WARNING: Violence and bad language abounds. Sorry not sorry.
Chapter 4 - Silent
I was lost, on my knees, on the eve, of defeat
As I choked, back the tears, there's a silent scream, no-one could hear
So far away, from everything, you know is true
Something inside, that makes you do what you got to do.
- Bells of Freedom, Bon Jovi
Hogan stumbled backwards into the room, blind, confused. What was going on, where was Peter? Where was the light? What…
A soft touch across his shoulder.
Suddenly the room was taking on some sort of shape…
A light brush of a hand across his lower back, lingering, loving, warm.
Colours, swirling, blue, red, green, white, and then black.
The brush of lips against his in the stillness. Electricity from it, sparking gold and white and beautiful, running through his entire being, pleasure, wanting more.
Who…?
Bright sapphire somewhere, glinting in the darkness.
Silence.
Honey-warm laughter.
The smell of tobacco, almond aftershave, pleasant, comforting.
Fear. Blood.
Then blackness.
The colonel woke with a start, the cold stagnant cell reaching him as he drew in shaky breaths and realised it, whatever it was, was a dream.
What the hell, the colonel thought, his mind spinning and his heart racing, as he blinked in the weak sunlight filtering through the rather colonial style but dirty windows he hadn't noticed last night when they had arrived.
That was strange.
He glanced down to his lap where Peter was resting, his breathing even, the blood on his clothes now starkly obvious in the ray of light that fell across him, but all of it brown and old. His cheeks were slightly pink, his lips dry and chapped, hair a complete mess, no doubt from where he been lying but also Hogan's ministrations with his hair. The colour in Peter's cheeks was not altogether reassuring though, as Hogan gently laid a hand on the left, and nearly jerked back from the unexpected heat. Hogan just hoped it was an aftereffect of the operation and not the mark of an infection taking hold of Peter's system.
Feeling a little embarrassed in the stark light of day as he realised that this really was a compromising position, Hogan decided that he really didn't have any more of an excuse to be clinging onto Newkirk like the man would fall to pieces if he didn't, as he was obviously not shaking anymore. And as for the part of him that felt like he needed the security of it - that part of him was safely tucked into the do not touch part of his mind, that dark, deep place in the back, dusty and unused – that was going to remain exactly where it was.
He was not going to remind himself of his little breakdown last night.
It was done with. His men had come, and no doubt they had another plan of action. They were young, resourceful and well equipped. There was, after all, a reason he had hired them. They did their jobs splendidly.
Then why the nagging worry in the pit of your stomach, Rob? He asked himself as he gently moved Newkirk onto the mattress and got to his feet, nearly falling flat onto his face as abused and unused muscles protested the sudden weight bearing activities he demanded of them.
He stifled his groan and walked through the pain, stumbling to the other end of the cell, then walking back to the cot and repeating. He needed to be ready to act, just in case. The doctor would be back later hopefully, but if something happened before then it would not do to be sitting here like lambs to the slaughter.
Hogan contemplated the water as his dry mouth and its horrible taste came to his notice, and grimacing, realising he had little choice, he walked over to where he had dropped the cup after giving Newkirk a drink.
Flashes of whispered words in the dark came back to him suddenly as he bent to retrieve the cup and he froze, shutting his eyes and brutally stomping on the protectiveness that had stirred in him last night, the memory of how he had literally held his corporal through the night too able to play with his emotions to be allowed out of their box now. He moved sharply and, with more force than was entirely necessary, dipped his cup into the water, filling it to the top, and, drinking quickly, purposely kept his mind entirely blank until he felt his heart rate settle.
Hell, you can't keep letting this happen, Rob. Get it together. He ordered himself, dipping the cup in again. He turned around and walked back to the cot, dropping onto one knee, only now able to observe how filthy the mattress they had been laying on was, covered with tears and blood, sweat and probably even urine.
And a fresh coat of blood he added, looking at the brighter red on the few white patches left.
Doing his best to ignore it, Hogan gently shook Peter awake.
The corporal came to in stages, his eyelids flickering, and only a haze of white coming through. He groaned, and moved slightly, the cotton in his ears allowing a vaguely familiar voice to filter through, muffled and nonsensical. It seemed to be calling him and like a switch had been flipped, both his hearing and sight came back with a start.
He blinked wearily up to a smiling Hogan, and felt like his body was made of lead, feeling it to be heavy and stiff,
"Guv'nor," he croaked and found himself pleased as the smile on Hogan's face turned into a grin. He watched somewhat bewildered as the Colonel leant forward and then he understood that the man was trying to get him to sit up, if the pressure on his back was anything to go by. He attempted to engage his own muscles, but realised they were really not feeling like being co-operative. The colonel was talking the whole time and Peter forced his unfocused mind to listen,
"…thought it was about time to wake you up, lazy bones, can't have you sleeping all day," Hogan finished as he settled Newkirk into a sitting position, hoping his (nervous) babbling wasn't coming across as strange.
The corporal gazed at him through slightly glazed eyes, the blue orbs still struggling to focus. Hogan bit down on his worry as he reminded himself that the doctor had dosed Newkirk enough to last at least twelve hours, he had said, so it shouldn't be surprising that the corporal wasn't quite lucid.
Hogan raised the cup to Newkirk's lips and the corporal drank obediently, his eyes falling closed, turning his head away from the cup after a few more gulps. Hogan took that to mean he didn't want anymore,
"You have to finish this, Peter," Hogan said, reaching and putting the cups at the man's lips again. Newkirk's grumble came as a relief to the Colonel, a touch of the irritation most often associated with their English POW,
"Don't need…" he managed and though the words were slurred and missing the usual sharpness, Hogan smiled for real this time,
"It's not a choice, Corporal," Hogan said and was convinced that Newkirk either didn't understand or didn't want to, when the corporal surprised him by reaching up with an unsteady hand and proceeding to drink it.
Newkirk felt the water's icy chill right through his entire body, but it was waking him up properly now, and he was beginning to take in his surroundings for the first time.
A dark, grey cell, the smell of blood and sweat. The Guv'nor was kneeling next to him and his own body was aching. As he handed the cup back to Hogan, he remembered agony and fire, and pain and comfort, all a blur in his mind.
"Where…we?" he asked, turning as Hogan walked over to the tub and began to wash his face in the rusty old sink next to it,
"Gestapo HQ somewhere in Germany," Hogan replied as the water he splashed onto his face chilled his bones and allowed him to feel every draught in the room as it blew past.
Newkirk nodded, "I don't remember much," he said, analysing Hogan from where he sat as the officer removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His beige shirt was stained all along the front with…my blood? Peter realised with a shock as the memory of his injury came back to him. He glanced towards his right shoulder in some shock.
That would be the pain…but it's bandaged now…and there's very little pain…ugh…I've never felt so groggy in me life,
From across the room Newkirk heard a strained chuckle, "yeah well that could be a blessing in disguise," he said, and the corporal wondered at the regretful tone, interlaced with a faint touch of anger and an even fainter hint of loathing.
"Well I'm alright now, Guv," Newkirk replied, hoping to stop the colonel from indulging in whatever negative emotions he may be feeling. The man did like to blame himself,
"The doctor gave you morphine, it will wear off soon I fear," Hogan spoke through his jacket which he had pressed to his face as he walked back to the cot, exposing his still wet face to the cold air as he rolled his sleeves back down and pulled his now damp jacket on,
"'Cor, really?" Newkirk asked, half amused that he was on that wonder drug he had seen make his overbearing and extremely dignified sister turn into a giggling school girl. He chuckled at the memory and caught the worried glance his commander threw his way,
"Yes really," Hogan reached out and placed the back of his hand on Newkirk's forehead, and the corporal felt a flush of embarrassment. He was pretty sure 'look after your useless corporal like a nurse' was not in the Officer's Charter,
"You don't have to-" he began to mumble but the Colonel silenced him with a glare,
"You're still far too warm," the Colonel frowned, pulling his hand away,
"But I'm sitting up an' talking aren't I?" Peter rebutted and watched as his Colonel pursed his lips,
"Yeah," he finally said, and Newkirk wished there was just a little more light in here so he could properly see the Colonel's eyes, as they tended to answer most of the questions that the Colonel would refuse. Newkirk had always wondered how the Colonel got away with anything when his eyes tended to give so much away.
"So what do we do now?" Peter asked, "got some-" the rest of his sentence was muffled and said into the Colonel's hand, which had moved like lightning to clamp down on his mouth.
The colonel would have laughed at how comically surprised Peter looked but didn't take his hand off as he shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
They might be listening in, his look said and he waited for comprehension to dawn and Peter to nod slightly before relaxing and moving away from the British corporal,
"Got some…err….whiskey?" Peter came up with and Hogan rolled his eyes as he answered,
"We're prisoners, not guests," he said, though his smile belayed the harsh sounding words,
"Ah well…these buggers," Newkirk finished off lamely and Hogan stifled a chuckle and shook his head in mock reproval,
"We'll just have to wait around. Last night some big brass came in," Hogan continued instead, "some general by the name of Carterhoff," he sent Newkirk a pointed look and was pleased to see a small but healthy grin appear on the corporal's face,
"Sounds ruddy terrifying,"
"He was," Hogan agreed, sitting himself back down on the bunk, "but he got you treatment," Hogan added and Newkirk left a wave of gratitude sweep through him,
"Well…a Kraut with a heart, I never would have thought-" Newkirk's sentence was cut off as the door banged open and both men winced in the bright light that streamed into the room, their heads snapping to the door in surprise,
"UP!" came the barked order from somewhere above and Hogan found himself being dragged bodily to his feet, still blinded,
"What?" he managed as the grip on his collar shoved him forward and out of the room, tumbling him into the corridor, "Peter!" he exclaimed, blinking as his eyes adjusted and snapping his gaze towards the cell, crouched on the floor of the hallway. With the light from the still-lit corridor, despite the daylight coming in through the windows, Hogan could now see how absolutely filthy their cell was and cringed as he realised Peter had been sitting in there with an open wound. Infection was damn near guaranteed.
Before the colonel could analyse anything else, the door was slammed shut, and regardless of his protesting, he found himself once again being dragged to his feed by the same private whom Carter and LeBeau had accosted last night. He focused on the man who he didn't initially see standing in front of him and a wave of equal parts fear and anger shot through him, setting his nerves on edge,
"Major Kessel," he managed through gritted teeth and the gestapo agent laughed,
"My, my, looks like that God you Americans are always praying to answers at least some of those prayers. The pretty English corporal lives," he said, his voice smooth and oily, sending a horrible feeling down Hogan's back. The Major paced to the right, walking in a circle around Hogan and the private who had released his collar but now had the barrel of his machine gun pressed firmly into Hogan's spine. The brown carpet underfoot muffled his booted footsteps on the cement floor, but did little to take away from the roughly put together cement walls, or the harsh yellow bulbs that hung naked, spaced out along the walkway.
"Looks like it," Hogan replied, keeping his eyes locked on the Major, unsure why the man was assessing him as if some sort of prize, or first class livestock, the many medals on his chest and his perfectly shined buttons reflecting light in every direction,
"No matter, he will be returned to his camp today," Kessel said, "this imbecile," Kessel nodded to the private, "ruined everything by allowing that doctor in."
Hogan felt a touch of sorrow for the young man behind him. He may have been on the other side of the war, but it had been clear last night and even now, he was barely older than a boy. Carter may even have been older than him. "What happened to the doctor?" the Colonel asked and had his fears confirmed as Kessel smiled,
"He and his family are currently being buried," he said and Hogan bowed his head. More deaths. More suffering, "they got what they deserved," Kessel continued, stopping his pacing and standing once more in front of Hogan, "but you, my dear Colonel," he said, and Hogan had to physically stop himself from flinching when Kessel traced his jaw, the revulsion he had felt doubling at the unwelcome touch, "you're going to stay with us here for a little longer,"
His gaze moved off Hogan and onto the private behind the colonel, "take him to room dreihundertundacht, I will see to him later" Kessel ordered as another pair of SS troopers arrived in the corridor.
And with that, pushed and held at gun point, Hogan was led away from the cell, and though his heart wanted to believe that at last, at long last Peter was going to be safe, even though he himself was most certainly not, his head squashed that hope immediately. He needed to focus on survival now. Peter was a capable man. He didn't need his commanding officer holding his hand along the way.
In the cell, the corporal currently occupying his colonel's thoughts was staring at the cell door, having heard that entire conversation. The colonel was being moved. Why? What would happen to him?
A range of terrible outcomes popped into Newkirk's head and he had to close his eyes to stop the helplessness of the situation from hitting him. It would be just like you to go to pieces because they took him away. Stop it. Peter forced himself to breathe deep as tingling pain started to emanate from his shoulder, the morphine being pushed aside by adrenaline instead. You are better than this. He expects you to be better than this.
True, but you never had to worry about his life before he reminded himself before he remembered that he was not meant to be thinking about the Colonel again.
Fuck.
He let his head fall back against the wall and was thus nearly gave himself whiplash when the door banged open for a second time in as many minutes and his head snapped to the doorway again.
Two SS troopers marched into the cell and before Peter had anytime to process what was happening they had grabbed him under the arms and roughly dragged him upwards, the pain he only vaguely remembered from last night suddenly overwhelming, burning through him hot and violent even as he felt a wave of wet heat spread from his injured shoulder.
The British corporal's pained scream echoed down the corridor and Hogan tripped and fell on the stairs leading upwards, his heart constricting painfully and his mind instantly recognising his corporal's voice,
"PETER!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet again, and was rewarded with a gun in his face, the private wielding it looking young, and scared, yet utterly determined,
"Stay where you are," he said, his English heavily accented and his finger on the trigger.
Hogan froze, even as his heart was pounding and his hands were shaking. Peter, Peter, Peter, God please, no, not now, please,
"Turn around," the corporal said and Hogan followed the instruction but with only half his mind. He didn't move as the private pressed the gun into his back to urge him upwards though, and his head was twisted backwards towards the door leading to the corridor he had just exited.
The sound of the footsteps and small whimpers reached them then, and Hogan's fists clenched and his nails bit into his cold palms,
Peter.
The cement floors and the harsh lighting were bleaching the colour out of Hogan's vision as he stared at the landing below them, and he felt his entire body almost deflate when the troopers he had seen earlier rounded the corner, dragging Peter between them, his legs trailing behind, his eyes closed and his shoulder covered in fresh blood. The sounds he had been making had stopped. They were holding Peter under the arms, suspending him between them, and Hogan realised with a jolt that the pressure on the wound was probably enough to undo all the good work the doctor did last night.
He's out cold, he's lost too much blood, Hogan, observed as the troopers paid them no mind, but instead took the stairs leading down, only the thud of Peter's feet on each step and the solid sound of the gestapo jackboots echoing through the building.
Still, Hogan stood and watched as they took the corporal away, and still the gestapo private kept the gun securely pressed into his back, the barrel hard and unwavering.
It was only when total silence fell on the stairwell that Hogan found the will to look at his captor, and slowly turned his body to face the boy again, his hands still held above his head, though the ache in his muscles was intensifying,
"Let me go," he said, hoping to appeal to the boy on a human level. The boy shook his head wordlessly,
"I cannot," he replied, but Hogan was unconvinced,
"Most gestapo men would have shot me by now," he pointed out, locking the image of Peter's lifeless body away, shoving his emotions roughly aside and instead turning on the innate charm that had so far kept him and his team alive,
"I-I know," the private breathed. But the gun remained up, it's polished barrel gleaming, taunting Hogan with it's power to take life, it's power to control,
The boy cast a terrified look around before looking back at the American Colonel that was causing so much trouble,
"They have my mother and sister," the words were barely a whisper, and seemed to have left the boy's lips without his command, but Hogan heard them and his own eyes widened, "Kessel wanted me here from the beginning. I-I-I don't know why but-but please," the private looked at the Colonel and Hogan contemplated just grabbing the gun now but then the private continued, "please go upstairs, I can't let them die, please" and Hogan raised his hands above his head and started climbing.
Maybe the boy was lying, the Colonel considered. But there was a desperate light to his eyes and a certain tightness in his voice that the Colonel recognised, so he complied.
No one else was going to die because of him today. No more innocents. Not if he could help it.
With a carefully light hand, wishing that Newkirk were back so that he didn't have this job, LeBeau dropped the envelope carrying their false message from Berlin onto Klink's desk, even as he pretended to move the pile of freshly delivered mail so he could wipe the table beneath.
"That's enough!" came the irritated exclamation from their not quite hated Colonel Klink, and LeBeau nodded and beat a hasty retreat out of the room.
Kinch watched him go and then turned his gaze back onto the Colonel, "Colonel, are you at least considering my request?" Kinch asked and the German finally looked up from his report, monocle a little lopsided and brow furrowed,
"What was that again?" he asked and Kinch had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. How Hogan didn't slap this bald eagle silly was beyond the American technician.
"More firewood, Colonel," he repeated, "we need it or we'll half freeze to death. The winter is getting worse,"
Colonel Klink rose from his place behind the desk, and threw his pen down for emphasis as he rounded on the sergeant, "We're all freezing!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, "and I can give you no more than what you have, which, by the way, is taking away from our own German citizens!" Kinch winced as Klink's voice went up and resigned himself to have to hear the Colonel out, "there is a war on, Sergeant, and you Americans have no stomach for the cold. There's a reason you're losing the war," Klink looked satisfied and Kinch comforted himself with the memory of the last bridge they blew up as a team. Those were the days, "now, my final answer, and it will remain my final answer, is no!" Then Klink added in his usual sing-song way, "dismissed!"
Kinch snapped a salute and left the office, only just stopping himself from slamming the door behind him. Helga threw him a sympathetic look as he passed and he smiled in return, hurrying out the door and across the frigid compound to the barracks. The only positive thing to have come out of that was the letter was planted. They were still contemplating breaking one of the bunks apart to use as firewood.
"Got out of there at last?" LeBeau asked, a smirk on his face as Kinch dropped into their dining/living/everything table and gratefully accepted the coffee.
"God, don't even talk to me about Klink. Colonel Hogan is a saint. That's the only reason Klink is still alive. He's infuriating! He's impossible! He-"
Kinch's rant was cut off as Carter's head appeared in Hogan's doorway,
"Klink's making a call!" he said and both Kinch and LeBeau hurried towards the office and gathered around the coffee pot. Klink's voice filtered through to them,
"…yes, mein General, I have the letter here, straight from Berlin," LeBeau exchanged a happy glance with Kinch. Looks like the first part of their plan was working out just fine,
"Good, carry out the orders,"
"But me, Herr General? Give a lecture? To all local commanders on capture and retention protocol?"
"It amazes me too, Klink, but I'm sure we'll learn something anyway,"
And with that the call was ended. Carter allowed himself a grin as he looked at his co-conspirators, "We're halfway there," he said and LeBeau nodded,
"Now all we need is the others to accept the invite,"
"Not a problem. Once they realise Burkhalter has given the orders, they'll be here,"
"What about-" Carter didn't get to finish his sentence though as one of the others in the barracks called out,
"Hey you three! Get out here, there's a Gestapo truck arriving!"
Exchanging alarmed glances at the sudden appearance of those they were currently planning against, they hurriedly distangled themselves from the pot. They raced out of and came to stand in the doorway to watch as the truck stopped in front of the Kommandantur.
LeBeau watched with growing worry as heavily armed troopers stepped out of the truck and marched straight in,
"Coffee pot!" Kinch ordered and the other two didn't need to be told twice. They hurried back into the room, the bug still on as they shut and door and gathered around it once again, hoping their mic in Hitler's picture was still functional,
"Heil Hitler!" The greeting was perfectly in sync and made Kinch frown, LeBeau to mutter darkly in french and Carter to jump at the sheer vehemence of it. Hitler's supermen were just enough to set anyone on edge,
"He-Heil Hitler!" Klink's stuttered reply came, obviously as shocked as the others at the SS's appearance,
"You are Colonel Wilhelm Klink?" Silence on the other end, in which Klink was probably nodding, then, "we have something that belongs to you. The Englander we captured on your behalf,"
"Corporal Newkirk?"
"Precisely. He is in the truck." Again another moment of silence,
"And the officer, Colonel Hogan?" Klink asked, and the three men in Hogan's office looked confused. Seems the German colonel may care more than he dared let on,
"That is not your concern. He will be returned when we sit fit,"
'Now look here-"
"Commander Brunstheim can be contacted if you are unsure of this," One of the troopers said and LeBeau sighed. Klink the Coward was about to show up,
"Er-well-no gentlemen. That is okay. I always cooperate with the Gestapo!" Carter could almost see the pandering smile Klink would be wearing,
"Very well. Take the Englander and we will leave. Major Kessel sends his compliments,"
"He does?"
"Yes, Colonel. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil!"
Kinch switched off the coffee pot, "let's go get Peter," he said and the other two didn't need to be told twice. They hurried out into the barracks and had reopened the door leading outside when they saw Schultz approaching,
"LeBeau! Carter! Kinch!" he exclaimed, "back, back, back! Inside! Gestapo are here!" he brandished his gun but they ignored him completely, instead watching the truck, as, in the bright afternoon sunlight and chilling wind, an unmoving figure clad in royal air force blue was removed from the truck,
Shultz followed their gaze and found he didn't have the heart to push them back inside, as he knew how close these men were, and how it had changed the entire atmosphere, ever since Hogan and Newkirk had been reported captured by the Gestapo. Even Colonel Klink seemed snappier at him these days, perhaps because he no longer had Hogan to snap at.
The man on the stretcher was Newkirk, his eyes closed and body limp. There seemed to be no movement from him as he neared. The men stepped back inside the barracks on their own as the guards carried Newkirk in,
"Put him in mon Colonel's room," LeBeau said, pointing towards the little office and was gratified when the soldiers looked to Shultz who nodded, rather than ordering them to drop the corporal and walk away.
LeBeau, Carter and Kinch followed in silence, forming a silent procession on the short walk to the officer's quarters.
Newkirk's stretcher was lowered to the ground and the guards then lifted him onto the lower bunk, the weak beams of sunlight highlighting the white skin that looked almost porcelain in the filtered light, and in its complete lack of colour.
The guards left and Shultz came to stand in the doorway, also looking at the Englander, as LeBeau rushed forward and put a hand to Newkirk's pulse,
"He is alive?" Shultz asked, the question causing Kinch's own heart to clench painfully and Carter to suck in a breath, his eyes looking brighter than normal. They all felt relief flood through them as LeBeau nodded, the Frenchman letting out a pent-up breath,
"He is, but Shultz," he turned pleading eyes on the guard who was the least guard-like jailer they had ever seen, "we need fresh bandages," he pointed to the blood soaked shoulder, "I'll…make strudel for the rest of the month if you want, just get us some proper medical supplies,"
Shultz paused for a moment, looking like he was going to argue they barely had the supplies for themselves, when he instead nodded, "alright cockroach," he said before he turned around and walked away.
As soon as he left, Kinch shut the door and he and Carter dropped to Newkirk's side, Carter reaching out, "his skin is ice cold," he said,
"His pulse is thready," Kinch added, having grabbed Newkirk's wrist,
"I thought we got him help," LeBeau muttered, unable to reconcile this silent, unconscious man with the energetic, bright, alive man Peter was. "Pierre…" he instead said softly, unable to express how wrong this entire situation was, and so putting all that emotion into the one word,
"At least he's back," Carter said, the cheerfulness in that statement hopelessly farcical,
"In what condition?" Kinch asked, the numbness he had felt suddenly burnt away as anger took its place. He pushed to his feet, "look at him, Andrew! He's barely alive and we have no fucking supplies with which to treat him!" Kinch had to look away, trembling now as the enormity of the situation hit them. Hogan could be anywhere by now if they had moved Newkirk. They had no way of finding out where exactly and they couldn't exactly ask the corporal, because he lay on their commanding officer's bunk, bleeding to death.
Before Kinch could even begin to express his frustration he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and looked to Carter,
"We can fix him. And we still have our plan," he said. Kinch turned to see LeBeau had already taken Newkirk's jacket and shirt off and had exposed the wound. It was bloody and the stitches were torn but there was no pus and the smell didn't hit them across the room,
"No signs of infection," LeBeau said, glancing up at Kinch, "the stitches were ripped," he added, "he's lost a lot of blood, I think, that's probably why his skin is so cold," he pulled the blankets up to cover Newkirk's chest and other uninjured arm,
"Where's Wilson?" Carter asked, looking to Kinch,
"He had to go out into town today for supplies. There were extra patrols out, he went to ground. He left the supplies with the underground and won't be back until tomorrow the earliest," Kinch sighed, "perfect timing," he added dryly,
"I have a little first aid training, I can re-stitch this," LeBeau said, "but it won't look pretty," Kinch let out a bark of laughter as the sudden image of Newkirk being described as 'pretty' to his face came to him, surprising himself. LeBeau seemed to have also caught on and he smiled,
"It's not hopeless Kinch," he said, as he rolled the stained shirt into a ball and applied gentle pressure to the wound, "I know how it feels, but it's not hopeless. That's what the Colonel has taught me. I'm just a corporal and this war is a lot bigger than us, but it's never hopeless," he glanced up at the sergeant through his lashes and saw the understanding in the sergeant's eyes.
Kinch let out a sigh, leaning against the table and nodded, "I know, I just…" he stared at the wall, looking but not seeing the wood, "this has unsettled me," he said, as Carter walked back to the bed and grabbed Hogan's pillow from above, to help elevate the shoulder that LeBeau was working on, then also taking the blankets from above and covering Newkirk as best he could,
"I know, whenever the Gestapo do something decent I'm never sure what's happening," Carter replied, but Kinch was shaking his head,
"Not just that, though that's a point,"
'Then what, mon ami?" LeBeau asked, looking up from Newkirk and towards their current commander, looking isolated and troubled, standing across the room from them,
"A…feeling," Kinch managed eventually, "maybe I've spent too long around the Colonel but I just…feel like they're keeping the Colonel for something much worse that what's happened to Newkirk,"
"Our friend is at death's door," LeBeau shot back, anger colouring his eyes and Kinch held a placating hand up,
"I am not demeaning the extent to which Peter has suffered. I dunno…maybe I'm wrong. Something worse is coming. I just…feel it."
LeBeau and Carter exchanged a glance across Newkirk's prone form, before LeBeau turned to Kinch who was still contemplating the wall,
"Maybe," the Frenchman conceded, "but for now we have bigger worries. Get Newkirk's sewing kit from the tunnel, would you Kinch?" LeBeau said, deciding that he had better take over for now. Kinch was rarely moody but when he did get into one of his moods, it was best to leave the sergeant to get through it and focus on the situation at hand. He always came out of it, and usually with a clearer understanding of their situation, sometimes spotting things that even the Colonel didn't,
"Sure LeBeau," with that the sergeant was out the door,
"Carter I need boiling water," LeBeau said, "and alcohol. Round up any spirits and bring them in here," Carter also nodded and left.
LeBeau reached out to place a hand on his best friend's cheek, devoid of the flush of pink normally there when he had just run through the night after blowing up a bridge, or sat across from them, cheating them out of whatever they were using for currency, and the Frenchman sighed.
I know you don't believe in a God, Pierre, but allow me to pray on your behalf. You have to get better. We can't do this stupid war without you. And I think…neither can the Colonel.
Major Kessel marched into his office with all the stride and purpose of a man who owned the world. And if their little experiment went as planned, perhaps he would.
The agent smiled, as he dropped into his armchair, pulling his gloves off and reaching for the sheaf of paper on his desk. The flickering firelight accompanied by the soft lighting and plush carpets were a far cry from the prison cells on the above floors. He looked up as a knock came at his door and called out for whoever it was to enter.
A young man, wearing thick spectacles walked into the room, looking about as ecstatic as Kessel felt,
"He drank far more than was necessary Major," he said and Kessel allowed a smile to cross his face,
"Shut the door, Herr Doctor Strauss," he said and the young man complied, coming instead to sit across from the Major,
"How long before the drug take effect?" Kessel inquired, looking back at the reports in his hand, and shuffling them into the right order,
"Well it was in the water barrel, Major, so it's fairly diluted. Another hour or two at most, I should think," the doctor replied, looking extremely satisfied with himself as he shrugged out of his overcoat, his dark green eyes bright behind the lenses, his thin frame adding to the sharpness of his features,
Kessel felt a sense of happiness slide through him, "Excellent," he replied,
"It's a pity the other one was treated by a doctor though," the young doctor said, pouring himself and the major a shot of brandy from the decanter on the table,
"Yes, morphine cancels out the effects of the drug?" Kessel asked and the doctor nodded solemnly, looking put out,
"Unfortunately anything injected into the blood stream tends to counteract the pharmacological effects we hope the drug will have on the subject's higher brain emotion centres. They are totally unaffected then,"
"He was very pretty," Kessel said, "but he was English. They tend to be so hard to play with,"
"Our current subject is American?" the doctor asked and Kessel chuckled darkly,
"He could be wearing their flag," he replied taking the glass from the doctor, and raising it, "to bringing the war to a swifter end for the glorious Third Reich," he said, lifting it aloft, the amber liquid dispersing light daintily over the two of them as the chandelier burned bright above,
"To advancing science," the doctor added, before toasting with the major and tossing the brandy back.
Oh what fun awaits you, Colonel Hogan, Kessel thought as he settled back for a long conversation with his intelligent and witty brother in law. What fun awaits indeed.
Here we are! At last! I know it's been like two months but I fell so far behind cause of uni and now I'm on holidays so it shouldn't happen in the near future. Promise, promise, promise, I will be more consistent with updates. Hope you're enjoying so far.
Would love any and all feedback!
Aza
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