Haus of War
Chapter 3
Warning: The beginning is a bit full of military talk, but it is important to the storyline. Try your best to follow, as I know it was hell to try and organize and write all this information ;).
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Pachino, July 11th, 1943.
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Sometimes John was grateful toward his shorter stature, not that he would admit it though. He was late to the briefing, but thankfully was able slip in unnoticed at the back. Yet even though the briefing was attended only by men with a lieutenant's rank or higher, the area remained packed with officers. Some he could pick out of the crowd, but others he guessed had traveled from their positions farther down the coast by car to attend. John thought that was strange, since a gathering of the officers usually meant a person of high authority had come to brief them. And usually these visits had been well for-warned. Unfortunately, he could not see over the top of the heads of the officers in front of him, so he was unable to view who the foreign voice, which bellowed across the silent space, belonged to.
"…to the south of us, the fifty-first division will push northeast to capture Palazzolo and then Vizzini. Divisions under the XIII Corps will then move further inland to meet us before the assault on Catania. They will hold our flank until we arrive."
The sea of men parted momentarily and John caught the first glimpse of the man who was briefing them. He was surprised to see that not one, but two high ranking officers stood erect before them. The first he recognized as Lt General Montgomery, the commander of the Eighth Army, which John's division was a part of. He stood silent and at full attention off to the side, red-faced and sweating in the humid Sicilian sun. The man speaking, however, he did not know. As displayed by his insignia, the man was a General. He was tall, and a thick black mustache adorned his upper lip. More impressive than the moustache, however, was the plethora of colours splayed across his breast. He stood with a rigid authority, heels glued together and chest puffed like a bird displaying his plumage.
"Sorry, who is he?" John overheard a lieutenant in front of his ask the officer beside him.
"That's General Alexander," the other whispered back in a distinct, southern American accent. Obviously John wasn't the only person who did not recognise the man. His ears perked as General Alexander delivered his squadrons orders next.
"The XXX Corps are to flank the Seventh Army's push into Augusta, and are assigned to capture three airfields to prevent reserves from moving eastward against them. The fields you will be engaging are Olivo and Cosimo. After you've captured these points, you are to link with the First Canadian Infantry to take the Biscari airfield and move forward to assist the Seventh Army in the capture of Augusta. I expect these divisions to regroup on the fringe of Augusta by the 13th of July."
John's felt his jaw go slack, and whatever the General said after that did not reach his ears. For a moment he had to review what had just been said to make sure he had heard everything correctly. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over him, as he was sure it had washed over the other officers in his squadron in attendance. This General expected a division of a couple hundred men, still weary from last evening's encounter, to clear three airfields and be ready to engage another full scale invasion within the span of one day. It was impossible. John knew that even if they managed to clear even two of the airfields, the squadron would be wiped out by the third. He had heard of such cases before, strategic failures, where whole armies were sent to their deaths in order to serve some greater purpose, but even knowing this, the idea brought no comfort to him. John looked to find Lt General Leese, hoping to see some confirmation that this was all a sick joke. He found Leese standing in front of the crowd with the other commanders, his face ashen. John felt his gut drop to his toes.
"The Seventh Army is to move directly into and capture Augusta. There you will most likely meet heavy resistance by the Axis, so prepare yourselves. We have gathered the strongest forces, so I expect a smooth operation. After Augusta is taken, the reassembled battalions will move to take Catania, and force the Axis out of Sicily. All personal are expected to be marching to your points by noon tomorrow. You are dismissed."
Distantly, John heard the guillotine snap down.
Augusta, July 11th, 1943.
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Much like their enemies south of them, the SS and Italian forces had also gathered under the sweltering heat and prepared to receive their own briefing.
A sleek black car pulled into the camp, which lay on the outskirts of Augusta; the shadows of the city barely reaching them as the sun rose behind the mountainous hills. The car was nondescript, save for the small, double bolt insignia printed on its side: the mark of the Gestapo. Inside sat two individuals, sheltered from the rising humidity.
"As you see, our situation is not as dire as it is made out to be," the first spoke in thick, rolling German. His auburn hair was smoothed back against the nape of his neck, grey eyes fixed on the men wandering about and moving supplies outside their steel carriage. The same double bolt insignia on the car adorned his collar. "Provisions still remain uninterrupted."
"Please, Sebastian," the second answered him. His sing-song voice drawled, and his dull and despondent eyes glued themselves somewhere past Sebastian's face. He took pleasure in how his glare, which seemed to be looking right through him, affected the other man, who fidgeted uncomfortably underneath it. He allowed a small smirk to play upon his lips. "If they don't have a good reason for pulling me from my work at the concentration camp," he continued, resting his cheek boyishly on his fist, "I'll make each and every one of them into shoes."
The vehicle pulled to a halt, and both men exited on to the dusty, parched ground. Sebastian led his companion through the maze of tents and supply dumps to a small, mortar enclosure. As they stepped inside, its inhabitants rose from their seats and saluted as a sign of respect. However the man, rather than feeling esteemed, was quite insulted by their actions. He preferred to see his subordinates beneath him, writhing in the dirt like worms.
The room was cool thanks to the concrete walls, but sparsely furnished, save for a table rimmed with wooden chairs. On the wall hung a large Sicilian map, strung like a Christmas tree with red bomb lines, highlighted supply routes and other eye-catching intricacies. It was a beautiful sight, artful in its depiction of tireless planning and coordination, a web that held so much more than the spider at its center. The man couldn't help but gaze lovingly at it, like it was his oldest and most favourite treasure.
"—Brooke." He clued in that a small, seedy Italian officer was speaking to him, pulling him from his reverie. He cast a venomous glance at the man, and his keen eyes saw the officer shrink back in fear.
"So you lost Pachino to the enemies," Richart Brooke said, not wishing to hear what he already knew. He watched the man's eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal, and briefly he wondered what his cowardly entrails looked like.
"We have suspicions that the enemy forces will—"
"Pachino, Pachino," Brooke interrupted, rolling the word around in his mouth, tasting it. "I had two of my intelligence officers stationed there…where are they?"
The man looked to his companions, but none of them offered Brooke their words. He swallowed, and tentatively said, "We're still waiting for a casualty report on one. The other returned with our forces late last night."
"Shoot him."
A silence overtook the room.
"But sir…"
"Shut up. Unlike you Italians," Brooke spat, "the Gestapo are not cowards. I prefer to have that reputation remain untarnished. Shoot him."
Another silence fell upon them all and Brooke couldn't help but ponder on how annoying that was.
"Returning to the matter at hand, sir," Sebastian spoke up; his calm demeanor cut through the tension that slowly drowned everyone in the room.
"Ah yes! The enemy advance," Brooke exclaimed, clapping his hands together as his features brightened considerably. "I love a good strategizing meet. Oils the rusty gears up there," and tapped his forehead once.
"Right," said the Italian man, looking unsure of whether he should laugh or cry, or an ugly combination of both. "As I was saying, sir, we have our suspicions that the Allied forces that landed on the coast yesterday will try to flank us via route 194."
Brooke once again laid eyes upon the map, moving closer to study the lines that crisscrossed its embossed, glossy surface. Oh how he wished to touch it, to nitpick and change the little lines so that they fit his grand view: a precise, fortified and impregnable defence.
"And who is now in command of this operation?" he asked.
"General Harold Alexander."
"Oh, he's my least favourite," Brooke whined, rolling his eyes as he slunk away from the map. "Really, he's no fun at all, so predictable." He sat in one of the chairs, a sudden sulk overtaking him. "You don't need to worry about him trying to flank the city, he's much too dull to try something like that. Always was compulsive," Brooke sneered; it was all too easy for him, predicting the enemy's movements. They left their mark like a trail of breadcrumbs, and all he had to do was follow it. "He'll most likely send his strongest forces scrambling up to us in a full frontal attack. The fool, he obviously has no idea that the airfields to the south will destroy his army before they even touch the city."
"What if he sends an attack on the airfields simultaneously?" Sebastian asked. Brooke thought on that for a moment, before shaking his head.
"No, if Alexander sends his best forces straight to our door, which I know he will, he'll send only a handful of men, the weakest and most useless, to try and take the airfields. The most that would do is delay our forces in the south. He knows capturing the airfields is impossible with that little manpower, he'd only attack them to buy time. He'll concentrate all his power on one move. I daresay the man is becoming desperate," Brooke mused.
"So we are to hold fort and have the airfields flank Alexander's forces then, sir?" the Italian squeaked.
"Well, that's assuming they aren't delayed too long by the vermin Alexander might send. You should be ready to defend." Brooke stated. "If that's all gentlemen, I do have a date in Catania."
Brooke rose from the chair when no one else spoke up. The men saluted once more, but he merely waved a hand at them. "Come Seb," he sang, and exited the enclosure with Sebastian at his side. They walked through the camp once more, the sun beating down mercilessly as the air warped and swam in the noon light. Reaching the car, Brooke slid inside, refreshed by the little shade it provided. Sebastian made a move to enter as well, but he quickly shut the door and spoke to him from the open window.
"Ah-ah," he tut as Sebastian withdrew momentarily, confusion flitting across his features. "I need you to stay here."
"Why?"
"Keep an eye on them," Brooke said, ignoring that Sebastian had not addressed him as 'sir'. "Make sure they follow the plan."
Sebastian sighed and leaned back on his heels, his eyebrows raised slightly as he gave Brooke a very condescending look.
"Oh don't pout, it's only for a few days," Brooke hummed. He hated when Sebastian gave him that look. "Besides," he said more solemnly, hoping to sweeten the deal, "I'd like you to personally deal with our little coward who dared to return."
Brooke handed Sebastian's bag to him through the window before he nodded to the driver. The car engine purred and revved as it drove away, leaving Sebastian's staring face in the rear-view mirror.
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"I told you, John, there is nothing I can do about the matter! It's been designed and approved by people higher than me, and I cannot object without being court martialed."
"And that's worse than death?"
It was noon when the fierce argument had broken out inside Lt. General Leese's tent. A couple soldiers had stood idly as they gawked at the hollering that resonated from the thin tent. Bill was among them, having finished his guard over the prisoner. Arguments were not foreign in the camp, even ones that flared and sparked as that one currently did. What was more concerning to Bill was that John was involved, and John never involved himself in issues that were not of dire importance.
"You're lucky I don't have you court martialed for defying a superior."
"We're not talking about rebellion! There are hundreds of lives, yours and mine included, that are just going to be tossed away like rubbish," John seethed. "And for what purpose is that? So we can die in disgrace as the Americans move into glory?"
I cannot bear to see your life be wasted on the battlefield, his father's voice echoed in his ears.
Leese pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, dislodging the small circle spectacles that rested upon his nose. "What would you have me do John? Even if I did confront Alexander on his tactics, what would I have to offer as an alternative? Should we just leave our flank open and be surrounded because we could not bear to have a few casualties? Because we are too scared to make such sacrifices as many have before us? Even if the outcome is most certainly grim, we must try anyway. It is unfair, I know, but roles must be played, no matter how ghastly they are. And that is what it means to serve your country, by whatever means it calls you to serve."
John's shoulders slumped in defeat. It was unfair, so unfair.
A moment of silence enveloped them, only to be broken by Leese's long sigh. Now that the storm has quelled, Leese tried to change the subject.
"Listen, about that prisoner… A camp is planned to be set up if… after we take Biscari. Since he'll have to be travelling with us, I'm putting him under your full care until then. I've heard you're able to get him to talk a little, and maybe that's a good thing. Information like that is always valuable. Has he said anything that might be of any importance?"
John thought back to Sherlock, still confined to his makeshift prison. He thought of those clear, blue eyes, and the childlike glint of ignorance he saw in them. Of all the things he and Sherlock had briefly chatted about, nothing stood out as being of any use to his current situation. It was just friendly talk, lonely talk.
"No, nothing," John answered after a moment.
"Well, try to eat something and get some rest, both of you. I'll brief the men on the situation. We leave at dawn tomorrow."
As John exited the tent, Bill approached him. "I think the whole camp heard you two going at it," he joked cautiously, but John merely brushed him off. Bill sensed his dampened mood, and wisely backed off his lightheartedness. Instead he took to walking with him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Bill asked.
"I don't know how I would. It's a bit complicated."
"Well, come back to my tent for a few minutes, maybe I can cheer you up."
John smiled weakly, "Think so, eh?"
After a short walk, Bill pulled him into his tent, and they sat on the floor rather than the cots. The light tinged the inside of the tent with a dim green, and the smell was musty, heavy with sleep. His tent-mates were out, and John sat with eyes downcast as Bill searched for something in the corner. After a few moments, he pulled out two objects with triumph. John looked up to the object set in front of him.
"Well, that certainly does cheer me up a bit," He remarked.
Bill opened the metal cap of the glass beer bottle, relishing the fizzing noise as the cap leapt off and tumbled somewhere beneath the beds. "I knew it would," he smiled.
"Where on earth did you get these?" John marveled as he watched the bubbles slide up the glass bottle, the heavy smell filling the stuffy air. Slowly he took a sip of the warm drink, as if afraid it might vanish into thin air.
"One of my tent-mates went into town this morning. He found a microbrewery and was able to sneak a few bottles back. It's Italian, mind you, so just enjoy it for what it is. Oh, and don't mention it to anyone."
"Thanks," John said as he took another swig. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat down for a beer.
"No problem. Though I must say, this isn't an easy thing to find, so in return tell me- what's troubling you John?"
John thought for a moment before answering, "What are your thoughts on dying for your country?"
"Hey, you can't answer a question with a question," Bill remarked.
"I know, but it might help answer it."
Bill took a long swig of beer before setting it back down. Clasping his hands under his chin, he looked John straight in the eyes and said, "When you're called to arms, you must be prepared to die. You can try to survive, try to cling to life, but death eventually gets all of us. You can't go believing that you always have more time, because you can slip and fall a second later. I think dying for my country is a more honourable option than most."
"I thought as much," John sighed. He finished his beer in one, long mouthful and stood to leave.
"We will be remembered, John. Keep that in mind."
John wrote more in his journal than he ever had previously. He filled pages and pages with his tumultuous thoughts, torrents of questions, trying to find some sort of philosophical reason why he should allow this to happen to him. Was he being selfish with his incessant self-preservation? Did he have an overzealous will to live that others did not share? He had never asked to be part of this war; it had been forced upon him, just as this death sentence had. The excitation of battle dimmed when one knew it was hopeless, but he couldn't hide from it. He had spent years building up his character, becoming brave and steady, so why now was this imminent threat to his life shocking to him? He knew war, he knew fear, and even he himself had decided whether a man should be saved or not. In a panic he realized that he was no different from his superiors, he had taken on the role of the reaper numerous times before. But that was different, he reasoned, those men were already dying. Now it was perfectly healthy men sent to slaughter.
He had been a rock to other men in the field, resilient, strong. To show cowardice now was shameful. But to resolve to accept his fate raged against his entire being.
When he found that he could finally write no more, dusk had fallen, and the smells of the canteen filled the camp. He had not eaten much since morning, and his stomach twisted and churned, but not from hunger. Dimly he remembered that Sherlock too had to be looked after. On the eve of his demise he was entrusted to preserve the life of another, he thought bitterly, but instantly felt shamed. No, he couldn't blame him. Sherlock was very much in a situation like John himself. His life was in someone else's hands now, and should it be decided, it would be snuffed out.
Quitting his tent with a small bag slung over his shoulder, he headed to grab two plates from the canteen. The meal looked a bit more appetising tonight, but looks could always be deceiving. As he passed the lines of soldiers eating- some their last meal- he caught sight of Bill. His face seemed pale and his movements sluggish. John figured that the rest of the men had finally been briefed. Bill looked up from picking at his meal, colour returning to his cheeks as he waved John over. John simply raised his hand in decline, hoping Bill had seen the two plates and understood. He made a promise to himself that he would walk with Bill on their way to the airfields tomorrow.
He once again made the inured trek to the tent that held Sherlock, nodding to the bored looking sentries as he passed between them. They broke the conversation they had to admit him, immediately resuming after John had disappeared inside.
Sherlock was sitting upright this time, and John noticed how he stopped wiggling his feet when he entered. Routinely, he took off Sherlock's gag.
"Hello Captain Watson," he greeted in his deep, rich voice, but John noticed how it was strained.
"Good guess," John scoffed as he lifted away the blindfold, once again feeling the odd, electric sensation as Sherlock's steely eyes pierced through him. They glistened with pain. "I should check your ribs," he stated, and while a look of discomfort crossed Sherlock's face, he did not object. Slowly he lifted Sherlock's shirt, noticing how he winced, and unwound the bandages that covered his chest, fiercely aware of Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his skull as he did. He probed the fracture lightly, and Sherlock let out a small hiss.
"You weren't in that much agony this morning," he said as he noticed the inflammation around the dark bruise.
"Pain is just a bodily function, a response to a situation. It's merely a nuisance which I can usually ignore," Sherlock sucked in another breath of air as John touched the spot again.
"Yeah, but broken ribs usually hurt like hell." John smiled, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this man was.
"I don't see how this is amus-ahahh!"
"You should be lying down, it would be more comfortable." He was a bit concerned about the inflammation around the wound. Slowly, John reached up his arm to lay the underside of his wrist against Sherlock's forehead, his skin prickling into gooseflesh as Sherlock's breath ticked his forearm. His head was warm, but not quite feverish.
"Besides, how does one go about ignoring a broken rib?" he asked after gauging Sherlock's temperature. He began to rewrap his chest.
"Usually I occupy myself, but it's so boring here. I can't stand being so…stagnant. I feel like my brain is ripping itself apart. I even lowered myself to listening on the guards' conversation, but even that makes me want to dash my brains out."
John hoped to God that the sentries weren't discussing military plans outside a prisoner's tent. He'd flay them.
"I mean," Sherlock continued, "It's obvious that this man by the name 'Irving' doesn't actually exist, and an American is the one blacking out all their letters. They haven't noticed the double signature or the tomato stains yet …" Sherlock suddenly stopped and doubled over. John, who had no idea what on earth the man was talking about, had accidentally jabbed his thumb into Sherlock's ribs as he wrapped them.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed, and noticed how a small red spot began to seep into the cotton gauze. "I… think I found the tomato stains."
Sherlock breathed a short, huffy laugh. "Glad someone sees it."
John sat back on his heels, loosing himself in thought for a moment before turning to rummage around his bag. He pulled out a small, labeled botte. The painkillers again, only four tablets showed through the tinted glass. He felt as though it didn't matter who they were used on anymore. Shaking out one of tablets into his palm, he grabbed his flask of water and turned to Sherlock.
"Here, this will help."
"10mg of morphine." He said, looking at the small white pill, "Not to sound ungrateful, but I'd raise it to twenty. I've…built up a little resistance."
John fetched another pill, not really caring about their value anymore. He put them in Sherlock's mouth and gave him a drink of water to wash it down.
"You should probably eat something with that, I brought dinner anyways." John took a bite out of what he guessed where potatoes before he offered Sherlock a spoonful from the other plate.
"No."
"Come on, you haven't eaten anything since you got here yesterday."
"I'm alright for another few days, really." John nearly choked.
"Days? How often do you eat?"
Sherlock just looked to the ceiling as the drug began to take effect. His breathing became less laboured, and his tense shoulders relaxed.
"Hey, you're not going to get all giddy on me, are you?"
"No, this is a fairly low dose, but it is helping. Thank you Captain Watson." John decided that his military title sounded too awkward coming from Sherlock.
"John. My name is John."
Sherlock returned his gaze to him but said nothing, just watched him eat, as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all day. It probably was. For a few minutes they just sat silent in each other's company, and John was quick to notice that it didn't feel strange or uncomfortable. It felt almost as if he could relax.
"What's troubling you?"
"What?" John asked, looking up from his meal.
"You're quiet. This morning you were eager to engage in conversation, but now you're quiet."
"Oh, it's nothing really."
"There are graphite marks on the side of your palm, and your thumb and index fingers are indented, meaning you've been holding a pencil for a while. The depth of the indents means you've been gripping it hard, from either tension or excitement. I can't see you as an artist, which means you've been writing a lot. And you wouldn't write so much unless it was a detailed letter or journal where much needed to be said. You also have the slight scent of alcohol on your breath, and that is a very hard thing to find on the battlefield, let alone on Sicily itself. So what is so important that you would need a drink, certainly not a celebration judging from your proneness to slip into silence? And all that screams that 'nothing really' is happening." Sherlock inhaled and shifted slightly. "So, John, what's troubling you?"
John briefly wondered if Sherlock had been given a few good smacks before and still not had learned to shut up. Maybe he was a spoiled child. At first he decided not to answer him, as that would be giving away military movement information. However he could tell him one thing.
"We're moving you to a camp."
"There are no Allied prisoner of war camps, you only just landed here yesterday. So, who have you been ordered to invade John?"
"Damnit." John was beginning to feel annoyed.
Sherlock smirked. "Obviously not here, since you said 'moving,' and obviously you're coming with me as you said 'we're'. Plus why would you be upset about me? You're quiet because this brings your own life into concern."
John gave Sherlock and exasperated look. "I can't tell you that."
"Why, do you think I'll run off and tattle on you to the Nazi's?"
"Yes."
Sherlock sighed, lowering his head to his chest. "John, I want to make it clear that I never want to go back to that place. I told you earlier: I want to live."
"Don't we all." John roughly slammed down his plate and rose to leave the tent.
"John, wait! John!" Sherlock called after him, but it fell on deaf ears. "Listen, I can help you."
"Can you now?" John whirled around, suddenly furious, chest heaving. "What does it matter? Tomorrow I'll be dead, you probably will be too. You think you can stop that?"
"You're forgetting who I am." Sherlock said, a certain power leeching into his voice, commanding John to listen. "If you were to die tomorrow, so be it. But have you even lost the will to try and live?"
"No," John breathed heavily, trying to control his flaring anger. Trying to make sense of all the confusion, and the submission he was subject to. "No I want to live, more than any of the men out there who've accepted this as gospel."
"Then that makes two of us."
John looked Sherlock in the eyes, and there was no mistaking the fire that had sprung to life in them.
"I can help you John Watson. I can help you and I escape this miserable place. I can win this war. You want to live? Well here's your chance."
John stood rigid. Yes, he did want out. Yes, he did want to escape. Yes, he did want to live.
"Alright. I'm listening."
Author's Note
I'm hoping some of you catch the reference. It's one of my favourite books, which also happened in WW2 Italy.
It should be obvious who Richart Brooke is. Sorry, I didn't leave much to the imagination.
Actually, I must thank soror noctis for bringing up the Gestapo. While I've already planned out Mycroft's part in this story, I was initially unsure of where I would put Moriarty and Sebastian. Originally they were simply going to be Nazi's in the Hermann Goering Division, but they fit the Gestapo so much better.
Also, thanks for all the faves and watches! Those as well as reviews are really encouraging! Happy Easter everyone!