A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed and read! I'm surprised that all of them have been quite positive, as I spotted a few mistakes after I posted the first chapter (though one person did point out my bad German, lol Btw, please tell me if I'm using any foreign language wrong; I want this to be as realistic as possible, despite the whole supernatural thing). Just saying, as I don't mind an honest critique.
I hope you all enjoy chapter 2!
Kinch certainly didn't sleep well that night; guessing from the others' puffy eyes, neither had they. Despite the minor fatigue, the air was filled with anticipation. The new Gestapo prisoner was arriving today with a new mission. Lack of communications and intelligence did little to deter Hogan and his men from readying for this opportunity. Perhaps it was stupid to do so in such an unprepared state, but Kinch didn't mind that. There was nothing else they could do, really.
Ten minutes before roll call found Kinch drinking some of the remaining (and dwindling) coffee rations at the table with the group. The radio man swirled the last dreg of the now cooled drink. He tried not to remember how hearty it used to be, and how warming it felt when it was swallowed down his throat and into his empty stomach. The bland and possibly stale blend tasted like the worst cup of coffee he ever drank, though it did feel like the hottest. As Kinch glanced over at his friends, he saw their own reactions to what could be their last cup of steaming hot goodness for a long time. Le Beau was open in stating how horrid it tasted; Newkirk swallowed it, but grumbled about his broken hope of a nice bowl of hot porridge; and Carter? Kinch could have sworn the young man was a kid again. The explosive expert tilted his head back along with the cup to get every last drop of the coffee, his tongue greedily searching for anything he missed.
Hogan, as usual, treated it like any other cup of coffee. He made a joke about its taste, but that was all. He had more important things in mind.
"So, everyone knows what to do?" the leader spoke up. Kinch nodded, as the plan was discussed over the meager breakfast.
"Yeah colonel. We meet the prisoner – if we can – and see what he's in for," he answered. Carter then piped in, wiping a dribble of coffee dreg from his lips.
"And then we see if we can trust him, and then start snooping around, right?" he finished with a grin. Hogan didn't smile back.
"This isn't a game everyone. I hate to say it, but this may be our last chance at helping the Underground, whatever they're up to," Hogan sat down his mug and scratched his chin. "Unless we get any sort of contact from the outside, our operations may have to cease if we can't do this mission right,"
Kinch frowned, pushing away his own mug. "What do you mean sir?"
"I mean that I think this prisoner and his Gestapo escorts have something to do with this over-drawn radio silence,"
Newkirk and Le Beau gave one another a look before the Londoner replied.
"So this could possibly be the solution to contacting the Underground?"
"Or our one failure to the operations with them,"
The table grew silent. Kinch didn't like it. Could this possibly be the last for the remainder of the war? He almost suggested sending someone to meet a regular contact in town, just to check up on things, but immediately kept his mouth shut. If there was a problem, they would send someone to Hogan, not the other way around. Besides, it was too risky; it was possible that one of their allies was exposed, and going out in the open crawling with Nazi spies would only make things worse.
"I can't imagine living like an ordinary prisoner," Le Beau confided after a small moment. "Why bother making any strudel to bribe Schultz with if there's no reason to bribe him?"
"And why bother kissing up to that blubbering kommadant?" Newkirk added. "Bleedin' idiot wouldn't have kept this job without us!"
"Which is why we need to focus on our new mission, starting now," Hogan ordered firmly. Before anyone could agree or comment, a shivering Schultz had popped in and rounded every one out of the barracks. Whatever little warmth Kinch had managed to hold on to from his coffee immediately disappeared when the winter wind breezed in, carrying some flurries in on the way.
Once outside, Kinch thanked the Lord that the blizzard only lasted during the night. There were light snowflakes drifting downwards in lazy spirals, but that was hardly noticeable. What bothered him was the lack of sun; thick grey clouds, threatening the poor men with another nighttime storm, blocked the comforting rays that could have warmed their backs. Kinch ignored the cold as best as he could.
"Eins, zwei, drei…" Schultz started counting. Kinch could hear his teeth clatter between and within every syllable. He then noticed his own shivering and teeth clattering, and began rubbing his arms and stomping his feet. He could have sworn it was ten times colder out here than it was down in the tunnels.
Kinch paused, watching his breath form into a cloud and disintegrate seconds later. He almost forgot about the tunnels. Somehow he managed to make himself suppress the memory about what happened down there yesterday evening, only to have it replay intensely in his head. The flickering and dancing lights, the renegade radio, and the voice suddenly reverberated in his mind's eye, and he recalled the voice's message:
Passen Sie das Kind von Irland auf.
Beware the child of Ireland.
Kinch spoke German rather well, but the confusion and stress from the previous day disrupted him from thinking about it. Arms rubbed themselves again as he tried keeping warm.
What Irish child? There were certainly no children here in the stalag, that was sure; younger men, perhaps, but the youngest was a 19 year old private, on the other side of the camp. As for Irish, Kinch knew of no one in the area who was of that ethnicity. There were some Americans here who might be part Irish, or even Scottish or Welsh, but there were no full blooded Irishmen to be seen.
Well, Kinch mused to himself, perhaps I was just stir crazy yesterday. I should focus on the mission anyway.
Focusing on the mission became much easier after Klink called for everyone's attention.
"Prisoners! We have with us today some gentlemen from the Gestapo, and their own…guest. Let's show them the efficiency and discipline that is Stalag 13, shall we?" he finished off with a jovial, though clattering, smile. Kinch and the other men looked around to find the prisoner, but all they saw were the two Gestapo officers, a few guards, and-
Kinch squinted his eyes. Was that the new prisoner?
Most newcomers were "young pups", as Newkirk dubbed them, but this man resembled more of an old bull dog. Although not fat, he was a stout, gruff man in his middle years and looked to be a few inches taller than Le Beau. Slightly balding and graying black hair ruffled beneath his cap. His face was lined and a plump nose drooped down his face. Kinch would have known his military branch and rank, but he was a bit of a ways from his place in the flight.
The new old prisoner was shoved into Hogan's group, which was unnecessary as Klink dismissed every one seconds later. He turned to the officers, leading them to the office building. Kinch swiftly gathered with his colleagues around Hogan, awaiting orders.
"Newkirk and Le Beau, go follow the new guy; keep an eye on him. Carter, I need you to talk him up a little. Just be friendly, casual. You know what to do,"
Carter nodded, and the three went next to the barracks after the new prisoner.
"Kinch, I'm going to give our beloved kommadant a surprise visit," Hogan said with a well-known playful grin, "and I need you to go into the tunnels again. I'm giving the Underground one last chance to answer to Papa Bear,"
The loyal yet wary sergeant accepted. He was harshly reminded of what had happened down there, but working under Hogan for as long as he had leaded him to obey his leader. No matter how crazy a mission or order seemed, it always turned out successful in the end.
The two then parted ways. Kinch had given Hogan a grin before turning away, but it soon formed into a troubled frown. He truly did not feel up to going back down to the tunnels. Tomorrow, maybe, and most surely he would have done so without hesitation the day after. But today?
Kinch descended the ladder into the airy cell. He fought back the chill and his own dismay of coming down and proceeded to one last transmission to the Underground.
The same chair, desk, and radio sat there taunting him. They chuckled in the dull light and frosty atmosphere at Kinch's childish dislike of the tunnels, of his silly imagination. The lights and lamps surrounded him in glee, almost as if they were eager to tease him again.
In defiance, Sergeant Kinchloe grabbed his earphones and immediately got to work. He had a job to do and nothing was going to stop him. There was a whole organization hanging on the line; ridiculous hallucinations and fears had no place here. Even the lack of responses failed to upset Kinch. At least, not at first.
"Papa Bear calling Goldilocks…Mama Bear…over," he spoke clearly into the mic. Nothing.
"Papa Bear calling Goldilocks, Mama Bear, Little Bear, over,"
Nothing again.
After ten minutes, Kinch sighed. He hoped the rest were having better luck with their part of the mission. At least they were being useful; all he could do was anticipate unresponsive radio waves.
Knowing the slim chance of a response, Kinch took off the headphones and leaned back in the old chair. He breathed in and out slowly. Cold air rushed through his nose and into his lungs, a refreshing feeling, though he was already chilled to the bone. Eventually he closed his tired eyes. His lack of sleep caught up to him as the heavy lids glued together and the breathing slowed. The cold air around him failed to keep him awake as it had done last night.
Lazily, Kinch thought of what the prisoner was like. He might be tired, considering his supposed age; perhaps he wished of his old wife at home. But everyone was like that here, missing for their wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters…
Soon even the fleeting thoughts faded away, and Kinch was nothing but a mixture of feelings. He felt exhausted, curious, thoughtful, and slightly disturbed.
Was what had happened real? It did at the time.
But it was just stress getting to me.
And it has been a cold season. The winter has been getting everyone antsy.
Yeah, sleep is nice.
Has he told you about the Child?
The voice was airy, unearthly even. It wasn't the same one from before, but somehow one felt connected to the other.
Kinch slumbered on, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
You know what? I think I was just dreaming then, like I am now.
His presence threatens your allies, Child of the West. Protect your brethren from the Child of Éire!
Man, I need to eat something. These dreams are getting to my head.
Your dreams speak the truth. Heed the warning!
What? The dream? Kinch groggily thought. He tried to ignore these phantom, disembodied words. They were just his imagination, right? But for some reason, his heart was pounding, and his breathing was growing ragged.
Protect your brothers! Cosain do dheartháireacha!
From who? What's going on-?
Tá tú ag rabhadh leanbh!
"Kinch!"
The said man was jolted back into the conscious world by the sound of his name, and because of a firm shake to his shoulder. He literally jumped out of his seat and onto his feet, accidentally thwacking the person behind him with his hand.
"Ow! Dang it Kinch, I didn't do it to be mean!"
He turned and saw it was Carter again. He was rubbing a gloved hand over his reddening nose, his hat slightly askew on his head. Kinch composed himself by straightening his own attire.
"Sorry about that; thought you were someone else," he said softly, trying to be his usual calm and cool-headed self. Carter grunted, fixing his cap.
"Well, just don't tell the colonel you were sleeping, he's mad – really mad,"
Kinch threw the dream from his mind at Carter's comment. "Really? Why?"
"Well, we're just not getting anything, you know? Colonel Hogan couldn't even get into Klink's office, the new guy's a total jerk –"
By then Carter was wringing his hands. He looked extremely nervous; the annoyance from Kinch's hit was gone. The older man placed his hands on Carter's shoulder's and gave them a slight shake.
"C'mon, how about we go up and I get filled in by the rest? I'm sure Newkirk and Le Beau have a lot to tell me too,"
Carter grinned a little. "Alright. And Le Beau is making some sausages, so we might as well try to get first pick!"
Kinch chuckled as he followed Carter back to the stove up the ladder. When the bunk bed opening was closed, he saw the new prisoner facing the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette. With him just there, wasn't it risky to trust him with their Underground workings now?
"Don't worry!" Carter whispered to the sergeant, knowing his concern. "He's partially deaf from a recent blast; at least, that's what we think it is,"
Kinch nodded in understanding. He then made his way to the table by the stove as Le Beau finished up the last round of sausages. They were small and skinny, but the smell made Kinch's mouth water. It wasn't peppery, or any other sort of spice, but the fat itself would taste great: a big boost from the coffee earlier that morning.
Minutes later, the French cook started handing out plates to first picks, with Kinch grateful he had one himself. He bit into it and reveled in the hot grease that slightly burned the tip of his mouth and tongue. He didn't care; it was hot food going into his stomach and that's all he wanted. Next to him, Newkrik stabbed two of the little sausages at once with his fork, and ate them in one bite.
"Ahhh…" the Brit sighed with a grin after swallowing them. He lightly patted his belly. "That warms me up right quick,"
"It'sh good, huh?"
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Carter," Le Beau said from the stove, not bothering to turn around as he passed out plates. The young sergeant swallowed quickly and picked at his sausages much more carefully.
"So," Kinch brought up after that was done with, "what did you guys find out?"
Le Beau sneered. "Not much. Newkirk and I watched that man for almost an hour while Carter socialized,"
"Carter said something about him being a jerk," Kinch added with a grin. He bit into his last sausage as Newkirk replied.
"That's putting it lightly. The man is as nice as a spoiled 5 year old twit with a runny nose. Nagging about everything and everyone, acting all high and mighty – can't stand him," he finished with an irritated grumble.
"And Hogan? He's mad?"
"Pretty steamed, yeah," Newkirk answered. "He's pacing and thinking in his office. Said he was kicked out by the Gestapo the moment he got to the door. They're tough this time,"
"Pauvre homme. His pride is a bit hurt as well; landed on his rear, just at the steps," Le Beau said.
And at that, Colonel Hogan himself stepped from his office, smiling his smile and looking as if nothing of the previous had happened. Kinch didn't buy it; it was obviously forced. Still, he knew he was doing it to move forward with their plan instead of sulking in a rut.
Hogan walked over to the new prisoner, exchanged a few words, and brought him over to the table.
The man, Kinch now noticed, wore a RAF uniform like that of Newkirk's. It was the same dark blue with the same coporal insignia. Kinch wondered how such an older man stayed at such a low rank. Hogan, however, introduced him cheerfully to his trusted men.
"Men, meet our new fellow POW: Corporal Jacob Murray. He's from Ireland, so don't mind the accent if it gets a bit thick," he finished with a playful grin. Murray didn't seem to notice the joke, or even know that Hogan had spoken. He looked bored and disgruntled, as if he would rather be somewhere else.
The others forced a smile while Kinch froze, absent-mindedly stabbing his fork into the empty plate with a bland stare.
Beware the Child of Éire.
Kinch ignored the phrase that popped into his head. He noticed his plate was devoid of food stuff, so he stopped poking it like an idiot and plastered a smile like the rest.
"Hey there, corporal. I'm Sergeant Kinchloe. Call me Kinch,"
Two spirits, different in substance but the same in their goal, watched as the dark skinned Child of the West greeted the man. The one of the mortal soul gazed forward, only slightly comprehending what was happening.
"Mein Enkel… Bitte schützen Sie mein Enkel…" he begged the American, not knowing he wasn't heard. The unearthly being spiritually with him coaxed him away from the scene.
"He will protect your grandson, do not fear," he breathed, his promise sounding like it flowed in a slow wind. Gradually the barracks they hid in began to fade, as they floated back into the woods and into a light, consuming them. The mortal soul moaned, wanting to warn the dark man again of the threat to come, the threat that destroyed him, the threat that could reach the dark man, his friends and the spirit's grandson.
"Mein Enkel!" he begged, reaching weakly to the group of soldiers. He was gingerly pulled away.
"Come with me for now, into my world of beautiful music, and laughter…come…"
The mortal soul knew it was time to leave for now. The music was indeed the most wonderful he had ever heard, and he never stopped laughing with joy when he stayed there. But he needed to convince him of the dangers ahead!
"Mein Enkel…"he groaned out a final time. The other held him to the light.
"Later, my Son of the Fatherland," the soothing voice cooed, "Let the Child of the West rest, and learn to trust his heart before we meet again,"
"Now we rest ourselves, in the joy that is the Otherworld,"
The soul smiled with an empty stare. "Ja, Jenseits…"
The two spirits, different in substance but the same in their hopes, joined together in the paradise and giggled with glee.
May the Sun shine on your back as you tread on, Good Child of the West!