Chapter 3 - Hurts
Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life
-Take me to Church, Hozier
Hogan barely managed not to drop his corporal on the cold, dirty floor of the cell he was shoved into it with unnecessary force after an exhausting three storey climb through a well maintained and thoroughly Nazi building. Through sheer willpower, the colonel managed to retain his balance and only the blood that was beginning to cover his hands and his chest, where he cradled Newkirk protectively, stopped him from saying something that might get him shot. One of them needed to be fully aware.
Instead he turned around with a glare, the floorboards creaking underneath him, to look at the major, silhouetted in the light from the corridor outside,
"You'll stay in here, Colonel. Don't bother trying to escape,"
Major Kessel turned so that he was better illuminated in the light, as Hogan stood within the dark cell, to allow the sergeant he had brought with him to bring in an oil lamp and a loaf of bread, sitting on a tin plate, "there's water in the barrel," he said, as the sergeant placed the items on the ground,
"Your hospitality is incredible," Hogan replied, his arms beginning to ache from the load they carried, but not wanting to show the Major that he was tiring,
"You'll run out of wise-cracks soon, Colonel," the Major replied, "there will be guards posted on this door every hour of the day, and the only window is fifteen feet off the ground. If you do decide to jump, colonel, at least kill your precious corporal first, it would be easier for the both of you,"
With that, Kessel turned and walked out, slamming the steel door behind him, the darkness Hogan was thrown into disorientating after the bright, harsh lighting of the corridor. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, then carefully turned towards where he had spotted the only bed, against the wall to the left, the corporal silent in his arms.
The ride had been long, and Peter had alternated between pained consciousness and then spells where his body simply couldn't take it anymore, where he lapsed into fitful unconsciousness. Hogan meanwhile had alternated between absolutely furious while the corporal was conscious and positively terrified at the lack of response when Newkirk did fall silent. He wasn't even able to observe where they were because the windows had curtains and he was jammed between his corporal and the gestapo man. The front section was blocked off by still more curtains, damn the gestapo forethought.
Not that escape is an option anyway.
"We'll just lay here for a bit, huh?" Hogan said aloud, not expecting a response and thus startled almost into dropping the man again when Newkirk mumbled, in a raspy voice, "Anywhere…that's no' a bleeding…car,", as the colonel settled him onto the one tiny cot, on his knees next to him,
"Hiya, Peter," Hogan said, placing a hand on the man's good shoulder for comfort as the RAF corporal sucked in a painful breath,
"Where…" Peter began, but Hogan placed a gentle hand across his lips,
"No talking, even though I know that's damn near impossible for you," he said, trying to ignore the way his heart chilled a couple more degrees at the absence of a sharp response from Newkirk, who only managed a small smile. His eyes fluttered closed and Hogan decided he had better get the man some water before he passed out again.
Getting to his stiff legs with some difficulty, the Colonel walked quickly to the lamp, grabbing it off the floor and scouted the room for the water barrel, finding it under the window in the far right corner of the room.
It could be contaminated with anything, he thought, as he pulled the damp wooden lid off. It didn't smell too fresh and as he dipped a hand in and brought it to his lips, it definitely didn't taste fresh but it was all they had. Resigning himself, Hogan grabbed the rusty cup that had been sitting on top, and filled it to the brim, drinking it quickly. Dipping it in again, when he had finished, he filled it half way, then turned back to Peter, not having to go far, as the cell was only about two meters wide.
"Peter," he said, dropping down into a crouch, and waited until bleary eyes were fixed on his own, "you need to drink," he prompted, the flickering light from the oil lamp casting patterns across the pale face in front of him, blue eyes barely catching any of the light,
"mm…thirsty," Newkirk agreed, and Hogan placed the cup down on the floor. Then, he gently eased an arm around the corporal's shoulders, knowing that he would hate needing the help, but also knowing that without it, he wasn't going to be able to sit. He levered the corporal up, and then, realising he'd never be able to hold Newkirk and the cup in this position, changed, so that he slid onto the mattress himself, his back against the wall, with the corporal lying sideways across his lap, trying his best to avoid jarring the corporal's shoulder.
He stretched for the cup and managed to snag it off the floor, then, propping the corporal up by bringing his own leg up to act as a backrest, he brought the cup to Peter's lips. The corporal drank it slowly, and the colonel was patient, waiting until the whole cup was gone before putting it to the side,
"Hungry?" he asked, his voice quiet as a draft blew through the room and Newkirk shivered,
"Sleepy," he replied instead, and Hogan couldn't find a single damned reason to move when the corporal brought himself closer, wincing at the movement, but resting his head against the colonel's shoulder, "hurts…so much," Newkirk whispered and Hogan swallowed, the guilt and anger he had momentarily buried coming back with full force.
Sorry, I'm sorry, so sorry…
He brought his (shaking) left hand up and ran it through the corporal's hair, the soft black locks slightly longer than regulation, because they had to delay the haircut a week ago when one of their plans changed and hadn't gotten around to it again. The colonel was entirely aware that this was hardly a normal thing for him to do, but they were both exhausted, and Newkirk had actually snuggled in closer when he started playing with his hair, so he did it again, the strands warm as Peter's breath against his neck.
Damn regulations. Damn expectations. I'll be whatever he needs me to be.
Hogan looked down to Newkirk and sighed.
I wish the boys would hurry up. I dunno how much longer our favourite Brit can keep fighting.
He let his hand rest at the back of Newkirk's neck, where the hair was short but soft, the heat from the man's skin warming his own frozen hands, and let his head fall back against the wall, only his thoughts and the steady sound of the rattling window for company.
It was decided that night was the best time to move, after roll call, so Carter, LeBeau and Kinch took the several hours they had before roll call to prepare. LeBeau went over the uniforms for himself and Carter, not being as adept as Newkirk but still good enough to fix the sleeve that was slightly loose and tighten the buttons on the coats.
They collectively decided not to inform London of what they wanted to do, just in case the answer was no, accompanied by an order not to rescue their comrades, who were being held more than an hour away from their camp. At least this way they would not be disobeying any direct orders.
Kinch was fiddling with the radio in the tunnel. It was another mission that he had to sit out on, because a black man did not belong in gestapo uniform and the usual struggle of wanting to go with his friends and knowing he couldn't was ten times as bad tonight. He resisted the urge to do anything so childish as slam his headphones down onto the table in a fit of pique, as once again, he felt that he was utterly useless at times when the team needed help the most,
And all 'cause I'm too black.
Kinch sighed, just a Carter arrived behind him,
"Any messages?" Carter asked and Kinch jumped, not having heard the sergeant walk in,
"No buddy," he replied, and he saw Carter's hopeful expression drop.
They had maintained a small hope that maybe the underground heard Papa Bear and one of his cubs were captured and went to rescue them, but so far, all the units they were in contact with were turning up nothing.
"It's up to us," Kinch continued as Carter pulled himself up onto the table next to the staff sergeant, his expression serious as he said,
"You'll need to manage ol' blood and guts when we're gone, he'll be real mad once he realises the Colonel and Peter are gone," he said and Kinch nodded,
"I'd rather be with you," Kinch replied quietly, and Carter was silent a moment. Then he tilted his head to the side, his right eye crinkling slightly, in that way of his when he was thinking on a problem,
"But if you were with us, who'd be here?" he asked and Kinch raised an eyebrow,
"Oh, only the whole camp," he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out his voice,
"No I mean, out of us, someone has to be here," Carter insisted, ignoring the look Kinch was giving him,
"How do you figure?"
"Well…it's kinda like my grandma used to say. She'd say, Andy! You remember this! If you're someone who's anyone, you'll always have someone waiting at home for you, and if they're waiting for you, then you'd better love them like family, boy, cause only family bothers," Carter gave a small laugh, "and it's weird you know, 'cause it's the middle of the war and everything, but it's like we're family. I think so anyway," he threw a glance at his fellow sergeant, and was pleased to see that his ramblings had for once, not made anyone mad.
Kinch had a smile on his face, and the radio man felt as if it was thawing some of the worry that had gripped him since LeBeau had come back with the nightmare they were currently in,
"Andrew," he started, but found he didn't have the words to express what he was feeling, so he settled with a warm hand on the young man's shoulder, receiving a big smile in return,
"We'll get them back," Carter assured him, and for the first time that day, Kinch allowed himself to feel that maybe it wasn't so unlikely after all.
Roll call arrived, cold and on a night of the new moon, the stars glittering above the fog from their breaths as they stood in the frigid night air.
The count was done, and Klink sounded the alarm with a few choice insults hurled at Schultz, ordering Kinch into his office for a good half hour of pointless questions before letting the man out again.
By the time he got back to the barracks, LeBeau and Carter were dressed and holstering their guns, turning to face his grim expression,
"Be careful out there, the guard is doubled and every dog is out on patrol," he said, "I'm afraid nothing would convince Klink to do otherwise,"
"It's okay, mon frère, we have been through worse," LeBeau said, patting Kinch on the arm, as he did up his belt, "how do we look?"
"Like real monsters," Kinch replied and the little Frenchman pretended to be insulted while Carter smiled,
"Danke, mein Freund," the munitions man replied in German and Kinch rolled his eyes,
"Get going, the both of you," he said hitting the switch on the bunk, the trapdoor opening with its usual click,
"Oui, take care and keep Wilson ready, just in case,"
"Good luck," Kinch added as the two disappeared down the ladder,
And God be with you, he added in his head, turning to his own bunk for a fitful night of not sleeping.
Newkirk felt like every nerve in his shoulder was being tortured with a branding iron with every breath he took, as he came to for the nth time, unable to remember when he had dropped off yet again.
He was groggy, and his head felt like it had recently been stuffed with cotton, and his thoughts we jumpy, half formed and bewildering. Keeping completely still, with his eyes closed, he tried to analyse where he was. He could feel a lumpy something under his legs, which were considerably cooler that his top half, lower than his torso and head. His upper half was elevated and warm, and, he realised with a jerk, was being held, definitely on top of another body.
The guvnor?
Newkirk's eyes opened in surprise to find a stubble covered chin and pale neck in his vision as he twisted his head slightly upwards, the image slightly distorted by the wavering of their light source. The strong jaw was shadowed and from his angle the colonel's soft cheek bones prevented Newkirk from seeing his eyes. The colonel smelled like that light aftershave he liked to use, and, Newkirk, in his state, found himself wanting to move in closer, bringing his head further in, burying has face into the crook of the man's shoulder, the change of position taking the load off his wound, pressing him into the man from the hip up. He felt himself relax in the man's embrace, and he could not bring himself to care very much that the Colonel might think this was odd. In that moment, when he had never known so much pain as this, the proximity and the familiarity was a soothing balm on frayed nerves.
The corporal was startled out of his justifications when a gentle hand ran across the back of his neck and through his hair, the warmth and pressure welcome, the Colonel's voice rumbling through his chest as he said,
"Hello,"
Newkirk tried to respond but found that his voice wasn't altogether functional, and instead ended up making a small noise, cutting off with a cough that tore his shoulder apart, and had him groaning aloud,
"Hey, hey, easy," Hogan said, his tone changing from warm to worried and Newkirk wished he could see his expression, to tell him not to worry, but he didn't have the energy to move that far away or to form the sentence, "I'll get some more water," Hogan said, and the corporal stayed silent as the Colonel manoeuvred him with great care onto the mattress. Newkirk couldn't stop the involuntary whine though, as the movement started a new wave of pain, the loss of warmth almost equally unbearable,
"Guv'nor," he mumbled, allowing his eyes to slide shut as tremors ran through his body and he wilfully forced himself not to vocalise the fire in his shoulder. It was like being cut open a hundred times, scalded and ripped in half all at once, and Newkirk could barely think straight. He wasn't sure it was asking the colonel to come back and hold him or if he was begging for release.
It could have been seconds or it could have been hours later that the Colonel returned, and lifted his head up.
The water was cool and welcome, soothing the thirst he didn't know he had and he drank it all, the metallic tang of the cup lingering in his mouth. He heard the colonel place the cup on the floor with a muted clang, when he had finished, and heard himself mumble,
"Don't leave,"
The colonel stilled next to him, and for a moment he feared that the man had left after all, not wanting to stay with him.
Then the warmth was back as the Colonel lifted him up again, and brought him back into the position he had been in, his injured shoulder well out of the way, allowing him to curl up on the senior officer's lap.
Newkirk sighed as the Colonel returned his hand to his hair, and felt sleep lure him under again.
Colonel Hogan felt his heart stutter as Newkirk brought his head to rest in the crook of his neck once more, and felt the corporal's breath wash over him as he sighed when his hand came up almost automatically, playing with Peter's hair once more.
He had been startled out of his light sleep when he had felt Peter move and he wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep exactly. He glanced at his watch, angling it to better catch the light.
Three thirty in the morning. Goddamn.
He sighed, knowing there was little chance he would fall asleep again. Not after that little episode anyway. Not after the whispered words calling him, asking him to stay, the vulnerability in his otherwise rock steady corporal.
God, how I wish I could do something other than sit here and be useless.
The commanding officer was disturbed by how much pain Newkirk was in. He could tell from the way the man reacted when he had moved him back onto the mattress and by the fact that the corporal was all but cuddling with him. He was never as touchy as when he got sick, and rarely made contact with you unless he was drunk or very happy.
The colonel felt the worry coil in his belly, pausing in his movements as his fingers brushed over an old scar on the back of Peter's neck, his thoughts flying in every direction,
How many more scars will he have before we're through?
The colonel sighed,
Is what we're doing even worth this? This…
He looked down at Peter and the blood soaked shirt on his shoulder, the shallow breaths he was taking, the blood that coated his own pants and caked under his fingernails,
Is he worth sacrificing for anything? Hogan thought, knowing what the answer should be, but found the only answer he could come up with was,
Never.
Not even if it meant ending the war right now.
And as he sat in that dark, cold cell, he suddenly found that fact to be resonating with the truth, echoing like the great bells of cathedrals that lay in rubble, destroyed in the bombings. It was as sudden as the moon's appearance from behind a cloudbank on a treacherous night, but for the first time this fact was as clear as the beautiful German crystal chandeliers in their great ballrooms and it was as beautiful as it was frightening.
For Peter, he would throw it all away, if it meant the man, his friend, his thief and pickpocket, conman and criminal was safe. Because Peter belonged to him and was a part of his life as sure as breathing was. He was here to stay and sometimes, when they talk about the future, Rob could see him and Peter together, if not the whole team, because some things last longer and are worth more than an assignment or mission.
Dangerous.
And it was dangerous. He had suspected this-this weakness for a while now, but faced with the reality of the situation – such that his corporal may never make it out of here – he found that without a doubt, he would do anything for this man.
Maybe it was the stress from the work they did, maybe it was the extended proximity, but if they weren't rescued by tomorrow, Hogan found himself contemplating giving some information away to get Peter help, against his will, against the oaths he had taken at the start of all this, yet in total accordance with his heart, and he felt like he was being pulled in two different directions.
Traitor.
Hogan felt a slightly hysterical sound escape him, half-way between a laugh and a sob before he quieted himself. His heart was thundering in his chest, he felt like every principal he had built himself upon was threating to crash down around him, his emotions were loud and confusing,
What am I thinking? Could I do that to other innocents? Other fathers, mothers, brothers, sweethearts…how can I?
Peter made another soft sound in his arms, and his lips brushed against Hogan's neck as he shifted in discomfort.
The thundering in his chest turned quickly to ice cold dread as he contemplated the thought of not another sound ever coming from those lips, the light behind the bonfire eyes forever gone, the laughter, the spirit doused like a lamp no longer needed.
How can I not?
Breathing had never needed so much concentration before, as Hogan forced himself to draw in deeper breaths, even as he felt like he was drowning.
He needed to get it together.
Okay, so he was ready to tell the gestapo whatever they want for Peter. But Peter was not going to die. They were going to get out of here. He was the commanding officer of the best damn unit this side of the channel. He was not going to give in to panic.
The colonel breathed again, closing his eyes to the field of blue and dull red in front of him, trying not to remember that Peter normally smelt like earth and tobacco, not blood and fear and death, but failing gloriously as their long afternoons and even longer nights came back to him. All the times he had laughed with Peter, all the times the corporal's quick thinking and quicker fingers had saved them all.
He could deal with this.
He was thoroughly compromised, but he was not going to give in to this panic, this fear.
If I had been a better leader he never would have gotten hurt in the first place, he added to himself, the ever present guilt rearing its head once more, adding another ribbon of self-doubt to his tangled, knotted emotions, making breathing difficult again.
Suddenly the door banged open, dragging the Colonel to the present.
Hogan winced at the bright light while Peter started at the sound, the surprised sound quickly turning sharp and then into a moan of pain.
Hogan steadied the corporal, even though he was unable to see anything, waiting for his eyes to adjust, holding onto the man as he panted for breath,
"So this is the famous Colonel Hogan," a voice said from the door and the Colonel paused,
I recognise that voice…
"Ja, mein General," replied another voice, and Hogan opened his eyes to see two blurry officers walk into the room, followed by one of Kessel's lackeys.
The Colonel schooled his features as his eyes finally fully adjusted and watched the Abwher intelligence officers in front of him, keeping the recognition off his face.
Carter was dressed as a general, and walked around the cell, his long coat billowing behind him, and his boots clicking sharply on the floor as he entered,
"Now, private, you will transfer these prisoners at once!" he yelled, pointing at the two men on the bunk, inadvertently causing Newkirk to curl closer to the colonel and the colonel to force himself not to reach out and comfort the no doubt disorientated man,
"But-but-but Herr General, we cannot! Only by order-"
"You dare to question the Abwher!" LeBeau, dressed as a very convincing General's aide cut in, surprisingly menacing despite his height,
"No-no-no sir but-"
"Then do as I command!" Carter yelled, slapping his glove across the private's face. The man looked momentarily petrified, but Hogan watched with dismay as he shook his head, and held his ground,
"You must take it up with Major Johann Kessel," he repeated and Carter turned away, a shadow of worry crossing his face. The colonel tried to send a subtle reassuring look the sergeant's way, but wasn't sure it reached him in this light.
There was silence as Carter paced, and Hogan could tell he was trying to think of a way to solve their problem. Finally he stopped and walked over to the bunk, glaring down at Hogan and Newkirk,
"Why is this man sitting like this? Do these American pigs always act like this?" he asked, pointing at Newkirk and Hogan had to admire the amount of condescension Carter put into his tone.
The private scurried forward from where he had been standing at the back of cell, "answer him!" he demanded of Hogan, so the Colonel looked up,
"This man is shot," he said and Carter sniffed,
"So?" he asked,
"So, this is the only way to keep him comfortable, he has not had any medical attention,"
Carter glared at the Colonel then turned sharply and walked away slowly, as if thinking,
"Mein General?" LeBeau asked, his eyes flicking between Hogan and Carter as if not sure that his friend was playing this right, but equally unsure if intervening would achieve anything positive,
"We do not need a dead prisoner, we can't take him back in a box," Carter said, turning and lifting his chin up,
"But mein general-" the private started again, however LeBeau cut him off before he could even begin,
"Do not interrupt the general!" he yelled and the man all but cowered against the wall,
"Get him medical help," Carter ordered, and on the bunk, Hogan felt a small flare of hope,
"Mein General-"
"DO NOT ARGUE! Once more and you'll need a new pair of winter gloves, private!" Carter screamed and the private decided loyalty and following standing orders simply wasn't worth a trip to the Russian front.
Let Kessel yell at the Abwehr later. He would give the prisoner help if it meant the angry general and his tiny aide would just leave him be.
"I shall get the doctor, but I cannot release the prisoner," the Private said, hoping that Kessel would realise how incredibly brave he was being, standing up to this general. There could even be a promotion in this for him.
Carter frowned, "very well," he said, realising that tonight, he was not getting Colonel Hogan home, "but we will be back for him," he said and the private nodded,
"Follow me, please," he said, and walked out.
Carter and LeBeau's gaze quickly switched to the Colonel, and their CO threw them a small smile, hoping it would convey his gratitude at what they tried to do.
Carter allowed himself one last glance at Newkirk's still form before the steel door was shut.
He and LeBeau waited until they saw the doctor arrive themselves, before deciding they had chanced it enough tonight. With a sharp heil Hitler, they walked out and into the staff car they had borrowed from the motor pool.
Kicking the engine into gear, LeBeau drove them out of the gates.
It wasn't until they had parked it less than a mile from camp and scouted their way through the forest and into their tunnels that they allowed the tension to drain from their bodies, the trap door above them closing as they climbed down into the well-lit rooms.
"There you guys are!" Kinch's exclamation startled both the operatives and LeBeau managed to maintain a glare for all of five seconds, before he actually took in Kinch's worried expression and the bloodshot eyes, "You've been gone for nearly three fucking hours!" Kinch added, resorting to swearing as an outlet for his frustration. He had practically worn a new tunnel into their pre-existing tunnels with his pacing.
"What happened?" the Frenchman asked, looking curious and apologetic at the same time, "we had to take several detours to avoid checkpoints on the way back," he said, tying to explain their delay, "we weren't purposely tyring to be late,"
"Hochstetter arrived, and he's been prowling the camp. Gestapo agents are everywhere and all the guards are on high alert!" Kinch growled, allowing himself to relax as he took in the thoroughly unharmed state of his friends, "and I know," he added in softer tones, hoping the guys would understand he wasn't actually mad at them. He just didn't think he could handle the rest of the team leaving here alone, if anything had to have happened to them. He would never have survived.
"Well gee, it's lucky we got back when we did, isn't it?" Carter asked, looking momentarily terrified as he unbuckled the many layers of the German uniform and lead the way further into the tunnels,
"Where's Colonel Hogan and Peter?" Kinch asked, "will they surrender at the gates?" he prompted, following behind the other two.
His heart sank as they both froze, and exchanged a glance, "We couldn't get them," Carter admitted in a small voice,
"Pierre is terribly injured," LeBeau added, his voice betraying how defeated he felt, the anger and the horror of the scene that the Colonel and his best friend presented coming back to him, more or less tattooed into his memory.
It had been atrocious for both the corporal and the sergeant to act as if they felt nothing at seeing the state their comrades, their friends, were in as they convinced the private to let them into the cell. The Colonel had been holding Pierre so protectively, and the corporal had been so unresponsive, LeBeau had felt like a part of him would rather die than ever bear witness to that again. Carter had felt like his entire act might crumble as he stomped around and pretended to be the sadistic, cruel general that he really was not. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do. He wanted to see Peter's face, to see if his friend was okay, to make sure all that blood was simply a lot of blood and not the sign of something much too terrible to contemplate.
As they walked into the changing area, Kinch sighed and rested against the wall as the other two men changed, "look, we tried. We can try again, it doesn't mean it's over. What went wrong?" he asked,
"They wouldn't release them without Major Johann Kessel's say-so and the apparent standing order was that no-one except him was to approach the prisoners," Carter explained,
"And they wouldn't even yield to a general, huh?" Kinch asked, frowning,
"No, all we got was a tiny chance to see them," LeBeau spat, letting his frustration out by throwing his uniform onto the rack. He took a certain pleasure as it missed and fell on the floor instead, the swastika's red bright against the dirt, "suspicious bastards," he added, glaring at the uniform rack in general, as if it were to blame for their current situation, then suddenly burst out, "they were in this tiny, stinking cell, and it was freezing too! The cot looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a century and they were covered in blood! God, those bastards!" LeBeau threw his hands in the air as he aimed a kick for the table and huffed,
"It's my fault," Carter said, picking LeBeau's uniform off the ground after he finished hanging his own up, reasoning that Newkirk would have their hides when he came back and found his hard work on the floor, "it was my stupid plan. And now we could have gotten them locked up for good. The colonel had a look like my horse did just before my dad had to shoot him when he had broken his leg," Carter added, his movements stopping as his mind dragged him back to another time of grief,
"Don't be stupid," Kinch said, turning his frown on the young sergeant instead, "at least you had a plan. It would have worked. It seems like Kessel is the root of all our problems," he added and LeBeau nodded as he dragged his torn red jumper on,
"Oui. If I caught sight of the pig I would say hello with a knife,"
"And then promptly get shot," Kinch rebutted dryly, "enough of that. If we can think of a way to get at him then maybe we can get the Colonel and Peter back,"
"How though?" Carter asked as he buttoned his jumpsuit up, back to looking like the sergeant they all knew and loved rather than the frankly scary German that he made,
"That's the question of the war," LeBeau muttered, nodding and climbing into his pants, grimacing at the new hole that he discovered in the shin region.
There was silence as the men finished dressing, and, after a last look at the radio, they headed up the ladder and into the dark barracks.
Forgoing their bunks, for there was no sleep for them tonight, they made their way into the Colonel's office, illuminated by the searchlights that swept across their barracks every so often. They fell into their customary places, Carter on the bottom bunk, Kinch at the desk chair and LeBeau on top of the table, all them keenly aware of the missing presence of their CO and their friend.
They sat in silence for a while more, then LeBeau's head snapped up, "Guys," he started, a cautious optimism starting to build as his mind whirred with the idea he had stumbled upon,
"What?" Kinch asked, picking up on the tone, while Carter just looked confused,
"I might have it," LeBeau said, "what if we were to discredit the Major?" he looked between his friends,
"What do you mean?" Kinch asked, "how?"
"Well…what if we showed him to be an allied spy or something?" LeBeau was getting excited now, "something like the Colonel did with that German plant we had! Then they'd have to release all his prisoners to Hochstetter, and then because it would happen here, Klink would know what happened, and Burkhalter would find out! Then the general distrust between the Luftwaffe and the Gestapo would work so that the Colonel and Pierre were transferred back here!"
Kinch and Carter both absorbed this plan,
"How in God's name do we even pull that off?" Kinch asked, voicing his doubts at the same time as Carter said,
"That's great!"
LeBeau looked between them again and pushed off the desk to walk between them, "we get our beloved Kommandant to – to hold a conference!" LeBeau was watching his own feet as he paced and planned, "yes!" he agreed with himself, "On managing prisons or something, and the gestapo would be invited because he means to apply this to everyone,"
"How do we get him to agree though?" Carter asked,
"We have Berlin headquarters stationary," Kinch cut in, "we can pretend it's mandatory, send one to all the commanders in the general area,"
"Yeah!" LeBeau said, his eyes bright, "if it's an order from Berlin they'll come. Once Kessel is here….well it's only a matter of tricking him into believing that we are conspirators, but changing everything at the last minute so that he looks completely crazy, and we look innocent," the French corporal finished.
Kinch thought for a moment. This was a mad plan. So much hinged on no one double checking and the natural tension that existed between in the branches in the German armed forces.
Then he thought back to the looks that flashed across his teammates faces as they recalled the Colonel and Peter, and he remembered their description of how they had found them. Anything was better than letting Hogan and Newkirk rot in a prison, "it's worth a shot," Kinch said and Carter nodded,
"Yeah. But it'll take a while won't it?" he asked and some of the excitement in LeBeau's eyes dulled,
"You're right. At least a couple of days before everything is organised,"
"Do Peter and the Colonel have a couple of days?" Kinch asked, looking at the other two, willing to trust their judgement,
"Well Andre was very clever in ordering a doctor to see Pierre," LeBeau said, "so the immediate threat is gone,"
"Excellent thinking Carter," Kinch commended, and the sergeant looked bashful,
"Oh you know, it seemed like the right thing to do,"
"In the meantime the gestapo could do anything to the two of them," LeBeau said,
"It's the best plan we have. If we start now we can get the ball rolling sooner, and get them home sooner,"
"I never dreamed that one day home would be a prisoner of war camp," LeBeau said, slightly wistfully as they walked back out into the main barracks,
"Sometimes God gives you family in weird times," Carter replied, in a rare show of outward faith.
The other two looked at him in surprise in the brief flash of light from the searchlights,
"Yes mon ami," LeBeau finally replied, laughing slightly, "family,"
"I suppose we'd better start getting used to that term," Kinch added, as he reached down and pulled the correct stationary out from their log.
It was going to be a gruelling few days but they all silently agreed that no matter what, they would put their adopted family back together, piece by piece.
In the cold cell several tens of kilometres away, Hogan allowed himself to truly relax for the first time as the surgeon finished up on the wound in Peter's shoulder.
The doctor had applied a local anaesthetic and sewn the wound cleanly and quickly, sterilising and mending the torn skin, lying Peter flat on the ground, the corporal mostly unconscious. The whole procedure had taken about an hour, and Hogan could feel his back starting to ache from the position he had taken up on the cot, watching the procedure, blanching at the sheer amount of blood the corporal had lost. The dotor had also seen to it that a pint of blood from the hospital be brought in by tomorrow the latest, to help boost Newkirk's system.
The doctor finished with an injection of penicillin to stave off any infection and then another of morphine for the pain. Informing Hogan he would come back tomorrow to check on the corporal's progress and administer the blood, he nodded politely and left the room along with the bright lamp and his armed escort.
Thanking the heavens for small mercies, the Colonel moved and picked Peter off the floor, bringing the limp body back to the cot. Pulling Peter onto his lap he pushed the corporal's fringe off his forehead, his heated skin and the slight colour in his cheeks the most reassuring thing the colonel had seen for what felt like an eternity of broiling worry. He manoeuvred his corporal back into his jacket, the man expressing no pain for the first time in hours, as Hogan rearranged him so that he was curled up on his lap as before.
He could have lain the man out straight, but the temperature was dropping and there were no blankets, and far too many cracks in the walls letting the icy air into the room in cutting streams.
He was warm, he'd keep the corporal warm, and that was his story, never mind that he liked the proximity and liked that for the first time he was truly seeing his corporal unguarded and open.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring but for now, he was going to take the little rest that was offered while it was there for him.
Thank the heavens for small mercies indeed, but more importantly, thank the heavens for giving his Peter another chance.
I know it's late. The only excuse I have is university. It isn't enough I know. Have mercy on this poor writer oh great and merciful readers.
And much thanks for sticking with this. I will definitely try to update more regularly.
All feedback welcome!
Till next time,
Aza