Broken Blades Page 6

Panic twisted in Mark’s gut. There was no way anyone here knew about—

  “Answer me, Captain.”

  Mark gulped. “He asked me a question, sir. I was answering it. Nothing more.”

  Chandler’s eyes slid toward Kitten and Silent Joe. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kitten said. “He came up to us. Just for a second.”

  Silent Joe nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “What did he ask you?” Chandler demanded.

  “Uh, he … he asked if we were settling in well.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Mark narrowed his eyes. “That the place would be a lot better with a swimming pool and a bar.”

  The red in Chandler’s face deepened. “Captain, you’d—”

  “I told him we were settling in,” Mark snapped. “Next time, I’ll defer his questions to you. Sir.”

  Chandler’s lip curled into a snarl. “This how you speak to your commanding officer, Captain Driscoll?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, as long as we’re both here, unless General Eisenhower decides to grace us with his presence, I am your commanding officer. I’d suggest you remember that.”

  Fury tightened Mark’s chest, but he suspected most of that was left over from being face to face with Armin. Unloading it on Major Chandler would only make his time here more miserable than it already was. “Understood, sir.”

  After the major had walked away, Mark cursed under his breath.

  “I’m not sure who I like least,” Kitten muttered. “Him or the Kommandant.”

  Silent Joe grunted behind his cigarette, but didn’t add anything.

  Kitten glared down the corridor, then shook his head and focused on smoking. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. The men say this Kommandant’s a lot more easygoing than he could be. We probably could’ve crashed in a worse place.”

  Mark tightened his lips. Maybe you could have.

  Chapter 8

  The last stop on Armin’s tour was the infirmary. It wasn’t equipped to deal with many patients, but after the elderly village doctor had suffered a heart attack, it also provided care for the villagers some five kilometers away. Which was one of the reasons why a little girl and her mother were just leaving the treatment room, the girl with a plaster around her right arm. She smiled up at Armin, and his chest contracted painfully, but he gave a small salute to her and her mother, wondering briefly if the father was at the front or even alive.

  The doctor—much too young and inexperienced for the title, rather more a late semester student—stood, still wiping his hands clean. “Kommandant. How are you?”

  “Stiff.” Armin reached over and touched his shoulder.

  “It’s the cold.” The doctor stepped closer, professional interest in his eyes. “Any pain?”

  “No.” Apart from his hand hurting every now and then—not the healthy one, but the left one that was rotting somewhere in Russia. All in his mind. Nothing could be done about it, so it seemed unnecessary to bother anybody with it.

  “How is the little girl?”

  “Elsa? Oh, she’ll be all right. Broke her wrist sledding. Children heal in two weeks or so.” The doctor finished drying his hands. “Poor girl’s father is fighting the Russians. So’s her brother.”

  Armin nodded, clenching his teeth together. Nobody who hadn’t been there understood what that meant, “Russia”. “How’s the prisoner? The one who just arrived?”

  The doctor glanced at a bed near the far wall, and his features tightened. “Yes, I was about to come to that. He’s still dizzy, unsteady. It’s not a fracture I could find, but then, we don’t exactly have all the equipment here.” He scowled, and when he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “He should be better by now. I’m concerned his brain might be swelling, which …” He lifted his shoulders. “Short of trepanning him, I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Drill a hole in his skull?”

  “Only way to take the pressure off his brain.” The doctor looked nervous. “It’s a procedure I haven’t …”

  “I see.” Doing surgery here? Armin looked around. He’d seen men lose legs and arms in worse circumstances. Hell, they’d taken the rest of his arm while he’d still been covered to the chest in blood and dust. He distinctly remembered fighting—fighting what to him had been blood-covered monsters about to tear him limb from limb. They’d used a bayonet for the meat, a saw for the bone. It had seemed like a nightmare. Maybe somebody had found morphine. Maybe that memory was nothing but morphine.

  Armin shuddered, which didn’t help the stiffness or the phantom pain. “Can he be transported?”

  The doctor seemed to ponder it, but then shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it, Kommandant. I’m sorry.”

  “Watch him. If it gets worse, it might be that you get to try out that procedure after all.”

  “I’m— yes, Kommandant. I’ll look in the books. Just in case there’s … something …”

  “Call somebody who’s done it from my office.”

  The doctor nodded and smiled bravely. He reminded Armin of one of those barely eighteen-year-old replacements. Eager and scared, and looking up to him as if he was their father. He’d felt old enough to be their grandfather.

  “Keep me advised of his condition.”

  The doctor gave another nod. “I will, Kommandant.”

  Armin turned to Schäfer. “Let him into my office. He can use the phone for as long as he needs.”

  “Of course, Kommandant.”

  Armin left the infirmary by himself. He usually preferred the company of a guard, especially Schäfer, but there was always one somewhere close by. The prisoners had been fairly subdued lately anyway. Perhaps that was the calm before the storm, and there would be another attempted revolt soon—especially with Germany nearing defeat, the prisoners might get unruly. Overtake their own prison before their men could arrive to free them. But Armin could usually sense impending revolts like he could smell a change in the weather.

  On his way down the corridor, he saw Mark again. He was alone now, his back to Armin and smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers as he gazed out at the landscape, possibly regarding the wide valley underneath, the trees, and the curving river below. Armin considered walking on and leaving him to his thoughts, but with the conversation with the doctor so fresh in his mind, he couldn’t.

  “Captain Driscoll,” he said quietly.

  Mark stiffened, but didn’t turn. “Kommandant.”

  “I’ve spoken to—”

  “You should be talking to my CO.” Back still turned, Mark took another drag off his cigarette. “You’ll get me hemmed up.”

  Armin scowled. Millington-Smythe didn’t mind if Armin had conversations with his men. Major Chandler, however …

  He took a breath and caught a taste of the smoke. He wondered briefly what Mark’s mouth would taste like just then, but quickly banished that thought. Clearing his throat, he glanced down either end of the corridor. “Perhaps you’ll pass a message on to him, then.”

  Mark exhaled hard, and finally turned around, his expression equal parts bored and hostile. “All right.”

  Armin swallowed. “I’ve spoken to the doctor.”

  The hostility in Mark’s face lessened in favor of something closer to panic, his eyes wide and forehead creased. “And?”

  “Lieutenant Keller, he’s …” Armin struggled to hold Mark’s gaze. “Everything that can be done is being done, but—”

  “He’s not that bad, though. He hit his head. If it was going to kill him, it would have days ago.” The creases in his forehead remained, adding an unspoken “Right?”

  Armin shook his head. “I don’t know, Captain. But there is a possibility he’ll need a procedure that my doctor has not previously performed. It’s dangerous. Risk of infection, if he survives at all.”

  Mark paled. The cigarette between his fingers slipped a little, nearly falling from his grasp. “So he’s … he’s going to die.�
��

  “We can’t know for certain. But if he wishes for any rites or any such things, it can be arranged.”

  Mark slumped back against the wall. Eyes blank and unfocused, he brought his cigarette to his lips. No one who’d been involved in this war for long was a stranger to death, but Armin could sympathize with his shock and his obvious pain. A man could watch dozens of his friends die, and be just as devastated by the hundredth as the first.

  Armin glanced up and down the corridor again, ensuring they were absolutely alone. Then he lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Mark.”

  Mark’s head snapped up, and the hostility was back in full force. “Why? He was bombing Germany and now he’s as good as dead.” He sucked in some more smoke. “You should be celebrating.”

  “I’m not Germany.”

  Mark laughed humorlessly. “You’ve always been Germany just like I’ve always been America. Nothing’s changed.”

  Armin fought to keep both the hurt and anger out of his voice. “We were just two men on the piste in Berlin, and we were just two men when …” He paused. “We’re just two men now.” He took a step back. “And I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter 9

  Mark watched Armin go, the words echoing in his mind the way the man’s sharp footsteps echoed through the stone corridor.

  Did it matter? The fact was, they were captor and captive now. Kommandant and screwed GI. What had happened in the past or in eight years’ worth of dreams was irrelevant.

  And whether Armin’s sentiments were sincere or not, Rubble was quite possibly dying.

  Mark took another puff of smoke from the nearly exhausted cigarette, then crushed it beside the one he’d smoked earlier. Then he headed down the corridor. Not to the infirmary, though. Not yet.

  He found Kitten playing poker with the other guys.

  “Hey, Red.” Kitten looked up, grinning around his cigarette and patting a pile of winnings on the table in front of him. “You here to watch me rob these guys blind?”

  “Not this time.” Mark touched his shoulder. “Can we talk out in the hall?”

  Kitten opened his mouth, probably ready to protest, but he must have seen something in Mark’s eyes. His face lost a little color. He put his cards on the table with a mutter of “I fold,” and got up. He didn’t even bother collecting his winnings, instead hurrying out into the hall with Mark.

  “What’s going on?” His eyes were wide. “Is it Rubble?”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, God.” Kitten rubbed a hand over his face. He was one of the tough guys, one of the burly ones who looked like he could fight with an oak tree and win, but he had a soft side that was painful to see under these circumstances. It had been endearing in the beginning, back when his affection toward a stray kitten during training had earned him his call sign, but much like Silent Joe’s nickname had become painfully ironic lately, so too had Kitten’s. Especially when it came to his close friend.

  “The Kommandant says they’re doing all they can.” Mark touched Kitten’s shoulder. “But out here, with limited medical equipment and a doc who probably isn’t even a doc…”

  Kitten released a pained sound and raked a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit. You know it is. They’ll sooner shoot him than treat him.”

  Mark gnawed his lower lip. Much as he desperately wanted to hate the Kommandant right now, Armin’s promises to do what they could had seemed as genuine as his sympathy. With any other man, Mark would have been sure they’d just wait for an opportune moment to take Rubble out into the woods and “treat” him with a Luger. With Armin …

  He squeezed Kitten’s shoulder. “Listen, we’ll all hope he pulls through. He still could. But in case he doesn’t, I need to know. Is he Catholic? Anything like that?”

  Kitten’s face went white. “You want to give him his last rites already?”

  “Calm down.” Mark squeezed his shoulder again. “If he is, then we need to have a priest nearby just in case.” And probably sooner than later, by the sound of it. “I don’t want to make Rubble panic, though, and if I go check his dog tags, he’ll know what’s going on. I need you to tell me.”

  Kitten closed his eyes and exhaled. His shoulder seemed to shrink beneath Mark’s hand. “He’s Catholic.”

  Mark patted Kitten’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with it. You’ll be all right?”

  Kitten nodded, pale.

  Mindful to not draw more unpleasant attention, Mark headed to Chandler, who was apparently writing a letter. “Major.”

  “Captain.”

  “The Kommandant asked me to relay a message to you regarding Lieutenant Keller.”

  Chandler’s eyes flashed. “What did I tell you about speaking to him?”

  “With all due respect, he spoke to me and asked me to convey the message.”

  Chandler huffed, still clearly annoyed. “What does he want?”

  “He said the lieutenant’s condition is critical, sir. He might die.”

  Might. No, he’d seen it in Armin’s eyes. Nothing could be done—Rubble was dying.

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Chandler seemed more upset at the interruption which would possibly be lengthy than at Rubble’s fate.

  “I’m his friend. I could … talk to the Kommandant and get to the infirmary.” Mark shrugged. “I’m Catholic, too.”

  Chandler’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. In this case. But bear in mind that the Kommandant is not to be trusted.”

  “It’s just about getting a priest to a dying man. I don’t see how—”

  “One of us knows the Kommandant. And it ain’t you, Driscoll.”

  Mark barely kept himself from flinching. Though he didn’t know Armin except in the biblical sense, he’d seen the man he’d been before the war. Briefly. Long enough to know things Chandler obviously did not. But he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, go on then. Tell the guard to take you to the Kommandant. Do you know some German?”

  Nothing beyond the few words he’d picked up in training and in preparation for the Games, eight years ago. And while “take me to the railway station please” was more apropos than ever, he didn’t think these Germans would be quite as accommodating as the Berliners. He shook his head.

  “Say ‘Bringen Sie mich zum Kommandanten, bitte.’”

  Mark repeated the sentence soundlessly, then, once Chandler had dismissed him with a gesture, walked up to one of the guards. He was struck by the age of the man. Surely, he wasn’t an active soldier anymore? He had to be well into his fifties, though his low rank suggested he’d been demoted or just very recently drafted. Or maybe he’d just aged faster than he was meant to. Hadn’t everyone in this place?

  “Bringen Sie mich zum Kommandanten, bitte.”

  The guard regarded him quizzically. “Chandler’s Befehl?”

  “Chandler—ja.”

  The guard exchanged glances with a colleague, then waved Mark along. “Kommen Sie mit.”

  They headed outside and crossed the courtyard. The guard unlocked an iron gate and motioned him inside, then through a guard room, up some steps, every one of which reminded Mark’s body of the all-too-recent crash. At the top, they continued along a short corridor, and there was a door.

  The guard knocked. “Herr Kommandant, einer der Amerikaner will Sie bitte dringend sprechen.”

  “Eintreten.”

  The guard opened the door and motioned Mark through.

  The room was stiflingly hot after the cold of the courtyard—a heavily decorated fireplace, a coat rack with Armin’s greatcoat and hat, a heavy desk that would likely require four men to even nudge it. Bookshelves upon bookshelves. The office was crowded more than cluttered.

  In one corner stood a fencing rack with half a dozen swords at least, two masks, discarded, and another large bag likely held the clothes. The sight of it made Mark’s breath catch. It jarred him straight to his aching bones. Fencing was a part of a past that s
eemed like it belonged to somebody else. Then again, so did …

  Armin sat, hatless, behind his desk, a pencil clutched in his right hand, his left sleeve neatly rolled up, and Mark caught himself wondering who did that. Who dressed him?

  Armin’s expression was blank as it usually was. “Yes, Captain?”

  The rank instead of his name made him wince. Half an hour ago, he’d been tempted to extinguish his cigarette in Armin’s eye, but that brief moment of familiarity—when, as Armin had said, they’d only been two men—had brought back thoughts and feelings that his general hatred of all things German couldn’t quite temper.

  He swallowed hard. “I wanted to speak to you about Rub—Lieutenant Keller. He’s … he’s Catholic. If it’s possible to get him a priest …”

  Armin nodded. “It will be arranged.” No conditions. No price. It would simply be done.

  “Thank you, Kommandant.”

  They locked eyes, and didn’t speak. Now that the arrangements had been promised, the discussion finished in seconds, coming all the way out here seemed almost silly. As if he could have simply sent a message via a guard or that behemoth of a man who nearly always shadowed Armin.

  Armin sat back, resting his hand on his leg. Mark wondered if he’d been about to habitually fold his hands, but then realized he couldn’t. How long did it take to break that habit, that inborn assumption that the other limb was there? And how long had it been since Armin had lost that arm?

  “Was there anything else, Captain?”

  “No, Kommandant.” He bit back a request to be excused. Chandler wouldn’t likely grant him permission like this again, not unless—God forbid—something happened to another of his men. After eight years of wondering what had become of Armin, he couldn’t make himself rush out of the room. Not yet.

  Armin sat up. Moving gingerly, but still with echoes of that effortless elegance he’d had in Berlin, he rose. He came around the desk, and Mark allowed himself a slow down-up look.

  The uniform was familiar, just more decorated now, and of course the sleeve was pinned up. He remembered how Armin had moved on the piste, how the uniform that had seemed so stiff had suddenly moved with him as if it was an extension of his own flesh. It was a shame to see how much the war had slowed him down. Worn him down.