Carter gritted his teeth and tried to think through the pain. It was difficult, as he kept being jostled, each time the flame in his shoulder flaring up anew. The last glimpse he caught of Newkirk was a figure in black, blending into the night, standing helplessly. Carter was on his own.
Before Carter could make any conclusion about what to do, the German captain came to a stop. He removed the blade and roughly pulled the rifle off of Carter's back. Without warning, he threw Carter to the ground. Carter cried in pain as he hit. He groaned and rolled over instinctively to keep his eyes on the danger.
He opened the eye that wasn't swelling shut and saw the business end of the rifle.
"I can't have you following me," came the voice on the other side of the rifle. Carter had enough time to think what good English this man spoke. "But, I am a man of my word, Carter. So excuse me if I give you a concussion." He swung the rifle around and hit Carter in the head.
Captain Franz finally took a breath. He was almost done now. It was just a matter of getting to the camp gates and exposing the prisoners' operation. The sooner he got back, the better. He wanted to get there before the other prisoners did. He tucked the guns into his belt, then thought for a moment and decided to check the downed man for anything useful. He began patting him down, starting at the collar.
Just then, Newkirk saw the clearing ahead of him. He drew up short to assess the situation. It didn't take long. Carter was lying, limp, on the ground, and the German had his hands at his neck. Assuming the worst, all Newkirk could think of was the concealed blade. Was Carter—? He didn't even think.
Newkirk ran out of the trees, yelling in vengeance. Franz looked up in alarm and had just enough time to deflect the crazed Brit. Newkirk hit the ground and jumped back up. Now, Franz was standing over Carter with the bayonet of the rifle aimed squarely over his chest. Newkirk growled. "Come off it. You've already killed him!" He prepared to charge again.
"No! I didn't." That made Newkirk pause for a minute. He looked at his friend, lying on the ground in his silly guard's uniform. There was no blood stain. And Carter's chest was moving. "But I will now. You didn't keep your word." Franz lifted the rifle, ready to plunge it into Carter.
"Stop! I– I won't follow you! I promise. Just leave him be!" Newkirk's voice was panicky now. "I promise!"
"Promise." He snorted as if he found this genuinely funny. "You know your word no longer means anything?"
"Yes. I— …Knock me out. Then I won't be any danger."
"Or I could kill you."
"The guards come running at a gunshot. You're in the wrong uniform."
Yes, thought Franz, he would think of that immediately, even stressed as he was. It must be a fairly long-running operation.
"I like that…. Arms up. Lay facedown." Newkirk put his arms above his head, lowered himself to his knees, and lay down against the forest floor. Once he was down, Franz stepped away from Carter and pointed the bayonet up instead.
"I'm interested. How many people are in on your operation?"
"You're not a bloody interrogator."
"Your operation is based in Stalag 13. When I reveal it, I'd like to be accurate in my accusation so that the whole camp isn't under investigation for violating the Convention if they needn't be."
"No again. Just get it over with. I got places to be. You got places to be?"
So he believed Franz wouldn't be able to manage revealing their operation, otherwise he may have tried to save those not in on it. He'd have to ask something more personal. "Why did you come back for your friend? Why didn't you get safely back to camp?" That did the trick.
"I may be a coward, but I'd never leave me friends. Unlike you lot."
He smiled. The resentment. He had his own reasons to be upset though, and they weren't as subjective as sides of a war.
"You're very quick, you know. And loyal. But you're a dirty liar too. Following me. Endangering your friend because you didn't believe my word. I don't think you deserve to live. And I never said I wouldn't kill you."
He raised the rifle, ready for a vicious blow to the head, when he stopped. What was that sound?
The next moment, smoke seemed to explode through the trees. All he was able to see before it stung his eyes and engulfed him was the source—Carter—and movement under his feet. The Englander.
~HH~
Hogan and LeBeau had finished a successful mission. Again. They were pleased, and kept up small talk, now in familiar territory and making their way back for roll call. In fact, the feeling was so familiar, they almost missed it. The only reason he did see it was because they went quiet as they approached camp. Hogan's focus moved outward, and he spotted something on the ground. Near the knoll above the stump, half shoved into the brush, was a halt sign.
"Colonel," LeBeau whispered. He looked. LeBeau picked a full cartridge off the ground. He and LeBeau exchanged glances. That didn't bode well. Now Hogan's alertness was back up to full capacity, adrenaline sharpening his hearing. He picked up some faint, out-of-place sounds to the left and cursed himself for letting his guard down. He started to run in that direction, LeBeau on his heels.
~HH~
Newkirk knew how to operate in one of Carter's smoke bombs. He rolled away as quickly as he could, stood up, and froze. "Squint, and don't move," he remembered Carter saying. "Eventually you'll see something, even if it does hurt your eyes a little."
Now, Newkirk and Carter had one advantage over any other Luft prisoner. They knew how to think quickly in dire situations. Newkirk had managed to unload both handguns in the time from his spotting Carter and taking stock of the situation, to the moment he handed them over. And Carter had been quick enough to see the sleight of hand. Also, the rifle hadn't been loaded, as they found no need to load it for their mission. It was just a prop.
He heard the click of the trigger, and a grunt of surprise. Target located. Now he had to take him out before the smoke cleared. He saw a hazy shape and went for it.
~HH~
As soon as he saw Carter, Hogan drew up short. Carter, as soon as he saw them, quit running and collapsed.
"Carter, what happened to you?"
Gasping, he said, "Newkirk is—back there with the captain." He pointed behind him. "You have to… help him. Guns aren't loaded."
Hogan registered Carter's bruised face and weak state and didn't hesitate. "LeBeau, you stay with him." He left Carter's protests behind as he ran in the direction Carter had pointed out. Once he was close enough to hear grunts and yells, he refined his course and pulled out his gun. Heart in his throat, he ran through a sparse cloud of smoke, and found two people tangled on the ground. In the dark, he saw the glistening of blood. He put his gun back and went right into the fray, trying to pull the German off of Newkirk. It was incredibly difficult, and all he managed was getting a kick in the shin and a knife across his wrist before LeBeau came to help. Once they were separate enough to tell the difference between, Hogan latched onto his enemy's arms and dragged him back. He wasn't letting go, not even at hearing the scream of pain he caused.
"Newkirk, are you okay?" asked LeBeau.
"Yeah," he wheezed.
"LeBeau, you got any rope?" Hogan grunted from his position on the ground. The captain was still trying to kick out and escape.
"No. Let me help you." LeBeau came over and grabbed onto his arms as well. Hogan was able to readjust his grip so he could hold on, and between the two of them, they got Franz to his feet.
"I've got rope," came Carter's tired voice.
"Thank you, Carter," said Hogan, as Carter carefully pulled a length of cord out of his pocket and handed it to LeBeau. The German continued to groan in pain as the Frenchman bound his wrists. Only then did Hogan feel the wetness running down his hands.
"Whose blood is this?" he asked, just to be sure.
"His, mostly," Newkirk responded, still catching his breath.
"Most certainly mine. Don't squeeze so tight," Franz got out through his teeth.
"Carter, you favoring your arm?"
"Uh, yes, sir. It's dislocated."
Hogan was amazed. Anger built up inside him quickly and perhaps his grip tightened, for Franz whimpered again.
"Let me guess whose fault that is," Hogan growled. There was a tense silence. Franz was right about the American being the weak spot. As it turned out, he was also the sensitive spot. This did not bode well for him.
"If no one's bleeding to death, let's get back to camp, and quick." Franz tactfully ignored this. "Listen, Fritz," Hogan said, turning him around once they'd tied his wrists and finally giving a good examination of the austere face and bright, sharp eyes. "We're taking you, as you've probably already guessed, to Stalag 13, where you'll stay in the tunnels until the Underground picks you up. A sub will eventually take you to England. You will be watched the entire time, accompanied by a warning of your danger and tendency toward escape, so if I were you, and interested in keeping my life, I wouldn't make even the hint of a wrong move. We could shoot you; we're not. Don't throw away that courtesy."
"But what will I have to look forward to in England? Beating? Torture? Death? I know too much."
Hogan held his gaze for a moment instead of answering. Then he thought better of it. Holding a grudge and making him squirm would make him more dangerous than telling the truth. And this man was certified dangerous. "I give you my word as a gentleman and an officer that you will be going to a prison camp in England, and you will not be tortured or shot. Unless you try to escape, of course. The Allies follow the Geneva Convention. You have nothing to worry about if you come quietly. Understood?"
Franz considered. He looked around him. He was outnumbered five to one. He doubted they would let their guard down again after this mistake. He could also tell, just from the clues he had picked up, that theirs was a very well organized, well managed operation. And he knew the potentialities of such an operation as that. But these Allies had something different from any German plan or system. He couldn't put his finger on it. He nodded.
"Good. It's time to get back to camp."
~HH~
Franz was bound tightly, and placed in a tiny room underground. There was no door, and no guard, but he could hear speaking in the passage. He wouldn't be able to sneak out. To think of something besides the pain, he tried to think ahead to what would happen, but soon found he just couldn't fathom, to any satisfying degree of accuracy, the route that would get him to England. So he thought back on what had already happened. And then he touched on it. What these men had that Germany didn't. It had appeared in the way they had spoken to each other coming back to camp. They all worked as equals. They couldn't all be the same rank, and apparently the dark-haired American was in charge, but there was no fear of superiors, no pressure to be perfect, no strict protocol. Although these were meant to, and often did, keep many men in line, rules still managed to be broken, and somehow these men didn't seem to have trouble with it. Without it, they were more efficient. Was it…trust?
A/N: Forgot to mention the title. It means "go oft awry," and is from a poem by Robert Burns. The full line is, "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley." Thanks to L.E. Wigman for suggesting it!