PART XVIII: Blood for blood

Some must be warriors, that others may live in peace.

Mercedes Lackey, Exile's Honor

13 June 1944
Fouras, 00:35

The hours between Harry's departure and the arrival of the boat were the worst of her life. And in light of her experiences these last few months, that was saying something. First came the denial, then the anger, and finally the debilitating fear and utter despair. For she was convinced – once she stepped onto that boat without him, she would never see him again. Had she made the biggest mistake of her life, pushing him away? Was who he was, what he was capable of, truly so unforgivable? His last words went round and round in her head, her analytical mind looking at it from every angle. Did he actually feel that death and destruction followed him around? That he was at fault for the evil perpetrated by Jurgen Setzer? He was a rational man – surely he knew that no-one but Setzer himself bore the responsibility for that? Maybe he came to that conclusion because you told him, in essence, that it was so. That he was nothing more than an intelligence officer who had blood on his hands, a voice in her head insisted. Had she, in trying so hard to protect herself, to uphold her own particular moral view of the world, destroyed the last bit of humanity he had so determinedly clung onto throughout the last eight years? Sometimes you have to give a man a chance to show you who he really is, he'd said. Could she honestly say that she had done that? That she had given him a fair chance?

By the time they stood on the wooden pier, watching the boat manoeuvre next to it, she had still not found the answer. But increasingly foremost in her mind was his eyes, so expressive when he wasn't being Herman Peters. They could twinkle with mirth, dance with joy, be unbearably sad. Soften with love. Oh, God…
"Come on," Adam said, and she realised that the others had all got on board already. He held out his hand, but her feet remained rooted to the spot. She looked back towards the shore, hoping against all hope that he would simply materialise out of the mist, solid and eternal as she had come to think of him. But there was nothing. No-one. He was gone, and with her condemnation ringing in his ears.
"Ruth," Adam called urgently, and she made her decision.
She turned back to meet his eyes. "I'm not going."

0o0

06:14
Road to Saint-Jean-d'Angely

When he'd walked into the night all those hours ago, he hadn't actually had a plan. All he'd known was that it had to end, one way or the other. But by the time the sun began to lift its head above the horizon he had the beginnings of one. A flimsy one, admittedly, but it made him feel better all the same. The goal was to either kill Jurgen Setzer, or to die trying. Being captured alive was not an option – he knew too much, could betray too many people under torture. And everyone broke, eventually. The first step towards achieving his goal was to locate the SS officer, and that part shouldn't be too difficult. All he had to do was retrace the route they had taken to Fouras, and their paths were bound to cross eventually as the other man continued to hunt him down. He was not so clear on how to get to Setzer once he located him. He would figure that out as he went along, on the fly, depending on his wits. At least he had a couple of advantages – he had transport, he had his SS uniform, and he had the element of surprise. The first he had obtained by stealing a horse in the early morning hours, and he hoped that he would be able to return it on the way back. It was a sturdy plough horse; not fast or agile, but hardy. It would go all day at a steady pace, and that was what he needed.

As it plodded along, he let his thoughts wander. And of course the first person they went to was her. At least she was safely aboard the boat by now, on her way home, to what he hoped would be a long and happy life. Christ, he missed her. The longing was an actual physical pain; a pressure on his chest that made it hard to breathe. What a fool he'd been, to have thought that he could ever be worthy of such a creature. He was not wont to self-reflection, but she made him do that. Forced him to look in the mirror and to recognise what he was. A man steeped in deception and blood, in danger of becoming callous and unfeeling. How grateful he had been, when she had awoken those parts within him that had been dormant for too long – the parts where compassion, love, life lived. And how unfair it had been, to place the burden of his humanity on such a young and innocent woman. He was determined that as of this moment, he would take that responsibility upon himself. She would always be with him, whether his life ended here in France or whether it stretched on for many more years; a constant reminder never to lose sight of what was right, what was proper, what was human, and to balance that against what was needed to protect his country and the people in it. To protect her. The one thing he did not doubt, though, was that what he was doing right then was proper. If he had to sell his soul to protect more innocent people from being burnt alive, then so be it. It was a price he was willing to pay a thousand times over. Jurgen Setzer had to be stopped or, failing that, Herman Peters needed to die. Blood for blood – that was the only language the Nazis understood. And as Ruth had pointed out, it was a language he spoke better than most.

0o0

15 June 1944
Saint-Jean-d'Angely

He found the German two days later. As he approached Saint-Jean-d'Angely, he left the horse at the foot of a steep hill and clambered up to the crest to observe the village nestled in the hollow below it. And almost the first thing he saw as he brought the binoculars into focus, was the black car parked in the square. He pressed deeper into the grass even though there was no way they could see him from down there, and observed the goings-on for a while. Looking for inspiration, for a way to get to Setzer. They seemed to be rounding up the inhabitants and a cold sweat formed all over his body. Followed swiftly by hot, searing rage. Not again. I will not let him do it again. Moments later he saw Setzer walk across the square and get into the car, and an idea began to germinate in the back of his mind.

0o0

Fouras

Ruth's decision to stay had not pleased Adam. In the quiet days that followed, she relived the scene over and over again:
He jumped back onto the pier as he addressed her. "Don't be ridiculous! Come now," he ordered, but she stood her ground.
"I can't. I said terrible things to him – I can't let those words be the last he ever hears from me," she persisted, concentrating hard on not breaking down. It was all so overwhelming, and perhaps Adam saw that, because he pressed his point with brutal logic.
"Ruth. The chances of Harry coming back are miniscule. He is one man taking on the might of the SS, and I hate to say it, but he is unlikely to walk away from that with his life." She flinched, and he added more gently, "I don't want to leave you behind as well. It would be such a waste."
She was aware of Jo, Zaf and Fiona watching them. "No," she reiterated, lifting her chin stubbornly. "He did it for eight years and survived. I have to believe…" She trailed off and Adam took a step towards her, and she wondered whether he was actually contemplating dragging her along against her will. Then, to her great surprise, Fiona spoke up.
"Let her be."

Adam swung to his wife in disbelief, and she smiled at Ruth before addressing her husband. "If it were you out there, alone, I'd want to stay too."
Adam stared at her, opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again without saying anything. His shoulders sagged as he turned back to the young woman before him, the one he had so confidently dragged into the sharp end of the spying business. He could not have predicted that it would come to this, but still he bore some responsibility for it. For her. "Are you sure?" he asked, very gently, and she nodded immediately. He sighed, a long, weary sigh, before reluctantly saying, "All right. Another boat will come in two weeks' time. Promise you will be on it."
"If Harry's here by then-" she began, but he brusquely interrupted her.
"If Harry isn't here by then, he isn't coming," he said shortly. "Promise me you will be on that boat."
She did not want to admit it, but she knew he was right. If Harry wasn't back within those two weeks, he was either dead or captured, and she would gain nothing by waiting here for him forever. So she agreed reluctantly. "I promise," she said out loud, wondering who doubted those words more – she herself or the man in front of her, watching her with narrowed eyes. At length he nodded and reached out to squeeze her arm. "Okay then. Good luck."
She stood on the pier, Scarlet sitting next to her, and watched until the boat was swallowed up by the darkness.

For two days now she'd been here alone, and the endless waiting was driving her crazy. There was nothing to break the monotony, nothing to take her mind off her fear for him, nothing to stop her agonising about her own future. She relived the last few months – the exhilaration, the fear, the knowledge that she was doing something important. Making a difference. What Harry had achieved, what she had helped him to achieve, was momentous, she began to realise. Did she really want to step back from that, to once again become a mere passenger in the world events that would shape her life? Increasingly, that began to look like the wrong option to her.

During the day she took Scarlet for short walks, anxious not to be away from the cottage too long in case he returned. She slept badly at night, waking at the slightest sound outside, and during these times she was thankful for the presence of the little dog, whose reaction would tell her whether there was anything to be worried about. Each minute felt like an hour, and more than once she cursed her decision to stay. But then she would remember the look in his eyes as he told her to go home and to be happy, and she would squash these treacherous doubts. She would wait, and when he came (not if he came, never if) she would tell him that she was sorry, and that she wanted to stand by his side in the Service, if he would still have her.

0o0

Saint-Jean-de-Angely

Harry worked his way through the fields around the village, leading the horse in an effort to be as quiet as possible. For once he was grateful for the hedge-madness of the French, as the head-high dense shrub provided ample protection from inquisitive eyes. He was now dressed in his SS uniform, but had replaced the oak leaves on his lapels with the lightning flashes of the more common lower ranks. His cap was pulled low over his brow to have most of his face in shadow. Upon reaching the edge of the village he fastened the horse behind a barn, then scrambled through one of the open squares in the side-wall, designed to let the hay inside aerate and keep it from rotting. He stood momentarily, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, before he moved forward cautiously, gun in hand. There was a scuffling noise to his left and he swung towards it, gun up and finger on the trigger, only to be met by the curious brown eyes of a tethered cow. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and edged forward to the wide open door.

The square lay before him, bathed in sunshine, and on the other side sat the big, black car. He could discern Setzer's silhouette in the back seat. SS soldiers moved to and fro across the square, either shepherding frightened looking villagers in front of them towards the church, or moving back empty-handed to the next building to be searched. Harry waited in the shadows until the traffic was particularly heavy, then stepped boldly into the open and began to walk purposefully towards the car. It was foolhardy and reckless, but there was no other way. He was counting on the element of surprise – they did not expect him to be so stupid as to walk right into their midst, therefore they would not see him. Only a fellow soldier. Careful not to attract attention, he kept his pace even; he did not hurry, even though every instinct was telling his muscles to speed up, to get there as quickly as possible. He was halfway across when he heard a voice shout.
"Hey you!"

Bugger. Was this it? Was this how it would all end? He kept walking and turned only his head towards the voice. But his spine prickled, expecting the feeling of hot metal tearing through flesh, followed by the sound of the gunshot a split-second later. It did not come. He saw that the soldier was yelling at a young child trying to duck between two buildings, and he breathed again. His back was clammy with sweat under the uniform; the tension vibrating through every fibre of his being. I'm not ready to die. The thought came to him unexpectedly and he blinked. I am Harry Pearce, and I am in His Majesty's service. I don't want to die, but I will do what is necessary for the greater good. When he looked up, the car was only ten paces away. And stacked next to it were canisters filled with fuel, from the smell of it. And he began to see a way out.

0o0

The car door opened and Setzer turned towards it in irritation. "I said no interruptions!" he snapped as someone slid into the seat next to him. His eyes widened in surprise as a gun was jammed into his side, and when they finally lifted to the face of the intruder, nearly popped out of their sockets.
"Not a sound, Jurgen," Harry said conversationally as he quickly leaned over to divest the German officer of his Luger and toss it into the front seat. "And keep your hands on your knees, there's a good fellow."
Setzer stared at the man next to him, his mouth working frantically, but no sound came out.
"I hear you've been looking for me," Harry continued, and the German found his voice.
"You're mad! You just walked right into our midst?!" He could not hide his incredulity at the audacity of it.
"Well you see, Obersturmbannführer, that's the trouble with totalitarian armies – they don't encourage initiative. No action or thought allowed without orders from above. I gambled that the German soldier's mentality would never allow for the possibility of me coming back. And I was right."
Setzer continued to stare at him, confusion now mingling with the incredulity. "What are you talking about? You're a German, you're one of us, and you betrayed us!" He was beginning to rally, and Harry dug the barrel deeper into his side.
"Actually, no. I am an Englishman, and I did not betray you. I deceived you. My name is Harry Pearce, and I have come to exact vengeance for the villagers of Oradour-sur-Glane."

It was said with cold conviction and fear gripped Jurgen Setzer. He looked around wildly, but no-one was paying the car and its occupants any notice. "So I ordered them killed, so what," he scoffed, desperately searching for a way to distract the man holding the gun. "You have killed people too. Those children you shot. And you sold Hans Prinz out to the Resistance. You are no different from me."
The words did not have the desired effect. The Englishman's eyes became hard and unforgiving, and when he spoke the words were flung at the German like pebbles. "I did not sell out Prinz. I do my own dirty work – I don't order others to do it for me. And I may be a murderer, but you are a mass murderer. There's a world of difference."
Setzer could see the end coming. His death was written large in the face before him, and he said hurriedly, grasping at straws, "The moment you pull that trigger you will sign your own death warrant. The shot will bring every soldier running."
"I know," Harry said, and the glibness of the words sent a chill down the German's spine. The Englishman began to loosen his tie with one hand as he asked, "Do you have cigarettes? And matches?"
Setzer automatically reached for his pocket and took out his cigarettes, the fog of fear beginning to overwhelm him. "You want a last smoke before you join me in death?" he taunted, wanting to see at least one spark of fear in the Englishman before it was over.
But Harry Pearce only smiled. "No. I don't smoke," he confided, and suddenly his tie was around Setzer's neck and pulled taut.

0o0

The German struggled mightily, but Harry pinned him down in the corner and tightened the tie with all the strength he could muster. Setzer grappled at it, but his oxygen-starved muscles could not apply enough power to loosen it. Harry risked momentarily looking away from his victim, to sweep the square and ensure that they were not attracting any attention, and it cost him dearly. A burning sensation knifed through his thigh and he had to bite back a scream of agony, and when he looked down Setzer's dagger was buried to the hilt in his leg. He'd forgotten about the sodding dagger. Anger at himself fuelled him through the searing pain, and he tightened the tie even more, until the German finally went limp. He kept the pressure on until he was sure the man had stopped breathing, before he slowly relaxed. His breathing was harsh in his own ears, and he gritted his teeth and took hold of the dagger, pulling it out in one swift move. Blood rushed out, so he used his tie to bind the wound as best he could. Almost there. He wiped his bloody hands on the corpse next to him, then grabbed the cigarettes and lit one without pulling the smoke into his lungs. One final sweep of the square to ensure that no-one was looking at the car, before he threw open the door and limped out. As he passed the canisters, he dropped the cigarette into one of them and moved away as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. It took a few seconds before he heard the first whump, as the fuel caught fire and exploded behind him, and only then did he dare to break into a hobbling run. By the time he reached the horse and heaved himself onto its back, his trouser leg was soaked in blood, and he knew he was in trouble.

0o0

17 June 1944
Fouras, 02:14

Ruth jerked awake. She lay unmoving, trying to ascertain what it was that had woken her, but all was quiet. The cottage was dark, but she discerned movement at the door and squinted towards it. Scarlet. The dog was sniffing at the crack at the bottom, and then she whined softly. Ruth sat up and scrabbled for the matches, and as she lit a candle she heard a noise outside, akin to heavy breathing. It did not sound human. The dog began to scratch at the door, her whining increasing in volume, and Ruth's heart jumped into her throat. Harry. She hastened forward and pulled it open, and the night was pitch-black. Lifting the candle higher, she peered desperately into the darkness. As she turned to her left, she nearly dropped the candle as its light illuminated a dark beast. It took a second before she recognised it as a horse. It was covered in white streaks of sweat and it stood swaying, its head hung low as it breathed heavily. There was a glistening stain on its one flank – and it was only when she moved closer that she noticed the man lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. "Harry!"

She rushed forward and knelt beside his head, and rolled him over onto his back. His face was covered in sweat and she pressed her hand to his forehead, and he was burning up. "Harry," she said again, caressing his face and his eyes briefly flickered open.
"Ruth," he mumbled, "…almost made it…" And then he passed out.
She grabbed him under the armpits, and with a strength borne from desperation she dragged him inside and heaved him onto the bed. "Stupid man," she exclaimed, overcome with anguish at the state of him, "stupid, stupid man!" Then she ran for the village doctor.

0o0

They cut away the trouser leg, the material stiff with dried blood, and as soon as the wound was exposed a terrible stench rose up. Ruth nearly gagged, and the doctor looked grave. New blood began to mingle with the puss oozing out of it and he shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe he's still alive, with the amount of blood he's lost."
"What's that smell?" Ruth asked, hand over mouth, and the doctor glanced at her.
"Sepsis. The wound became infected and the poison has spread to his blood. The body is warring with itself, hence the fever," he explained as he began to clean out the wound.
Harry stirred uneasily, moaning in pain, and Ruth put a calming hand on his forehead. "Will he be all right?"
"I don't know," the doctor responded frankly. "All we can do is to keep cleaning the wound. The rest is up to him."
She nodded miserably and leaned forward to press a kiss against his temple. "You hear that, Harry? It's up to you," she said desperately, beseechingly.

0o0

He dreamt. Delirious fragments of fantasy mingled in with reality as his body fought its internal war. Ruth was there, but that could not be – she had left him. So he must be dead. He strained to lift his head and told her, "I killed him. The monster is dead. I slayed the dragon. You're safe." She shushed him with tears in her eyes, and he thought that was strange. There should be no tears in heaven. Then again, he wouldn't be in heaven, not after all that he'd done. Maybe they let him visit the living this once so he could tell her how the dragon got consumed by his own flames – how the big black car exploded in a ball of fire, cutting off the monster's head once and for all.

Then there was nothingness, for he knew not how long, before he dreamt again. They were in bed together, and he entered her, and he had never felt more complete. More alive. More human. She looked at him in adoration and murmured his name as he moved inside her, and he though his heart would burst from happiness. Perhaps hell was not so bad if they let him have these dreams for eternity.

The blackness came again, and when it lifted he was walking through a concentration camp, and he knew it was Auschwitz because Doctor Mengele was next to him. There was a queue of wretched human beings before a low, squat building and he hoped they were about to get food, because they were mere skeletons - skin stretched over bone. Something feathered against his cheek and he reached up to brush it away, and when he looked up the sky was awash with fluttering grey specks. "What is it?" he asked, and Mengele smiled.
"It is the Jews."
He woke, screaming, and this time he knew that he was in hell.

0o0

For three days she sat with him, watching helplessly as he fought for survival. He talked, sometimes, about a dragon, and fire, and ash, and she did not understand but she answered him all the same, telling him she was there with him, supporting him, that he was not alone. Other times he woke up screaming, and she realised that she had been wrong, that she had done him a disservice; that he was very much an intelligence officer and a man. That humanity and compassion was still alive in him, but that these qualities sometimes had to be suppressed, lest he be crushed by all he'd seen and done. And she told him that, too, and that she was sorry. So very, very sorry.

0o0

21 June 1944
11:08

"… thirsty…"
Ruth jerked upright from where she had been dozing in the chair next to the bed, his hand held on her lap. It took a few tries before her tired eyes could focus on his face, but once she did she almost started crying in relief. His head was turned towards her, his eyes open and clear, and he seemed lucid.
"Harry-" she managed, lifting his hand and kissing it, and he smiled weakly. When she continued to just stare at him, he croaked, more insistently, "…Water."
"Oh! Yes," and she jumped up to hold the glass to his lips. His eyes never left her face as he drank, but as soon as she laid his head back down on the pillow they closed again in exhaustion.
"Thank you," he whispered, "pity it's not whisky."
She laughed, knowing then that he would be all right, and offered, "Next time."
"Good," he mumbled, and added as sleep began to claim him, "You'll stay?"
"I will," she promised, running a hand through his hair. "I will."

0o0

29 June 1944
Dover, mid-morning

Harry stood at the railing as the boat made its way alongside the pier, his eyes fixed on the land. He had been there since sunrise, eagerly watching for his first glimpse of England. It was hell on his leg, this standing for hours on end, but he ignored the pain. Nothing would distract him from his vigil. And when he had caught the first sliver of green on the horizon, he'd inhaled sharply, and had not taken his eyes from it for the rest of the journey up the coast. The sun was shining and he watched the cliffs glide by, the green hills beyond it sparkling fresh and new in its bright rays. This was what he had fought for, sacrificed for, killed for. His beloved England. Once the boat was fastened he turned to find Ruth standing behind him, Scarlet at her feet, both watching him fondly.
"Ready?" Ruth asked with a small smile, and he knew that she understood how momentous this day was for him.
"Ready," he said, and took their bags from her and followed her to the gangplank and onto the pier.

Once they reached the end of it she stopped and waited for him. When he looked at her curiously she nodded towards the boundary between the pier and the land, and prompted, "Go ahead."
So he set down the bags and limped off the pier for a few steps, before he stopped and looked down at his feet, firmly planted on English soil again after eight long years.

He was home.

And when Ruth moved to his side and slipped her hand into his, he threw back his head and laughed in unbridled joy.

Yes, in more ways than one, he was home.

Fin