Summary: Saunders, Doc and Caje escape from a POW transport train only to end up in Luft Stalag 13!
Acknowledgement: A heartfelt thanks to DocII for her generosity of time and random acts of patience--especially for the continuous repeats and re-dos. DocII was also instrumental in any of the medical jargon included. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
Note: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue."
Disclaimer: Combat! and all related characters belong to ABC, Image Entertainment, and Disney; while Hogan's Heroes and all related characters belong to Paramount, Viacom and others. This is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged.
Copyright: December 2005Escape to Stalag 13
By Syl Francis
Date/Time: Unknown
Place: Unknown
The continuous rocking motion sent lightning rods of pain shooting up his left side. Why was the ground moving, he wondered? No, not the ground. He was lying on something--something hard and unforgiving, like wood. Yes, he was lying on some kind of wooden floor.
A floor that was moving.
At that moment, he heard the unmistakable shrill, lonesome wail of whistle. A train whistle. He smiled, proud of his powers of deductive reasoning. He was on a train. He frowned. A train?
A sudden, jostling movement sent a lancing pain up his left arm. Unable to bear it any longer, he let out an involuntary groan. Instantly, he felt a gentle touch on his forehead, accompanied by a soft, soothing voice.
"Caje? Caje, are you with me, buddy?"
Doc.
Caje wanted to smile, but the strain was too much. Instead, he succumbed yet again to the blessed darkness that quickly enveloped him.
Friday 4 AUG 1944/0900hrs local
Somewhere in Germany
"Doc? How's he doing?" Saunders knelt next to the medic, his expression worried. A once-white bandage was wound round his forehead, a large tell-tale brown spot denoting dried blood on the left temple. However, it was not the bandage on his head that was wearing him down, but the three stripes on his sleeves. At the moment, they were eating away at his conscience.
Doc shook his head. "He needs a hospital, Sarge. The head wound isn't serious, but all this--!" He waved his arm, taking in the filthy and crowded conditions of the troop transport. "--It can't be good for him. And that shoulder wound still has me worried. You know he lost a lot of blood before we were captured. And remember what that German doctor said, before--" His voice trailed off and he gave a tired, self-defeated shrug.
Saunders nodded, recalling the ordeal prior to and following their capture. Had it really been less than a week ago? He wondered.
"Can you do anything for him?" Saunders asked more to assuage his own guilt than because he thought there was any chance that Doc might be able to do anything.
As expected, Doc shook his head. "The Krauts took my medical kit when they captured us. And I already gave him the last of the morphine." He paused remembering the German doctor who had tried to help by sneaking him a few medical supplies before they were transported to the train depot. "I don't have anything left, Sarge."
Hiding his disappointment, Saunders glanced around the railcar that they were all packed into. It was little more than a cattle car, with wooden slats along the sides, filthy straw on the wooden floor, and soldiers with barely enough room to sit shoulder to shoulder, let alone stretch out comfortably.
The little water the guards had allowed them was being strictly rationed, all agreeing that Doc should save it for Caje. At least, the Allied prisoners were still acting like soldiers.
Saunders nodded his understanding. "Do what you can for him." Rising to his feet, the sergeant returned to the midst of activity in the crowded railcar, jostling among the tightly packed bodies.
It had been his idea after all. The whole thing, that is. This...and, well, everything else...
Sunday 30 JUL 1944/1230hrs local Outside Ville-Orne, France
Lieutenant Hanley slammed the handset down into its pocket. Pushing his helmet down further on his head, he grabbed his carbine and stood. His field CP was set up in a bomb crater next to a crumbling wall that had once been a farmhouse. Scanning the area immediately to his right, Hanley's eyes settled on Sergeant Saunders, the first squad leader. He signaled him to come over.
Nodding, Saunders automatically checked the terrain around him for any signs of the enemy, and looking grim, scrambled the few yards distance toward his platoon leader. The veteran NCO, grimy from several days fighting and sporting a three-day old stubble, slid into the bomb crater, nearly slamming into Hanley.
Giving the officer a wry look, Saunders quipped, "You rang?"
Grimacing, Hanley indicated the field phone. "That was S-2. They've received reports that the Krauts are getting ready to launch an artillery barrage into our general sector. We've been ordered to withdraw."
"Withdraw?" Saunders felt like protesting. He had just lost three men taking this one horse-cart, burnt-out village; plus, he still could not account for two other men. Now he was being ordered to withdraw and abandon them?
"Lieutenant, I'm missing Doc and Caje. Request permission to return to the village to look for them."
"Negative, Saunders!" Hanley snapped with a quick shake of his head. "You know I can't spare you. The platoon is at less than half-strength, and I need every man I've got!"
"But, sir--!"
"You have my answer, Sergeant! Now pass the word to the rest of the squads--we move out in five minutes!"
Stiffening at the rebuff, Saunders saluted, a bit sharper than he usually did. Wordlessly, he spun on his heal and would have stomped off, except he first had to climb up the slippery sides of the crater in order to move out.
Hanley sighed. He hated to deny his best sergeant and good friend the opportunity to find his men, but he had the safety of the entire platoon to consider.
Then again...? Hanley's conscience refused to let go. The missing men were as much his responsibility as they were Saunders'. To leave a man behind left a bad taste in his mouth. Unbidden, memories returned of the time he unknowingly left Saunders behind in a burning barn, the ordeal leaving Saunders' hands severely burned. Images of the sergeant's painfully blackened claws still haunted Hanley's guilt-ridden nightmares.
No! Hanley would not be responsible for leaving any more men behind, at least not without first verifying if they were dead or alive. Doc and Caje were good men, two of his best. Besides, he knew that if anyone could bring them home, it was Saunders. Or he would die trying.
This last thought sent a cold shiver through the platoon leader. At the idea of sending his friend to his possible death, Hanley almost changed his mind; however, straightening his shoulders, he gave himself a mental headshake and proceeded to find Saunders.
Sunday 30 JUL 1944/1315hrs local
Ville-Orne, France
Moving at a fast pace, Saunders hugged what meager cover he could find along the debris-strewn alleyways and side streets, avoiding the town's main road. Although he made good time, Saunders did not sacrifice prudence. He approached each doorway cautiously, fully aware of the potential danger hidden behind it.
Therefore, by the time he found his missing men, a whole hour had already passed. Saunders spotted Doc's distinct corpsman's helmet from across the street. Although battered and blackened with soot, the red crosses still managed to peek through, easily identifying him as a medic. At this particular time, he was bent over someone, his expression intense. Saunders took a quick glance around the area, decided that if the Germans were going to shell the place then they had all probably pulled out anyway, and sprinted across the street.
Doc looked up, startled by Saunders' sudden appearance.
"Sarge! You just scared me out of a month of Sundays!" Scowling, he returned to the task at hand, namely applying a pressure bandage onto a shoulder wound that was already bandaged. It had apparently started bleeding again.
Intense blue eyes scrutinized the wounded man--Caje--taking in the beads of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. Saunders observed the pinched cheeks and pale complexion, an indication of his obvious pain. Hands steady, he lit a cigarette and placed it between Caje's grateful lips.
"How is he?" Saunders asked.
Doc shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. About to reply, Caje beat him to the punch.
"I'm okay, Sarge," he said stoically. "Just a shoulder wound."
"The heck you're okay!" Doc snapped. The next moment he relented. "I've finally managed to stop the bleeding, Sarge, but it was pretty bad there for a while." He took out a morphine ampoule, but Caje immediately grabbed his wrist.
"No...no morphine," he gasped. "I won't be any good to you then."
"I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Caje," Doc snapped, "but you're not much good to us right now! Now, you've lost a lot of blood and--!"
Caje shook his head, struggling to get to his feet. "No morphine...! Can't walk...if I'm knocked out--!" Exhausted, he slumped back. He was not going anywhere on his own.
Doc turned worried eyes to Saunders. "Sarge, the sooner we get Caje to battalion aid the better."
Saunders nodded. "Then let's get going. The Krauts are launching an artillery barrage in another few minutes. The more distance we put between us and this village--"
"Can't be soon enough for me," Caje mumbled. At his words, Saunders and Doc exchanged an amused glance.
"Hey, now," Doc said gently, his soft southern drawl soothing. "Whatever happened to that Errol Flynn bravado I heard earlier?"
In answer, Caje grumbled some choice words in his native Louisiana bayou French. Saunders actually smiled.
"Come on, hero," he said, "we've got a war to get back to."
Helping him to his feet, Saunders and Doc each took a position on either side of the dark Cajun. However, try as he might, Caje was unable to move fast enough for the three men to outrun the anticipated barrage. Before they reached the edge of the abandoned village, the deadly rain of destruction began falling on them. Saunders immediately redirected Doc and Caje to the nearest basement he could find.
Practically carrying Caje between the two of them, Saunders and Doc ran toward a ruined café. Saunders kicked what remained of the door off its hinges. By then, Caje was no longer even attempting to walk, his legs dragging behind him. He was unconscious. Saunders paused long enough to toss Caje across his shoulders in a fireman's carry and yelled at Doc to go ahead.
"Go on! We're right behind you!" The words were barely out of Saunders' mouth when a loud explosion resounded immediately outside the building, its shockwave sending Saunders to his knees. Doc was instantly at his side, helping him up, steering him and his burden toward the cellar entrance.
They stumbled down the darkened stairs, their sense of urgency not allowing them time for caution. With only a few steps to go, the stairs below them suddenly gave way and all three went tumbling down in a tangled heap.
"Doc? You okay?" Saunders called worriedly. His eyes squinted in the deep gloom, trying to find his friends.
"I'm fine," Doc answered, his voice coming from behind and slightly to Saunders' right. "I'm not sure about Caje, though." He paused slightly. "He broke my fall." Silence followed.
"Doc?" Saunders spoke after a few moments.
"He's started bleeding again, Sarge." Doc sounded tired. "Can you give me a light? I can't see a darned thing here."
At his words, Doc heard the sound of a lighter being flicked. The next instant, a small flame was being held in front of him. He smiled across the bright glow at Saunders, the grateful look in his eyes slowly fading. His young squad leader's soot-smudged, bearded face made him look like as if he had aged ten years in the past three days. Wordlessly, Doc gave Saunders a quick nod of thanks and turned back to Caje.
They remained in the dank cellar for almost three hours, the café's solid mason walls protecting them from the worst of the flying shrapnel. At long last, the barrage took on a different tone.
"Listen!" Saunders hissed.
Doc turned to Saunders' voice and shook his head, not understanding. Realizing that Saunders could probably not see him, he said, "I don't hear anything, Sarge. I mean, besides those rounds falling on top of us."
"That's it, Doc." A different voice had spoken up--Caje! He had regained consciousness sometime in the last few minutes. "The barrage is beginning to slow down." His voice trailed off, and Doc was instantly at his side, checking his bandages.
"Caje's right," Saunders said calmly. "The interval between the rounds is growing longer." He paused, and then asked the question that needed to be asked. "How is he, Doc?"
"As well as can be expected, I guess." Doc sighed. There was so little he could do, really. As a combat medic his job was to patch up the wounded so that they would survive the trip back to the aid station. There, the doctors and nurses would hopefully perform their miracles and manage to save more than they lost.
Those who survived might live to fight another day. And, yes, perhaps not be quite so lucky the next time around and maybe end up dead. Doc shook his head. Sometimes it was just better not to think about all the possibilities. His primary task was to ensure that Caje was stabilized sufficiently to make it back their lines. He had done that.
But now?
They had wasted three hours sitting out the artillery barrage. In that time, Caje had reopened his wound, and he had lost even more blood--blood that he could ill afford to lose. Plus, with the barrage coming to an end, the enemy would be advancing soon. At this rate, it would indeed take an act of God to get him home, period. About all Doc could do now was pray.
"I'll live, Sarge," Caje said wryly.
"I'm glad to hear that, soldier," Saunders said softly. What he did not say spoke more eloquently than words. The quiet, steady Cajun was Saunders' right-hand man. The idea of having to replace him was something that the squad leader did not even wish to contemplate.
Instead, he considered their chances of making it back to their lines. The rest of the platoon had probably pulled out already. Hanley had mentioned that the entire 361st was falling back to a pre-positioned defensive line, codenamed 'Peter.' They would hold until their sister regiment, the 253rd, arrived to reinforce them. Then, while the 253rd moved forward along its line of advance, 'Hook,' the 361st would attack along 'Tinkerbell.'
Saunders almost grinned, thinking of the whimsical references to Peter Pan. Someone at S-2 was either a new father or a big kid at heart. Either way, the code names had given the battle-hardened veteran a good chuckle when Hanley had first briefed the squad leaders.
Shaking his head, Saunders thought about Caje. The injured man would not be able to keep up. A litter would be their best bet; however, before he had a chance to suggest rigging one, the bombardment finally ended. There was no time now. They had to get out of town fast before the enemy moved in.
"Let's go," he ordered.
Cautiously, they edged their way out of the basement, avoiding the broken stairs. Indicating that Doc and Caje stay inside while he checked the street for any signs of the enemy, Saunders stepped out into what was left of the street. Remains of buildings that had been standing before the shelling started were now so much rubble. Also, several bomb craters littered the street.
How the building they had been hiding in managed to survive the ordeal was beyond him. Saunders ran down to the end of the street, stopping long enough to check both approaches from the north. The Krauts would be advancing from that direction. It was all clear.
He waited a moment longer, not completely satisfied. Both approaches remained quiet, with no sign of any movement. Seeing little more that he could do, Saunders ran back to the café. He saw Doc waiting by the ruined entrance, and taking one last cursory glance around the demolished village, Saunders gave him the all clear.
Intending to give his men cover while they started their trek to the edge of town, Saunders immediately shouldered his weapon when he saw that Caje was leaning too heavily on Doc, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He hurried back to give them a hand, and had just taken hold of Caje's waist, when a German patrol spotted them.
Shouts of "Hande hoch!" were accompanied by several warning shots.
"Go!" Saunders shouted, urging Doc and Caje back into the café, while he gave covering fire. As the Americans hurriedly turned back, a Schmeisser on full automatic opened up, ripping a staccato track of bullet holes on the building's masonry wall behind them. The three men froze.
Outnumbered and outgunned, Saunders had little choice but to surrender. They were quickly surrounded, disarmed and efficiently searched, stripped of their helmets, web belts, and any other items that the German squad leader deemed as dangerous. Even Doc's medical kit was taken.
"Hey! Wait just a darn minute!" Doc protested. "I have a wounded man here!"
The Kraut sergeant walked up to Doc, and without warning, struck him across the face. Saunders made a move to lunge at him, but stopped suddenly when the twin muzzles of two Mausers were aimed directly at him.
"I suggest you stay where you are, Sergeant," the German NCO said, in precisely clipped English. "Of the three prisoners, you are the most valuable. I would not wish to kill you."
Unexpectedly, Caje dove at the enemy sergeant, slamming headfirst into him, taking all the Germans by surprise. Saunders immediately swung around, grabbing the weapon of the enemy soldier behind him. Using a judo move he had learned in basic training and mastered after two years of fighting on the front, Saunders threw the soldier over his head, slamming him onto the second man that had been guarding him.
Doc, although technically a noncombatant, was not standing still. He 'accidentally' stumbled against the soldier who had been tasked to guard him.
The young private shot him an annoyed glare and growled "Los!" in his best, most threatening manner. He could not have been much over sixteen, and under any other given set of circumstances, Doc might have laughed. However, this was no laughing matter.
"Sorry, kid," Doc mumbled. "I-I guess, I ain't feeling too good." Wrapping his arms around his waist, Doc groaned as if in great pain. "Must be something I ate--" His eyes rolling up in his sockets, Doc looked like he was about to fall over in a faint.
The German private took a tentative step toward him. "Was ist los?"
Almost hating himself for taking advantage of a mere boy, Doc appeared as if he were fighting to keep his balance. Suddenly keeling over, the combat medic somehow managed to get his feet entangled with the young Kraut's. Startled, the confused private let out a surprised yell and fell over backwards, Doc landing on top of him.
As the two struggled to untangle themselves--Doc being of little help and only making matters worse--Saunders was having his own problems. Spinning round, he kicked out, connecting with the chin of one of his opponents. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another Kraut come up behind Caje, the butt of his rifle raised in order to strike the already wounded man.
"Caje!" Saunders cried out in warning. Too late! Just as he saw the Cajun go down like a rag doll, he glimpsed a shadow move up behind him. Before he had a chance to react, the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colors.
Monday 31 JUL 1944/1100hrs local
Ville-Orne, France
58th Panzer Grenadiers Regiment Field Hospital
The pungent smell of antiseptic told him he was in a hospital. A sudden wave of relief washed over him. Somehow, they must have made it back to their own lines. Feeling the darkness of unconsciousness beckoning, he fought it with grim determination.
Slowly, the total blackout that surrounded him began to lift, until at last, his eyes opened a mere slit. He cringed against the muted lighting in the hospital, its soft glow too much for him; however, calling forth his legendary iron discipline, he was finally able to bear it enough to open his eyes completely.
"How're you feeling, Sarge?" Doc asked. He gave Saunders a sympathetic smile slightly mixed with relief.
In answer, Saunders started bringing his hand up to his left temple, but Doc grabbed his wrist.
"I wouldn't do that," he said with an emphatic shake of the head.
Saunders glared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded and lowered his arm. "I feel like a tank rolled over me." Swallowing, he added, "But I guess I'll be okay?" This last came out as a question rather than a statement.
Doc chuckled. "Yeah, but I wouldn't place any bets on that Kraut's rifle butt. It's probably never come in contact with anything as hard as your head before."
Saunders' answering smile was too fleeting, not quite reaching his eyes. "Caje?"
"He's gonna make it. He came out of surgery a few hours ago. He's still in recovery."
"Surgery?"
Doc nodded. "Yeah...remember how I was having trouble stopping the bleeding?" At Saunders' nod, he continued, "The doctor said that the bullet had nicked the--" He paused, his face scrunched in concentration. "--the subclavian artery." He gave Saunders a rueful look. "Well, it was pretty bad, but in a way Caje got lucky."
"How's that?"
"See, because the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, it occluded the artery--"
"It what the artery?" Saunders' asked, his tone impatient.
Doc chuckled. "'Occluded'--as in the bullet basically helped close the artery and stopped the bleeding. That is, until something happened to move it, then the bleeding started all over again." He gave Saunders a relieved grin. "Ol' Caje'll be as good as new. Just wait and see."
"That's right, Sergeant," a new voice said. "Your friend will be as good as new."
Saunders looked up at the newcomer who had just stepped in through the curtain of bed sheets that surrounded his cot. Funny, until that moment, Saunders had not noticed that he was isolated from the rest of the ward. These thoughts and others flashed through his mind in a heartbeat as, Saunders bolted upright, throwing off the covers.
A Kraut officer? In the hospital?
"Doc!" He shouted in warning and jumped to his feet. However, that was as far he got, because the floor inexplicably moved under him. Or was it that his legs simply gave out? Before Saunders knew what was happening, Doc and the Kraut officer were both gently returning him to his cot.
"Take it easy, Sarge," Doc said soothingly. "This is the doctor I was telling you about--Captain Engel."
Saunders looked from Doc to the German doctor, piercing blue eyes taking in the situation. "You mean...we're in a German field hospital?"
Doc nodded. "I'm afraid so, Sarge."
Engel gave Saunders a look that was not without compassion. "I am very sorry, Sergeant, but I am afraid that you and your men are prisoners of war. However, I give you my solemn promise that as long as you are my patients, you will receive the best possible medical care that I can provide." He nodded toward Doc. "Your medic is quite skilled and has been very useful in the short time that you have been here." He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "I will try to keep you both here until--" He paused, glancing at the chart he was holding in his hand. "--Private LeMay has recovered sufficiently to be transported." He looked up. "That should be in another two to three days."
Saunders glared suspiciously at the doctor. "And why should you be such a pal, Doctor?"
Engel stiffened slightly at the American's insolent tone, but raised his chin slightly and held Saunders' gaze.
"Whatever you might have heard, Sergeant, we are all not the monsters your propaganda machine has painted us to be. Some of us...many of us--" He stopped, giving Saunders a long look. Finally, he said simply, "I am a doctor. I took an oath."
"Sarge, he's telling the truth," Doc interjected. "I seen him work. He's a good doctor." However, Saunders' eyes did not lessen any of their fierceness.
Sighing, Engel gave Doc a helpless shrug and turned to go. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have other patients."
As soon as Engel was gone, Doc turned to Saunders. "Sarge...I'm telling you, he's okay. And like he said, he's a doctor...he took an oath to help the sick."
Saunders ran a hand through his thick, blond hair--a familiar mannerism that was as much a part of him as his distinctive camouflage helmet--and closed his eyes tiredly. "Doc, that uniform Captain Engel wears tells me he took a different kind of oath, too."
Before Doc could respond, Saunders brought his arm over his eyes--yet, another well-known 'Saunders-ism,' warning all who approached to stay away--and settled deeper into his blanket. Hearing Doc move away, Saunders wondered if perhaps he was being a little too suspicious.
As he allowed sleep to claim him, Saunders' last thoughts were of Mom and the chicken soup she used to ladle into him whenever he got sick.
Wednesday 2 AUG 1944/0530 hrs local
Ville-Orne, France
58th Panzer Grenadiers Regiment Field HospitalTwo days later, Saunders and Doc stood frozen, listening to the angry shouts coming from the other side of their curtained-off cubicle. Caje was lying in the cot next to Saunders'. He had been moved there soon after the doctor had spoken with the NCO. Since then, the lead scout had been conscious for less than an hour altogether. As expected, he was sleeping soundly at the moment, oblivious to the disturbance going on directly beyond the curtains.
Saunders drew back the divider sheets, just enough to investigate the trouble without being spotted. He sucked in a breath--Gestapo agents! From his vantage point, he could just spot Captain Engel standing at the far end of the ward. The hospital staff--a single duty nurse and two medics--was frozen in place, not daring to do anything that might call attention to them.
Saunders could not understand what Engel or the Gestapo officer were saying to one another, but by Engel's excited tone, Saunders could tell that he was highly agitated. On the other hand, the Gestapo agent appeared to be too calm, almost to the point of smugness, as if he were enjoying himself immensely.
Meanwhile, Engel struggled to remain outwardly calm, but Saunders saw that it was a losing battle. The Gestapo agents' presence had the doctor deeply troubled, and he would not get over his fear until the agents left. Saunders realized that whatever else happened, sooner or later, the Gestapo agents would be trouble for him and his men. Of that, he knew he could be sure.
"Major, I must protest!" Engel stood stiffly as the Gestapo officer, Major Wulf, strutted up and down the aisle between the two long rows of beds. Engel glanced nervously at the team of agents who were even now rifling through his patients' records. "This is a hospital! These men are wounded--!"
"Yes, Doctor." Wulf spoke silkily. "But perhaps some are not quite as wounded as the others?"
Engel shot him a look of frustration. "Major, that is a ridiculous statement! And this--? This is outrageous! I am filing a formal protest with the Inspector General. You overstep your bounds--!"
Wulf swung on him, his dark eyes flashing. Somehow, combined with his black hair and dark complexion, he did indeed resemble his namesake, the wolf.
"I warn you, Doctor." Wulf's soft, dulcet tones seemed somehow all the deadlier. He pointed at the Swastika on his right sleeve. "This gives me all the authority I need. The front needs soldiers. Malingerers will be appropriately dealt with, and then they will be shipped to the Eastern Front."
At his words, one of his men who had been inspecting patient records excitedly called him over. "Herr Major! Kommen sie hier!"
Wulf gave Engel a look of triumph and headed over to the medical files, Engel hot on his heels.
"What do you have for me, Private Saenger?" Wulf asked.
Fired up, Private Saenger handed Wulf the hospital's morning report. "Drei Amerikanerinnen!"
Wulf snatched the report from the private's hand. "Was ist--!" he murmured, surprised at the unexpected turn of events. Abruptly, he waved the document at Engel and made no pretense at keeping his voice down. "What is the meaning of this!"
Engel recoiled slightly at the harsh tone. Glancing up, he noted ruefully that the oil lanterns that hung from the ceiling were actually shaking.
"You dared mix American prisoners of war among the sacred wounded of the Fatherland?"
Swallowing, Engel nodded. Speaking rapidly, he stumbled over his words. "Th-they were wounded, Major. N-Naturally, according to the Geneva Convention--!"
"Silence!" Wulf shouted. "If they are wounded, then they will be treated by the POW camp physicians. Saenger! Round up these prisoners! They shall be placed on the next transport to Nuremberg!"
"Major! You cannot do this! These men are my patients, and I have not released them!"
Wulf calmly reached for his sidearm, and to Engel's alarm, steadily aimed it at him.
"Doctor, I am afraid that now it is you who are overstepping your bounds." He gave Engel a rapacious grin. "Would you care to accompany the Americans, Doctor? As a prisoner yourself?"
Swallowing nervously, all Engel could manage was a brief shake of the head.
Listening on the other side of the curtains, Saunders shot Doc a 'be ready' glare. Hurrying over to Caje's bedside, he stood helplessly by as the Gestapo agents tore through the flimsy fabric, shouting angrily while they waved their machine pistols at the three Americans.
Using the Schmeisser as a motivator, one of the enemy agents indicated that Saunders and Doc should grab Caje and lift him off the bed.
"Now just a doggone minute--!" Doc protested.
"Doc!" Saunders shouted.
But, Doc continued unabated. "--That man's in no condition to travel!"
"Then he dies here," Wulf replied with a shrug. He waved casually at one of his men, but Saunders jumped directly in front of the weapon.
"Wait!" he shouted. "We'll do as you say!"
Admitting defeat, Doc nodded, surrendering to the inevitable. Spotting Engel who was watching powerlessly from the side, Doc gave him a look of angry betrayal as he turned to help Saunders lift Caje.
Engel dropped his eyes in shame. These were his patients! At least, Saunders and LeMay were. The American medic while not injured, had been unofficially assigned to the hospital at Engel's request. The hospital was so understaffed that finding a competent medic was considered a providence--even if he was a prisoner of war.
Engel felt that he had to help them, but how? Wulf would shoot him with pleasure if he tried anything overt. Getting a sudden idea, Engel spun on his heel as if he were too disgusted by the scene to remain any longer, which was not too far from the truth. When he reached the nurse's station he called over the lone night nurse on duty. Nurse Dagmar was someone whom he could trust.
Dagmar listened intently while Engel, speaking in low undertones, quickly relayed what he wanted. Dagmar gave him a brief, frightened look, but she hastily nodded. Looking over his shoulder, she saw that the Gestapo major was happily harassing the Americans. Involuntarily, her eyes slid over to the blond sergeant. He could easily have passed for German, except for the language, of course. However, the brief smiles that they had exchanged needed no translation.
Seeing his defiant stance as he faced down the Gestapo's machineguns and the sudden intensity behind his blue eyes that only yesterday had smiled so warmly at her, Dagmar felt her knees go weak. She told herself that it was only because he was apparently disregarding his own danger. However, she knew in her heart she would always regret that they had been on opposite sides during the war.
Tearing her eyes from the potential violence being played out, she hurried to do as Dr. Engel had requested. She thought about Wulf and his men, hoping that she would not be too late to help Saunders. Ducking into the field hospital's small storage closet, she took a moment to look around for the supplies she needed.
Feeling a small, disheartened stab, Dagmar realized just how low their medical supplies had fallen. It seemed that lately--ever since the Allied landings in France--shortages had become the rule instead of the exception. Sighing, she hastily grabbed a few articles: two ampoules of morphine, a fresh roll of bandages, some sulfa powder and aspirin. Then, seeing how dangerously low their supply of morphine had dropped, she regrettably returned one of the vials to its place.
"I am sorry, my dear sergeant," she said softly, "but our own wounded need it, too."
End of Part 1