Post by Wing on Nov 21, 2006 19:11:42 GMT -5
Author's Note:
Okay...well, I was bored to death one day and decided to write this originally as a oneshot (see details in that other thread...) but later made it a longer story, so it may be set up a bit weird. More updates coming soon!
When the door to his cell opened, Hans Speidel didn’t look up. He had had a lot of visitors in the past few days, all of them Gestapo intent on forcing a confession from him. He supposed that the fact that he hadn’t talked could be considered a good thing, but at the moment he wasn’t feeling that way—the excruciating tortures he had faced in the past week had discouraged him nearly to the point of giving in and telling them everything. There was a lot to tell.
His involvement in the plot to remove Adolf Hitler, for example. Also, there was the matter of his recruitment of his commanding officer, the acclaimed Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, to his cause—because of him, the Desert Fox was now under investigation as well. If his “investigation” was of a similar regime to his former chief of staff’s…well, Hans didn’t want to think about that. If he had caused Erwin, who had quickly become a close friend in the few months they had known each other, to be reduced to like what he himself was now, he wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself.
The only reason that he hadn’t talked was for that small wish—that his silence, a protest of his dubious innocence, would save the others. Hans hadn’t been told of von Stauffenberg or Rommel’s fates, or those of the other conspirators, so there was a little hope that they were still alive. The Gestapo wanted to know who else, but Hans couldn’t tell them—he didn’t know what they did, and if he talked, he would be betraying the cause he had sworn himself to: the destruction of the Führer of the so-called Third Reich. That had failed, he knew that much, but he might be able to save his comrades who had been part of the secret web.
The only sign that Hans acknowledged the opening of the door was to press himself a little closer to the wall almost unconsciously, knowing what was coming. More questions, more beatings, more threats. If he didn’t cooperate, people would be killed, people they knew he cared about—his friends, his family. God, he hoped his wife and daughter had gotten out when he had been taken away. Thoughts of them kept him going when the agony became unbearable, and his restless sleep was filled with dreams of home. This little memory of happiness allowed him to stay sane when others broke down, and he could only hope that it would stay that way today.
“Brought you a guest, Herr General,” snarled the SS guard’s voice sarcastically. They all called him General even though he had been stripped of his rank weeks ago, mocking him, worrying at the ache of the loss of the Wehrmacht’s support, which had kept him safe and sheltered him from the outside for years and years. Hans hated the guards, stupid, cruel men with a perverse pleasure in giving their prisoners a taste of a rifle butt here and there for entertainment. Hated them. The thought of exacting revenge helped him keep going too when the ghosts of happier times did not.
The door closed, casting the cell into shadow once more. There were no windows besides the small slit carved into the door itself that looked out into the bare hallway and provided little light, and the tiny concrete room was always cold and damp because of that. There was no furniture or creature comforts here—the most variety Hans got was a short trip to the bathroom twice a day.
“Hello?”
Hans frowned slightly, lifting his dull eyes and squinting at the blurry figure he could barely make out through the gloom and his bad eyesight. The first interrogation had shattered the wire-rimmed spectacles he depended on—without them, he could barely see, much less make out the little details of this person’s face in the darkness. But it wasn’t another Gestapo officer, was it? The voice sounded uncertain and a little scared, not the confident sneer of an interrogator taunting his prisoner. It could be a ploy, a variety in routine to try and fool him, perhaps, but Hans wasn’t sure. The voice sounded too familiar for him to be sure. Different, maybe, but still familiar.
After a moment of silence, the former general whispered hoarsely, “Who’s there?” His tone was wary, guarded, but a note of curiosity had worked its way into his weary voice despite his best intentions.
There was a pause. Then: “Field Marshal Rommel. Who are you?”
No! It couldn’t be! Could it? But he couldn’t be here—Hans had tried so hard to protect him, had lied again and again, stubbornly keeping his mouth shut to make sure the field marshal would stay out of trouble on his account. They couldn’t have found out. But that voice was undoubtedly his, the fuzzy silhouette the right height. Hans groaned softly in despair, his eyes blurring with tears. Failed! ---- it!
Rommel reached out to find the wall and approached him, crouching a few feet away and peering at him. Would he even recognize him now? His former chief of staff’s face was battered and bruised by countless interrogations, and the light was bad. Hans stared at his boots, unable to look at him.
“Hans?” The field marshal sounded incredulous, shocked beyond belief.
Hating himself, Hans nodded once. “Yes, Erwin,” he whispered.
Silence. Then, slowly, Rommel reached out a hand and touched his friend’s arm, his expression unreadable. He turned the former lieutenant general’s face towards him, appearing startled by his injuries and the tears brimming in his eyes. Hans looked dully back at him, hating himself. This was his fault. His entire fault.
“My God.” The Desert Fox’s voice was a husky whisper. “What have they done to you, Hans?”
“I’m…I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled, his head dropping to his chest in defeat. “I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you.”
“They said you’d been arrested.” His commanding officer’s face was haunted, shell-shocked. Hans didn’t know what to say: he stayed quiet instead. “I thought you were dead,” he added, switching from High German to the Swabian dialect they both spoke natively and had always used privately.
This was too much for Hans—he buried his head in his hands, wishing that he had died a long time ago. “That…would make things so much…less complicated,” he ground out, his voice muffled.
After a moment, Hans felt Rommel’s grip tighten painfully on his shoulder, making him flinch involuntarily as the pressure ignited a sharp, stabbing pain born of yesterday’s interrogation. However, the field marshal did not let go. “Don’t say that,” he said firmly. “Don’t.”
“It’s true,” Hans spat bitterly, his eyes blazing hatred. “Mein Gott, but it’s true. Don’t you see, sir? This is my fault. You’re going to wind up like me on my account. All because of me.”
“Stop it, Hans,” the field marshal snapped, grabbing his other shoulder roughly. “Stop talking like that. I made my own decisions and I don’t regret them, so you can forget about being responsible.” His dark eyes were serious. “I’ll take the consequences of my actions—I don’t want you worrying about what I did myself.”
“The ‘consequences’ aren’t pretty, Herr Feldmarschall,” Hans retorted angrily. “I’m an example of that. So you can understand that I might be a little worried when the Gestapo calls you in tomorrow for a chat.”
The Desert Fox had originally looked as if he was about to cut him off, but when his former subordinate finished his sentence his mouth closed abruptly and he sat back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. He was wearing his desert uniform, Hans noted. His arrest must have been a little different from his own, which had consisted of literally being dragged out of bed and ordered to put on the nearest set of clothes, which happened to be yesterday’s uniform, before stormtroopers had marched him out of the house without allowing him to even say good-bye. He now wore a plain Wehrmacht uniform unceremoniously stripped of any decoration or marks of rank, the battered jacket stained with blood from a gashed lip that had refused to stop bleeding for hours.
After a long moment of silence in which the two glared at one another, Rommel asked slowly, “What happened to you, Hans?”
“The same thing that they’ll do to you,” Hans stated brutally.
Erwin stared at him flatly, his gaze expressionless. “I think they thought this would hurt me,” he commented. “Seeing you like this.”
“Well, they’ll be disappointed, won’t they.”
“It is.”
His face was mostly hidden in the darkness, but Hans suddenly realized that he was very upset. Unable to control the tears of emotion welling within him, Hans heaved a quiet sob as he laid his forehead on his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tight. When he had first been assigned to the field marshal’s staff, someone had told him that Rommel always, always put his soldiers first. He’d always wondered if the time would ever arise where the Desert Fox would have to, but he’d never wanted to find out like this. This was something like a bad dream, but it was worse because he knew he wasn’t going to wake up from it.
For nearly a minute, Hans sat there crying silently, his shoulders racked with sobs. For nearly a month now, he had barely shown any emotion at all, and letting it all out now hurt nearly as much as it had to keep it all in. When Rommel finally laid an arm around his shoulders, he allowed the contact wordlessly, trembling slightly as he swallowed his tears.
“It’s all right, Hans,” the Desert Fox said softly. His grip on his friend’s shoulder was firm, and for a few moments Hans was able to forget where he was and remember a time when he had believed that Field Marshal Erwin Rommel could do anything. Now…well, now he had been proven wrong, but one thing remained—the Desert Fox was a fighter, a survivor, and he was also Hans’ friend. If Rommel got through this, so would Hans Speidel. Or so he hoped.
Okay...well, I was bored to death one day and decided to write this originally as a oneshot (see details in that other thread...) but later made it a longer story, so it may be set up a bit weird. More updates coming soon!
When the door to his cell opened, Hans Speidel didn’t look up. He had had a lot of visitors in the past few days, all of them Gestapo intent on forcing a confession from him. He supposed that the fact that he hadn’t talked could be considered a good thing, but at the moment he wasn’t feeling that way—the excruciating tortures he had faced in the past week had discouraged him nearly to the point of giving in and telling them everything. There was a lot to tell.
His involvement in the plot to remove Adolf Hitler, for example. Also, there was the matter of his recruitment of his commanding officer, the acclaimed Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, to his cause—because of him, the Desert Fox was now under investigation as well. If his “investigation” was of a similar regime to his former chief of staff’s…well, Hans didn’t want to think about that. If he had caused Erwin, who had quickly become a close friend in the few months they had known each other, to be reduced to like what he himself was now, he wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself.
The only reason that he hadn’t talked was for that small wish—that his silence, a protest of his dubious innocence, would save the others. Hans hadn’t been told of von Stauffenberg or Rommel’s fates, or those of the other conspirators, so there was a little hope that they were still alive. The Gestapo wanted to know who else, but Hans couldn’t tell them—he didn’t know what they did, and if he talked, he would be betraying the cause he had sworn himself to: the destruction of the Führer of the so-called Third Reich. That had failed, he knew that much, but he might be able to save his comrades who had been part of the secret web.
The only sign that Hans acknowledged the opening of the door was to press himself a little closer to the wall almost unconsciously, knowing what was coming. More questions, more beatings, more threats. If he didn’t cooperate, people would be killed, people they knew he cared about—his friends, his family. God, he hoped his wife and daughter had gotten out when he had been taken away. Thoughts of them kept him going when the agony became unbearable, and his restless sleep was filled with dreams of home. This little memory of happiness allowed him to stay sane when others broke down, and he could only hope that it would stay that way today.
“Brought you a guest, Herr General,” snarled the SS guard’s voice sarcastically. They all called him General even though he had been stripped of his rank weeks ago, mocking him, worrying at the ache of the loss of the Wehrmacht’s support, which had kept him safe and sheltered him from the outside for years and years. Hans hated the guards, stupid, cruel men with a perverse pleasure in giving their prisoners a taste of a rifle butt here and there for entertainment. Hated them. The thought of exacting revenge helped him keep going too when the ghosts of happier times did not.
The door closed, casting the cell into shadow once more. There were no windows besides the small slit carved into the door itself that looked out into the bare hallway and provided little light, and the tiny concrete room was always cold and damp because of that. There was no furniture or creature comforts here—the most variety Hans got was a short trip to the bathroom twice a day.
“Hello?”
Hans frowned slightly, lifting his dull eyes and squinting at the blurry figure he could barely make out through the gloom and his bad eyesight. The first interrogation had shattered the wire-rimmed spectacles he depended on—without them, he could barely see, much less make out the little details of this person’s face in the darkness. But it wasn’t another Gestapo officer, was it? The voice sounded uncertain and a little scared, not the confident sneer of an interrogator taunting his prisoner. It could be a ploy, a variety in routine to try and fool him, perhaps, but Hans wasn’t sure. The voice sounded too familiar for him to be sure. Different, maybe, but still familiar.
After a moment of silence, the former general whispered hoarsely, “Who’s there?” His tone was wary, guarded, but a note of curiosity had worked its way into his weary voice despite his best intentions.
There was a pause. Then: “Field Marshal Rommel. Who are you?”
No! It couldn’t be! Could it? But he couldn’t be here—Hans had tried so hard to protect him, had lied again and again, stubbornly keeping his mouth shut to make sure the field marshal would stay out of trouble on his account. They couldn’t have found out. But that voice was undoubtedly his, the fuzzy silhouette the right height. Hans groaned softly in despair, his eyes blurring with tears. Failed! ---- it!
Rommel reached out to find the wall and approached him, crouching a few feet away and peering at him. Would he even recognize him now? His former chief of staff’s face was battered and bruised by countless interrogations, and the light was bad. Hans stared at his boots, unable to look at him.
“Hans?” The field marshal sounded incredulous, shocked beyond belief.
Hating himself, Hans nodded once. “Yes, Erwin,” he whispered.
Silence. Then, slowly, Rommel reached out a hand and touched his friend’s arm, his expression unreadable. He turned the former lieutenant general’s face towards him, appearing startled by his injuries and the tears brimming in his eyes. Hans looked dully back at him, hating himself. This was his fault. His entire fault.
“My God.” The Desert Fox’s voice was a husky whisper. “What have they done to you, Hans?”
“I’m…I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled, his head dropping to his chest in defeat. “I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you.”
“They said you’d been arrested.” His commanding officer’s face was haunted, shell-shocked. Hans didn’t know what to say: he stayed quiet instead. “I thought you were dead,” he added, switching from High German to the Swabian dialect they both spoke natively and had always used privately.
This was too much for Hans—he buried his head in his hands, wishing that he had died a long time ago. “That…would make things so much…less complicated,” he ground out, his voice muffled.
After a moment, Hans felt Rommel’s grip tighten painfully on his shoulder, making him flinch involuntarily as the pressure ignited a sharp, stabbing pain born of yesterday’s interrogation. However, the field marshal did not let go. “Don’t say that,” he said firmly. “Don’t.”
“It’s true,” Hans spat bitterly, his eyes blazing hatred. “Mein Gott, but it’s true. Don’t you see, sir? This is my fault. You’re going to wind up like me on my account. All because of me.”
“Stop it, Hans,” the field marshal snapped, grabbing his other shoulder roughly. “Stop talking like that. I made my own decisions and I don’t regret them, so you can forget about being responsible.” His dark eyes were serious. “I’ll take the consequences of my actions—I don’t want you worrying about what I did myself.”
“The ‘consequences’ aren’t pretty, Herr Feldmarschall,” Hans retorted angrily. “I’m an example of that. So you can understand that I might be a little worried when the Gestapo calls you in tomorrow for a chat.”
The Desert Fox had originally looked as if he was about to cut him off, but when his former subordinate finished his sentence his mouth closed abruptly and he sat back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. He was wearing his desert uniform, Hans noted. His arrest must have been a little different from his own, which had consisted of literally being dragged out of bed and ordered to put on the nearest set of clothes, which happened to be yesterday’s uniform, before stormtroopers had marched him out of the house without allowing him to even say good-bye. He now wore a plain Wehrmacht uniform unceremoniously stripped of any decoration or marks of rank, the battered jacket stained with blood from a gashed lip that had refused to stop bleeding for hours.
After a long moment of silence in which the two glared at one another, Rommel asked slowly, “What happened to you, Hans?”
“The same thing that they’ll do to you,” Hans stated brutally.
Erwin stared at him flatly, his gaze expressionless. “I think they thought this would hurt me,” he commented. “Seeing you like this.”
“Well, they’ll be disappointed, won’t they.”
“It is.”
His face was mostly hidden in the darkness, but Hans suddenly realized that he was very upset. Unable to control the tears of emotion welling within him, Hans heaved a quiet sob as he laid his forehead on his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tight. When he had first been assigned to the field marshal’s staff, someone had told him that Rommel always, always put his soldiers first. He’d always wondered if the time would ever arise where the Desert Fox would have to, but he’d never wanted to find out like this. This was something like a bad dream, but it was worse because he knew he wasn’t going to wake up from it.
For nearly a minute, Hans sat there crying silently, his shoulders racked with sobs. For nearly a month now, he had barely shown any emotion at all, and letting it all out now hurt nearly as much as it had to keep it all in. When Rommel finally laid an arm around his shoulders, he allowed the contact wordlessly, trembling slightly as he swallowed his tears.
“It’s all right, Hans,” the Desert Fox said softly. His grip on his friend’s shoulder was firm, and for a few moments Hans was able to forget where he was and remember a time when he had believed that Field Marshal Erwin Rommel could do anything. Now…well, now he had been proven wrong, but one thing remained—the Desert Fox was a fighter, a survivor, and he was also Hans’ friend. If Rommel got through this, so would Hans Speidel. Or so he hoped.