Chapter 1
A flickering candle lit the dirt tunnel, hidden from the watchful guards of Stalag 13. The men who had created them scurried in and out of the tunnels regularly, making their exits as they pleased, dashing to and fro in the woods. The hidden trapdoors and entrances would have made it easier to escape, but they never did, for they had other designs for this camp. This was part of an elaborate escape and spying operation called The Underground, for prisoners and the allies of the order to escape by. This is the story of the unsung heroes of Stalag 13.
The candle waved violently as an unseen figure passed closely by, invisible to all but the most diligent watcher. The shadow slunk along the length of the passage, silent as a cat, and slipped behind a barrel that was being used to catch the water that had dripped into the tunnel, hiding from the prisoners that were in charge of tunnel upkeep. The prisoners walked right by the barrel without a thought, talking about the weather and how the rain kept pouring.
I am the shadow.
Their voices faded as they turned left, leaving the hallway open for me to make my way to my own secret tunnel: my den where I have lived for the past three months, coming out only to check if a pipe had burst or a leak made its way into the tunnels. I fix the little things, as silent and unacknowledged thanks for the shelter and food they had unwittingly provided for me. I slid into the little room I had created for myself, and curling up on the pile of discarded or forgotten clothes and rags, fell asleep.
Carter was starting to get on his nerves. Though Newkirk often thought of the young American as a brother, he had a way of rambling about the same subject for hours. As they reinforced the braces on the sides of tunnel 5, Carter was going on and on about how he just couldn't get the formula for a new explosive right.
"I swear, I've tried everything I can think of, but it always goes wrong and blows up in my face!"
As Sergeant Andrew Carter was the demolitions expert, he almost always had something to say about chemicals.
Newkirk wasn't sure if Carter had meant to make that small ironic joke or not, but he chose to ignore it. It was generally the proper way to address such a situation with the not-so-bright sergeant.
A fairly large glob of mud fell on his shoulder, spattering his face with bits of grime and muck and making it even more miserable than before. Newkirk muttered a British term of profanity as he wiped the goo off his face and onto the rags they were using to stifle the massive onslaught of rain and dirt. He went over to the far end of the tunnel to fix a fairly large crack he had seen coming back from last night's mission. He scooped some of the filler they were patching the walls with, and raised it up to the spot he had seen the crack.
It was gone.
Newkirk dropped the trowel full of patching goop back into the bucket he was carrying, and searched the wall for the crack, thinking perhaps it was somewhere else, but found nothing.
"'ey Carter," he shouted down the tunnel. "Did you patch this crack over 'ere?"
Carter stopped mid-rant and looked over to where Newkirk was standing.
"No. Why?"
Newkirk peered closer at the wall, thinking perhaps it was a trick of the lighting.
Mmm…I must have imagined it last night, or I'm going bonkers... Less than convinced but willing to accept the lack of one more task, he moved on.
A shout came from the end of the tunnel, alerting them to make fast work to the upstairs. The two men dropped their buckets and bolted quietly to the entrance. Scuttling up the ladder, they closed the trapdoor and darted to their bunks, falling into inspection formation merely moments before the Commandant entered the barracks.
The Commandant, with a name of Col. Wilhelm Klink, was a very odd sort of chap. He wasn't very bright, and his tight, scuttling walk gave him an even more awkward look than the monocle provided. Klink marched directly to the private quarters of Col. Hogan, and barged in. The men could hear the commandant angrily ramble at Hogan, and the silver-tongued American replying with ease.
First Sergeant Schultz moseyed in and shut the door after him. Schultz was a rather fat, cowardly sort; easily scared and bribed even easier. He wasn't one to snoop about unless forced to at gunpoint. No-one was sure how he made it to First Sergeant.
Schultz lazily saluted them and relaxed against the table, dropping his never-loaded rifle out of guard position. Newkirk and LeBeau, a French Corporal, both slipped over to Schultz and with a glace of silent communication, started to prod Schultz for info, trying to find out exactly why Klink had come so abruptly to the barracks instead of summoning Hogan.
"I do not know, and I do not care to know." He stated most emphatically. "All I know iz that he received a phone call from some beeg shot General about a prisoner that escaped from Stalag 18 and was reported about in zees area."
He clapped his hand over his mouth, as if realizing he had told them a military secret right after he had declared notknowing anything.
"What iz wrong wiz me? I know nothing; nothing!" he muttered while glancing around to make sure Klink had not heard.
Carter stifled a chuckle and LeBeau smirked in amusement at the German's slip-up.
Klink shoved open the door of Hogan's room and marched out of the barracks without another word. Schultz jumped up and ran after him, anxious to stay in the Colonel's favor.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter, and Kinchloe, their communications expert, quickly stepped inside the private quarters, shutting the door for privacy from snooping guards. They found Hogan, who was unusually perturbed, pacing the length of his room. He gestured for them to sit down, not thinking about the lack of chairs. He sighed ruefully and started shuffling through papers on the relatively small desk.
"We have a problem." He stated blandly. He picked up a piece of paper and stared at it, though Newkirk highly suspected it had nothing to do with the subject at hand. Hogan tapped the paper and sat in the chair provided at the desk.
"It seems a prisoner that escaped from a transfer truck on his way to Stalag 18 several months ago was seen wandering in the woods; a prisoner of vital importance to the Gestappo." He paused and rubbed his hand across his head, a sign of stress for him.
"Not only that, but he actually attacked one of the guards' that had seen him last night, meaning Klink is upping the security, in an attempt to catch this prisoner..." He waved his hand distractedly. "They intend to catch him, but apparently," he said, putting stress on the last word. "…the prisoner keeps disappearing into thin air."
The implication was clear.
"You think he's using one of the tunnels as means for hiding?" Kinchloe asked slowly, as if he were afraid of being reprimanded.
The rest of them looked at Hogan for affirmation. Hogan nodded with a jerk of his head.
"If he keeps this up, he could lead the guards' right to the tunnel entrance, and then the whole thing is blown. All that to say, it's too dangerous to have him roaming about.
"I want everyone who goes in the tunnels to keep a sharp eye out for him. If he is down there, we need to either get him to England," he paused, as of weighing his decision.
"…or we need to get him captured."
Quiet whispers woke me from my slumber. Sitting up, I listened carefully for noises of warning, waiting like a spider at its web. I often thought of myself like a spider: listening, waiting, and hiding in its little hole. The noises were agitated and urgent, as if something were wrong. I scuttled back from the trapdoor and stilled, keeping quiet as possible. Scuffles and muffled footsteps were the only sound to be heard.
Then, of a sudden, the noise ceased. I leaned forward a bit, unconsciously, listening harder for some sort of sound.
The tracks! My heart skipped a beat. Last night's skirmish above ground had been tiring, and I feared that my routine of brushing away the tracks had been forgone.
A creak of a switch, and the spring released the trapdoor. I flew forward and swiftly grabbed the end of the door, holding it down to keep it from being seen.
They must have leaned on the switch by accident. I hoped they had not heard the click.
The voices remained quiet with the exception of a whisper I could not hear the words of. Another lull of fearful quiet went by, and then they moved on. The click-clack of shoes echoed softly off the walls, and was soon heard no more.
I sighed softly and made a mental note to create a different switch in my spare time.
Hogan wasn't satisfied. Newkirk and the others could tell. After they found the mysterious tracks in the tunnel, he had been on edge, not really hearing what was said to him. He sort of just sat in his office and thought.
"'E's been in there all day!" Newkirk exclaimed impatiently, his Cockney accent becoming more pronounced as he grew agitated. Carter mumbled something unintelligible, looking like the dead. He had been up most of the night putting a light coat of white paint on the walls of tunnel six, by Hogan's order, though he hadn't said why.
Carter diligently scrubbed his white-plastered skin to remove the paint as LeBeau handed out their breakfast. Newkirk and several of the others played poker to pass the time. An environment he was used to.
Newkirk smiled as he laid down his hand and watched the other players frown or grumble as he scooped up his winnings, containing mostly cigarettes and pieces of candy from the Red-Cross packages. Newkirk was by far the best card-master in the barracks, and quite possibly the camp. A fact he was proud of.
A small click-thud announced the arrival of Kinchloe, and the dark-skinned pilot stepped out of the tunnel entrance, and not even acknowledging the greetings of the other prisoners, he glanced over the room cautiously, and then quickly stepped into Col. Hogan's quarters. Everyone in the outside room stopped all conversation and stared at the barrier between them and the other two of their team.
A bang sounded, indicating that Hogan had knocked something over. LeBeau and Carter looked urgently at each other and watched the door anxiously.
The door burst open and everyone jumped up simultaneously and waited quietly, curiosity brimming in the air. Hogan stepped out and quickly went to the trapdoor, flying down the ladder.
As soon as the door closed to the entrance, everyone started to talk at once. All that Newkirk could hear was his own thoughts, which was somewhat surprising to him, all things considering.
He and Carter both jumped into the tunnel to see what Hogan was doing, LeBeau close behind. They jogged down the tunnels, looking this way and that for the other two men.
Newkirk slammed into Carter's back, and LeBeau into his as the American came to a dead halt without warning.
"Carter!" LeBeau growled, brushing off his uniform.
"Sorry, guys." He replied sheepishly. "They're down this tunnel."
He pointed down tunnel six and then bolted in the direction he had indicated. LeBeau muttered something in French and then dodged around Newkirk, who was rubbing his stomach where Carter's bony elbow had jabbed the air out from his lungs.
When he caught up with the others, they stood in a half-circle around, well, nothing. He followed their gazes, looking hard for what they might be so interested in.
Then he saw it. Against the freshly-painted wall was a thin, almost indistinguishable line from where a small trapdoor had been opened, breaking the paint seal.
So that's why he had him paint the walls, but…
"'ow did you know that he was in this tunnel, Colonel?" He asked, quite befuddled.
Hogan looked at him with a small smirk of victory. Then he gestured for silence as he walked over to the far side of the tunnel, and grabbed hold of one of the support beams that lined the walls. He gave it a deft push, and then a faint click resounded. The now-apparent door popped ever so slightly open, and Hogan pulled on the edge, revealing the enclosure within.
A space that was no more than three and a half feet tall, and four or five feet long was strewn with old clothes and rags, presumably bedding. A sack sat in the corner, lumpy and empty looking. Kinchloe reached in and grabbed it, checking to make sure it wasn't attached to anything.
When the sack's contents were laid out, it was simply clothes and a small metal tin that made tiny clinking noises when it was moved. Newkirk picked up the tin, thinking he could pick the lock easily enough, but when he fiddled with the lock on the box, but it seemed to require two keys at once, and Newkirk had to use both hands on just one lock. He threw it back in the sack.
"He must be pretty small…" Hogan picked up a piece of clothing and held it up for them to see. It was remarkably small.
"Hey! That's mine!" LeBeau exclaimed, snatching the shirt from the Colonel. He turned it over in his hands mumbling in French again. Newkirk peered closer at it, and pulled it from the small Frenchman's hands. A closer look confirmed his suspicion.
"It looks like 'e adjusted it even smaller than it was before." He said quietly.
Carter's eyebrows shot upwards on his forehead.
"Even smaller than LeBeau?" he asked in a state of confusion.
LeBeau glared at him, taking the young American's bluntness offensively. Kinchloe and Newkirk smirked into their hands; LeBeau's shortness was often a sore spot for him, as he only stood five feet and one inch from the ground. And that one inch was always included when his height was mentioned. It was just safer that way.
Newkirk chuckled under his breath and continued.
"Actually, it was let out a tiny bit length-wise, but this chap must be awfully skinny, because 'e made the waist on the pants smaller."
"Great," LeBeau said with quite a snarky tone. "Just when I thought I would be able to tease someone else about their height…"
Kinchloe clapped him on the back and offered his condolences, smiling all the while. Hogan smiled briefly at the exchange, and then his face went stoic again.
"All right, that's enough. We need to get on with the matter at hand." He tapped his hand on his chin, and then an all too familiar smile slid onto his face.
"All right,' he said quietly. "Here's what we're going to do."
I crept past the guards in the woods, exhausted from the trip into town. It was no easy task to get into the living quarters of the Grocery store and then slipping down and through without being spotted. But it was worth it. I smiled to myself and patted the sack full of food, glad that taking food from the prisoners wasn't necessary for at least another week. I felt awful about stealing, but at least it was from the enemy this time.
The guard was making his round, and passed the tunnel entrance, not realizing that an ordinary-looking stump was the key to the operation that was even farther from his mind. As he was passing, I slunk like a cat to the stump, silent as a shadow. I knew that the best time to do something was right after someone had looked for it. The expectation of something happening would dissipate and float to the back of their mind. So, as soon as he finished his routine, I quietly opened the door and leapt inside. The hallway of the tunnels were darker than usual, so I didn't have to go quite as slowly, a fact to be grateful for when one is exhausted, and wanting to be asleep.
Taking a right into tunnel 6, I realized something was different. Peering through the darkness, the change was found.
White! The walls were white! But why would they paint only one tunnel? Were they perhaps marking it as under construction? Or were they in the process of painting all of the tunnels? I was absolutely bewildered. Slowly continuing, I glanced around, and not seeing anyone, pushed the support beam to trigger the spring. The trapdoor popped ever so slightly out, and I grabbed it, and when it was far enough to squeeze through, rolled inside.
I was relieved no-one was out in the hall, or the panic that constricted my chest would have caused clumsiness, and the clumsiness would have caused capture.
As I heaved a huge sigh of relief, a dreaded realization pushed itself into my mind. The paint…
Click!
"Don't even think about moving." The voice, heavily accented, came from right next to my ear. A cold tickle warning the presence of a gun pointed at my forehead.
Instinct kicked in, and I flew backwards, rolling out the door, which had been broken. Hitting the ground, I landed face-first and would have jumped up and run, were it not for the three pairs of shoes that were at eye level.
"Stay where you are." The warning brooked no argument. I was paralyzed with fear for my life. I complied and simply curled in a protective ball, hoping the end would be swift.