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Whumptober Day 17: Nowhere Else to Go
No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO
Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | “We had a good run.”
This is a comforty follow-up to the Day 19 Blood Trail | Abandoned Cabin ficlet. (The "von Stalhein shot in the snow" one.) You should probably read that one first for the setup.
By the time they reached the Auster across a long expanse of white, von Stalhein was shivering, slumping heavily on Biggles and stumbling as he struggled to drag his feet through the snow. Fresh red droplets appeared, now and then, beneath the blood-soaked coat sleeve on his left side.
Biggles was shivering himself by that time. His trouser legs were soaked through, and his entire body ached from the effort of not only pushing through the snow but also half carrying von Stalhein. The tiny shape of the Auster parked in the snow, and the camp beside it, seemed to waver in his vision, growing no closer.
Von Stalhein muttered harshly in his ear, "You go on ahead. I will be right behind you."
"I'm not in a hurry," Biggles panted, tightening his grasp on the other man's coat. "A scenic stroll through the snow ... just the way to end a long day."
Von Stalhein huffed something that might have been an exhausted laugh. Holding on to each other, they stumbled on—and then abruptly they weren't alone, there were hands on them, worried voices, Bertie on one side and Ginger on the other. Von Stalhein came suddenly to life, jerked away as if anticipating an attack, but when Biggles, very nearly too exhausted to talk, kept hold of him by a fistful of his coat, he subsided and they were both guided to sit down by the fire.
"I was about to fall down when I got back," Algy said, stooping to put a hand on Biggles's shoulder; he was wrapped in a blanket himself. "We were just about to head up the mountain after you."
"Here, drink." Ginger pushed a tin camp mug of coffee into Biggles's hands. He helped Biggles strip off his wet gloves, caked with snow, and Biggles gratefully wrapped his clumsy, cold fingers around the cup. This weather was exactly that sort of slanting wet cold that went straight through a person, sapping their body's heat and strength.
No one seemed terribly surprised that he had arrived with von Stalhein, so Algy must have filled them in. Bertie crouched beside von Stalhein, guiding von Stalhein's shaking hand to help him with a hot drink. "This coat's soaked through, old top," Bertie began, starting to reach for the shoulder, and then seemed to become aware that the sodden state of the coat on the left side was blood. Von Stalhein jerked sharply away from him.
"He's been shot," Biggles said. His teeth were chattering. He clenched his jaw against it, took another swig of coffee that scorched his throat, and managed to get out in a normal tone, "Let him have a look, von Stalhein."
"It is not serious," von Stalhein said tightly, but he settled warily, allowing Bertie to pull the coat off his shoulder and tut over the blood-stiff shirt underneath.
"You've done a mischief to yourself -- or someone has, and that's no lie. Ginger, bring the first-aid kit, would you? And a blanket as well. Don't worry, old fellow," Bertie said, placing a supportive hand between von Stalhein's shoulder blades with a gentleness that belied his flippant tone. "I've stitched up more than one good hunting horse. I'll fix you right up, don't worry."
"I—I don't understand," von Stalhein said shakily. The indomitable strength that had kept him going this long wavered suddenly, and he would have fallen if not for Bertie's support holding him up. "I don't know what you want. No one has told me what I—what I am asked to pay for this ... this hospitality!" He all but spat the last words with a vicious defiance.
"We don't want anything," Biggles said, finding that his own weariness was almost beyond bearing. "We would have done the same for anyone we found in similar circumstances."
This statement somehow did not calm von Stalhein; he half rose to his feet, but wobbled as his own weakness caught up to him, and submitted to Bertie calmly sitting him back down. Taking the first-aid case from Ginger, Bertie set to work on von Stalhein's blood-soaked shoulder. At first von Stalhein flinched at every movement, as if each gentle touch burned him like a firebrand, but as Bertie kept up a steady stream of breezy patter, he began to relax, sagging almost, slumping and allowing Bertie to work on him.
There was no one better than Bertie for this kind of work, Biggles thought. Bertie had a calming touch that even the most distressed wild creature responded to in an instinctive kind of way. Biggles had more than once witnessed Bertie coaxing a wild bird in his hands, cheerfully prattling to it while he fed it or freed it from a fishing line in which it had become entangled, finally opening his hands and releasing it into the treetops.
But for all that von Stalhein had settled under Bertie's ministrations, he kept darting swift glances at Biggles, quick flicks of the pain-shadowed grey eyes across the fire, as if Biggles was his true touchstone here.
"Here, warm that up for you." Algy was at Biggles's shoulder, taking the empty mug and returning it full of hot soup. Biggles sipped at it, and Algy settled a blanket over Biggles's shoulders, cutting the chill of the wind. Ginger was busy tying down the tent against the wind, preparing to spend the night.
"It's bad weather for a takeoff," Algy said quietly, sitting beside Biggles. "But we've flown in worse." He flicked a look across the fire at von Stalhein, who was watching them warily as if suspecting the conversation was about him, while Bertie bound his bare shoulder. "If we're going to go, we need to do it before dark. It's up to you."
In other words, whether Biggles judged von Stalhein's injuries bad enough that it was worth the risk. And Algy was far too experienced a pilot not to know how much of a risk it would be, taking off and climbing out of the valley in the spitting snow and perilous crosswinds.
"It'll be all right," Biggles said, low. "We'll spend the night here and—and fly out in the morning."
"And him?" Algy tilted his head, indicating von Stalhein, who had turned to respond to Bertie pressing some of their limited supply of painkillers into his hand. "Is he a prisoner, or coming with us, or what?"
"That's up to him."
Algy's only response was a grunt, but he went to get the rest of their supplies from the Auster and finish laying out the evening's rations.
Von Stalhein nibbled at what he was given (a tin cup of stew with hard biscuit soaking in it) and then, as if his appetite was suddenly awakened, ate as if famished. By now, early winter darkness had enclosed them, with the campfire a bright spot of light and the rest of the world closed off by shadows.
Biggles got up, finding his limbs less wobbly now that he'd warmed up and eaten, and went to sit by von Stalhein, who was staring into the fire as if dazed with weariness, but looked up sharply when Biggles sat beside him. His coat was draped over his shoulders, his bare arm strapped to his chest. Bertie was always thorough.
"We haven't taken your gun," Biggles said quietly. "But I will need it now, or your parole, please."
Von Stalhein eyed him, then said softly, "Do you care which?"
Biggles suppressed an inward sigh. "I'd rather have your word, all things being equal. For one thing, it wouldn't be a hardship to have someone else to share the watch rotation."
Von Stalhein looked at him as if seeking a trap. Then he said, "You have my word."
"And we trust that?" Algy said from across the fire, popping his head out of the tent, where he had been unrolling sleeping bags to insulate them from the cold ground. They had just the one four-man tent with them this time, a close fit, but there were usually no more than two or three of them in it at a time.
"Yes," Biggles said firmly. "We'll have two-man watches this time. Ginger, Algy, you'll split the first shift. Then —"
"Me," von Stalhein said, speaking up abruptly.
"And I'll take the other leg of the shift, what?" Bertie said brightly, before Biggles could volunteer.
Well, it was less likely to cause altercations than Algy, and Biggles trusted Bertie to keep an eye on von Stalhein, just in case. "I'll have the dawn watch, then."
"Better turn in then, Skipper," Ginger remarked. He was just finishing up lashing down the Auster securely to weather the night's storm.
Biggles rose, laid a hand on von Stalhein's uninjured shoulder and felt him jerk a little, as if unused to being touched at all. "Here, into the tent, there's a bed laid out. You'll sleep between us."
"Where you trust me not to run off," von Stalhein said wryly, but he was working his way into the tent already, half tranquilized with the hot meal on top of cold, exhaustion, and the painkillers Bertie had given him.
"Not at all, old top," Bertie said brightly, crawling in behind them. "It's where we put the casualties, always have, tucked up close and warm between two of us. No, lie down there, we'll use my folded-up coat for your pillow."
Von Stalhein lay stiff as a board between them, but as Biggles arranged blankets over the top of them, he seemed to relax a little. "You -- always sleep like this ...?"
"Well, in the cold, it just makes sense, what?" Bertie said, and to all evidence appeared to drop off to sleep immediately, complete with faint snoring, though Biggles suspected he was shamming.
Von Stalhein, board-rigid, began to relax a little. Outside the tent, Ginger and Algy could be heard talking quietly at the fire, and there was the clinking of the tin camp pot. Finally von Stalhein rolled carefully from his back to his side, facing Biggles, with his injured arm up.
"You will wake me for a watch?" he said quietly to Biggles. "I am sincere; I won't betray you."
"I know, you gave your word. And yes, we will." Biggles smiled a little. "Algy will. You can trust him for that."
It felt very strange to have von Stalhein this close, breathing quietly beside him in the dark, as he had spent so many nights with Algy and Ginger and Bertie. Biggles rolled on his side and found that he could see the glimmer of von Stalhein's open eyes in the faint light inside the tent, looking at him. It was too dark to read his expression, but Biggles could sense his quizzical look nonetheless, from his breathing or his posture somehow.
Biggles reached out carefully, meaning to touch his arm under the blankets, but he had forgotten that von Stalhein's injured arm was bare under the shreds of his shirt, so he laid his hand on von Stalhein's bare wrist instead, and felt him flinch sharply. "It's all right," Biggles said quietly. "Go to sleep, Erich."
He didn't expect to sleep himself, at least not immediately; he generally didn't, in a strange place with his team to look out for, and in particular with an enemy inside their tent. But instead, the day's cold-fueled exertion pulled him down like a dark tide. It was his last realization as he drifted off that he still had his hand on von Stalhein's bare skin, and von Stalhein had turned the hand of his injured arm a little, so that his fingertips rested against the inside of Biggles's wrist.
Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | “We had a good run.”
This is a comforty follow-up to the Day 19 Blood Trail | Abandoned Cabin ficlet. (The "von Stalhein shot in the snow" one.) You should probably read that one first for the setup.
By the time they reached the Auster across a long expanse of white, von Stalhein was shivering, slumping heavily on Biggles and stumbling as he struggled to drag his feet through the snow. Fresh red droplets appeared, now and then, beneath the blood-soaked coat sleeve on his left side.
Biggles was shivering himself by that time. His trouser legs were soaked through, and his entire body ached from the effort of not only pushing through the snow but also half carrying von Stalhein. The tiny shape of the Auster parked in the snow, and the camp beside it, seemed to waver in his vision, growing no closer.
Von Stalhein muttered harshly in his ear, "You go on ahead. I will be right behind you."
"I'm not in a hurry," Biggles panted, tightening his grasp on the other man's coat. "A scenic stroll through the snow ... just the way to end a long day."
Von Stalhein huffed something that might have been an exhausted laugh. Holding on to each other, they stumbled on—and then abruptly they weren't alone, there were hands on them, worried voices, Bertie on one side and Ginger on the other. Von Stalhein came suddenly to life, jerked away as if anticipating an attack, but when Biggles, very nearly too exhausted to talk, kept hold of him by a fistful of his coat, he subsided and they were both guided to sit down by the fire.
"I was about to fall down when I got back," Algy said, stooping to put a hand on Biggles's shoulder; he was wrapped in a blanket himself. "We were just about to head up the mountain after you."
"Here, drink." Ginger pushed a tin camp mug of coffee into Biggles's hands. He helped Biggles strip off his wet gloves, caked with snow, and Biggles gratefully wrapped his clumsy, cold fingers around the cup. This weather was exactly that sort of slanting wet cold that went straight through a person, sapping their body's heat and strength.
No one seemed terribly surprised that he had arrived with von Stalhein, so Algy must have filled them in. Bertie crouched beside von Stalhein, guiding von Stalhein's shaking hand to help him with a hot drink. "This coat's soaked through, old top," Bertie began, starting to reach for the shoulder, and then seemed to become aware that the sodden state of the coat on the left side was blood. Von Stalhein jerked sharply away from him.
"He's been shot," Biggles said. His teeth were chattering. He clenched his jaw against it, took another swig of coffee that scorched his throat, and managed to get out in a normal tone, "Let him have a look, von Stalhein."
"It is not serious," von Stalhein said tightly, but he settled warily, allowing Bertie to pull the coat off his shoulder and tut over the blood-stiff shirt underneath.
"You've done a mischief to yourself -- or someone has, and that's no lie. Ginger, bring the first-aid kit, would you? And a blanket as well. Don't worry, old fellow," Bertie said, placing a supportive hand between von Stalhein's shoulder blades with a gentleness that belied his flippant tone. "I've stitched up more than one good hunting horse. I'll fix you right up, don't worry."
"I—I don't understand," von Stalhein said shakily. The indomitable strength that had kept him going this long wavered suddenly, and he would have fallen if not for Bertie's support holding him up. "I don't know what you want. No one has told me what I—what I am asked to pay for this ... this hospitality!" He all but spat the last words with a vicious defiance.
"We don't want anything," Biggles said, finding that his own weariness was almost beyond bearing. "We would have done the same for anyone we found in similar circumstances."
This statement somehow did not calm von Stalhein; he half rose to his feet, but wobbled as his own weakness caught up to him, and submitted to Bertie calmly sitting him back down. Taking the first-aid case from Ginger, Bertie set to work on von Stalhein's blood-soaked shoulder. At first von Stalhein flinched at every movement, as if each gentle touch burned him like a firebrand, but as Bertie kept up a steady stream of breezy patter, he began to relax, sagging almost, slumping and allowing Bertie to work on him.
There was no one better than Bertie for this kind of work, Biggles thought. Bertie had a calming touch that even the most distressed wild creature responded to in an instinctive kind of way. Biggles had more than once witnessed Bertie coaxing a wild bird in his hands, cheerfully prattling to it while he fed it or freed it from a fishing line in which it had become entangled, finally opening his hands and releasing it into the treetops.
But for all that von Stalhein had settled under Bertie's ministrations, he kept darting swift glances at Biggles, quick flicks of the pain-shadowed grey eyes across the fire, as if Biggles was his true touchstone here.
"Here, warm that up for you." Algy was at Biggles's shoulder, taking the empty mug and returning it full of hot soup. Biggles sipped at it, and Algy settled a blanket over Biggles's shoulders, cutting the chill of the wind. Ginger was busy tying down the tent against the wind, preparing to spend the night.
"It's bad weather for a takeoff," Algy said quietly, sitting beside Biggles. "But we've flown in worse." He flicked a look across the fire at von Stalhein, who was watching them warily as if suspecting the conversation was about him, while Bertie bound his bare shoulder. "If we're going to go, we need to do it before dark. It's up to you."
In other words, whether Biggles judged von Stalhein's injuries bad enough that it was worth the risk. And Algy was far too experienced a pilot not to know how much of a risk it would be, taking off and climbing out of the valley in the spitting snow and perilous crosswinds.
"It'll be all right," Biggles said, low. "We'll spend the night here and—and fly out in the morning."
"And him?" Algy tilted his head, indicating von Stalhein, who had turned to respond to Bertie pressing some of their limited supply of painkillers into his hand. "Is he a prisoner, or coming with us, or what?"
"That's up to him."
Algy's only response was a grunt, but he went to get the rest of their supplies from the Auster and finish laying out the evening's rations.
Von Stalhein nibbled at what he was given (a tin cup of stew with hard biscuit soaking in it) and then, as if his appetite was suddenly awakened, ate as if famished. By now, early winter darkness had enclosed them, with the campfire a bright spot of light and the rest of the world closed off by shadows.
Biggles got up, finding his limbs less wobbly now that he'd warmed up and eaten, and went to sit by von Stalhein, who was staring into the fire as if dazed with weariness, but looked up sharply when Biggles sat beside him. His coat was draped over his shoulders, his bare arm strapped to his chest. Bertie was always thorough.
"We haven't taken your gun," Biggles said quietly. "But I will need it now, or your parole, please."
Von Stalhein eyed him, then said softly, "Do you care which?"
Biggles suppressed an inward sigh. "I'd rather have your word, all things being equal. For one thing, it wouldn't be a hardship to have someone else to share the watch rotation."
Von Stalhein looked at him as if seeking a trap. Then he said, "You have my word."
"And we trust that?" Algy said from across the fire, popping his head out of the tent, where he had been unrolling sleeping bags to insulate them from the cold ground. They had just the one four-man tent with them this time, a close fit, but there were usually no more than two or three of them in it at a time.
"Yes," Biggles said firmly. "We'll have two-man watches this time. Ginger, Algy, you'll split the first shift. Then —"
"Me," von Stalhein said, speaking up abruptly.
"And I'll take the other leg of the shift, what?" Bertie said brightly, before Biggles could volunteer.
Well, it was less likely to cause altercations than Algy, and Biggles trusted Bertie to keep an eye on von Stalhein, just in case. "I'll have the dawn watch, then."
"Better turn in then, Skipper," Ginger remarked. He was just finishing up lashing down the Auster securely to weather the night's storm.
Biggles rose, laid a hand on von Stalhein's uninjured shoulder and felt him jerk a little, as if unused to being touched at all. "Here, into the tent, there's a bed laid out. You'll sleep between us."
"Where you trust me not to run off," von Stalhein said wryly, but he was working his way into the tent already, half tranquilized with the hot meal on top of cold, exhaustion, and the painkillers Bertie had given him.
"Not at all, old top," Bertie said brightly, crawling in behind them. "It's where we put the casualties, always have, tucked up close and warm between two of us. No, lie down there, we'll use my folded-up coat for your pillow."
Von Stalhein lay stiff as a board between them, but as Biggles arranged blankets over the top of them, he seemed to relax a little. "You -- always sleep like this ...?"
"Well, in the cold, it just makes sense, what?" Bertie said, and to all evidence appeared to drop off to sleep immediately, complete with faint snoring, though Biggles suspected he was shamming.
Von Stalhein, board-rigid, began to relax a little. Outside the tent, Ginger and Algy could be heard talking quietly at the fire, and there was the clinking of the tin camp pot. Finally von Stalhein rolled carefully from his back to his side, facing Biggles, with his injured arm up.
"You will wake me for a watch?" he said quietly to Biggles. "I am sincere; I won't betray you."
"I know, you gave your word. And yes, we will." Biggles smiled a little. "Algy will. You can trust him for that."
It felt very strange to have von Stalhein this close, breathing quietly beside him in the dark, as he had spent so many nights with Algy and Ginger and Bertie. Biggles rolled on his side and found that he could see the glimmer of von Stalhein's open eyes in the faint light inside the tent, looking at him. It was too dark to read his expression, but Biggles could sense his quizzical look nonetheless, from his breathing or his posture somehow.
Biggles reached out carefully, meaning to touch his arm under the blankets, but he had forgotten that von Stalhein's injured arm was bare under the shreds of his shirt, so he laid his hand on von Stalhein's bare wrist instead, and felt him flinch sharply. "It's all right," Biggles said quietly. "Go to sleep, Erich."
He didn't expect to sleep himself, at least not immediately; he generally didn't, in a strange place with his team to look out for, and in particular with an enemy inside their tent. But instead, the day's cold-fueled exertion pulled him down like a dark tide. It was his last realization as he drifted off that he still had his hand on von Stalhein's bare skin, and von Stalhein had turned the hand of his injured arm a little, so that his fingertips rested against the inside of Biggles's wrist.
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This was so fulfilling and warm and I loved it!!