Adversaries

The doctor looked down the man's body. Stressed, both he and that patient, that stranger on the table. Zimmermann's carefully constructed genial bedside manner was fast eroding. He was exasperated, impatient with the orderlies, they were so slow. And the soldier very uncooperative. "I must have everything exposed. And clean. I need to see. Cut everything off. It's ruined anyway. He's a mess. And clean him up." That was one nasty wound. It bled and oozed everywhere. Lab work was never this messy. Zimmermann could feel himself vibrate as he strove to put back on his "pleasant doctor" façade.

To the soldier on the table, the Major said, "Really, Soldier, calm down. Relax. We can get this over a lot faster if you just cooperate."

He tried to ward off this latest attack, grab the scissors, wriggle away, but he was held too firmly. He felt the chill of metal as the blades slid down his hipbone, cutting him free of the last little bit of his uniform. Then he was cleaned up. The Soldier closed his eyes again and pretended he was elsewhere. Robertson must have come back; he could almost hear that taunt about his suit. At least before when he'd been stripped, he hadn't been aware during, only after. And he had so little left with which to resist. Robertson had made sure of that.

The Major looked down at him, noting the grip and closed eyes. "Your name. Surely you can give us your name." Nothing.

Oh, hell. He'd never met a patient like this. He retreated to the usual doctor routine. When all else failed, start with the breathing and pulse. The way things were going, forget the pulse; he was obviously alive. He could see a pulse hammering in the man's neck. Breathing then. Check his breathing and heart.

Aloud, Zimmermann hurried on, "Soldier, I need to check you over. Because you have a high fever and the medic thought you were wheezing, I'm going to listen to your lungs first." The doctor readied his stethoscope and bent over him. "This is going to be cold."

He'd made the mental adjustment back to Soldier. He locked Robertson out of his mind. Well, I may not be able to do anything now, but I will watch. And I will remember. You.

His eyes followed each motion of the instrument as the doctor pressed it against his skin; listening for whatever doctors listened for. He felt his flesh goose-pimple as Zimmermann moved it around his chest.

"Can you take a few deep breaths for me?" The Soldier only stared back into his eyes; no other response.

Taken aback from meeting the steel in that glare, Zimmermann went on, "Okay. Just breathe normally then." Why is this man being so difficult? Doesn't he realize I'm a doctor and trying to help? He felt offended and perturbed that this patient would not acknowledge him or the care he was trying to provide.

"Soldier, really, this is not necessary. I'm not going to harm you. Hold still. You are only making it harder on yourself." The tension was evident in the doctor's voice and words.

He stared straight at the ceiling, choosing to ignore the doctor, as best he could. Gad, he hated this. He felt so impotent. Robertson slithered back for an instant.

Zimmermann was almost as discomfited as the Soldier. He just wanted to get this part of the exam over with. I'm not sure who's hating this more, the doctor thought. He'd never been subject to such subtle hostility from a patient. Settling himself down with a few deep breaths, unlike that Soldier, and getting back into the "doctor routine," Major Zimmermann did a quick physical scan on the man's torso. He barely touched a few of the obviously damaged places but purposely left out the shoulder and arm. He already knew about them; he was trying to see what else was wrong with the man. Besides, he wouldn't touch them without morphine first. Flinches indicated ribs that were probably cracked, if not broken. Those would make it hard to breathe deep or to cough. Maybe that's why the soldier wouldn't breathe deep for him. No, Zimmermann knew the man had chosen not to even try to breathe a bit deeper. What was wrong with this soldier? Okay, he coached himself, get on with it. With a typical doctor "tisk," and a nod, the Major signaled to Arndt who was holding the soldier's upper body. The medic levered the mutely resisting man into a sitting position and motioned for one of the orderlies to move up and help hold the soldier. The man was solid and he would likely be a handful once he was set into the new position. They didn't need him to be more actively rebellious than he'd already been.

The Soldier kept his eyes focused on himself. He wanted no pity, no disgust, no scorn coming from these strangers. He could barely manage his own thoughts. He didn't want to look at anyone, except maybe that doctor, and he wasn't within view, having moved around to his back. He inhaled sharply with the pain of being sat up. He hadn't realized this was coming or how bad it hurt. He sagged and wrapped an arm around his lower ribs as he tried to hold the pain at bay. He took small breaths, tiny breaths, as he willed the pain to a more tolerable level. His surroundings swayed and grayed. The fever was making him weak. He stole a quick look at his thigh and wished he hadn't. It was worse than he thought. Just the memory of how it happened made him shudder and want to retch. If he let that gag reflex get started, he knew he might crumble. He tamped down the reaction. He closed his eyes and let himself slump into the hands holding him up. If they were going to hold him up, well then, they could do the work. It was easier to pretend he wasn't experiencing this, this whatever, that way.

The doctor had reverted to his stiff, formal self. "Move his arm just a bit so I can get a good look at these," he said to the orderly. He wanted to inspect the bruises closely. They were deep and some bore cuts. The merest touch elicited involuntary shudders and quivers. "Hold him still!" He began to trace one of the crescent-shaped cuts with a fingertip.

The Soldier twisted violently away. He would not tolerate that. Despite the hands that were controlling him, he grabbed the doctor's wrist in a hand suddenly as strong as iron. The icy stare, full of warning, along with that grip brought Zimmermann up short.

Oh, my. "Sorry. Must sting a bit," he said to the Soldier. Zimmermann thought, I probably shouldn't have touched, but I was curious. Bad habit.

The Soldier released his grip only then. It had taken nearly everything he had to stop that infernal doctor and his pawing.

The doctor, shaken by the self-control and mute assertiveness of this man, decided to pretend as if nothing had happened. Two could play at this game.

He finished checking breathing and ribs, then gestured to the two holding his upper body to lower him back down. Cover settled down on him as someone realized their error.

"Thank God that's done." Reaction to all the handling was making him nauseous and shaky, and even more chilled, if that were possible. Behind his closed eyes, he concentrated on not throwing up, maintaining composure. He barely had the energy to do that. He grabbed a fistful of sheet like a lifeline, but as he let himself drift, his grip slackened, and fingers relaxed. How he wished he knew they were American, even if that doctor was as cold as ice. Colder. At least, they didn't talk much; that made it easier to maintain his internal focus. Maybe they were Krauts, but maybe, just maybe they weren't Gestapo.

Arndt had watched the entire byplay between Zimmerman and the Soldier with some amusement. It was an interesting interaction. Zimmermann constantly kept on edge by someone who barely could stay conscious, who parried every attempt the doctor had made to turn him into a compliant patient. Arndt didn't realize it, but he could be almost as clinical as Zimmermann, the way he studied relationships. Well, best focus on what Zimmermann was saying. The Soldier was visibly weakening, and they needed to move on. The sooner the doctor did his little summary, the sooner this could wrap up.

The major addressed Arndt and the others gathered around the table. Might as well tell them what I learned. That irritating soldier, too. I'm sure he's listening.

"Scrapes and cuts in several places. A couple of cracked or broken ribs where those bruises are. And another here." As if the Soldier was a demonstration mannequin in one of his classes, the doctor was pointing out the different areas directly on him. "Those bruises, their location. There could be a bruised kidney or some other internal injuries. This long straight cut, here? See the bruises, burns on his wrists?" He whipped aside the sheet to show that rip. Again, with the touching, which caused the Soldier's eyes to fly open to shoot daggers at the doctor, accompanied by a growl. That growl got everyone's attention, but the Major just ignored the elephant in the room. Warming to his subject, he kept right on lecturing, and decided to share his conclusions. "I think he was a captive and escaped. Those look like they were done to hurt. To make him talk. I'm sure he gave them nothing." "He's a very determined man." Zimmerman looked rather pleased with his little talk. Arndt rolled his eyes and had to wonder how Zimmermann could forget himself sometimes when he went into his professor role.

The very determined man, after issuing his little warning, had retreated behind his mental bulwark again. He hadn't heard the doctor's conclusion. Just touching those injuries was enough to bring back memories of the recent past.