Friends are the siblings God never gave us. - Mencius
It's funny what runs through your mind when you're tearing blindly through a German forest in the middle of the night. Two terrifying words echo endlessly within my mind. Firing squad...firing squad...firing squad….
One moment, I'm sitting comfortably in the kitchen of Klink's quarters keeping LeBeau company while enjoying a large serving of his delicious stroganoff and the next moment I'm sprinting at top speed over uneven ground trying to dodge trees, rocks, brush, and who knows what else. I've never seen Colonel Hogan as frantic as he was when he ran into the kitchen. Apparently General von Treger threw the Colonel a curve ball by unexpectedly changing the serial numbers on all of the trucks in tonight's convoy. He told me to get on my horse to catch up with Carter and Newkirk before they swing into line with the rest of the Kraut trucks.
It's his last sentence that keeps drumming through my head. And make it fast, or they swing into line with a firing squad. I've got to run faster. Two lives are dependent on me getting there. God! I hope they haven't already pulled out to join the convoy.
Suddenly, a bunch of 'what-ifs' start adding themselves to the fear already overcrowding my mind. What if the RAF is bombing this area tonight? What if the woods are crawling with patrols? What if there are wild animals prowling around? What if I'm heading in the wrong direction? Oh hell, never mind all that. I'll deal with any of that IF it happens. Like the Colonel always says, Don't borrow trouble! I've got to keep my mind focused on getting to Carter and Newkirk before they pull into that convoy. That's the biggest what-if worrying me. WHAT IF I DON'T GET THERE IN TIME?
If I don't get there in time, I will never forgive myself. Because if we lose those two tonight, it would pretty much be my fault.
Ugh. Running at top speed right after eating a heavy meal is definitely not a good thing; LeBeau's stroganoff is threatening to make a return appearance. I sure hope it stays put because I simply don't have time to stop. Just swallow hard, keep running and worry about it later!
I must be getting close; I hear the distinct roar of German truck motors – a lot of German truck motors. I see Carter and Newkirk's truck hidden off the side of the road back in the trees. Damn it! They're already pulling out! I have no choice but to shout over the sound of the engine to get their attention! I sure hope to hell there aren't any Kraut patrols close by!
"Hey! Hey! Hold it! Hold it!"
I wave my arms like a maniac and jump directly in front of the truck, gambling that they'll see me in time before they run me over. I keep yelling and waving my arms. Thank God! Carter sees me! The truck lurches to a stop barely inches from my feet.
Newkirk jumps down from the passenger side of the truck and rushes to my side to lean in close as he speaks.
"Kinch! Kinch, what 'appened?"
I really didn't hear what he said. My legs are numb, my head is spinning, my stomach is churning, and I can barely breathe but I manage to blurt out some smartass remark like, "I think I just ran a four-minute mile", before I tell him the mission is scratched. He reaches out to grasp my shoulder and then I don't remember much more as I collapse against the truck's grill.
Newkirk reached out to support Kinch as he crumpled across the front of the truck, desperately trying to catch his breath. After a few anxious minutes, he said, "Are you all right, Kinch? I know you need to rest up, but we've got to scarper before Jerry comes round. Can you walk?"
Kinch nodded and pushed himself off the truck too quickly; he stumbled and Newkirk caught him. The Englishman supported him as they made their way over to the passenger side of the truck. He opened the door, helped his friend up into the truck and said, "Sit 'ere, me old China. Since I'm in proper uniform, I'll ride on the runnin' board."
There's something you don't see every day, mused Kinch. Never in his entire life had a white man given up his seat to him. It was always the other way around. Always. He smiled contentedly as he leaned back and tried to relax.
Newkirk closed the door, jumped atop the running board and called out, "Andrew, take us 'ome!"
Home. Never did Kinch believe that he'd ever refer to Stalag 13 as "home". But darned if that wasn't what it had become. Not because it was snug and cozy, because it was anything but that. No, it was home because that's where his friends were.
Carter slipped the truck into low gear and slowly eased onto the road leading back towards the camp. The three men kept silent as the truck slowly crept along the road. As they neared the Stalag, Carter turned off the road into the woods. Since the original plan had been for the truck to be destroyed along with the rest of the convoy, there had been no arrangements for its return. They would just have to leave it and its full load of explosives within the cover of the forest overnight. There simply wasn't any time to do otherwise. The Colonel would have to decide what to do about it.
The truck suddenly pitched to one side as it passed over an uneven patch of ground; Newkirk slipped and lost his grip on the door frame, nearly tumbling off the running board as a result. The Englishman cursed and hissed, "Bloody 'ell, Carter! Watch it! I nearly copped it!"
Carter yelped as he strained forward to get a better view through the truck's narrow windscreen, "Sorry! I can't see very well with the headlights off!"
Kinch reached out the window and ensnared the Englishman's upper arm within a vise-like grip. Newkirk grinned and nodded.
"Thanks, Kinch!" he mouthed over the noise of the truck as it picked its way over the forest floor.
"Anytime, Peter," replied Kinch as he squeezed the Englishman's arm tighter. "You boys sure picked a bad night!"
Newkirk rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head.
Kinch leaned back again and chuckled to himself; it was so different here. Here of all places, imprisoned in the heart of the enemy's homeland, things were the way they should be everywhere, especially back home. Heck, back home or even back in England for that matter, the races just didn't mix. It simply wasn't done. The two worlds mixed only when absolutely necessary and even then, it was only to the extent allowed by the whim and rule of the dominant world.
Here in Germany, there were no different worlds within Stalag 13; at least, not in Barracks Two and especially amongst the command crew. The barracks' complement consisted of mainly Americans, several Englishmen and one Frenchman, with the occasional Canadian, Australian, South African or New Zealander thrown into the mix for good measure. They were all involved in the operation as allies in common cause against the enemy and none more so than the Colonel's command crew. Within that small group, they all were genuine friends; friends who shared the risks equally and judged each other by the measure of character rather than the color of skin, social standing or possession of wealth.
In the camp as a whole, there were a number of stalwart holdouts to that philosophy and Kinch consistently avoided them when at all possible. Frankly, it wasn't the Europeans he had issues with, other than the Germans. As much as it pained him to admit, some of the most prejudiced men in the camp were among his own countrymen. He had been disappointed to find racial intolerance flourishing even within the desperate situation they all found themselves trapped in.
There were of course exceptions, most notably the Colonel. Colonel Hogan led by example and Kinch credited that example for the easy air of equality that existed amongst the team; superficial things like skin color, where one was born or how much money one had meant nothing to Colonel Hogan. The Colonel judged a man solely by his attitude and ability, in that precise order.
So even though it wasn't a paradise by any means, it certainly could have been a lot worse. And he had certainly known much worse.
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the barriers had come down and he had allowed them to get under his skin. It had all happened so gradually and naturally. The fact that Colonel Hogan had chosen him as his XO helped immensely in ingratiating him to the rest of the command crew. Of course, in the barracks at large, there were a couple of the usual hardheads who flatly refused to work with him. The Colonel saw to it that they and anyone else who felt the same way were dispatched to other barracks post-haste. The nature of the operation demanded pure, naked, honest, unquestioning trust amongst the team as a whole as well as between each individual. Each member of the command team would not hesitate to give his life for his friends, whether individually or collectively.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, interrupting his thoughts. He closed his eyes in response but immediately opened them again as a sudden realization hit him. Newkirk's arm! I'm squeezing Newkirk's arm way too tight! It was his left arm, wasn't it? Or was it? No, wait, it was his right arm! That's a relief! It should be completely healed up by now anyway. It seemed like it had happened only yesterday instead of seven weeks ago. He tightened his grip on his English friend's left arm, closing his eyes again as the memories came surging back.
Seven weeks earlier...
"We have two hours before the train gets here. I'll keep watch while you two take care of business." Kinch moved off, away from the railroad tracks.
"An awful lot can happen in two hours," sighed Newkirk.
"Aww c'mon, Peter! This is going to be a piece of pie!"
"Piece o' cake, Andrew! Piece o' cake! 'ow many times do I have to tell ya?"
Carter ignored the jibe as he set about accomplishing the work at hand. Newkirk shook his head and followed suit.
They worked steadily and silently for close to an hour and had nearly completed their task when Kinch rushed up to the tracks and grabbed Newkirk by the arm.
"We need to get out of here!" he whispered.
"Just need another second to…," said Newkirk.
"Forget it! The game is over! There's a sentry walking the tracks and he's headed this way!"
"He's already 'ere, mate," Newkirk whispered as he rose to stare at the figure he saw over Kinch's shoulder. The figure raised a rifle and….
From that point forward, events erupted simultaneously in an adrenaline-fueled rush. Just as the sentry pulled the trigger, Newkirk shoved Kinch down to the ground, yanked his pistol from his belt, sidestepped and fired, dropping the sentry where he stood. Once he saw that the sentry was down, Carter rushed over to grab the rifle and check on the man.
Newkirk dropped to his knees, breathing hard.
"You okay, Peter?" Carter called.
"I'm…fine, mate. Wha- what's the story there?"
"I'm afraid he's dead."
"Oh, well, there it is, then." He hadn't intended to kill the man, just disable him so they could scarper.
Kinch got up and dusted himself off, knowing better than to say anything in gratitude to his British friend about what just happened. Newkirk stayed down for a moment longer, trying to get his breathing back to normal before he got back to his feet.
"You sure you're alright, Peter?" asked Kinch. "You don't look so good."
"I tell ya, I'm fine, Kinch! Just 'ad the breath knocked outta me."
Carter pulled the sentry's coat off and covered the man's face and upper body with it; he lingered a moment longer, head bowed in a silent prayer. He then walked back to where Newkirk and Kinch were standing. "We'd better get back to camp, fellas. That gunfire's gonna attract attention."
Newkirk nodded, then suddenly stumbled. Kinch grabbed the Englishman's right arm to steady him and was shocked to feel warm liquid coursing down it.
"Peter, you're wounded!"
"I am?" He glanced down at his arm and grimaced, "Bloody 'ell, thought I'd moved quicker than that! Ugh, me 'ead's spinnin'…."
Kinch grabbed Newkirk before he hit the ground. He picked the unconscious Brit up, gently slung him over his shoulder and gestured to Carter.
"Come on, Andrew. Let's get back to camp."
They made it back to camp without further incident; well, other than LeBeau fainting dead away when Kinch deposited Newkirk onto the cot in the radio room.
Thankfully, the bullet had only deeply grazed the muscle of Newkirk's right arm. Wilson patched him up, making his usual fuss about Newkirk taking things easy until the wound completely healed. For his part, Newkirk made his usual snarky retorts to Wilson's fussing.
In the end, neither Kinch nor Newkirk said anything to each other about the incident; and yet, neither one ever forgot. It was simply a matter of true friends looking out for each other.
An insistent voice along with a solid shaking jerked me out of a sound sleep.
"Kinch? Kinch! Wake up, mate! We're 'ere!"
"Wha-? Huh?"
"C'mon, mate, wakey-wakey! We've gotta hide this truck before we can 'ead back to the stalag!"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Must've fallen asleep." I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. I must've been completely exhausted! I saw that Carter was already outside, gathering up brush and tree limbs to camouflage the truck. With the three of us working at it, we soon had the truck hidden from sight. It was now the Colonel's problem.
I paused to stretch, and couldn't help groaning a bit when my sore muscles protested. Newkirk offered me a supportive hand but I waved him off with a smile, "I'm okay now, Peter. I've got my wind back."
He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder as we made the short walk to the emergency tunnel entrance.
The Colonel and LeBeau were waiting impatiently at the foot of the ladder as we climbed down. Before anyone could even think to say something, Newkirk loudly announced, "Blimey, I'm starved! Anythin' to eat around 'ere?"
I knew exactly what he was doing and said, "I highly recommend the stroganoff. Ask Louis if there's any left."
Newkirk rolled his eyes and grunted, "That's all I need, Kinch! An American tellin' an Englishman to eat Russian food cooked by a French chef in a German kitchen! It's enough to drive a bloke crackers!"
Mission accomplished, Peter! Tension evaporated, we all broke into relieved laughter as we made our way back up to the barracks, our home away from home.