what_we_dream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
what_we_dream) wrote2010-08-05 08:50 pm
what_we_dream) wrote2010-08-05 08:50 pm
Entry tags:
Hogan's Heroes: Lines of Communcation (2/2)
Title: Lines of Communication (2/unfinished)
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.
Hogan woke with the pre-roll call alarm, startling awake in an unfamiliar bunk to a room full of unusual sounds. It took him an instant to place himself, heart slowing as he recognized his men’s usual groans and complaints and the smell of the wood stove mingled with LeBeau’s coffee.
He was in the main barracks, lying in Carter’s bunk because the sergeant was in his.
Hogan tumbled out of the low bunk, stomach tensing, and landed clumsily due to the unprocessed height difference from his own upper bunk. Around him the men were hurrying to dress, pulling on outer clothes and boots. Hogan had slept in his clothes, the eagles he exercised so rarely these days digging into his neck with every twist and turn, so that he only had to reach up to Newkirk’s empty bunk to grab his jacket to be fully dressed.
Across the room he caught Kinch’s eye, his XO pulling his own jacket on over his clothes from yesterday. The man hadn’t turned in any earlier than he had. Stayed awake, thought Hogan wryly, to see that his CO didn’t end up bringing the whole camp down around their ears. That simple recognition was enough to keep him storming into his office and probably disturbing Carter, as he had intended. He glanced around instead, watching the men hurry to get ready, some ducking with embarrassment at finding their officer monitoring their morning routines.
A moment later Schultz came hustling into the barracks, letting in a sharp wind that hinted of frost, rubbing his hands and bellowing until the thin wooden walls shook. “Roll call! Roll call! Everyone out!”
Hogan slipped in behind the sergeant as he sailed forwards to chastise the scrambling men, leaned up against the doorway and waited for the man to turn around again.
Schultz only noticed him when he was only a couple of feet from the door on his return trip, his eyes widening as he stumbled to a halt. “C-colonel Hogan!” The guard’s honest face betrayed his uncertainty, mingled with what looked like a dash of fear.
Hogan could hardly blame him. He chose an easy tone, and leant back casually against the door, crossing his arms negligently.
“We’re confined to barracks, remember Schultz?”
The sergeant relaxed slightly. “Not anymore. The Kommandant has cancelled that order; all men are to fall out for roll call.” He paused. Before last night, Hogan knew, he wouldn’t have hesitated to hustle the colonel out. As it was Schultz simply reached passed him, pulled the door open and swept out into the cold fall morning shouting, “Everybody out, raus, raus!” behind him as he went.
Hogan stood aside to let his men stream out, Kinch pausing at his side to pull on his cap. “Schultz is a bit edgy this morning,” the radio-man said, carefully not looking at his superior as he skated wide around the sharp-edged uncertainty lying between them like a landmine.
Hogan turned to look at him, and waited for Kinch to do the same. “He doesn’t have anything to worry about,” he said quietly. Kinch nodded, eyes watchful.
“Alright, Colonel.” He put his hands in his pockets and slipped outside, where Hogan could hear Schultz already counting. There was a creak from his quarters and Newkirk stepped out, pulling his coat on as he closed the door behind him. He inclined his head to Hogan as he hurried over, and they stepped out together into the clear November morning.
Schultz gave them a baleful look as they took up their places, but didn’t comment. Behind him, Klink was standing with crop and coat, watching the roll with an unusually closed face. To Klink’s left, the Wermarcht guards were now spread out in a wide circle around the personal wing of the Kommandantur, each holding his rifle at the ready. Most had their eyes on the prisoners, and Hogan caught glints of malice in more than one face. He couldn’t be certain whether it was the Wehrmacht presence or the previous night’s activities, but his own men were considerably more subdued than usual. Whatever the reason, it was just as well. There couldn’t be any major goofing off with those goons present; their postures telegraphed clearly enough that wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
The colonel turned his attention back to the immediate as Schultz, clipboard in hand, made his way down the line to Newkirk and Hogan. He paused, glancing at Carter’s empty spot and then up again. However, Newkirk answered before Hogan could, in a disaffected tone.
“’E’s in the barracks, Schultz. You can check if you want.”
Schultz’ eyes flitted to the barracks and then back again. “That is not necessary,” he declared, and made a mark on the roster, then turned to Klink. “All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant!”
“Very good.” Klink returned his subordinate’s salute, but didn’t dismiss the men. “As you have noticed, the restriction to barracks has been lifted. However, the area around the Kommandantur remains out of bounds. The men guarding it have been given orders to shoot to kill; orders which I do not doubt they will hesitate to carry out. You are all to stay well away from it. No reason will excuse your approach. Dismissed.” Klink saluted Hogan, and then gestured for the man to join him.
Hogan walked over, managing his usual saunter with some effort, as the men hurried back into the barracks out of the cold.
“Sir?” Polite inquiry, nothing else. There was nothing else, Hogan was nothing but an easy-going, attentive, occasionally smart-aleck officer. Definitely not dangerous and aggressive. Klink gave him a long look before speaking.
“Hogan, I meant what I said about those men. Tell the prisoners to keep away from them; they’re all very touchy. They were fighting on the Western Front only a few days ago.” So they might not have much compunction about shooting the enemy, stood out tall from between the lines. Even Klink recognized that; the man was watching him closely to see that he understood, unusually serious.
“I understand, Kommandant. I’ll see that the men follow your orders.”
Klink nodded. “We do not need any more injuries,” he said quietly, and turned away without another word to return to his office.
Hogan watched him go, standing alone in front of the barracks. Klink had never been behind in threatening to shoot prisoners who disobeyed orders – not surprising for a man guarding 200 men with only 40 guards on duty at any given time. There had never been any hint of reluctance to issue the orders, though, nothing but the usual thoughtless threats. Balanced, admittedly, by equally thoughtless kindnesses and a genuine interest in keeping his prisoners healthy.
Until now, the Kommandant had never seen the consequences of a prisoner being directly and severely injured by his administration – because they had been unbelievably lucky. Probably, thought Hogan, he had never considered it. And now he knew what happened when the kid gloves came off, for better or for worse. Maybe it would rein in some of those thoughtless threats. Musing on that possibility, Hogan returned to the barracks.
Inside the men were picking up their usually daily routines; shaving, making beds, beginning hobbies or chores. Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk were all conspicuously absent.
Feeling himself tensing, Hogan forced himself to divert to the stove and pour a mug of coffee, and then to wander over to his quarters rather than stride.
The three men were, predictably, already there when he entered. Newkirk was sitting in his chair, pulled over from behind his desk to the side of his bunk. LeBeau was sitting on the foot of the bed, Kinch leaning against the side of the desk. Hogan didn’t miss the clear effort at creating a relaxed atmosphere, and kept his own movements easy and casual as he shut the door.
Carter was sitting up in the lower bunk, back against the wall, with a full mug in his right hand. He looked up as Hogan entered, eyes widening slightly. He seemed, Hogan saw noted relief, completely healthy except for a lack of his usual brimming energy.
“How’re you feeling, Carter?”
“Fine, sir. Guess waking up for roll call’s become an instinct by now,” he added. Hogan nodded, moving over to lean up against his desk beside Kinch.
“How’s the juice?” He gestured to the mug. Carter looked down at it, then back up again, brightening immediately.
“Boy, it’s great, sir! D’you want to try some?” He held the mug out in a nearly steady hand; it shook only with minor tremors like those brought on by stress or fatigue. Hogan smiled and gestured it away.
“Nah, it’s all yours.” He waited while Carter took a self-conscious sip, and then leant back further against the desk. “Can you us what happened?”
Newkirk turned, possibly to protest, but Carter answered before he could. “Sure, sir, but I don’t think it’ll be a lot of help. See, I didn’t find anything out.” He smiled awkwardly, and looked down at the mug again. “I guess Field told you how I got in, and you probably heard everything else on the coffeepot. That lieutenant put on a blindfold, so I couldn’t see anything.”
“We heard,” said Kinch, gruffly, as Hogan frowned.
“Tell us anyway,” he said.
Carter shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, they took me in blindfolded like I said. Klink stuck around to translate for me – he wasn’t too pleased about it, either.” Carter paused, staring into the distance. “Anyway, they had me on the bed with the guy, but I really couldn’t see anything. And with that goon there with his gun, I can tell you boy – sir – I wasn’t gonna try.”
Hogan set his jaw. “You mean Mercer?”
“That lieutenant, yeah. He’s a real piece of work, sir.” Carter took a deep breath, and started again in a calmer tone. “And that’s it, really. It was hard to keep track of the time without my watch, but it seemed to go by pretty quick.” Carter’s voice tapered off, eyes narrowing in thought as he stared at the door. “There was something else…”
Newkirk glanced at Hogan, and then back again. “What?”
Carter shook his head slowly, thumb absently tracing the rim of the mug.
“I’m not sure… things’re kinda fuzzy. I think… I could hear him breathing,” said Carter at last, frowning with the effort of remembering. LeBeau shifted impatiently, but Kinch stilled him with a subtle motion.
“Quick and shallow, like this,” Carter broke off to give a few quick pants, “Like a runner,” he added, as the comparison seemed to come to his mind.
And then, without any warning, the man dropped his mug and leapt up, shouting “Holy cow!”
Everyone startled simultaneously, Newkirk instinctively trying to catch the mug and missing; it shattered all over the floor, spilling juice everywhere. LeBeau slid off the bunk and leant forward to keep Carter from jumping out of the bed onto the porcelain shards in his stocking feet, checking the man harshly in broken French. Carter didn’t listen, just pushed the corporal away and looked straight at Hogan, eyes wide.
“Sir – I know who he is – kind of – I mean, not exactly who, but –”
“Carter,” cut in Hogan sharply, and finding himself standing stiff in the centre of the room with no memory of how he’d gotten there, forced himself to relax. “What are you talking about? You just said you didn’t know anything, couldn’t see anything.”
“No, sir,” agreed Carter intensely. “I heard him. He’s American, sir. He’s Sioux.” Carter’s face froze, excitement shifting straight into fear, and he added in a stunned tone: “I might know him.”
“Carter,” said Kinch kindly, “You can’t tell people apart by how they breathe.”
Carter shook his head, his expression not changing. “No, no, I heard him speak. In Lakota. He’s Sioux, sir.” The younger man spoke with extreme certainty.
Hogan sighed and leant back against his desk again. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”
Carter considered for a moment, brow furrowing again, before beginning. “I was thinking about home – you know, trying to pretend like I wasn’t there. But I could hear him breathing, and I started thinking about that. About the time my cousin won the school track meet, boy, you should’a seen him, he could run for miles –”
“Carter,” interrupted Hogan again, more gently this time.
“Sorry, sir. So I was thinking about home, just kinda daydreaming. Maybe I was a bit out of it,” he added, consideringly. “But the reason I snapped out of that was because the guy started rambling. In Lakota. And then the lieutenant went nuts, I guess, and they carried me out. They must’ve been afraid he’d say something that’d give him away in English.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Hogan himself felt his stomach flip as if he’d just done a barrel-turn. It apparently hadn’t occurred to Carter how close he’d come to being shot for what he’d heard. No one else seemed about to enlighten him.
Finally LeBeau spoke, slow and cautious. “You said you were thinking about your home, n’est pas? Maybe you just dreamed it.”
Carter shook his head vehemently. “Uh-uh. I told you, that was what stopped me thinking about home. My cousin and me, we never spoke Lakota growing up if we could avoid it; didn’t want to be different, you know? It was too wrong, that’s why I noticed it.” Carter’s answer was somewhat disjoined, but he seemed sure of his facts, at least.
There was another long measure of silence, then Hogan ran a hand through his hair. “I have to ask, Carter: are you sure?”
Carter didn’t protest, didn’t even appear to notice the potential slight. “Yes, sir. I learned to talk in the middle of a Sioux community, grew up speaking both English and Lakota. No mistake.”
“Then we could be in serious trouble.” Hogan turned to pace slowly back to the desk, trying to marshal his thoughts. When he reached it he turned and leant back against it again, staring hard at the floor. If Carter was right, if he was right…
“How d’you mean, sir?”
“We need to call London and – no, we can’t… damn.” Hogan knocked his knuckles lightly against the edge of the desk without looking up.
“Mon colonel?”
“We need more information. We need his unit, his division at least. Find out where he was captured, anything.” Hogan kept on knocking lightly against the wood, mind running in tight, whiplash circles.
“Sir, what is it? Who is ‘e?”
Hogan looked up, then turned to face Carter, still sitting pale and downcast on the edge of his bunk. “How much do you know about code talkers, Carter?”
Carter just looked puzzled. “Sir? You mean like code users?”
They had come across a few code users in their operations, officers trained to cipher and decipher code between themselves and London to keep Intelligence aware of the situation in Camps, although not many. Hogan shook his head.
From his position beside the bunk, Newkirk whistled. “Blimey, sir, that could make sense. Could make a lot of sense.”
“I don’t know, what are these code talkers?” hissed LeBeau. Hogan looked up to address him as well as Carter.
“At the end of the last war, a couple of American units with Indian members had them use their languages as codes – they didn’t have to bother with actually encoding anything, they just made sure they had a speaker at either end to translate. Since no one in Europe had ever heard the languages, there was no chance of the ‘codes’ being broken. Maybe we’re looking at a repeat performance here. The units moving forward from Normandy could very well have taken some code talkers along with them to pass information; it’d make a lot of sense. With the kind of fire they must be taking, they can’t have a lot of spare time to be wrapping and unwrapping all their messages.”
“So the Borshe captured him, and now… now what?” LeBeau asked.
“Now,” said Hogan slowly, voice hardening, “they’re taking him to Berlin to try to get enough of the language out of him break the code. And since we have no idea how secret an operation this is, we can’t radio London for help. For all we know,” added Hogan as it occurred to him, frowning, “it’s entirely American and the Brits don’t even know about it.” With no direct channels to the American command, they had never had much success dealing with American officers and even less with American commanders despite his own ties. His more pragmatic thoughts were interrupted by Carter breaking abruptly into the conversation.
“We’ve got to help him, Colonel! We’ve got to rescue him!” Carter made to stand again, forgetting the top bunk for the first time in a long time and slamming right into it. He swayed and sat back, hard, dropping his head into his hands. From there he continued, voice muffled and pained. “We’ve got to help him, sir.”
Hogan sighed. “I know, Carter. But it’s not going to be easy. If we had his unit number we could get in contact with them through London and find out what we’re looking at here.”
Carter answered without looking up. “That lieutenant’s not letting anyone see him, sir. He made me go in blindfolded.”
“Yeah, and getting rid of him’s going to be our first job.”
“How’re we gonna do that, sir?” asked Newkirk.
Hogan turned to look at him, expression sour. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
----------------------------------------------
Mercer was sitting on the Kommandant’s chintz couch, reflecting bitterly on the luxury afforded such a useless officer while better men sat on rotting benches at the front, when the doctor emerged from the sickroom. The man, a polar opposite to Klink, appeared no more subservient than he had the day before. Indeed, the apparent improvement in his patient and his avoidance of a decline into shock had united to support the doctor’s presenting of an utterly unimpressed face as he came forward to report to Mercer.
“He is recovering well; apart from his wound and the exhaustion of travelling, he is a strong man. He will need two days of complete rest, and easy treatment afterwards. While he is here in camp he could do with mild meals. Broth or soup.”
“Once he leaves this camp he will receive no easy treatment, doctor,” replied Mercer, lip turning.
The doctor did not return the frown, simply hardened, until his face seemed almost to be granite. “Then I cannot answer for his life. See that he has the proper food, and his chances will be improved.”
Mercer didn’t bother to nod, simply waved his hand in dismissal. “Thank you, doctor. You will return tomorrow?”
“Very well.” The doctor strode past and out the door, receiving the salute of the man posted there with a grunt.
Mercer pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, allowed the frown which had been building to blossom fully, and then strode off to find the bumbling Kommandant. The prisoner, apparently, needed soup.
END CHAPTER
Here continues the fic as it would have been written if I had, you know, written it. As Ch. 3 shows, it was meant to explore the idea of Carter using his linguistic talents for the war effort, and the benefits and problems that could have. I've read so few fics that even touch on Carter's Sioux heritage that it seemed a real pity not to look into it some more. Like so many things, it was a great little facet of his personality that popped up for one episode and then was never mentioned again. Anyway, here's a summary of how the rest of the fic would have gone.
Chapter 4: Newkirk's POV
In order to see the prisoner, Hogan et al convince Schultz that Newkirk is a linguist specialising in Native American languages - and they pointedly have him teach Carter who pretends to know none in order to ensure Mercer doesn't shoot him for having overheard the prisoner's slip. Newkirk's faculty with languages is mentioned to Mercer, who can't prove or disprove his claims himself. But since the prisoner's not fit to travel and they need someone who speaks Lakota in Berlin immediately to break the Allied codes, he takes Newkirk to see the prisoner. Newkirk asks him rote phrases, taught to him by Carter, and in doing so gets his unit information. His credentials proven, Newkirk's locked up in the cooler for the night to keep him from blabbing about the prisoner. Carter visits him via the tunnel and collects the answers to the questions, Newkirk having memorised them. At dawn, Newkirk's shipped out to Berlin.
Chapter 5: Carter's POV
The prisoner, as suspected, is a Lakota man from South Dakota, an American Corporal named Phillip Stonechild from a unit in the 1st Infantry Division. They contact London and get the unit's radio frequency, and then call up his CO, an army colonel. Also as suspected, his unit's one half of a pincer movement moving forwards and calling back reconnaissance. Without him to translate, the information is useless, and his CO's frothing about it. On learning that Hogan might be able to get his man out, he immediately demands it. When that doesn't seem immediately feasible, Carter's talents are offered instead. The CO orders Carter out to them, but Hogan nixes it and offers his help over radio alone. Carter sits down to spend the night translating the back-log of messages that have built up since Stonechild was captured. Aware that Newkirk will be moved as soon as it's light, Hogan, Kinch and LeBeau go out through the tunnel to wait in ambush. Carter finishes the messages, and contacts the army colonel with them. He's met with the information that the matter has been relayed to the Division's general, who has ordered Carter out to take over Stonechild's vital role as code-talker.
Chapter 6: Hogan's POV
Hogan and co, wearing black masks, ambush Mercer's car just out of sight of the Camp. They intend to take out Mercer and the guards, but fail. Although they rescue Newkirk and destroy the truck, Mercer and the guards get away. Hogan et al return to camp. With Mercer free they can't bring Newkirk back in, so they hide him in the tunnel and reappear for roll-call. Carter tells them that he's been ordered to join up with the movement at the Front. Hogan calls up the unit and refuses to allow Carter to go - promising instead that they'll get Stonechild back.
Chapter 7: Carter's POV
Mercer's back in camp, and he's furious. Klink's happy since Newkirk hasn't escaped from his custody, but sends out men looking for Newkirk and puts out a bulletin anyway. Hogan decides the only way to get Stonechild out is to get him into the tunnels while Mercer's away, but now Mercer's guarding the corporal like a cat with only one kitten. That night Hogan, Carter and LeBeau go down to Hammelburg. Kinch phones Klink pretending to be a Hammelburg villager who has captured Newkirk. Mercer goes out immediately, and they take him hostage. They steal his papers, and send a man from the Underground in with them to collect Stonechild, backing him up with a phone number to his superior (Kinch) for Klink to check. Hogan and co then take Mercer and Stonechild back into the tunnels. Mercer they keep to send back to England with the first group of downed airmen that come their way; Stonechild they keep until he's well enough to travel, and then send him back to his unit. All's well that ends well.
Notes: Although Code-Talkers were in fact used in WWII, they were used only in the Pacific theatre, and none (that I'm aware of) used the Lakota language or any of the Sioux dialects (there are 3). This was also true of those units which made use of their Native members' linguistic skills in WWI. But as we know from Drums over the Dusseldorf that Carter speaks one of the Sioux dialects - I inferred Lakota from his mention of his grandfather who fought with Sitting Bull - and even better, Schultz leaves the room before he reads the letter written in whatever dialect it is, meaning neither Schultz nor Klink is aware that he speaks it. This was just too good an opportunity to pass up, so off I went.
Although it hardly came up in what I ended up with, I gathered the Lakota from Wiki's Lakota page and The Lakota Lexicon.
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.
Hogan woke with the pre-roll call alarm, startling awake in an unfamiliar bunk to a room full of unusual sounds. It took him an instant to place himself, heart slowing as he recognized his men’s usual groans and complaints and the smell of the wood stove mingled with LeBeau’s coffee.
He was in the main barracks, lying in Carter’s bunk because the sergeant was in his.
Hogan tumbled out of the low bunk, stomach tensing, and landed clumsily due to the unprocessed height difference from his own upper bunk. Around him the men were hurrying to dress, pulling on outer clothes and boots. Hogan had slept in his clothes, the eagles he exercised so rarely these days digging into his neck with every twist and turn, so that he only had to reach up to Newkirk’s empty bunk to grab his jacket to be fully dressed.
Across the room he caught Kinch’s eye, his XO pulling his own jacket on over his clothes from yesterday. The man hadn’t turned in any earlier than he had. Stayed awake, thought Hogan wryly, to see that his CO didn’t end up bringing the whole camp down around their ears. That simple recognition was enough to keep him storming into his office and probably disturbing Carter, as he had intended. He glanced around instead, watching the men hurry to get ready, some ducking with embarrassment at finding their officer monitoring their morning routines.
A moment later Schultz came hustling into the barracks, letting in a sharp wind that hinted of frost, rubbing his hands and bellowing until the thin wooden walls shook. “Roll call! Roll call! Everyone out!”
Hogan slipped in behind the sergeant as he sailed forwards to chastise the scrambling men, leaned up against the doorway and waited for the man to turn around again.
Schultz only noticed him when he was only a couple of feet from the door on his return trip, his eyes widening as he stumbled to a halt. “C-colonel Hogan!” The guard’s honest face betrayed his uncertainty, mingled with what looked like a dash of fear.
Hogan could hardly blame him. He chose an easy tone, and leant back casually against the door, crossing his arms negligently.
“We’re confined to barracks, remember Schultz?”
The sergeant relaxed slightly. “Not anymore. The Kommandant has cancelled that order; all men are to fall out for roll call.” He paused. Before last night, Hogan knew, he wouldn’t have hesitated to hustle the colonel out. As it was Schultz simply reached passed him, pulled the door open and swept out into the cold fall morning shouting, “Everybody out, raus, raus!” behind him as he went.
Hogan stood aside to let his men stream out, Kinch pausing at his side to pull on his cap. “Schultz is a bit edgy this morning,” the radio-man said, carefully not looking at his superior as he skated wide around the sharp-edged uncertainty lying between them like a landmine.
Hogan turned to look at him, and waited for Kinch to do the same. “He doesn’t have anything to worry about,” he said quietly. Kinch nodded, eyes watchful.
“Alright, Colonel.” He put his hands in his pockets and slipped outside, where Hogan could hear Schultz already counting. There was a creak from his quarters and Newkirk stepped out, pulling his coat on as he closed the door behind him. He inclined his head to Hogan as he hurried over, and they stepped out together into the clear November morning.
Schultz gave them a baleful look as they took up their places, but didn’t comment. Behind him, Klink was standing with crop and coat, watching the roll with an unusually closed face. To Klink’s left, the Wermarcht guards were now spread out in a wide circle around the personal wing of the Kommandantur, each holding his rifle at the ready. Most had their eyes on the prisoners, and Hogan caught glints of malice in more than one face. He couldn’t be certain whether it was the Wehrmacht presence or the previous night’s activities, but his own men were considerably more subdued than usual. Whatever the reason, it was just as well. There couldn’t be any major goofing off with those goons present; their postures telegraphed clearly enough that wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
The colonel turned his attention back to the immediate as Schultz, clipboard in hand, made his way down the line to Newkirk and Hogan. He paused, glancing at Carter’s empty spot and then up again. However, Newkirk answered before Hogan could, in a disaffected tone.
“’E’s in the barracks, Schultz. You can check if you want.”
Schultz’ eyes flitted to the barracks and then back again. “That is not necessary,” he declared, and made a mark on the roster, then turned to Klink. “All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant!”
“Very good.” Klink returned his subordinate’s salute, but didn’t dismiss the men. “As you have noticed, the restriction to barracks has been lifted. However, the area around the Kommandantur remains out of bounds. The men guarding it have been given orders to shoot to kill; orders which I do not doubt they will hesitate to carry out. You are all to stay well away from it. No reason will excuse your approach. Dismissed.” Klink saluted Hogan, and then gestured for the man to join him.
Hogan walked over, managing his usual saunter with some effort, as the men hurried back into the barracks out of the cold.
“Sir?” Polite inquiry, nothing else. There was nothing else, Hogan was nothing but an easy-going, attentive, occasionally smart-aleck officer. Definitely not dangerous and aggressive. Klink gave him a long look before speaking.
“Hogan, I meant what I said about those men. Tell the prisoners to keep away from them; they’re all very touchy. They were fighting on the Western Front only a few days ago.” So they might not have much compunction about shooting the enemy, stood out tall from between the lines. Even Klink recognized that; the man was watching him closely to see that he understood, unusually serious.
“I understand, Kommandant. I’ll see that the men follow your orders.”
Klink nodded. “We do not need any more injuries,” he said quietly, and turned away without another word to return to his office.
Hogan watched him go, standing alone in front of the barracks. Klink had never been behind in threatening to shoot prisoners who disobeyed orders – not surprising for a man guarding 200 men with only 40 guards on duty at any given time. There had never been any hint of reluctance to issue the orders, though, nothing but the usual thoughtless threats. Balanced, admittedly, by equally thoughtless kindnesses and a genuine interest in keeping his prisoners healthy.
Until now, the Kommandant had never seen the consequences of a prisoner being directly and severely injured by his administration – because they had been unbelievably lucky. Probably, thought Hogan, he had never considered it. And now he knew what happened when the kid gloves came off, for better or for worse. Maybe it would rein in some of those thoughtless threats. Musing on that possibility, Hogan returned to the barracks.
Inside the men were picking up their usually daily routines; shaving, making beds, beginning hobbies or chores. Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk were all conspicuously absent.
Feeling himself tensing, Hogan forced himself to divert to the stove and pour a mug of coffee, and then to wander over to his quarters rather than stride.
The three men were, predictably, already there when he entered. Newkirk was sitting in his chair, pulled over from behind his desk to the side of his bunk. LeBeau was sitting on the foot of the bed, Kinch leaning against the side of the desk. Hogan didn’t miss the clear effort at creating a relaxed atmosphere, and kept his own movements easy and casual as he shut the door.
Carter was sitting up in the lower bunk, back against the wall, with a full mug in his right hand. He looked up as Hogan entered, eyes widening slightly. He seemed, Hogan saw noted relief, completely healthy except for a lack of his usual brimming energy.
“How’re you feeling, Carter?”
“Fine, sir. Guess waking up for roll call’s become an instinct by now,” he added. Hogan nodded, moving over to lean up against his desk beside Kinch.
“How’s the juice?” He gestured to the mug. Carter looked down at it, then back up again, brightening immediately.
“Boy, it’s great, sir! D’you want to try some?” He held the mug out in a nearly steady hand; it shook only with minor tremors like those brought on by stress or fatigue. Hogan smiled and gestured it away.
“Nah, it’s all yours.” He waited while Carter took a self-conscious sip, and then leant back further against the desk. “Can you us what happened?”
Newkirk turned, possibly to protest, but Carter answered before he could. “Sure, sir, but I don’t think it’ll be a lot of help. See, I didn’t find anything out.” He smiled awkwardly, and looked down at the mug again. “I guess Field told you how I got in, and you probably heard everything else on the coffeepot. That lieutenant put on a blindfold, so I couldn’t see anything.”
“We heard,” said Kinch, gruffly, as Hogan frowned.
“Tell us anyway,” he said.
Carter shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, they took me in blindfolded like I said. Klink stuck around to translate for me – he wasn’t too pleased about it, either.” Carter paused, staring into the distance. “Anyway, they had me on the bed with the guy, but I really couldn’t see anything. And with that goon there with his gun, I can tell you boy – sir – I wasn’t gonna try.”
Hogan set his jaw. “You mean Mercer?”
“That lieutenant, yeah. He’s a real piece of work, sir.” Carter took a deep breath, and started again in a calmer tone. “And that’s it, really. It was hard to keep track of the time without my watch, but it seemed to go by pretty quick.” Carter’s voice tapered off, eyes narrowing in thought as he stared at the door. “There was something else…”
Newkirk glanced at Hogan, and then back again. “What?”
Carter shook his head slowly, thumb absently tracing the rim of the mug.
“I’m not sure… things’re kinda fuzzy. I think… I could hear him breathing,” said Carter at last, frowning with the effort of remembering. LeBeau shifted impatiently, but Kinch stilled him with a subtle motion.
“Quick and shallow, like this,” Carter broke off to give a few quick pants, “Like a runner,” he added, as the comparison seemed to come to his mind.
And then, without any warning, the man dropped his mug and leapt up, shouting “Holy cow!”
Everyone startled simultaneously, Newkirk instinctively trying to catch the mug and missing; it shattered all over the floor, spilling juice everywhere. LeBeau slid off the bunk and leant forward to keep Carter from jumping out of the bed onto the porcelain shards in his stocking feet, checking the man harshly in broken French. Carter didn’t listen, just pushed the corporal away and looked straight at Hogan, eyes wide.
“Sir – I know who he is – kind of – I mean, not exactly who, but –”
“Carter,” cut in Hogan sharply, and finding himself standing stiff in the centre of the room with no memory of how he’d gotten there, forced himself to relax. “What are you talking about? You just said you didn’t know anything, couldn’t see anything.”
“No, sir,” agreed Carter intensely. “I heard him. He’s American, sir. He’s Sioux.” Carter’s face froze, excitement shifting straight into fear, and he added in a stunned tone: “I might know him.”
“Carter,” said Kinch kindly, “You can’t tell people apart by how they breathe.”
Carter shook his head, his expression not changing. “No, no, I heard him speak. In Lakota. He’s Sioux, sir.” The younger man spoke with extreme certainty.
Hogan sighed and leant back against his desk again. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”
Carter considered for a moment, brow furrowing again, before beginning. “I was thinking about home – you know, trying to pretend like I wasn’t there. But I could hear him breathing, and I started thinking about that. About the time my cousin won the school track meet, boy, you should’a seen him, he could run for miles –”
“Carter,” interrupted Hogan again, more gently this time.
“Sorry, sir. So I was thinking about home, just kinda daydreaming. Maybe I was a bit out of it,” he added, consideringly. “But the reason I snapped out of that was because the guy started rambling. In Lakota. And then the lieutenant went nuts, I guess, and they carried me out. They must’ve been afraid he’d say something that’d give him away in English.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Hogan himself felt his stomach flip as if he’d just done a barrel-turn. It apparently hadn’t occurred to Carter how close he’d come to being shot for what he’d heard. No one else seemed about to enlighten him.
Finally LeBeau spoke, slow and cautious. “You said you were thinking about your home, n’est pas? Maybe you just dreamed it.”
Carter shook his head vehemently. “Uh-uh. I told you, that was what stopped me thinking about home. My cousin and me, we never spoke Lakota growing up if we could avoid it; didn’t want to be different, you know? It was too wrong, that’s why I noticed it.” Carter’s answer was somewhat disjoined, but he seemed sure of his facts, at least.
There was another long measure of silence, then Hogan ran a hand through his hair. “I have to ask, Carter: are you sure?”
Carter didn’t protest, didn’t even appear to notice the potential slight. “Yes, sir. I learned to talk in the middle of a Sioux community, grew up speaking both English and Lakota. No mistake.”
“Then we could be in serious trouble.” Hogan turned to pace slowly back to the desk, trying to marshal his thoughts. When he reached it he turned and leant back against it again, staring hard at the floor. If Carter was right, if he was right…
“How d’you mean, sir?”
“We need to call London and – no, we can’t… damn.” Hogan knocked his knuckles lightly against the edge of the desk without looking up.
“Mon colonel?”
“We need more information. We need his unit, his division at least. Find out where he was captured, anything.” Hogan kept on knocking lightly against the wood, mind running in tight, whiplash circles.
“Sir, what is it? Who is ‘e?”
Hogan looked up, then turned to face Carter, still sitting pale and downcast on the edge of his bunk. “How much do you know about code talkers, Carter?”
Carter just looked puzzled. “Sir? You mean like code users?”
They had come across a few code users in their operations, officers trained to cipher and decipher code between themselves and London to keep Intelligence aware of the situation in Camps, although not many. Hogan shook his head.
From his position beside the bunk, Newkirk whistled. “Blimey, sir, that could make sense. Could make a lot of sense.”
“I don’t know, what are these code talkers?” hissed LeBeau. Hogan looked up to address him as well as Carter.
“At the end of the last war, a couple of American units with Indian members had them use their languages as codes – they didn’t have to bother with actually encoding anything, they just made sure they had a speaker at either end to translate. Since no one in Europe had ever heard the languages, there was no chance of the ‘codes’ being broken. Maybe we’re looking at a repeat performance here. The units moving forward from Normandy could very well have taken some code talkers along with them to pass information; it’d make a lot of sense. With the kind of fire they must be taking, they can’t have a lot of spare time to be wrapping and unwrapping all their messages.”
“So the Borshe captured him, and now… now what?” LeBeau asked.
“Now,” said Hogan slowly, voice hardening, “they’re taking him to Berlin to try to get enough of the language out of him break the code. And since we have no idea how secret an operation this is, we can’t radio London for help. For all we know,” added Hogan as it occurred to him, frowning, “it’s entirely American and the Brits don’t even know about it.” With no direct channels to the American command, they had never had much success dealing with American officers and even less with American commanders despite his own ties. His more pragmatic thoughts were interrupted by Carter breaking abruptly into the conversation.
“We’ve got to help him, Colonel! We’ve got to rescue him!” Carter made to stand again, forgetting the top bunk for the first time in a long time and slamming right into it. He swayed and sat back, hard, dropping his head into his hands. From there he continued, voice muffled and pained. “We’ve got to help him, sir.”
Hogan sighed. “I know, Carter. But it’s not going to be easy. If we had his unit number we could get in contact with them through London and find out what we’re looking at here.”
Carter answered without looking up. “That lieutenant’s not letting anyone see him, sir. He made me go in blindfolded.”
“Yeah, and getting rid of him’s going to be our first job.”
“How’re we gonna do that, sir?” asked Newkirk.
Hogan turned to look at him, expression sour. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
----------------------------------------------
Mercer was sitting on the Kommandant’s chintz couch, reflecting bitterly on the luxury afforded such a useless officer while better men sat on rotting benches at the front, when the doctor emerged from the sickroom. The man, a polar opposite to Klink, appeared no more subservient than he had the day before. Indeed, the apparent improvement in his patient and his avoidance of a decline into shock had united to support the doctor’s presenting of an utterly unimpressed face as he came forward to report to Mercer.
“He is recovering well; apart from his wound and the exhaustion of travelling, he is a strong man. He will need two days of complete rest, and easy treatment afterwards. While he is here in camp he could do with mild meals. Broth or soup.”
“Once he leaves this camp he will receive no easy treatment, doctor,” replied Mercer, lip turning.
The doctor did not return the frown, simply hardened, until his face seemed almost to be granite. “Then I cannot answer for his life. See that he has the proper food, and his chances will be improved.”
Mercer didn’t bother to nod, simply waved his hand in dismissal. “Thank you, doctor. You will return tomorrow?”
“Very well.” The doctor strode past and out the door, receiving the salute of the man posted there with a grunt.
Mercer pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, allowed the frown which had been building to blossom fully, and then strode off to find the bumbling Kommandant. The prisoner, apparently, needed soup.
END CHAPTER
Here continues the fic as it would have been written if I had, you know, written it. As Ch. 3 shows, it was meant to explore the idea of Carter using his linguistic talents for the war effort, and the benefits and problems that could have. I've read so few fics that even touch on Carter's Sioux heritage that it seemed a real pity not to look into it some more. Like so many things, it was a great little facet of his personality that popped up for one episode and then was never mentioned again. Anyway, here's a summary of how the rest of the fic would have gone.
Chapter 4: Newkirk's POV
In order to see the prisoner, Hogan et al convince Schultz that Newkirk is a linguist specialising in Native American languages - and they pointedly have him teach Carter who pretends to know none in order to ensure Mercer doesn't shoot him for having overheard the prisoner's slip. Newkirk's faculty with languages is mentioned to Mercer, who can't prove or disprove his claims himself. But since the prisoner's not fit to travel and they need someone who speaks Lakota in Berlin immediately to break the Allied codes, he takes Newkirk to see the prisoner. Newkirk asks him rote phrases, taught to him by Carter, and in doing so gets his unit information. His credentials proven, Newkirk's locked up in the cooler for the night to keep him from blabbing about the prisoner. Carter visits him via the tunnel and collects the answers to the questions, Newkirk having memorised them. At dawn, Newkirk's shipped out to Berlin.
Chapter 5: Carter's POV
The prisoner, as suspected, is a Lakota man from South Dakota, an American Corporal named Phillip Stonechild from a unit in the 1st Infantry Division. They contact London and get the unit's radio frequency, and then call up his CO, an army colonel. Also as suspected, his unit's one half of a pincer movement moving forwards and calling back reconnaissance. Without him to translate, the information is useless, and his CO's frothing about it. On learning that Hogan might be able to get his man out, he immediately demands it. When that doesn't seem immediately feasible, Carter's talents are offered instead. The CO orders Carter out to them, but Hogan nixes it and offers his help over radio alone. Carter sits down to spend the night translating the back-log of messages that have built up since Stonechild was captured. Aware that Newkirk will be moved as soon as it's light, Hogan, Kinch and LeBeau go out through the tunnel to wait in ambush. Carter finishes the messages, and contacts the army colonel with them. He's met with the information that the matter has been relayed to the Division's general, who has ordered Carter out to take over Stonechild's vital role as code-talker.
Chapter 6: Hogan's POV
Hogan and co, wearing black masks, ambush Mercer's car just out of sight of the Camp. They intend to take out Mercer and the guards, but fail. Although they rescue Newkirk and destroy the truck, Mercer and the guards get away. Hogan et al return to camp. With Mercer free they can't bring Newkirk back in, so they hide him in the tunnel and reappear for roll-call. Carter tells them that he's been ordered to join up with the movement at the Front. Hogan calls up the unit and refuses to allow Carter to go - promising instead that they'll get Stonechild back.
Chapter 7: Carter's POV
Mercer's back in camp, and he's furious. Klink's happy since Newkirk hasn't escaped from his custody, but sends out men looking for Newkirk and puts out a bulletin anyway. Hogan decides the only way to get Stonechild out is to get him into the tunnels while Mercer's away, but now Mercer's guarding the corporal like a cat with only one kitten. That night Hogan, Carter and LeBeau go down to Hammelburg. Kinch phones Klink pretending to be a Hammelburg villager who has captured Newkirk. Mercer goes out immediately, and they take him hostage. They steal his papers, and send a man from the Underground in with them to collect Stonechild, backing him up with a phone number to his superior (Kinch) for Klink to check. Hogan and co then take Mercer and Stonechild back into the tunnels. Mercer they keep to send back to England with the first group of downed airmen that come their way; Stonechild they keep until he's well enough to travel, and then send him back to his unit. All's well that ends well.
Notes: Although Code-Talkers were in fact used in WWII, they were used only in the Pacific theatre, and none (that I'm aware of) used the Lakota language or any of the Sioux dialects (there are 3). This was also true of those units which made use of their Native members' linguistic skills in WWI. But as we know from Drums over the Dusseldorf that Carter speaks one of the Sioux dialects - I inferred Lakota from his mention of his grandfather who fought with Sitting Bull - and even better, Schultz leaves the room before he reads the letter written in whatever dialect it is, meaning neither Schultz nor Klink is aware that he speaks it. This was just too good an opportunity to pass up, so off I went.
Although it hardly came up in what I ended up with, I gathered the Lakota from Wiki's Lakota page and The Lakota Lexicon.