The weather in the area of Stalag 13 was usually very cold. It almost always seemed to be snowing; and when it wasn't actually snowing, there lay small white piles of flakes in every corner of the compound. The air always seemed to hold that certain chill that blew in from the north, whipping against the sides of the barracks and whistling through the barbed wire. It was no wonder the guards always wore such heavy coats, sometimes even adorned with mittens and scarfs. It really wasn't fair; that they should be dressed so warmly while the prisoners were left with only what they owned, which was very little. It was some consolation, though, to know that the German helmets the guards wore gave them no warmth whatsoever, while many of the prisoners owned much warmer caps of cloth.
But it wasn't always cold, though it certainly felt like it sometimes. There were days when the sun shone down and it really got quite pleasant, for a POW camp. Birds would sing, and the sky would turn the clear, light blue that reminded many so much of home; whether home be England, France, or the United States. It was days like that that made the Stalag a little more bearable. The prisoners could play games and spend time outside; really the only thing left to worry about in their lives at the moment. For, for many of them, the war was over.
But not for all of them.
Hogan and his inner circle of men in Barracks 2 were always busy. Whether it was sneaking out of camp through their intricate tunnel system, blowing up ammunition dumps, or flushing out spies, a 'normal day' was never a normal day at all. And neither were the nights. After dark, Hogan and his men were very often much more active than during the day. It was always easier to leave camp undetected under the cover of night, and always easier to sneak back in before morning roll call. Each day and night was different; with a new, dangerous mission for the men to carry out in their secret fight from within the walls of Stalag 13.
But not every night. Once in a while, when no new missions had been sent from London, and no new threats had turned up in the Stalag itself, the Heroes would find themselves with a night of actual rest. Of actual sleep; something that they rarely got enough of. When they could actually crawl into their bunks at a decent hour and succumb to the sweet sensation of sleep. Those nights were few and far apart, but when they occurred, every single one of them took the chance to ease into a peaceful slumber.
Tonight was one of those nights.
But, for Sergeant Andrew Carter, it was turning out to be anything but a peaceful sleep. As fate would have it, just as this was a rare occasion for them to have a night off, it also turned out to be an occasion for some rather unusual weather. No snow fell silently; and the darkness of night held no chance of light until morning. No light, that is, other than the bulbs out in the compound and the occasionally violent flashes of lightening above them all.
It might snow more than half the year round at Stalag 13, with a few warmer days scattered here and there, but the remaining percent seemed to be dominated mainly by thunderstorms. They came raging out of who-knows-where, seeming to crash against the thin boards that made up the barracks. The wind sometimes managed to squeeze in between the cracks in the wood, causing cold, airy drafts that floated across one's face while they were lying in bed. And then, of course, there was always that leaky roof. Luckily for Carter, who slept on a bottom bunk, the water that dripped down through never reached him; at least, not from that direction. Being so near the door had its disadvantages. The wind would blow hard against it, widening the crack between it and the wall. Mist and terribly moist air would blast through from time to time, hitting the American square in the face.
Carter had just been beginning to fall asleep when the storm had started. It had arrived so quickly, that he hadn't even had a chance to register its approach. One moment he had been drifting off, and the next a great clap of thunder had nearly jolted him right out of bed. He sat up quickly, accidentally bumping his head against the upper bunk above him. A dull thunk rang out, though certainly not loud enough to wake anyone. How the other men had been able to sleep through that unexpected crash of thunder, Carter had no clue; but, as far as he could tell, he was the only one awake.
Rubbing the lump on his head ruefully, he tried to settle back into his bunk. In all honesty, he was still half asleep; it wouldn't have taken long to drift back to sleep, under normal circumstances. Under normal circumstances, of which this was not. No sooner had Carter lain his head back down on his pillow, that the wind outside picked up, blowing in a wave of cold mist through the door and onto his face. He sputtered, having not really expected it, and sat up again, squinting through the dark to try and determine from where the water had come. He was rewarded with yet more mist.
Wiping away the moisture from his face onto the sleeve of his nightclothes, he grabbed his somewhat damp pillow and moved it to the opposite end of the bed. Shifting around, he tried laying with his feet toward the door. But that proved to be just as unpleasant. Within minutes the mist had soaked into his blanket, wetting his feet right through the sheets, his socks, and right to his skin. The wind drifted across them, making his feet feel as if they were encased in ice.
This, obviously, wasn't going to work.
With as quiet a sigh of frustration as he could manage, Carter whipped his sheets off and moved until he was sitting on the edge of his bunk. All around him was darkness; darkness and quiet. Rain pattered on the roof above him, hard and heavy, as a prominent rumble of thunder told him that the storm had not completely passed yet. It was cold, especially now that he was wet, but Carter remained sitting where he was. He wasn't sure why, but there was always something different about being awake, alone, at night. The world around him seemed different; more real. Like when a child has a nightmare, and sits up in bed, breathing hard. Wide-eyed, that child feels as if those nightmares were real; that that monster that crept in his dreams really would snatch him away in the night. But when morning would come, the child would see just how foolish those beliefs really were; forgetting the fear and terror of the night.
Carter felt very much the same, in a less irrational way. When he and his pals were working with the underground, or blowing up German tanks, Carter never really had all that much time to think about other things. It was only when it was still and lonely, like tonight, that his mind wandered to his life back home. Storms like this used to pass his childhood home in Bullfrog, North Dakota all the time. There the wind would blow even harder than in Germany; sweeping over the fields of green and yellow fields to slam against the walls of his mother's small ranch. But he wouldn't have been cold and wet there. He would have been warm and dry, sitting on the floor in the living room, by the fireplace, wrapped in a woolen blanket. The wind and rain could try as hard as it wanted, but it never could have reached him at home. Where nothing ever changed; nothing ever happened unexpectedly, unless he himself caused it. Home, where it was safe.
And it was only on nights like this that Carter realized it.
Suddenly, he would feel very lost and lonely; very much a prisoner within the walls of Stalag 13. Sure, he knew he was a prisoner, but he didn't always feel like one. After all, he and the rest of his pals under Hogan's operation where able to leave practically any time, as long as it had to do with a mission. But Carter couldn't go home, and he only remembered that when he wanted to go home. When his mind wandered to his mother's home cooking, or hunting for tadpoles in the creek with his kid brother, or even meeting up with his cousin for a day out fishing. That was when he realized; when it truly sunk in just how much a prisoner he truly was.
Another flash of lightning lit up the inside of the barracks, followed by a clap of thunder that startled Carter terribly. When the flash faded, it took him a moment or two to realize that the bulbs in the streetlights in the compound had suddenly gone out, plunging everything in total blackness.
Heh...A power outage.
He could no longer even see his hand in front of his face. Carter would never have said he was afraid of the dark, because he wasn't, but the sudden descent into complete darkness only made his fears and despair that he was currently feeling even more real.
Fumbling, he slipped off his bunk to kneel on the floor, reaching under his bed to try and find the medium sized trunk that he kept his few belongings in. It wasn't locked, luckily, since he had long since broken it by accident. Dragging it out, not really mindful of the scraping sound it made, Carter pulled it out far enough that he was able to open the lid. It was far too dark to see, and he had to accomplish his task by feeling each item within the trunk. It wasn't hard to find what he was looking for, and within a moment his fingers closed around the smooth, cylinder surface of his flashlight.
Whipping it out, he actually had the foresight to point it at the floor before switching it on, sighing audible in relief when at least part of his world was bathed once more in light. Knowing that he wouldn't be falling back to sleep, Carter carefully stood and made his way over to the barrack's table, plopping down on the bench with another weary sigh. He positioned the flashlight so its beam was pointing up at the ceiling, casting a dim, hazy light all around, but certainly not strong enough to wake anyone. He stood it up like that, balancing it so he wouldn't have to hold it. Then he just let his mind wander again; right back to thoughts of home.
"...Andrew?"
A gentle hand on his shoulder, coupled with the whispered voice at his back, made him jump. Turning quickly, and almost knocking over the flashlight in the process, Carter found himself face to face with Corporal Peter Newkirk, the barrack's resident Englishman, as well as the operation's official forger, pickpocket, and conman. Carter blinked, more than surprised to see his friend up and awake. Normally Newkirk was quite a heavy sleeper.
"I-I'm sorry," Carter whispered hurriedly, "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just...just..." He couldn't come up with a good excuse and ended up just trailing off with a weak shrug.
Newkirk, dressed in his odd British version of a man's nightgown, carefully made his way around to the other side of the table, sitting across from his American friend. "Aw, that's a'right, mate. I was'n really sleep'n." He pointed to the bunk above Carter's own. "Th' rain was leak'n in through th' roof. Was more a bath than a good night's rest. Besides, I'm not really all that tired." He held up a worn deck of playing cards. "Feel up t' a game, Andrew?"
Carter stared across the table at his friend with a sense of bewilderment. Newkirk might be one of the greatest conmen of his time, but when it came to his friends, and those who knew him really well, the Englishman was a terrible liar. Carter could see, even in the dim glow of his flashlight, the dark circles under Newkirk's eyes, indicating that the Englishman had either been very much asleep, or hadn't gotten a wink all night. Carter was certain of the former. And yet, here Newkirk was, sitting across from him; willing to play cards rather than get some well-deserved rest. Just how much had Newkirk seen? And how much did he know?
"Well?" Newkirk pressed; though, for once, there wasn't even a hint of impatience in his tone.
It was as if the corporal knew the emotional distress Carter had been feeling; had sensed his need for company. The American sergeant considered shrugging it off and telling Newkirk that he was fine; that his friend could go back to bed and get some sleep. Or maybe he could just climb back into his bunk and pretend to sleep. But the crushing emotions from before hovered on the edge of Carter's consciousness, threatening to come back the moment he was left alone. Slowly, a smile replaced Carter's uncertain frown.
"Sure, Newkirk."
"Well," his friend grinned cheekily, starting to deal the deck between them. "Glad t' see you've come t' your senses." The jibe held no malice or disrespect. Only kind friendship, with maybe just a hint of concern.
After a moment of silence, in which only the slight sound of the cards falling on the table could be heard, Carter cleared his voice softly and then whispered, "Thanks, Newkirk."
Newkirk paused, looking up at him gently. "You're welcome, mate." He looked up at the rooftop as another flash of lightening lit up the barracks. "I was think'n 'bout home. Just figured you were do'n th' same." He gave Carter a long, knowing look, smiling like a Cheshire Cat.
Carter, despite the darkness; despite being miles from home; despite being a prisoner, smiled back...
The next morning, as the rainy night gave way to a clear, sunny morning, the occupants of Barracks 2 began to stir. It wouldn't be long before roll call, and Schultz would be arriving any moment to usher them outside. Hogan opened the door to his private quarters, doing up the zipper of his brown, leather bomber jacket. He froze when he was met by Sergeant James Kinchloe, his unofficial second in command. The man was holding a finger to his lips, shushing the Colonel to silence before pointing toward the barrack's table. It struck Hogan how quiet all his men were being, sending a confused glance in the direction Kinch was indicating.
He was greeted by the sight of Peter Newkirk and Andrew Carter, asleep and hunched over the table; their heads resting against the woodwork. On the table itself, playing cards lay scattered, and in the two sleeping mens' holds were loosely gripped a hand of cards. A flashlight, still on, was resting by Carter's elbow, pointed up at the ceiling. Both men were still dressed in their nightclothes and completely dead to the world.
Moving forward, Hogan and the rest of his team carefully edged nearer their two comrades in arms. Both were sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the other men around them. Hogan wasn't sure why they were sitting at the table, or why they had been playing cards all night, but there was one thing he did know.
That Carter held a winning hand.
Whatever had happened must have been important. Because the only time someone won a card game with Newkirk, was if Newkirk wanted you to.
My third Hogan's Heroes short. I do not own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters, nor anything that has to do with the show in any way. I do not write for profit. I write only for my own enjoyment and (hopefully) the enjoyment of others.
I came up with this story last night when I was half asleep. We were having a thunderstorm and the power went out. This was the result. :)