I'm sorry I didn't post last week; I was kind of stuck on what to write, and then when I got an idea I got distracted by other things. So I'm making up for it now by giving you a nice long one.
It was dark in the forest outside Hammelburg, except where the lights from the local tavern and a few other houses were able to penetrate the shadows. And it was relatively quiet, except for the chirping of crickets, the prowling of wild animals, and the sound of muffled cursing in French from a small spot among the trees. Then the air was permeated with the loud crack of twigs being broken, followed shortly thereafter by a muffled, "What-whoa!" and another, louder crunching noise mixed with a thud.
There was a frightened silence, before more rustling, and an annoyed Cockney voice hissing, "I dunno why the Lord bothered giving you feet, since you never seem to do anything but trip over them!"
"Sorry," said the voice of the one who had fallen, sheepishly.
"Sorry?!" the one who had been cursing in French spluttered. "You could have been blown up if you weren't careful!"
"Could not!" was the retort. "These are designed against that sort of accident specially."
"Ssh!" the first voice snapped. "Did you 'ear something?"
Another frightened silence, before finally the sound of six feet sneaking from the boundary of the forest into Hammelburg.
Lebeau wondered-again-if they really needed to bring Carter with them. So far, the only useful thing he had contributed to this mission was the bombs, and they only needed them as a last resort, in case they couldn't figure out which of the blueprints they were trying to photograph was the real one and had to just destroy everything. Newkirk could probably do that; he was an expert at finding forgeries. And Lebeau was the only one small enough to get inside and open the door, so that was why he was going. While Carter stumbled along behind them, probably alerting everything within ten miles of their presence and generally being a nuisance.
Don't get me wrong; it wasn't that Lebeau didn't like Carter, or view him as an important member of the team. But...there were times when he had trouble putting up with him.
Everyone else in their main group seemed to have it a little easier-Hogan, Newkirk, Kinch. Maybe it was because they all had more experience with children or being in parental roles. Newkirk had nine brothers and sisters. Hogan was basically everyone's father/big brother figure. Kinch had tons of nieces and nephews he'd gotten experience looking after, and who he would occasionally show everyone photographs of. Lebeau was an only child; he'd never had to spend time supervising someone with the attention span (and sometimes mental capacity) of a monkey who'd been drinking too much coffee. This meant that he got frustrated with Carter more than the American sometimes deserved.
Granted, Newkirk would often get frustrated and exasperated with Carter too, but they'd gotten closer ever since Carter's grandpa died, and besides, the younger man just naturally gave him the same kind of devotion he would a big brother, so the Englander was somewhat more patient with him than when they'd first met. The only way Lebeau knew to handle him, on the other hand, was shove some food in his mouth whenever he wanted to shut him up and didn't feel like just saying so.
The three men, dressed in civilian clothes to blend in with the populace, wandered towards their destination, prepared to start acting like a bunch of drunk buddies having a night on the town if anyone looked at them funny. It took about ten minutes, but to their relief they managed not to draw any undue attention. They slipped around the back of the house, where Newkirk got to work opening the tiny window from the outside, while Lebeau and Carter stood together to block him from view of anyone who might happen to come this way.
Lebeau's nerves were more than a little on edge at the moment; they always were on one of these trips. It seemed like he could hear every noise in Dusseldorf-every time mugs clinked together in the tavern, every time a foot knocked against a cobblestone no matter how far away it was, every click as Newkirk jimmied the lock, every chewing noise-
Every chewing noise?!
It took him a moment to realize where that was coming from. Carter had something in his mouth which made popping and cracking sounds.
Gum. He brought gum on a mission.
Carter's mouth popped the gum again, which in Lebeau's nervous state sounded as loud as a gunshot.
"Do you have to do that?!" he growled.
Carter glanced at him. ""Do what?"
"Make all that noise!" Seeing that Carter was even more confused, he finally hissed, "You're chewing."
Carter shrugged. "I have an oral fixation. It gives me something to do."
"Okay!" Newkirk called softly, as the window clicked open. "In you go, Louis."
"Mon D_u," Lebeau muttered, before accepting Newkirk's help to boost him through the window, telling himself that it was mean to be surprised at the fact that Carter knew what an oral fixation was.
After a while Lebeau opened the door so Newkirk could slip inside, leaving Carter to keep watch.
He hummed to himself softly, absentmindedly blowing a big gum bubble and then chiding himself for it.
Focus, Carter. If anyone were to walk up right now and want to know what you're doing here, they won't be able to take you seriously with a big bubble popping out of your mouth.
Which honestly isn't fair, though. Why should they think less of me for wanting something to chew? Especially because it keeps me kind of quiet, and Newkirk's always going on about how I talk too much. And it's not like I'm being disrespectful or anything, and-
Something long and sharp dug into the side of his neck, nearly making him swallow his gum.
"Dein Geld oder dein Leben," a voice whispered in his ear.
Your money or your life.
Surprisingly, the first thought that crossed Carter's mind was, Are you kidding me?
Soon after that came, I didn't know anyone said that anymore, with the runner-up being Oh no what do I do?
Speaking in his best lower-class German (and moving the gum to his cheek), Carter said, "I don't have any money."
Which was the truth; they hadn't seen the need to bring any.
"That's what they all say," his assailant snarled. "Now hand it over before I make another breathing hole in your neck."
What would the colonel do?
Well, first of all he wouldn't be in this situation because he'd have the sense to not let someone sneak up on him. But if he did…
Carefully Carter lifted the foot closest to the building, and knocked it against the wall. One hard tap, then two softer ones. Morse code for D, for danger, and the signal for something happening that required subtlety on the inside team's part.
"Keep still!" The knife pinched his neck slightly, making it hard to breathe for a second.
"Sorry."
Well, do something! Don't just stand here and wait to be rescued.
The bombs…
Oh yeah, like that'll do any good. You blow him up, you'll just blow up too. And we don't want to draw any undue attention, remember? Remember what the phrase "last resort" means? And that...it's one thing to blow up bridges and fire out of airplanes and stuff, it's another to actually stand there and be the direct cause of someone's death-
The thief jabbed him again, drawing his attention back.
"Just give me the money!" Despite the fierce tone, he sounded frightened. And young. Probably not much older than Carter. And very desperate.
"I'm sorry, but I don't have any."
How am I staying so calm? I should be panicking by now. Maybe I am and I just don't realize it.
The thief seemed equally confused. Slowly he circled around until he was facing Carter, still keeping the knife at his neck. In the darkness, Carter couldn't really see his face, but from what he could see his suspicions were confirmed about the man's age.
"...Are you…?" He stopped himself from whatever he was about to ask, and instead scowled. "You're lying. If you won't hand it over willingly, I'll search for it myself." And he began digging into Carter's coat pockets.
Now the panic started, because now the thief was going to find the bombs, and even if he was breaking the law himself, there was a chance that he'd sound the alarm, and their whole operation would be in jeopardy…
Just as his hand started to reach into the pocket where the bombs were being kept, Carter's fist shot out, catching him in the chin and knocking him back an inch.
The knife flashed in the dim light…
Lebeau and Newkirk heard a thud as they rounded the corner (having snuck around to the front so they could sneak up and assess the situation). It was in time to see a strange figure lying on the ground, and Carter still standing, flexing his fist.
"Andrew? What 'appened?" Newkirk whispered.
Carter glanced over his shoulder slightly. "He tried to rob me. He almost found the bombs, but I knocked him out."
Both his friends couldn't help feeling a little impressed that Carter, of all people, had managed that and gotten out of it unscathed.
"Did you get everything?" Carter spat out his gum into the wrapper, which he slipped into his pocket.
Lebeau nodded. "Oui, it's fine. Let's go before someone finds him."
By the time they were halfway to camp, Lebeau was back to feeling exasperated with Carter again. If anything, he'd become even clumsier than before; he kept tripping and stumbling, even when Lebeau was sure there wasn't a single twig in his way.
Seriously, why did we bring him?!
And then he started lagging behind. Lebeau had to keep going back to drag him forwards, because if they got back early enough maybe they'd actually have time to catch a little sleep before roll call and it had been a long time since he'd had a good night's sleep and he didn't want to miss out on an opportunity and why was Carter being so slow?!
Eventually Newkirk came crunching back through the brush to see what the holdup was.
"Carter, we've got a bit of a deadline 'ere! Think you could pick up the pace a little?"
And then he noticed what they had been missing. He saw, even in the dim light, that Carter looked kind of pale, and his legs were shaking. He was leaning against a nearby tree too, one arm clenched against his side.
"...Carter?"
As risky as it was, he shone the flashlight on Carter-and blanched as he saw the dark red stain that was definitely not ketchup oozing out around his friend's arm, and dribbling onto his fingers, and now he was slipping down towards the forest floor-
Lebeau sat down with a thump, as colored spots started swirling in front of his eyes and his ears started ringing at the sight of so much red. He tilted his head back, trying to force himself to stay conscious.
Through the ringing he could hear Newkirk uttering an impressive string of curses, several of which Lebeau had never heard before, as he began examining the wound and tearing off one of his own shirt sleeves to try to staunch it.
"Why didn't you say something, you bloody idiot?!" he demanded, somehow managing to be loud and quiet at the same time.
Lebeau barely made out the slurred reply: "Lebeau doesn' like the sight o' blood."
It might as well have been a new stab wound, this time in the Frenchman's side. He took a second to process this, before protesting, "I like even less the sight of you dead, Carter!"
He made the mistake of looking over at his comrades, and felt himself nearly lose consciousness again because of all that blood. With a moan, he flopped down onto the ground and silently begged the bon Dieu for the nausea to stop.
"Louis."
Newkirk was shaking his shoulder.
"Louis, I need you to 'elp me. Please, you need to get up."
Lebeau forced himself to stand, knowing what Newkirk probably needed him to do. Averting his eyes, he went to the side of Carter (who was now sitting, leaning against a nearby tree, with two shirt sleeves clumsily tied around his middle) that didn't have blood, and pulled his arm over his shoulder. Newkirk got the other side, and together they hoisted Carter to his feet. And they began to half-jog, half-drag their fallen friend back to camp.
Wilson just about had a conniption when he saw the injury (though nowhere near half as big as the one Hogan nearly had).
"You're lucky this isn't infected!" he scolded as he finished stitching it shut, having performed a hasty-yet-thorough surgery on their hurriedly-scrubbed table, after the torturous process of getting Carter into the passageway, and then up the ladder. "Also, do you have any idea how close this came to several of your vital organs?"
Carter just moaned softly into his coat sleeve, which he'd been biting down on this whole time.
Hogan paced like a caged tiger, wringing his hat between his fingers.
"Roll call's coming up soon," he said softly. "We can probably just tell Klink that you're sick-"
Then the sergeant opened his eyes.
"No," he said, voice also soft, but firm. "I can do it."
And slowly, shakily, he forced himself to his feet.
Wilson looked like he was going to have another conniption, but Carter said, "There might be a fuss in Dusseldorf if the guy who tried to mug me was a Gestapo officer in disguise or something, and Hochstetter might want to investigate. If someone's absent from roll call, even if the excuse is they're sick, he won't believe it, he'll come in and check me over personally and figure out the truth. It's better to give him as little to be suspicious about as possible."
He shot Wilson a halfheartedly cheeky grin. "Besides, I've heard that it's good to move around after something like this."
"Not immediately after!" the surgeon exploded.
"Then it's probably a good thing that we'll just be standing still for a while." And he took some hesitant steps to his bunk, where he gathered up his uniform so he could change back into it.
Wilson stopped him with a hand around his arm.
"After it's done, you are going right back to bed and staying there until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"
Carter nodded. "Yes, sir."
Hogan hoped that it would be a nice, quick inspection, with Klink just wanting to make sure they were all there, and hurrying back to his office so he could get out of the cold.
It wasn't.
Klink strutted back and forth, blathering something-or-other about whatever nonsense German propaganda said about how well the war was going for them. Hogan (for once) didn't pay attention; he was busy casting worried looks over at his sergeant.
Carter was holding up relatively well; standing more or less at his usual height, and if he was a little huddled in on himself and hugging his chest, that could be attributed to the cold. But a thin sheen of sweat was starting to gather on his forehead, and he was definitely getting paler by the minute.
He's being so brave...shut up already, Klink, please. Can't you tell he's in pain?
No; that's the point of his coming out here in the first place.
Hogan felt helpless, unable to do anything for Carter.
He hated being helpless.
The whole inspection probably didn't last more than five minutes. But it was five minutes too many in Hogan's book. As Klink finally gave a smarmy salute and stalked back to the kommandantur, Newkirk surreptitiously put a supporting hand at Carter's elbow, just in time to help him keep standing so he could walk back into the barracks. At which point he and Kinch had to work together to move him into his bunk, because he'd used up all of his strength standing up straight and trying to look normal, and his legs all but turned into jelly.
Lebeau and Newkirk were sitting by Newkirk's bunk when he woke up late in the afternoon.
He blinked sleepily, and gave them a dazed smile.
"Hi, fellas."
"Ow you feelin', Carter?" Newkirk asked.
He grimaced. "Have you ever been stabbed?"
"Once or twice." At Lebeau's questioning glance, he said, "Long story." Then, back to Carter, "That bad?"
Carter nodded, and cleared his throat. "Water?"
Within seconds there was a fresh canteen at his lips, and he was allowed a few gulps.
Then Lebeau decided it was time to cut to the chase.
"Carter...thank you for caring about the fact that I don't like the sight of blood. It was...thoughtful of you."
Carter gave him a little smile. "I also didn't want you to pass out and force Newkirk to deal with two incapacitated people."
"...Thanks, mate." The Englander gave him another drink.
"But please, Carter, please tell us when you're hurt. We don't want to lose you because you have an uncared-for wound."
"'Kay." He let them rearrange his bedclothes so he was snuggled into them more securely. Then, apparently on the verge of sleep again (possibly due to the pain medication that had been in the water), he murmured, "I stubbed my toe on the way back to camp."
Newkirk and Lebeau both rolled their eyes good-naturedly.
Sorry if I inaccurately portrayed how to care for a stab wound or anything. For those Lebeau fans who are reading this (hi, Glossina :)), I hope I did him justice. Happy Easter, everyone.