Haus of War

Chapter 4

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John flitted through the camp, his leather journal tucked under one arm. He tried to keep to the perimeter of the camp, ducking behind tents to avoid confrontation with other soldiers. He walked slowly, taking the longest route possible back to the tent that held Sherlock. The rocky soil crunched under his heavy boots, and the humid air sunk into his clothing like oil. John's keen eyes scanned the wild olive and cypress trees that lined the beach, watching for movement or light, but only the wind rustled the branches. Satisfied by his brief walk, he made a beeline back to the POW tent and slipped inside.

"Have you got it?" a husky voice greeted him.

John held up the journal in confirmation.

"And the area?"

"Clear. No one is out there Sherlock. I checked the treeline and the tents around this one too, all empty. Hell I think the sentries have gotten bored and wandered off."

"Can't be too careful," he said with a slight smirk.

"Should I be concerned by your paranoia?"

"Maybe one day, but what I'm about to tell you is more important."

John rested his hands on his hips, looking around uneasily and shifting from foot to foot before saying, "I'm going to get in so much shit for this. Are you absolutely sure you know what you're doing?"

"Please," Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes to the corner, "you've seen what I can deduce. How hard would it be to out-manoeuver an army I know inside and out?"

"Hopefully not too hard."

John pulled a pencil from behind his ear and unzipped the journal. Sitting on the floor and resting the book between his crossed legs, he flipped through the pages to a fresh one, but then changed his mind and turned to the very last page of the book. There the information was less likely to be found by snoops. Pressing the soft graphite to the page, he looked back up to Sherlock. Letting out a long breathe, he said, "I've never been much of a meddler, you know. Faith, trust, none of those ever came easily. And I must be totally crazy right now," he said more to himself than to Sherlock, "but I want you to know," he paused to let the words sink in and to come to terms with what he was about to do, "I trust you."

"What else do we have right now other than trust? Any man would be a fool to give his trust to someone else," Sherlock responded, his piercing eyes boring into John's, "but a wise man shares his trust. Whatever happens after this point, I trust you too, John. We'll both be alive on the other side of this fence."

John suddenly felt quite hot despite the shade the tent provided, and he curled his hand around the pencil before loosening it again. He had never experienced such a feeling: terror, surrender, uncertainty, and hope. He was relinquishing himself to fate, and it felt as if a heavy burden had been laid across his shoulders. "Alright," he breathed, gathering together his nerves, ready to take the first step before the plunge, "This is all I know so far…"

John spent the next handful of minutes divulging every bit of information he could remember from the briefing. He told Sherlock about the different armies stationed around the shores of Sicily, the general motive of Operation Husky, and all of the strategic points they were ordered to capture. All the while, Sherlock sat with clear interest, absorbing all of the information, his eyes darting to and fro as if cataloguing words, locations and dates. It was almost ethereal to watch him in his silent meditation, and John had to constantly refocus himself as to not become lost in the manifestation before him. John continued on talking about the plan to storm Augusta, and quickly fell silent after revealing his division's orders to capture the airfields. Strangely, despite the uncertainty inside him growing, the invisible burden upon his conscious seemed to lessen after his retelling.

Sherlock had now closed his eyes, and was leaning slightly back, head tilted to the roof. A few silent moments passed before, without opening his eyes, he state, "That's suicide."

John opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to die in his throat. Instead he pressed his fingers into his palm and waited.

"What did you write down?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John frowned, he hadn't written down anything. Turning his gaze to the page, he was surprised to see that he had.

"Haus of War ..." he said slowly. There it was scrawled on the header of the page in thick, bold lettering. When had he written that?

Sherlock glowered slightly as he looked at the page, but quickly brushed it off. "Never mind."

"So what do you think about our situation then?" asked John as he turned to a fresh page.

"Your General, Alexander was it? He's got it all wrong. It's not just suicide for your squadron; this could ruin the whole operation."

"How so?"

"For starters, your General doesn't realise that the airfields in the south are the Nazis' strongest defence. While your squadron delays one, the other two will flank the inland advance. They wouldn't even reach the city."

"So what should we do?"

"How large is the Seventh Army?"

"Size?" John had to think for a moment. The Seventh U.S Army was at least five times larger than the Eighth Army. "I'd estimate 40,000 spread across the coast."

Sherlock sat processing this. "And they were to confront Augusta alone?"

"For the first wave, yes. Other divisions would be arriving over the next few days. Maybe an extra 4,000 men."

Another pause. "Alright, get your pencil ready and try to write down as much as you can." Sherlock watched John as he laid pencil to paper once more, and then looked up, ready.

"Augusta is stationed with 70,000 Italian and German troops who have heavy artillery. The base is fed by two supply routes, one coming in from the northwest and another from the west. These supply routes are Augusta's lifelines, but they are fairly unprotected because they're so low profile. It won't take many personnel to interrupt and stop the supplies to Augusta. You need to send out two squadrons to attack the routes 124 and 116, with the rest coming in waves, surrounding the city. They won't be expecting it. If you split the Eighth Army in two you can hold down both of the routes. The Seventh Army can take all three airfields at once. They have more than enough power to do that. With supplies and reserves cut off, the city will lose contact with their headquarters and will be weak. There your forces can converge, and Augusta would be taken in less than three days."

John wrote quickly, getting down as much information as possible. "We had no idea about the supply routes. Augusta is a coastal town, so we believed they were independent."

"And that mistake would've caused you the battle," Sherlock said with an air of finality.

"But only two squadrons? That's mad."

"Your squadron is small enough to move undetected. If the Axis in Augusta were to find out prematurely about you sabotaging their supplies, the airfields would deploy before the Seventh Army could arrive to stop them."

John looked over the notes. "It's risky…"

"But it will work. Right now, you're playing right into their hands. They knew that your forces would make a direct attack."

John sat in Sherlock's presence for a little while longer; evaluating the validity of everything he had been told. Was this enough to convince General Alexander to change his plans?

"Is there anything else you think worth mentioning, Sherlock?"

Silence.

John stood from the floor, watching Sherlock's gaze follow him up. He didn't make a move to blind or gag him again, instead he said, "I can be put to death if they ever find out about this. You as well."

"We're dead if we don't try. Not the first time I've faced that dilemma," Sherlock said quietly, and was suddenly distant, his eyes glazed as he remembered what John could only guess. But that darkness over him soon passed, and he continued on, "I won't tell them that you gave me the information. In fact, I'll give you some other pointless information so it seems random."

"And if this works, well, what do you want out of it?" John asked. Surely Sherlock had some deeper plan for himself.

"If they believe you, have them send me to a camp. You said they'd be setting one up in Biscari, right? You won't need my help once Augusta is taken. With the southern coast completely captured by the Allies, the Germans will have no choice but to retreat. Then it's just a matter of pushing them out."

"Are you sure that's what you want?" John asked. A pang of sadness hit him as he realised that this might be the last time he saw Sherlock.

"The farther away I can get from the Axis and this stupid war the better."

"Alright, I'll find a way to get you out," John said as he turned to leave, his eyes locking a bit longer on the bound and bruised man on the bed. Maybe in a different world, he couldn't help think to himself, he would have liked to know the man just a bit better.

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The throng of uniformed men couldn't part fast enough for John as he pushed his way toward Lt. General Leese's quarters. He had the journal tucked securely under his arm as he shouldered his way though, grunting out a few 'sorry's and 'excuse me's. John could just see the peak of Leese's tent above the moving bodies when he felt a sharp tug and the journal being ripped suddenly from its resting place in the crook of his elbow.

"So this is the fabled diary your tent-mates have been talking about," said a voice, and John whipped around, his heart dropping to his gut. In front of him a tall and lanky soldier stood. His black hair was slicked back, and his face was angular and pointed, like a mouse. He wore an American uniform, with the name 'Anderson' sewed in bright lettering on the breast pocket. He dangled the journal slightly above John's head, as if expecting him to jump for it.

"Soldier…!" John seethed, but his commanding voice (which despite his size was generally terrifying) that he usually dropped when pulling rank was interrupted as the American in front of him displayed his shoulder, which bore a golden oak leaf: the rank of a Major. John instantly clamped his mouth shut, his teeth grinding at the unforeseen set back.

Major Anderson cocked his eyebrow expectantly, and John hated himself as he forced his limbs to stand at attention and salute. He did, however, give the major the nastiest glare he could summon.

"That's better, Captain," Major Anderson nearly spat out as he paced in front of John. "At ease."

John did as he was commanded.

"I see you've just returned from the POW tent," Anderson said as he played with the zipper on John's journal, and John felt his heart beat faster. He cursed his bad luck. "Interesting you would bring this with you," Anderson continued, pulling at the tab and unzipping the cover. "I wonder what's really in here." Anderson looked over the brim of the book, searching his face, but John kept his features set in stone. He'd gone too far to break down in front of some ratty American officer now.

"Entry One, April 12th 1941," his cool voice read out as he scanned the page, "'the train ride seemed long, but we reached the docks in less than an hour…'"

"Permission to speak, sir," John ground out, trying to keep his voice level.

"Denied," Anderson snapped as he flipped a few pages further and continued. "Oh this looks interesting, 'November 24th, 1941. I lost one of my best medical personal and friend, Michael Stamford, in Tubrok today. It saddens me to know that I must continue on without his forever cheerful mood, which helped get me through the first invasion of North Africa.'"

John felt the heat of anger rise up in him, coupled with the stab of sadness. He felt his eyes sting; of course this prick would choose that entry to read out. He remembered Mike, and his shoulders began to tremble as he recalled the smile the dead man had worn upon his face. That was behind him now, he kept telling himself.

Anderson fanned the pages with his thumb, skipping through half the journal and landing on one of the most recent entries, "And look here, something on the prisoner too."

"Stop it," John spat out under his breath, his fists curling and shaking at his sides and his shoulders rising.

"'I treated the man, who sustained a few broken ribs and some bruising…' getting friendly were you?" Anderson continued on, completely ignoring him.

"Stop it…" John growled a little louder. His eyes roamed Anderson's body, wonder where it would hurt most if he struck.

"Here's the proverbial goldmine," Anderson exclaimed, "'He told me his name was…'"

Major Anderson didn't get to finish, as he soon found John's fist lodged in his mouth. They both tumbled to the ground, John's knuckles bleeding from where his skin had made contact with the Major's sharp, white teeth. He was on top of the Major now, his fist raised in the air preparing for a second strike when he felt a few pairs of strong arms wrap around his waist and hands, pulling him back and subduing his struggles quickly. His knees rested in the dirt, a thick hand pressed down on the back of his neck so that he could not raise his head, and his arms were pulled up into a chicken hold. He breathed heavily, like an angry bull seeing red, eyes locked on the Major, who was also being held back, rivets of blood streaming from his nose and staining the brightly embroidered name on his uniform.

"Stand down!" John heard Lt. General Leese's voice snap over the soldiers' murmuring. "What in God's name is going on here?"

John pivoted his eyes as best he could to see Leese shoving through the steadily growing crowd of soldiers, face red as he gazed upon the two officers on the ground covered in dust. He picked up the journal, which had flown from Anderson's hands when John lunged at him. His bulging eyes darted between the two, seething that such disorderly conduct had befallen his company. "Take the Major to the medics," he shouted, voice sharper than John had ever heard it, even in the midst of battle. "Captain, come with me immediately!"

The pressure on his neck and arms was released as John was allowed to stand. The crowd parted to clear a path as Leese stalked back to his tent, John following with eyes cast down, avoiding the stares of his fellow soldiers.

As soon as they entered the enclosure, Leese turned on him, letting loose his fury. "Have you not caused me enough trouble today Captain? I swear, if you put one more foot out of line before tomorrow's march I will shoot you dead for your insubordinate behaviour! This is completely unacceptable! I should strip you of your rank right here!"

John was sure that every soldier within a 20 meter radius could hear the Lt. Generals rage, and he felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, feeling like a child being scolded in front of his peers. "Understood, sir."

"Tell me what that display of idiocy was incurred by, and maybe I won't write you right back down to private," Leese snarled, assuming his full height.

"The Major was wrongfully using his rank to expose personal matters, sir."

"You mean this?" He held up the journal to John's face.

"Yes sir."

"Personal items such as this are to be kept to your bag inside your tent as to avoid such confrontations, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes sir."

"So how did it fall into the Major's hands?"

"He took it from me and began to read from it, sir."

"So you're both rotten scoundrels then," Leese grunted. "Why would the Major be interested in your journal, Captain?"

John sighed. This wasn't the way he wanted to make his pitch, but it seemed now was the only chance he was going to get. "The prisoner divulged some sensitive information. I wrote it down inside the journal and was headed to see you about it when the Major interrupted."

"And this information was too delicate to show to a superior other than me?"

"I believe so, sir," John said. This had gotten Leese's attention. "If I may do what I was originally going to sir, I can show you."

Leese looked him up and down, before shoving the book back into John's hand. "This had better be worth it."

John flipped to the back of the book, turning the page to the information he had quickly scrawled. He laid it down for Leese to see. "Out of all this other stuff, I thought this might interest you the most," he said as he read out the plan Sherlock devised. He talked about the supply routes, and made suggestions to make it seem that he hadn't given up the information he did to acquire what he had. Leese studied the page, his eyes lighting up as he too pieced together what Sherlock had wanted him to.

"This is…John this is incredible," Leese said, his anger having ebbed away. "How did you get all of this?"

John had to think for a moment. How did he get this information from Sherlock? He hadn't planned out what he would say to make his story convincing. "Well, I…" he stumbled, and Leese looked up from the page, suddenly very interested in his answer. "I…am a doctor. I know where to press both physically and psychologically to get answers," and for good measure he threw in, "I also know when someone is lying." John, mentally smacked himself. What if they interrogated Sherlock later? If their stories didn't match up then they were both busted.

Leese's eyebrows shot up, but he seemed to accept that as a viable answer. "Didn't take you for that type of person, Captain."

Relieved, John flashed a weak smile.

"I assume you know what this information means. This could change the whole battle plan."

"It could also change whether we live or die tomorrow, sir."

Leese's eyes remained locked on the page, drumming his fingers on the cover as he thought over the situation. John prayed to whatever god was listening that it would work.

"I think we should take this to General Alexander," Leese said grimly, closing the journal and tucking it close to his chest. "Come along, quickly."

John's face was radiant as he followed Leese out of the tent.

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Once they were granted an audience with General Alexander, all John had to do was confirm that the information was correct. The General sent out a few scouts to confirm the location of the routes, and for many hours John sat in his superiors' presence as they debated and revised the battle plan. It was nearly sunset, and the sky beginning to darken, when the scouts returned to camp.

"Well?" Alexander demanded curtly as three uniformed men entered the tent.

"The supply routes have been confirmed, one northwest at route 124 and another east at 116."

"And what were they carrying?" He asked, palms curled around the edge of the table.

"Heavy artillery and shells mainly. A few other truckloads with what we guessed were medical supplies and foods were among them. The convoy went on for miles, but most of the people present were civilians."

General Alexander rolled back on his heels, apparently making up his mind. "Go and fetch Lieutenant General Patton of the Seventh U.S Army and Lieutenant General Montgomery of the Eighth Army and whichever commanders they wish to bring. There's been a change of plans."

And so it was done. Slowly as the sky turned black and the stars began to shine, the Lieutenant Generals and their commanding officers began to file into the enclosure, taking their seats at the large table in its centre. Lt. General Patton entered last, and in tow was a sight that John had not wished to see so soon.

Major Anderson followed Patton in, his nose covered in white gauze and his left eye rimmed with black and purple bruising. He looked around and caught sight of John sitting with Leese, and threw him a sneer, which was marred by the current condition of his face. John couldn't help but allow himself a slight smile. After they had taken their seats, General Alexander began.

"After receiving a very untimely but very crucial piece of information, the plans that were laid out earlier this morning for tomorrows march have been revised." A few quiet murmurs rose up, but quickly died as Alexander continued. "They concern the movements of the Seventh and Eighth Armies, which is why I have assembled you here tonight. We have discovered the where-about of two supply routes which can land a heavy blow to our enemies in Augusta if dealt with properly. The changes apply as follows: The Eighth Army is to take the position of the Seventh, and advance to Augusta, while the Seventh Army is to engage the airfields in the south."

Cries of shock and outrage, mainly from the American side, arose as people began to debate among themselves.

"And what is the source of this information?" Lt. General Patton spoke up.

"In order to protect the identity of the source, that shall not be disclosed. I assure you that it has been checked thoroughly and confirmed to be true."

"I know exactly where it came from," Anderson stood, slamming his hands down on the table and staring at John. "Captain Watson seems to be in cahoots with our new and highly unwelcomed addition," he sneered. "How are we to trust that this isn't some trap for us all?"

John bristled, but Leese stood to oppose Major Anderson, "And that interaction has been approved by me, so you should have no quarrel with it."

"No quarrel?" another American officer spoke up, "This was to be our time of glory! We were going to storm Augusta and show the Axis who was really to be feared here!"

"You'd rather look glorious while your brothers-in-arms are being slaughtered behind you? The feeling wouldn't last very long, I can assure you!" said a British officer at the end of the table.

"Enough," Alexander boomed above the squabbling, and the room fell silent. "What I said is to be done shall be done. Patton, assemble your troops and brief them on the revised plan. You are to take the Cosimo, Olivio, and Biscari airfields. After that you are to establish a prisoner camp at Biscari, and we will send who we can capture down to you. If we can garner any more useful information like this from the prisoners, than it is a success whichever way it turns out."

Patton nodded, but it was clear that he was not pleased with the change.

"Montgomery, you are also to brief your troops, and have them ready to march to Augusta. The XXX Corps and the XXI corps are to deal with the supply routes before the rest come to help hold them down, then wait for the Seventh Army to join you in your advance. Is all clear?"

A loud and unified 'Yes sir,' filled the room.

"Then you are dismissed," General Alexander said, and the sound of many chairs scraping the gravely floor was deafening.

John was elated. He couldn't believe how well it had worked. No matter how serious he tried to appear, he couldn't wipe the grin off his face. Though he wasn't safe from death yet, he was certainly farther away from it.

He jumped as a voice said close to his ear, "Captain Watson, a word please?" John swiveled around and came face to face with the rows upon rows of medals pinned to General Alexander's chest. He quickly stood at attention and saluted, but Alexander just waved him off. "I understand that you are in charge of the prisoner?"

"Yes sir, well, perhaps not for much longer. I suppose he is to be transported to Biscari with the Seventh Army," John said suggestively.

"Actually I have something different in mind," said Alexander, examining his nail beds. "This prisoner has proved to be valuable, and I like to keep my cards close to my chest."

"Sir…"

"I want you to remain with the prisoner. He is to accompany you to the supply route, whereas I hope in that time you can get a little more out of him, since it seems you're good at it."

John once again felt his gut drop. He had promised Sherlock that he'd get him away from the Axis. This was only bringing him closer. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir. Isn't it better his if farther away from the frontline?"

"That is for me to decide, Captain," he said before his voice took a darker tone. "And if we find out that he is not as trustworthy as you make it, then upon your head be it. At least this way you can deal with him promptly." The statement left little to John's imagination.

"Now go back to your quarters and prepare." With that, he left, and John ushered himself out.

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John couldn't help but feel uneasy as he slipped through the cool night. He walked along the perimeter as he had done earlier, again browsing the treeline. He was nervous, especially about Anderson, who already knew too much about him and Sherlock. A gut feeling told him that he couldn't trust the Major, particularly after what he had said at the meeting. John crept through the rows of tents until he could see the one that held Sherlock. The area around was deserted, save for the two sentries that guarded him. John took some comfort in knowing that Sherlock was being protected, and after assuring himself that nothing would go wrong, he walked back to his tent.

On the way back he thought of what he would say to Sherlock when he went to collect him in the morning. Sherlock trusted him, and not only had John had failed to fill his part of the bargain, but he was also given the indirect order to kill Sherlock if John's trust in him was ill founded. He felt sick at the thought. He reasoned, however, that if Sherlock was to be moved to Biscari as he had wanted, he'd be closer to Anderson, and John didn't know which was more dangerous.

By the time he had reached his own tent, his tent mates were already asleep. Striking a match and lighting a small candle, he took the journal out of his pocket and found his pencil. He flipped to his last entry, preparing to make the next one before a thought crossed his mind. John closed the journal and then opened it again, but from the wrong side. He looked at the page- the very last one in the book- which read 'Haus of War'.

At first John had had no clue as to why he wrote that while talking to Sherlock, but now he was beginning to understand the subconscious gesture.

He he was starting a new story. A story that was only going to get much more dark and dangerous.

And underneath the title, he began to write about the day's events.

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Authors Note:

So sorry for the delayed update, I've been frightfully busy. The reviews, favourites and watches have all been incredible though, and I thank you!

I know that the 'Anderson is a dick' stereotype is well worn, but let's face it, he is. Just in this story he's a 'Major' dick.

And again, I'm in no way imparting that Americans are arrogant glory-seekers. I'm just using what history has given me (which happens not to look so good on the American's side of things).

So now the story is really going to kick off! The buildup is done and we're back on the battle field next chapter!

Thanks again for reading!