A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.
December 25, 1941
Someone clicked on the overhead light that dreary morning, and although the solitary bulb could best be described as dim, Louis LeBeau squinted at the sudden illumination and pulled the threadbare blanket over his head.
Every morning for the last couple of weeks Louis had found himself reluctant to face the day, and this one was no different as he felt the familiar rush of anger and despair sweep over him. He had planned to be in England by now, joining his brothers of the Free French. Instead, the escape he and Newkirk had so carefully planned had gone sadly awry, landing him in the hospital and Newkirk in the cooler.
And now it was le jour de Noël and here they were at Stalag 13: Newkirk still in the cooler and he, LeBeau, lying in his bunk with one leg in cast. Louis pulled the blanket down again and stared at the slats of the bunk above him, preoccupied with his thoughts.
The past two weeks of forced inaction at the hospital in Hammelburg had been difficult to bear, surrounded by Boches as he had been. Not that Louis had been mistreated there; he grudgingly admitted to himself that the doctors and nurses had done their job properly. But they were still Germans and he was Free French, and he hated Germans.
One cannot have spent time in the clutches of the Gestapo and not hate Germans, and Louis had spent a very unpleasant few days with the Gestapo prior to being sent to Stalag 13. That had been earlier this year, and the intervening months had not improved his opinion of his captors. They were all too convinced that they were the master race, and Colonel Klink's tendency to lecture every morning on the glorious Third Reich was further proof of that delusion. Filthy Boches!
While the other residents of Barracks 2 grumbled and groaned as they put on whatever warm clothing was available, Louis' thoughts went to the failed escape. Their recapture had all been all his fault, and he groaned inwardly. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened at the time, but he remembered stumbling in the snow over a hidden tree root and falling to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed between clean sheets with a pillow under his head.
His first thought on regaining consciousness was to wonder if Newkirk had sustained injury himself. Perhaps he'd been shot, trying to escape! But that fear was swiftly allayed when Sergeant Schultz visited him on Louis' second day in the hospital.
"Nein, your friend is unhurt. He is perfectly safe...in the cooler," the Sergeant told him, shaking his head. "I do not understand why you wanted to escape! Were you not happy at the camp? Was it something I did?"
Louis hadn't dignified that with an answer. In fact, he spoke only a few words with Schultz on that occasion, and didn't bother to speak with the hospital staff at all, except to make his needs known. For the next seventeen days he was a prisoner in that comfortable hospital bed, allowed up only toward the end of his incarceration in order to learn how to walk with crutches.
During that time Louis had plenty of leisure to brood over the lost opportunity of the ill-fated escape attempt, and his bitterness, anger, and self-loathing had only intensified during those seventeen days. His arrival back at Stalag 13 yesterday had done nothing to change that; in fact, it had made his mood even worse.
And the despairing mood persisted on this Christmas morning. It was still dark, but it was time for Appell and the other POWs were almost ready to go outside. Louis sat up on his bunk, swinging his casted leg over to rest at an awkward angle as he pulled on his ragged sweater and reached for his coat, beret and scarf. He had to clench his teeth against the aching of his leg, but he ignored the sympathetic murmurings of his bunkmates, not wanting or needing their pity.
He fiercely shook off the hands that would have helped him to arise, and got to his feet unassisted, leaning heavily on his crutches (which someone had thoughtfully propped against his bunk). Then he shuffled his way through the barracks door (which someone had thoughtfully left open) to his accustomed spot in the front row. By this time he was pale and sweating despite the biting cold, but he held himself as tall and as straight as he could while Sergeant Schultz laboriously counted each man.
After the Sergeant finally muttered "fünfzehn!" in a tone of equal parts triumph and relief, Schultz paused and gazed uncertainly at the small figure balancing precariously on crutches. Louis glared back at him in defiance—he would remain upright during roll call if it killed him! Schultz sighed and turned to face the approaching Kommandant, saluting smartly.
Fortunately, in compassion for the injured Frenchman or perhaps because he was anxious to get to his Christmas breakfast, Colonel Klink was not disposed to lecture this frosty morning. "Dis-missed!" he said absently, returning Schultz's salute and hurrying back to the Kommandantur without delay.
Schultz in turn dismissed the shivering group outside Barracks 2, and the POWs made a bee-line for the mess hall. All except Louis, who made an awkward turn on his crutches, with the intent of heading back into the barracks.
Schultz got there first and swung the door wide to allow the Frenchman to pass through. Louis muttered his thanks and got inside the barracks, which was only marginally warmer than the compound outside. He carefully lowered himself onto one of the stools clustered around the common room table, with his casted leg angled stiffly to one side.
He looked up at Schultz, wondering why the Sergeant hadn't left the barracks and wishing very much that he would. But Schultz lingered, glancing around the common room, pursing his lips and shaking his head over the general disarray. The barracks was as dismal as ever, even with the "MERRY CHRISTMAS" banner made of paper cut-out letters and strung between two bunks.
As Louis watched with a frown, the big German moved over to the little stove in the middle of the room and opened the door to peer at the languid fire flickering inside. He added a couple of pieces of kindling to the fire and stirred it briskly until it was burning properly. Satisfied, Schultz closed the stove door and straightened, one hand to the small of his back.
"Ach! I do not bend as well as I used to." He looked pointedly at the coffee-pot resting on top of the stove. "Do you have any coffee in the pot, Cockroach?"
Louis simmered with resentment at the use of the hated nickname, but even more so at the Sergeant's casual sense of entitlement regarding the prisoners' precious coffee ration. "Oui," he muttered, adding sarcastically: "Help yourself."
"Danke." Schultz reached for a nearby tin mug and poured out a generous helping, and Louis simmered even more.
The Sergeant took the mug and settled himself onto a stool opposite the little Frenchman, carefully avoiding Louis' casted leg as he sat down. Then he placed the mug on the table and slid it across to Louis without spilling a drop.
"Drink, my little friend. You look cold."
Louis blinked with surprise, then slowly grasped the mug handle, raised the coffee to his lips and took a sip. "I am cold. Merci, Schultz. For your kindness."
Schultz shrugged. "It does not take much to be kind, even when there's a war on. And it is Christmas, is it not?"
"Christmas," echoed Louis bitterly. "Peace on earth. Good will to men."
Schultz's placid blue eyes met Louis' stormy dark ones. "Ja, ja, I know there is no peace on earth, although I pray for it every night. Maybe there will never be peace on earth. But that does not mean there cannot be good will between the two of us sitting here."
Louis' eyes dropped as he struggled with the hate and bitterness that almost overwhelmed him. He stared into the depths of his mug of coffee and all he could see was darkness. But after a few moments, a calming thought drifted into his mind and he could feel himself relaxing. Even the ache in his leg subsided, and he looked back up at Schultz.
The person sitting across from him was a German, true, but he was also a human being, just as Louis was. And Schultz had shown him kindness, after all.
Louis smiled a little and raised his mug. "You are right, Schultz. For today, a truce!"
Schultz's eyes sparkled as he returned the smile, and he added a chuckle for good measure. He watched as Louis finished the coffee, then he reached into the capacious pocket of his greatcoat. "You cook, ja?"
Louis eyed him, his wariness returning. "I cook for the other prisoners, as best I can. Why?"
"Oh, nothing, Cockroach." Schultz's tone was elaborately casual and he peered around the empty barracks as if to make sure they were alone. Then he pulled an object from the pocket and placed it on the middle of the table.
Louis stared at it in disbelief. It was a knife, a kitchen knife, much like the ones he had used in his uncle's bistro prior to the war. "For me?"
Schultz looked around again and lowered his voice. "It will help you to prepare the food."
Louis thought about the ragged bit of metal that he had been using for months in lieu of a proper knife. It had been fashioned from a Red Cross milk tin, and the unwieldy and dangerous tool was one of the banes of his existence. "Oui, it will help very much! But isn't it forbidden for prisoners to have knives?"
The Sergeant was shocked. "Knives for prisoners? Are you verrückt? Never mention such a thing again!" He placed his big hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet, pausing for a moment to glance at the knife still resting innocently on the tabletop. "But if you should happen to find one, perhaps it might come in handy if a person wanted to slice up apples for Apfelstrudel. And if that person wanted to share the Apfelstrudel with someone else. But what do I know? I know nothing!"
With that, Schultz strode to the doorway and picked up the rifle he had left propped against the wall. He pulled the door open and looked back over his shoulder at Louis. "Frohe Weihnachten, Cockroach!"
Louis smiled again, this time with a twinkle in his eye. "Joyeux Noël...Schultzie."