Chapter One: Findings

They were a somber company. Hogan led, stoically trudging on, his eyes always ahead, seeking signs of trouble. Earlier, they had heard a patrol, and quickly taken to the brush that grew from the shoals. But that had been their only encounter with their foe. His thoughts were deep inside him, as he pondered all that he knew about his lost man. He knew too little he concluded. Too little to really have the honor of calling him brother. Still, he thought that he most likely knew more of his brother than most in fair London could claim. After all, had they voluntarily remained to give their foe chances to shoot them?

Second came Johann, one of the Underground agents who worked with Papa Bear. He was just as watchful and prepared for danger as the man in front of him. But his thoughts were not as deep. He thought only of the next step after they returned to camp. Yes, he silently mourned the loss of the Englishman, for he had grown fond of his company. But he did not know him well enough, or had grown so close to him to give all thought to him. He had more pressing problems.

Next, Geoff came, who had hastily been thrown into the operation with his son, Johann. Geoff was being alert in his own way. He could not, however, fathom the amount of grief that weighed upon the others' hearts; not even his son's. He concluded that the Englishman had been important to their company, but overall, it seemed that they had lost a thief, and thieves were always replaceable.

Carter followed the elderly man. His eyes were always on the water, hopeful for any sign of his friend. But as the afternoon drifted to dusk, he saw less and less hope coming from the water that had now turned cool and calm, almost welcoming if one had not known their past murders. Carter scorned the water, albeit it had been his own explosives that had ultimately taken his friend's life.

LeBeau walked behind Carter in a similar fashion: shoulders sagging and feet dragging. His head was down, however, because he could barely contain the look of grief on his fear, and feared he must look estranged as he kept his emotions in check. He could not give reign to those emotions, yet, and this was the only sign emancipating from him that gave one reason to think that he believed his brother in arms (or in their case, brother out of arms) was still alive.

Lastly, Kinch walked, as strong and calm as ever. He felt his comrade's emotions, those he respected and those he did not respect. He had let it come upon himself that he now carried more than what he had left with. Then, he remembered that which the lost Englishman had always said to his disbelieving mates: I've always beat the odds, Guv'nor. Kinch smiled and did not give up on hope.

As dusk came, the world turned almost colourless. There were just dark colours, and the air seemed blue and gray. Their toes were becoming numb, as their boots could only keep water out for so long. But no one seemed to notice this. They were concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Suddenly, there was splashing ahead and shouts in German. They all stood straight and looked up, mimicking deer. Then, Hogan waved his arm, and they ducked behind branches and a fallen log next to the bank. There was a small sink hole and when they ducked, they were submerged up to their chests. They held their breaths as a patrol on the other bank swiftly walked by. When the patrol passed, and their voices faded around the bend, the company rose up and went back to the shallows. Then, without warning Carter darted into the deeper parts of the river, and half-waded, half-swam across to the opposite side.

"André," called LeBeau. "What are you doing?"

Carter did not answer, so the others quickly followed. Geoff got out of the river, telling Johann that he would find a better place to cross. Johann decided it was best that he go with his father, because there was no clue to what he would get himself into next.

Hogan, Kinch, and LeBeau followed Carter across, and came up behind him just as he was coming into the shallows of the opposite side. They finally saw what he had seen. There was Newkirk's newsboy hat floating in the shallows. Carter slowly walked to it, and scooped it up, shaking the water away. He looked down at it, fingering the stitches, thoughtfully.

Carter turned back to the others.

"He made it this far," he croaked hopefully.

"No," said Hogan, taking the hat. "His hat made it this far. We don't know where he is, Carter."

Carter sighed and looked away, clearly distressed.

"No, wait," said Kinch. He was looking past Carter on the bank. The others looked at him and followed his gaze. "See? There are tracks. You don't think…" He did not bother finishing his sentence because all four of them ran from the river and onto the bank, following the sad trail.

It was sad simply because of the tale it told. It seemed as if a dying animal were dragging itself away through the muddy bank and into the damp foliage that littered the forest floor. They followed the trail as it winded about fifty yards into the woods, underneath logs and bushes, through puddles and thorns. There were other tracks as well: boots of many sizes, stepping here and there, going in circles. Molested shrubs withered in the gray light. Rotting trees gave pictures of something scraping the last bit of smooth bark away. Then, the trail abruptly stopped, with the still form of a man lying, drenched in the middle of a glade, curled up against the trunk of a large oak, and underneath a clump of bushes that grew beside the trees. The animal had dragged himself from the river to die in peace.

A stranger thought drifted through Carter's mind when he saw Newkirk's body curled up there. Why was the river not peaceful? Why could one not die floating on the water, looking up at the sky, and suddenly drifting into another world? He would have like to go that way. When all else seemed confused, the river knew its course. He would have put himself in the river's care, knowing he would not have to think any more. Mother Nature would take care of her child.

The four of them stood there, very silent, just looking at their friend. Newkirk's expression was one of peace. His eyes were closed, his long bangs matted sideways on his forehead. His head was resting on his coat's large, upturned collar. There was a ghost of a smile on his face, where perhaps he had finally passed in a dream, thinking of happier days before the war, or perhaps the happier days that had only taken place a week before. Of that, no one would know. His face seemed younger, almost boyish, and Hogan finally got some consolidation when he saw the face of Peter. It wasn't Newkirk, it was Peter. It was that of an untamed youth, who knew not the worst of the world, and had no worries.

Besides the peaceful atonement, Newkirk's body was marred with injury. Blood oozed from his mouth, nose, and ears, and from the top of his head, where the mos potent wound was hidden under the mop of thick, dark hair. His face was black and blue with bruises as well. They only knew that there was more to the fatal injury that they could not perceive.

Before any of them moved, Johann walked up from the side, his father following. Johann sighed wearily when he saw Newkirk lying there. He removed his hat respectively and placed it over his heart in a brief prayer. The others, followed suit, Geoff complying last. When everyone was through, Carter was the first to take a step forward.

He was scared. He knew Newkirk was dead, but the very thought of touching the body which had carried Newkirk's precious soul, scared him. It was not superstitious; it was just that this was not him. It was a shell that looked like him. It had formed over his soul like clay that was thrown atop a rock, and after weathering there so long, took the shape of that rock. Carter was not sure of his plan of action, but felt some kind of will that he should at least pull the body out, and lay it properly so that…so that they…could bury—

NO!

Carter halted his thoughts. They were so final. But what did they know? How could his thoughts think like that? They were betraying him. Everyone's thoughts were betraying them. The thoughts were trying to make them believe things that just could not be true. Yes, there was Newkirk, lying so still and marred, not even shuddering in breath, pale and blue, yes, everything that pointed to the fact waiting on one side of the spectrum to be recognized and given all power to: Newkirk was dead. Carter shook his head, and his companions thought he for a moment he was about to have some kind of fit. Then, he stood straight, and looked at them. They looked back, waiting, anticipating some great words (or at least an attempt) because of the way he held himself. He remained looking at them however, holding their gazes for a few moments each. He nodded, understanding his finds. Yes, they were being betrayed by their thoughts. He turned away, leaving his companions confused. Then, he stepped forward, like someone who was about to hand over his boots to the executioner. He knelt beside the body, and with trembling hands, placed cold and wet fingers on Newkirk's neck.

There was a moment where Carter's mind was blank. Even his thoughts were waiting to see what came next.

Then, something was striking the tips of his fingers: a very small, erratic thumping; life's little Morse code.

Newkirk was alive.