Chapter 8: New Players, Odd Games
As the words came out of Carter’s mouth, he knew that he was saying too much. Ol’ Shultzie may been one of the “good” krauts, but that didn’t mean that Carter could trust him enough to talk about the bug in Klink’s office or about the upcoming mission. But here he was talking about it - he couldn’t stop himself: it was like a damn burst in his mind.
Although, it was hard to tell if Shultz was even listening to him. The man was huffing with exertion and his cheeks were an alarming shade of red. After their collision, the German had started half carrying him half walking him to . . .
Well, Carter wasn’t quite sure where they were going. He might have asked, but he was too busy talking about things that he shouldn’t be talking about to get a word in edgewise. “ . . . Then this guy comes out of nowhere, well, there was some kind of blue rectangle thing he stepped out of, but it was really weird.” He took a breath. “And the guy was wearing fuchsia!”
“Really,” Shultz grunted, not sounding the least bit interested. Maybe he was listening after all. Carter wondered if this was a good thing.
“Yeah. But after he knew I could see him, h-he flipped and then he and Sam started arguing about what to do with me and I decided that I should probably get the heck out of there before they made up their minds.” He looked up at the puffing German and gave him a lopsided smile. “That was when I ran into you.”
The guard spared him a glance before shaking his head slightly and looking forward again.
A wave of hurt and disappointment went through Carter as he realized what this meant. “You don’t believe me.”
Shultz stopped and looked the younger man in the eyes. Then, sounding more serious than Carter had ever heard him sound, he asked, “Do you really want me to believe you?”
Considering it for a long moment, remembering all the things he said, Carter looked down at the ground. “I - I guess not.”
Shultz nodded solemnly and started walking again.
Now that he wasn’t busy sticking his foot in his mouth, Carter asked the question he’d been wondering about. “Where are we going, Shultz?”
“We are going to the barracks. You have obviously spent too much time in this cold air, ja?”
Carter smiled, feeling just a little less shaky than before. “Yeah, I guess I have.”
***
To put it mildly, Dr. Irving Gushman (or, as every one else liked to call him, Gooshie) was not having a good day. He was not, in fact, having a good week: Tina had broken up with him again; Dr. Beckett’s life was in danger for the nth time; Ziggy was refusing to cooperate with him once again and it wasn’t even Wednesday yet.
To another person, these things might get depressing after awhile but, to Gooshie, these things were merely irritating. As long as he had his computers, his work, he could be content. Not to say that he didn’t enjoy his little rendevous with Tina . . .
However, now wasn’t the time for thinking about such things. He had work to do. They were counting on him to fix this problem - whatever problem that turned out to be today - and there was no time to waste. Especially, seeing as, since Dr. Beckett’s departure, Gooshie had become the foremost authority on the inner workings of Ziggy, he was practically their only hope.
Although, he admitted to himself with grudging respect, young Sammy Jo seemed to be catching on quickly. He had no doubt that, someday, she’d be able to run the entire system by herself. No mean feat as he knew from experience.
He spared a glance at Sammy Jo who was working beside him. She didn’t appear to be doing much of anything at the moment. His glance turned into a stare. Her hands were still and she was staring dully at the control panel before her. While Gooshie was by no means a fair judge of human emotion, feeling far more comfortable and qualified to work with machines, Sammy Jo seemed . . . troubled.
Well, that simply wouldn’t do. He certainly couldn’t have her working on such delicate components if she was more interested in moping than in doing her job. Full commitment was required! But then, maybe she didn’t have a problem - how was he supposed to tell?
But if she did have a problem . . .
Well, that simply wouldn’t do.
“Are you all right, Ms. Fuller?”
She looked up quickly, startled. “I’m fine.”
Gooshie shrugged to himself and tried to get back to work. Sammy Jo said she was fine. She should know, shouldn’t she? And he did trust her judgement, didn’t he? If she said there was no problem, then there was no problem. Simple.
Even so, soon his concern over the components Sammy Jo was supposed to be working on overcame his confidence and he spared her another look. Nothing had changed. Still doing nothing. Still staring at the control panel like she couldn’t see it.
This time, she somehow sensed his attention. “I said I’m fine.” She sounded irritated but this time it was obvious to Gooshie that it wasn’t just due to his pestering. If he could tell something was wrong with her . . .
Clearly, whatever her problem was, it was proving to be a distraction from her work. Distracted people made mistakes. Distracted people broke things. He had to get her out of here! But it would require tact.
“Ms. Fuller,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “why don’t you go home?”
Unfortunately, he didn’t choose his words carefully enough. Gooshie knew the moment he said them that he’d made a mistake.
“What!”
He felt a flash of fear rise in him in answer to her anger. “I mean, m-maybe you should take a break.”
Sammy Jo glared and her fists clenched. “Take a break? Are you saying I can’t do my job?”
Gooshie swallowed hard. “Of course not. But you seem . . . distracted.”
He was prepared for another outburst so he was surprised when her glare faded and her fists opened to hang lose by her side. “I guess you’re right.” She suddenly looked determined. “I just have to do something and I’ll be right back, okay?”
Without waiting for him to answer Sammy Jo left the room. Gooshie sighed in relief as he looked over her panels. She hadn’t managed to break anything - that was good. He smiled down at the control consul almost lovingly. There was still a lot of work to do but, at least now, he’d be able to work in peace.
***
After depositing Carter at Barracks 2 and leaving him in the care of his fellow prisoners, Shultz made his way through the compound back to where he had been going before Carter had run into him. He was troubled and he couldn’t keep his mind still.
Despite his occasional - all right, more than occasional - bumbling, Shultz was not stupid. He was at times insensible, sometimes irresponsible and, once in a while, he could be very gullible. But not stupid. He had sense enough to know that the prisoners of Stalag 13 were not your normal prisoners. He wasn’t completely certain what they were up to most of the time, but he did know that they were always up to something.
Not that he ever let on. He knew what would happen if he relayed his suspicions to the Gestapo and they proved correct. He knew and he had no desire to be responsible for it. Besides, with the Gestapo, it was unwise to show much initiative - they kept an eye on smart men. Smart men were dangerous and it was dangerous to be a smart man.
But stupid men? They were to be tolerated as long as they were Aryan. At least, until the war was won.
Shultz knew this from his many trips to the tavern. Gestapo men liked to drink as much as anyone else and liquor always loosened tongues. The things that he’d heard them say made him shiver inside. He didn’t like thinking about it. Of course, ever since this war had started, he didn’t like thinking about most things.
But now he was thinking again.
There were three possibilities for the . . . conversation he’d had with Sergeant Carter. The boy had finally broken under the pressure of a prisoner’s life. He had been trying to fool him or confuse him for some reason. Or, he had been telling him the truth. There were obvious problems with all three of these.
The possibility that Carter was crazy didn’t seem right. While Carter always seemed a little strange - even the other prisoners remarked on it -, he hadn’t seemed delusional. Despite the strange things he’d been saying, he had sounded like himself.
The possibility that Carter had been trying to fool or confuse him also wasn’t right. Yes, Shultz was confused but what would Carter gain from it? The story was too outlandish to trick someone into believing it and too unrealistic to spread suspicion or create a rumor. What good would it do to have Shultz question the sanity of the prisoners - he already did so on a regular basis.
Then there was the possibility that Carter had been telling the truth . . .
Shultz shook his head. The very thought was too crazy to contemplate. Clearly, he had been fraternizing with the prisoners too much - their monkey shines were starting to rub off on him. That must be it.
Feeling a little better now that he could stop thinking about it, he walked up to the Kommandant’s office. The Big
Shot always seemed to expect him to be within shouting distance and it was easier for Shultz if he wasn’t disappointed. At least, he thought with a slight smile, working with the Kommandant would keep him from thinking so much.
He stopped when he saw a long staff car drive through the gates. He spared a brief moment to wonder who had come this time before deciding that he didn’t care. Moving as fast as he could and still retain a certain amount of dignity (a small amount), he went to the car to greet whomever had come to see the Big Shot this time.
***
As the driver drove to the rickety looking gates of the compound, she felt her lips curve up into a sneer of disgust.
The place brought a new meaning to the word boonies and the structures within the gates were ugly - she hadn’t expected much but this was even less than she’d expected. She looked to her companion. “Are you sure this is the place?”
Her companion smiled in something close to pleasure. “Positive.”
***
Sam was not always right. He was man enough to admit that. His intuition was not failsafe and he could not count the number of times when it had failed him (due to the Swiss Cheese affect, he honestly couldn’t remember). He knew that.
Still, was it really asking too much for Al to trust him on this? For once? Without an argument?
“No.”
Apparently, it was.
“Al -”
“No!”
“Al -”
“NO!”
“Al, would you just listen to me for one second!”
Al glared and threw up his hands in frustrated disgust. “Fine, talk.” He turned away and spoke in his typical Sam-I’m-Not-Very-Happy-With-You-Right-Now tone. “Just don’t think that you’ll change my mind.”
Sam felt the sigh come out of his mouth before he could stop it. At least Al was letting him talk now. That was something. “All I want you to do is find out who he is.”
“But he can see!”
Why was Al doing this? Did he always have to be so stubborn. Besides, Sam seemed to recall something like this happening before. “Can’t you just change your frequency or something?”
The other man crossed his arms. “That won’t help if he’s crazy or if he’s retarded.”
“Well,” Sam said, trying to rein in his frustration - it would do no good to yell at Al -, “we won’t know that until you find out who he is.”
Al’s glare darkened; Sam had not reined his frustration quite tight enough. “Fine, I’ll go. Just don’t come crying to me when everything goes ca-ca.” Hastily jabbing at the handlink with more force than was strictly necessary, Al disappeared.
Sam closed his eyes. He hated when Al did that. Al was his best friend - his only friend for the last . . . how many years?, but sometimes, he’d would just act so unreasonable and stubborn. In the end, Sam let his frustration overcome his reason and Al would be mopey for most of the leap.
As if he hadn’t been having enough problems with this leap already.
He slouched in the chair, feeling more tired than he really was and he found himself looking at the drink he’d poured earlier (and had still not poured out). He found himself wanting it. Was the host to blame for this want? It seemed to Sam that he had to be - Sam was never one to take care of his stress by drinking it away.
Still, the want was there. And things seemed quiet for the moment. Besides, he was developing a headache right behind his eyes and he doubted that there was any aspirin lying around. The excuses were terrible but he picked up the glass anyway.
With an uncharacteristic feeling of recklessness, he decided to throw caution to the wind.
He had lifted the glass up to his lips and was in the process of taking a sip when there was a knock on the door. It startled him so badly that the liquor in his mouth went down his windpipe and the liquor in the glass ended up on the front of the uniform. Choking, he managed a gasping “Come in.”
Within a few moments Sam had recovered himself. He looked up to see the pretty secretary staring at him with something like concern. “General Metziger is here to see you, sir.”
“Uh, send him in.”
She nodded before she disappeared behind the door. She was soon replaced by two men in Gestapo uniforms.
A General whose face was lined with more than a few wrinkles and a fresh faced Lieutenant wearing an unpleasant smirk. All in all, Sam found the girl a much more enjoyable sight.
As disturbed as he was by this Al like thought, it took him a moment to realize that the two men were waiting for something. Once he realized, he stood up so quickly that he bumped his knees. “Welcome to Stalag 13, General!” he enthused as he saluted. “I hadn’t expected you to come so early.”
“What you were expecting is irrelevant, Colonel.” General Metziger’s voice sounded flat, as though he was reading from an invisible cue card. The only sign of the man’s mental state was a slight curling of his lips and the narrowing of his milky blue eyes.
It was not a mental state that boded well for Sam. His hands started to sweat and he felt like clenching them.“Of course, completely irrelevant, General.” Why was he so nervous? And why was he talking like this? His host?
The General spoke again, still sounding bored. “This is my aid, Lieutenant Koch. He will be taking note of the way things are done around here.”
“It will be a pleasure, Colonel.” Lieutenant Koch mouth was twisted into a self satisfied smirk and his voice oozed disrespect. A part of Sam’s mind wondered what sort of family ties the young man had to gain his position.
“General Burkhalter tells me that you have an impressive record - not one successful escape since you’ve become Kommandant.” General Metziger looked Sam over, his face radiating disapproval - Sam wiped self consciously at the large wet spot on his front from his aborted drink. “Perhaps I can find the reason for your success.”
Sam tried to summon up a smile as he ignored the jab. It wasn’t meant for him anyway. “Would you like to start with a tour, General? Or you would like to rest up after your long trip from Berlin?” He hoped that the General wouldn’t ask for a tour. His host had left behind some names and some mannerisms but there wasn’t much about the camp itself. He wasn’t looking forward to trying to fake his way through a tour.
The General shook his head. “No, I think the tour can wait. I am not as young as I used to be and the trip was quite long.”
“Of course.” Well, no tour; that was a relief. But now what to do? Looking passed the General, Sam saw the fat Sergeant partially hiding behind the doorway - he’d know where the General and his aid could go. “Sergeant Shultz, could you come in here?”
Shultz seemed surprised and walked in almost hesitantly. “Yes, Kommandant?” he asked with a salute.
“Why don’t you show General Metziger and his aid to the guest quarters?”
For a second, the Sergeant looked confused and Sam was afraid that there weren’t actually any guest quarters. Then understanding dawned in his eyes and he saluted again. “Yes, Kommandant!”
As they left, Sam felt his fist unclench and he breathed a sigh of relief. That could have gone much worse than it had. Sitting back down at the desk, he closed his eyes and tried to relax a bit before the next crisis came up - it wasn’t a question of if, it was a question of when.
His intuition was not foolproof, but he did trust it. And, right now, it was telling him that his troubles here were far from over.
***
Corporal Peter Newkirk’s game wasn’t going well. He wasn’t sure whether Louis had noticed or not and, at the moment, he found that he didn’t care one way or the other. There were bigger things to worry about.
He glanced at Carter. The Sergeant looked a little better than he had when Shultz had brought him in. Then he’d been shaky and very quiet - not like himself at all. Shultz had said that he’d simply spent too much time out in the cold but something about the way he’d said this made Peter doubt that reason . . .
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his cards. At least, he tried to. While he had ever actually said it out loud, he did care about the kid. Something about him reminded Peter of the little brother he’d never had. Of course, Andrew got on his nerves every now and then but he did like him.
And, if something happened to him, Peter wasn’t sure what he’d do.
“Why are you here?”
He looked at the American with slightly narrowed eyes. What a strange question! “Well, it’s not because of the weather, I can tell you that.”
Carter shook his head, suddenly seeming agitated. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Peter was dimly aware of Louis slowly putting his cards down. “Then who are you talking to?” Louis asked.
Incredibly, Carter stared at them as if they were the ones who had gone insane. “Can’t you see him?” When they didn’t answer, he continued, gesturing somewhere over to his right. “How can’t you? He’s wearing fuchsia!”
For a long moment, no one said anything.
“Non,” Louis said at last, “I do not see anyone.”
The American turned away from them to stare at the place he’d gestured to before. “Why can’t they see you?” His brow furrowed as if he was listening to someone explain something complicated. Then he nodded. “He says that you fellas probably don’t have the right kind of brain waves to see him.”
“Really?” Newkirk tilted his head towards the Colonel’s room.
Lebeau nodded before he stood and left. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long for the Frenchman to find the
Colonel. Colonel Hogan would know what to do about this.
“My name? I’m Andrew Carter, Sergeant.”
He hoped.
“No, I still see you.”
Newkirk watched the tableau before him and felt his horror grow. Carter was having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. First Klink and now Carter? Was this come sort of disease? Was it catching? Or had the whole world just gone nutters? “Who are you talking to, mate?”
“Oh, his name is Al.”
***
Walking through the compound, passing the ugly buildings and breathing in the chilly air, she couldn’t keep herself from smiling. At last, she thought, an easy one.