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what_we_dreamTitle: Lines of Communication (1/2)
Series: Hogan's Heroes
Pairings/Characters: None; rather Carter-centric
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This is UNFINISHED, and likely to remain so.
Summary: Stalag 13 receives a wounded man and his guards, who demand his identity remain a secret. Hogan has no intention of acceding to that desire.
1944, November
It had been a long, capricious war for Derek Mercer. He had enlisted in the Wehrmacht in 1937, the son of proud parents who wanted to live in a Germany they could also be proud of, and he had been fighting for the past four and a half years to forge it for them. His division had been ordered out to Belgium in May 1940, and he had been involved in the earliest fighting there, where he had been wounded in the leg by shrapnel and sent back home. Upon recovering, he had been reassigned and sent into the Crimea. He fought on as his units were twice wiped out around him, until he was wounded again, this time in the chest, earning him a medal of distinction and a second trip home. He’d thought himself lucky to be reassigned to patrol in France, leg aching on bad nights and shoulders weaker than they had been, until the rumours of an allied landing began to circulate in earnest and he was put back into active service in preparation. He escaped the worst fighting at Normandy only to be assigned to Hurtgen and the unending nightmarish battle over 50 miles of land. By this time any wish to fight for the glory of his homeland had long since burned away to bitter ashes; all he wanted was out of the fighting. And he’d gotten his wish at last, in an assignment to transport a captured prisoner to Berlin for questioning; one single man with a guard of 10 soldiers.
It was only in keeping of fate’s fickle interest in him that now the prisoner he had been assigned to protect at all costs seemed to be dying.
The task of navigator had fallen to him, sitting in the passenger seat with the map spread over his bad leg, the sharp ache in his thigh twinging with each jolt of the truck. They had been making good time on the back roads, afraid to take the main highways for fear of bombing damage and, now that night was approaching, the bombing itself. But now Faber was shouting from the back that he thought the wretched man was sinking, and needed a doctor badly. Cursing to himself, Mercer examined the map in the fading light, rough creases obscuring the names.
“Here,” he said at last, tapping the map. “There is a prisoner of war camp only 20 miles to the west of our position. Luft Stalag 13. They will have access to a doctor, and he will be safe from the bombing there. There should be a turn off in a few minutes.”
Weiss, the driver, nodded absently, his gloved hands easy on the wheel.
Mercer could only hope the American would hold out. It was the first time he had ever had such a wish.
-------------------------------------------------
Evening roll call had just broken up, Klink already slamming the door to the Kommandantur behind him, when the truck rolled up to the gates. In the twilight, all that was visible was a pair of bright headlights and the dull sheen of a metal frame indicating a covered one tonne truck.
Hogan stopped halfway back into barracks 2 as he spotted it pulling up, his men stumbling to keep from piling into him and streaming awkwardly to either side instead. Newkirk, right behind him, tripped hard and grabbed at his superior’s shoulder to right himself, exclaiming sharply.
“Hi, guv’nor – what is it?”
Around him, Kinch, LeBeau and Carter broke off from the pack and returned to loiter by his side, hands in pockets or tucked under arms against the chilly night air.
“Who’s in the truck?” asked Hogan. He indicated it with a nod of his head, watching it closely. On the other side of the wire, the driver was arguing volubly with the gate guard. “We don’t have any scheduled drop-offs tonight.”
To his right, Kinch shrugged. “It’s no one we know; that truck’s seen some action.” Two of the tower spotlights had by now been trained on it, and in their harsh light the frame damage and extensive bullet-scratches riddling the grey metal stood out like bruises and scars.
“Right,” said Hogan. “And check out the driver arguing with Bruer. Looks like he might have a fit. Uh oh, here comes the other one.”
As they watched, the man in the passenger seat got out, stormed around the front of the truck and pulled some papers from his coat. He presented them with the attitude of a man holding a loaded gun. Bruer took one look, saluted, and ran to open the gate.
Hogan watched it all with a sharp eye. “Huh. Must’ve been a pretty big name on the dotted line. You know what it’s like trying to get Bruer to open up for anyone not on the list.”
“Look, sir, ‘e’s calling Klink now!” Newkirk pointed at the guard house, where Bruer had indeed gone to ground, rabbit-like, phone in one hand. He was out again just as the truck stopped in front of the Kommandantur, and a few seconds later Klink came hurrying out without his coat or riding crop.
Carter whistled. “Wow, look at the Iron Eagle. He’s sure got his tail feathers in a bunch!”
“No kidding,” mused Hogan, watching the colonel receiving the driver’s salute and returning it. “I’d better go see what’s up. Newkirk, see if there’s any paperwork lying around in the front of the truck.”
“Right sir.”
Hogan cut out across the compound, Newkirk following for a moment and then splitting off to head for the front of the truck as Hogan circled around the back.
Hogan had crossed two thirds of the distance when the truck’s back hatch slammed down with the harsh clank of rusty hinges. A troop of guards poured out, moving to surround the truck without waiting for orders, each holding a Karabiner rifle in a ready stance. Two men ran forward to fend him off before he was within three yards of the truck, guns aimed straight at his heart. Hogan plastered a calm look on his face and relaxed his posture, all the while watching the men’s eyes carefully. Walking right up to confront armed men straight off the Front… the things he’d become used to. The things he’d had to become used to. He let no indication of his thoughts show in his face, and picked out a light-hearted tone.
“Hey fellows, no need to get hasty here. I was just heading over to see the Kommandant. He’s over there, on the other side of the truck…” Hogan took a breezy step forward, and was stopped with the tip of a rifle pressing sharply into his chest. “Okay. I’ll take the long way ‘round.”
He stepped back and walked cautiously in a wide circle towards the back of the truck. He was stopped again before he came even with the back end, unable to see anything of its cave-like mouth. A corporal stepped out of the line, shoved his rifle up against Hogan’s chest again – this time strongly enough to bruise – and marched him forcefully back towards his barracks. Hogan opened his mouth to protest, noticed the hard intensity in the man’s eyes and the tenseness of his finger on the rifle’s trigger, and shut it again.
The corporal forced him all the way back to his men standing by the barracks; from behind he heard the scuffle as Newkirk was escorted over as well. The guards indicated the building with their rifles, and made to push them inside, ordering them in in harsh voices.
This time Hogan stood his ground in face of the weapons being waved at them, wiping all expression from his face and taking the firm tone of an officer talking to an enlisted man. “You don’t have the right to confine us to the barracks. Only the Kommandant can order that. Only Kommandant Klink,” he repeated, gesturing sharply at the man currently talking with the driver and the man with the papers.
From all the nodding and hand-waving going on in front of the Kommandantur, it was clear Klink was in full sycophant mode. He finished up almost immediately and turned to give a sharp order to the private standing guard on the Kommandantur porch; the man saluted and ran inside.
Hogan turned to Kinch, who nodded and slipped into the barracks without at word.
Klink, glancing across the compound and spotting Hogan and the men being detained by the two soldiers, hurried across towards them with arms held close against his uniform jacket and his back bent against the cold. He began speaking before he had even stopped, shouting ahead in a terse tone.
“Colonel Hogan, all men are confined to barracks effective immediately!”
“But Kommandant –”
Klink, stopping in front of them, didn’t wait for the objection but simply ploughed on through. “No buts; and guards will be posted to see that you all remain inside! Now in! Dismissed!” He saluted briefly and turned back to the truck without waiting for Hogan’s return salute. The two guards immediately moved to push the small group of prisoners inside. Just as he crossed the threshold backwards, Hogan caught sight of a man hopping down out of the truck, holding the feet of a stretcher. Then the door slammed shut in his face. He scowled.
Even as he turned away from the rickety door there was a series of bangs as the two pairs of shutters facing the Kommandantur were closed and locked from outside. The barracks, a tiny space for fifteen men to share at any time, seemed somehow even smaller with the shutters closed and locked without their control. Still, they were all used to it by now. Just another thing they had all become used to. Guns, barbed wire, locks. Hogan shook his head and turned.
Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter were already heading for his office; he glanced around to check the rest of the men were safely inside, then followed them. Kinch was just folding the wires back into the coffeepot when he closed the door.
“Well?” he asked. Kinch looked up.
“The call went to the local doctor, Strauss. He was ordered to report here immediately to treat a sick man; the private didn’t say anything more. The doctor said he’d be here in twenty minutes.”
“A sick man, huh? I thought I saw them taking a stretcher out of the truck before the goon slammed the door in my face. That adds up. But why all the security? Who do they have in there?” There was a decent hospital in town; no one in his right mind would choose a Stalag to treat a wounded man.
“Maybe it’s someone in the top brass,” suggested LeBeau, sitting down on the unused lower bunk and taking off his gloves to examine a loose thread. “Some general?”
“Yeah, but why the security for a general? Inside the camp he’s safe from everyone but us, and we’re not going to go after him,” said Kinch.
“Maybe it’s someone we’d want to get rid of.” Newkirk pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out, twisting it thoughtfully between his fingers. Now and then it disappeared for an instant, only to reappear between different fingers; Hogan knew well enough by now not to be distracted by Newkirk’s absent-minded slight of hand. He watched the movements without seeing.
Carter started, drawing his attention away abruptly. “Hey, maybe it’s Hitler!”
The others turned to stare at him, faces taking on the flat expressions the sergeant was an expert at producing. “Carter, use your ‘ead.” Newkirk tapped his own, cigarette waving cheerfully as he reprimanded the younger man. “If ol’ Adolf were sick, d’you think he’d be hiding in Stalags getting village docs to see to ‘im?”
“I dunno, he does plenty of other crazy stuff. Besides, no one thinks straight when they’re sick, everyone knows that!”
Newkirk rolled his eyes. Hogan sighed. Sometimes, admittedly, the sergeant’s off-the-wall comments were helpful. Most of the time they were just off-the-wall.
“Carter, it’s not Hitler.” He paused. Stranger things had happened, but only at their own manipulation. “Almost certainly. Now look, whoever it is, we’ve got to find out his identity and tell London ASAP – ten guards doesn’t amount to too much, but whoever’s signature was on those papers was enough to make Klink roll out the red carpet, and that takes a high-ranking general these days. Maybe London’s gonna want us to bump him off, and if that’s the case our best chance is while he’s real sick.”
“Unless he kicks it first,” added Carter. And then, at Hogan’s look, “Sorry, sir.”
“Right. LeBeau, get in the tunnel to Klink’s quarters. Whoever it is, they’re probably gonna put him up there. Hang around by the hatch and see if you can hear where the guards are posted – if we’re lucky they’ll keep them outside. Carter, you’ve got the periscope, same drill. I want to know who’s watching the building, and where.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men hurried out.
“Kinch, get on the horn to London and see if they’ve got any idea what this is all about.”
“Yes, sir.” He slipped out as well, leaving only Newkirk.
The Brit straightened to attention, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. “What about me, sir?”
“You, Newkirk, get to share the hardest job with me. Waiting.”
-------------------------------------------
They were still waiting twenty minutes later, when Carter hurried in.
“Doctor just arrived, sir. The new guards checked his papers, then let him into Klink’s quarters.”
Kinch appeared just as he was finishing. “Just wound up with London, sir. They say they don’t have any ideas right now, but they’ll let us know if anything comes up. And they’re howling at us to find the answer for ourselves.”
“Great. It never rains but it pours.” Hogan reached for the teapot, and switched the feeds to the line from Klink’s quarters. Took out the strainer, and laid it on the scratched table that served as his desk.
There was a moment of silence, and then a knock. The conversation, when it came, proceeded in German.
“Enter.” The voice was rough and unfamiliar, with a military bark – hardly surprising.
“Yes, yes, come in.” Klink echoing impatiently directly behind, brown-nosing full-throttle.
A click, and the shuffle of footsteps. Then:
“I am Doctor Strauss. You sent for me?” The doctor, an older man, spoke with the care of a man addressing superiors of unknown tendencies. Hogan had met him a few times in the past, when they had very ill prisoners in need of care. The man was steady and a decent doctor, albeit morose and largely unconcerned with such trivialities as bedside manner. He had no apparent ties to the Party, but the Underground had had no success in turning him to their cause; the doctor seemed to value neutrality.
“Herr Doctor, I am Lieutenant Derek Mercer. I have been charged with the safe transport of the man in that bedroom. He is very ill; he was wounded two days ago and has been in constant transport for the last ten hours. It is imperative that his life be saved.” The lieutenant spoke in a low, dangerous tone. He did nothing to disguise the threat his words carried.
“Yes, Dr. Strauss, imperative, absolutely imperative,” chimed in Klink fussily.
“I see. Do you have any medical records for this man?” Strauss was holding up well; if anything he sounded slightly irritated by the ultimatum.
“No, Doctor. You will understand why when you see him. This way.”
Footsteps, growing quieter. Hogan turned to Kinch. “Do we have a bug in Klink’s room?”
Kinch looked grim. “No, sir, we’ve never needed one.”
“We damn well need one now.” He turned up the volume on the coffeepot to full; it came with heavy, crackling static that chewed up more than half of the conversation.
Strauss’ low voice, a now-evident whistle on his s’s pitched so high everyone in Hogan’s office winced on every sounding, raised in surprise, “This man… badly… you can’t… convention.”
“That… our concern,” replied the lieutenant, sharply.
“…will need… transfusions. Colonel…medic… for O positive…pints, immediately.” Strauss spoke with sharp intensity, making Hogan stiffen. Apart from indifference, Hogan had only ever heard impatience from the doctor.
“I will… immediately,” replied Klink, accompanied by a scratchy shuffling. Hogan turned down the volume and turned sharply to the men. Time was quite possibly short, and this was a chance they wouldn’t get again with 10 men standing guard and the damn lieutenant hanging around the bedroom like a broody hen.
“Anyone in this room O positive?”
Kinch and Newkirk shrugged and shook their heads.
“I am, Colonel,” offered Carter, the sergeant shrinking back when Hogan whipped around at him.
“Get in the tunnel right now and run over to Field; have him put you at the top of the blood donor list. Move!” If they didn’t get someone in that room now, it might not be until the truck left camp again that they’d have the chance to get a glimpse at their passenger. By which time it would be too late to radio London about knocking him off while still having a chance at it.
Carter scrambled out without pausing to salute. From the speaker came the sound of Klink walking into the living room, opening the door and shouting for Schultz. A pause in which Hogan could hear the rattle of the tunnel entrance opening and Carter hurrying down the slats. Then, from the coffee pot:
“Yes, sir?” the heavy sergeant sounded out of breath.
“Schultz, get over to the camp medic at once – Corporal Field, in barracks 5 – and have him begin taking blood immediately. Tell him we need five pints of O positive blood, and that he is to send over the first pints the instant they are drawn. You are to lose no time, Schultz! If you are not back here in half an hour with it, I will begin digging out my transfer papers!”
“Yes, sir!”
A thud as Schultz knocked his boots together, and then he ran out. Klink hurried back into the bedroom, fabric shuffling like grass in the wind, but there was no further conversation.
“Alright,” said Hogan. “Newkirk, go get LeBeau out of the tunnel; now that we know who’s in the room we can monitor them over the coffeepot.”
“Yes, sir.” The man left, closing the door behind him and leaving Hogan alone with his XO.
Hogan pulled out his chair and sat down, Kinch leaning up against the table. “What’s going on in there? Whoever it is, Strauss was shocked. If he needs that much blood that quick, the guy’s gotta be in bad shape.”
“You know, Colonel, we could refuse to donate blood. It’s going to the enemy, after all.”
Hogan nodded slowly, eyes staring into the distance. “True, but it’s our only chance of finding out who’s in there. We can have Field offer to lend a hand, and suggest they move him to the infirmary. If they do, they’ll have to have the men donating in there with him and we might get a look at him.”
There was a shuffling scamper outside the door, and Carter hurried in looking flushed.
“I just got back down the tunnel as Schultz opened the door, sir. But it’s all set.”
Hogan nodded. “Good. Now listen, when you see Field tell him I want him to try to get a glimpse of this mystery patient at all costs. Tell him to offer medical assistance, to suggest they move the guy to the infirmary, to bring the blood over himself, anything. Same goes for you – take any opportunity you get, but make sure you don’t tip your hand to Schultz – they can’t know how eager we are.” Hogan watched carefully to make sure the sergeant understood; Carter nodded, expression serious.
“Right, sir.”
“And if you move the guy to the infirmary, make sure Field insists that you guys have your blood drawn there; there’s no point trying to get their patient transferred there if no one else’s allowed in. Don’t let them bully him into doing it in the barracks.”
Carter nodded sharply, watching with the kind of attention he usually reserved for chemistry of the most volatile kind. “Got it, sir.”
“Good. Now –”
From the main barracks room came the sound of the door opening, and the men complaining of the sudden influx of cold air. Hogan pulled the plug on the kettle and slammed the strainer back into the top. In the main room, Schultz was bellowing for Carter.
“Carter! Where is Carter? Carter, report here immediately.”
Carter glanced at Hogan, who stood and nodded. The sergeant slipped out of the office, Hogan moving to watch from the doorway.
“I’m right here, Schultz. What’s up?” asked Carter, voice carefully innocent.
The big man turned to him, face loosening into an expression of relief, reflexive grip on his rifle relaxing. “Oh, Carter, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?”
Schultz gave him a suspicious look. “I do not want to know. Right now, you are needed to give blood immediately. Corporal Field is waiting in the infirmary already.” He reached out and took Carter’s arm and began to tug him towards the door, Carter trailing along unenthusiastically.
Hogan stepped out of the office, arms crossed. “Hold it, Schultz. Who’s been injured?”
“Colonel Hogan, I don’t know. But the Kommandant ordered me to assemble the blood donors immediately and that is what I will do.” He pushed Carter towards the door, the younger man hurriedly pulling it open before he was shoved into it, and disappeared out into the dark night. Hogan caught a glimpse of the guard at the door staring suspiciously in before it was slammed shut once again.
CHAPTER 2
Carter let Schultz march him over to the infirmary, the one prisoner’s building with proper heating and cotton-filled mattresses rather than straw. It also had permission for 24 hour electricity and, if necessary, hot water, although on a limited supply.
Field was already setting up two beds when he entered, the tall medic glancing up only to look back to his equipment. “Thanks, Sergeant. Can you get Private McPhearson; he’s next on the list.” The American corporal was curt and no-nonsense as always.
“Right away!” Schultz nudged Carter further into the room, then turned and hurried out.
Glancing behind him at the shut door, Carter crossed to Field, currently fixing clear plastic piping into a glass bottle. The six-foot-two medic, dressed in a white lab coat that only fell halfway down his thighs, gave him a quick nod.
“What’s happening, Sergeant?”
“Colonel Hogan wants you to try to find out who the patient is at all costs. He said to offer to help the doctor, or to suggest the man be moved in here, or to take the blood over yourself,” answered Carter, spilling the words out and trying not to trip over them. “Anything you can think of – he really wants to know.”
“They’ve got a doctor in there already, do they? Take off your coat and boots,” he added, gesturing to the bed. Carter sat and began unlacing his boots.
“Yeah, Strauss from town. He’s the one who ordered the blood.”
“Too bad; if they hadn’t brought in the doc I’d have had to do the transfer.” Field trailed off, glass bottle in one hand and plastic tube in the other, staring thoughtfully at the wall.
Carter, one shoe off, paused at the stillness. “What?”
“There’s another way that’s sure to get you in to see him, if it’s really that important,” said Field, slowly, staring into the smooth rounded glass. “But,” he continued, looking down at Carter with dark eyes, “it’s a lot riskier than bottling, for you. For the donator. It depends how much the Colonel really wants to know…”
Carter swallowed and then sighed gloomily, remembering the hawk-like expression on the Colonel’s face. “He really wants to know alright. How dangerous?”
“It’s semi-major surgery, requires making an incision in your wrist and pulling the artery to the top to put the needle in. Obviously you can do damage to the artery, and since you can’t measure how much blood’s been given it’s possible to take too much, although with the clotting that’s unlikely.”
“Could you maybe put it in simpler terms?”
“It’ll be painful and will take more blood than bottling would since we’d only want to do one transfer. It could possibly be lethal, although that’s very unlikely.” Field added, as if it were no serious than the other points.
Carter swallowed thickly, blanching. “How unlikely?”
“Unlikely,” said Field, flatly. “Yes or no? Schultz’ll be back soon.”
Sweating, still thinking back to the conversation they had overheard and the possible importance of the patient’s identity, Carter nodded sulkily. “Okay, okay.”
“Right.” Field yanked the flexible tube from the bottle’s mouth and turned towards the wall on the far side of the room, taken up with white shelves and cupboards. “Then get over to that storage cupboard. Move it.” He indicated a tall cabinet with one hand, even as he strode over to another and pulled it open.
Carter did as he was told, crossing the room in his stocking feet and opening the doors to find shelves of carefully stored equipment: cardboard boxes and rolls of bandages and sealed glass bottles.
“Unseal the bottles, quick,” ordered Field, without looking. Carter fumbled to do so, grabbing one bottle at a time and quickly pulling the airtight plug from the top with a pop. He dropped the plugs on the shelf above as he worked, the tiny rubber circles rolling about like a child’s tops.
Field hurried over with a bottle of dark powder and elbowed him away from the already opened bottles. Out of the corner of his eye Carter saw him sucking up the powder in a small eyedropper and blowing it into the bottles. Understanding the medic’s plan, Carter finished unstopping the bottles and stepped around him to begin resealing those already contaminated with the powder. They had done nearly the entire shelf when the door creaked. Carter stepped back as Field shoved the bottle and syringe into his coat pocket and sealed the last two bottles just as Schultz opened the door and pushed MacPhearson in, the Scotsman looking puzzled.
“Schultz, you’re just in time! These bottles are all contaminated; I’ve got nothing to transport the blood in.” Field picked up a bottle and held it out to the sergeant, the light catching the grey dusting of powder on the inside of the glass; thicker in some places and nearly absent in others, to Carter it looked convincingly like mould. Even if it didn’t, he knew enough about medicine to know that the presence of any contaminant would prevent use.
The sergeant ambled over and inspected the bottle held out to him with a myopic stare. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to have to wait for the transfusions while I disinfect some bottles.”
“And how long will that take?”
“About half an hour, give or take. Then you have to cool the bottles down, and then you can begin drawing the blood. Maybe an hour for the first pints?” He picked up some bottles and slowly glanced around as if in deep thought. “I guess we’ll have to use the mess stove to boil the water…”
Schultz stepped in front of him. “No, no, no! My orders were to have the blood immediately! One hour is too long! Aren’t there some other bottles you can use? Colonel Klink has plenty in his quarters, I will go and fetch you some!”
It was Field’s turn to stop the sergeant, juggling bottles as he did so. “No, Schultz, that’s no good. Any bottles we use have to be disinfected, it’d take just as long.”
“Then what can we do? There must be a quicker way. The colonel was very clear about it.”
Field appeared to think about it. “Well, I suppose if it’s a matter of life or death…”
“Yes?”
“We could do a direct transfer. We wouldn’t need any bottles then, and we could do it right away.”
Schultz broke out in a wide smile. “Excellent! Let’s do that!”
Field put the bottles back on the shelf, and picked out instead some sealed tubing and a packet of needles. “Fine. Let’s go. C’mon, Sergeant,” this to Carter, standing beside him. Carter hurried back to the bed and jammed his boots on, not bothering with the laces.
“Wait, wait, wait, go where?”
“To see the patient. We’ll run the blood directly from Sergeant Carter to him. And don’t think I’m doing it without protest – this is a lot more dangerous for Carter. MacPhearson can go back to his barracks; it’s too time-consuming and dangerous to be doing it for one pint each; they’ll just have to take as much as he can give and hope it’s enough.” Field stopped by the door, glancing at Carter who hurried over immediately. MacPhearson, now completely confused, still stood by the door.
“I do not know about this; the Kommandant said –”
“Look, Schultz, we can disinfect the bottles, and you can have your blood in an hour, or we can go over there and you can have it right now. Your choice.”
“Your funeral,” added Carter, with a lightness he didn’t feel. His stomach was full of cold, wet, writhing eels.
Schultz groaned. “Don’t say things like that.” He paused, groaning again. “Fine. All three of you, come with me. MacPhearson, I will take you back afterwards.” He opened the door and gestured them out with his rifle. Carter followed Field outside, Schultz and MacPhearson bringing up the rear.
Carter, jacket only draped over his shoulders, quickly struggled into it as soon as the cold night air hit him. Field picked up his pace, and they trotted across the dark compound towards Klink’s quarters, boots almost soundless on the dirt. Carter couldn’t help glancing at Barracks 2 as they passed it, guard standing in the shadows outside the door, shutters closed, and wondering what the Colonel and the others were doing right now. Probably listening to whatever was going on inside Klink’s quarters.
They reached them a few seconds later, and were stopped immediately by two of the guards from the truck standing at attention outside the door. Schultz stepped forward to explain, and there was a long, sharp conversation which ended in one of the guards going inside. He returned a moment later with a stern-looking Wehrmacht lieutenant who raked angry eyes over them and promptly tore into Schultz, who quailed before him.
“What is this?”
“Sir, the medic reports the blood bottles are c-c-contaminated. The transfusion must be done in person, or wait an hour. Colonel Klink ordered me to bring the b-blood as soon as possible, so I thought, I thought…” Schultz trailed off into a stammering silence under the lieutenant’s glare.
“No uncontaminated bottles in camp? And you call yourselves the most efficient Stalag in Germany? This will not go unreported.” The lieutenant’s expression of disgust deepened, lips rising to reveal the tips of dirty teeth. Then he turned abruptly, cursing, and disappeared inside. He reappeared a minute later and held the door open. “The man may enter. The medic will not be required; the doctor can perform the transfusion himself. Give me the equipment.” The lieutenant held out his hand to Field, who stared in confusion, not having followed the German conversation.
“Give him the equipment,” relayed Schultz. Field stared at the man in distrust.
“Is he a doctor?”
“There is one inside, he will perform the transfusion.”
“I’m the camp medic, sir, it’s my duty to see that the men receive proper and appropriate medical treatment. I’m already going against my principles by allowing this more dangerous procedure, and I demand to be allowed to assist in it.” Field tucked the equipment tighter to his chest and glared at the man who, one step above ground level, was barely as tall as him. The lieutenant pulled himself up to his full height, gaining nearly an inch, eyes flashing. And Klink appeared behind him, like some kind of bumbling angel. Carter had never been so glad to see the man.
“What is going on here? Schultz?”
“Herr Kommandant, the lieutenant wants the doctor to perform the transfer, alone. Corporal Field says it is his duty to see to it himself.”
Klink nodded majestically. “That is very admirable, Corporal Field. However I assure you Dr. Strauss is very capable.”
“That may be, sir,” began Field stoutly, “but it’s my duty to oversee medical procedures performed on the men –”
Klink shifted, but the lieutenant cleared his throat, and he hardened his expression. “No, Corporal, it is your duty to care for them in the absence of a doctor. We have a doctor, so your presence will no longer be required. Please give your equipment to the lieutenant.”
Field glared, but handed over the sealed tubing and needles carefully. “I will be lodging a protest with the Red Cross, sir,” he spat. “And you can only have Carter – your doctor will tell you that too. This procedure is too time-consuming and dangerous to be performing multiple times. If you don’t believe me you can ask him.”
Carter swallowed again, trying to draw reassurance from the medic’s strength in the face of hostility and to avoid the fact that the man would be gone in a minute. He had been left alone in hostile situations plenty of times. But none, pointed out the quiet voice in the back of his head, which entailed the hostiles performing dangerous surgery on him. Mouth suddenly dry, he opened it anyway to try to back out, to declare uncertainty. No sound came out, and the conversation went on without him.
Klink waved an unconcerned hand. “Fine, fine. Schultz, escort the corporal and the private back to their barracks.”
“Yes, sir.” Schultz took Field’s elbow gently, and pulled him away, MacPhearson trailing behind. Carter watched anxiously as the medic was directed away; Field threw a salute. He returned it nervously, and the man disappeared into the twilight of the camp’s heavily lit night.
“Very well,” snarled the lieutenant, Carter’s worried mind struggling to switch over into German again. “Bring him into the outer room.” He opened the door and walked in, cutting straight through into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. Klink ushered Carter in and then stopped him in the living room, turned to look into at the closed door.
Carter cleared his throat, trying to calm his nerves. Maybe if he could get the information, he could still back out… “Hey, Kommandant, you never told me who I’m giving blood to. And why he’s in here, and not in the infirmary.”
Klink turned, expression distracted. “Never mind, it’s not important. You will be doing your duty and saving a life.”
“Yeah, but Field said this’d be pretty dangerous, you know? So I’d like to know, if it’s all the same to you.” Maybe the colonel would hear about the danger – maybe Field would go and tell him – and he’d pull Carter out. Even as it occurred to him, the sergeant knew it wouldn’t happen. They needed the information. Which meant he couldn’t pull out either.
Still, this plan seemed stupider and stupider the more he thought about it. What if it was Hitler he was supposed to be giving blood to? Or an important general? What if he was significantly helping the German war effort – and endangering himself to do so? He straightened, finding courage in his outrage. “C’mon, Colonel, I have a right to know!”
Klink frowned, but before he could answer the bedroom door opened, and the lieutenant reappeared with a long strip of cloth in his hands. Carter watched him cross the room, nervous and tense.
“What’s that for?” His voice sounded thin and shaky even in his own ears.
“He will be blindfolded,” said the lieutenant, Klink relaying the message. Carter swallowed, and glanced at the stove. There’d be no advice from that corner. Now really was the time to back out – this was pointless and dangerous and he really didn’t want to be here with the smouldering lieutenant staring at him like he’d been scrapped off the bottom of the man’s shoe. There was no reason for him to be here – he probably wouldn’t even hear the man breathing, wouldn’t be able to get a glimpse of him, and if he were awake he’d never be stupid enough to give himself away by talking. What if the doctor was secretly a real patriot – maybe he’d bleed him dry to save their general or whoever.
He should have thought of this before. The colonel, any of the guys, would have. Would have already gotten themselves out of this mess.
The colonel’s sharp expression flashed through his mind – Get a glimpse of this mystery patient at all costs. No, they wouldn’t have. If they thought it was really important, they’d take the risk to get the information. The colonel would.
“Is that r-really necessary?” He choked out, straightening. Fighting fear with resolve and, somehow, winning.
The lieutenant didn’t bother to wait for the translation, simply put the cloth over his face, spun him around and tied it with a tight jerk at the back. He was spun around again as quickly, a strong hand on his elbow pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Klink, you will come to translate,” the lietuenant’s gruff voice was loud in Carter’s ears. Carter, all his thoughts dedicated to quashing down his panic, heard the Kommandant’s reply but didn’t understand it.
They stopped briefly after a few steps, the pause accompanied by a hinge squeaking, and then continued into a warmer room.
“Have him sit there,” said Strauss from a few feet away, still whistling slightly on his s.
“Sit here,” repeated Klink dully. Carter didn’t spare the thought to consider the colonel’s lack of enthusiasm for his role, simply sat into the chair he found shoved into his knees from behind.
“Have him take off his jacket, and roll up his left sleeve – if he is right handed? Lieutenant, please help me move this man to the side of the bed; they will have to lie side by side. This really would have been easier in the infirmary, you know.” The doctor sounded irritated; strangely it gave Carter a small measure of confidence. His doctor back home had always been sharp with them, too; always scolding, always complaining grumpily, always threatening not to keep coming out to patch him and his cousins up if they didn’t start behaving like children instead of monkeys. And, when Carter was seventeen and heading to the school prom in his Sunday best and his cousin James crashed his bicycle into a drainage ditch and broke half his ribs on an old irrigation pipe, the doctor had saved his life right there on the gravel road.
“Are you right-handed, Carter?” Klink had stepped over to stand at his side, his voice just behind Carter’s left shoulder. From the bed, he could hear the lieutenant and the doctor moving the man to one side of Klink’s bed. It was a good thing the Kommandant had recently invested in a double bed – a thought which brought to mind the men’s ribbing of the colonel, wondering who he thought he would be sharing it with. It took away a tiny portion of the nervousness, strengthened his wavering determination.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take off your jacket and roll up your left sleeve.”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled off his gloves and shrugged unsteadily out of his jacket, stomach turning again, and then rolled up his sleeve away from his wrist – we’ll make an incision, pull out the artery – and took off his watch with shaking hands. In the dark beneath the blindfold he had to grope around to find his jacket pocket to slip the watch into.
The shuffling coming from the bed ceased, and the doctor spoke up again. Close-to, Carter could hear the whistling more clearly, and wondered just how old the man was. His voice was strong and hale and he seemed to know his mind, but…
“Have him lie down on the bed, there.” Carter imagined him pointing a white-gloved hand, imagined a man in a Wehrmacht uniform lying on one side of the bed, maybe unconscious, maybe already cut open and bleeding. Tried not to let himself imagine who else it could be.
“And tell him,” added the lieutenant fiercely, “that if he moves towards the patient or to take off the blindfold, I will shoot him.” There was a metallic click which echoed through the room louder than any of the voices and carried his point for him. Carter froze automatically, heart leaping into his throat and sweat breaking out again. His gut twisted so tightly he had to struggle not to bend with the pain.
“The lieutenant reminds you not to move towards the patient, or remove your blindfold,” said Klink stiffly. “Over here,” he added and pulled at Carter’s arm to move him to the bed. Carter remained sitting for an instant, afraid to move – any move could be the wrong one. Without sight he had no idea what the lieutenant was thinking, whether he was moving to shoot, whether… “Come on,” repeated Klink, and the lieutenant huffed. It was enough. Carter bolted to his feet and stumbled towards the bed, knocking into the soft mattress with his knee. He sunk down onto it immediately, legs trembling. Slowly he lay down at the very edge, left arm folded over his stomach and several inches of his shoulder and chest hanging over the side of the bed.
“You have two feet of room, Carter, you can move over,” said Klink, sounding irritated. Not, Carter thought, with him. He shuffled over until he could lie with his arm resting on the bed beside him, but moved no nearer to the other side.
There was a shuffling as someone walked around from the other side of the bed, and then the heavy sound of the chair being moved.
“Tell him I cannot use anaesthetic because it is important that he is clearheaded. He must tell me if he begins to feel lightheaded, dizzy, weak or cold.”
He already felt lightheaded, weak and cold. If he hadn’t been lying down, he’d probably have been dizzy too.
“There will be pain, but he must not move his arm. The operation is delicate; if he moves I could sever the artery. Make sure he understands; if he does not believe he can hold still he will have to be restrained.”
Carter forced himself to hold off on swallowing until Klink translated. He’d broken bones before, been cut and even burned when he was shot down, but he’d never been awake while someone sliced him open and expected him to hold still for it. “I don’t know, sir,” he whispered. He wished the colonel was there to tell him what to do. Wished that he was even just there. “I’ll try my best.”
“He will try,” relayed Klink. “Really, doctor, is this necessary? It hardly seems wise.”
Under his blindfold, Carter blinked.
“It will save the man’s life,” said the doctor briskly. “The risk is not so large. The pain cannot be ignored, but it will not be too great either. It is merely important that he understands.”
Klink made no answer.
There was the quiet pop of a bottle being opened, and then something cold and wet smeared back and forth over his arm like a water-snake. Carter stiffened, jaw clenching, and hoped this wasn’t as big a mistake as it seemed.
“Now I begin. He must hold still.”
-------------------------------------------------
It hurt. A lot. It was both painful and uncomfortable, and with dread kneading cold fingers into his gut Carter was afraid he would actually be sick. He forced himself to lie still, breathing deeply through his mouth with his right hand fisted tight in the bed’s coverlet. Closed his eyes under the heavy darkness of the blindfold, and thought of being somewhere else.
Somewhere else was always home. Had been for years, since the fiery night over Dusseldorf that changed his life.
He imagined himself home in Bullfrog in his parents’ back yard, the yard he’d grown up in. Imagined it as it would be now, in what was for North Dakota mid fall. The long row of poplar trees in the back of the yard by the fence he and his cousins had painted every second summer since he’d been old enough to carry a paint bucket, their leaves golden yellow now but not starting to fall quite yet. In the late afternoon the sun beat down through the trees, painting the leaves even more buttery-gold while the trunks shone silver-white in contrast. The leaves would be falling in a week or two, and then all the kids would be roped in to going house-to-house and raking them up with promises of jingling coins. It would take them several weekends to finish everyone’s yard, days filled with the rich earthy smell of fallen leaves and the damp rustle as they were gathered up. He and James, his closest cousin, had always built up tall piles and jumped in them, rolled around in them until all the other kids joined in and eventually someone’s mom came out and made them get back to work. One year he and James had played hookie for two whole days without getting caught, and then when they finally were, they were made to rake half the yards all on their own; they’d had to run home from school every day for a week to get in a couple of hours of raking then too to finish by their parents’ deadline.
Carter’s mind wandered from memory to memory, finding it easier and easier as the time passed to slip away from the Kommandant’s bedroom, full of pain and fear and threats. Beside him he now could hear the wounded man’s breathing; it was too-quick and shallow, like a man panting after a run. In his mind, it became part of the memories, part of the pattern.
Running in the school track and field competition, James panting beside him before his cousin went on to pass him and win; he’d taken first place in all the long distance events. Carter, to his shock, had managed first in one heat of the sprints. It had been the first time he’d ever really beaten James at anything and he still remembered the shock on his cousin’s face – and then the pride – with a tight warmth in his chest.
Chasing his kid sisters through the house, already late for school and trying to get them ready to go to his aunt’s for the day. Following the patter of footsteps through the house, the two girls laughing even as he half-ordered, half-pleaded with them, already hot in his long-sleeved shirt with his bag heavy on his shoulder.
James and him, learning to drive their uncle’s new farmall the summer they were sixteen out on the back roads (there were nothing but back roads in Bullfrog), and he’d had to run up and down the stairs every night for a month before his calf was strong enough to kick the clutch into submission. James, of course, had managed it the first time, laughing at him while he panted and complained and tried in futile to shift gears.
His wrist wasn’t hurting so much, now, and his anxiety had faded away. Drained away, so that he only felt a slight tinge of unease in the cool room. Wondered, vaguely, why the doctor hadn’t turned up the heat; Klink had as much as he wanted. His thoughts drifted back to old memories, a heavy panting in his ears like the ticking of a clock.
James, lying panting on the road. It had been… it was so loud. All he could hear, the only sound for miles. The world was empty, just him and James and the long red streak between his cousin and the twisted wreck of a bicycle in the deep stony ditch. The gravel was pressing uncomfortably into his shins, and his hands were shaking as he pulled open the cotton shirt covering James’ chest – it looked very, very wrong – and James was panting like he had when he won those school races, like he had rolling in the leaves in their parents’ yards. Panting and crying, crying for his mother.
“Ina’, o’kiya. Ina’…” Mother, help, mother…
Carter frowned, thrown. That was wrong. He and James always spoke English together, never spoke Lakota except under duress, with the whole family or at tribe meetings. He was calling – he had called – for her in English.
It wasn’t James speaking. Not James’ voice, not his accent.
He wasn’t in Bullfrog with James on the night of their senior prom, praying for the doctor to come. He was in a bed, and there was something he was supposed to remember.
Carter startled into something like awareness, head swimming and body cold. He had to be careful of what he said, but he couldn’t remember why, or what he wasn’t supposed to say. He tried to sit up instead, and wondered why it was so dark. There was a dull pain in his arm, and his chest felt odd. His heart was racing, pounding fast and thready as a rabbit’s, but he couldn’t seem to think properly.
Someone pushed him back into the bed with a strong hand and he fell under them unresistingly. There were voices, speaking sharply. He could understand the words, but something told him not to speak, held his tongue in a steel trap.
“Take him out of here, immediately.”
“He needs medical attention, he has given too much blood.” There was a sharp pain in his arm, like being pricked by barbed wire, like the slap of a bow string on the soft inside of the wrist.
“Take him out of here now, or I will shoot him.”
“We will take him out; there’s no need to be shooting anyone, lieutenant. Will you help me carry him, or may I bring another man in?”
“We will carry him. Doctor, finish your work on your patient.”
“This man needs further medical attention. Allow your camp medic to see to him, and see that he is given something to drink as soon as he is able – juice would be best.” The pain faded slightly, and was replaced by a light pressure. “Very well, you may take him out.”
He was being carried, rocking like a ship, swaying like trees in the wind, poplar leaves falling in a rain of gold. He wanted to stay awake, there was something he was supposed to do, supposed to be doing.
He couldn’t remember what.
----------------------------------------------------
It was bright.
Carter opened his eyes, and stared up at a mass of brown. As his eyes focused, he recognized it as the underside of a bunk. Not his bunk; it was missing the pictures that should have been pinned there. Wherever there was. He shifted, blinking, and tried to remember.
“Carter?”
Carter turned his head slowly, vision not tracking quite fast enough, and saw Newkirk sitting at a familiar desk watching him with dark eyes. And knew, just like that, where he was.
“Newkirk?” His voice sounded oddly thin, like he’d been asleep for hours – in the colonel’s bottom bunk, apparently. The Brit stood, putting down a pack of cards on the desk, and pulled the colonel’s chair over with him to sit back down beside the bed. He reached down and picked up a bottle of honey-gold liquid and a mug, and poured a glass. His face, as he concentrated on his task, was tired and drawn.
“Drink this.” At his uncertain look, Newkirk added, “It’s apple juice; Klink donated it.” He pulled Carter up with an arm tucked around his shoulders and put the mug to Carter’s lips, effectively silencing the sergeant before he could comment. The mug was cool and smooth against his lips, and the juice was just as cool and sweeter than anything he’d drunk in a long time. As soon as it touched his tongue he realised he was incredibly thirsty, dry as the dust bowl waiting with every speck of dirt for rain. He drank the entire mug in one go, reaching up to tip it to a sharper angle when Newkirk tried to slow him. The Brit scolded him lightly, pulling back despite his arm. “Easy, mate, easy, there’s no timer running.”
Carter’s hand, when he looked at it, was trembling slightly against Newkirk’s. He saw the Brit’s glance down at it, and then the man quickly looked away to pour out another mug-full and plastered a smile on his face. “More?”
Carter nodded, ignoring the strange behaviour, and drank nearly the entire second cup before his thirst faded. When he finally pulled away, Newkirk put the mug down on the floor and let him lie down again; there were two thin pillows under his head, an extravagance in the camp. Carter glanced up at the window by the head of the bed, but both it and the shutters were closed.
“What time’s it?”
“About an hour before roll call. How d’you feel?”
Carter looked back to the other man, and noticed that his eyes were already tracking better. “Like I haven’t eaten all day. Kinda muzzy. My wrist hurts,” he added as he realised it, brow wrinkling. It was a dull, throbbing pain, with a bit of heat to the edges. He looked down to his left arm, resting on a blanket – two blankets – and saw the tip of a white bandage peeking out from under the cuff of his jumpsuit.
“That’ll be the operation and the blood loss,” said Newkirk, matter-of-factly.
The memories washed over him in a crashing wave; the darkness, the bright slash of pain, then the confusion and the light-headedness – it must have been blood loss, he recognized now. At the time it had seemed somehow normal, his ability to distinguish the wrongness drained away with his blood.
“What happened?” he asked, still staring at the white bandage. He twitched his sleeve up to look at it, and saw that it ran halfway up his forearm. A more minor pinch in his elbow caused him to roll his sleeve up further to reveal the smaller white patch taped over the inside of his elbow. He looked up to see Newkirk shaking his head, eyes dark and focused for distance despite looking at the wall just over his shoulder.
“You missed a big blow-up, mate. I thought the colonel was gonna –” he pinched his lips together and dropped his head to run a hand through his thick hair. “What’s the last thing you remember?” His voice was slightly muffled, addressing the floor.
“Someone carrying me… maybe Klink?” Carter narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate on memories that were slipping through his fingers like water. “Must’ve been out of his bedroom… it’s all confused, real foggy.”
Newkirk waited a moment, then spoke slowly as if describing a picture. He didn’t look up.
“Well, the first we knew about it – we were all sitting ‘round playing poker, waiting for you to get back. Schultz came in looking like ‘e does when Klink threatens to send ‘im to the Russian Front – you know. ‘E didn’t say anything at first, and we didn’t think nothing of it. Then… they carried you in on a stretcher.” Newkirk stopped for a minute, dropped his hand from his hair to pinch at the bridge of his nose.
“You looked real bad. Must’ve just been the blood loss, but you could’ve been… we all thought…” he paused again, then took up on a different track. “Louis dropped ‘is mug; it smashed all over the floor. Never seen ‘im drop anything before. The colonel just… just turned to stone, like it was all ‘e could do to keep ‘imself from doing anything. I thought ‘e was gonna lay into Schultz, really go for ‘im.” He raised his head finally, to look straight past Carter at the wall. Licked his lips, then continued in a slightly lighter tone.
“No one was doing anything, so I thought I’d better. I checked your pulse, and o’ course you were better than you looked really. Schultz said something about a mistake an’ everyone unfroze. The colonel ordered you put in ‘is bunk, demanded Schultz send someone for Field to look at you, then demanded to speak to Klink. Told Schultz if ‘e didn’t agree, ‘e’d walk right across the bloody yard anyway, guards or no guards.” Newkirk shook his head, somewhere between amazed and shocked at his superior’s actions.
“Field showed up pretty quick, took one look at you and ordered the donors rounded up again. There was another mess about that, but ‘e was taken to Klink and the colonel and it got done, so Klink must’ve authorized it. ‘E came back with the blood and juice for you and ‘ooked you up. ‘E was just leaving when the colonel came back from Klink’s, looking like ‘ell. I’d’ve loved to be a fly on that wall,” Newkirk added, grinning humourlessly. “Anyway, ’e took ‘im down into the tunnel, since you were in ‘is office. We could still ‘ear the shouting, even up ‘ere.” The Brit stopped, pursing his lips again.
“Why?” asked Carter, more to change the expression on Newkirk’s face than out of curiosity. It worked; the pain disappeared to be replaced by surprise and irritation, and for the first time in the conversation he focused on Carter. “’E authorized the bloody transfer, didn’t ‘e? We ‘eard ‘im on the coffeepot outside the door, tellin’ the Krauts it was dangerous, but ‘e didn’t play it up and we assumed ‘e was just making noise.”
Carter frowned and shook his head. “No, he told me. Explained it all, and I agreed. It wasn’t his fault, not really.”
Newkirk flared up, the first sign of the real anger Carter could feel still running under the surface of the Brit’s tired exterior like white water under ice. “’E never should’ve bloody well suggested it, not to –” Newkirk cut himself off, but his point was clear enough. Not to you. Carter said nothing; he couldn’t argue. Newkirk was right, he’d made the wrong choice. Just like always.
“Anyway, doubt ‘e’ll do it again in a ‘urry after the ‘iding the colonel gave ‘im. ‘E came out of there looking like a private after ‘is first dressing down.” Newkirk seemed grimly pleased, but it only made Carter feel worse, and he changed the topic again.
“And after that? Where’s the colonel now?”
“Sleepin’ in your bunk. We set up a rotation to keep an eye on you; Field said you were to get fluids as soon as you woke up. Said you weren’t in any danger, but you’d need more blood sugar. The colonel looked done in, and we figured ‘e probably wasn’t the first person you’d want to see when you woke up anyhow.”
Carter closed his eyes. He’d seen the colonel really furious, but never at any of his men. Only at London, a distant figure giving them untenable orders. Never at anyone he could openly confront, never in a situation where he’d held onto that anger for more than a minute or two before turning to some more productive thought. And even then, it had been strong enough to make Carter flinch away. The thought of that anger directed towards him made his stomach turn. Even Newkirk’s, carefully hidden though it was, hurt far worse than the dull pain in his wrist. All the more because while he was sure he was at the bottom of the whirlwind of accusations and rage that had apparently swept through the camp while he slept and were still burning hot as coals under a dead fire, he couldn’t draw a clear line of responsibility and couldn’t figure out exactly what it was he needed to apologize for other than being himself.
“No,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “Maybe not.”
“You still tired?”
“Kinda.” If roll call was soon, he must have slept already for at least five hours, but he felt ready to drop off again. His eyes were already too heavy to open again. Newkirk rested a light hand on his shoulder, the small gesture giving an oddly disproportionate sense of security. He trusted the colonel wholeheartedly as a commander, but he trusted Newkirk as a friend, trusted him to think of the things he so often forgot. He heard the Brit say something else, but it was already mingling with the shifting currents of sleep.
Series: Hogan's Heroes
Pairings/Characters: None; rather Carter-centric
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This is UNFINISHED, and likely to remain so.
Summary: Stalag 13 receives a wounded man and his guards, who demand his identity remain a secret. Hogan has no intention of acceding to that desire.
1944, November
It had been a long, capricious war for Derek Mercer. He had enlisted in the Wehrmacht in 1937, the son of proud parents who wanted to live in a Germany they could also be proud of, and he had been fighting for the past four and a half years to forge it for them. His division had been ordered out to Belgium in May 1940, and he had been involved in the earliest fighting there, where he had been wounded in the leg by shrapnel and sent back home. Upon recovering, he had been reassigned and sent into the Crimea. He fought on as his units were twice wiped out around him, until he was wounded again, this time in the chest, earning him a medal of distinction and a second trip home. He’d thought himself lucky to be reassigned to patrol in France, leg aching on bad nights and shoulders weaker than they had been, until the rumours of an allied landing began to circulate in earnest and he was put back into active service in preparation. He escaped the worst fighting at Normandy only to be assigned to Hurtgen and the unending nightmarish battle over 50 miles of land. By this time any wish to fight for the glory of his homeland had long since burned away to bitter ashes; all he wanted was out of the fighting. And he’d gotten his wish at last, in an assignment to transport a captured prisoner to Berlin for questioning; one single man with a guard of 10 soldiers.
It was only in keeping of fate’s fickle interest in him that now the prisoner he had been assigned to protect at all costs seemed to be dying.
The task of navigator had fallen to him, sitting in the passenger seat with the map spread over his bad leg, the sharp ache in his thigh twinging with each jolt of the truck. They had been making good time on the back roads, afraid to take the main highways for fear of bombing damage and, now that night was approaching, the bombing itself. But now Faber was shouting from the back that he thought the wretched man was sinking, and needed a doctor badly. Cursing to himself, Mercer examined the map in the fading light, rough creases obscuring the names.
“Here,” he said at last, tapping the map. “There is a prisoner of war camp only 20 miles to the west of our position. Luft Stalag 13. They will have access to a doctor, and he will be safe from the bombing there. There should be a turn off in a few minutes.”
Weiss, the driver, nodded absently, his gloved hands easy on the wheel.
Mercer could only hope the American would hold out. It was the first time he had ever had such a wish.
-------------------------------------------------
Evening roll call had just broken up, Klink already slamming the door to the Kommandantur behind him, when the truck rolled up to the gates. In the twilight, all that was visible was a pair of bright headlights and the dull sheen of a metal frame indicating a covered one tonne truck.
Hogan stopped halfway back into barracks 2 as he spotted it pulling up, his men stumbling to keep from piling into him and streaming awkwardly to either side instead. Newkirk, right behind him, tripped hard and grabbed at his superior’s shoulder to right himself, exclaiming sharply.
“Hi, guv’nor – what is it?”
Around him, Kinch, LeBeau and Carter broke off from the pack and returned to loiter by his side, hands in pockets or tucked under arms against the chilly night air.
“Who’s in the truck?” asked Hogan. He indicated it with a nod of his head, watching it closely. On the other side of the wire, the driver was arguing volubly with the gate guard. “We don’t have any scheduled drop-offs tonight.”
To his right, Kinch shrugged. “It’s no one we know; that truck’s seen some action.” Two of the tower spotlights had by now been trained on it, and in their harsh light the frame damage and extensive bullet-scratches riddling the grey metal stood out like bruises and scars.
“Right,” said Hogan. “And check out the driver arguing with Bruer. Looks like he might have a fit. Uh oh, here comes the other one.”
As they watched, the man in the passenger seat got out, stormed around the front of the truck and pulled some papers from his coat. He presented them with the attitude of a man holding a loaded gun. Bruer took one look, saluted, and ran to open the gate.
Hogan watched it all with a sharp eye. “Huh. Must’ve been a pretty big name on the dotted line. You know what it’s like trying to get Bruer to open up for anyone not on the list.”
“Look, sir, ‘e’s calling Klink now!” Newkirk pointed at the guard house, where Bruer had indeed gone to ground, rabbit-like, phone in one hand. He was out again just as the truck stopped in front of the Kommandantur, and a few seconds later Klink came hurrying out without his coat or riding crop.
Carter whistled. “Wow, look at the Iron Eagle. He’s sure got his tail feathers in a bunch!”
“No kidding,” mused Hogan, watching the colonel receiving the driver’s salute and returning it. “I’d better go see what’s up. Newkirk, see if there’s any paperwork lying around in the front of the truck.”
“Right sir.”
Hogan cut out across the compound, Newkirk following for a moment and then splitting off to head for the front of the truck as Hogan circled around the back.
Hogan had crossed two thirds of the distance when the truck’s back hatch slammed down with the harsh clank of rusty hinges. A troop of guards poured out, moving to surround the truck without waiting for orders, each holding a Karabiner rifle in a ready stance. Two men ran forward to fend him off before he was within three yards of the truck, guns aimed straight at his heart. Hogan plastered a calm look on his face and relaxed his posture, all the while watching the men’s eyes carefully. Walking right up to confront armed men straight off the Front… the things he’d become used to. The things he’d had to become used to. He let no indication of his thoughts show in his face, and picked out a light-hearted tone.
“Hey fellows, no need to get hasty here. I was just heading over to see the Kommandant. He’s over there, on the other side of the truck…” Hogan took a breezy step forward, and was stopped with the tip of a rifle pressing sharply into his chest. “Okay. I’ll take the long way ‘round.”
He stepped back and walked cautiously in a wide circle towards the back of the truck. He was stopped again before he came even with the back end, unable to see anything of its cave-like mouth. A corporal stepped out of the line, shoved his rifle up against Hogan’s chest again – this time strongly enough to bruise – and marched him forcefully back towards his barracks. Hogan opened his mouth to protest, noticed the hard intensity in the man’s eyes and the tenseness of his finger on the rifle’s trigger, and shut it again.
The corporal forced him all the way back to his men standing by the barracks; from behind he heard the scuffle as Newkirk was escorted over as well. The guards indicated the building with their rifles, and made to push them inside, ordering them in in harsh voices.
This time Hogan stood his ground in face of the weapons being waved at them, wiping all expression from his face and taking the firm tone of an officer talking to an enlisted man. “You don’t have the right to confine us to the barracks. Only the Kommandant can order that. Only Kommandant Klink,” he repeated, gesturing sharply at the man currently talking with the driver and the man with the papers.
From all the nodding and hand-waving going on in front of the Kommandantur, it was clear Klink was in full sycophant mode. He finished up almost immediately and turned to give a sharp order to the private standing guard on the Kommandantur porch; the man saluted and ran inside.
Hogan turned to Kinch, who nodded and slipped into the barracks without at word.
Klink, glancing across the compound and spotting Hogan and the men being detained by the two soldiers, hurried across towards them with arms held close against his uniform jacket and his back bent against the cold. He began speaking before he had even stopped, shouting ahead in a terse tone.
“Colonel Hogan, all men are confined to barracks effective immediately!”
“But Kommandant –”
Klink, stopping in front of them, didn’t wait for the objection but simply ploughed on through. “No buts; and guards will be posted to see that you all remain inside! Now in! Dismissed!” He saluted briefly and turned back to the truck without waiting for Hogan’s return salute. The two guards immediately moved to push the small group of prisoners inside. Just as he crossed the threshold backwards, Hogan caught sight of a man hopping down out of the truck, holding the feet of a stretcher. Then the door slammed shut in his face. He scowled.
Even as he turned away from the rickety door there was a series of bangs as the two pairs of shutters facing the Kommandantur were closed and locked from outside. The barracks, a tiny space for fifteen men to share at any time, seemed somehow even smaller with the shutters closed and locked without their control. Still, they were all used to it by now. Just another thing they had all become used to. Guns, barbed wire, locks. Hogan shook his head and turned.
Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter were already heading for his office; he glanced around to check the rest of the men were safely inside, then followed them. Kinch was just folding the wires back into the coffeepot when he closed the door.
“Well?” he asked. Kinch looked up.
“The call went to the local doctor, Strauss. He was ordered to report here immediately to treat a sick man; the private didn’t say anything more. The doctor said he’d be here in twenty minutes.”
“A sick man, huh? I thought I saw them taking a stretcher out of the truck before the goon slammed the door in my face. That adds up. But why all the security? Who do they have in there?” There was a decent hospital in town; no one in his right mind would choose a Stalag to treat a wounded man.
“Maybe it’s someone in the top brass,” suggested LeBeau, sitting down on the unused lower bunk and taking off his gloves to examine a loose thread. “Some general?”
“Yeah, but why the security for a general? Inside the camp he’s safe from everyone but us, and we’re not going to go after him,” said Kinch.
“Maybe it’s someone we’d want to get rid of.” Newkirk pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out, twisting it thoughtfully between his fingers. Now and then it disappeared for an instant, only to reappear between different fingers; Hogan knew well enough by now not to be distracted by Newkirk’s absent-minded slight of hand. He watched the movements without seeing.
Carter started, drawing his attention away abruptly. “Hey, maybe it’s Hitler!”
The others turned to stare at him, faces taking on the flat expressions the sergeant was an expert at producing. “Carter, use your ‘ead.” Newkirk tapped his own, cigarette waving cheerfully as he reprimanded the younger man. “If ol’ Adolf were sick, d’you think he’d be hiding in Stalags getting village docs to see to ‘im?”
“I dunno, he does plenty of other crazy stuff. Besides, no one thinks straight when they’re sick, everyone knows that!”
Newkirk rolled his eyes. Hogan sighed. Sometimes, admittedly, the sergeant’s off-the-wall comments were helpful. Most of the time they were just off-the-wall.
“Carter, it’s not Hitler.” He paused. Stranger things had happened, but only at their own manipulation. “Almost certainly. Now look, whoever it is, we’ve got to find out his identity and tell London ASAP – ten guards doesn’t amount to too much, but whoever’s signature was on those papers was enough to make Klink roll out the red carpet, and that takes a high-ranking general these days. Maybe London’s gonna want us to bump him off, and if that’s the case our best chance is while he’s real sick.”
“Unless he kicks it first,” added Carter. And then, at Hogan’s look, “Sorry, sir.”
“Right. LeBeau, get in the tunnel to Klink’s quarters. Whoever it is, they’re probably gonna put him up there. Hang around by the hatch and see if you can hear where the guards are posted – if we’re lucky they’ll keep them outside. Carter, you’ve got the periscope, same drill. I want to know who’s watching the building, and where.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men hurried out.
“Kinch, get on the horn to London and see if they’ve got any idea what this is all about.”
“Yes, sir.” He slipped out as well, leaving only Newkirk.
The Brit straightened to attention, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. “What about me, sir?”
“You, Newkirk, get to share the hardest job with me. Waiting.”
-------------------------------------------
They were still waiting twenty minutes later, when Carter hurried in.
“Doctor just arrived, sir. The new guards checked his papers, then let him into Klink’s quarters.”
Kinch appeared just as he was finishing. “Just wound up with London, sir. They say they don’t have any ideas right now, but they’ll let us know if anything comes up. And they’re howling at us to find the answer for ourselves.”
“Great. It never rains but it pours.” Hogan reached for the teapot, and switched the feeds to the line from Klink’s quarters. Took out the strainer, and laid it on the scratched table that served as his desk.
There was a moment of silence, and then a knock. The conversation, when it came, proceeded in German.
“Enter.” The voice was rough and unfamiliar, with a military bark – hardly surprising.
“Yes, yes, come in.” Klink echoing impatiently directly behind, brown-nosing full-throttle.
A click, and the shuffle of footsteps. Then:
“I am Doctor Strauss. You sent for me?” The doctor, an older man, spoke with the care of a man addressing superiors of unknown tendencies. Hogan had met him a few times in the past, when they had very ill prisoners in need of care. The man was steady and a decent doctor, albeit morose and largely unconcerned with such trivialities as bedside manner. He had no apparent ties to the Party, but the Underground had had no success in turning him to their cause; the doctor seemed to value neutrality.
“Herr Doctor, I am Lieutenant Derek Mercer. I have been charged with the safe transport of the man in that bedroom. He is very ill; he was wounded two days ago and has been in constant transport for the last ten hours. It is imperative that his life be saved.” The lieutenant spoke in a low, dangerous tone. He did nothing to disguise the threat his words carried.
“Yes, Dr. Strauss, imperative, absolutely imperative,” chimed in Klink fussily.
“I see. Do you have any medical records for this man?” Strauss was holding up well; if anything he sounded slightly irritated by the ultimatum.
“No, Doctor. You will understand why when you see him. This way.”
Footsteps, growing quieter. Hogan turned to Kinch. “Do we have a bug in Klink’s room?”
Kinch looked grim. “No, sir, we’ve never needed one.”
“We damn well need one now.” He turned up the volume on the coffeepot to full; it came with heavy, crackling static that chewed up more than half of the conversation.
Strauss’ low voice, a now-evident whistle on his s’s pitched so high everyone in Hogan’s office winced on every sounding, raised in surprise, “This man… badly… you can’t… convention.”
“That… our concern,” replied the lieutenant, sharply.
“…will need… transfusions. Colonel…medic… for O positive…pints, immediately.” Strauss spoke with sharp intensity, making Hogan stiffen. Apart from indifference, Hogan had only ever heard impatience from the doctor.
“I will… immediately,” replied Klink, accompanied by a scratchy shuffling. Hogan turned down the volume and turned sharply to the men. Time was quite possibly short, and this was a chance they wouldn’t get again with 10 men standing guard and the damn lieutenant hanging around the bedroom like a broody hen.
“Anyone in this room O positive?”
Kinch and Newkirk shrugged and shook their heads.
“I am, Colonel,” offered Carter, the sergeant shrinking back when Hogan whipped around at him.
“Get in the tunnel right now and run over to Field; have him put you at the top of the blood donor list. Move!” If they didn’t get someone in that room now, it might not be until the truck left camp again that they’d have the chance to get a glimpse at their passenger. By which time it would be too late to radio London about knocking him off while still having a chance at it.
Carter scrambled out without pausing to salute. From the speaker came the sound of Klink walking into the living room, opening the door and shouting for Schultz. A pause in which Hogan could hear the rattle of the tunnel entrance opening and Carter hurrying down the slats. Then, from the coffee pot:
“Yes, sir?” the heavy sergeant sounded out of breath.
“Schultz, get over to the camp medic at once – Corporal Field, in barracks 5 – and have him begin taking blood immediately. Tell him we need five pints of O positive blood, and that he is to send over the first pints the instant they are drawn. You are to lose no time, Schultz! If you are not back here in half an hour with it, I will begin digging out my transfer papers!”
“Yes, sir!”
A thud as Schultz knocked his boots together, and then he ran out. Klink hurried back into the bedroom, fabric shuffling like grass in the wind, but there was no further conversation.
“Alright,” said Hogan. “Newkirk, go get LeBeau out of the tunnel; now that we know who’s in the room we can monitor them over the coffeepot.”
“Yes, sir.” The man left, closing the door behind him and leaving Hogan alone with his XO.
Hogan pulled out his chair and sat down, Kinch leaning up against the table. “What’s going on in there? Whoever it is, Strauss was shocked. If he needs that much blood that quick, the guy’s gotta be in bad shape.”
“You know, Colonel, we could refuse to donate blood. It’s going to the enemy, after all.”
Hogan nodded slowly, eyes staring into the distance. “True, but it’s our only chance of finding out who’s in there. We can have Field offer to lend a hand, and suggest they move him to the infirmary. If they do, they’ll have to have the men donating in there with him and we might get a look at him.”
There was a shuffling scamper outside the door, and Carter hurried in looking flushed.
“I just got back down the tunnel as Schultz opened the door, sir. But it’s all set.”
Hogan nodded. “Good. Now listen, when you see Field tell him I want him to try to get a glimpse of this mystery patient at all costs. Tell him to offer medical assistance, to suggest they move the guy to the infirmary, to bring the blood over himself, anything. Same goes for you – take any opportunity you get, but make sure you don’t tip your hand to Schultz – they can’t know how eager we are.” Hogan watched carefully to make sure the sergeant understood; Carter nodded, expression serious.
“Right, sir.”
“And if you move the guy to the infirmary, make sure Field insists that you guys have your blood drawn there; there’s no point trying to get their patient transferred there if no one else’s allowed in. Don’t let them bully him into doing it in the barracks.”
Carter nodded sharply, watching with the kind of attention he usually reserved for chemistry of the most volatile kind. “Got it, sir.”
“Good. Now –”
From the main barracks room came the sound of the door opening, and the men complaining of the sudden influx of cold air. Hogan pulled the plug on the kettle and slammed the strainer back into the top. In the main room, Schultz was bellowing for Carter.
“Carter! Where is Carter? Carter, report here immediately.”
Carter glanced at Hogan, who stood and nodded. The sergeant slipped out of the office, Hogan moving to watch from the doorway.
“I’m right here, Schultz. What’s up?” asked Carter, voice carefully innocent.
The big man turned to him, face loosening into an expression of relief, reflexive grip on his rifle relaxing. “Oh, Carter, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?”
Schultz gave him a suspicious look. “I do not want to know. Right now, you are needed to give blood immediately. Corporal Field is waiting in the infirmary already.” He reached out and took Carter’s arm and began to tug him towards the door, Carter trailing along unenthusiastically.
Hogan stepped out of the office, arms crossed. “Hold it, Schultz. Who’s been injured?”
“Colonel Hogan, I don’t know. But the Kommandant ordered me to assemble the blood donors immediately and that is what I will do.” He pushed Carter towards the door, the younger man hurriedly pulling it open before he was shoved into it, and disappeared out into the dark night. Hogan caught a glimpse of the guard at the door staring suspiciously in before it was slammed shut once again.
CHAPTER 2
Carter let Schultz march him over to the infirmary, the one prisoner’s building with proper heating and cotton-filled mattresses rather than straw. It also had permission for 24 hour electricity and, if necessary, hot water, although on a limited supply.
Field was already setting up two beds when he entered, the tall medic glancing up only to look back to his equipment. “Thanks, Sergeant. Can you get Private McPhearson; he’s next on the list.” The American corporal was curt and no-nonsense as always.
“Right away!” Schultz nudged Carter further into the room, then turned and hurried out.
Glancing behind him at the shut door, Carter crossed to Field, currently fixing clear plastic piping into a glass bottle. The six-foot-two medic, dressed in a white lab coat that only fell halfway down his thighs, gave him a quick nod.
“What’s happening, Sergeant?”
“Colonel Hogan wants you to try to find out who the patient is at all costs. He said to offer to help the doctor, or to suggest the man be moved in here, or to take the blood over yourself,” answered Carter, spilling the words out and trying not to trip over them. “Anything you can think of – he really wants to know.”
“They’ve got a doctor in there already, do they? Take off your coat and boots,” he added, gesturing to the bed. Carter sat and began unlacing his boots.
“Yeah, Strauss from town. He’s the one who ordered the blood.”
“Too bad; if they hadn’t brought in the doc I’d have had to do the transfer.” Field trailed off, glass bottle in one hand and plastic tube in the other, staring thoughtfully at the wall.
Carter, one shoe off, paused at the stillness. “What?”
“There’s another way that’s sure to get you in to see him, if it’s really that important,” said Field, slowly, staring into the smooth rounded glass. “But,” he continued, looking down at Carter with dark eyes, “it’s a lot riskier than bottling, for you. For the donator. It depends how much the Colonel really wants to know…”
Carter swallowed and then sighed gloomily, remembering the hawk-like expression on the Colonel’s face. “He really wants to know alright. How dangerous?”
“It’s semi-major surgery, requires making an incision in your wrist and pulling the artery to the top to put the needle in. Obviously you can do damage to the artery, and since you can’t measure how much blood’s been given it’s possible to take too much, although with the clotting that’s unlikely.”
“Could you maybe put it in simpler terms?”
“It’ll be painful and will take more blood than bottling would since we’d only want to do one transfer. It could possibly be lethal, although that’s very unlikely.” Field added, as if it were no serious than the other points.
Carter swallowed thickly, blanching. “How unlikely?”
“Unlikely,” said Field, flatly. “Yes or no? Schultz’ll be back soon.”
Sweating, still thinking back to the conversation they had overheard and the possible importance of the patient’s identity, Carter nodded sulkily. “Okay, okay.”
“Right.” Field yanked the flexible tube from the bottle’s mouth and turned towards the wall on the far side of the room, taken up with white shelves and cupboards. “Then get over to that storage cupboard. Move it.” He indicated a tall cabinet with one hand, even as he strode over to another and pulled it open.
Carter did as he was told, crossing the room in his stocking feet and opening the doors to find shelves of carefully stored equipment: cardboard boxes and rolls of bandages and sealed glass bottles.
“Unseal the bottles, quick,” ordered Field, without looking. Carter fumbled to do so, grabbing one bottle at a time and quickly pulling the airtight plug from the top with a pop. He dropped the plugs on the shelf above as he worked, the tiny rubber circles rolling about like a child’s tops.
Field hurried over with a bottle of dark powder and elbowed him away from the already opened bottles. Out of the corner of his eye Carter saw him sucking up the powder in a small eyedropper and blowing it into the bottles. Understanding the medic’s plan, Carter finished unstopping the bottles and stepped around him to begin resealing those already contaminated with the powder. They had done nearly the entire shelf when the door creaked. Carter stepped back as Field shoved the bottle and syringe into his coat pocket and sealed the last two bottles just as Schultz opened the door and pushed MacPhearson in, the Scotsman looking puzzled.
“Schultz, you’re just in time! These bottles are all contaminated; I’ve got nothing to transport the blood in.” Field picked up a bottle and held it out to the sergeant, the light catching the grey dusting of powder on the inside of the glass; thicker in some places and nearly absent in others, to Carter it looked convincingly like mould. Even if it didn’t, he knew enough about medicine to know that the presence of any contaminant would prevent use.
The sergeant ambled over and inspected the bottle held out to him with a myopic stare. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to have to wait for the transfusions while I disinfect some bottles.”
“And how long will that take?”
“About half an hour, give or take. Then you have to cool the bottles down, and then you can begin drawing the blood. Maybe an hour for the first pints?” He picked up some bottles and slowly glanced around as if in deep thought. “I guess we’ll have to use the mess stove to boil the water…”
Schultz stepped in front of him. “No, no, no! My orders were to have the blood immediately! One hour is too long! Aren’t there some other bottles you can use? Colonel Klink has plenty in his quarters, I will go and fetch you some!”
It was Field’s turn to stop the sergeant, juggling bottles as he did so. “No, Schultz, that’s no good. Any bottles we use have to be disinfected, it’d take just as long.”
“Then what can we do? There must be a quicker way. The colonel was very clear about it.”
Field appeared to think about it. “Well, I suppose if it’s a matter of life or death…”
“Yes?”
“We could do a direct transfer. We wouldn’t need any bottles then, and we could do it right away.”
Schultz broke out in a wide smile. “Excellent! Let’s do that!”
Field put the bottles back on the shelf, and picked out instead some sealed tubing and a packet of needles. “Fine. Let’s go. C’mon, Sergeant,” this to Carter, standing beside him. Carter hurried back to the bed and jammed his boots on, not bothering with the laces.
“Wait, wait, wait, go where?”
“To see the patient. We’ll run the blood directly from Sergeant Carter to him. And don’t think I’m doing it without protest – this is a lot more dangerous for Carter. MacPhearson can go back to his barracks; it’s too time-consuming and dangerous to be doing it for one pint each; they’ll just have to take as much as he can give and hope it’s enough.” Field stopped by the door, glancing at Carter who hurried over immediately. MacPhearson, now completely confused, still stood by the door.
“I do not know about this; the Kommandant said –”
“Look, Schultz, we can disinfect the bottles, and you can have your blood in an hour, or we can go over there and you can have it right now. Your choice.”
“Your funeral,” added Carter, with a lightness he didn’t feel. His stomach was full of cold, wet, writhing eels.
Schultz groaned. “Don’t say things like that.” He paused, groaning again. “Fine. All three of you, come with me. MacPhearson, I will take you back afterwards.” He opened the door and gestured them out with his rifle. Carter followed Field outside, Schultz and MacPhearson bringing up the rear.
Carter, jacket only draped over his shoulders, quickly struggled into it as soon as the cold night air hit him. Field picked up his pace, and they trotted across the dark compound towards Klink’s quarters, boots almost soundless on the dirt. Carter couldn’t help glancing at Barracks 2 as they passed it, guard standing in the shadows outside the door, shutters closed, and wondering what the Colonel and the others were doing right now. Probably listening to whatever was going on inside Klink’s quarters.
They reached them a few seconds later, and were stopped immediately by two of the guards from the truck standing at attention outside the door. Schultz stepped forward to explain, and there was a long, sharp conversation which ended in one of the guards going inside. He returned a moment later with a stern-looking Wehrmacht lieutenant who raked angry eyes over them and promptly tore into Schultz, who quailed before him.
“What is this?”
“Sir, the medic reports the blood bottles are c-c-contaminated. The transfusion must be done in person, or wait an hour. Colonel Klink ordered me to bring the b-blood as soon as possible, so I thought, I thought…” Schultz trailed off into a stammering silence under the lieutenant’s glare.
“No uncontaminated bottles in camp? And you call yourselves the most efficient Stalag in Germany? This will not go unreported.” The lieutenant’s expression of disgust deepened, lips rising to reveal the tips of dirty teeth. Then he turned abruptly, cursing, and disappeared inside. He reappeared a minute later and held the door open. “The man may enter. The medic will not be required; the doctor can perform the transfusion himself. Give me the equipment.” The lieutenant held out his hand to Field, who stared in confusion, not having followed the German conversation.
“Give him the equipment,” relayed Schultz. Field stared at the man in distrust.
“Is he a doctor?”
“There is one inside, he will perform the transfusion.”
“I’m the camp medic, sir, it’s my duty to see that the men receive proper and appropriate medical treatment. I’m already going against my principles by allowing this more dangerous procedure, and I demand to be allowed to assist in it.” Field tucked the equipment tighter to his chest and glared at the man who, one step above ground level, was barely as tall as him. The lieutenant pulled himself up to his full height, gaining nearly an inch, eyes flashing. And Klink appeared behind him, like some kind of bumbling angel. Carter had never been so glad to see the man.
“What is going on here? Schultz?”
“Herr Kommandant, the lieutenant wants the doctor to perform the transfer, alone. Corporal Field says it is his duty to see to it himself.”
Klink nodded majestically. “That is very admirable, Corporal Field. However I assure you Dr. Strauss is very capable.”
“That may be, sir,” began Field stoutly, “but it’s my duty to oversee medical procedures performed on the men –”
Klink shifted, but the lieutenant cleared his throat, and he hardened his expression. “No, Corporal, it is your duty to care for them in the absence of a doctor. We have a doctor, so your presence will no longer be required. Please give your equipment to the lieutenant.”
Field glared, but handed over the sealed tubing and needles carefully. “I will be lodging a protest with the Red Cross, sir,” he spat. “And you can only have Carter – your doctor will tell you that too. This procedure is too time-consuming and dangerous to be performing multiple times. If you don’t believe me you can ask him.”
Carter swallowed again, trying to draw reassurance from the medic’s strength in the face of hostility and to avoid the fact that the man would be gone in a minute. He had been left alone in hostile situations plenty of times. But none, pointed out the quiet voice in the back of his head, which entailed the hostiles performing dangerous surgery on him. Mouth suddenly dry, he opened it anyway to try to back out, to declare uncertainty. No sound came out, and the conversation went on without him.
Klink waved an unconcerned hand. “Fine, fine. Schultz, escort the corporal and the private back to their barracks.”
“Yes, sir.” Schultz took Field’s elbow gently, and pulled him away, MacPhearson trailing behind. Carter watched anxiously as the medic was directed away; Field threw a salute. He returned it nervously, and the man disappeared into the twilight of the camp’s heavily lit night.
“Very well,” snarled the lieutenant, Carter’s worried mind struggling to switch over into German again. “Bring him into the outer room.” He opened the door and walked in, cutting straight through into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. Klink ushered Carter in and then stopped him in the living room, turned to look into at the closed door.
Carter cleared his throat, trying to calm his nerves. Maybe if he could get the information, he could still back out… “Hey, Kommandant, you never told me who I’m giving blood to. And why he’s in here, and not in the infirmary.”
Klink turned, expression distracted. “Never mind, it’s not important. You will be doing your duty and saving a life.”
“Yeah, but Field said this’d be pretty dangerous, you know? So I’d like to know, if it’s all the same to you.” Maybe the colonel would hear about the danger – maybe Field would go and tell him – and he’d pull Carter out. Even as it occurred to him, the sergeant knew it wouldn’t happen. They needed the information. Which meant he couldn’t pull out either.
Still, this plan seemed stupider and stupider the more he thought about it. What if it was Hitler he was supposed to be giving blood to? Or an important general? What if he was significantly helping the German war effort – and endangering himself to do so? He straightened, finding courage in his outrage. “C’mon, Colonel, I have a right to know!”
Klink frowned, but before he could answer the bedroom door opened, and the lieutenant reappeared with a long strip of cloth in his hands. Carter watched him cross the room, nervous and tense.
“What’s that for?” His voice sounded thin and shaky even in his own ears.
“He will be blindfolded,” said the lieutenant, Klink relaying the message. Carter swallowed, and glanced at the stove. There’d be no advice from that corner. Now really was the time to back out – this was pointless and dangerous and he really didn’t want to be here with the smouldering lieutenant staring at him like he’d been scrapped off the bottom of the man’s shoe. There was no reason for him to be here – he probably wouldn’t even hear the man breathing, wouldn’t be able to get a glimpse of him, and if he were awake he’d never be stupid enough to give himself away by talking. What if the doctor was secretly a real patriot – maybe he’d bleed him dry to save their general or whoever.
He should have thought of this before. The colonel, any of the guys, would have. Would have already gotten themselves out of this mess.
The colonel’s sharp expression flashed through his mind – Get a glimpse of this mystery patient at all costs. No, they wouldn’t have. If they thought it was really important, they’d take the risk to get the information. The colonel would.
“Is that r-really necessary?” He choked out, straightening. Fighting fear with resolve and, somehow, winning.
The lieutenant didn’t bother to wait for the translation, simply put the cloth over his face, spun him around and tied it with a tight jerk at the back. He was spun around again as quickly, a strong hand on his elbow pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Klink, you will come to translate,” the lietuenant’s gruff voice was loud in Carter’s ears. Carter, all his thoughts dedicated to quashing down his panic, heard the Kommandant’s reply but didn’t understand it.
They stopped briefly after a few steps, the pause accompanied by a hinge squeaking, and then continued into a warmer room.
“Have him sit there,” said Strauss from a few feet away, still whistling slightly on his s.
“Sit here,” repeated Klink dully. Carter didn’t spare the thought to consider the colonel’s lack of enthusiasm for his role, simply sat into the chair he found shoved into his knees from behind.
“Have him take off his jacket, and roll up his left sleeve – if he is right handed? Lieutenant, please help me move this man to the side of the bed; they will have to lie side by side. This really would have been easier in the infirmary, you know.” The doctor sounded irritated; strangely it gave Carter a small measure of confidence. His doctor back home had always been sharp with them, too; always scolding, always complaining grumpily, always threatening not to keep coming out to patch him and his cousins up if they didn’t start behaving like children instead of monkeys. And, when Carter was seventeen and heading to the school prom in his Sunday best and his cousin James crashed his bicycle into a drainage ditch and broke half his ribs on an old irrigation pipe, the doctor had saved his life right there on the gravel road.
“Are you right-handed, Carter?” Klink had stepped over to stand at his side, his voice just behind Carter’s left shoulder. From the bed, he could hear the lieutenant and the doctor moving the man to one side of Klink’s bed. It was a good thing the Kommandant had recently invested in a double bed – a thought which brought to mind the men’s ribbing of the colonel, wondering who he thought he would be sharing it with. It took away a tiny portion of the nervousness, strengthened his wavering determination.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take off your jacket and roll up your left sleeve.”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled off his gloves and shrugged unsteadily out of his jacket, stomach turning again, and then rolled up his sleeve away from his wrist – we’ll make an incision, pull out the artery – and took off his watch with shaking hands. In the dark beneath the blindfold he had to grope around to find his jacket pocket to slip the watch into.
The shuffling coming from the bed ceased, and the doctor spoke up again. Close-to, Carter could hear the whistling more clearly, and wondered just how old the man was. His voice was strong and hale and he seemed to know his mind, but…
“Have him lie down on the bed, there.” Carter imagined him pointing a white-gloved hand, imagined a man in a Wehrmacht uniform lying on one side of the bed, maybe unconscious, maybe already cut open and bleeding. Tried not to let himself imagine who else it could be.
“And tell him,” added the lieutenant fiercely, “that if he moves towards the patient or to take off the blindfold, I will shoot him.” There was a metallic click which echoed through the room louder than any of the voices and carried his point for him. Carter froze automatically, heart leaping into his throat and sweat breaking out again. His gut twisted so tightly he had to struggle not to bend with the pain.
“The lieutenant reminds you not to move towards the patient, or remove your blindfold,” said Klink stiffly. “Over here,” he added and pulled at Carter’s arm to move him to the bed. Carter remained sitting for an instant, afraid to move – any move could be the wrong one. Without sight he had no idea what the lieutenant was thinking, whether he was moving to shoot, whether… “Come on,” repeated Klink, and the lieutenant huffed. It was enough. Carter bolted to his feet and stumbled towards the bed, knocking into the soft mattress with his knee. He sunk down onto it immediately, legs trembling. Slowly he lay down at the very edge, left arm folded over his stomach and several inches of his shoulder and chest hanging over the side of the bed.
“You have two feet of room, Carter, you can move over,” said Klink, sounding irritated. Not, Carter thought, with him. He shuffled over until he could lie with his arm resting on the bed beside him, but moved no nearer to the other side.
There was a shuffling as someone walked around from the other side of the bed, and then the heavy sound of the chair being moved.
“Tell him I cannot use anaesthetic because it is important that he is clearheaded. He must tell me if he begins to feel lightheaded, dizzy, weak or cold.”
He already felt lightheaded, weak and cold. If he hadn’t been lying down, he’d probably have been dizzy too.
“There will be pain, but he must not move his arm. The operation is delicate; if he moves I could sever the artery. Make sure he understands; if he does not believe he can hold still he will have to be restrained.”
Carter forced himself to hold off on swallowing until Klink translated. He’d broken bones before, been cut and even burned when he was shot down, but he’d never been awake while someone sliced him open and expected him to hold still for it. “I don’t know, sir,” he whispered. He wished the colonel was there to tell him what to do. Wished that he was even just there. “I’ll try my best.”
“He will try,” relayed Klink. “Really, doctor, is this necessary? It hardly seems wise.”
Under his blindfold, Carter blinked.
“It will save the man’s life,” said the doctor briskly. “The risk is not so large. The pain cannot be ignored, but it will not be too great either. It is merely important that he understands.”
Klink made no answer.
There was the quiet pop of a bottle being opened, and then something cold and wet smeared back and forth over his arm like a water-snake. Carter stiffened, jaw clenching, and hoped this wasn’t as big a mistake as it seemed.
“Now I begin. He must hold still.”
-------------------------------------------------
It hurt. A lot. It was both painful and uncomfortable, and with dread kneading cold fingers into his gut Carter was afraid he would actually be sick. He forced himself to lie still, breathing deeply through his mouth with his right hand fisted tight in the bed’s coverlet. Closed his eyes under the heavy darkness of the blindfold, and thought of being somewhere else.
Somewhere else was always home. Had been for years, since the fiery night over Dusseldorf that changed his life.
He imagined himself home in Bullfrog in his parents’ back yard, the yard he’d grown up in. Imagined it as it would be now, in what was for North Dakota mid fall. The long row of poplar trees in the back of the yard by the fence he and his cousins had painted every second summer since he’d been old enough to carry a paint bucket, their leaves golden yellow now but not starting to fall quite yet. In the late afternoon the sun beat down through the trees, painting the leaves even more buttery-gold while the trunks shone silver-white in contrast. The leaves would be falling in a week or two, and then all the kids would be roped in to going house-to-house and raking them up with promises of jingling coins. It would take them several weekends to finish everyone’s yard, days filled with the rich earthy smell of fallen leaves and the damp rustle as they were gathered up. He and James, his closest cousin, had always built up tall piles and jumped in them, rolled around in them until all the other kids joined in and eventually someone’s mom came out and made them get back to work. One year he and James had played hookie for two whole days without getting caught, and then when they finally were, they were made to rake half the yards all on their own; they’d had to run home from school every day for a week to get in a couple of hours of raking then too to finish by their parents’ deadline.
Carter’s mind wandered from memory to memory, finding it easier and easier as the time passed to slip away from the Kommandant’s bedroom, full of pain and fear and threats. Beside him he now could hear the wounded man’s breathing; it was too-quick and shallow, like a man panting after a run. In his mind, it became part of the memories, part of the pattern.
Running in the school track and field competition, James panting beside him before his cousin went on to pass him and win; he’d taken first place in all the long distance events. Carter, to his shock, had managed first in one heat of the sprints. It had been the first time he’d ever really beaten James at anything and he still remembered the shock on his cousin’s face – and then the pride – with a tight warmth in his chest.
Chasing his kid sisters through the house, already late for school and trying to get them ready to go to his aunt’s for the day. Following the patter of footsteps through the house, the two girls laughing even as he half-ordered, half-pleaded with them, already hot in his long-sleeved shirt with his bag heavy on his shoulder.
James and him, learning to drive their uncle’s new farmall the summer they were sixteen out on the back roads (there were nothing but back roads in Bullfrog), and he’d had to run up and down the stairs every night for a month before his calf was strong enough to kick the clutch into submission. James, of course, had managed it the first time, laughing at him while he panted and complained and tried in futile to shift gears.
His wrist wasn’t hurting so much, now, and his anxiety had faded away. Drained away, so that he only felt a slight tinge of unease in the cool room. Wondered, vaguely, why the doctor hadn’t turned up the heat; Klink had as much as he wanted. His thoughts drifted back to old memories, a heavy panting in his ears like the ticking of a clock.
James, lying panting on the road. It had been… it was so loud. All he could hear, the only sound for miles. The world was empty, just him and James and the long red streak between his cousin and the twisted wreck of a bicycle in the deep stony ditch. The gravel was pressing uncomfortably into his shins, and his hands were shaking as he pulled open the cotton shirt covering James’ chest – it looked very, very wrong – and James was panting like he had when he won those school races, like he had rolling in the leaves in their parents’ yards. Panting and crying, crying for his mother.
“Ina’, o’kiya. Ina’…” Mother, help, mother…
Carter frowned, thrown. That was wrong. He and James always spoke English together, never spoke Lakota except under duress, with the whole family or at tribe meetings. He was calling – he had called – for her in English.
It wasn’t James speaking. Not James’ voice, not his accent.
He wasn’t in Bullfrog with James on the night of their senior prom, praying for the doctor to come. He was in a bed, and there was something he was supposed to remember.
Carter startled into something like awareness, head swimming and body cold. He had to be careful of what he said, but he couldn’t remember why, or what he wasn’t supposed to say. He tried to sit up instead, and wondered why it was so dark. There was a dull pain in his arm, and his chest felt odd. His heart was racing, pounding fast and thready as a rabbit’s, but he couldn’t seem to think properly.
Someone pushed him back into the bed with a strong hand and he fell under them unresistingly. There were voices, speaking sharply. He could understand the words, but something told him not to speak, held his tongue in a steel trap.
“Take him out of here, immediately.”
“He needs medical attention, he has given too much blood.” There was a sharp pain in his arm, like being pricked by barbed wire, like the slap of a bow string on the soft inside of the wrist.
“Take him out of here now, or I will shoot him.”
“We will take him out; there’s no need to be shooting anyone, lieutenant. Will you help me carry him, or may I bring another man in?”
“We will carry him. Doctor, finish your work on your patient.”
“This man needs further medical attention. Allow your camp medic to see to him, and see that he is given something to drink as soon as he is able – juice would be best.” The pain faded slightly, and was replaced by a light pressure. “Very well, you may take him out.”
He was being carried, rocking like a ship, swaying like trees in the wind, poplar leaves falling in a rain of gold. He wanted to stay awake, there was something he was supposed to do, supposed to be doing.
He couldn’t remember what.
----------------------------------------------------
It was bright.
Carter opened his eyes, and stared up at a mass of brown. As his eyes focused, he recognized it as the underside of a bunk. Not his bunk; it was missing the pictures that should have been pinned there. Wherever there was. He shifted, blinking, and tried to remember.
“Carter?”
Carter turned his head slowly, vision not tracking quite fast enough, and saw Newkirk sitting at a familiar desk watching him with dark eyes. And knew, just like that, where he was.
“Newkirk?” His voice sounded oddly thin, like he’d been asleep for hours – in the colonel’s bottom bunk, apparently. The Brit stood, putting down a pack of cards on the desk, and pulled the colonel’s chair over with him to sit back down beside the bed. He reached down and picked up a bottle of honey-gold liquid and a mug, and poured a glass. His face, as he concentrated on his task, was tired and drawn.
“Drink this.” At his uncertain look, Newkirk added, “It’s apple juice; Klink donated it.” He pulled Carter up with an arm tucked around his shoulders and put the mug to Carter’s lips, effectively silencing the sergeant before he could comment. The mug was cool and smooth against his lips, and the juice was just as cool and sweeter than anything he’d drunk in a long time. As soon as it touched his tongue he realised he was incredibly thirsty, dry as the dust bowl waiting with every speck of dirt for rain. He drank the entire mug in one go, reaching up to tip it to a sharper angle when Newkirk tried to slow him. The Brit scolded him lightly, pulling back despite his arm. “Easy, mate, easy, there’s no timer running.”
Carter’s hand, when he looked at it, was trembling slightly against Newkirk’s. He saw the Brit’s glance down at it, and then the man quickly looked away to pour out another mug-full and plastered a smile on his face. “More?”
Carter nodded, ignoring the strange behaviour, and drank nearly the entire second cup before his thirst faded. When he finally pulled away, Newkirk put the mug down on the floor and let him lie down again; there were two thin pillows under his head, an extravagance in the camp. Carter glanced up at the window by the head of the bed, but both it and the shutters were closed.
“What time’s it?”
“About an hour before roll call. How d’you feel?”
Carter looked back to the other man, and noticed that his eyes were already tracking better. “Like I haven’t eaten all day. Kinda muzzy. My wrist hurts,” he added as he realised it, brow wrinkling. It was a dull, throbbing pain, with a bit of heat to the edges. He looked down to his left arm, resting on a blanket – two blankets – and saw the tip of a white bandage peeking out from under the cuff of his jumpsuit.
“That’ll be the operation and the blood loss,” said Newkirk, matter-of-factly.
The memories washed over him in a crashing wave; the darkness, the bright slash of pain, then the confusion and the light-headedness – it must have been blood loss, he recognized now. At the time it had seemed somehow normal, his ability to distinguish the wrongness drained away with his blood.
“What happened?” he asked, still staring at the white bandage. He twitched his sleeve up to look at it, and saw that it ran halfway up his forearm. A more minor pinch in his elbow caused him to roll his sleeve up further to reveal the smaller white patch taped over the inside of his elbow. He looked up to see Newkirk shaking his head, eyes dark and focused for distance despite looking at the wall just over his shoulder.
“You missed a big blow-up, mate. I thought the colonel was gonna –” he pinched his lips together and dropped his head to run a hand through his thick hair. “What’s the last thing you remember?” His voice was slightly muffled, addressing the floor.
“Someone carrying me… maybe Klink?” Carter narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate on memories that were slipping through his fingers like water. “Must’ve been out of his bedroom… it’s all confused, real foggy.”
Newkirk waited a moment, then spoke slowly as if describing a picture. He didn’t look up.
“Well, the first we knew about it – we were all sitting ‘round playing poker, waiting for you to get back. Schultz came in looking like ‘e does when Klink threatens to send ‘im to the Russian Front – you know. ‘E didn’t say anything at first, and we didn’t think nothing of it. Then… they carried you in on a stretcher.” Newkirk stopped for a minute, dropped his hand from his hair to pinch at the bridge of his nose.
“You looked real bad. Must’ve just been the blood loss, but you could’ve been… we all thought…” he paused again, then took up on a different track. “Louis dropped ‘is mug; it smashed all over the floor. Never seen ‘im drop anything before. The colonel just… just turned to stone, like it was all ‘e could do to keep ‘imself from doing anything. I thought ‘e was gonna lay into Schultz, really go for ‘im.” He raised his head finally, to look straight past Carter at the wall. Licked his lips, then continued in a slightly lighter tone.
“No one was doing anything, so I thought I’d better. I checked your pulse, and o’ course you were better than you looked really. Schultz said something about a mistake an’ everyone unfroze. The colonel ordered you put in ‘is bunk, demanded Schultz send someone for Field to look at you, then demanded to speak to Klink. Told Schultz if ‘e didn’t agree, ‘e’d walk right across the bloody yard anyway, guards or no guards.” Newkirk shook his head, somewhere between amazed and shocked at his superior’s actions.
“Field showed up pretty quick, took one look at you and ordered the donors rounded up again. There was another mess about that, but ‘e was taken to Klink and the colonel and it got done, so Klink must’ve authorized it. ‘E came back with the blood and juice for you and ‘ooked you up. ‘E was just leaving when the colonel came back from Klink’s, looking like ‘ell. I’d’ve loved to be a fly on that wall,” Newkirk added, grinning humourlessly. “Anyway, ’e took ‘im down into the tunnel, since you were in ‘is office. We could still ‘ear the shouting, even up ‘ere.” The Brit stopped, pursing his lips again.
“Why?” asked Carter, more to change the expression on Newkirk’s face than out of curiosity. It worked; the pain disappeared to be replaced by surprise and irritation, and for the first time in the conversation he focused on Carter. “’E authorized the bloody transfer, didn’t ‘e? We ‘eard ‘im on the coffeepot outside the door, tellin’ the Krauts it was dangerous, but ‘e didn’t play it up and we assumed ‘e was just making noise.”
Carter frowned and shook his head. “No, he told me. Explained it all, and I agreed. It wasn’t his fault, not really.”
Newkirk flared up, the first sign of the real anger Carter could feel still running under the surface of the Brit’s tired exterior like white water under ice. “’E never should’ve bloody well suggested it, not to –” Newkirk cut himself off, but his point was clear enough. Not to you. Carter said nothing; he couldn’t argue. Newkirk was right, he’d made the wrong choice. Just like always.
“Anyway, doubt ‘e’ll do it again in a ‘urry after the ‘iding the colonel gave ‘im. ‘E came out of there looking like a private after ‘is first dressing down.” Newkirk seemed grimly pleased, but it only made Carter feel worse, and he changed the topic again.
“And after that? Where’s the colonel now?”
“Sleepin’ in your bunk. We set up a rotation to keep an eye on you; Field said you were to get fluids as soon as you woke up. Said you weren’t in any danger, but you’d need more blood sugar. The colonel looked done in, and we figured ‘e probably wasn’t the first person you’d want to see when you woke up anyhow.”
Carter closed his eyes. He’d seen the colonel really furious, but never at any of his men. Only at London, a distant figure giving them untenable orders. Never at anyone he could openly confront, never in a situation where he’d held onto that anger for more than a minute or two before turning to some more productive thought. And even then, it had been strong enough to make Carter flinch away. The thought of that anger directed towards him made his stomach turn. Even Newkirk’s, carefully hidden though it was, hurt far worse than the dull pain in his wrist. All the more because while he was sure he was at the bottom of the whirlwind of accusations and rage that had apparently swept through the camp while he slept and were still burning hot as coals under a dead fire, he couldn’t draw a clear line of responsibility and couldn’t figure out exactly what it was he needed to apologize for other than being himself.
“No,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “Maybe not.”
“You still tired?”
“Kinda.” If roll call was soon, he must have slept already for at least five hours, but he felt ready to drop off again. His eyes were already too heavy to open again. Newkirk rested a light hand on his shoulder, the small gesture giving an oddly disproportionate sense of security. He trusted the colonel wholeheartedly as a commander, but he trusted Newkirk as a friend, trusted him to think of the things he so often forgot. He heard the Brit say something else, but it was already mingling with the shifting currents of sleep.
