Disclaimer: As always, I don't own anything.
Chapter Two: Seven Dwarves? No, Five Heroes!
Morning roll call ended and LeBeau went over to the stove to begin cooking while Newkirk started on altering a pair of LeBeau's pants. Skirts weren't very practical for their work and definitely not for the tunnels. Hogan walked about, thinking over their assignment and the wish brought up by their newfound contact. Soon they would have word from London as to what London wanted from them, then they'd go from there. It was all business from here – and for most of them, the business was a pleasure because it involved a woman. Newkirk had been one of the first to arrive at Stalag 13, then LeBeau and both complained often of missing female company. Even Hogan had to admit that in the short time (compared to his European comrades) he'd been at the Stalag, he'd picked a lot of the contact assignments because they would allow him to meet female agents. Being Papa Bear and Senior POW Officer had its perks and women were one of them. The others were cigars and alcohol courtesy of Klink, occasional trips to town by way of Germans begging for information, and knowledge that he was helping his country fight against the Krauts.
"Kinch, what are you doing with that barrel?" Carter asked.
"Cutting it in half, Andrew, so Snow White can have a bath."
Carter frowned. "Colonel, where's she gonna take a bath?"
"Permission to bring it to her, sir," Newkirk volunteered instantly. "I'll even be a towel if we don't have one."
"You?" LeBeau asked with a sneer. The two were friends, but when it came to women, the two fought like rivals.
"Kinch will take the bath down," Hogan silenced the two of them. "And while you're down there, check for messages from London. We've got to think of a way to get her safely out of camp." He spotted Newkirk starting to make a suggestion and stopped him before he started. Not all of Newkirk's witticisms were something Hogan cared to listen to, especially not when the situation was serious. Though Newkirk always had one or two witticisms available for every situation.
Kinch opened the trap door to the tunnel and Carter handed things down to him. Snow White – Rachel Weiss, that was – appeared and offered to help. Carter called down a greeting and she waved back at him with a smile, listening to Kinch tell her where they should put the "tub" and the curtain. Newkirk and LeBeau hurried over to the bunk and called down their own good mornings and questions. LeBeau told her that breakfast would be ready whenever she wanted – did she prefer coffee or tea? Newkirk held up the pair of pants he'd been working on and told her he needed her to try them on so they could make alterations. Hogan chastised them, but the other men in the barrack were on their way, so he went to keep a look out for Krauts. Prisoners of War – they could take on anything the Germans could give them, but throw one woman into the place and most of them went insane.
Down in the tunnel, Rachel looked at the makeshift bathtub and the hot water they were sending down in pots and pans with amazement. She knew that prisoners didn't have the luxury of hot showers all the time, but here they were putting a warm bath together for her because they were hiding her. Of all the places, of all the things, she just couldn't fathom this operation's true size and nature.
"You did all of this for me?" she asked. She had already washed up with what was left of the water they'd given her last night and soap. Her hair was up and out of her face, ready to get down to business. They had train schedules and maps to discuss, and how were they going to stop the train? It occurred to her then that when she set out for this mission, she hadn't exactly thought it through. Her sole goal was to get the boys and get them to London. The main difficulty at the time had been convincing her boss that she needed a vacation right then and without him.
Kinch smiled, "We had some female prisoners here a while back, had to build another tunnel to get to them so we could help them escape. I think we dug that tunnel in thirty minutes."
"A long war," she commented and secured her end of the curtain's rod to the tunnel sides.
"Surely you don't mean you're lonesome for male company?" Kinch asked her seriously. "Working in the Gestapo, I would have thought you'd be sick of men."
"We all have things we miss," Rachel replied curtly. Kinch nodded and checked that the curtain would hold. "I'm sorry, that sounded rude. Too much time spent with Germans, I think. It's just…well, to be around Allies is exciting for me, were I your host, I'd be going to this much trouble too."
"Sure," Kinch touched her arm gently, "I get it. Have a nice bath before the water cools, I've got to go check and see if we've got word from London."
Rachel thanked him and stepped behind the curtain. The radio and receivers could be heard through the curtain, so she knew where Kinch was. Unconcerned that anyone would see her naked, she removed her clothes and stepped into the bath. The heat seeped into her skin and she sighed. Minutes passed as she lathered and rinsed while the water grew steadily colder. Finally, she had to leave and when she did, she heard, "Excuse me, darlin', would you mind tryin' these on so I can make any adjustments?" Peter Newkirk, the Englander with the cockney accent, had his arm extended behind the curtain, hand clutching a pair of pants. To his credit, he wasn't looking at her. Rachel grabbed the towel that had been brought down for her, wrapped it around herself, and took the pair of pants from him. "If we're gonna be doin' dangerous work, you'd best be in clothes you can run in."
It appeared they had thought of her plan to some extent. Quickly she dried off and dressed, then stepped out from behind the curtain.
Unlike last night, Peter Newkirk was dressed in his uniform. The blue set off his green eyes. Corporal, she noted the insignia. If he'd been addressed with his rank the night before, she had forgotten. Right then she missed being at her desk at the Gestapo office, she could have had every bit of knowledge on the man in a moment. Well, most of it, but the rest she could probably get from the Underground or London itself. The British had attractive uniforms –
"Um, I think the pants need to be a bit longer," she gestured to her ankles. "And taken in a bit at the waist." Peter nodded and knelt down so he could adjust the waist and pin it. He placed several pins in his mouth to free his hands and deftly slid them into place, securing the fabric. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but for a few seconds, she thought he lingered with his fingers against her skin. He then took his tape measurer out and took in the length he needed to add. "I hope Monsieur LeBeau is not upset that I'm taller than he is."
"Won't say a word," Peter told her, his mouth moved awkwardly around the pins. "He said that breakfast is ready whenever – and I'll make tea. LeBeau can't make tea to save his life. I think all French are like that." He finally pinned all he needed and directed her to remove the pants, he'd fix them up for her. Like a gentleman, he stepped behind the curtain so she could change.
"By the way, have I told you that you're beautiful?"
"No."
"Well, better late than never, you're beautiful." He held his hand out to her and she placed her hand in his. He led her over to the ladder, his grip firm and sure – he may be a flirt but he had heart, she could tell that by his grip. So many men she met stumbled over themselves around her, trying to win their way to her boss's good side by way of romancing her. Flowers, champagne, nylons, chocolate, butter, sugar – all sorts of bribes came her way but they didn't have the genuine heart that Peter Newkirk had. Peter flipped the pants over his shoulder and they both climbed up.
"Good morning," Colonel Hogan greeted her, a cup of coffee in one hand, a piece of paper in the other. "Orders from London," he held up the piece of paper. "We're to move you out tomorrow."
Rachel wasn't the only one to protest. A few complained of the logistical problems, a few about losing the company, but Hogan held up a hand and all fell silent. "We'll talk about this," Hogan gestured at the table. "Have a seat, I believe LeBeau made you breakfast." LeBeau walked over with a plate of pancakes and smiled at her. He set the plate down on the table and Peter deposited the pants on the table and sat down. She sat across from Hogan and he passed her the pancakes. "Look, we're going to help you with your mission and you'll help us with ours tonight – we have the same target. But London says to send you back. What if your cover's blown?"
Rachel ate a few bites of pancake and then shook her head. "It hasn't been blown. I told you last night! They won't be searching for me, my cover is intact. London makes bad decisions sometimes and we have to question them."
Carter laughed and then tossed a dart at a piece of paper on the wall, one that looked remarkably like a picture of Hitler. "Us? Question orders? Ma'am, the last time we had orders that made sense, we were shot down." Peter looked up from a box he'd picked up with sewing materials in it. He threaded a needle and set it down to get a pair of pants that he could match her measurements better. "We listen to Colonel Hogan."
Hogan asked her to recount why she believed that her cover wasn't going to be blown. So she did, this time telling the whole story to everyone in the barracks. The story of how her apartment building came to be searched, how she had to forge a few papers, cry in her boss's office so he would think she genuinely needed a vacation and then the pass. She'd gotten on the wrong train on purpose, got off at the stop she thought would connect her to the train with the boys, but instead when she went to get to the train, German troops were searching the woods and she'd run into Newkirk and Carter. "So far, we're the only ones who know you're not on your way to Paris?"
"Right."
"Schultz is coming!" LeBeau warned. "No time for the tunnel! He's in a hurry!" Hogan directed her to his office and the rest of them assembled into a sense of common activity. Rachel pressed her ear against the door and listened as the sergeant complained and instructed the prisoners as to what they needed to do, what the Kommandant wanted.
Hogan left with the sergeant and Rachel sat down at his desk to look through his books. He had mostly manuals but there was one book missing. She hoped that it was a novel or something he enjoyed, but most likely it had to be a copy of the Geneva Convention or some sort of rulebook, something he had to have. A few pictures were placed on the wall, a few pin ups but one of his family. It had to be his family, she could see the resemblance to Hogan in the faces of the woman and the man. It couldn't be anything else but his family. With care and respect, Rachel removed the photo from the wall.
Back home she had her mother, her father, and two brothers. Well, her older brother was deployed somewhere in the armed forces. Her other brother went to elementary school in Wisconsin. Somewhere in America, Colonel Hogan's family didn't know what their son was up to – believing he was at the sole mercy of the Germans, not aware that he was part of a resistance.
Rachel held onto the picture and wished she could see her family again. Even if he was a prisoner of war, she felt jealous that he could see his family like this. She hadn't seen hers in four years and she couldn't even have a picture of them with her. If her brothers saw her then, they'd be laughing at her for being all emotional over something as simple as a photograph. Rachel repined the picture to the wall and stepped back from it.
Otherwise, as far as she could tell, his room was essentially nothing special. Not a single special thing stood out to say that it was someone's permanent space, that they liked it there, that it was home. At least at her apartment she could pick out things for her liking, she could make it hers. She could arrange the furniture her way, buy the sheets she wanted.
God, what was she crying about over a photograph? Compared to what she had, the man had nothing. None of these men had anything. Her cushy life, threatened only by the possibility that she would be exposed. They would just shoot her. There were so many punishments in here for trivial things – shooting them would be easy and the Gestapo would be more interested in pain for these allied prisoners who'd found a way to thwart them.
Carter opened the door and told her she could leave Hogan's office. The whole day would be a mix of espionage and regular prison stuff, but she'd get used to it. Rachel looked around the room and Carter stared at her, confused as to why she just stood there.
"If you're gonna stay there, try these on, make sure they're right," Peter held out the pants he'd fixed for her. Rachel took them and tried them on, they were a perfect fit, but the real problem came with her feet – she had no shoes to go with them. This would be something to discuss with Colonel Hogan when they went over the plan for the train. Pants might be warmer and more suited for sabotage activities and theft, but even if Peter could lengthen trousers, he probably wasn't a shoemaker.
Figuring that she wasn't going any place that needed shoes at the moment, she folded her skirt and placed it on Hogan's bed. It looked rather indecent, but what did that trouble her? She'd seen more indecent things than that and hopefully anyone in the barracks who saw it would understand why she'd placed them there. She put her shoes under his bed, aligned with her skirt, and then she left his office.
Kinch and Carter were playing cards. LeBeau had a piece of paper in front of him and a pencil in his hand. Peter stood next to the door of Hogan's office and then smiled. "That looks beautiful, love," he complimented her and took her hand. "Go on, give the lads a twirl – and you say I can't sew, Louis!" Hand in his, Rachel twirled for the men to see how the pants fit. There were a few claps and some noises of approval, but aside from the four men, the barracks was empty.
"We don't have much to do here for a girl," Peter apologized. "We get one hour of exercise a day, but seeing as how you can't go out –"
"I quite understand," Rachel nodded. "And don't think of forgoing that hour just because of me. You've all given up a lot just to help end the war, don't give up anything just because I'm here."
"Mademoiselle," LeBeau spoke up, "we would not be giving up anything – we can always find ways to exercise but a woman? That's a rare occasion around here."
"Indeed," Kinch placed a card on the table and Carter took it. "Carter, why do you always take eights?"
"Because you think I'll give up," Carter placed some cards down and declared, "Gin."
"So what do you do?" Rachel asked and walked over to the table. The men's bunks, she noticed, were all made. Rules? Boredom? Military efficiency? Why did they make their beds if they didn't have to? Most of the bunks had pictures posted, family and girls – some she was fairly certain they had never met. "Just cards, cooking, and writing?"
"Hey," LeBeau protested, "some day I may actually publish this novel," he waved the paper he had.
"Right," Carter laughed. "And we'll all be famous, but only in France 'cause LeBeau won't translate it." The whole lot of them shared a laugh and Rachel wondered if they had a genuine joke about a French novel or if it was just in response to her question.
"I'm not sharing the money," LeBeau smiled and then went back to his letter.
The door opened and Hogan walked in, snow drifted inside as well. The cold air drifted over her bare feet and she shivered. He unzipped his jacket and went straight to the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup and offered one to Rachel. She politely declined. "We need to discuss the train job. What was your plan?"
"Hop on, hop off," she admitted. "Didn't have much of a plan, just a moral obligation to do."
"There's that at least, but this is why you just pass on information, leave the dangerous stuff to us, please? You could get yourself hurt."
She felt a coat being draped around her shoulders and she looked to see that Newkirk had given her his coat. "Let us protect our side, especially those here in Germany, all right?" Peter asked.
"I can take care of myself," she tore the coat off of her shoulders and stuffed it into his arms. "So I didn't plan the whole thing, so what? I've been here for most of the war and have covered my tracks thoroughly – one mistake -
"One mistake could get us all killed," Hogan remarked.
"Problems with the Kommandant?" she asked. In the few times she'd spoken to Papa Bear he hadn't been this upset.
"Oh, he's fine, I just am nervous about this mission. Frau Linkmeyer is in town along with General Burkhalter, so tonight's a little sticky."
Kinch walked over to look out the door to keep watch. He opened a secret folder behind the "VERBOTEN" sign and took out a few maps to pass to the Colonel. "Let's plan this, shall we?"