"Hey, Newkirk, I think there were a couple of potholes you missed. Any chance we could go back and have another go?" said Adams, poking his head through the canvas flap which separated the back of the truck from the cabin.
"Give over," growled Newkirk, without taking his eyes off the road. "Or get out and walk. I don't mind either way. Matter of fact, we'll get there faster if we lose some weight back there."
"We could always dump the Krauts in the nearest ditch," said Kellet, who was wedged between Newkirk and O'Brien in the front. "That fat guy's been giving me the stink-eye ever since we nabbed him."
Newkirk uttered a sarcastic laugh. "Kellet, if everyone who gave you a nasty look got chucked in a ditch, we'd have half of Stalag 13 up to their arses in mud."
The truck bumped over a groove in the road surface, and a chorus of complaints issued from the men in the back, eliciting an irritable response from Newkirk: "All right, settle down. We're almost there."
He glanced in the side mirror, checking whether Kurt's car was still following. They had managed to fit six men into the Opel, but even so, the truck was overloaded. The motor had struggled on the slightest upward incline, and Newkirk, fully aware of the disaster that would result from taking a bend too fast, drove with uncharacteristic caution, not that he received any thanks for it.
"I'll be glad when this little excursion's over," he muttered.
The road descended, winding through the forest which gradually got denser, until finally the staff car came into sight. "What the blazes...?" murmured Newkirk.
Something was wrong. The car's headlights were on full beam, illuminating the sturdy form of Wilson, who, with the girl Cecilie in attendance, was crouched over a body lying prostrate on the rough grass between the road and the trees. There was nobody else in sight. From this distance, Newkirk couldn't tell who the casualty was, but he felt his heart rate speed up uncomfortably. He brought the truck to a sudden halt with no consideration for the comfort of his passengers, and was out of the cabin before anyone could protest.
"What happened?" he demanded roughly. "Where's Colonel Hogan?"
"Weber got away," replied Wilson, without looking up. "Colonel's gone after him."
"Which way?"
Wilson sighed. "Forget it, Newkirk. There's enough guys running around in the woods already without the rest of you joining in. Okay, major, take it easy."
The injured man had given voice to a low groan. Newkirk couldn't help feeling relieved to discover it was Staller. "What's his problem?" he asked.
"Shot in the back."
The other men were descending from the truck, and from Kurt's little car. The Underground leader came to join Newkirk. "Trouble?"
"Looks like it. You better have those lads from Düsseldorf ready to go. You too, Cecilie," said Newkirk, with a glance at the girl who was holding a makeshift pad over Staller's wound while Wilson tried to strap it into place with strips torn from the major's shirt. "Where's Dieter? Is he off after our friend as well?"
Wilson shot him a quick glance. "Dieter's dead," he said.
Kurt swore under his breath. "How?"
"That's a good question," replied the medic. "You'll have to ask - well, speak of the devil."
A little group of men had emerged from the forest. LeBeau and Hammond came first, holding a surly Weber between them. Kinch was just behind them, then Carter, stumbling a little but managing under his own steam, and Hogan brought up the rear.
Newkirk hurried forward, then stopped, unable to decide whether Kinch or Carter needed help the most. But Carter settled the matter, pushing past him, going straight to where Staller was lying. For a few moments he stared at the major, then he turned away, went back towards the trees, and abruptly sat down on the ground.
Hogan dropped on one knee beside Wilson. "How bad is it?"
"Well, he won't be getting on the truck," replied Wilson, without looking up.
Staller was still breathing, shallow, harsh breaths interspersed with gasping moans. "Is he conscious?" asked Hogan.
"In and out."
Apparently, Staller heard Hogan's voice. His eyelids flickered open, and he uttered what sounded like an attempt to speak. "Easy, now, major," said Wilson.
"Where..." It was scarcely above a whisper. Then Staller made an extra effort, and forced the question out: "Where's Carter?"
"He's here." Hogan glanced in Carter's direction.
Staller smiled faintly, and closed his eyes again.
"He probably saved Carter's life, Colonel," remarked Wilson quietly. "Weber took at least two shots at him."
Before Hogan could respond, Kurt came up, his expression serious. "Colonel Hogan, is it true about Dieter?"
"I'm afraid so," said Hogan, standing up. "I don't know the whole story yet, but obviously Weber's even more trouble than we thought."
He glanced at the Underground men from Düsseldorf. They looked tough enough, dressed in the SS uniforms confiscated from Eisner's men. "Can they handle five prisoners between them?"
The three men laughed grimly. "We have the guns, Colonel," one of them said. "And none of us would hesitate to use them. Nor would Cecilie."
The girl had risen to her feet, her eyes fixed on Weber. One look at her, and Hogan had no doubt. She would shoot, if she had to.
"Okay, get him on the truck, and get going," said Hogan. "You've got a long drive ahead of you."
"What about him?" asked Kurt, jerking his chin at Staller.
"He'll have to stay behind, for now," replied Hogan.
He stepped forward, as the Düsseldorf men escorted Weber towards the truck. "Hold it. Tell me something, Weber. How'd you get loose?"
Weber glared at him. "Figure it out for yourself, Schweine."
Hogan hadn't really expected anything else, but it had been worth a try. But Weber hadn't finished. A gleam of pure spite kindled in his eyes, the cruel malice of a man who believed he had nothing left to lose. "Aren't you going to ask about Carter? That was just business. I had a job to do, he got in the way."
"Get him out of here," said Hogan in a low voice, and turned away. Weber was manhandled into the truck. Two of the Underground men climbed into the back, the third got behind the steering wheel.
Cecilie lingered for a moment. "Thank you, Colonel," she said. "If you and your people had not helped us..." She glanced at Carter. "That man especially. Please thank him for me."
"I'll do that. Go on, your ride's waiting."
She held out her hand, and he gripped it for a moment. Then she ran to the truck. Hogan watched as it jerked into motion, and trundled out of sight.
"What did Weber mean by that, Colonel?" asked Newkirk. He had been standing just behind Hogan, and must have heard Weber's last shot.
Hogan tried to think of an answer, but LeBeau, in all innocence, saved him the trouble. "Isn't it obvious? He just tried to strangle Carter, and before that he almost shot him. Espèce de salaud!"
It was sufficient explanation for now. Hogan left it at that, and turned his attention to Kurt. "You'd better get back to town, before you're missed."
"Is there nothing else I can help with?"
"I don't think so," said Hogan. "Our part's done, almost." He frowned slightly as he looked at Staller.
Kurt seemed to follow his thoughts. "If we can get him to Hammelburg, perhaps we might be able to find a doctor who would treat him without notifying the authorities."
But Hogan, reading the look on Wilson's face, shook his head. "I don't think that's an option, Kurt. We'll deal with it."
"As you wish," said Kurt. "Good luck."
He returned to his car, and drove away, while Hogan turned his attention to the prisoners still standing round, in their various uniforms of SS and Luftwaffe. "Okay, back to camp. Don't all go at once, we don't want to make it too easy for the guards. Groups of two or three, a few minutes apart. Newkirk and LeBeau, you stay here. I'll need you, later."
"You'll find Davis back along the path a way," Wilson put in over his shoulder. "He's got concussion, so don't try to move him till I get there."
"Wilson, can you spare a moment to look at Kinch's shoulder?" said Hogan. "One of Weber's shots grazed him."
"Sure. Can't do much more here," replied Wilson. But his curtness didn't fool anyone.
Staller appeared to be drowsing, but he stirred as the medic moved away and Hogan took his place. "What...what happened? " His voice slurred over the words, and he blinked, and turned his head slightly.
"Just take it easy," said Hogan. "You took a bullet, remember?"
"Uh...yeah..." Staller moved, as if he was trying to find the strength to push himself upright. The effort drew a sharp, pained gasp, and Hogan put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
"You'd better keep still, major," he said, in an even, steady tone. It must have been reassuring, because Staller's restlessness eased off, and after a minute he sank back into unconsciousness.
Hogan looked around. The men were gradually dispersing, in small groups as ordered, except for Newkirk and LeBeau. Those two, in the absence of further orders, had gravitated towards Carter, who remained where he had dropped, a few feet from Staller.
Wilson finished with Kinch. "Yeah, you're right, it's just a scratch. Take it slow going back to camp," he said gruffly. "You guys, keep an eye on him."
Kinch glanced at Hogan, who nodded. There was nothing a wounded man could do here, even if the injury was minor. Reluctantly, with O'Brien and Hammond in attendance, he set off for Stalag 13.
Wilson had come back to where Staller was lying. "It's not too serious," he told Hogan. "But he'll have to take it easy for a couple of weeks. You want me to take a look at Carter before he heads back?"
Carter spoke up for himself. "I'm fine, Wilson." Perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from near strangulation, his voice sounded hoarser than usual.
"Maybe, but it can't hurt," said Hogan. "It's an order, Carter. And afterwards you can head for home with the others." He nodded towards Adams and Kellet, the last to go.
"Is Carter still here?" The question came in a confused mumble from Staller, who had roused up again. "I...I want to talk to him."
"Not a good idea right now, Staller," said Hogan, with a glance at Carter, who shook his head slightly, staring at Staller with narrowed eyes and pinched lips.
Somehow, Staller found the strength to lift his hand and grasp Hogan's arm. "You said...back at Stalag 13...said I could talk to him. Three minutes." He broke off, breathless, then made an extra effort. "Sending me back to London...last chance...please..."
"Major, you're not - " Wilson broke off abruptly, at the look he got from Hogan. "I'll go and look at Carter," he finished up.
It didn't take long for him to make a quick assessment. "You're going to have some spectacular bruises in the next couple of days," he remarked, peering at the marks Weber's fingers had left on Carter's neck. "But I don't think there's permanent damage."
"Uh-huh," muttered Carter. He was still gazing at Staller, his hostile, closed expression gradually giving way under the weight of uncertainty.
For a few seconds nobody spoke. Kellet fidgeted, Adams cleared his throat, Newkirk frowned slightly as his eyes moved from Carter to Staller and back again.
"Thanks, Wilson," said Hogan. "You better head back with the other guys."
Wilson's eyes turned instinctively to Staller. "But..."
The objection never even got off the ground. "You've done all you can here," said Hogan. "Go and see to Davis, and then get back to camp. I'll look after Staller."
"What about Carter?" asked LeBeau. "Shouldn't he go as well?"
Hogan glanced at Carter. "It's up to him."
Wilson gave an irritable grunt, but at a look from Hogan he subsided. Carter didn't say anything, nor did he seem to be thinking of leaving. Wilson hung around for a few seconds longer, then with obvious reluctance followed Kellet and Adams on the path back to camp. Their departure left Hogan with just his first string team.
"Newkirk, you and LeBeau get the staff car off the road," he said. "Take it down the road a bit, so you don't get bogged. And before you leave it, make sure we haven't left anything in it that can be traced back to Stalag 13."
"That's not really a two-man job, Colonel," Newkirk pointed out. "You don't think one of us should stay here in case there's any trouble?"
"No, there's no need. Get going." It was clearly an order, and delivered in a tone of voice his men knew well. Newkirk muttered under his breath, and stalked over to the car, with LeBeau just behind him.
The vehicle took off, and the low growl of its motor softened into distance. Hogan was left with just Carter and Staller, and the prospect of a conversation he wasn't sure he should even allow to happen. He didn't know what the major wanted so desperately to say, but he knew one thing, with absolute certainty.
Staller might have saved Carter's life tonight, but it didn't cancel out the past. Even if he was dying, Hogan wouldn't let him inflict any further grief.