THREE

Patrick jolted awake to the sensation of a hand clamping down on his mouth. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and he immediately tensed his muscles and tried to move his arms, but he could not. He was trapped on his left side with his right arm being pinned down by someone's body draped over him. His breath came in short spurts as panic blossomed in his gut, but then he felt soft fingertips at his temple. They dusted back through his hair in a tender motion and repeated the process twice over.

His alarm slowly being overtaken by confusion, he considered the gentleness of the action as well as the weight draped over him, which was not all that heavy. His first thought was of Sarah, but if it was her, what was she doing in the middle of the night, waking him, and nearly suffocating him?

He slowly began to release the tension in his muscles and, as he did so, the weight atop him relaxed as well. Within a minute he was able to sit up, though the hand remained over his mouth. Fortunately, it was almost a full moon so, when he sat up and was able to turn his head towards the edge of the loft, he saw it was Sarah who had interrupted his slumber. When their eyes met, she pressed a single finger against her lips and he nodded, understanding the universal sign for quiet.

She lowered her hand from his mouth and turned her body so she faced him more directly. She pointed to him then to herself then towards the ladder. Frustrated, he grabbed her hand and gestured with it towards his ankle. As he had been ready to escape for quite some time, he would have happily absconded into the night with her, but that was impossible with his leg shackled to the floor.

Confusingly, he saw her grin. She twisted behind her and procured something very large which she slid into his lap. Upon further examination, he discovered it was a very large pair of bolt cutters. He simultaneously felt the urge to laugh and groan for that was the tool he had been desiring since his arrival—the one she claimed she could not procure. If only she had brought them to him weeks ago! But he supposed it was better to be late than not to have brought them at all.

While the moonlight was presently shining near their faces, his leg was located in a darker section of the loft, so it took him several moments to position the bolt cutter close enough to his leg to release the chains, but not so close as to risk injuring himself in the dark. It took him two tries, but he managed to sever the chain and pull his leg free.

By the time he'd swung his legs around, she was already climbing down the ladder. He waited until he heard her footsteps on the barn floor before grabbing his blanket off the bed and following her. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the barn door where there was another slice of moonlight. She again pressed her fingers to her lips and then beckoned for her to follow.

Patrick took in a slow breath before following her outside. He was quite literally putting his life in her hands. If she were to double cross him and lead him to the Italians, he would be dead within minutes. Given that each day of his captivity provided more peril for him, he supposed it wasn't much of a risk. He probably had only days, perhaps a week, to live otherwise. A bullet to the head would surely be a more charitable death than being worked to the bone in the miserable cold. Despite his suffering, he did want to live, so he decided to trust Sarah as much as he could have trusted anyone in that situation. He took ahold of her hand and followed her into the night.

The night air stung Patrick's face as she led them out of the barn, hugging the side of the building as she went, though he hardly noticed; his focused remained on gazing around the immediate area to ensure no Italian soldiers popped up and killed them instantly. With his hand in hers, Sarah led the way around the edge of the barn and towards the kitchens rather than the hospital. They dashed across the open grass space to seek shelter behind the kitchens and followed the process again when they reached the edge of the kitchen building. This stage of their journey was more precarious because that building was partially dilapidated and thus provided less shelter. Patrick had to crawl along the ground to be hidden by the partially fallen wall, but he managed to remain obscured.

At this point, she paused, turned back to him and pointed towards their right. A three-meter stone wall surrounded the hospital grounds, but there was a gap in that area of the wall due to a fallen tree. The gap wasn't large, and the tree took up most of it, but it seemed to be their only option for escape. Though they had not yet seen any patrol guards, the main exit to the hospital towards the main road was always heavily watched and thus not a viable option.

Sarah went first, using one foot on the wall and one on the trunk of the tree to hoist herself up and through the gap. Patrick followed once she'd disappeared and found the climb to be a bit more challenging than she had made it seem—and he wasn't even wearing a dress! His foot slipped twice against the trunk of the tree until he managed to lift himself up and through the gap. His movements weren't graceful, and he landed a bit harder than he'd realized, which made him grunt involuntarily.

He didn't even have half a second to worry if the noise had been heard, for she immediately grabbed onto his hand and gave it a tug. He followed and they broke into a run, moving towards the main road, but keeping to the grassy area along the stone wall. A few meters from the end of the wall, she darted further right and pulled him behind a large tree. With her palms on his chest, she pushed his back against the trunk and then stood very closely to him.

"The Americans are twenty-five kilometers west. Follow the road but stay hidden by the trees. If you hurry, you can make it by sunrise."

Patrick's brain felt as though it was short circuiting for not only was this self-proclaimed mute woman speaking to him, but she was doing so in a recognizable accent!

"You—You're Scottish?" he blurted out in a tone louder than he should have.

Her hand immediately clamped down over his mouth, she shut her eyes, and tilted her head towards the hospital. They both listened intently, but when nothing could be heard but the rustling of the few remaining leaves in the tree above them, she continued just above a whisper. "You cannot turn back, do you understand? You'll be killed if you do."

He grunted and jerked his head around until she removed her hand. He stared down at her breathing heavily for several seconds before whispering, "Who are you?"

"There isn't time. You must go."

"But, but…" he spluttered, now almost convinced that he was having a very intense dream. "Are you a spy?"

Before she could open her mouth, they heard shouts and immediately crouched down together. He peered cautiously around the edge of the tree and saw two guards standing on the outside of the stone wall. They appeared to be causally talking, but their presence surely would increase the difficulty of his escape.

He was still watching them a minute later when he felt her hand press against his chest. "Good luck," she whispered into his ear. He could feel her trying to move away from him, so he caught her by the wrist and held her in place.

"Where are you going?" He watched her point back towards the hospital and his face scrunched as his brain rejected the idea. "Are you mad? They'll know you helped me escape. You'll be killed."

"We'd be easy to spot together."

He shook his head. While he understood that two people together may have been easier to spot than a solo traveler, he simply could not, in good conscience, leave her behind. She had helped free him from his chains; he would not have been able to escape were it not for her. He owed her his life and he was going to return the favor by saving hers.

"We need to stay together. It's not safe for either of us back there."

She gazed at him for half a minute before dipping her chin in a nod. He nodded in return knowing their fate had been sealed. They would either surrender to the Americans by morning or they'd be killed in the process. Either way, remaining at the hospital was most certainly a death sentence, so moving forward was their only possible means of survival.

"So, which way is west?"

She smiled softly and pointed in the direction of the hospital, which meant they needed to pass in front of it to continue towards safety. That was unfortunate, but not impossible since there was a fair amount of tree cover across the road.

They waited five more minutes before the guards disappeared back inside the archway leading to the hospital. They exchanged looks and ran to the street, when they reached it, they slowed so their feet would not slap loudly against the pavement. Once in the grass on the other side, they ran once again and ducked behind the closest trees.

Patrick slowed his breath as best he could, his eyes trained on the entrance to the hospital, but he did not see any of the guards in the gap of the stone wall. He felt Sarah tug on his arm, and he looked towards her. She was pointing west and beckoning for him to follow. He nodded, threw his woolen blanket around his shoulders like a cape, and followed her into the night.

Sister Bernadette shivered as she lay on the cold, damp earth. Her companion did what he could to move his woolen blanket further onto her body, but with them trying to be silent and unnoticed he couldn't do much. At least being this close to him was moderately warmer than having her full body exposed to the night air, but that wasn't saying much.

If she had anticipating fleeing into the night with him, she would have grabbed the blanket from her cot and not just Maria's cardigan. Then again, she supposed she was rather foolish to think she could procure bolt cutters, help Patrick escape into the night, and then simply get back into bed as though nothing had happened and expect the following day to progress as normal and without intense suspicion drawn her way. Truthfully, she had not been thinking about herself at all; her entire focus was on setting him free, for he was the one in imminent danger.

From the way he had been treated over the prior week, she knew the Italians did not intend to keep him alive much longer, but despite her frequent prayers she was at a loss for what to do. Every time she brought him a tray of food and saw his leg shackled her despair grew. Trying to escape during the daylight seemed a guaranteed death sentence, but making a move overnight was rendered impossible by his chains. Then, two days prior, she'd watched one of the guard dogs chase a rabbit towards the rear of the property only to have its collar become caught on some wire fencing. The pitiful yelps were what drew her attention as she was hanging laundry. She tried to appear busy with her task but was actually watching the scene at the fence play out. She watched the guard use the bolt cutters to free the dog, which then pranced about as if nothing had gone wrong, before returning to tool to the shed. This brought her great joy as she knew the shed was mainly kept unlocked as it had only a lawn mower, wheelbarrow, and other assorted items to maintain the hospital grounds; she had not previously known there were bolt cutters.

When God allowed her to see such an important tool, she knew the "how" part of their escape, but the "when" remained in question. It had begun to rain shortly thereafter, and she knew any sort of inclement weather would lessen his chances of success. She remained worried about the following day as well, but then she had overheard a conversation that left her no choice but to act.

Electricity at the hospital had always been spotty, particularly in the late afternoon and evening. As such, the officers kept oil lamps in their offices to use as a source of light when the power went off. One of her duties was to make sure the fuel in the lamps was always topped off so they would be readily available when needed. While she was filling the lamp in the captain's office, she heard someone ask if they were still on schedule to remove "their British problem." The captain confirmed it would be taken care of the following day and said nothing more about it, but that was enough to leave Sister Bernadette horror struck.

Listening to two men discuss ending someone's life as casually as they did the need to order more medical supplies was sickening enough, but when that man was as kind and helpful as Patrick? It was unfathomable! While she intellectually understood that these things were simply a part of war, her heart could not accept it. God had allowed her to hear that conversation and so she knew it was her responsibility to save him before the unthinkable could take place.

After saying her prayers that night and making sure everyone but the night patrolmen were in bed, she stole across the hospital yard, retrieved the bolt cutters, and made her way to Patrick. She had been worried about startling him to the point where he made noise or, worse, lashed out against her for fearing she was a soldier with malicious intent, but thanks to the moonlight he had recognized her swiftly.

When her plan commenced, she knew she would have to reveal herself to him, for there was no way for her to mime the information she needed to tell him. As she had been contemplating doing so for a little while, she had no problem with the necessity. Had their situation not been so dire, she might have even found his shocked reaction to her message rather amusing.

In hindsight, the surprise she felt when he suggested she accompany him was rather ridiculous. He was entirely correct that when morning came, and he was discovered absent she would be high on the list of suspects. Going back and continuing her "idiot village girl" façade surely would have been a death sentence, but she had not fully processed it until she heard him say it. For that, she was grateful.

All things considered, their escape from the hospital went well. Other than the cold and the dampness of the ground seeping into her shoes, they did not encounter any issue getting past the front of the hospital and continuing westward. They moved in silence for several kilometers before they heard an engine approaching and had flung themselves behind the nearest felled tree for cover.

They lay still for nearly ten minutes until they could no longer hear the engine and Patrick whispered, "I think we can get up."

She agreed, pushed herself up, and immediately grimaced, for her back was now quite damp. She tucked her arms tightly around herself, but still shivered until she felt the warm woolen blanket drape over her shoulders. "No, you shouldn't."

"We'll share it," he said kindly. "You wear it for a little while, then I'll take it back."

"Thank you."

They walked another kilometer in silence before he asked, "How did you know where the Americans would be?"

"Oh…I often hear them talking about where the lines are when I bring them coffee for their meetings. About a week ago, when I was cleaning up after dinner, I saw the captain had left a map out on his desk. So, after I was mean to be in bed, I snuck back in and looked at it for as long as it took for me to figure out where we are compared to where they are. I've been trying to find a way back to the allies, too."

Had Patrick not also been a captive, she would have left as soon as she'd determined where she needed to go to find the Allies. God had given her a more important task, though, and she had to follow through on it, particularly when she was his only ally.

She glanced over to see that he was eyeing her curiously, so she asked, "What is it?"

"You still never answered my question: who are you?"

"It doesn't matter."

He stepped around in front of her, halting her progress. "It's the only thing that matters. Remembering who we were before all this helps ensure we don't lose ourselves in it. So, I ask, who are you? Or, can you not tell me the truth because you work for MI6?"

She cracked a smile as she continued to walk. "I am not a spy."

"That is precisely what a spy would say."

"But I am not. I am—or was—a nurse. I graduated from the London and worked for about six months before joining the war effort. The group I was traveling with was ambushed by the Italians. Most were killed, but I escaped. I was lost for days before I stumbled upon the hospital and Maria, the cook, and I was able to blend in as the silly village girl."

"But you pretended to be mute because you did not understand Italian?" he guessed.

"Because I cannot speak without this accent," she confessed.

He laughed lightly. "I suppose that would be quite the give-away." They were quiet for several more minutes before he asked, "Can I ask you something else? Why didn't you cut me free before tonight?"

"I would have if I had been able to. I only found the bolt cutters two nights ago. I'm so sorry for how they've been treating you." Though she hadn't the time to watch him every hour of the day, during her trips between the kitchen and the hospital she'd seen him out in the yard digging holes—graves. In the months she had been there, she'd never seen them bury their dead on the hospital grounds; they had always been hauled away. Thus, she concluded they made him do it as a means of torture and it made her feel wretched.

"It's not your fault," he said gently. "In fact, I owe you a great deal. You are a very clever young woman."

"I was only following God's guidance. Now, how about you tell me how you ended up here? We have many kilometers to go, and this talking seems to be helping my face feel warmer."

As another shiver traveled down his spine, Patrick shut his eyes and reminded himself that as miserable as he was at present, his situation was far better than it had been several hours earlier when he was hopelessly shackled to a thin mattress expecting every day to be his last. They were wandering through the Italian countryside hoping that the young nurse beside him had correctly read a military map, which certainly could have been a recipe for disaster, but at least they were far away from the hospital. At least, if they came upon the enemy, he would die fighting instead of chained like a dog.

To say that the prior few days had been far and above the worst of his life was truly saying something given his experience in Italy to date. His captors had informed him that he needed to dig graves by hand, which would have been a difficult enough task given that the cold weather made the earth quite firm, but he had also been instructed to carry the bodies of dead soldiers to those graves to complete the burial process. The only tool he had been provided to accomplish this was a shovel with a broken handle that cut splinters deep into his hand with practically every strike to the ground. Between the cold, the exhaustion, the disease he was exposing himself to by carrying the rotting bodies, he truly was not sure what would kill him first. He'd actually begun to long for one of the guard's bullets just to end his suffering.

Sarah had been the only sliver of light through the darkness of despair. She'd cleaned his hands each night and applied bandages to the blisters. He even suspected she was giving him some of her own food rations as his bowls of soup and porridge seemed fuller than ever. He'd been too depleted to even thank her properly at the time, but hopefully once they were safe behind American lines, he would have the opportunity to tell her how much he appreciated all her efforts.

Just as dawn began to break above them, Patrick could hear sounds of heavy machinery and felt his chest tighten in anticipation. Save their sprint past the entrance to the hospital, this would be the most treacherous part of their journey. They not only needed to convince the Americans of their identity as allies, but they needed to hope the American's did not shoot them before they had a chance to speak. The soldiers were most likely not expecting a duo of Brits—or anyone for that matter—to surrender at dawn, which meant encountering a trigger-happy one did not have as slim odds as he would have preferred.

The louder the noises grew, the more purposefully they walked, keeping to the trees and shadows until they could see a barricade up ahead. He grabbed on to her arm and pulled her down behind some bushes to establish a plan of surrender.

"Let me go first," he said quietly. "If they shoot me, you can still get away."

"But where would I go?" she replied. He shrugged, as he didn't have an answer for that. "You should let me go first; a woman will be less threatening."

"But if I reveal myself after you, they could think you were hiding me and assume we are launching some sort of attack," he rationalized.

She frowned. "Oh…I suppose you're right."

He touched her shoulder kindly. "I'm not worried, but…just in case: thank you for all you have done for me."

"You are welcome, but I was only doing what God asked of me."

He knowledge in acknowledgement and then added, "I hope to you see you again soon." Sucking in a deep breath, he stood up from and moved with as much confidence as he could muster to the road so he could approach. When he got within visual distance of the Americans, he raised his arms above his head and shouted, "Help! Please help!"

Immediately, guns were trained in his direction, and he was ordered to stop, so he did so along with the explanation, "I am with the RAMC, but I was captured."

"What's the RAMC?" one soldier called to him.

"Royal Army Medical Corp."

"What country is that?"

"England."

Three soldiers approached and told him to get on his knees; he complied. One circled around behind him while the other two stayed in front. "You got any identification?"

"No, that was taken from me when I was captured. I am Lieutenant Patrick Turner, and I am a doctor. I've been a hostage of the Italians for…I don't know, a few months. I can provide you the name of my superior officers in the British Army. Perhaps you can contact them."

"He could be lying," one of the soldiers wisely concluded.

"Yeah, but he sounds like them. And if he's a doctor we could use him. Rollins was shot yesterday."

"No shit, was he?"

"Yeah, right through the leg."

As the Americans continued to discuss the fate of their doctor, Patrick's legs began to tremble, and he sat back on his heels only to be jabbed in the back by the muzzle of a weapon. "Don't move."

"I—I'm sorry. I'm just very cold; I've been walking all night." He explained. He'd also been without the blanket for several hours as he'd allowed Sarah to keep it; the sight of her shivering had been quite distressing.

"We best get him back and let the commanders sort him out. You have a weapon on you?"

"No, no weapons."

"Good. Get up, put your hands behind your back, and don't try anything funny," the soldier instructed. Patrick did as he was told and was led by two soldiers down the road towards their base. He wondered how long Sarah would wait before revealing herself but hoped she didn't wait too long to get inside and out of the elements.

Patrick was not sure for how long he was detained in the rear of one the American transport vehicles. He'd been provided a canteen of water for which he was grateful, but no blanket or warmer clothes. At least the closed sides of the truck blocked the wind, but he did not get to take advantage of any sun, either. Finally, the rear of the truck was opened, and he heard and American voice say, "Lieutenant? You can come out now."

Feeling a glimmer of hope, Patrick slid his way out of the truck and saw the sun was quite high in the sky, meaning he'd been inside for several hours. He gazed at the uniformed officer before him, a blonde, blue-eyed man who Patrick guessed to be nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and waited for further instruction. "My name is Captain Jameson. I've just gotten off the horn with British command, and we have confirmed your identity. We're going to try and get you back to your unit, but as you can imagine that's going to take some time to work out the logistics."

"I completely understand. Thank you, Captain."

"In the meantime, let's get you some food and we'll see what kind of clothing we can come up for you."

Patrick glanced down at his torn, filthy, blood-stained uniform and then looked back to the man with a very grateful, "Thank you."

He followed the captain through their makeshift camp to a tent that held a few tables and chairs. As they waited for rations, he asked, "Sorry to be a bother, but I was wondering: are you aware of a woman that surrendered shortly after I did?"

The captain looked down with I'm with surprise. "A woman?"

"Yes, a British national. We escaped the Italians together."

He shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not aware of anyone else surrendering today. It's possible she was intercepted by another team. Were you both in the same unit with the RAMC?"

"No, no. I don't know what unit she was in. We just…we both ended up at the same Italian hospital."

The captain scratched his chin and the shrugged. "Well, maybe she'll turn up. Let's get you some grub and then you can tell me everything you know about the Italian camp."

Patrick gave the man a gracious nod and then folded his arms over his chest to protect his still-sore hands from the cold air. Though he longed for food, shelter, and a decent place to lie down, Patrick's foremost thoughts remained with Sarah. He could not help but wonder if the captain was telling the truth, though he did not see a reason for him to lie. If he was being truthful and Sarah had not surrendered to his unit, he wondered how many American units were clustered in that area? Was it really likely another one had intercepted Sarah? If they had, was she being treated fairly as they tried to ascertain her identity?

Though he knew it wasn't possible, a small part of his exhausted brain, half-delirious from lack of nutrition and proper rest, wondered if Sarah had ever even existed at all, or if he'd hallucinated a woman to keep him company as he'd escaped across the Italian countryside. Certainly, stranger things would have happened during times of war. As he didn't want to question his own mental competence, he dismissed the thought from his mind. When he received his tray of food and was directed to sit at one of the closest tables, he came to the disappointing conclusion that he most likely would never see Sarah again.