War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 204

Chapter 18: Stan

Berlin, the Charité clinic

T

he ride to Berlin passed in a blur. Fever wracked Stan’s body and each bump in the road – and there were many – ripped a fresh wave of pain through his body. He kept his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and biting his lips so as not to scream.

Despite his effort to focus on breathing, he still overheard the conversation between Anna and the SS man who acted as driver. If he’d had the strength, Stan would have punched the despicable man for his disgraceful remarks about Jews, Slavs and prisoners in general.

Back in Poland with the partisans this Hans person wouldn’t have lasted another second, but now Stan contented himself with plans of revenge and deciding on the slowest and most torturous method of death for the SS man. At least it kept him busy and distracted from the pain ravaging his body.

Anna glanced at him several times and once insisted Hans stop so she could rearrange Stan on the backseat after a particularly nasty road hole had catapulted him into the small space between the back seat and the back of the driver’s seat.

“Are you alright?” she asked him with an angelical smile.

After helping him up, she pressed a cup of cool water to his lips and wiped cold sweat from his forehead. Right in that moment, when he saw the genuine concern in her beautiful blue eyes, he understood why Peter had fallen in love with her. This woman was truly special, with a kind heart and a will of steel.

“More or less. But I will be when this ride is over.” He tried a grin, but saw from the worry etched into her face that she’d seen right through his façade. Had seen the awful throes racking his body. Had noticed the gritted teeth and labored breathing.

And the experienced nurse also knew that his body was about to fail him.

“Sleep if you can,” she said and returned to the passenger seat.

Stan couldn’t understand how she could put up with the sleazy driver who not only constantly uttered hateful diatribes, but also tried to hit on her. Thankfully, dizziness engulfed him and he fell into oblivion.

He woke, his entire body burning with a fire so hot he thought he’d landed straight in hell. People tore at his limbs and moved him around, intensifying the agony tenfold.

“I’m sorry, we need to disinfect the wounds,” a soft voice said, but he’d long stopped caring and screamed at the top of his lungs.

Then he fell back into the welcome blackness of unconsciousness.

“This is the prisoner,

he’s been unconscious for most of the last days,” Anna said.

Stan felt the soft mattress beneath him and tried to remember what had happened. Oh yes, the ride to the hospital. Pain. More pain than he’d ever experienced before. Screaming. Cool comforting blackness.

He blinked and slowly opened his eyes, distinguishing several shadows bent over his bed.

“You’re awake. That’s good,” a deep, pleasant voice said and a man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair, wearing glasses and a white lab coat, rounded the bed. “You’re at the Charité clinic. My name is Professor Scherer and I will personally see that you receive the best possible care in order to heal.”

“Thank you,” Stan said with a hoarse voice, suppressing the smirk he wanted to show.

If Anna hadn’t lied and told them he was the godson of the British prime minister this professor wouldn’t give a shit whether he died or not. He just hoped, for Anna’s and his own benefit, that nobody ever found out the truth.

“Let’s see the progress,” the professor said and a young nurse stepped forward.

She pushed his clean-smelling nightgown aside and busied herself removing the bandages on his thigh. Despite her gentleness it hurt and he flinched for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaving Stan wondering the last time someone had apologized for treating him roughly.

“No big deal,” he managed to croak out.

Despite his weak condition he appreciated the proper figure of the nurse and his mind drifted off into a land of precious fantasies. With his thigh exposed he managed a glimpse at the green pus oozing from his injury. Most of his fiery red thigh itched.

Another doctor stepped forward, examining the wound, every touch making Stan grit his teeth harder. When the poking finally stopped, the doctors talked in low voices while the peachy nurse set out to make a new bandage. He couldn’t understand most of their words, but the grave expressions on their faces conveyed a clear message.

Stan was not healing well.

As soon as the nurse finished tending to him, she informed the doctors.

Professor Scherer returned to his side, saying, “The bullet was removed in the camp already, but I’m afraid an infection has settled into the flesh.”

Even Stan knew that the operation in the prisoner camp had been done under awful hygienic conditions, and an infection was almost to be expected. He trusted his bear-like constitution and believed it would all heal well. Although when he looked down his body, instead of strong muscles he saw only bones protruding from flaps of skin.

Another person entered the room, but Stan didn’t have the energy to turn his head and look at them.

“Ah, Nurse Anna, you are here,” one of the doctors said.

Anna approached his bed, giving him a warning gaze. She’d made it perfectly clear to him during the trip that nobody was to know they knew each other.

“He looks a lot better,” she said. Even though she avoided his eyes, he could clearly hear the fakeness in her tone. He did not look better. He was not healing well.

“The progress is slower than desirable,” Professor Scherer said and leaned down to Stan, peering into his eyes. “You look vaguely familiar.”

Stan had no idea what to answer and preferred to keep quiet. Thankfully the professor didn’t pursue the topic and instead commented, “His eyes are still feverish.”

Anna dutifully noted the remark and asked, “Should I give him something to lower the fever?”

“Not yet, but make sure he drinks enough.” The professor stood and gazed at Stan again, their eyes meeting for a moment, before he turned to Anna. “Don’t you think he bears a remarkable resemblance to Peter Wolf?”

Stan watched how Anna nearly choked and then he did the same when his brain processed that Peter Wolf was the fake identity of his brother. Thankfully Anna was more quick-witted than he was and cocked her head as if thinking before she answered with a smile, “Not really. The only thing remotely similar are the blue eyes.”

“You’re right. It must be the eyes.”

Ever so slowly, Stan hissed out the breath he’d been holding and sent a prayer to the heavens that the professor wouldn’t pursue the topic.