Chapter Six

"Are you serious?"

"Sir, I know how it sounds - "

"Oh do us a favour, Wilson! Amnesia? That's only in the bleeding pictures!"

"I'm not making this up, Newkirk!" Wilson snapped.

"But amnesia? Wilson, this has got to be a joke," Hogan said.

"I'm telling you Colonel," the medic explained, "whatever is going through Carter's mind, he thinks it's January, 1933."

"But the way you made it out, it were nothing more than cut on the head," Newkirk accused. "You don't go and forget eleven years of yer bloomin' life because of a cut!"

"I didn't say it was nothing but a cut! All I said was that he didn't seem to have a skull fracture from what I could tell," Wilson retorted, emphasizing the last part rather pointedly. "But it still likely would've felt like a helluva knock. And let's not forget how hard he would've hit the back of his head on the road when he fell. I didn't feel any fracture there, but he still could've got a bad concussion that way!"

"All right, that's enough," Hogan broke in. "What's happened to Carter is hardly Wilson's fault. And whoever's fault it is, it doesn't matter much at this point anyway."

Wilson looked on as Hogan started to pace the floor by the stove, with the three wide-eyed men sitting at the table alternating glances between the two as all waited to hear what their CO would say next. Hogan stopped and shook his head ruefully. "Only Carter," he said. "So what do we do now, Wilson?"

"You're asking me? Colonel, I'm used to patching up bumps and scrapes; I've seen a few concussions with guys who got hurt when their plane came down, but nothing like this! This is way over my head."

"Maybe it's not so bad as what we think," Newkirk suggested. "Could be it's not the same thing as proper amnesia. You see it in the films and the bloke's always completely fogged, isn't he? You know, waking up and asking who 'e is and what's 'appened, that sort of thing. Perhaps that means this is something different altogether."

"Like what?" Hogan asked.

"I don't know, guv. But blimey, amnesia? It don't seem real!"

Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Kinch. "Look before we start confusing things any further, how about we all agree we can't take our cue from Hollywood when it comes to diagnosing someone."

"So I'll ask again: Wilson, what can we do?" Hogan demanded.

"First, I think we should wait until he wakes up. Maybe it'll cure itself after a bit more rest. If not, then the only thing I can suggest is to get in touch with London and have them drop in a specialist."

"That could take days. We need him back now. We need to know what happened out there last night - there's a man out there with potentially vital information, not to mention someone who may have shot Carter because he knows about the operation."

"Well, I'm sorry Colonel, but what can I do? I can't wave a magic wand and make him all better, or whack his memory back into place with a baseball bat."

"Of course not. I'm sorry, Wilson," Hogan said with a pat on the medic's shoulder. "And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm more worried about what might happen than about Carter himself, but that's the job, you know?"

"Do not worry, mon Colonel," Lebeau told him, "we understand."

"You still haven't heard anything from the underground?" Wilson asked.

"Nothing," Kinch sighed. "All we know is what Mother Hubbard originally told us, and that's not much."

"Why'd you risk meeting going out to meet this guy then?"

Hogan answered, "Because there's supposedly some evidence this man worked for the Heereswaffenamt in Berlin."

"The what?"

"German Army Ordnance," Kinch translated. "One of the many departments Hitler's got set up for weapons development."

Hogan sat down wearily at his spot at the head of the table. "What worries me," he said, "is that the rumours that this guy was disaffected with how things were being run are pretty common knowledge."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Wilson asked.

"Not if the Germans know it too. I'm concerned our contact was either a plant or a dupe being fed misinformation in order to trap us," Colonel Hogan explained. "But in any case, we've got something more immediate to deal with, don't we? If Carter's isn't back to normal when he wakes up, just what in the hell are we going to tell him?"

"Well, we know for sure he wouldn't know about the war," Wilson said.

Kinch whistled. "Holy cow!" he said, "Where do we even start? January of '33... Heck, old bubblebrain hadn't taken power yet. Carter might not even know who we're talking about!"

"I think we should ask him about last night," Lebeau said.

"What good would that do? If 'e don't remember the whole bleedin' war, 'ow's he going to remember last night?"

"He might if we tell him what we know first," Lebeau argued. "Perhaps it will jog his memory. And then we can ask about the contact."

"I don't know, Lebeau," Wilson argued. "It might be easier on him if he was eased into all of this before we going telling him he was shot. He's gonna be pretty overwhelmed as it is."

"Rubbish," Newkirk said. "He should 'ear it from us. What if we don't tell 'im and the memory starts coming back on it's own as a nightmare or something like it? More frightening that way than 'earing it from 'is friends."

"Newkirk, he's not going to know who we are," Kinch pointed out. The entire table went silent at that.

"Wilson," Hogan began after a few moments, "Do you think there's any chance Lebeau's right? That if we describe what happened to him last night, that Carter's memory might come back?"

Wilson shrugged. "I really couldn't tell you, Colonel. It sounds reasonable, but I don't know… I mean, eleven years… that's a long time to forget. That's not just like taking a blow and not remembering it because of the pain. You gotta figure forgetting eleven years means something more serious, don't you."

"How do you think he'll react?"

"Panicked, I would guess. How would you feel if someone told you you'd lost eleven years of your life?"

"Panicked enough that he wouldn't want to believe it? Or wouldn't trust us?"

"It's possible, Colonel," Wilson told him.

Hogan thought about it. "Okay, here's what we're going to do: we'll tell Carter about the war - we have to tell him why he's in a prison camp and why he's got to be careful around the Krauts - but unless the situation looks better in the morning, we're not going to tell him about last night just yet. When he asks how he was injured - "

"He might not," Wilson put in. "From what Newkirk said, his last memory seems to be of some kind of road accident. Maybe he'll just assume that it was that."

"But once we tell him the year, he'll figure out that it can't be that," Kinch said.

Wilson nodded. "Sorry, right."

"Anyway," Hogan went on, a touch exasperated at being interrupted. "When he asks how he was injured, we'll give him the same story we gave Klink - he hit his head on the stove when he fell off the table while changing a light bulb."

"What? But guv, if we don't tell him the truth, how's he ever to get his memory back? He's not going to remember that night if we're feeding 'im nothing but lies about what little we do know! And you were saying not five minutes ago about 'ow we need to find out about that missing contact!"

"I know Newkirk, but if he's panicked he might blurt something out around one of the Krauts without thinking. Or maybe he'd even go to them because he wouldn't believe what we tell him about them. And, if he knows about the tunnels, he might even try to make a break for it and how far would he get before the Krauts got him? Can you imagine him going through a Gestapo interrogation in this condition? I want Carter's memory to come back too, but until we can be sure of what state he's in, we can't take the chance. That means we're not going to tell him anything about the operation. Till I say different, all Carter will know is that we're all nothing but regular prisoners of war."

"Mon Colonel, what about when he comes to sleep in his own bunk? How will we use the tunnel entrance?"

Hogan looked meaningfully at Wilson.

"I can order bed rest for another day, maybe two if we're lucky, but he'll still have to go out to use the latrines."

"That's all right, we can work around that," Hogan said with assurance.

"I still say it's wrong, guv. If not knowing about the contact or the shooter is putting the camp in danger, then wouldn't Andrew's getting his memory back quick-like be more of an 'elp than anything?"

"I get what you're saying Newkirk, and if he remembered right away that'd tell us about the contact, not to mention save us a lot of explaining about the war and the last decade into the bargain. But if he didn't remember then he wouldn't understand what we were telling him, would he? And I've got to think of the risk to whole camp, not to mention the underground; one slip-up on Carter's part and we'd be in a lot of trouble."

"That's true at any time. Once we tell Andrew why 'e has to keep quiet, how's that make 'im any bigger a liability than 'e usually is?"

"Because he's going to have to lot to deal with right now Peter, and that could make him more forgetful of watching himself than usual," Hogan explained.

Newkirk didn't say anything, he just looked at his commanding officer. He knew Hogan was making sense, but he couldn't shake the feeling that hiding the truth was going to blow up in their faces.

"Look," Hogan went on, "I admit it's a gamble either way, so when Carter wakes up again we'll just have to feel our way forward, okay Newkirk?"

Newkirk sighed. "All right, guv. I'll keep quiet about last night till you give the word."

Hogan nodded his thanks and slapped Newkirk once on the shoulder. He understood Newkirk's reluctance and appreciated that the Englishman respected him enough to stop pushing the issue.

Now, let's just hope I'm right, he thought silently to himself. It didn't help when a little while later the tunnel opened up to reveal an empty-handed Olsen and Davidson come back for evening roll call.

Where did they go from here?

--x--

Carter had slept through straight until morning. Lebeau's theories aside, he'd even slept through Schultz's wake-up bellowing of 'Roll-call!' The pain of his injury and the draining effects of being sick several times the day before had exhausted him, and only the welcome smells of breakfast and the stronger light peeping under the crack of the shutters in Hogan's quarters finally set him to stirring.

Food had come first. Figuring he deserved to eat at least one meal in piece before they dropped the bomb on him and started the interrogation, they helped him to sit up and then waited impatiently while he gobbled down two stolen eggs. There was also a slice of plain pumperknickel toast, at which Carter's slightly puzzled look caused them to lean forward half eager and half dreading whatever question was going to come out, but all Carter asked was, "You got any butter?"

"Sorry," Hogan said.

"That's okay," Carter shrugged happily. "It's nice of all of you to give me this much," he said, though the expression on his face after a sip of the ersatz coffee a second later made it look like he was reconsidering it.

But now that he was done and the plate had been taken away, they were left with an awkward silence where they were staring at him as he fidgeted nervously looking at them.

Wilson finally caught Hogan's eye. "Maybe you could…you know," he said, nodding towards the man on the bunk. To his surprise, he saw his CO's mouth twisting strangely. He stepped close to Hogan and whispered, "Colonel?"

Hogan turned his head and whispered back, "Sorry Wilson," and the medic realized that the man was trying very hard not to laugh. "It's just the idea of introducing myself…"

"Yes sir," Wilson said with understanding. The entire situation was incredibly bizarre - how were you supposed to introduce yourself to someone you'd lived with for two years? "Maybe you could start of with something simpler," he suggested. Hogan nodded and turned back to Carter.

"We haven't be able to get a hold of your folks, I'm afraid."

Carter relaxed. "I was wondering, boy. I mean, if they knew I'd been in an accident they'd have been here in a flash. I got kind of worried when I didn't see them here. But what's the problem? The lines down at Hurley's store again?"

"Excuse me?" Hogan asked, suddenly feeling that impulsive need to stop the conversation for reasons of sheer self-preservation that he sometimes got when Carter took off on a real ramble.

"Oh, I guess you must be new around here. No one's got phones in these parts, mister. Only Fred Hurley at the general store. You gotta call him and then he sends one of his kids out with the message. I thought everybody knew that."

"No. No, I didn't know that, but that's not the problem," Hogan said as he sat down at the end of the bunk.

Carter's eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. They'd noticed a few wondering looks directed their way since they'd come into the room, especially when he first realized all five of them planned on watching him eat, but no fear before now. No recognition either, but no fear.

"Look, what's going on?" he asked. "What is this place? Why can't my folks be here? And who are all of you?"

"You really don't know?" Lebeau asked.

"No. Am I supposed to?"

"Oui," Lebeau said without thinking. Carter's eyes widened and he laughed.

"Boy, you're really not from around here, are you mister?" he said.

Your accent, Hogan mouthed at Lebeau's confused expression. Lebeau rolled his eyes.

Carter noticed that. "Oh hey, I didn't mean it as an insult or anything," he blurted out hurriedly. "I guess you could be from around here anyway. I mean, what's stopping ya, right? It's just that we don't even get many people from out-of-state coming to town, let alone anyone from another country - "

"It is all right, Carter," Lebeau interrupted. "I understand."

"Okay," Carter grinned, his suspicion from a moment ago seemingly forgotten in his relief at not offending the unknown Frenchman. Then he alarmed them all by swinging his legs off the bunk.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wilson ordered. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Are ya crazy, mister? I'm gonna go home." He stood before they could stop him, then suddenly swayed. Hogan's hand shot out and caught Carter's arm just in time to keep the younger man from falling face first into the corner of his footlocker.

"Whuh…" Carter huffed as Hogan got him to sit down again. "Geez, I feel dizzy."

"You haven't gone half pale as well, you silly sod," Newkirk told him. "You do what Wilson tells you to."

Carter's head lolled drunkenly in the direction of this new voice and he squinted up at Newkirk. "You were here before, weren't you?"

"You remember that?" Newkirk demanded eagerly.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I?"

Newkirk stepped forward a few paces so that he was more in Carter's sightline. "But you don't remember me from before that?" he asked.

"Sorry, mister," Carter answered and five pairs of shoulders slumped. "I never laid eyes on you in my life. Before yesterday, I mean."

But Newkirk didn't want to give up. "Oh, c'mon Andrew old mate. You must remember us; we're your old chums."

Carter looked to Hogan for help. "Uh…I think you must be mistaking me for someone else," he said, when he got no direction from that quarter.

"Don't be daft - "

"Daft?" they saw Carter mutter to himself, puzzling over the unfamiliar word.

Newkirk rolled his eyes much as Lebeau had done, but altered the phrase. "What I meant was, don't be silly, mate. If we were mistaking you for someone else, we wouldn't be using your name, now would we?"

"Uh, well, I guess not…" Carter conceded, but he drew back a little, unconsciously worried at where this was going.

Newkirk didn't notice. Squatting down on his heels so that he was more level with Carter, he locked his gaze on the other man's face. "So now, take a good look and try to think, Carter," he urged.

"Mister, I don't want to - "

"Please try, Carter," Hogan asked softly.

"You can do it, Carter. It's Peter New - " Newkirk prompted.

Carter looked at him.

"New - " Newkirk repeated, gesturing for Carter to jump in. "New - "

"Newbolt?" Carter answered, suddenly excited. "Hey, is that it? Are you related to Wilf Newbolt over at Flat Creek?"

"No," Newkirk said sadly and straightened up. "No, mate, it's Newkirk. Peter Newkirk. You sure that isn't ringing any bells?"

Carter shook his head.

Hogan put a comforting hand on his demolition man's back. "It's okay, Carter. Truth be told, we were kind of expecting that."

"Hey look now, what is this? Who are all of you and how come you all know my name? Why aren't my folks here? And why's nobody told me about the Tyler kid yet?"

"Take it easy, Carter," Hogan said. "The whole reason we're here is to tell you all about that."

"Then what's the hold up?" Carter demanded. He waved a hand in Newkirk's direction. "And what's with all this 'guess who' stuff?"

"You know Newkirk. In fact, you know all of us," Hogan explained. "We were hoping if you could remember us, then you'd remember everything."

"Remember you? All right, what's the gag?"

"There's no gag, Carter. We're not joking. You know us and you have for about two years now."

Carter moved back from Hogan, awkwardly edging towards the wall. "Look, I don't know what this is, but I've never seen any of you before in my life. I just wanna find out what happened to the Tyler kid, and then go home, okay?"

"It's not as easy as all that, Carter," Hogan said.

"What are you talking about? I don't understand why you can't just call my folks. Or my uncle Sam and aunt Bessie in Crab Apple Junction; their neighbours the Evanses have a phone. They'll take me home," Carter pleaded, and the sound of the tired and growing desperation in his voice banished whatever urge Hogan had had to smile before. The situation might be bizarre and inconvenient for them, but for Carter…

He decided to try a different tack. He held out his hand. "Well, if you don't know us, maybe introductions are in order then. My name is Robert Hogan and I'm very pleased to meet you."