesson. He did enjoy teaching. A couple of minutes won't make a difference to the man lying there. He looked to be unconscious again and after that struggle, not unexpected. "No. It can be hard to judge how bad an injury is if the pain is masked by a drug, like morphine. It is very useful to see their reaction to pain stimuli when it's just them, no medicine." That probably didn't sound good, but it was the truth. He didn't have the equipment that the hospitals did, like an X-ray machine. This was an aid station. He could only gauge a hidden fracture by a patient's reaction. He just knew there had to be at least one break somewhere in the limb. And if those bruises were any indication, a few cracked or broken ribs. Better follow up. "Sounds heartless, but it's useful. Our supply was depleted after that last action, and it hasn't been replaced. I only have one or two doses left. I'd rather save it for later for when I work on his injuries. He'll need it more then."
"Easy, soldier," the voice addressed him, "We are going to take care of you. Your name, we need your name. We can't find your ID tags." Then, "I'm Dr. Zimmermann." He felt a hand on his shoulder, he supposed, to offer reassurances he was safe. If anything, his skin quivered in revulsion.
If he gave them his name, they would have power to seduce him. He'd seen that before. An injured man had been lured to giving up secrets, giving up his comrades by persuasive voices calling him by name. They could just call him "Soldier," like Robertson did. Just like that doctor had. A nameless, rankless, nonentity. Soldier. It was an honorable name. He'd earned it. It was a compliment he bestowed on his men when they did well. And it helped him distance himself from whatever was happening to the body he inhabited.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright. Nothing looked the same. He had been moved. That Dr. Zimmermann wore a white coat. Robertson had worn white. So did everyone else he could see. White everywhere. He couldn't see any uniforms to check. There went his last hope that these were Americans.
Thoughts jolted through his head. This fever must be worse than I thought. Everyone seemed to be floating, no legs. He wasn't exactly focusing, and he didn't want to turn his head too far. It still felt like it would fall off and his last attempt to escape hadn't helped. He must be trapped in some strange medical laboratory. It didn't look like Robertson's special room. He hadn't heard a single military rank mentioned; they must be civilian but not civil to him. That criminal boss, Robertson must have tracked him down and taken him again. And traded him to the Gestapo. He'd made good on that threat. Please God, not that. The thought made his gut quiver and his breath hitched. He could not go down that road.
His one last straw. Regular Krauts. Maybe they'd found him first. Every Kraut doctor he'd ever come across wore white coats. Most American ones didn't unless they were going to operate, or something like that. Lots of Germans spoke English better, or at least, understandable English to his ear, than some Brits he'd met. Even the names sounded foreign, Arndt, Zimmermann, Dupree. No solid Smiths or Joneses. He'd been fooled before. Not this time. I'll just pretend to be dumb or deaf or whatever. No morphine, either. Too risky. I might say something. I was on a mission when I got caught. Even if they were regular Krauts, if he said something, they would have to report it to their command.
Truth be told, he and morphine did not get along well. Yes, it certainly eased the pain but, sometimes it gave him strange dreams. It always made him queasy, if not outright sick. He had no control over his reactions or his words when he'd had morphine. He'd been told he talked with it in his system. He couldn't afford that if these people were Krauts, the Gestapo.
He was sick and injured. That made it harder to resist. He'd do his best. He hated not knowing and not being in control. Worse, though, he was afraid. Afraid of what lay in store, afraid because he was in enemy hands, and afraid he might give away some secret information. He couldn't let that fear show. He closed his eyes to start to build up a mental bulwark.
He jumped and hissed with pain as somebody worked his boot off. He squirmed and tried to push those hands off with his other foot. He hoped it at least smelled bad. A bad case of stinky feet, as Mom would say. A flicker of a smile crossed his face at the thought. Hah! He made sure to get his stinky toes and foot right on that man's hand. "Hey, hold still! Stop that!" the orderly said as he maneuvered it off his swollen foot. Yuck. That soldier had actually managed to touch him with those monkey toes. He tugged a bit harder on the boot than necessary, but the soldier couldn't really tell. He was pleased he'd at least made a tiny point. That might be his last victory for the day.
The boot thudded to the floor, then the last sock followed. He dreaded what was coming next. With each bit of uniform that was stripped off, he felt as if a piece of armor was stolen. He trembled with cold, even though he knew he had a fever, as bad a fever as he could ever remember. He hoped that didn't show through as fear. Again, he curled inward. He protected his core and by drawing his limbs in tight, it gave his captors fewer handholds. He prayed for strength to resist.
"Stop that, Soldier!" Dr. Zimmermann was getting frustrated. Already this was not going smoothly. He could handle chaos. Chaos he created, but not with chaos created by others. And in his opinion, this was fast headed to chaos. When there was no rush or big pressure, the doctor could conform to social expectations, but under stress he reverted to his coldly analytical self. In his lab, he never had to worry about the feelings of a microbe, cajoling an experiment, or talking nicely to his microscope so it would focus better. But here, with a stubborn patient and novice orderlies, he felt awkward, a bit inept, and judged.
"You need to straighten him out. I can't look at him like this. He's combative." Not combative again, yet, but the doctor wasn't taking chances with this strangely refractory soldier.
He felt himself being unfolded as hands took his feet and started to straighten his legs out. He bit off a cry of pain, but it warned whoever was doing it to move their hands to a different position, much higher on that one leg. Another orderly had the other leg now, held down at his foot. The medic held his upper body. Arndt carefully avoided hurting the injured shoulder but firmly pulled him down to the table. Stabs of pain went through him. Although they were careful, his nerves were so raw, his resistance so depleted, the pain was amplified. He could not hold back the gasps of pain, or an occasional groan, but that was all they were going to get from him.
He couldn't move. At least three sets of hands were holding him firmly. Surrounded by strangers, the enemy. Shaking with fever. He made a plan that required some acquiescence on his part, just a little. He fervently hoped these were just regular Krauts. If so, they were going to treat his injuries. After he felt better a little, then he'd work on an escape plan. He knew he was too weak, too damaged to do anything now. He felt utterly vulnerable, lying on that table, nearly naked, not even a sheet to cover him. He clutched the side of the table in a white-knuckled grip and tensed his muscles as best he could. He stared straight up, trying to distance himself from his situation, not terribly successfully.
A/N: Poor Zimmermann. He'd hate my labs. They're chaos, my chaos. So I can sympathize. But then I don't chase microbes. And I cajole my instruments and pat them nicely. Fat lot of good that does. They are very recalcitrant, some days.