Chapter 3: A History Lesson

In which Hogan listens to a story about how things used to be at Stalag 13.

With his back turned to the door, Lebeau did not notice Hogan's entrance as he sat next to the lower bunk to keep vigil. The heaviness of the air was punctuated irregularly by the labored sound of the sick man's breaths as his chest rose and fell shallowly. Lebeau held one of his dear friend's hands in between both of his while under his breath he sang a song his mother comforted him with as a child when he was ill. The Frenchman's red sweater stood out in stark relief against the drab surroundings and maudlin atmosphere.

Á la claire fontaine

M'en allant promener

J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle

Que je m'y suis baigné

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime

Jamais je ne t'oublierai

Sous les feuilles d'un chêne

Je ma suis fait sécher

Sur la pus haute branche

Un rossignol chantait*

"How is he?" Hogan asked softly, not wanting to startle the younger man.

"Oh, mon Colonél," Lebeau looked up but did not let go of Kinch's hand, "I did not hear you come in. Kinch is the same, I think. Nothing we do is helping, but neither is it hurting. He was awake a little while ago, but not anymore."

Lebeau looked exhausted but calm. Unfortunately, Hogan knew by experience that his fiery corporal's stillness was far more dangerous than any emotional display. It meant the Frenchman's normal passion had been super-heated and was ready to explode at the slightest provocation. 'Lucky me,' Hogan thought sarcastically, 'I have just the spark to set him off.'

Aloud, he said, "Good to hear. The last thing we need is more complications. Klink just told me that we aren't getting any help from the Krauts, no matter what."

"No help? But why?" Lebeau demanded, his voice rising in volume and pitch. Through all his experiences as a Frenchman and member of the Maquis underground he had more than enough reasons to hate the boche in general, but this seemed irregularly unreasonable for the Germans of Stalag 13.

"I'll tell you why, but only if you promise to keep your temper," Hogan bargained. The last thing he wanted to do today was wrestle one of his own men to the floor in order to prevent the murder of a German colonel.

The corporal nodded and let go of Kinch's hand. To replace it he took off his beret and began twisting it in his hands, knowing that whatever he was about to hear would be unpleasant. As the Colonel explained the situation Lebeau could feel his temper threatening to spill over but kept his promise faithfully by trying to wring the color out of his cover.

When Hogan finished his story, Lebeau looked down at his unexpected friend's face, scrunched in pain and sweating what seemed like oceans. "I thought we'd all gotten beyond that—Newkirk and I made sure of it after Kinch got us out of a...what do you Americans call it?...a tough jam?"

It was exactly the opening Hogan was looking for. "What jam? The three of you looked pretty tight when Carter and I arrived. In fact, it was Kinch that suggested bringing you two 'foreigners' into the operation from the start."

Lebeau smiled, " 'Foreigners', Colonél? You are farther away from home than I am. It's true, though, that Kinch started looking out for Newkirk and me almost from the moment he arrived. I think it was because we are smaller than he is."

Hogan's expression lightened and he relaxed a bit at the joke. Nearly everyone in camp was smaller than Kinch, a fact that perhaps helped explain his unwavering dedication to the operation. Despite his sometimes caustic remarks and frustration with them, Hogan knew that his radioman cared deeply for the younger men of their organization. Prodding Lebeau again, Hogan asked, "What happened that made Kinch have to stick his neck out and save the two of you?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I do."

Lebeau looked down again at one of his great sources of strength and took a deep breath. "It all started a few weeks before you and Carter were brought here—back when this camp really was a prison. Klink had only recently been transferred in and we didn't know how to train him or the other Krauts yet. Our memories of that devil Commandant Swartz were still too strong and we were afraid. I doubt even you would have been able to manipulate that evil man, Colonél. Some of Swartz's men were still here as well and making life miserable."

Hogan nodded. He'd heard stories of Swartz and his vile men and none were flattering. "So it was Swartz's men who sought out Kinch to make life miserable?" he guessed.

"Non, at least, not any more than any other man. They were cowards and would never approach someone bigger and stronger than they were. Instead they took their pleasure from torturing the smaller prisoners."

"Like you."

Though it wasn't pleasant at the time to endure, the memory now held a fondness that brought a smile to Lebeau's face. "Like me," he admitted. "It wasn't a very pleasant time. I was jealous, even hateful, of men like Kinch who did not face the abuse that I did. Worse than that, the other men in camp ignored it. Even Newkirk--it was a survival instinct that we had all developed to stay out of the Cooler and worse.

"It was one day in late October when two of the guards, Humboldt and Ritter, decided they would try taking away the one thing that brought me any pleasure in this place—my cooking. I had been on a work detail outside of the wire building up the hedgerows along Heidelberg Road. There was thyme growing wild along the path that I picked, well in the view of Humboldt, and brought back into camp. When I was walking back to the barracks, those two goons were waiting for me."

The memory took on a life of its own in the Frenchman's mind as he vividly remembered the jeering of the guards. "When are these Frogs going to realize that they are defeated?" Humboldt crowed, nudging his fellow bully. "They must be universally stupid not to know that their cities, their money, their homes, their women—all of them belong to us. Maybe they simply like dying by our hands when they fight us."

"Ah, but their women do not fight too much!"

"Tell me, Frenchie, do you have any sisters? A mother?"

Even the dark days of Swartz's reign could not put a damper on Lebeau's temper. "How dare you…!" was all he was able to get out before launching himself at the Krauts.

It wasn't difficult for the two guards to subdue him and pin his arms behind his back. Humboldt dug a hand into the inside pocket of Lebeau's jacket to pick out a small paper packet. "What is this? Smuggling contraband, Frenchie?"

"You know what it is," Lebeau struggled as Humboldt stuck the envelope in his own uniform pocket. "Thyme from outside. It is no danger to you."

"Oh, but it is. What kind of soldiers would we be if we let our prisoners take whatever they wanted from the German people? Especially those trying to attack soldiers of the glorious Third Reich." Holding on to Lebeau's collar, Humboldt shook him sternly and suggested, "Maybe we should make an example of him."

Lebeau closed his eyes in fearful expectancy. As usual, his so-called Allies had abandoned him to his fate, unwilling to risk their marginally bearable life for his. Before the beating could begin, however, he heard a new voice intervene. "Hey, now, what's going on here?"

Opening his eyes, the Frenchman saw one of the new transfers from last week sauntering towards him. It was the big black man, hands stuffed into his pockets for warmth. He'd barely heard the mustachioed sergeant say two words since his arrival and now, here he was, doing what no veteran of the camp would do.

When it appeared that neither German was listening to him, the sergeant put a hand on the arm that was holding Lebeau hostage. "That means 'stop'," he clarified.

Humboldt did as he was told, but used his newly unoccupied hand to swing his rifle up to his shoulder and point it squarely at the American's chest. "Touch me with your dirty hand again, Darkie, and I will shoot it off for you."

"No need to lose your temper," Kinch replied patronizingly, unfazed by the threat or the insult. Placing a protective hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, the black man expertly maneuvered himself in between the Germans and their intended target. "That means you too, Lebeau."

"But did you hear what he called you!?"

"Relax, I've been called worse."

Seeing what the new man in camp was trying to do brought a sadistic smile to the guard's face. "Isn't this touching, Ritter? Here's a monkey trying to make some human friends by protecting our little Frenchie. But most of these Allies are all talk and we wouldn't want little Lebeau getting involved with the wrong type of people. We should make sure that Darkie here isn't going to take advantage of the poor boy."

Without warning, Ritter sidestepped behind Kinch, took the end of his gun in his hands and slammed it into the back of the American's head. The unexpectedness of the blow, more than its force, stunned the sergeant to his knees. Not giving him a chance to recover, Humboldt kicked him savagely in the stomach with his steel-toed jackboot, sending him to the ground.

"Arrêtez! Stop it!" Lebeau cried. He tried to step forward but found new hands restraining him. Looking back, he saw a vaguely familiar face that belonged to one of the RAF pilots in his barracks. 'Newkirk' his mind supplied. "Let go of me!"

"Knock it off!" the Englishman hissed into his ear, his voice raspy and firm. "You'll only make it worse."

Another blow landed. Another. Another. "Worse!? How could it get worse?"

"Use your eyes," Newkirk whispered. "He's a man that knows how to take a beating, you can tell." It was only later that they would learn about Kinch's boxing history which explained the observation. "He's taking this for you so you bloody well better not shortchange him by still managing to get yourself roughed up in all of this."

Held there, this time by friend not foe, it was a difficult scene for Lebeau to watch. Uttering no more than a few pained grunts, Kinch made no effort to get up or counterattack. After a few heart-wrenching minutes the guards tired of their sport when they realized their prey was not fighting back. Curious guards from other posts in the camp began to converge on the noise, drawing unwanted attention to the Germans' villainy.

"You boys might want to move on," Newkirk advised Ritter and Humboldt in a faux-concerned voice. "I hear the new kommandant is smarter than the average German—can read and everything. He's even read the Geneva Convention. I've heard that men who break it are given parkas as parting gifts."

Despite the hatred that flashed in their eyes, the guards had heard rumors about their new superior officer and the changes he was making to the stalag. 'A different way of discipline, a decrease in escapes,' was his motto. Arbitrary punishments by the guards, swept under the rug under Swartz's command, were being prosecuted. In point of fact, the Sergeant of the Guard's transfer was going to arrive any day.

"I would suggest you watch your back, Englander," Humboldt warned, "You may not have noticed, but you have no where to run from us. You'll see your friends suffer," he grinned, "right before you are hauled away by the Gestapo."

Newkirk's expression didn't change and his eyes didn't waver from Humboldt's. "Not before you, you bloody Kraut."

Blaring whistles and shouts of, "Halt! Halt!" filled the air and forced an end to the stare-down between the Axis and Allies. The crowd of prisoners that had assembled to watch the verbal exchange spontaneously made a wall of men between the incoming guards and the three men of Barrack 2.

Captain Hanover, the slight, graying, conservative Senior POW before Colonel Hogan, hurried over to them. It was not in his play-it-safe personality to encourage such reckless behavior, but the sense of Allied pride that swept over him after watching the altercation was intoxicating. "Newkirk, Lebeau, take the sergeant back to the barracks. I'll take care of things here."

"Right-o, Capitan," Newkirk squatted down to sling one of Kinch's arms over his shoulder as the American began to struggle up. Still shaken by the experience, Lebeau only nodded and followed.

Taking his savior's other arm, Lebeau looked across their shared burden to the wiry Englishman. "Merci, Newkirk."

"Don't mention it, mate," Newkirk kicked open the door. "I just came in on an opportunity. It's this barmy man you really have to really thank."

"And I do thank you Messieur…?"

"Kinchloe," the man's voice was deep and strong, even when he was nearly doubled over in pain, "Sergeant Kinchloe, but you can call me Kinch."

Waving with his free hand towards his bottom bunk, Lebeau indicated that they should deposit their burden there. "Is there anything that you need, mon ami Kinch?"

Kinch shook his head and closed his eyes. "Nothing, just a little quiet and sleep. Thank you both, by the way."

Newkirk smiled. "Happy to do it. In fact, it gave me a chance to do this," the English corporal reached into his blue uniform and retrieved a small paper packet.

"My thyme!"

"Well, I don't want to lose my touch, after all, and if it's worth scraping over, it's worth getting back."

"That was the first time I made a meal for Newkirk and Kinch—not that Newkirk has ever truly appreciated it. I don't know what Captain Hanover did, but Humboldt and Ritter were transferred within the week. The next day Kinch was fine and Newkirk didn't seem so horrible, for an Englishman."

Hogan grinned. 'And they lived happily ever after,' he wanted to quip, but refrained from doing so. It was nice to see Lebeau smiling again. "I'm glad Kinch had the two of you looking after him."

"Oui, Colonél, always," Lebeau once again took hold of the sick man's hands. "It is the least I can do to repay my debt to him. It is also why my blood boils when I hear Kinch abused because of his color. It reminds me of that day when he acted more decently than any other man in this camp."

Standing up, Hogan patted his French corporal on the shoulder. "Keep me posted on any changes."

"I will, Colonél."

The expression on Hogan's face as he exited his office did wonders for the tense feeling of the main room that he had left. Newkirk handed him a plate and commented, "I take it you got the whole story, eh sir?"

"The whole thing," Hogan agreed. "I had no idea you were such a softie, Newkirk."

The British pilot blushed. "Don't let the word out, Colonel. I've got my reputation to uphold after all."

Author's Note: For those that were curious, Newkirk's "fried squirrel" comment can be directly linked to the Fried Food Festival occurring near my home state while I was in the process of writing that section of the story. Fried Snickers, anyone? The reviewers are right, the odds of Newkirk knowing anything about it are doubtful, but it was on the brain.

Also, I would like to thank everyone for their input on the characterization of Hogan and others. Many said that he was "darker" than normally portrayed, which was my intention. One of my favorite aspects of the show is that the men, in their various ways, are all very flawed (ergo, they are human). They all, at one point or another, lose their tempers, make bad decisions and get defensive when others criticize their actions. That's what happens when men are confined and under large amounts of stress. Look forward to seeing more along those lines in upcoming chapters.

*Translation of Lebeau's classic French lullaby:

At the clear fountain,
While I was strolling by,
I found the water so nice
That I went in to bathe.

So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.

Under an oak tree,
I dried myself.
On the highest branch,
A nightingale was singing.

Preview: Scoval's level-headedness reappears (along with him in another cameo), tensions start to get the better of the men, and Newkirk is tasked with saving the day. Meanwhile, roses bloom.