Doctor Who_ Autumn Mist Part 6

'It's also true, though, isn't it? If you put finding your friends above helping those wounded men, you wouldn't be here today.'

The Doctor scowled. 'I came here because I also need some engineering equipment to recover my vehicle...'

Lewis smiled, drily. 'I see. That, too, is more important than your friends?'

'All right,' the Doctor said finally. 'But I help on my own terms.'

'Your choice,' Lewis agreed, magnanimous in victory.

'Yes, it is. And I advise you to remember that.' With a flurry of coat-tails the Doctor was gone.

Lewis sat back and lit a small cigar. He felt calmer now that a potential problem had been dealt with. He recognised the strength in the Doctor's eyes, but seeing his own urbane and calm image in the small shaving mirror on the desk had focused him, reminded him that he was urbane and calm. He could deal with this. He always could.

Be indispensable was the first lesson he had learned at West Point; and the biggest part of that was never letting the strain get to you. Or, if it did, then hiding it.

'Did you hear all that?' he asked of the empty air.

'Yes,' a cheerful voice said beside his ear, even though there was no one there to speak it. 'It's exactly who we thought.'

'He looks different than you described.'

'Not to me. You humans are so limited in your perceptions, it's almost an insult to us.' Was Lewis imagining the tremor of madness in the voice? Perhaps even his friend was feeling the strain.

'I could take that as an insult to humanity,' Lewis replied. 'That would be very irresponsible, wouldn't it? We outnumber you ma.s.sively, if we decided to take action for the insult.'

'Numbers mean nothing, little man, however provoked the majority might feel. We could cut off half the human race, if we so chose.'

Fitz had been on guard duty for what seemed like hours. He hoped desperately that no one would attack the village, not just for fear of a skirmish, but because he had no idea whether it would be morally right of him to sound any alarm. He'd much rather go off and have a quiet smoke on his own if he could have b.u.mmed some cigarettes off someone and maybe a little nose around.

He was guarding one side of a field just on the fringe of town. At the centre of the group of antenna-covered armoured cars was Leitz's mobile headquarters. A large truck had been converted into some kind of armoured command post, and a number of large tents had been put up all around.

The largest tent had an odd sheen to it and Fitz saw that it had steel and copper woven into the material. He couldn't think why, unless it was maybe for heating. But there was no insulation, so the tent would burn down if the wire was heated.

There was a sound from inside a strange and atonal cry. It was as if someone was playing a dirge with an out-oftune pipe. It wasn't mechanical, though. It felt to him like a living creature in pain.

Fitz's immediate instinct was to back off and forget about it. But it was so bizarre and so heartfelt that he couldn't. It was also so close to the command truck that he couldn't really just walk over without being noticed.

Fitz was in something of a quandary. The Germans had accepted him as one of their men at face value, so theoretically he could simply walk straight out of here. But he knew that people would wonder where he was going and he didn't have an answer to give them.

Worse still, he was very aware that if they decided he was an enemy, wearing their uniform, he would be shot out of hand rather than sent to a POW camp. All things considered, it looked like being best to sit tight for now.

When Sam was a little girl she used to be as excited by snow as the Doctor had been when they'd landed. But right now there was no getting around the feeling that winter was death. It was as cold as a morgue freezer, and the white patches of snow dotting the fields now seemed more like bone showing through rotting skin.

The SS troops had marched all their prisoners from the convoy about a hundred yards along the road south of the crossroads and cafe. As they moved, they punctuated the orders with rough pushes from gun b.u.t.ts.

By now the prisoners had been lined up in eight ragged rows in a field, about sixty feet from the roadside. The men in front of Sam tried to jostle backward, and she couldn't blame them she imagined the only way she could feel more terrified was if she were straight in the firing line of those two tanks that had remained by the roadside when the others began to move on. 'What are they doing?'

Bearclaw shrugged. 'I guess they don't have the facilities to guard us here. They must be waiting for some trucks to pick us up.'

Sam was relieved, although she didn't exactly relish the idea of spending time in a POW camp. She hoped that, having seen The Great Escape The Great Escape a few times on boring Bank Holidays, she would have some idea of what to expect. All things considered, it could be worse. Shot at dawn, all that stuff. a few times on boring Bank Holidays, she would have some idea of what to expect. All things considered, it could be worse. Shot at dawn, all that stuff.

All things considered, she corrected herself, she still expected to be rescued by the Doctor, or escape on her own, before things came anywhere close to that.

The weird moaning from the tent had been getting to Fitz all day. He had also noticed that none of the other SS troops would go near it, and that made him wonder.

Fitz had heard all manner of horror stories about n.a.z.i atrocities; he'd seen the newsreel film of the liberation of the death camps, and other stuff he didn't like to think about. What could be so nasty that the n.a.z.i elite wanted nothing to do with it?

What, he asked himself, would the Doctor do? Well, he'd go and see what the b.l.o.o.d.y noise was for a start. Of course, he'd also have some bit of handy knowledge about what sort of thing made noises like that and how to handle the situation. Fitz supposed that, when you'd been doing this stuff for a thousand years or so, you'd pretty much have some sort of precedent set for just about everything.

Making a mental note to tell himself that he had 'told himself so' when it all went pear-shaped, Fitz walked over to the marquee as un.o.btrusively as possible.

The tent was supported with posts that seemed to be cast of pig iron. Two small petrol-powered generators were puttering to themselves on either side, but all the tables were unoccupied.

At the heart of the structure, four more posts formed the corners of a cage, made of iron again. It seemed an awful length to go to to hold a prisoner of war, Fitz thought.

Then he saw the cage's occupant, which was curled up in a ball on the floor, obviously in pain. Correction, he thought, it looked as if it had gone past pain and into total shock. He couldn't see much of it, and he began to wonder if his sight was going. The prisoner was blurred and shapeless, yet the bars around it were clear enough.

After a moment, Fitz realised two things. First, that the prisoner was the one that was weird, and not his eyesight; and, secondly, that travelling through time and s.p.a.ce was beginning to desensitise him to things being deeply strange and unsettling. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad yet, but had the nasty suspicion that he'd find out soon enough if it was bad.

Major Poetschke, who was proud to serve the Fatherland as commander of the 1st SS Panzer Battalion, trotted over to the Panzer IVs. As well as the 75-mm main gun, the tanks also had two machine guns: one beside the driver and one beside the main gun. He was gratified to see that these two had also been fitted with more mobile MG42s on a ring around the commander's hatch, as a concession to defending against aircraft.

Several of the tank crewmen had dismounted already. Though the weather was cold, at least they had a chance to stretch their legs. A couple of them pa.s.sed him with pistols in their hands, to help guard the prisoners. They were new men, of course; some of them probably had never even seen an American yet, but all knew of the devastation that US bombers were wreaking on German cities.

Everyone had lost friends or relatives in the bombing, and would like nothing better than to give the Allies a taste of their own medicine. True, the Luftwaffe had bombed Britain earlier in the war, but that was different to him; that was just to try to persuade the British. Now the Americans were trying to exterminate the German nation outright.

There were rules of war that were supposed to prevent such things, but they seemed to count for naught these days. Of course, there were also rules about the treatment of prisoners. But if the Allies could break rules and he had been told about the atrocities perpetrated upon helpless German prisoners then perhaps they had lost their right to be protected by those rules.

Besides, none of the lawmakers of those rules were here.

Yes, here was a chance to give the grieving men what they must need. Poetschke clambered up onto the hull of the nearest Mk IV. 'Open fire,' he said to the commander.

The tank commander grinned, and disappeared down into the turret. He reappeared a moment later, less cheerful. 'We can't; not from this angle. The gun won't depress far enough.'

'Does it matter how it's done?'

The tank commander hesitated, then called out 'Private Fleps!' One of the tank crew whom Poetschke had pa.s.sed looked round from where he was taunting an American lieutenant. 'Do it.'

Sam saw something in the tank crewman's eyes when he turned back. She wasn't sure what it was, but she could tell something had changed.

'Oh, sweet Jesus.'

'What?' Bearclaw asked.

She swallowed hard. 'I just remembered what happened to Richard Attenborough and Gordon Jackson,' she said.

'What?'

'Never mind...' But it wasn't the memory that terrified her. It was the looks in the SS men's eyes.

She knew she was already starting to open her mouth to shout or yell at the prisoners to move, but her voice was coming so slowly and the SS man's arm was coming up faster, putting his pistol to the forehead of the nearest American soldier.

For a sickeningly teasing moment, Sam tried to convince herself it was all a bluff. But then the SS man pulled the trigger, the bullet snapping the American's head back. Like a stack of dominoes, the men behind stumbled back as the body fell over.

Then the sound of the gunshot broke the spell that had seemed to slow down time. The prisoners were shouting some in fear and some in anger and trying to push away.

'Stand still,' an officer shouted, probably thinking the disruption among the prisoners would spook the Germans into thinking this was a breakout attempt. 'Don't provoke more ' A couple of men pushed past a frozen Sam as the SS man turned and shot a man with a Red Cross armband.

They seemed to be shooting at random or were they picking on disruptive prisoners? Sam regretted not being able to hear what the men at the tank had said to each other.

'Kill them all!' a German voice shouted from the direction of the two tanks. Immediately, the tanks' machine guns burst into life, hosing the rows of screaming prisoners with gunfire.

All around Sam, men tumbled to the ground, or broke and ran, or dived for cover behind comrades who had been cut down in the first volley. Sam was scarcely able to think through the screams and the gunfire, her mind refusing to process the information it was getting.

Bullets darted across the field in buzzing shoals. Bodies paused for barely perceptible moments before falling. Cordite and blood stung her nostrils, and suddenly something exploded low in her back and in her thigh.

For a moment Sam was still watching the more alert prisoners bolt for the tree line, then her legs gave way and the churned mud rose to meet her.

Sam's senses were jumbled. She couldn't feel anything. Maybe it was her wounds, and maybe it was just her brain trying to turn away from as much of the carnage as it could.

Men ran and trucks circled the field, but none of the movement seemed real. Proper. They were there and they were blurred, then they were gone. All the time the guns were a mechanical heartbeat, pumping blood out of bodies instead of through them.

Sam had been to a lot of places, but she had never really been to h.e.l.l before.

It was getting dark by the time the Doctor and Garcia returned to the hotel. 'Look,' Garcia was saying. 'I know Lewis can be a bit of an idiot, but for what it's worth I appreciate the help. Even if I understand why you'd rather be out finding your friends.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'That's all right. There's something else going on here, anyway, that I want to look into.'

'Wiesniewski's story?'

'Yes. I don't think he was either imagining things, or ga.s.sed by the Germans as he seems to believe.'

Garcia had to admit it was a h.e.l.l of a weird story Wiesniewski had told them, and weirder still when he seemed to forget it so quickly. But Garcia hadn't really given it much thought. People wounded in battle reported a lot of strange things: ghosts, religious experiences, you name it. None of it made much of an impression on Garcia any more. 'Then what do do you think?' he asked. you think?' he asked.

'I don't know yet.' The Doctor held the hotel door open for Garcia. The reception lounge was full of walking wounded, back in uniform, but still bandaged here and there. Most of the serious cases had been evacuated back to safer ground, and the hospital was now showing a quick turnover of lesser wounds. Those men would stay to man the defences, if Garcia was any judge of most of their characters.

Nevertheless, there were still a few serious cases in private rooms upstairs. Burns cases, or those with internal bleeding. The ones who weren't able to be moved along b.u.mpy roads. 'It's time I was doing my rounds. You're welcome to come along, but I wouldn't blame you if you'd rather not see any more injuries today.'

'I am am the Doctor,' the Doctor reminded him gently. the Doctor,' the Doctor reminded him gently.

Garcia shrugged.

They went upstairs and checked on a couple of patients. The first two were doing fine. They were still too ill to be driven out, but Garcia reckoned they would live, barring accidents. 'This one's more borderline,' he told the Doctor at the next door. 'Ma.s.sive burns. Frankly I'm surprised he's lasted this long. Still, that he has suggests that maybe he's got what it takes to make it all the way.' He opened the door.

'He certainly seems to have gone some some way,' the Doctor said mildly. way,' the Doctor said mildly.

Garcia blinked. The bed was neatly made, but empty.

'What the h.e.l.l?' Garcia looked at the sheets, while the Doctor went over and tried the window. It didn't budge, and the sheets were neatly pressed and clean. It didn't look like anyone had slept in them recently, let alone a badly injured burns case.

Garcia rubbed at his eyes, half asleep. He didn't even want to risk blinking in case his eyes refused to open again. 'It's nothing. Happens all the time.'

The Doctor had produced a tin mug of hot coffee from somewhere, though Garcia was sure he couldn't have gone out of the room to get it. He took it gratefully anyway as the Doctor spoke.

'"Nothing" can't happen all the time. If I had people disappearing on me all the time, I'd be worried.'

'I don't mean literally disappearing. At least, I don't think I do... It's just the way things are in the Army. SNAFU, you know. Men discharge themselves to get back to their units, or swap papers to get home, and by the time anybody figures out what's what the whole mess of paperwork is just too screwed up to get straight. Probably he died and somebody took the body out without being patient enough to go through channels.'

He sat down and looked through at the ward. 'The only weird thing is that the bed's been made. A burial detail wouldn't stop to do that. And one of my staff would have told me if anyone had come up to change the sheets.'

'Weird is my business,' the Doctor said cheerily. 'What was this man's condition? You said something about fifty-fifty.' For some reason, he was tapping the walls.

'This guy had been in a Ronson.'

'Ronson?'

'A Sherman. Very quick and easy to light up. Anyway, he'd been in one that took a round to the side. He got clear, but was covered in third-degree burns. Trust me on this: he'll be lucky to walk after six months in traction and rehab. I guess somebody came by to take him out for s.h.i.+pping home, but I just can't see how they did it without my noticing.' A thought struck him, and he put down the mug. 'Jesus, I must be having blackouts.'

'I don't think you are. But I do think we should talk to Lieutenant Wiesniewski.'

'What would he know about this?'

'Nothing,' the Doctor admitted. 'But he lost some bodies, too.'

'Well, you can wait till morning.' Garcia rubbed his eyes and stood back up. 'I said twelve hours' complete rest for him, and I meant it.'

The shooting seemed to have lasted all day, but according to Sam's watch it had been only about a quarter of an hour.

A constant stream of vehicles had rumbled along the road. Far from stopping to help the wounded, plenty of occupants of pa.s.sing half-tracks had fired a few bursts into the bodies in the field.

Tears had been squeezed out of her eyes by the pain, though she had now gone beyond that into a burning numbness. Was it the wounds sapping her life away, or the cold? She thought of the man with the Red Cross armband. He could've helped me, she thought. Now I'm going to die. I'll probably end up on a cenotaph or something. One of those poppies on Remembrance Sunday will be for me. I wonder if the Doctor and Fitz will ever find my name on some memorial or other. Or Mum and Dad.

No, they won't put my name anywhere. I don't belong here. I'm no one. Suddenly, panic stabbed at her. I shouldn't be here, she thought. This is all wrong. I can't die in World War Two, it's stupid.

But it was too cold for the feeling to last for long. Soon it, too, began to freeze like the rest of her body, the urgency bleeding out of her into the ground beneath that must already be sodden with her blood.