Desperate Times
June 19th, 1944
Strasbourg, France
Generaloberst Beilschmidt,
It has come to my attention that you have taken into custody an American officer by the name of Major Randall Carter. Firstly, I must commend you on your efforts, both in the field and out; however, I believe that an opportunity of this magnitude must be exploited to the furthest extent. Therefore, the captive will come under a joint custody between the Wehrmacht and the Algemeine-SS. I understand the difficulty of your position and am prepared to allocate Gestapo forces in order to expedite the process if the need should arise. I look forward to our collaboration and hope that we may reach further consensus in the future.
Heil Hitler.
H. Himmler
Reichsführer-SS
Germany's face was pink with fury as he read over the latest correspondence from on-high. The contents of the telegram may have appeared innocuous, even generous to the ignorant eye, but Germany was well-versed enough in party politics to know a threat when he heard one. Himmler could destroy him if he so desired; Germany's immunity as a Wehrmacht commander was limited at best, but against a key member of the German High Command? It was open season.
He was incandescent with rage.
How on earth had Himmler found out about Major Carter?
Germany's frown deepened. The question was practically rhetorical: there was a leak in the system. There must be. How else could he have known? The real question was, now, who had provided the intel? But that too was nearly self-explanatory.
Germany glared murderously at the back of Standartenführer Kraus – the bastard. The man had a nose for anything out of the ordinary, and while it made him an effective SS officer, it also made him intrusive. He knew something was going on the instant Germany expressed his interest in Major Carter. Granted, it didn't take an analytical genius to spot a violation of the Geneva Convention, but if that wasn't cause for alarm, the lack of response from any of the higher-ups certainly was. Germany chastised himself for this predicament. It was his fault after all; if he hadn't been so enthusiastic about the whole operation he might have been spared the headache, not to mention the immense loss of ground. Carter's usefulness was time sensitive, for he only knew what the Allies immediate plans were; in a week they could have a completely different objective and means of achieving it. If Kraus interfered, Germany could not use his knowledge of Carter's identity to his advantage. It was a losing situation no matter which way he looked at it.
"Kemmerich, tell the Commandant that I require his presence immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Five minutes later the man in question stood in front of Germany's desk, puffed up like a preening rooster. He knew exactly what this was about.
"Commandant," Germany began sharply, "Has the usurpation of my authority become something of a hobby for you, or is it entirely coincidental that I received a telegram from Reichsführer Himmler ordering dual custody over Major Carter?"
"Do not flatter yourself, Beilschmidt. If you recall, the man is imprisoned in a camp run by the SS. We have as much claim over him as you. Furthermore, our tactics are far more likely to yield a result. I understand he hasn't said a word to you, has he?" Germany felt himself tense, fury pulling at its tether deep in him. He ground his teeth together before answering.
"Major Carter was captured by Wehrmacht soldiers, and under Wehrmacht authority he shall remain! You have absolutely no right to insert yourself!" Kraus, unflinching, watched Germany with stark, derisive eyes.
"According to Himmler, I have every right."
"Himmler would not even know about this had you not tipped him off!"
"You have no authority over the SS, General. From now on, I will participate fully in the interrogations of the American, also I demand to be made privy to all the details regarding his capture and detainment. We shall commence with another interrogation after lunch; I expect that Major Carter will be singing like a lark by the time we get through with him." Kraus, a smug look on his face, turned and left without dismissal or compulsory salute before Germany could reply. The door shut with mocking gentleness.
"That utter bastard." Germany's voice rang low with malice at his utter impotence in the situation. Kraus was going to ruin his operation once again out of nothing more than sheer spite and there was nothing to be done about it!
He heaved a great, miserable sigh. It was ten o'clock. Major Carter would be interrogated at noon and Germany seriously doubted that Kraus's 'methods' would yield anything of use. If anything, they would only serve to further alienate the Major from them. If he were to obtain anything it would be by Major Carter's free will. Ergo, he had to gain at least some modicum of rapport, and if not that then enough leverage to sway him in the direction of compliance. Kraus had clearly learned nothing from his time with the man. Major Carter would eviscerate him.
The last time Germany interrogated the belligerent American was three days ago, and it had been just as fruitless and unproductive as the first four attempts. Since then he had said nary a word, except on rare occasions when he felt inclined to taunt his captors. It was unimaginably infuriating and resulted in innumerable headaches, as well as a dearth in viable excuses Germany could use to keep Rommel at bay. Now, with Kraus heading the charge, the likelihood of getting anything at all out of the American was practically nil. Especially given the way the good Commandant was handling the proceedings insofar.
Kraus, as previous experience dictated, was already hot under the collar after twenty minutes. Germany had spent hours with the American and never gotten to this point, well, except for that first time. He'd long since become accustomed to Carter's manner, and, if Germany were truthful, he looked forward to seeing him spar with the Commandant.
"Once more, Major Carter. What is the Allied plan of attack?" Carter looked at him through dark-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. The interrogations, or perhaps simply the nature of imprisonment, had without a doubt taken their toll. He looked wan, as though he hadn't slept for weeks, but remained ever resolute in his resistance.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Germany winced as Kraus smacked him in the face. He contemplated stepping in, but he knew it would accomplish nothing. Kraus was leagues passed listening to reason, and from the looks of it, so was Major Carter. The man's eyes were hard and narrowed, watching Kraus with undisguised hatred as if he were contemplating what best way to maim the offending officer, and his posture was tensed like a serpent moments away from striking.
"Fuck you." Carter snarled.
Aggression and malice exploded in Kraus's eyes. He lashed out again, only to strike empty air. Carter's reaction was quicker than lightning. Before Germany could react he threw his tied hands around Kraus's neck and yanked him halfway across the table.
"Major Carter!" Germany shouted, though his urgency was born more of shock than actual concern for his detestable colleague. As far as he was concerned, Kraus had it coming, "Let him go now!"
Carter stared coldly at the gun leveled suddenly at his forehead, as though it meant little more to him than a fly on the wall. His grip did not slacken. Germany glanced at Kraus whose face grew redder by the second, whether by asphyxia, anger or humiliation he couldn't have been sure.
"I will shoot you, mark my words." By this time the two SS guards heard the commotion and entered the room, only to find their highest ranking commander caught in a chokehold by a gaunt, filthy prisoner half his size.
"Go ahead and do it then!"
"Good God, man, let him go! I do not jest!"
"Nor do I."
How do you threaten a man who has no fear of death? Germany had no answer forthcoming, so he hardened his heart and fired a bullet straight through Major Carter's right shoulder. The rapport cracked like thunder, leaving his ears ringing.
Kraus slid ungracefully to the floor, gasping and wheezing as his breath returned to him. A bright red line marked the place his throat had been constricted. It would likely be there for a long time to come. As for Carter, he lay prostrate, a look of surprise on his face as if he hadn't actually expected Germany to shoot. A red stain was already blooming on his service blouse. The shot was a through-and-through, but Germany expected him to make a full and speedy recovery.
The two SS men roughly pulled Carter to his feet, ignoring his cry of pain. Germany did not blame them; however, he could not allow anyone to witness Carter's wound heal in a matter of minutes either.
"I will take if from here. See to the Commandant and send Vargas to me immediately." Germany took Carter by the arm, earning a hiss from the bleeding American, and swept him from the room before Kraus or his men could have a chance at reprisal.
"Move!" Germany shoved me down the hall when I dragged my feet too much. Suffice it to say he was not a happy camper. Well, neither was I.
"Alright, alright, take it easy!"
He just rolled his eyes and said to me frankly, "Major, that is the least of your worries."
"What do you care?" I demanded. To my surprise he jerked to a halt and looked me square in the face.
"Kraus is not a man with whom to pick a fight. I should think that someone in your position would be more aware of that."
"I do not suffer fools." Germany stared at me in utter exasperation.
"Unfortunately, I believe you."
"Then you'll know why I did what I did!"
"You stupid American… Do you people ever think about the consequences of your actions?"
I felt his tension acutely in the air, like a cord ready to snap. It bled over to me as well. I shouldn't have done that back there, I knew that. But dammit, I wouldn't out up with a man like the Commandant, not in this life or the next. The way I saw it, strangling him was penance. Penance for all the humiliation and misery I'd put up with since I got here. He deserved it, and that was that.
"Well, I'm here aren't I?" Germany exhaled loudly and gave me a shove in the direction of the barracks.
"Keep moving, Yankee."
Roll call that evening was a stunted affair. Kraus appeared, much to my surprise and disappointment, with bloodshot eyes and a bandage around his throat. The latter, I wagered, was more to mend his pride than his neck, but I wasn't going to be the one to point that out. France glanced at me once, worry etched in his face. I'd told him the harrowing tale of this morning's interrogation, in which the good Commandant had felt the need to encroach on things, thereby provoking a response from me. Furthermore, if I'd seen correctly, it looked like Germany held no more love for the man than me. The concern I expected and probably would've shown myself had the roles been reversed and it was my colleague being strangled to death, was absent. Clearly, their working relationship was something less than stellar.
In any event, Kraus stalked down the line with perhaps a more voracious malice than usual. There was something about him this evening that made my blood cool in my veins and my gut twist in dread. He pronounced the names through drawn lips and clenched teeth, mine more of a bark than anything else as he fixed me with an ice cold stare that I felt all the way down to my bones. It smacked of loathing and malicious intent, so much that I was actually prompted to fear a reprisal. In the past I'd always been able to dismiss his high-handed threats due to the utter predictableness of his nature – I knew his type, I dealt with them all the time back home – but now I faced an unknown quantity. My actions this morning had unhinged the door of superiority that kept his impulse under control. I'd emasculated and humiliated him, and he was not going to forget it any time soon.
When he passed us by I felt myself heave a great sigh. France's brow creased with concern as he watched me from the corner of his eye. It was pointless really. There was nothing he could do about it. I straightened up as Kraus delivered the evening address and then he was gone, into the shadows facing the compound entrance.
"Come on, Ro-" I rammed my elbow into his ribs, "Randall." France finally said.
"Right behind you. I'm gonna hit the john first." He nodded and kept on his way while I went mine. There were very specific times I could go about my business, and this was one of them. The last thing I needed was for some froggy to wonder why I didn't stand up to piss.
I reached the latrines and ducked into the farthest one closest to the wall. It was nearly invisible in the shadows. Quickly, I pulled my trousers halfway down my thighs, did my business, and righted myself in less than a minute. No one had come.
This was the world I lived in now – one of secrecy, suspicion, and precaution. There was not a moment I could let my guard down, not one solitary second I could stop looking over my shoulder or be entirely at ease with myself. At night, when the rest of them were asleep, I meticulously rebound my breasts – no simple task, considering my endowment – and periodically during the day checked to make sure the fastenings were intact. Having a malfunction in that arena would be the worst possible thing. As a state I was as strong as any man, but I was still just one person. If a group of guards or even POW's got it in their head to have some fun with the only broad in the compound they could overpower me easily.
But, as of right now, I was certain that my sex remained comfortably obscured, even if the effort it took to maintain the façade was more taxing than ever before. Before I left the states, Louis spent hours teaching me the finer points of manhood. Everything from the way I talked to the way I walked to how I held myself had to change and by the end of it I felt like an entirely different person. Though I suppose that was the goal. I held myself straight with my shoulders pulled back and looked people in the eyes, I sat with my legs spread instead of crossed – a posture of power, Louis said – and found myself carrying a new confidence. Utterly foreign, yes, but so powerful I felt it stirring wherever I went.
I also realized the extent to which I hadn't appreciated the complexity of the male world. There were just as many rules and social niceties to abide by as there were for women, not to mention skills, like tying a tie, that I'd never had reason to learn before. These were the aspects of manhood, or at least the perception thereof, that I did appreciate. The rest was not so welcome.
Until now it was always easy for me to take for granted the many complaints lodged against men by the fairer sex, but I'd also never truly appreciated the difficulties men faced, as well as the expectations. I couldn't count how many times I'd been asked about the wife and children I didn't have, how my family got by during the Depression, or what I did for a living. Equally as frequent were the looks of disapproval when I informed them that I provided for no one but myself and had no intention of ever changing that. And God forbid when I forgot one of the rules of manly etiquette. One time I deigned to ask why I ought to pay the dinner costs for a woman whom I hadn't invited to dine with me in the first place and nearly had my eyes scratched out. It was only afterwards, with Lane trying not to laugh at me, that I understood I was practically beholden to any woman I spent more than five minutes entertaining. After that, I tried to minimize contact with those of the gentler disposition as much as humanly possible. Truth be told, the act of courtship was unduly daunting, even if it was feigned for the benefit of others. I worried endlessly of the perception of women – that they may be able, by that mystic sixth sense that all women seem to possess, to see through my deception. Equally as worrisome to me was the possibility that my own men might put the pieces together were I to spend too much time around another woman. They might look beyond Randall Carter's gruffness and see my hands, too small to be a man's; my forearms, far too slender to carry the loads that they did; or the softness of my features when I wore something other than a scowl.
Goddamn, it wasn't a wonder I hadn't developed a heart condition with all this…
"Feliciano, will you please sit down." Germany enunciated each syllable with a crispness that belied his irritation, watching from his desk Italy gesticulating rapidly in his effort to make sense of the situation before them. Dander and blood-pressure already raised from this morning's debacle, Germany had little patience to spare for Italy's histrionic inclinations. To exacerbate matters further, a telegram from Rommel arrived not two hours ago, detailing his impatience and frustration both with Germany's lack of progress as well as his own on the front. Germany could almost feel what precious little time they had slipping like sand through his incapable fingers.
The noose was tightening swiftly.
"Italy!" He barked, causing the other country to jump no less than six inches off the ground, "This will solve nothing! Now sit down and act like a man!"
Italy's owlish eyes widened, and, in another instant, welled with crocodile tears. Germany gazed back coldly, rigid and practically steaming with vexation. He'd had enough of emotional hysteria for one day. In the hours following the incident with Major Carter, Kraus had paid him a very uncordial visit, complete with screaming, frothing, and a frighteningly sincere threat against Major Carter's life, of which Germany did not for a moment doubt the veracity. What he needed more than anything else at the moment – yes, even more than Major Carter's compliance - was a way to keep the Commandant reigned in, but that being said, Germany had little in the way of recourse. He himself was Wehrmacht, and Italy's solutions all involved ingratiating the man with extravagant displays of culinary prowess or some such ridiculousness. There was truly nothing to be done, and for the first time in the history of the Third Reich, Germany wished he were a member of the Schutzstaffel.
By all imaginable standards, Germany outranked the Commandant; however, Kraus was by no means obligated to obey his authority, as Germany's command began and ended within the confines of the Wehrmacht. The injustice of it never failed to rankle him. He was a country - he should have unlimited, unquestionable control over the actions of a mere prison guard! - and yet he was powerless to do anything. If he did, Kraus could easily invoke Himmler again and have Carter transferred out of Germany's jurisdiction entirely! Or worse yet, discover for himself Carter's unnatural abilities.
Neither option seemed to Germany to be at all tenable.
"What are we going to do?" Italy voiced Germany's very thoughts.
"I do not know. Kraus wants Major Carter executed and he is prepared to turn to the SS High Command to see it done. My hands are tied."
"Well,-" Italy stumbled over his words, "We've got to stop him! They won't be able to kill a state, and if they find out what he is then-
"I am aware of that." He scrubbed hard at his eyes, "But there is nothing, legally, I can do about it."
"What about Rommel? Or Rundstedt? Surely they could-
"No. Neither Rommel nor Rundstedt has any authority over Kraus. And I would not ask that of them." Italy's shoulders slumped, a pained set to his mouth. With a sigh, Germany rose and poured them both well-earned glasses of pre-war brandy he'd been saving for an occasion like this.
For a long moment the two sat, imbibing their spirits in silence. Germany slowly resigned himself to the fate of Major Randall Carter – tomorrow he would explain the exact circumstances of their situation to him. Maybe then, when he understood what faced him, he would be more forthcoming. Germany would wish no such brutality on any man, even a pig-headed, dogmatic Yankee like Major Carter.
"I hate that man." Germany did not have to think hard about whom Italy referred, the sentiments echoed fresh and raw in his mind as well. He cursed the day he first laid eyes on Armin Kraus.
"As do I."
Suddenly, Italy's whole body jolted upright, as though he'd just been struck by a bolt of lightning. The movement was so fast and sudden that Germany flinched.
"I have an idea!" Germany's eyebrows raised with interest, "I am such an idiota! It is so obvious!"
"I wait with baited breath." Italy grinned slyly, leaning in as though to disclose to Germany a closely-kept secret.
"Prussia." Germany stood stock still, "He is SS. He could stop the Commandant! I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, it is positively-
"No."
"Scusa?"
"I will not crawl to him for aid."
"But Germany! It is Major Carter's life on the line! We need him, you need him. I've seen the telegrams, the front is collapsing!"
Germany shook his head vigorously.
"We will find another way. I will surrender the war before I have Prussia come here." Italy gasped, looking at him as though he were a stranger.
"He is your brother!" Germany stood then, anger creeping hotly against his neck.
"He lost us the Eastern Front! It is because of him our men were slaughtered in that Russian wasteland, and it is because of him still that we fail!"
"Germany, Prussia is our only hope! If you fail now then all those men out there will die for nothing! Do you want that blood on your hands? All on account of pride?" Germany sucked in a breath, "Both you and I swore an oath to do all that is necessary to protect our people, and now that we have a chance to do so you resist? I do not understand you."
Germany felt a shameful blade lance through his heart at Italy's words. He was right. For once, Italy was right. He sat down heavily, as though in a trance, his expression crumpled and his scorn curtailed. He raked a hand through his hair, his words no more than a whisper, "What am I doing, Feliciano?"
Italy, as his nature dictated, lay a companionable hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Send a telegram today," He said in an uncharacteristically steadfast manner, "If I know Gilbert, he will not refuse."
"That is exactly what I am afraid of."
"Oh, Germany, things cannot be as bad that. He is family, after all," Italy grinned brightly, as though, by smiling, he could alleviate all the problems of the world, "Will you do it?"
"It seems I must."
"Good," He seized Germany in a tight embrace, "I know you won't regret it."
"We will see. And, Italy?"
"Ci?"
"Don't touch me."
