Never Shall Be Slaves, part six

[dolevalan]

Title: Never Shall Be Slaves
Co-author Credit: abnormal_sea
Fandom(s): Richard Carstone is from Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Tom Jones is from the novel of the same name by Henry Fielding. Danny Sloane (Arthur's younger brother) also makes a brief cameo appearance.
Rating: PG-13, overall, for violence and some language.



Tom actually broke down once they entered the head Nazi’s office, and grabbed Richard's hand in a painfully tight grip. The German noticed, but didn't say anything for the moment, carefully placing it in his brain to be used later. He lit a cigarette and looked the two men over. "Which one of you is," he spoke in accented English and glanced at the dogtag in his hand, "Richard Carstone?"

Richard's fingers just gave back the lightest pressure. You couldn't see it, but Tom could feel it. Richard said, calmly, "I am," not seeing anything to be gained from lying and absently wondering if his ear had stopped bleeding yet.

The man asked Richard the questions that were to be expected: his rank, former occupation and education, serial number, state of health, and date of birth. Then he quite suddenly started asking about Richard's background and family. Was he ethnically British? No other nationalities in his blood? Richard calmly answered his questions. He wasn't evasive, but didn't offer any more than was asked for, answering concisely. He confessed that he had been raised as a ward of the state, but did know from his legal files that his family had been English for at least 100 years, and most probably longer. The man nodded and handed off some notes for the secretary in the corner to start typing.

He then turned and asked the same questions to Tom, who was a great deal less calm than Richard. This was also noted by the German. When it came time to question Tom about his ancestry, the young man became amazingly flustered. He finally admitted that his parentage was unknown and the German smiled. He began flipping through the pile of photos. Richard tried to think of something to do or say that would be helpful, but nothing was coming to him.

The man took his time with the photographs, not smirking as the other had done but simply absorbing them, his gaze lingering and intense. Tom almost preferred the smirking man. When this Nazi looked at his pictures it was as though he was picking apart Tom's memories and putting them back together. He fidgeted and almost spoke several times, but ended up restraining himself.

Even though he knew the answer, the man asked if Tom could speak German. The young man replied that he knew a little and the Nazi said he must learn more. Tom didn't answer and clung to Richard's hand a little tighter. The Nazi fought back the urge to smile. This one was perfect for reeducation.

As though Tom guessed that the man was thinking about him, he fidgeted and politely asked him to stop looking through his photographs. Richard let Tom hold his hand, his own fingers curled around the other man's, but his eyes rested on the German. Waiting for the next move like a chess player, except that he knew he had no way to win this game. The nazi smiled, and though he didn't let it show, Richard was afraid.

Tom tried again. "Please, sir. May I have them back?"

"Perhaps. But not now. We will keep them." The Nazi turned to his secretary, switching to German. "Did you get all of that?"

He was considering. Keeping together would embolden them, but it would also make them easier to control. The boy with the photographs, especially, might be less inclined to take risks while clinging to his superior.

And Tom was at the moment all but clinging to Richard. He wanted his photos back. He almost looked like he was about to try and snatch them out of the nazi's hands when he remembered Richard. He moved back a step and hung his head, dejected.

With the smallest nod, the German addressed one of the guards at the door. "Take them back to the truck and secure them." The guard saluted and marched the two captives back down to the truck.

The nazi watched them as they left. The older one would be useful for controlling the younger and labour, but not much more. That man knew what he was doing, did it calmly and silently, and it would be almost impossible to change his mind. The other one was much too outspoken and emotional. It might be possible to feed him enough propaganda to turn him around. It seemed like he would respond well to treats, but his officer's fate could also be used as incentive. And if kept together the younger might tell the officer what he had learned and sway him that way. All in all, it should be a fairly easy procedure.

Once back in the truck Tom turned to Richard. "Sir?"

Richard's calm was beginning to wear off, but he was determined not to fall apart in front of Jones, who clearly needed something to cling to. He turned to look at the cadet, still privately shocked at the difference made by the formless gray uniform and the lack of hair. "Yes, Jones?"

"What are we going to do, sir?" Tom’s voice was shaking and he was scared beyond belief. "This...this isn't how prisoners of war are supposed to be treated. It said so in the manual."

Quietly, Richard said, "No. It isn't supposed to be like this." He lowered his voice on the off chance that someone in the camp spoke some English besides the commander. "For now, Jones, we are going to do what they say, and stay alive. Escape if we can, survive if we can't, until we are liberated. That is what we will do. Because when we are free again, we can be sure that justice is served."

Tom ran a shaking hand over his head, trying to comb his fingers through his absent hair. "Yes, sir. Why all the questions? It made me nervous."

Richard frowned. "I don't know. But I don't like it. I've heard rumors of something being done with the Jews, but he seemed far too interested beyond that." After a moment, "I didn't know you didn't know your parents."

"I was abandoned, sir. Brought up in an orphanage for a while, then taken in by a gentleman."

"I was in several. I didn't properly settle anywhere until I was sixteen." Richard leaned back against the wall of the truck bed.

"Were you adopted, sir?" Tom asked a little jealously. He never had been.

Richard shook his head. "Not exactly. Ada... Miss Clare and I went to live with Mr. Jarndyce when the court ruled that we inherited part ownership of his property. It was all bloody complicated."

Tom was about to ask why when the truck started up again and they were moved to another part of the camp. The German barked at them to get out and then told Tom to translate for Richard. He said that they would be living in barrack 317 and that during the day they would be put to work. For now it would be clearing rocks with the road crew. As time went on, and if they were obedient, they might find themselves working for private citizens outside of the camp. The harder they worked, the more they ate. Infractions of the rules would be punished severely. He glared at them, then told them to get to work.

Richard nodded at Tom's translation and went to where the nazi was pointing. Hauling rocks was exhausting, especially as Richard had never been forced to do hard physical labor beyond what the RAF required for basic training. He was determined, however, not to let his pain show, half to encourage Tom, half to deny pleasure (or an excuse for violence) to the soldiers overseeing the operation.

Tom was doing much better now that he was largely being ignored. He had done a lot of farmwork and his mind wandered as he worked. He was once again in his happy place of medals and movies and Sophy. After a while he began humming a Benny Goodman tune. Every now and then, after putting down a rock and going to get a new one, he would give a small twirl, as though he was swing dancing.

The guards finally noticed, and one barked at him, "You! Work faster, if it's so easy." Tom threw a cheeky salute and picked up the pace, moving the rocks faster and spinning at the end with breakneck speed. Richard tried not to smile.

The guard frowned, coming over to where they were working. He said, still in German, "You think you're very funny, don't you? Keep up the pace, but stop the theatrics, or you'll be moving rocks with a broken hand."

Tom's face looked tragic. "Oh no, sir. I'd never be funny. I'm just spinning to keep up momentum and let out the extra energy. I have to do something to occupy my mind."

The guard hit Tom in the face with the butt of his rifle - hard enough to hurt, and perhaps draw a little blood, but not hard enough to knock him down. All the men on the crew other than Richard were very carefully not watching the incident. Richard, on the other hand, said in English, "What do you think you're doing, there?" Humiliation and interrogation were one thing, but POWs were not supposed to be assaulted, and his indignance overcame his reticence for a moment. Tom stood in shock and lifted his hand to his bleeding face.

The German turned to Richard. "Get back to work ad mind your own business." He looked at Tom. "Tell him."

Tom looked at Richard and nervously said. "Please, sir. Go back to work. And...and sorry, sir. And they want you to keep out of it."

Richard hesitated, torn. "Are they going to leave you alone now, Jones?" he asked, though he picked up the rock again as he did.

Tom glanced at the nazi. "I...I don't know, sir."

Before Richard could reply, the guard said, "Both of you get back to work, and shut up, if you don't want to get shot. Tell him that." And he withdrew, though he kept a wary eye on the two men.

"We're not to talk, sir. He...he said that he would shoot us if we did."

Tom went back to work, no longer twirling, but still humming 'Sing, Sing, Sing' to give himself a rhythm to work to. As they passed each other, hauling rocks back and forth, Richard caught what he was humming and began whistling along, very softly. They could only hear each other when they passed, but Richard managed to keep to Tom's rhythm fairly faithfully anyway. Tom smiled when he caught what Richard was doing.

He moved on from humming and started to try and impersonate an entire orchestra with varying degrees of success. It was hard trying to sound like a trumpet and a drum at the same time. But he kept smiling and his steps became noticeably bouncier. He had to work hard to remind himself not to twirl. The song and Tom's performance gave Richard something to concentrate on besides his own pain and fear, and the work went easier for it, though every now and then he subtly shushed Tom to try and keep him from drawing the guards' attention. Tom moved on to other songs and was now quietly singing 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.' But he was soon so caught up in it that he gave a clandestine twirl and started making trumpeting noises a little too loudly.

The guard shot at Tom's feet from his position several yards away. Tom yelped and dropped his rock out of surprise. The guard was watching him, clearly waiting for him to pick it back up. Richard had jumped at the gunshot, looking to Tom with worry, though he hadn't dropped his own chunk of rock.

Tom bent to pick up his rock and went back to work and the second verse of the song.