“And what about all the Allies between here and there?”
“Such as this pitiful camp you’ve erected out of sticks and twine?”
It was John’s turn for a derisive sound, and he followed it with a grin. “You think this is all there is out here? This camp is nothing more than a glorified guard shack for the larger bases.” He patted Hagen’s shoulder, hard enough to make the injuries from his beating throb. “You couldn’t even get past us. And even if you had, you never stood a chance at anything between here and Colmar.” He shook his head. “Think, Hagen. So far into France? Really? That must have been some nasty weather, forcing your brother so far off course.”
“They wouldn’t . . . My brother’s a major.”
“Which only makes him a bigger prize. More authority. From what I saw of him, he’d have been convincingly difficult to break. Like you. He would have put up so much resistance that it would have made the plan even more believable. Who sacrifices a war hero like your brother just like that? Oh, like the Nazis have been throwing men into the Russian maw for months. And they make you march right into winter without even proper coats or supplies. It’s a miracle you got as far as you did. But it’s time to give up, Hagen. Going on serves nothing but those men’s madness and greed while they sit snug in their command bunkers, no doubt ready to run away when the war begins to come home. Meanwhile, they’ll happily throw good men into the grave.”
Hagen recoiled. “You’re crazy.”
“And your commanders weren’t crazy sending your men through this region in your uniforms, when in recent weeks they’ve had the foresight to put their men in our uniforms in order to deceive us?” John leaned in, narrowing his eyes. “Face it, Hagen. You weren’t meant to be inconspicuous. You weren’t meant to succeed.”
Hagen swallowed. “What are you talking about?”
“From what I’m gathering from the intelligence on my side, all of this, all of your mission, might be a decoy. Three sets of papers, including even a book with code for good measure, which we believe contains a battle plan for a last offensive to crush Allied forces here in France via Switzerland, timed just as a big German offensive is gathering speed in the Ardennes region. Getting the US and the French to divert troops to safeguard against an imminent attack via Switzerland could weaken our line and allow the real offensive to break through. Hypothetically. Add in a sufficiently high-ranking officer, a small guard who believes that what they are carrying is genuine . . .”
“Why my brother? Why would they—”
“It’s war, Hagen.” John’s voice equal parts cold and . . . not. “Would the men who order you be willing to sacrifice one of their own, even a valuable man like your brother, for the victory of Germany?”
Hagen’s blood ran colder with every beat of his heart. “Sieg would never have agreed to such a thing. He was as loyal as any German man, but he was no fool.”
John’s expression softened, his brow creasing with what may very well have been sympathy. “Perhaps, like you, he didn’t know.”
“But why him?” Hagen cursed the weakness in his voice. “Why would . . .”
John reached out and touched his face again. “Maybe he knew too much. Maybe he made an enemy. Or maybe he was simply the most believable man to carry this information. A Wehrmacht major, that sounds pretty convincing to me. It sure would have to our British friends in Whitehall as well.”
Hagen shook his head, but Gott, it made sense—if nothing else did. He’d seen too much, heard too many rumors to think it completely impossible. Hell, even living in Germany meant constantly watching his back to ensure nobody reported a joke or the “wrong attitude.” Just speaking in the wrong way about the bombings or deaths of family members on the front could have serious consequences.
Hagen slumped on his chair, no longer sure what to think. What to say. How much of his information was even true anymore. Maybe the interrogation was now over. Maybe John finally had everything he wanted.
“It was a suicide mission, Hagen,” John said softly, and far too apologetically for an American, an enemy. “If Himmler knew a damned thing about the Allied presence in France, then . . .” The shrug was equally apologetic. “Then you and your brother were nothing but spent shell casings for the men running this war from Berlin.”
A spent shell casing was an apt description. There was no fire left in Hagen, no powder. Just the cold, leaden realization that John was right. That he and his brother—Gott, Sieg—had unknowingly been sent to their deaths just to pass on false information.
Eyes down, he said, “Is that all you wanted from me?”
John didn’t answer. Hagen didn’t look at him.
Finally, the interrogator gently whispered, “I’ll make arrangements for you to be transferred to a POW camp as soon as possible.” He took a step back, drawing all the room’s cold air with him. “You’ll be treated well.”
“Will I?”
“You have my word.”
John’s word. The enemy’s word. What else did he have left?
“Thank you.”
Silence. The door closed. And Hagen wept.
Walters had a Jeep and a guard ready to go first thing in the morning. Only one guard, doubling as a driver; the tiny camp simply didn’t have the manpower to spare any more. And John didn’t like the way the guard kept eyeballing Hagen. He couldn’t say for certain if this man had been involved in beating Siegfried, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t have tried to stop it either.
Which didn’t bode well for Hagen’s safety.
“I should go with him,” John said to Walters.
Walters threw him a look.
John gestured at the Jeep. “It’ll spare you a vehicle, too, since I can take mine to drop off the prisoner and then return to my own camp. Besides, you can’t send him off with only one guard. Someone has to relieve the guard now and then. Let the man sleep.”
“Your CO will have a conniption if you don’t get back to your post right away.”
“I’ll deal with him.” John swallowed. Insubordination wasn’t his preferred MO, and the lieutenant colonel would eviscerate him for it when he finally returned, but . . . Hagen. “The prisoner has cooperated. And he trusts me. I think it’s only right I should accompany him and make sure he is safely processed.”
“It’s your call and your ass.” Walters lowered his voice. “It might be just as well, honestly.”
John’s heart skipped. “Is that so?”
“There’s some info coming down the wire,” Walters said quietly. “Rumors, mostly, but it sounds like the SS took out a bunch of Americans in Belgium.”
“Oh my God.”
“That story’s spreading like wildfire. Men are up in arms, and they’re on a witch hunt for the SS.”
“Which means if they see him . . .”
“Quite possibly.” Walters nudged John’s arm. “Go. I’ll contact your CO and let him know what’s going on.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
Any other prisoner, John wouldn’t have cared. If a man didn’t want to be shot for being SS, then by God, he shouldn’t have been SS. But Hagen?
John owed it to him. That was all. Keep him safe until he was en route to the States. That was the only reason he’d been awake all night wondering how Hagen was doing down in his cell. And he didn’t feel the least bit relieved that this gave him a little extra time to be with Hagen. Because that wouldn’t make any sense. Hagen was his prisoner. Nothing more. And over the next couple of days, he would convince himself of that. Or get Hagen out of his system one way or another.
You’re an idiot, John. It would have been bad enough if he’d ever been caught with Michael. Carnal relations with a POW? One with SS runes on his collar? John would be lucky if all the Army did was kick him out.
Nevertheless, he was going. John packed what few personal effects he’d brought with him. Cigarettes. Some letters. Notebooks. Nothing of Michael, he realized with a pang of regret. Not that he could have kept anythi
ng. Even a letter would have been incriminating.
Once he’d finished packing, John went to pick up his prisoner, who was chained and didn’t look at him. Hagen stood there like a docile beast, no longer in control of his own fate or movements, but whatever his future would hold, it would not encompass being sacrificed for the monsters inhabiting Berlin. He was young—he’d get over the loss of his faith, no doubt, and find something else to believe in. If nothing else, Hagen was strong and resourceful. It was what had made him so attractive in the first place, beyond the need to get information out of him.
He draped a coat over Hagen’s shoulders, to cover up the Nazi uniform and provide some warmth. It was cold and wouldn’t get any better in the open cab of a Jeep. The guard kept a suspicious eye on Hagen, and only relaxed a bit when Hagen sat in the car, next to John, and John assured him that he had an eye on the German. It would be safer with Hagen’s hands bound behind his back, but for a long, bumpy ride, more comfortable with them in front of him. The man’s spirit was already broken. Might as well leave his hands be.
Going south toward Marseilles seemed like the safest option. There was still the risk of further German commandos operating behind the lines, and everybody had seen how quickly and decisively Germans moved their troops when it counted. In terms of distance, it didn’t matter much whether he was heading for the Atlantic coast or along US supply lines toward the Mediterranean coast, but going south meant they were less likely to run into enemy soldiers. With it, more safety too from German fighter planes on long-range missions to support what was going on further west. And right now, getting Hagen safely away was John’s primary concern.
He offered Hagen a cigarette, but the man shook his head, didn’t even look at him, which was starting to bother John. He didn’t like him impassive like that, so withdrawn, gaze unfocused. At some point, Hagen even fell asleep. Still exhaustion, then. Moral. Emotional. He itched to tell him he’d be all right, he’d be safe, he’d just have to wait for everything to end. Just like everyone else, Axis or Ally.
Strange, he thought, how it really was the same for the men on either side of this war. It battered them all the same, broke men in one uniform as easily as the other, and deep down, everyone just wanted it to be over. Maybe someday, it would be.
Throughout the long, silent drive, the Allied presence was undeniable. Truck convoys going north. A plane roaring overhead. A distinct lack of swastikas and gray uniforms in this region, though there were abandoned tanks and destroyed equipment left behind and pushed to the side; clearly the route of retreat the Germans had taken out of southern France just a few short months ago. And mile after mile of that, Allies occupying the French countryside, seemed to make Hagen sink deeper into himself. Like he’d already accepted the truth, and why did the universe feel the need to beat it into him like John had, in his own way, beaten it out of him?
As the afternoon light thinned into dusk, the Jeep rolled into a small cluster of farms. Good a place as any to stop for the night. Better than risking getting stuck somewhere in the snow at night.
John had Hagen put on an American peacoat. The German should have flinched, should have scowled, but he just obediently put it on and kept his eyes fixed on some nonexistent point in the distance.
The guard’s French was better than John’s and lacked the incriminating accent of Hagen’s, and he convinced the owners of one farm to let them stay in the stable out behind their house. Just enough room in the lower part for the Jeep—“don’t leave it outside where it can be seen,” the owner had begged, possibly not convinced that the Germans wouldn’t be back—and one, maybe two of them to sleep. In the loft, more sleeping room.
“I’ll stay down here.” The guard cast a sidelong glance at their prisoner. “You keep an eye on him in the loft. Between us, if he goes anywhere . . .” He trailed off into a smirk and didn’t have to add a comment about how much he wouldn’t mind shooting the fucking Nazi at first chance.
John looked at Hagen. Arms folded across his chest, not recognizably German at first or even second glance, Hagen didn’t look like he’d be running anytime soon. Probably wouldn’t protest too hard against the threat of a bullet, either. Just as well John had come along.
“Come on.” John grabbed Hagen’s upper arm with more force than he really needed. For show, so the guard didn’t suspect anything. “Time to sleep.”
Hagen grunted something. Maybe even cursed, but it was too quiet for John to make out. He followed without offering any resistance and climbed up the ladder ahead of John.
Upstairs, the smell of fresh and moldy hay alike mingled with dust and what may have been molasses. The hay provided a softer surface than the wood itself, and a couple of thick blankets would keep it from poking and scratching them all night.
It seemed unnecessary and more than a little cruel under the circumstances, but John cuffed one of Hagen’s wrists to an eyebolt that that was screwed into one of the thick beams. Hagen didn’t protest, which made guilt burn hotter under John’s ribs. Like Hagen expected nothing else from him. Such had been the rules, ever since John had established them with veiled and not-so-veiled threats, and now Hagen acted the docile beast, as if he had no more fight in him than one of those large horses the French farmer kept in the barn. No longer the Nazi attack dog, the lone wolf infiltrating an enemy base with no hint of fear. Granted, that long-suffering patience would stand him in good stead in a POW camp.
John watched Hagen set up a place to sleep with his one free arm. The German spread out a blanket on a pile of hay, rolled up his coat as a pillow, and draped the second blanket over himself for warmth.
A short distance away, John deposited his pistol and the belt with the cuff keys well outside of Hagen’s reach. Then he set up his own bed, also outside of Hagen’s reach. They could have touched if they both had stretched out an arm, but just barely.
John blew out the candle in the lantern and padded back to his makeshift bed. Not a sound from the German. Not a groan as Hagen readjusted his body, not a sigh of relief that he could finally stretch out. None of the dozens of sounds that a man might make before he fell asleep.
“Sleep well, Hagen.”
“Ja,” Hagen responded, the first word he’d spoken all day. After that, nothing.
Exhaustion claimed John before long, but he awoke again while the night was still black. He shifted, hay and blankets rustling beneath him as he tried to get comfortable. The cold had sunk its teeth into his ears and nose, and he burrowed his face into the scratchy blanket until some of the feeling burned its way back into his skin.
Nearby, a chain rattled. Not a subtle, sluggish sound of a man moving a little in his sleep, but a deliberate shift. Like the chain had been pulled tight, then loosened. It fell silent again. John listened for Hagen’s breathing. It was deep and slow, but not a relaxed sound or the soft snore he remembered from the other night. Closing his eyes, John absently curled his hand around the edge of the blanket, cold fingers seeking the hair he’d stroked the other night.
Hagen broke the silence in German. “You should be asleep.”
In the same language, John said, “As should you.”
“Too cold.” The chain rattled emphatically. “And can’t get comfortable.”
Guilt tugged at John’s gut. If he himself couldn’t get comfortable, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for Hagen.
“It would be warmer with . . .” He swallowed. “It . . .”
“Not with your man nearby,” Hagen growled, though his tone held a lot more “stay away from me” than “it’s too risky.”
John exhaled hard and sat up, pulling the blanket up to his chest. Cold air clung to his back, and he had to bite down to keep his teeth from chattering. “Are you all right, Hagen?”
A dry, humorless laugh. “What care is it of yours?”
John closed his eyes. Not that he could see much anyway. “It wasn’t personal.”
“Perhaps not for you.”
“I’m not the on
e who sent you and Siegfried on a suicide mission.”
The chain jerked so hard John jumped, more than a little surprised it hadn’t broken. Part of him admired the passion and anger with which Hagen had fought his restraints. Attack dog indeed, constantly throwing his whole weight and anger against the chain, unaware that, as yet, steel beat flesh every time. At least he wasn’t so passive and docile now.
Then the chain rattled again, links clanking quietly, one after the other, as the chain presumably pooled on the floor, defeated. The German’s voice was equally defeated. “Go to Hell.”
Maybe, John thought, he should shorten the chain, and tie Hagen’s other wrist too, and then settle right next to him and talk some sense into the man. Though that might lead to yet another explosion of violence.
It might be better than how Hagen was now—not really there.
“You’ll be safe, Hagen. You’ve fought hard and honorably . . .”
The German scoffed again.
“By your standards, I guess. But it’s over,” John said.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. What do I not understand?”
Hagen fell silent again. This was just no way to go on. They’d likely reach Marseilles in two days’ time, even using the snowy country lanes, and there was precious little they could work out until then. Maybe they could settle things, at least as much as captor and captive ever could, and have some peace.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost somebody, you know.” No response. “Did you ever wonder what I was doing in that guard shack that night?”
“I don’t care.”
John gritted his teeth, but even if he’d managed to let it go, there was just no way in Hell he’d be able to sleep now. “The man you killed. Michael. I knew him a bit better than anybody else in that unit.”
No response.
“We met every now and then to break a whole raft of regulations. He was my lover.” Though the word seemed large and unwieldy in that place. Michael had been much more a partner in crime than anything else, though he’d liked him. He hadn’t felt a great deal of affection or tenderness—neither of them had—but that wasn’t necessary in those circumstances. They’d struck a deal, and both sides had kept up their end of the bargain.
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