Chapter 10 – Unsteady
If you love me, don't let go
Hold, Hold onto me
'Cause I'm a little unsteady
A little unsteady
The little van was rocked as the shock wave of the blast hit them as they drove away, and back towards safety. LeBeau grit his teeth and tightened his grip on the Colonel as the van took a sharp left turn, and exchanged a glance with Rudolph, who sat on Hogan's other side, both trying to keep the Colonel as still as they could. Carter leaned more of his weight onto the Colonel's legs and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention as the sound of air raid sirens rent the night, easily drowning out the rumble of the van's engine.
"How's it going back there?" Kinch called from the front, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as his heart urged him to drive faster, and get away from the scene of the crime, but his head warned him of the dangers of the icy road,
"He's not moved or made a single sound," LeBeau called back, frowning as he did, "get us there safely, Kinch," he added, and Kinch chuckled despite himself,
"You know I'm a better driver than you, buddy," he replied, and LeBeau allowed himself a small smile. It faded as he looked back at their Colonel, visible only in the light of the swinging gas lamp they had hung from the roof of the van. Still too pale, still cold to touch, his eyes moving wildly beneath his closed eyelids,
"What do you dream of, mon Colonel?" LeBeau murmured, moving to soothe the Colonel's brow with a gentle touch,
"Something better," Carter replied, gently squeezing the Colonel's leg as they went over a bump, and for one heart stopping moment, felt the van lose its grip on the road before correcting, "something better," he said again, sighing.
The sun was bright as Hogan roused himself on a beautiful June day. He stretched under the rich cotton covers and arched his back to the ceiling, blinking as he looked around him. Peter was nowhere to be seen, but his dressing gown wasn't on its usual hook by the bathroom door, so he assumed he was still in the house.
The now retired general, his hair starting to grey, his back no longer as pain free as it used to be, swung his legs over the side of the bed. He might be getting old, but he didn't feel it was slowing him down. It helped, of course, that Peter kept him young.
"Peter?" He called out, his voice a little hoarse from sleep, a little less authoritative than it used to be,
"Yeah love?" the reply came from the living room, and Hogan moved himself towards it. The walls were covered in pictures of their best memories: clad in tuxedos from Peter's sister's wedding, arms around each other and grinning at the camera on their last hiking expedition, and one that Hogan will always treasure – the photo with their comrades from Stalag 13, taken when they had made it back to England, of their last meal together, around twenty years ago now, fading now with every year's exposure to the sunlight.
Hogan didn't realise he had stopped in front of it until Peter's arm wrapped around his waist, and his head came to rest on his shoulder, "Thinking about them today, huh?' Peter asked, his voice filled with warmth, his presence so familiar, so calming, Hogan had never felt more at home,
"It's been twenty years," Hogan said,
"To the day," Peter added, and Hogan looked down to meet his partner's eyes in surprise,
"Twenty years exactly, since we got back?" Hogan asked and yes, now he thought about it, it was about right. That was the heaviness in his heart. That would be why, it almost felt like he had heard LeBeau's voice, had almost felt Carter's gentle hand on his leg after a mission gone wrong.
Hogan kissed Peter's forehead and banished the morose thoughts, 'Come on love, let's get some breakfast in you," and with that, he led Peter into the kitchen.
With all the skill of an experienced veteran, Kinch reversed the van into their little forest clearing off the main road leading to Stalag 13. The drive back had been harrowing, the van ill-equipped for the icy roads. It was mostly a miracle that Kinch hadn't rolled the van and killed himself and everyone in it. He turned off the engine and got out, coming around the back to open the doors, one of which was ripped out of his grasp as a gust of wind whistled through the trees. Kinch grimaced but opened the other one as wide as he could.
The wind whipped into the van and circled around the habitants as Hogan moaned on his stretcher, turning in on himself slightly. LeBeau, Carter and Rudolph gently raised him off the floor and Kinch grabbed the end of the stretcher to help them manoeuvre the Colonel out of the van as the metal squeaked and protested the cold and the movement.
"We need to get him inside!" Carter yelled over the wind and Kinch nodded, squinting as a particularly violent burst of wind shook snow out of the trees and onto them. Rudolph took his jacket off and laid it on top of the Colonel, his skin immediately breaking out in Goosebumps. He reached back to grab the climbing kit from the back of the van and shut the doors as the others zipped up their own jackets and distributed the equipment evenly, for the walk back to camp.
Securing the van, Rudolph turned to pick up his end of the stretcher. With one man at each corner, the little group carefully and slowly made their way through the forest, heading for the tree trunk emergency exit. The skies above them rumbled with thunder, and with a flash and crack of lightning the rain started again, one or two drops hitting them at first, before after only another minute of walking it turned into a proper shower.
LeBeau swore under his breath as the cold metal rod of the stretcher almost slipped from his grasp. His fingers were white and numb against the icy metal, and it was taking every bit of concentration to keep his grip,
"Nearly there!" Kinch encouraged them from the front right-hand corner of the stretcher, and LeBeau, Rudolph and Carter found renewed strength to increase their pace. Puffing and panting, having to fight to keep their footing in the dark forest, they came to the edge of the clearing where the tree trunk sat and placed the stretcher on the flattest bit of ground they could find, Hogan now silent and motionless beneath the black jacket.
Rudolph dropped to the ground next to where Kinch had knelt to catch his breath, "Where now?" he asked, and Kinch frowned. He could see the entrance from here. The rain was forming an excellent barrier against the searchlights, which were fruitlessly trying to light up the night, and the barbed wire fence was hidden in the rain and darkness. That wasn't his worry. His worry was the length of time they would be exposed trying to get Hogan down the very narrow, one-man ladder, just in case their escape had been discovered by Klink and guards were now patrolling outside the fence,
"We're going to have to carry him without the stretcher from here, so we can angle him down the ladder as easily as possible" Kinch said, looking back at his little group and Carter and LeBeau nodded in unison, a look of determination plastered firmly on their face,
"We've come this far, a tree trunk is not going to stop us," LeBeau said, shivers wracking his entire body, as it did the whole crew's, soaked to the skin in the now sheeting rain,
"Let's get going then," Kinch said, and, staying low, he pushed off a nearby tree and hurried forward to the tree trunk, opening it and positioning himself as a lookout. He glanced back towards the camp as he motioned for the men to come forward. Carter placed his arms under the Colonel's armpits, as LeBeau and Rudolph each hoisted the Colonel by his legs. Squelching through the mud, aching and tired, the three of them hurried forward, the jacket miraculously staying on top of the colonel despite the heavy wind and the awkward swing of their steps.
Kinch reached a hand out when they got near, "Get down there, one of you!" he yelled, as another bright flash of lighting has his heart nearly jumping out of his chest, expecting any minute now to hear the order to put his hands and surrender, or worse, the rattling echo of a machine gun turret. Instead the night remained unbroken except for a quieter rumble of thunder as Carter lowered himself quickly, standing at the bottom with his arms raised. Gently, ever so gently, they lowered Hogan down, inserting his legs first, and allowing Carter to reach up around the Colonel's waist and support the Colonel's weight on his shoulder. The sergeant blinked and grimaced as debris from the tree combined with rain hit him in the face, but he stayed as still as he could,
"I've got him!" Carter called up and braced himself to bear the full weight of the Colonel as the men above him let go. Despite his arms shaking from the exhaustion of the night, Carter refused to drop the Colonel, instead gently bringing the Colonel and himself to the floor, lying the Colonel down on his back, taking careful care of his head and neck.
Above him, Kinch descended the ladder, while Rudolph and LeBeau ran back to the tree they used for cover and recon to grab the stretcher they left there. Hurrying back, boots slipping in the puddles of mud, Rudolph held the stretcher and motioned for LeBeau to go down first as another flash of lightning had LeBeau almost throw himself down the ladder in fright,
"Give me the stretcher!" he called once he reached the bottom, even as his heart thundered in his ears, and Rudolph handed him the canvas and metal bundle, quickly throwing it to the side as the German deserter climbed in and latched and secured the hatch, finally sealing the rain outside. His leg flared with pain as he manoeuvred the ladder, but he didn't let himself stop until he was standing at the bottom, his breaths and the others' mingling in the frosty air.
There was a moment of stillness.
Carter, Rudolph and LeBeau were standing in a semi-circle around Hogan, as Kinch checked the Colonel's breathing and heart rate,
"How is he?" LeBeau's voice cracked on the question and he cleared his throat as he hugged himself and rubbed his frozen fingers over his wet jacket in a futile attempt to warm himself up,
"He's alive," Kinch said, looking up at his friends, taking in their bedraggled and battered state. Carter had a fresh cut on his neck, potentially from a tree branch snapping in the wind. LeBeau was visibly shaking, and Rudolph was still panting, leaning heavily against the wall with his face drawn in a grimace of pain.
Despite this, for the first time in what felt like far too long, Kinch felt the tension drain out of him, almost to the point where he nearly slumped back on the floor himself, relief, at long last, taking the place of the pent-up worry and frustration. He took a deep breath to gather himself before he addressed his crew,
"I know it's been a hell of a journey tonight, but we're not done until we've got the Colonel onto a bunk, and ourselves into better clothes," he said, his voice quiet in the tunnel, everything seeming so quiet after the events of tonight.
"Oui, Kinch," was all LeBeau said as he picked up the canvas stretcher, and they worked together to gently lift Hogan back onto it for one more trip. Once he was settled on the stretcher, with Kinch and Carter at the front, and Rudolph and LeBeau at the back, they made their way through the tunnels.
They made their way home.
Hogan came to with a start.
He blinked, confused, as he felt a deep aching burn from what felt like every muscle in his body. His eyes fell closed again, as a gentle voice urged him to sleep and stroked his hair.
Sleep seemed like a great idea.
Newkirk nearly burst out of his skin when he heard the first voice coming out of the tunnel. Rousing himself from his almost sleep at the radio controls, Newkirk just about sprinted into the tunnel, and his heart felt almost full to bursting when, in the flickering yellow lights around them, he saw his friends bringing back their commander,
"You cheeky blighters, you did it!" he yelled joyously, running towards Kinch, and enveloping the man in a one-armed hug, quite without thinking about it. It was all Kinch could do to not drop the arm of the stretcher he was holding. Despite this, the sergeant felt himself smile, a feeling of wholeness enveloping him in that singular moment that he didn't know he was missing,
"Mon Frère! We did it!" LeBeau called, and Newkirk grinned at him, letting go of Kinch and reaching over to pat Rudolph on the back, and grip Carter's forearm, the young sergeant's eyes shining with happiness,
"We need to get him inside," Kinch said, and Newkirk could only nod, his gaze shifting to his Colonel. Some of his happiness dimmed as he took in the paleness of the Colonel's face, but the lads wouldn't have been so receptive to his happiness if it wasn't looking like something they could cure. Thank God, Newkirk thought, not a religious man himself, but in the moment, bringing himself to thank all deities that might exist.
They arrived in the main tunnel and turned right, towards the temporary living quarters for downed fliers. Gently, they set the stretcher on the ground, and as a team of four, Newkirk on the sidelines and unable to use his arm, moved the colonel onto a real bed, small though it was, set against one of the walls in the flier's quarters, and protected from the cold air currents of the tunnels.
Rudolph reached forward and grabbed the wet jacket, and was pleased to see that the jacket did its job in mostly keeping the Colonel dry on the chest,
"Get him out of those clothes," Kinch ordered, and LeBeau and Carter hurried to do as they were bid. Newkirk watched with increasing sadness as more of the Colonel's skin was revealed, starkly white, and not a gram of fat visible. As they unbuttoned what was left of his shirt, it was clear by the shadowed ridges of his ribs on his chest that the man has lost of lot of weight, very quickly. Bruises dotted his entire torso, and as LeBeau and Carter wrestled the shirt off him completely, aided by Rudolph, it was also apparent that he had lost a lot of muscle, despite the short period he had been with the Gestapo,
"Carter get a bucket of warm water, will you, and a soft cloth?" Newkirk asked, and Carter gently lowered the Colonel as LeBeau went to work on getting his shoes and socks off. Newkirk winced as he accidentally moved his arm to help the Frenchman, stepping back as LeBeau shot a pointed glare his way, feeling useless as Rudolph threw a blanket over the Colonel and LeBeau stripped him naked. Carter reappeared with a bucket of warm water, a luxurious bonus of needing to vent the heat of their little factory machines off somewhere.
Grabbing a stool that was near the entryway, Newkirk walked back to the bed in the corner and sat next to the Colonel. He dipped the cloth in the bucket, wrung it out and examined the Colonel's chest,
"He's relatively free of scars," He murmured to no one, but LeBeau cursed under his breath in a torrent of French as Carter replied,
"They had him hooked up to all sorts of bags of fluid. We have no idea what they were giving him," the sergeant sounded unusually grave and Newkirk felt another stab of sadness, another wave of regret, that he hadn't protected his Colonel better, that he hadn't been there to rescue him from that hellhole,
"They tied him down," Kinch's voice came from behind Newkirk and the English corporal turned to see that Kinch's jaw was clenched so hard it had to have been hurting him, 'like an animal, like a slave," the black man had already changed out of his wet clothes and had brought changes for everyone else, including the Colonel. Newkirk couldn't stand to look at the anger on Kinch's face as he dropped into a chair next to him, so he turned back to the Colonel as Kinch ordered the remaining three to get out of those clothes right now.
Newkirk gently wiped the Colonel's face, cleaning days of sweat and tears, returning the skin to its original shade of white, the cloth catching on the stubble that had grown, "can you grab me a razor?" Newkirk asked the room at large, knowing that the Colonel hated having facial hair, and that he could, at the very least, give his beloved leader some of the dignity he had lost.
While he waited, he dipped the cloth back into the bucket and wrung it out once more, continuing the same, uncharacteristically gentle swipes over the Colonel's skin, moving methodically down his torso, and then his arms. The sounds of his comrades changing and talking around him slipped away as Newkirk worked, his heart heavier with every new bruise, every bit of broken skin and needle mark that he discovered.
He started in surprise when Carter gently touched his arm, "Sorry," the Sergeant said, whispering, though he couldn't say why, "here's the razor, and Kinch scrounged up some of the last shaving cream we had," Carter handed both to Newkirk. Newkirk nodded in thanks and placed them on the ground next to him,
"We're sending Donoghue down here to sit with the Colonel until he wakes up," Carter said, and Newkirk felt a stab of anger,
"Donoghue barely knew the Colonel, why should he-" Carter cut him off,
"Kinch would like to debrief in the radio tunnel, and talk about what our plan for tomorrow is, we'll just be next door," Carter said, and a moment passed between the two men. Newkirk could have kept arguing, insisted that he stay right here, but he also registered the large black circles under the sergeant's eyes, the slight tremor in his hand as he raised it to fix his hat, the large red line down the side of his neck, fresh cut, just healing, and Newkirk acquiesced. Yes, Newkirk might have been the one who was with the Colonel before it all went to hell, but the others had suffered too.
"Alright," the Englishman said instead, and Carter gave him a grateful smile. Reaching out to squeeze the Colonel's leg again, as if just to check he really was back with them, Carter turned back to the main tunnel.
Newkirk resumed his cleaning, moving the blanket up to cover the Colonel's chest as he washed his legs, and his feet, leaving the Colonel's more private parts for the man to clean himself.
Because he was going to wake up again, and he is going to be our colonel once more, Newkirk thought, a feeling of hopeless despair settling in as all the What-if's that were lurking on the edge of his mind made themselves known. What if he doesn't wake up again, what if whatever the Gestapo did to him was so bad that he would never recover, and the worst, what if he blames me for everything that has happened, because I got shot, because I was so weak that he had to look after me rather than plan an escape. Newkirk had to close his eyes for a minute, his breaths coming slightly faster now, as the panic of whether or the not the Colonel was alive was replaced with the panic of what kind of Colonel they were going to get back. The corporal didn't know if he had it in him to look at the man he had quite a lot of feelings for, and see a stranger looking back.
Gathering himself, Newkirk reached for the pile of clean clothes on the chair next to him, 'Oi, LeBeau!' he called, hearing the Frenchman's voice little ways down the tunnel. Quick footsteps told him the man had heard, and LeBeau appeared next to him with a questioning look on his face, "Help me get him into these clothes," Newkirk said and LeBeau nodded.
Carefully, they redressed the Colonel in the civilian shirt, underwear and pants they had available, all of which were a little large, but at least they were dry and clean. Moving the bucket to his head to wash his hair, Newkirk jumped and made a noise of surprise when he saw the Colonel's eyes were open, blinking wearily,
"Mon Colonel!" LeBeau's voice was joyous at the seeing the brown eyes once more, but the joy dimmed slightly as he realised they were unfocused. The Colonel murmured something, a dry croak leaving his throat, quickly followed by a moan of pain. Carter and Kinch came running in, the former fortunately holding a bottle of water,
"Oh, thank god, he's conscious," Kinch said, bracing himself against the wall, as his overworked body threatened to collapse under him.
Newkirk quickly raised the Colonel's head and Carter ever so gently held the bottle to the Colonel's lips, letting only a few drops in. The Colonel lapped them up greedily, his lips and skin dry from days of dehydration,
"Come on Colonel, Sir," Carter whispered, still too scared to talk loudly in case it disturbed the injured man. Hogan muttered something again, turning his head away from the water to cough, and Newkirk lowered his head onto the pillow,
"I was so worried," LeBeau said, also lowering himself to sit next to the Colonel, as the man once again murmured something, his eyes moving around the room, looking but clearly not seeing. Newkirk's heart clenched once more, and he was not necessarily aware of when his arm moved on its own and ran gently through the Colonel's hair, in full sight of everyone, because protocol be damned, the Colonel was hurting,
"It's okay, guv," he said, "we've got you now…you're home now…sleep,"
The colonel stilled and for a moment Newkirk thought he had done the wrong thing, but then the Colonel's gaze locked onto his for one moment, and Newkirk could have sworn in that moment that the Colonel was finally aware, before the eyelids gently fell closed, and the Colonel's breathing turned even once more, the creases on his face soothed out. Newkirk quickly withdrew his hand, but none of his colleagues said anything, everyone instead simply watching the Colonel.
"I can't believe it worked," Kinch breathed out into the silence, still looking at Hogan and no one else,
"Neither can I," Carter agreed, reaching out to tuck one edge of the blanket under Hogan, better to keep him warm,
"But we did it," LeBeau finished, with a note of finality in his voice, that suddenly brought it home to all four men gathered there.
They did the impossible. They won, somehow, less than a couple of hours ago, when all hope seemed lost. They brought their family together again.
The moment of serenity was suddenly shattered by the alarm sirens of the camp. All for men jumped to their feet,
"Shit!" Kinch yelled, a sentiment echoed by his friends as they raced down the corridors, their tired bodies somehow finding the speed they need to make it to the still open trapdoor. They each pulled themselves up the ladder, checking they were all in the appropriate uniform, before reaching down to help Newkirk up the ladder, the Englishman stifling a yell as they yanked on his wounded shoulder. Quickly resetting the trapdoor, they each hurried to their beds as the barking of the dogs and the sounds of booted feet neared their building. Carter had just swung his feet up into the bed, and Newkirk had just pulled the blanket over himself on the bottom bunk, when the door burst open,
"Raus, Raus, aus deinen Betten, Raus!" the German guards yelled, and the men grumbled but got out of their beds, Kinch stealing a glance over to Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau to make sure they looked appropriately grumpy and not terrified that they came within a hairbreadth of being marked as missing. They blearily formed a line, pretending to rub the sleep out of their eyes like the other men, and hurried to control their out-of-breath panting, standing to semi-attention as Klink entered the barracks.
"Good evening gentlemen," the Colonel bit out, his aristocrat upbringing overcoming the Nazi training,
"What's the matter Colonel?" Kinch asked, his voice level but his heart in his throat, as the guns gleamed with every rotation the guards made around them,
"Tonight, there was an attack on a nearby Gestapo facility," a ripple of excitement went around the room, as the men who were not part of the inner circle realised that Kinch and the crew must have been successful. Luckily, Klink took it to mean that they were excited that the Germans were being inconvenienced, "Do not worry!" Klink declared with a wave of his riding crop, "we will catch the perpetrators very soon! German efficiency always wins out!" It took all of Kinch's self-control not to roll his eyes, "nevertheless, we have to do a roll call to make sure you're all here, Shultz!"
The bumbling sergeant stumbled in from outside, "Yes, Herr Commandant?"
"Take the roll call," and so Shultz did.
Kinch allowed himself to exchange a relived glance with LeBeau as Shultz declared that everyone was accounted for and Klink started yet another speech about how of course all his prisoners were here. It was twenty minutes later that the Germans left.
Kinch and LeBeau walked over to Carter and Newkirk's bunk as the two men slumped back on the lower bunk,
"That was bloody well too close," Newkirk said, and Carter giggled, still riding a wave of adrenaline mixed with fear,
"Yeah, but No-one ever escapes from Stalag 13, Newkirk!" he said and the Englishman and LeBeau grinned,
"God, I hate his stupid speeches," LeBeau muttered, though he was still smiling,
"We got lucky," Kinch said, "but we can't risk that again, we have to stay up here, I'll send Donoghue down now,"
Newkirk's smile instantly faded, but before he could protest, Kinch added, "we're all exhausted, and the Colonel needs the best care we can give him. We're not going to do him any good falling asleep on him. Stay here, we'll go see him in the morning," Newkirk shut his mouth with a click, but didn't shrug off Carter's hand of comfort on his shoulder.
Kinch ordered the rest of the barracks to bed and conferred quickly with Donoghue regarding what would necessitate him coming to wake one of Kinch, Carter or LeBeau if there was anything wrong with the Colonel, and what he needed to do to keep the Colonel comfortable. Newkirk sighed as he lay back on the lower bunk, and his eyelids slid shut despite his want, his need to stay awake and hear what Kinch was saying.
Morning couldn't come quick enough.
Hogan blinked twice, and his vision cleared. His eyes were aching and there was a ringing in his ears. The light around him was yellow and dim, flickering as if from a fire source rather than electric. The ceiling was brown, very rustic really, with rafters of rough-sawn wood exposed. The smell that first hit Hogan was dampness. Like he was underground. What's going on, he tried to say, but his mouth was sluggish, and nothing came out.
His body was sending deep, throbbing waves of pain to his brain and yet his limbs felt like lead, and he was cold, all over. He hadn't felt this cold in twenty years, not since…not since the war. Hogan blinked again, more awareness coming to him. His fingers were tingling from cold, and his body shivered every now and then, though there were heavy layers of covering on top of him. The bed he lay on was a bed for sure, it had a mattress, but it was lumpy, and quite small, his feet were mostly off the end.
His breathing speeding up, Hogan turned his head slightly, slowly, his head spinning with even that small movement and a wave of nausea hitting him. Closing his eyes and forcing himself to focus on every breath, in and out, Hogan steadied himself, then opened his eyes again. If he had the capacity to, he would have jumped back in shock.
He was back in the tunnels under the prisoner of war camp.
A nightmare, it's a nightmare, he thought, but if it were a nightmare, the pain was too real. Where was Peter? Where was their house? It's been twenty years…
"Peter," he heard himself say, surprised to see his voice was still working, 'Peter!" he said louder this time, and he heard someone near him, and fear suddenly spiked in him. Footsteps muffled on a wood and mud floor thudded above his head, and a uniformed man crouched down in front of him.
American world war two uniform, blonde hair, blue eyes, saying something, but the Colonel couldn't understand. What was he saying?
Terrified, suddenly, Hogan tried to rear back, but did little more than move his head, and groaned as a headache split the front of his forehead. His muscles burned as if they had been lying unused and stiff for days, which didn't make any sense…
"Colonel, Colonel, it's okay, it's okay," the strange man said, laying a hand on the Colonel's upper arm, but it was too much, too personal! Who was this man? Where was Peter? Hogan struggled to move away from him, but his body wasn't responding the way it used to,
'Peter!" The colonel cried out in real anguish this time, his eyes screwed up, the sensory information too much, the situation making no sense. It felt real, but if it was real then his world with Peter, his home, his life… "PETER!" the word was wrenched from his throat and he knew it was loud; it echoed back to him and hurt his ears. He felt the man next to him shift, heard the running footsteps moving away from him, the puff of dust as he ran bringing olfactory memories back, memories of a tunnel –
Leaving the tunnel with Peter and LeBeau, the smell of grease on their faces.
Ladies in a bar, laughter, the brilliant blue of an RAF uniform, the smell of wine, rum and beer.
Peter diving in front of a bullet, the smell of the little country home doused in blood.
Peter in his arms, bleeding to death slowly, the decaying smell of an old, lumpy mattress, and a barrel of stagnant water.
Peter being taken away from him, the smell of the rich carpets slightly damp from constantly wet boots, as he was taken upstairs, the cold gun in his back, the sharp prick of a needle in his arm.
- and he felt sick, sick to his stomach, because oh god, oh god.
This was real.
The men of Barracks two were sitting around their cabin table and had just started eating their modest lunch cooked by their French corporal when the trapdoor leading to the tunnels opened, and Donoghue pulled himself up, his face red and his eyes wide with panic,
"Peter!" he yelled, and Newkirk and everyone else's head snapped around as the flight corporal stumbled out of the trapdoor, and tried to catch his breath, leaning heavily on the bedpost,
"Steady on," Newkirk said, worry rising, "What's happening, Donoghue?"
"What happened, is the Colonel alright?" Kinch asked at the same time, as LeBeau put down his pot and moved closer,
"He woke up," Donoghue managed to get out, and before they could react, he continued, "but he's delirious," he panted, "he didn't recognise me at all, he startled when he saw me, and he's just been calling Peter's name," all eyes turned to the corporal, who suddenly felt very hot, and nauseous and worried all at the same time,
"I'll go down there then," he said, simply, standing up and stepping out of the table,
"Yeah," LeBeau and Carter echoed simultaneously, but Kinch cut in,
"It might be too much for the colonel," Kinch said, "I've heard of cases, where tortured prisoners can't deal with too many people,"
"So, Peter should go alone? What if something goes wrong?" Carter asked, the air in the barracks filled with tension, "what if…what if the Colonel hurts Peter,"
"Don't be stupid," Peter growled, but was not pleased to see that no one else thought it was stupid,
"He has an excellent point, mon frère, if he's delusional he might not know what's happening, and hurt you, we can't let you go alone,"
"An' maybe it'll make things a thousand times worse if you lot come down with me!" Newkirk shot back. Kinch held up his hands to calm the situation,
"Carter go with Newkirk but stay outside the area. If it is just a reaction to his new situation, then we can work with that. If he's dangerous, Carter will be there to help you, Newkirk,"
Not wanting to waste any more time, Newkirk didn't argue and instead stood up and made his way to the ladder. Carter and Donoghue helped Newkirk to climb down the ladder, his shoulder twinging with the jolt of his landing. Carter followed quickly and the closed the trapdoor.
Hurrying, they made their way down the corridor to where Hogan lay.
When Peter walked into the room, Hogan stopped breathing.
The man was young here, his hair still black, his right arm in a sling, clearly injured from a recent adventure. He was in his blue RAF uniform, one that had hung in the cupboard next to the Colonel's old uniform. It sat well on his shoulders now, and he was slim, broad shoulders, narrow hips, no arthritis in his knee holding him back, or giving him a limp. His boots were muddy, and his blue cap in his hands. Over time, he had hated wearing boots, refused to wear anything that wasn't a sandal when they went stateside. He was wringing that cap in a fiddly, worrisome way, the way he always did.
With the flickering light of the gas lamps throwing shadows over his face, Hogan could no longer deny that he was in the tunnels beneath Stalag 13, no matter how vivid or how beautifully real it had all seemed. Peter was here, this vision in front of him could be none other than the real thing, a warm expression on his face as he approached slowly.
It was the nail in the coffin for Hogan.
"Guv'nor?" Peter's voice was quiet, but Hogan turned his head away, to look at the ceiling instead. He couldn't bear to look at this younger Peter, this man who was the proof that everything Hogan thought had happened wasn't…real. The same and yet different to the man he woke up next to for twenty years.
Twenty years…
Hogan tried to draw a breath in, but it felt like someone was standing on his chest. He tried again, and again, but he couldn't get a deeper breath.
"Colonel?" Peter tried again, approaching the Colonel like he was an animal that might take flight at any minute.
Like a colleague rather than a lover, a best friend, a life partner.
Hogan closed his eyes as they started to burn.
None of it was real. None of it.
His harsh, shallow breathing was loud in the cavernous space. There was no denying it now. He didn't realise he was crying until Newkirk wiped the tears away and it was like a damn broke.
And Hogan cried.
Cried for the life he lost, cried even though the dream Peter was nothing as good as seeing the real Peter. Cried because how could he have thought Peter would have chosen him, come to America, left his home and his family for him. Cried because what he felt was wrong, but it was too late, far too late to go back and he didn't even know how to.
He cried and grieved for what was, what could have been, and should have been his.
Peter's heart dropped through the floor when the first sob rent the cavern, and then he was on his knees, next to the Colonel before he knew what he was doing. The Colonel had tears running down his cheeks and Newkirk couldn't stop himself from reaching out to wipe those tears away.
But then it only made it worse and the Colonel was crying in earnest now and the corporal was dumbstruck. He had never even dreamed of a time where the Colonel's strong façade broke. He heard a gasp from behind and turned to see Carter with an equally shocked expression on his face,
"What-" he started but Newkirk shook his head,
"Go to the radio station, he doesn't need an audience for this. I'll be here, with him" Newkirk was impressed by how strong his voice was, even when it felt like someone had reached into his mind and dropped a bomb, nothing but the charred remains left behind, creating a haze that he wasn't able to parse.
So, he did the only thing he could think would help. He determinedly manoeuvred the colonel so that he was sitting, who moved without any resistance, so lost in his own pain was he, and then slid onto the bed himself, sitting so that he was at ninety degrees to the colonel, his back against the wall and the Colonel, his body shaking, his sobs quiet but heartbreaking, was cradled in his arms,
"It's okay, it's over now," Peter murmured, feeling his own eyes burn as the full reality of what the Gestapo had done hit him, "they can't hurt you, it's over now,"
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither men knew, trapped in this moment in time, away from responsibilities, and expectations and orders.
The colonel drew in another sharp breath and the sob was caught in his chest before he let it out, awareness coming back to him once more as the roaring pain in his chest subsided to a dull ache, for the moment. He was all cried out, his eyes and head heavy, heavier even than when he had first woken up. He knew he was in Peter's arms. It felt even more amazing, more comforting that it ever had in that not-future he had dreamed. He almost snorted as the irony of it 'being over' as this young Peter told him. It was over. They had already hurt him, and every time he looked at his corporal now…he raised his head off where it had come to rest on Peter's shoulder.
The two men made eye contact. Hogan held his breath. Peter's eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled, "you're safe now," he said, simply and Hogan deflated, letting himself be held.
Later, he thought, as Peter rubbed a consoling pattern on his back, and he forced himself to steady his breathing, his tears drying on his cheeks. Later, I will be the Colonel. He took another breath in and Peter's cheap cologne burned his nose, but he chuckled at the familiar smell, the sound feeling foreign in his throat, the weight of loss still hanging heavy over him. Home, he thought, even as Peter asked,
"What's so funny, guv?" his voice gentle, his tone one that he always reserved for the Colonel. Because he doesn't know how depraved Hogan's mind really is. How easily it went down a path Hogan had fought against for so many months,
"Nothing," Hogan murmured and was pleased to find that the word came out as intended, hoarse though his voice was,
He could have these few moments here. He would treasure these moments, "you can leave now, if you want," he added, his croaking almost too quiet for the airy caverns, and was surprised when a gentle rumble of laughter went through Newkirk's chest and straight to his own heart,
"Like you left me, when I was a useless sack of potatoes after we got ambushed?" he asked quietly, a note of worry in his voice, as if yes, the Colonel did think he was useless. That thought alone gave Hogan the strength to sit up on his own power,
"You're not useless," he said, looking the corporal directly in the eyes, and knew that he hit the nail on the head when Peter gave him a real grin, a smile that Hogan treasured. He didn't know if he could do this. Resume normal duties as if every time he saw that smile, he didn't want to bring the corporal nearer, and tell him that he loved him,
"You're the only one that ever thought that guv'," Peter said, his voice a whisper, dropping eye contact for a moment, "no-one has ever believed in me before you, and I need you to know that I-" Hogan cut him off,
"You are the heart of this team, Peter," he said simply, and the corporal met his eyes again, "I'm sorry you had to see me like this, though," it was the Colonel's turn to drop eye contact, but he felt a spark of hope somewhere deep inside when Peter only laughed,
"You carry this team's burdens and the worlds burdens on your shoulder's every day, guv'. I can carry you for a few moments,"
Hogan felt his eyes burn once again and swallowed thickly. He could kiss the man, but that wasn't allowed anymore, "I think I need some more sleep, I promise I'll be okay this time," he said, looking down, unable to meet Peter's eyes for the moment,
"Okay, Colonel," Peter said, leaning the man forward, and sliding out from the bed, taking his warmth and comfort with him. Hogan lay back and Peter covered him with the blankets, "I'll tell the others you're back," he said, and the Colonel closed his eyes.
Determination flared in him. He could be back. There was no reason he couldn't be The Colonel again. He had a camp to run, after all.
Peter took his silence to mean he had fallen asleep, and put another blanket on him, before squeezing his forearm, letting out a pent-up breath, and leaving.
But sleep was going to be hard for the Colonel. He had so much to think about. So much to get straight in his head. And he needed a plan for when they eventually asked what the Gestapo had done to him, because even he didn't know. He didn't know why he hallucinated, or for how long he was hallucinating for.
He could, however still be their Colonel Hogan of Hogan's Heroes once more. But Rob? Rob was going to be gone for a while. Rob had to mourn a loss. Grieve a life. Rob may never come to terms with the idea that he could no longer love one certain Peter Newkirk.
Newkirk braced himself on the wall just outside the flier's quarters and closed his eyes steadying himself and his own emotions, which were jumping from elation to worry to sadness and back again.
The colonel was a mess, and so was he. The Colonel had pulled himself together at the end there, and Newkirk nearly jumped for joy when he got the first real sentences out of the Colonel, but there was something so wrong.
The Colonel's voice was different somehow. Like he was holding something back. His body language was wrong. He had never been uncomfortable in his own skin, but as soon as he gained awareness of where he was, Newkirk felt him tense before he relaxed, and even that had felt…artificial. Or…temporary. The Corporal wasn't sure.
But the Colonel didn't hate him. That was a positive.
He had such strength. Even in his state, the minute Newkirk had shown even a sliver of self-doubt, the Colonel had to make sure he didn't. Newkirk could kick himself, wallowing in his own worries, when the Colonel has been through hell.
He cares so much. How can one man care for everyone?
Newkirk could almost scream from the unfairness of it all. It should have been him trapped there with the Gestapo.
He pushed himself off the wall and kept walking. He was glad that only he and Carter had seen that. The colonel had been through so much, he had the right to break down. The strongest men can be broken by the Gestapo.
If only I had stopped them.
The guilt washed over Newkirk once more and he had to stop and lean against the wall for support, as his stomach roiled. How could anything be the same again? How could he look at the Colonel without feeling like he had let him down?
You are the heart of this team, Peter.
Newkirk will never forget the way the Colonel had looked at him. Like he was something special. Like he was worth all the trouble he had caused.
"Peter?" Carter's voice and footsteps came down the corridor and Newkirk quickly righted himself,
"Yeah?" he called, his voice slightly gruffer than normal, and swiped a hand across his eyes before Carter came into view,
"Come with me," Carter said, and Newkirk followed, confused by how serious Carter sounded and annoyed that he didn't asked after Hogan.
They made their way back to the radio control centre, to where LeBeau and Kinch were, Kinch wearing the headphones and writing something down,
"Okay, thank you Mama Bear," Kinch finished and took the headphones off, looking up as Newkirk walked in,
"What's happening?" Newkirk asked, and Kinch sighed, rubbing his eyes,
"Tiger has been taken to Berlin for questioning," stunned silence hung in the air,
"Our Tiger?" LeBeau exclaimed as Newkirk threw his hat on the ground in fury, running a hand through his hair,
"How did they find her?!" Carter exclaimed, and when Kinch only sighed, the other three men exchanged a glance,
"What is it, Kinch?" Newkirk asked, his voice hard, "What are you not telling us,"
There was a moment, where Kinch seemed to weigh something up. Then he sighed again and said,
"The colonel gave the Germans her location under interrogation, as well as the locations of three more resistance members, and they've been sentenced to death in a week's time"
It felt like the tunnel had collapsed on top of him,
"No," Carter said, and LeBeau put a hand on his shoulder,
"Andre, the Gestapo has broken many men,"
"and our Colonel's the finest," Newkirk added, his glare hot enough to melt steel, daring Carter to say anything. The Sergeant raised his hands,
"I didn't mean it like that!" he cried, looking hurt that they would think he thought any less of the Colonel for it, "I just meant, how are we going to get her, when we have to deal with Kessel here?"
Kinch shook his head, dropping them into his hands, "the worst part is that we've been ordered to stand down, and as soon as the Colonel is well enough, to ship him out to London for proper rest and healing,"
Newkirk felt like he had been punched. Silence hung heavy in the tunnel.
After all of this, they were going to lose their Colonel anyway.
Hello everyone and thank you for sticking with this story through all of the long, long, looooooooooooong update breaks! You're all wonderful people and I apologise, but as I said, this is always in the back of my mind, and your wonderful comments and kudos send little reminders to me as well :D I hope you enjoyed the chapter, let me know what you think! We're nearly done, I promise our fellas are going to be right as rain...well, mostly anyway.
Aza
xx