3 Sep 44

Things were quiet in the barracks. It was a nice day, and most of the men were outside, taking advantage of the mild weather. Once winter hit, it would be miserable, and none of the men were looking forward to it. The war had dragged on for a long time, and some of the men had been prisoners here for a very long time. Two who had been here longer than almost any of the others were Cpl. Peter Newkirk, and Cpl. Louis LeBeau. They had been here even before Col. Hogan had arrived. Before there had been a mission. Before there had been a purpose to all the madness. Peter had kept himself alive by sheer willpower and determination to make the Krauts as miserable as they made him. Louis had kept himself alive by being determined to keep Peter alive and to avenge La Belle France. But five years is a very long time. Sometimes…it is too long.

Louis had a secret. He had kept it from the military when he was part of the Regular Army. It was easier to keep as a part of the Free French Army. It was a little harder to keep as a POW. But, he managed for five years. He was a valuable member of Papa Bear's team, and he did his job well. He never failed. He never faltered under the pressure. In spite of his secret, he felt he kept himself together very, very well. Besides, he had hope. And a man can live forever when he has hope.

At least, until the summer of 1944. Slowly his world unraveled. He realized it. He felt it happening. He knew what it was, because he had heard the stories all his life. He had watched mental illness destroy some of those he loved the most. Others were luckier, and they had only minor bouts with depression. He had no way of knowing how sever it was. If he had been home, he could have talked to someone. He could have gone to someone who understood. Someone who knew his history. But. He was not in Paris. He was in Germany. In a prison camp. And he knew how the Nazis dealt with problems like his. And so, he stayed silent.

Until the day he tried to kill Pierre.

~HH~

10 Sep 44

Hogan sat alone in his office. He should have seen it coming. The problem was, no one could have. The man was too good at hiding things, obviously. But this…he was his commanding officer. He should have known somehow. He sighed and paced around the office, thinking. Finally, he headed down to the radio room.

The men in the barracks were silent; no one even looked up when he walked in. The pall in the room was palpable. Even Carter, laying on his bunk, faced the wall and refused to look at anyone. Hogan said nothing…there was nothing to say. He slapped the bunk, and dropped down the ladder.

Baker sat at the radio. He shook his head as Hogan approached, already surmising what his commander wanted. Hogan nodded sadly. "Let me know if you hear anything. He needs help, and I don't want to send him to London if we can help it."

Baker nodded, and Hogan hurried down the tunnel, headed for the infirmary. The tunnel entrance for the infirmary was new. It had been completed, along with the tunnel from Barracks 5, just two months before. This was a huge help to Sgt. Wilson, as it made it easier for him to get in and out of the infirmary undetected when any of the heroes needed care after their activities outside camp. So far, the kommandant had allowed Wilson to keep him there, since there was nothing a German hospital could do for him.

He rapped on the trapdoor twice, and pushed it aside. As he expected, both Wilson and his assistant, Thomas Foster were there. Thomas was tending to a couple of men on the far end of the room. Wilson was standing by the bed of the patient in Bed 1, closest to his desk. Bed 1 was where he always kept the patient he was most concerned about. Joe looked up and raised a weary hand in greeting.

Hogan looked at the man in the bed. His heart clenched at how frail he looked. The fact that his eyes were open, yet he seemed completely unaware of his surroundings made it so much worse. He turned to Wilson. "Any change?"

"No, sir. I'm giving him fluids and monitoring his vitals. There's not much else I can do. As you can see, medically I can keep him functioning, since he's breathing on his own. But he is catatonic…although physically, there is no reason for it. At least, none that I can detect. I still think the answer must be in his background…perhaps something that was not in his records.

Wilson pulled up a chair for Hogan and turned his own desk chair around. "Have a seat. I talked to the Kommandant. He came in to ask about him today. Wanted to know if anything had changed." He huffed in disgust. "He even asked if I thought he might be faking."

Hogan shook his head. "What did you tell him?"

Joe shrugged. "I asked him if he really looked like he was faking. I also reminded he hasn't moved a muscle voluntarily since he was brought in. Kind of hard to fake. He said as far as he was concerned, unless he gets worse he can stay right here, but that he would re-evaluate in a week."

Hogan nodded. "Can I sit with him for a while?"

"Yeah. Stay as long as you want. I have a batch of reports to catch up on." He turned his chair back to his desk, then swiveled back to face him. "By the way, tell Newkirk to quit avoiding me. I want to check the stitches in his arm. If I have to come looking for him I'm giving him a shot just for the fun of it." His attempt at a joke fell flat for them both. His heart just wasn't in it. An inch closer, and Newkirk could have lost his arm. A few inches the other way, and he could have lost his life.

"Will do, but I doubt he'll come over here." Hogan sighed and settled into the wooden chair. He was silent for a long time, not really focused on much of anything. He was so tired. He hadn't slept much since they'd lost him…well, sort of lost him. He glanced back down at him…yeah—lost him. Because if there was one thing he could say about him right now, it was that he sure as hell looked lost…

Hogan leaned back in the chair, and shut his eyes, trying to figure out just what had happened. How had it all gone so wrong? A week ago, everything was perfectly normal. Or at least, he had thought it was.

~HH~

Carter finally sat up on his bunk. He needed to be doing something. He was never good at just sitting still. He stood and peered over the bunk at his best friend.

"You okay, Newkirk?"

Peter lay on his back, his left arm pillowing his head, his bandaged right arm cradled across his chest. "'m fine."

"You need to go see Wilson."

Peter scowled. "Are you me mum now?"

As usual, Andrew missed the sarcasm entirely. "No, but it's been a week. He said he needed to check the stitches in five days."

Peter huffed in frustration. "I know what he bloody well said! I was there, remember?"

Hurt registered in Carter's eyes, although his voice was completely neutral. "I'm sorry. I know you were. I didn't mean to bug you."

He turned and walked out the door without another word.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, bloody hell!"

He jumped off his bunk and followed his friend.

He found Andrew sitting on the bench behind the delousing station.

He sat down. "I'm sorry, mate. I didn't mean it."

Sadly, Andrew nodded. "I know."

"It's just…I can't go over there right now. I can't—"

Andrew nodded. "It's okay. I get it."

Eventually, they went inside and sat back at the table. Feeling awkward, Andrew mad a pot of tea. It was hard for Peter, but he appreciated the gesture. No one in the barracks ever thought to make tea for him except for Louis.

To cover his embarrassment, Andrew began his barracks duty for the day. Fifteen men living in close quarters in a room with only a few windows could get to smelling rather…ripe…in a hurry. So, regardless of any other inspections, Colonel Hogan had instituted a weekly barracks inspection of their own. After the men had cleaned the place thoroughly, the barracks chief would inspect and report back to Colonel Hogan. It was also another way the senior POW kept track of any possible trouble brewing in the camp.

Most of the men had stripped their beds earlier, and Andrew was to take the mattresses outside to air them. Peter pulled his blanket and sheet off his bunk and took them out to where Kinch and Olsen were on laundry detail. He then grabbed a pick stick and started his own job of policing the area around the barracks. A different man would take the mattresses out to air, another would bring them in at the end of the day. Each barracks picked a different day, so that no more than 10 barracks would have mattresses leaning on them on any given day, when the camp was at normal capacity. * All of the men had rolled their mattresses on their bunks, as was customary. The only bunk still unprepared was LeBeau's. Carter stripped it quickly and rolled it, pulling it off the bunk. He had decided to move Louis' mattress first. As he set the mattress on the floor, a piece of paper inside the wooden bunk caught his eye. It was a note, written in a cryptic, almost child-like scrawl—nothing at all like LeBeau's tiny precise script. The words were like an electric shock, and he clutched the paper as he ran to find Colonel Hogan.

~HH~

"SECRETS. Keep quiet. More than one way to break. So very sorry." Robert Hogan read the heartbreaking words out loud. Obviously, LeBeau had known something was terribly wrong sometime before he had attacked Newkirk. Somehow, he'd known. He'd been afraid. No, he'd been terrified.

The team sat in Hogan's office, hashing over the situation. Kinch had been badgering London for any help on finding out more about LeBeau's past. It was difficult, because there were very few records still available to them after the fall of France. A hot call directly from Hogan had helped some and two days later, they finally had at least an idea of what they were up against.

~HH~

Col. Hogan was at his desk filling out some reports when Andrew knocked on his door. "Come in."

"Can I talk to you sir?"

"Sure, come on in."

Andrew moved into the room and sat down on Hogan's footlocker, his favorite seat in the room. "I need help."

"Okay, shoot."

"Newkirk won't see Wilson about his stitches. I think it's because he doesn't want to see Louis. He needs to talk about what happened but he won't. Or he's just going to get madder and madder. You know how he is."

"Yeah. I definitely know how he is."

"So, I was thinking. What if we make him talk about it?"

Hogan tilted his head. "Just how do you propose to do that?"

"Well, what if I bug him enough about it that he gets mad? Then, if he starts yelling at me, he might end up talking about it accidently."

Hogan rubbed his chin. "Yeah. He might. But he also might just clam up completely."

Andrew shrugged. "Well, then I'll just play it by ear. If I have to, I'll get him to slug me, and then if we get into a fight, we'll end up in the cooler, and we'll have all kinds of time to talk."

Hogan nodded, "And before you do, I'll make sure a few of the guys get themselves thrown in the cooler for a day or so first, to make sure you end up in the same cell…Yeah…this could work."

Hogan made the arrangements, and the next morning, a few hours after roll call, they were ready. He gave Carter the high sign, and Andrew went out to find Newkirk.

~HH~

As he picked up stray trash and cigarette butts around the camp, Peter tried to swallow his irritation. He really wished Carter would quit nagging him about going to see Wilson. His arm didn't even hurt any more. The stitches were fine. He knew Wilson would have to remove them, but there was no reason Wilson couldn't do that over in the barracks. He knew that he wanted him to see LeBeau. And Peter simply could not do that. Wouldn't do it.

Andrew grabbed a canvas sack and pick-stick and came over to join him. As he watched him cross the compound, Peter made a mental bet with himself as to how long it would take Andrew to bring up his going to see LeBeau at the infirmary.

They had worked for about ten minutes when it happened. "Look, Peter, I really think you should go to see Louis. It might be really—"

"No." Peter's response was flat and stern, even as he looked at his watch. "And I'm impressed, mate. You lasted ten minutes. Leave it alone. I am not gonna see Louis. I am not gonna see Wilson. I don't wanna talk about it. Not with you, not with the guv. Not with anybody. Is that clear enough?" He bent down to pick up his sack.

Andrew replied. "Actually, Peter, it's clear enough, but it's nowhere near good enough."

Peter straightened up. He narrowed his eyes at Carter. "Excuse me?"

"I said, it's not good enough. You know what your problem is, pal?"

"What's that, mate?" His eyes were beginning to glitter dangerously.

Andrew braced himself for what he knew would come next. "You're a coward."

And Peter nailed Andrew with a right cross that started from somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. Carter dropped like a rock.

They both got dragged to the cooler and thrown into a cell for fighting, although it was probably the most one-sided fight Hogan had ever witnessed, considering Carter's grandchildren were liable to come out silly after that hit. Neither Hogan nor Carter had counted on that little detail. Hogan winced as he watched Langenscheidt and Schultz drag the two men into the cooler. He sighed. Oops.

An hour later, Andrew woke up on the bunk, with a wet cloth across his face, and a thousand grenades going off inside his skull. Gingerly, he moved the cloth and slowly, Peter's scowling face came into focus. Peter took a drag off his cigarette and handed it to him. Andrew puffed it carefully and handed it back.

Peter cocked his head and looked at him. "You have my attention. Wanna try that one again, mate?"

Carter sat up painfully. He rubbed his jaw. "I'm sorry about calling you a coward. You know I don't believe that. But you need to listen to me. We don't know for sure what's wrong with Louis. What he did to you was awful. And the note I found proves he knew something was wrong with him. He hid it instead of trying to get help. And you could've died. Now, you're doing the same thing he did. The fact you hit me that hard proves it."

Peter snorted. "Proves nothin.' Proves only you should mind your own business, mate."

Carter shook his head. "No. You and I have fought before. You've never hit me that hard, no matter how mad you were. That punch was different."

Peter sighed. He sat on the floor and leaned against the wall peering up at Carter, who sat on the bunk with his hands resting on his knees.

"You're not gonna leave this alone, are you?"

Carter shook his head with a small smile, and then winced. "Nope."

Newkirk sighed heavily and his head dropped to his chest for a moment. When he looked up, the sarcasm was gone. For once, he had dropped his jaunty mask, and pain and fear were etched into his features.

"You weren't there, Andrew. You were in your lab when he attacked me."

"I know. I'm sorry." He was, too. Maybe he could have done something. But he refused to travel that useless road. "By the time I got up there, you were on the ground with Kinch helping you. The colonel was with LeBeau. Can you tell me what you remember?"

"I dunno. I just walked in from the outside…in the door, like always. Louis was at the stove…stirring somethin'. A pot of soup, I think. I know he had baked bread, because I remember smelling it…it reminded me of home." Without warning, Peter rolled to his side and began retching. There wasn't much there, but he heaved for a long time anyway. Andrew grabbed the cloth Peter had used on his head, and wet it down with water from the canteen hanging on the wall. He waited until Peter was finished, and then handed him the cloth. Peter wiped his mouth gratefully.

"Sorry, mate."

Andrew shrugged. "No worse than sleeping in a room with 14 other guys after LeBeau makes chili."

Newkirk couldn't help but laugh. The Red Cross had once sent a shipment of canned chili for the Americans…and LeBeau had reluctantly fixed it for the entire barracks…with a few of his own touches. The results were…fragrant. Colonel Hogan had banned smoking in the barracks for two days after that particular escapade…

Carter eyed his friend. "Now, you were saying?"

Peter was silent for a moment. "Louis picked up the knife. I think he was going to cut up the veges he had on the table. I reached for a carrot, and he turned toward me, but—when he looked at me, it was like, I dunno, like he suddenly wasn't there or somethin'. His eyes just went blank and it was like he was just…gone. Next' thing I remember, the knife flashed out at me, an' I was on the ground bleedin' like a stuck pig. I musta passed out, because I came to while Foster was pokin' me arm."

Andrew nodded. "I was there for that. You were out, but you tried to fight him." He didn't feel the need to remind Peter that the Londoner had awakened on the floor in Andrew's arms.

"Medics give me the collywobbles," he grumped.

"Better than leaving you to bleed to death," Carter pointed out. "And Foster's good. He took good care of you while Wilson was with Louis."

"Both a coupla bloodsuckers if you ask me."

Carter chuckled. So, Wilson took LeBeau to the Infirmary. He came back over here and put 23 stitches in your arm. And now you are avoiding both of them like the plague. What are you afraid of?"

"I am not afraid of Wilson. He don't bother me a bit."

Carter nodded. "Okay, then it's going to the Infirmary that bothers you."

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Because Louis is broken, and you can't fix him."

Newkirk turned tortured green eyes on his best mate. "Yeah."

~HH~

A few hours later the two were engrossed in their fifteenth game of gin. Peter was griping because he had yet to win a hand. The other problem was that he had also been unable to distract Andrew from keeping mental score of the number of cigarettes Peter now owed him. At this rate, Andrew would be collecting most of the packs from his next Red Cross package!

"Sure you don't wanna switch to poker, mate?"

"My grandpa always told me, know your game. Of course not." Andrew grinned and laid down a card.

Newkirk growled in frustration and picked up yet another card.

Suddenly, they heard the low, but excited voice of Walt Fitzimmons near the small iron-screened window. "Heads up, felllas!"

Carter stood on the bunk and looked down at his assistant. "What's going on?"

The mortar was weak, and Carter moved the screen easily. Walt him handed a small bundle.

"Colonel wants everybody out! He said to set a couple of these off in your cell, and I'll do the rest. It's rec period, so the guys will make plenty of noise to make sure they pull everyone out."

"LeBeau is awake! Colonel Hogan needs Newkirk in the infirmary right away…you too! He says to fake smoke inhalation and get taken in there right away. If the guards hesitate…cough…a lot!"

With that, Walt disappeared down the back side of the building. Carter replaced the screen and sat back down on the bunk, exploring the package eagerly.

"Oh, boy, these are beauts! This should make a whole lotta smoke all over the place…"

Newkirk put a hand over Andrew's mouth to stem the verbal tidal wave…

"Leave off, mate! Just throw the bloody things!"

Andrew threw them, just as chaos broke out all over the cooler. Smoke was pouring from at least seven different places and the guards were frantically unlocking the cells and pushing the prisoners into the yard. The effect was enhanced by a few of the prisoners yelling "Fire, fire!"

By the time Schultz got to them, Carter and Newkirk were coughing and were batting the smoke away. They were genuinely glad to get out into the fresh air. It was obvious Fitz had used only lighter bombs in the rest of the cooler because most of the men seemed to be suffering no ill effects from the smoke.

In fact, Carter and Newkirk were only ones still having problems. Klink ordered them sent to the infirmary to be checked out. He also ordered all the prisoners who had been in the cooler be confined to quarters until they could get the cooler cleaned out and find out what had started the fire.

No one noticed Fitz sneak back into the cooler and gather up the evidence. He was eternally grateful Newkirk had sewn the extra pockets inside the lining of his jacket. They came in very handy at times like this. Fitz remembered a game he had played as a teenager. He decided it was about time the Germans learned how to play "Telephone." He stepped quickly outside and up to Karl Langenscheidt, one of the guards on duty at the cooler. He murmured to him, "Hey, did you hear that the cooler has really bad wiring? I heard that's what caused all this today." The guard frowned at him but Fitz could see the wheels turning. Satisfied, he wandered back towards the barracks.

~HH~

The guards deposited Newkirk and Carter at the door of the Infirmary with assurances by Wilson that they would be fine. The two guards then hurried back to the chaos by the cooler, considering their job done as far as the two prisoners was concerned.

The sight that greeted Peter inside the infirmary was one he would never forget. LeBeau was now sitting up in bed, but his eyes were wild and he looked as if he were caught in a nightmare. The guv was sitting in a chair next to his bed. It was obvious he wanted to touch Louis in the worst way, but was restraining himself.

Carter looked over at Wilson. "You said he's waking up?"

Wilson nodded. "He is not coherent yet, but yes, he is waking up.

Hogan added, "and he has been calling for Newkirk."

"Me, sir?"

Hogan nodded solemnly. "It sounds like he thinks you're dead. He thinks he killed you."

Peter was startled. He hadn't thought of it from Louis's point of view. He hadn't realized Louis could be really thinking about anything the way he was.

Suddenly, LeBeau let out a strangled cry. "Pierre! Noooo!"

Peter's fear dropped away as he rushed over to the man in the bed. "Louis, I'm right 'ere! It's alright, little mate!"

He knelt and pulled Louis into his arms. "I'm right here, look—look at me!"

Slowly, the haze lifted from LeBeau's eyes and he finally focused on Newkirk. His eyes grew large and his face paled. "Oh, Pierre! I am so sorry, I thought—"

Peter shook his head. "Still here, mate.

LeBeau appeared reassured by his words, and he laid back into the pillow. His eyes shut, and his breathing evened out.

Hogan looked at Wilson. "He's asleep?"

The medic checked the Frenchman. "He is. A natural sleep is the best thing for him right now. I need to go over the information London sent."

"Let me know what you find out."

"Of course, sir."

Hogan turned and left the building, needing to make sure things were cleared up with Klink.

Andrew suddenly started coughing again. Apparently, smoke inhalation was not as much of a ruse as they had thought.

Wilson looked at Carter. "I need to check you out." He turned to Peter. "And I am going to check on those stitches. They likely need to come out. Go sit down over there." He indicated two cots on the far side of the room, where Foster stood waiting. Both Carter and Newkirk glared at Wilson, but he simply raised his eyebrows. "Move it." They did, Peter muttering under his breath.

Newkirk took a seat on a cot and started to light a cigarette, only to smirk when Wilson hollered "No smoking, damnit!"

Foster held out his hand, prepared to confiscate them till he left. Newkirk rolled his eyes. "I'll keep 'em in me pocket."

Andrew sat down on the next cot and grinned, "or you could just give 'em to me. They're mine anyway."

Foster relented, and Newkirk dropped the pack back into his breast pocket.

Peter smirked. "Shut up, Carter."

Andrew coughed again, and Peter told him, "guess you taught Fitz too well, hey mate?"

Foster, who was attempting to take his vitals lightly smacked Newkirk on the back of the head. "You both shut up!"

Wilson washed his hands and stalked towards them. "Knock it off you two clowns. Foster, go ahead and check Carter over. He should be fine, but put him to bed for a few hours. I want to watch him for any problems."

Carter opened his mouth to protest, and Wilson shot him a look. He promptly shut it again. Foster nodded and led him to a bed in the corner of the room, and pulled the curtain.

The medic looked at Newkirk. "All right, let me take a look at your arm."

Newkirk held out his left arm, and Wilson carefully unwound the bandage. He nodded. "Looks pretty good."

Foster had finished with Carter for the moment, and he laid out the supplies his boss would need to remove the stitches.

Ten minutes later, the job was done, and Newkirk was seated by Carter's bed, smirking at him. He reached up and pulled the curtain shut. He was wearing his greatcoat and feeling fine.

"Figures you'd land yourself in here, mate."

"Oh, shut up."

Peter had just gotten a cigarette into his mouth and was about to strike a match when a hand reached through the curtain and yanked it out of his mouth.

Wilson roared "NO SMOKING IN THE INFIRMARY!"

Newkirk simply cocked an eyebrow at the mangled cigarette in the medic's hand.

"Don't suppose I get that back?"

The guards outside the Infirmary were surprised when the Englander was suddenly propelled out the door. Wilson shouted "OUT!" The door slammed with a mighty thump.

Inside, Carter laughed so hard he wound up in another coughing fit.

~HH~

Louis slept for a couple of hours, and Carter made Wilson happy by resting quietly while he read the what information London had been able to find about Louis' background. Medically speaking, there was not much available, but there were a few clues. Several members of his family had died under clouded circumstances at younger ages than he would have expected. Two of his relatives had been committed to facilities for the insane. Wilson was no psychologist, but he was an astute observer of people, and he had long suspected LeBeau suffered from bouts of depression. While it was not uncommon in the prisoners, Louis had seemed to find an outlet in his cooking. Apparently, there was also a more serious genetic factor involved. And Wilson was very much afraid for their little French corporal.

He closed the file, and groaned in frustration. Carter, from his corner looked up. "What is it, Joe?"

Joe, not wanting to wake LeBeau, moved over to sit next to Carter. "I can't go into details, but LeBeau could be in real trouble. There's evidence to suggest his problem could be genetic." He knew, of course, of Carter's background as a chemist. "I don't know any way medically to help him."

Carter was as sharp as Joe. His large eyes grew sad. "It's not physical." It was not a question, therefore, required no confirmation.

Nevertheless, Wilson said it anyway. "And if the Nazis find out…"

Carter nodded. "Louis is a dead man…or worse."

"Yeah."

As they both watched him, LeBeau stirred in his sleep. Carter's eyes grew hard. "That is not going to happen, Joe. Not on my watch. I know someone who might be able to help. But I need to get a call through to the States. I have to see Colonel Hogan right now."

Without another word, Carter pulled his coveralls back on over his t-shirt and boxers and reached for his boots.

Wilson watched him silently until he got to the door. "Who is it, Carter? Who do you think can help him?"

Carter smiled slightly. "My mother, Joe." And he was gone.

~HH~

Hogan raised an eyebrow at Carter's request. "How could your mother help LeBeau?"

"You'll have to talk to Wilson about the details, because he couldn't tell me, but from what I understand, it's not physical. That means it's a mental or emotional problem. A spiritual one. And that means my mother may be able to help him. I don't ask you to understand it, but just to give her a chance." He paused. "I know you guys give me a hard time about being Lakota sometimes, but my mother is a sort of—well, I suppose you would think of her as a medicine woman. She knows all sorts of herbal remedies and ceremonies that my people have used for thousands of years. Sir…they work. I believe I can help him. But I can't do it alone. She has taught me a lot…but not about this. Please, sir. I have to try." Andrew's blue eyes were dark with fear and his voice had trailed off breathlessly.

Hogan nodded. "Since we already requested the records, they know we're trying to help him. We just have to convince them to put the call through. Hogan called Kinch into the office and they set up the details of getting the call relayed to Bullfrog, North Dakota. Andrew reminded Hogan it was six hours later in North Dakota than it was in Hammelburg, so they were able to time the call so that Andrew's mother would receive the call at about nine in the morning her time on a Tuesday. Andrew knew his mother would be home baking bread at that time. He explained to his friends that she had been baking bread on Tuesday mornings for as long as he could remember.

London was initially confused at Papa Bear's insistence that the call be placed on behalf of one "Little Deer," since there was no operative on the books by that name. However, Andrew knew it was the only way his mother would know for sure it was really him on the other end of the relay. He only wished he could actually hear her voice, but he was happy London had agreed to help.

It took a bit of explaining, but eventually after running the gauntlet between the submarine, London, New York, Chicago and a bored radio operator at the Army base in Bismarck ND, the call was relayed through to a totally mystified and somewhat gossipy civilian operator in Crabapple Junction who rang the exchange at the Carter household in Bullfrog, and Momma Carter picked up the telephone in the kitchen.

It was a good thing Col. Hogan had thought to have Andrew write out exactly what he wanted to say before they ever put in the call, because the process was so complicated and slow that they would have been on the radio for hours if he hadn't.

Essentially, Carter explained what had happened to a friend, whom he did not name due to security reasons, and what little they knew about his history in general. He also asked her if she knew of any herbal compounds or ceremonies that he could use to help his friend that would be available to him where he was. He knew she would understand his not being specific. He also told her he understood it would take time to put together her answer. She indicated she would need two days. He agreed, promising he would call again at the same time on Thursday morning. The call was terminated much more abruptly than either of them would have liked, but they couldn't give any personal messages anyway.

~HH~

After the call, Hogan looked at Carter. "Well, I guess the next step is to talk to Louis. Any ideas on that?"

Andrew nodded. "I'd like to talk to him by myself, if that's alright, sir. I think I know how I can help him to feel a little more comfortable about the situation., but it would be better if nobody else is around.

"Does that include Sgt. Wilson?"

"Yessir. I meant it when I said that I have some training. It would help if Louis trusts me enough to let me help him. And if Joe is there, the barriers Louis will have up will be that much harder to break through."

"Hypnosis?"

Carter smiled. "No sir. Nothing like that. It's hard to explain. But it will help, I promise."

Hogan rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, that's the point. Okay. I'll talk to Joe and get you the time you need with Louis."

"I need permission leave camp after I talk to him. There are some things I need to gather. Also, I need to—prepare myself—and I can't do that inside camp."

Hogan cocked his head.

"What do you mean…prepare yourself? What do you need to do?"

Carter knew this was not going to sit well, but he had no choice. "I must go alone." He saw the instant protest on his commander's face and knew he had to make him understand. "I can't exactly explain it, sir, but in order to bring Louis back to himself, I have to…create a place—a sacred space…a clean place." His face suddenly twisted. "A place not touched by-" he shuddered and gestured helplessly. And Hogan understood.

He placed a gentle hand on Carter's shoulder. "How long will you need?"

~HH~

Once Andrew got the word that Louis was ready to talk to him, he headed over to the infirmary.

He found that Louis was pale, but looking better. "Hey Louis."

Louis nodded. "It is good to see you, mon ami. Sgt. Wilson said you wanted to talk to me alone. What is it?"

Andrew sat in the chair next to the bed. "You are one of the few guys in camp who doesn't give me a hard time about being Lakota."

Louis smiled and splayed his hand across his chest. "Andre' if any man in this camp understands pride in his heritage, it is moi."

Andrew chuckled. "True. Alright then. I think I can help you." Louis' expression darkened, and Andrew held up his hand. "Look, just over a week ago, you tried to kill Newkirk, and then you went catatonic on us. Wilson couldn't find a reason for it. You have a problem, buddy." Terror lit LeBeau's eyes. Andrew continued, explaining the relay call, and what he wanted to do. He was happy to see that Louis calmed after he had finished. The haunted expression eased just slightly.

Carter gave him a few minutes to take in what he had said, and then carefully asked a question. "Louis, do you wanna talk about it?"

LeBeau shook his head. "Non. Not really. It's probably better you do not know the details. It's just…I miss my family very much." He studied Carter for a few moments. "You know why I get impatient with you sometimes?"

Carter grinned. "Sure. I'm clumsy, and I mess things up. I also tend to get hurt and bleed a lot."

Andre's calm recitation of this last fact made Louis wince in shame. His hemophobia, while not something he could help, was a never-ending thorn to him…He was a soldier after all! And Andre' was one of the finest and bravest men he had ever known. He realized he needed to set his young friend straight, although he had never shared the story of Jac LeBeau with anyone at Stalag 13.

Louis smiled, and Andrew was surprised to see tears glinting in his eyes. "Andre, you remind me so much of my youngest brother. "Jac was the best person I ever knew. He was kind, generous and brave! Many people said he was odd, because he loved to explore the river, and he spent time hiking outside the city…he would pack a knapsack and roam the forests alone. What many did not know is that he was different. He, along with others in my family suffered from depression. His wanderings were his way of coping with it. He would disappear for weeks at a time." Louis' voice trailed off, and Andrew suddenly realized the truth.

"What happened to him?"

Louis sighed. "About ten years ago now, Jac did not come home. At first, my parents thought nothing of it, but when a month went by, ma mére…" he swiped at his eyes. "anyway, they began checking around. Eventually, we—found his body—well, found where he was buried."

"Awww, Louis! I'm sorry. What happened?"

"Many in my family would tell you it was an accident. They made up stories to comfort each other and to satisfy others. But ma mére, she would not do that. She told her children the truth. She loved us that much. Jac hung himself in the forest. A villager had found his body and buried him there. He reported it to the local authorities, but they simply put his wallet in a drawer and waited for someone to come looking for him."

Andrew was stunned into silence.

Louis looked at his friend. "Anyway, you remind me of him."

"How old was he?"

Louis sighed. "Nineteen."

"You see, Andre', I realize now, that the blackness had consumed Jac, and he fought it off for as long as he could—" his voice broke, and he shut his eyes. "And now it has come for me."

Carter laid his hand on Louis' shoulder. "No, Louis. I am not going to let that happen. Let me help you. Trust me. Look at me."

LeBeau turned to him. Looked at him. Blue searched brown. Trust. A beginning…

~HH~

That night, after roll call, Carter took a small pack with him and disappeared. Hogan knew generally where he was going and that he would be back before dawn. He asked no questions, and only asked that if he got into trouble that he leave some sign, to which Carter agreed.

He had long ago scoped out a small cave to which he retreated from time to time, and it would serve his current purpose well. He did not have the ability to construct a proper sweat lodge, nor did he have all the ingredients for a proper smudge, but he did the best he could under the circumstances. The cleansing rituals that took place in the cave that night were sacred and were initiated by pure intentions, and a desire for balance and clarity. *

How and what those rituals consisted of were not something to be taking lightly, or shared by anyone outside the tribe. Andrew knew there were some of his people who would look askance at his trying to help a wasichu with the medicine. But LeBeau was like his brother. And wasichu medicine could not help him. Even he might only be able to help a little. But it was better than seeing Louis suffer. And so, he prepared.

The next morning Carter turned up and managed to dive into his bunk about twelve minutes before roll call. He looked better than he had in many days. As they were filing out, he leaned over to Hogan. "I'll be ready, as soon as we get word from my mother and I gather what I need."

Hogan nodded. "Good. Gopher's a good cook, but I'm beginning to miss LeBeau's strudel."

Carter grinned as Hogan slapped him on the back and they headed to roll call.

~HH~

Hogan, Kinch and Carter all met down in the radio room. It was Thursday morning, 0300. The call had been relayed through to the Carter home, and Kinch handed the radio over to Carter. He wrote down the items that the radioman from the sub relayed to him. It was an odd assortment, and some of the words made no sense to anyone else. Actually, they were a sort of code that only Carter and his mother understood. It had always been this way, since Creation. Wisdom and knowledge passed down, from one generation to the next. Sacred and honored. Just before he signed off, Andrew was finally able to have one moment of time, a personal moment with his mother. He knew he could not say anything that would give anything away, but he also knew his mother's heart. She needed to know that he was truly alright. And so, he simply said, "I am following the Red Road as much as I can." And he signed off as Little Deer. Hogan and Kinch looked at him.

"The Red Road," Carter said, "is basically what you might call 'the straight and narrow'. There is a lot more to it than that, but that's the gist of it." He looked over to Hogan. "I need to go out and gather a few more things. I should be ready by tomorrow night."

Kinch nodded. "Yeah, well, you are pretty much on the straight and narrow, that much is sure."

Carter shrugged, and they all headed up to the barracks to get a little more sleep before roll call.

~HH~

LeBeau seemed to be doing fine physically, but he was withdrawn and tired. He was nothing like the small firecracker they all knew and loved. Even a visit from Mayra was no good. She had come into the tunnel just to see Louis. She had heard he was ill, and wanted to see if she could help. She left nearly in tears when she showed up in the infirmary through the trapdoor and LeBeau refused to see her. There was a very awkward scene in the tunnel when Mayra cried her eyes out on Hogan's shoulder.

Wilson had agreed to let Carter sit with Louis after roll call. Wilson had gotten permission to stay late to work on some Red Cross paperwork. That would cover someone being in the tent. Carter came up through the tunnel. LeBeau and Carter sat talking late the next evening. Eventually, Carter told Louis it was time. He had him lay back and relax as much as he could. He used a smudge in the area around Louis and his bed. This was not ideal, but it would work. Over the next few hours he helped to bring a measure of emotional healing to his friend.

Louis leaned back against the pillow. He was tired, but he felt clear for the first time in a long time. He smiled as he looked down at the blond head laying on the edge of the bed, cradled in the arms of his flight jacket. Gently, he tapped Andre'. "Wake up, mon ami. It will be light soon."

Andrew looked at his friend. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much better, merci."

Andrew's grin was sunshine after a month of darkness. Louis couldn't help but grin back.

~HH~

Louis would have a very long road ahead, but what Carter had done was a start. The blackness had abated for the time being. The herbal compound Andrew had made for him would help. But the fierceness of the illness, and the fact that it ran in his family was something he would have to deal with all of his life. Perhaps one day there would be a treatment, or a cure. For now, Andrew's concoction, and his support were all he had.

Louis cocked his head. Non. That was not quite true. He had all his brothers here in Barracks 2…And someday he would have his family. He cradled his arms behind his head. "I miss you Jac. But I will be alright now". His gaze took in the Infirmary, the barracks, and the camp. In his mind he saw Paris, and all of La Belle France. "Someday, Jac, we will all be alright."

~The End~

A/N: * I am not Lakota. I am of Native American descent through my father. I have the utmost respect for the Lakota and all that is sacred, and therefore, I will not detail any Native American rituals, ceremonies, or traditions though I have knowledge of many of them. I will speak only in general terms. Nothing more is needed to tell my tale.

The inspiration for this story is that I have lost relatives to suicide due to mental health issues and battle with them myself. If you or someone you know battles depression or other emotional or mental issues, please seek help...and know that you are not alone.