A Father's Last Wish

Garrison made his way cautiously back to the small clearing and crouched down beside the tree where Actor was working over the semi-conscious Goniff.

"How is he?" he questioned, shooting a glance towards Casino, who was scouting the edge of the clearing. Chief he could not see, but he knew that he was nearby, guarding their backs.

"He's lost a lot of blood." Actor didn't bother to look at Garrison, but knew he would only find a concerned look plastered across his face.

"We've got to get to the rendezvous point within the new few hours," Garrison stated, pulling out the ragged, dirty map and squinting at it under the meagre light the moon offered.

"We've got to stop the bleeding, Warden. This moving is only making it worse," Actor stated, applying more pressure to the wound as he began to bandage it. He had applied a liberal amount of sulphur, and was grateful for the small supply of morphine injections they had brought along on this mission. Goniff had been blissfully unaware of the battleground medical aid that Actor had given to him.

Garrison, seeing the difficulty the conman was having trying to re-dress the wound one-handedly, reached across and slipped his hand over Actor's, applying the pressure and leaving both the conman's hands free. "Is the bullet still in there?" Garrison asked. Their escape from the German patrol had been so swift, and the cross-country flight so intense, that he had not really had time to check on the little thief's condition, leaving his care to Actor and Casino as he and Chief protected their retreat.

"Yes." Glancing up, Actor continued, wanting desperately to wipe the sweat from his face but unable to do so until he had finished the task at hand, "I daren't take it out." He stopped and looked about. "Not here." He didn't need to tell the Warden how helpless he felt, his tone was a clear indication of that.

"You're doing your best, Actor," Garrison said reassuringly. "He's in good hands."

Actor didn't bother to answer as he finished tying the wound and released Garrison's hand, which was now covered with blood. The American officer looked at it, suddenly fascinated by how dark and sticky the blood looked in the eerie moonlight. He was still staring at it when Actor leant over and tossed him the rag he had used to wipe his own hands.

"Warden... Warden, are you alright?" Actor asked, concern filling his voice at Garrison's almost catatonic state. "Warden," he snapped again, not liking the distant mood the other had fallen into since the wounding of the little thief.

"What?" Garrison finally asked, looking about himself as if he had only just awoken, then taking the offered rag he wiped roughly at his hands, almost scratching at them to get the bloodstains from them. "Where's Chief?" he suddenly demanded, looking about the clearing frantically.

"Right here, Warden," the Indian said, moving further into the moonlight and showing himself.

"Any sign of them?" Garrison asked, referring to the German patrol that had been chasing them. As he spoke, he slowly stood and adjusted his rifle on his shoulder. Both men beside him noted the slight shaking of his hand.

"No..." Chief offered, a frown crossing his handsome face. "I think we've lost them."

"You think?" Garrison snapped, his temper flaring, but it passed as suddenly as it had appeared and left him frowning at his own words. "Sorry...." He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the scruffy map. "We've still got about eleven miles until we meet up with the resistance group. We've lost a lot of time," he commented quietly, before he glanced down at Goniff. He contemplated his position for a few more moments, then looked back at the other three men standing about him. "We've got to get those plans back to England tonight." He paused again, knowing that they were going to fight him on his suggestion but he ploughed on, determined to have his own way. "There is a farmhouse that I know will take Goniff and me in for a short while... only until Goniff's fit to travel. You can meet with the resistance and get those plans back, then return for us in a day or two."

"Warden," Actor said, his tone shocked, almost like he had just witnessed a betrayal of trust.

"No way," Casino said at the same time as the others.

"Forget it, Warden," Chief snapped.

"Look," Garrison argued, "this isn't open for discussion. These plans are needed back in England, and Goniff's not fit enough to travel with that wound. I can get him few days' rest, give him a chance to recover from the loss of blood...." He ran out of breath, then dared a look at the three stone-carved faces before him. "He can't make it another eleven miles and you know it, Actor," he said, knowing that reason was on his side.

"Then I will stay with him," the conman shot back. "You take the plans back to England and then return for us," he argued, his jaw set to show his determination at winning this argument.

Garrison shook his head. "Jacques Remy does not know you, Actor, but he knows me and I think he will still trust me."

"Oh that's just perfect," Actor began, his temper rising. "You're not even sure if this man will take you in. He might turn you and Goniff over to the Germans."

"No... no," Garrison shot back with a confidence he did not really feel. "He wouldn't do that. Granted he might turn me away, but he would never betray me."

"What makes you so sure, Warden?" Chief asked, his tone calm, only his eyes giving any real hint of his seething emotions.

Garrison looked at them for a few seconds, gauging whether to tell them the reason why Jacques Remy might take them in. Finally he must have realised that he would not get them to agree with him unless he did, because he began, "Michel, Jacques' brother, is fighting for the French free forces in England. I've done a few missions with him; on one of them, last year, he visited his brother."

"And because of this you think he will help you?" It was obvious that Actor did not believe that Jacques Remy had any reason to endanger his life for a man he had only met once.

"Yes.... Yes, I think he will." Garrison stood looking at the men before him. He knew that it was now well after midnight, and was very conscious that time was running out for them and their pre-arranged flight back to England.

"Alright," Actor finally agreed, surprising the others as he began moving to gather his things together.

"I'm staying," Chief said, turning a belligerent look upon Garrison.

"I think he should stay, too," Casino put in, his tone firm. Although he had not contributed much to the discussion, it was obvious that he was not keen on Garrison's plan either.

"There's no need..." Garrison began to protest, but the Indian interrupted him.

"I ain't going." The tone was decisive, and nothing Garrison was going to say was going to change his mind. After a few seconds of trying to out-stare the Indian - and failing - Garrison reluctantly agreed.

"Alright, but if we're going to do it, let's get the hell on with it."

***

The farmhouse was still shrouded in darkness when Garrison and Chief arrived. Although the distance had only been a few miles, it had taken them several hours to reach and Garrison had been afraid that they would not make it before the sun - which was threatening the distant horizon - rose.

Garrison left Chief to watch the still unconscious Goniff as he made his way across the cobbled yard to bang on the sturdy wood door. The farmhouse was an old rambling building that had seen better days. The Remys had once been a rich farming family and their home had reflected that wealth, but now - after many years of neglect - it only reflected how far the family had fallen from grace. Two World Wars had left their mark upon the earth; the once handsome lands that spread about the house showed little sign of work upon them, and no sounds of animals told of Garrison's approach.

Garrison banged on the wooden door. When no sign of life appeared, he banged again, this time putting all his strength behind it.

"I'm coming... I'm coming," called out a creaky old voice in French, and a light suddenly appeared behind the door, showing clearly through the cracks. Before the door opened, it demanded, "Who's there?" The voice was thin, the tone belligerent, annoyed at being woken up at such a time in the early hours of morning.

"Jacques... Jacques Remy," Garrison said through the door. "It's Lieutenant Garrison... Craig Garrision. I came with Michel last year."

Total silence came from behind the door and Garrison began to wonder if the old man had heard him. He opened his mouth to speak again, but paused as the locks on the door were drawn back slowly and it swung open to reveal a tired, dirty man. His appearance shocked Garrison; the once-proud face was haggard, lines of bitterness now lay in the place where instant smiles had laid before. It was obvious to Garrison that he no longer looked on the farm as a profitable business and so was content to let it go to ruin, as he did his own person. "Garrison?" he asked hesitantly. Then, holding up the old oil lantern, he shone it into the other man's face, demanding in his broken English, "Is Michel with you?" As he spoke, he leant forward, trying to peer past the soldier standing in his doorway.

"No, I'm sorry, Jacques, but he's not with me.... I'm sorry," he said again as he saw the misery that filled the face before him. "He's in London... safe."

"Safe," snarled Jacques, stepping back and glaring at Garrison. "He's always safe, that one." The old man's attitude changed, his belligerence returning in full. "He should not be safe... he should be here, helping me run our farm," he shouted at Garrison, slipping from rapid French into broken English. Garrison winced as some of the words slipped past his ability to understand. "It is I... I who stay here on this dead land and do as my father instructed, but not that one.... No, he's too good to work on a farm... he must have his freedom."

Garrison looked back towards Chief's hiding place and knew that the length of time he had been away would be worrying the Indian. "Jacques," Garrison interrupted sharply, "I need your help."

Jacques stopped suddenly and squinted at him. "Help?" he queried, his tone filled with suspicion. "Why you need my help, American?"

"I've got a wounded man," he began, pointing back across the yard. "He's been shot, lost a lot of blood; we just need a place to rest." Garrison was aware of the pleading tone he was using, but he desperately needed this man's assistance. He was aware that Goniff might not survive another day in the open, and he was not so sure that Jacques would not turn them away.

The Frenchman chewed at his lips a few moments, considering the request. He poked his head out the front door again and looked about. Garrison stepped back to allow him more room. "The Germans, they following you?" Jacques asked, his eyes closing to slits.

"No, we lost them... a few miles back," Garrison answered honestly, hope flaring.

"Is your man badly hurt... I don't want any dead bodies left here," Jacques stated firmly.

"It won't come to that," Garrison put in quickly. "He's wounded, but with help he should survive. I just need a warm safe place to keep him for a few days." As he spoke, he reached out and gripped the Frenchman's arm; it was not a threatening gesture, but a desperate one. "Please."

Jacques looked down at the white, clenched hand on his arm, almost shocked at its presence on his old worn dressing gown. Slowly he closed his eyes and nodded. "A few days... no more," he said, opening the door wider. "Bring him in, I will clear the door." As he spoke, he turned and moved back into the house. Garrison let out the breath he had been holding, then, turning, he hurried back Chief.

"What kept you?" the Indian demanded, glaring at the other man in the half light.

"He's a very suspicious man," Garrison answered, knowing that Chief could identify with that. Lifting up his end of the roughly-made stretcher, he asked, "How's he been?"

"Hasn't made a sound. That morphine shot Actor gave him must still be working," came back the grim reply as they half-walked, half-staggered across the cobbled yard.

***

The door that Jacques led them to was very narrow and had a short flight of steps that led down to a small cell-like room. "My family used to hide the priest in here when religion was out of fashion," Jacques explained, lifting the lamp higher so that it threw its eerie light over the musty smelling chamber.

It was obvious that it had not been used for quite a few years, but it had a roughly made wooden cot in one corner and Jacques had produced a few stale smelling blankets from somewhere and was laying one them upon it. With a wave of his hand, he indicated that they were to lay Goniff down upon the bed. "I will light the stove; it's against this wall," he explained, patting the bricks behind the cot. "It will heat up the stone, keep the room warm."

With great care, they lifted the little thief and placed him upon the bed. As they did so, Goniff cried out in pain but did not reach full consciousness. With another groan, he settled back into his sleep. "We need water, hot if possible?" Garrison asked, kneeling down beside his wounded man. "I've got to clean the wound."

Jacques looked down at his bent head for a few moments, then seemed to shake himself from his contemplation, because he thrust the lantern into Chief's hands and stumbled off into the dark - Garrison hoped - to fulfil his request.

"Chief, bring the light over here." Garrison indicated the space beside him as he slowly untied the bandage that Actor had placed about the wound with sure hands. The bandage was now soaked in blood and totally useless for its task. "Have you got one of our first aid kits?" he went on, holding the dressing firmly in place as he waited for the things he needed to clean the wound efficiently.

"Here," Chief said, dropping the rucksack from his shoulder while still holding the light. "What do you think?"

"He really needs a doctor," Garrison began, then stopped as Jacques shuffled back into the cell.

"No doctor, no doctor," Jacques began to state in rapid French, his fear evident to the two men.

"He needs one," Garrison argued as he began to attend to his friend.

"That man's a butcher," Jacques spat, his dislike of the man clear. "He enjoys the company of the Germans too much, and likes their Marks even more.... He will not help you," Jacques insisted.

Garrison closed his eyes for a few moments, willing the headache and exhaustion to leave his body. When he opened them again, he was still fighting the pounding pain behind his eyes and feeling the bone weariness in his soul. "I'm going to have to remove the bullet, then," he stated, trying to work about the dryness that suddenly gripped his throat.

"Is that wise, Warden?" Chief questioned, his expression informing Garrison that he did not think it was.

"I don't have a choice," he snapped back, not liking the idea any more than the Indian. "If I leave it in there, it will cause complications... infection."

"I will get you the water, it will be hot... and I've plenty of sheets, lots of sheets," Jacques stated, nodding his head sadly as he continued, "Nobody ever comes to stay here now, no visitors to make them dirty." Jacques shuffled again, muttering under his breath.

"Is he alright?" Chief asked, staring after the man, a frown upon his face.

Garrison followed his glance and shrugged, pushing the thought aside. "He's willing to help, that's all that matters." As he spoke, he sorted through the ruck-sack with one hand, looking for the items he would need. He placed the packets of sulphur to one side and counted out his meagre supply of morphine injections. They would not last long, but hopefully the others would be back within a day or two with more supplies and an effective escape route for them and the wounded thief.

***

The operation to remove the bullet from Goniff's side was not easy, and had taken more time than Garrison would have liked. Finally, with a grunt of satisfaction, he tossed the spent bullet into the corner of the room and re-bandaged the wound after filling it with sulphur. Slowly he leant back against the wall, allowing the coolness of the damp bricks to seep away the heat that had been burning through his body during the operation.

"How is he, Warden?" Chief asked. He had been standing over them, holding the light steady. His frustration at seeing his friend's pain had been hard to handle, but he had contained it well, only his clenched jaw an indication of the emotions he was fighting.

Garrison wiped the last of the blood from his hands and closed his eyes as he considered the question. "Now we wait," he replied, his voice tired, his body aching in places he had not known he could feel. "I've done all I can, it's up to Goniff now."

"He's strong, he'll make it," Chief stated firmly, but Garrison knew that he was only speaking to convince himself.

"Yes," Garrison agreed, knowing that he was only agreeing to convince himself.

"You look done-in, Warden, why don't you get some sleep? I'll take the first watch," Chief said, not liking the pale complexion and strained features that confronted him. He knew how much it affected Garrison to see one of his men hurt.

Garrison considered his words, then shook his head, pushing himself away from the wall, saying, "No... no, you get some rest. I need to speak to Jacques first. Will you be alright for a while?" After receiving the Indian's nod, he headed towards the small door and squeezed through, stepping past several items that had, until recently, been piled against the door to hide its presence.

As he started up the hallway, he realised that he did not have a light. After a moment's consideration of going back for it, he shook his head and continued on, his hand stretched out in front of him, feeling his away along the wall. It had been a while since he was last here, but he could vaguely remember the layout of the large rambling farmhouse.

The smell of food led him towards the large ramshackle kitchen. Seeing the glow under a door to his right, he opened it and entered.

Jacques was standing by the ancient cooker, holding the door open as he added more wood to its burning inferno. "I'm warming some food for you. I'm sorry but it's not much and it's been in the cupboard a while, but it should be alright." Jacques didn't bother to turn to Garrison as he spoke.

"Thank you," Garrison said, coming to stand beside him. He winced as he saw the state of the saucepan the old man was using to warm the soup in, but he didn't mention it as the smell was already causing his stomach to rebel at its lack of food. "I wanted to thank you for helping us," he went on, wanting the man to understand just how much he appreciated the assistance he had given.

"It can only be for a few days," Jacques stated firmly, before he added, "These Germans... they are pigs, but they have the noses of wolves when it comes to the enemy." Jacques was slowly stirring the broth in the pot. "Have you rations?" he asked suddenly.

"Some," Garrison answered, glad that they had brought them on this mission. He smiled as he remembered how the others had willingly handed over theirs before they had left, along with their first aid packs.

"Have you seen Michel?" Jacques asked.

"Not for quite a few months. I saw him in London last January." He smiled as he remembered the bleary-eyed Frenchman who had clasped a hand about his neck and wished him a drunken New Year.

"He should be here," snarled Jacques, stirring the soup with more force. "Our father left us the farm to run together, but he couldn't wait to leave. The bright lights of Paris were always in his eyes, never the family... never the farm. This land has been in our family for eight generations, since the revolution...." Jacques stopped suddenly, realising that he was saying too much. An uneasy silence fell.

Garrison wondered at his words. The farm had at least looked like a working venture the last time he had been here, but now the yard was neglected with weeds growing between the cobbles, the fields looked as if they had been allowed to go to seed, and Garrison had not heard any of the normal animal sounds that usually accompanied a farm.

"I lost my cows," Jacques suddenly said, as if sensing Garrison's thoughts. "The Germans took them... needed meat, they said... offered me bits of paper for them. I'll never see those scraps of paper turning into money."

"This war must be very hard for you," Garrison commented, wanting to express sympathy for the man who appeared to be breaking under the strain.

"It wouldn't be so hard if Michel came home. He has a duty here, not over there in some foreign land."

Garrison knew that to get into an argument about that would do neither of them any good. Instead, he said, wanting to move onto safer ground, "I'm sorry that this has happened to you." He was not sure if he meant the war or the fact that Jacques Remy was the last of his family to care for the land that he had been born and brought up on. Garrison knew that Michel had no intention of returning, even after the war. As Jacques had said, the bright lights of Paris had caught and held him as firmly as a moth before a flame.

Jacques glanced at Garrison; it was a hard look that showed some resemblance to the man Garrison had left nearly a year ago. "Our father ordered us to stay here and Michel didn't. It's no good trying to fight one's fate." As he spoke, he emptied the soup out into three dusty bowls. "Here, take these. See if you can get your wounded one to eat, he needs the nourishment."

He followed Garrison back to the small chamber, carrying a light for him. As Garrison entered the room, he heard Jacques say, "I'm tired, so tired." Then he was gone, closing the small cell door behind him. As they listened, they heard him piling the items in front of the door again to hide it from view.

"I don't like that guy," Chief stated, coming to help Garrison with the tray.

"He's helping us," snapped back Garrison, moving to sit beside Goniff. He glanced up and paused when he saw the Indian wolfing the food down. He considered mentioning the state of the saucepan to him, but then thought better of it.

"Something wrong with yours?" Chief suddenly asked suspiciously, eyeing Garrison as he was not eating.

"What? Er... no, I was just letting it cool down," Garrison lied as he began to sip at his. After the first taste, Garrison found himself wolfing it down with the same eagerness as Chief.

When he had finished, he fed Goniff some of his soup, but fever was setting in and he was tossing his head, unwilling to eat the food Garrison was trying to give him. After a few attempts, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle so he offered the food to Chief. The Indian looked from him to the bowl for a few moments before he finally accepted it. "Do you want some?" he asked, as he began to sip at the broth.

"No, I'm fine, but we will have to break out the rations tomorrow. Jacques is short on food, and it seems only fair." As he spoke, he wet the rag Chief had been using to wipe Goniff's brow and began to dab at the sweating man's face. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?" he told Chief, watching as he put the last bowl on the ground and settled down on a blanket by the door, his knees drawn up under him and his hand playing with his ever-present knife.

"I'm fine," snapped the Indian, not meeting the other's look.

"Chief, it's silly us both being awake. If the Germans come we're hardly likely to get out of here, so you might just as well accept it and get some rest." Garrison paused, then added, "Jacques covered the door, so it's unlikely they would find us even if they did search the place."

Chief looked about the room: with the door closed it seemed even smaller; the walls seemed to be closing in on him. The Indian shuddered, but not from the cold. "Do you want another blanket?" Garrison offered, seeing the shiver course through the man.

"No.... No, I'm not cold," replied the knife man, before he added, "It's just... this place give me the creeps. It smells like a cemetery down here."

"That's because it's underground," Garrison assured with a slight smile. He was well aware that Chief was the suspicious one of the group. He would quite willingly face a hoard of Germans without flinching, but mention ghosts, or ghoulies, and he was reaching for his talisman and muttering under his breath in his own tongue. "Besides, how many cemeteries have you been hanging about to get used to the smell of?" Garrison's tone was light, the glint in his eyes clear.

Chief opened his mouth to comment, then slowly closed it. He could not explain to Garrison his feeling about the place; every instinct in his body was screaming at him, yet he could not put a name to his fears. Finally deciding that Garrison was right, he settled down to sleep.

Reaching over, Garrison dimmed the light until almost-darkness spread across the room. He had enough light to see Goniff, who - after his first few minutes of fevered mumbling - had sunk back into a deep stupor, helped by the morphine injection Garrison had supplied before he had begun to remove the bullet.

***

Slowly the night died and the sun began to slip across the sky, but none of the men in the small darkened chamber had any way of knowing as no light filtered into the little cell.

Garrison spent his time fighting to stay awake and checking on Goniff throughout the many hours that slipped by. It was an indication of how exhausted Chief was that Garrison's movements did not wake the Indian up. Goniff became restless as the fever began to peak and gasped for water as Garrison gently tended him, holding him up with one arm while he helped him sip from the cup of water he held.

Once Goniff started awake, staring wildly about the room as he demanded to know who had called the police, then seeing Garrison leaning over him, he mumbled, "Warden... it hurts...." His voice was a mere shadow of its former self. "The Germans, they're...." he began, looking about in fear, searching for the hidden enemy, but his energy failed him and he was unable to finish his sentence as sleep dragged at his body.

"Hush, Goniff," Garrison said, his tone tender, comforting, as he explained, "You've been shot; we've got the bullet out and you're going to be alright, but you've got to rest now." Even as he spoke, he saw the little man slip back into a deep healing sleep. Reaching out, he felt the other's brow and noted that it was still too hot. The fever was lowering, but it had not yet gone.

Several hours later, Chief jerked awake, his knife appearing in his hand. He stared at Garrison for a few seconds, scanning his surroundings, before the knife disappeared back into its hidden sheath. "What happened?" he asked, looking about the chamber, slightly shocked by the fact that he had fallen asleep.

"You must have been tired, you've slept for quite a while." Garrison was leaning his head back against the stone wall, his eyes half closed. He could feel the three-day growth of beard on his face and noted, with a slight smile, that his tongue felt like the whiskers were growing there as well.

"You been awake all this time?" Chief demanded, annoyed that Garrison had not woken him to take his turn at tending Goniff.

"I'm going to get some sleep now," Garrison assured his friend, "if you don't mind watching Goniff. He's been pretty calm, mostly... woke a while ago for some water, a bit feverish, but went off again." As Garrison spoke, he realised that his words were starting to slur.

Chief rose in one fluid motion and came to stand over him. Without a word, he reached out and offered a hand towards the other man.

Garrison gratefully accepted it and caught hold of Chief as the room tilted and his legs weakened as he stood. "Warden?" Chief exclaimed taking the other man's weight.

"I'm alright, my legs must have gone to sleep... that's all," Garrison said. He had not realised how long he had been sitting in the same position. With a frail smile, he allowed Chief to help him across to the blanket that the Indian had just vacated. He was asleep before the indian had finished laying the covers over him.

The Indian looked down at the sleeping man and wondered again at the enormous reservoir of energy Garrison seemed to call upon at these times. Yet the strain was evident; even in sleep the frown was there. He was worrying about his men. With a frustrated sigh, Chief made his way back to Goniff and began his vigil over the injured man.

***

Jacques put in an appearance about mid-day; he slipped in silently and shuffled across the room. He paused to look down at the sleeping Garrison before he moved over to crouch beside Chief. "No food," he informed the Indian in his broken English with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Chief looked at him for a few moments, then without a word he reached over and dug into their ruck-sack and gave Jacques some of their rations to cook. The Frenchman didn't thank Chief, but nodded slowly, a slight smile upon his face before he left the room.

The smell of cooking pulled Garrison from his slumber. He squinted over at Chief. "Something smells good," he commented, pushing back the blankets and climbing wearily to his feet.

"Rations," Chief said, his tone indicating that - although it might smell good - it would not live up to it on taste.

Garrison smiled back, asking, "How's he been?" He moved over to crouch beside the sick man, much like Jacques had a short while before. He reached out and touched the palm of his hand against the thief's forehead; it was a lot cooler. He looked up and found Chief watching him intently. "How do you feel?" Garrison asked, bothered by Chief's anxiousness.

"I'll feel better once we're out of here." Chief glanced over his shoulder; he was unable to shake the feeling of unease that had filled him since entering the house. Nor was he able to explain his concerns to Garrison.

Garrison considered his words before he answered, "If the Germans were on our trail, they would have been here by now."

Chief looked blankly at Garrison, then realised that the man thought his uneasiness stemmed from discovery by the enemy. "It's this place, Warden," he confided, leaning closer to the man, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's just this place."

Garrison looked at him, then taking a deep breath, he hazarded, "You don't trust Jacques?"

"I don't know Jacques, Warden," Chief snapped, angry at himself for not being able to explain his feelings. "Look, forget it, it's nothing... maybe you're right and I'm just spooked by the Germans."

Garrison looked at the bent head and wondered what Chief was really agitated about. Reaching over, he touched the other man, causing him to glance up and meet his look. "Chief... I trust your instinct.... If you feel that something is wrong here...?" He paused, letting the question hang, frowning as the other man looked away. It was very rare for the Indian to refuse to meet his look.

Chief again considered his feelings. Opening his mouth, he tried to answer, then stopped, spinning towards the door, his hand already holding his knife before he had finished turning. Jacques stood there, a look of such fervour upon his face directed at Chief that it caused the breath to catch in Garrison's throat. "Jacques?" he questioned, standing up and placing himself between the two men as they glared at each other.

Jacques blinked as Garrison passed into his vision, then glancing down at the tray, he offered, "I've brought you some food." He held it out and waited patiently until Garrison had taken it from him, then he fled back up the steps and out of their sight.

Garrison considered going after him, but then turned back to face Chief. "Well?"

"Let's eat," Chief said, his tone natural once more.

"What was that about?" Garrison demanded, handing him his food.

"Nothing." He paused, suddenly unsure of himself. "The others, they should be back soon. Won't they?"

Garrison crushed the apprehension that Chief's words caused him and answered with more confidence than he felt, "Yes, either tonight or tomorrow." As Garrison ate, he examined his options and finally stated, "If they don't return by tomorrow night, then we'll have to consider making our own way out. I'll try to contact the resistance, see if they can help us."

Satisfied, Chief settled back against the wall and he slowly ate his food, unable to prevent his eyes from flickering about the room, or to shake the feeling that they were being watched.

When Garrison had finished, he crossed and sat down beside Goniff, feeding him his portion of the rations. The little thief had been slipping in and out of consciousness, but did manage to eat a small amount of food. He drank avidly of the water and slipped under once more.

The time passed slowly; neither man spoke, each lost in their own thoughts. Jacques appeared during the afternoon and stated that he had seen some Germans nearby and he wanted to block the door again. As a precaution, Garrison blew the lantern out and allowed total darkness to fill the chamber.

When Jacques next appeared, it was to inform them that night was upon them. Garrison was now fully recovered from his exhaustion of the night before, and was eager to get out of the cell into the fresh air and wait for the other members of his team.

It was agreed that they would take turns between them. Although Garrison had explained the location of the farmhouse in great detail to Actor before they had parted, he was aware of how easy it was to get lost in this part of the country.

The night passed as slowly as the day. Each man took his turn waiting outside in two-hour shifts, but there was no sign of the others. As dawn approached, Garrison made his way back to the cell.

"Do you think they'll be here tonight?" Chief asked, as he watched Garrison change Goniff's dressing. The thief was looking a lot better and the sulphur seemed to be doing its job.

"I should think so. If not, then I'll try to reach our resistance contact tomorrow." Garrison looked down at Goniff as he winced under the ministration. "Sorry," he said with a slight smile.

"Doesn't matter, Warden," Goniff gasped, evidently still in great pain.

"Do you want another morphine injection?" Garrison asked, knowing from experience that the pain was terrible from this kind of wound.

"Wouldn't mind," Goniff gritted out from behind his teeth.

Garrison swiftly administered the injection and watched as the smaller man's body relaxed under the powerful painkiller. With sure hands, he moved quickly to finish his bandaging of the wound and pulled the blanket up over the man, allowing him to sleep in peace.

The hours slowly ticked by. Jacques put in a couple of appearances, offering food and refilling their water container. He hardly spoke at all, except to complain about Michel's betraying of his father's wish. Garrison didn't comment on his words, and Chief wasn't really interested enough to ask the reason behind the moaning.

Chief still eyed Jacques Remy with suspicion, unable to put his finger on the reason for his distrust of the man, but he could not deny the way his skin crawled whenever he appeared, or the shiver that trickled down his body every time he spoke.... Yet Garrison seemed to trust the man to the point of foolishness, or so Chief thought, and he was prepared to place his trust totally in Garrison.

Jacques again opened the door to the chamber; night had fallen once more and Garrison planned to watch out for his men. As he had the night before, he would take the first watch. As he left the farmhouse, his step was lighter this night: Goniff's fever seemed to have broken, and he was eating better and drinking more water. He was still sleeping a lot, but Garrison put that down to the injury and blood loss. If the others returned tonight with transport, as promised, he was determined not to spend another day in that cell.

The hours began to pass as slowly as before and Garrison felt his spirits begin to fall: it was nearly dawn, and it was starting to look as if he would have to go in search of their resistance contact. Suddenly, the sound of an engine approaching had him running for the cover of the trees. He had agreed with Actor to meet them at the end of the small lane that led to the Remy farmhouse. The lights from a motor car appeared further down the road: if it was the others, they should stop when they reached the tattered gate that blocked the lane.

Holding his breath, he watched the car that rambled slowly down the road. It passed the gate and continued on. Garrison let his breath out, pushing down the welling disappointment. Then the car stopped, puttered a hundred yards past the gate, then began to reverse. Garrison didn't move as the car came to a stop beside the gate.

"Look, Actor," came Casino's irritated tone, "this is the only farm on the map for miles."

"You've already got us lost twice," came back the conman's bitter reply.

Garrison broke into a smile and trotted over to the car. "This is the right place," he said, sneaking up on them and enjoying the startled expressions that registered upon their faces.

"Warden, that's a great way to get yourself shot," snapped Casino, slowly replacing his gun in his pocket.

Garrison looked chastised enough to bring a smile to their faces. "Sorry," he said. "Now, can we get this thing moving? I want to be well away from here by dawn."

"How's Goniff?" Actor asked, as he reversed the vehicle some more and manoeuvred it through the gate that Garrison had opened.

"He's a lot better; the rest was the best thing for him. What about the plans?"

"Safe and sound, but they weren't too keen about us coming back," Actor said, his tone showing his annoyance.

"But they let you?" Garrison asked, already knowing the answer.

"We're here, ain't we, baby?" Casino stated firmly as Actor pulled to a stop outside the farmhouse.

"We didn't think you would be here," Actor said, turning off the lights and climbing out of the car.

"Why?" Garrison asked, moving towards the door. Before Actor could answer, Chief appeared and smiled broadly at them. It caused them all to stop; rarely did the Indian express his feelings so openly.

Casino moved towards him, saying, "Missed me, baby?"

Chief threw him a dirty look and answered, "Nah... this guy's cooking is worse than yours." Then both disappeared into the house. Casino was eager to check on Goniff's condition for himself.

"His cooking?" Actor questioned.

"Jacques... he's not too keen on cleaning," Garrison supplied.

Actor threw him a strange look and continued, "I contacted Michel Remy while we were in England. I wanted to ask him about his brother and the farm."

"Actor," Garrison interrupted, "can't this wait? I really want to get out of here; we've only got a few hours till dawn."

"But, Warden..." Actor began, then caught the glint in the other's eyes and slowly closed his mouth. He frowned as Garrison turned from him and went into the house. "I'd like to meet this Jacques Remy, if you don't mind?" Actor asked, his tone strained.

Garrison turned to give him a hard look, then shrugged. "Jacques..." he called as he made his way to the small room they had been using.

Goniff was smiling up at Casino as he made some joke about the trip home. "Chief, Casino, could you get Goniff in the car?" Garrison said before he moved off, still looking for the Frenchman.

After ten minutes of searching, he had to admit defeat. The house was empty, the man nowhere to be found. "I can't understand it, Actor," Garrison explained, coming to stand by the conman. "He's been here all of the time."

"Are you sure it was Jacques Remy?" Actor asked, casually crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

"Of course I am," snapped Garrison, more concerned by Jacques' disappearance than he liked to admit. "It wasn't that long ago that I was here with Michel."

"Warden..." Actor began, then seeing that he did not have Garrison's full attention, he reached out and spun the man to face him. "Warden, Michel Remy told me his brother died four months ago."

Garrison stopped dead. The shocked expression filling his face could not have been anything but real. "That's impossible," he stated, his voice barely above a whisper. "I saw him, spoke to him not an hour since. Michel has to be wrong."

"According to Michel, his brother was shot in the fields by some Germans when he refused to give them his cows."

Garrison reached up and brushed his fringe from his eyes. "I spoke to the man; he cooked our food...." So saying, he marched to the cupboard. Swinging the door open, he saw only a lone tin of soup, its label faded, dust laying upon its lid. Turning, he swallowed hard and walked instead to the sink. In it lay the saucepan that they had used to cook their rations. "He's not dead," he said, this time more firmly.

"Warden?" Garrison glanced up to meet Chief's look as he entered the room. "Goniff's settled in the car." He paused; he hadn't overheard the end of their conversation, but Garrison realised with a shock that it would explain Chief's feelings of unease about the other man.

Seeing the look of expectancy upon the other's face, Garrison snapped, "We can't spend the rest of the night waiting for Jacques to return."

"Warden..." Actor began, but fell silent under Garrison's glare. It was obvious that the lieutenant was never going to believe that their benefactor was a ghost, so shrugging his shoulders, the conman gave up and motioned for them to precede him through the door.

Garrison sat silently in the back of the car. Goniff was propped up between him and Casino and, from time to time, he would lean over to check on the sleeping man. He planned to contact Michel Remy and have a long talk with him once they were back in England. He could not believe what Actor had told him, yet he had never known the other man to lie to him... not about something as serious as this.

As the car disappeared into the darkness, the small, wizened, middle-aged man stepped from behind one of the sheds and made his way back to the house. He was still muttering his annoyance at Michel for not obeying their father's last wish to stay on the farm, no matter what happened. He would miss his visitors. He had plenty of time on his hands now, as the farm didn't take up so much of his energy any more... not since the Germans had stolen his cows... but he did tend to get lonely. He looked up at the fading stars and once more moved towards the house. As he reached the closed door, he entered - not at all bothered by the fact that he did not open it first - and made his way slowly up to the room that had been his since birth.

THE END

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