My deepest apologies everyone, between starting school late, the piles of homework, chores and losing internet, I just haven't had time to write, but I somehow got this done for you. Thank you all who have read, reviewed and followed my work!
Newkirk couldn't fathom the fact of this Ryan fellow. He had been hiding in the tunnels for only God-knows how long, and not once had they seen him! He had absolutely no idea how they could have missed him. It was infuriating! The only thing that gave him any credit was he was related to Carter, who was one of the most loyal people Newkirk ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Newkirk sighed as he folded the rough sketch he had been working on and tossed it in his locker. Carter and his cousin were down in the living space of the tunnels where they kept escapees until they could move them along, probably fussing over the kid, who was a rank above him.
There was another thing that puzzled him. How did a young, fresh-faced kid like that get up to Staff Sergeant? Carter would have mentioned any high-ranking relative that could have slid him into a position that was more than he deserved. He must be quite a skilled little bugger, that one. Or he was simply lucky, either way Newkirk wasn't going to warm up to the man any time soon.
Schultz banged the door open and walked in stiffly.
"Roll call, everybody out, out, out!" he waved his arms to punctuate his sentence. Newkirk elbowed Kinch and they surrounded Schultz and talked over each other, creating a distraction as LeBeau went to get Carter out of the tunnel.
As soon as he saw the brown hair of Carter poke its way out of the barracks door, he shoved his fellow soldiers towards the door. They lined up single-file, in two straight lines, the boys from barrack 3 joining them, as custom. Schultz then proceeded to quickly count them so he wouldn't have to stay in the harsh cold longer than he needed to. Klink poked his head out the door of the office building and wrapping his arms around himself, shuffled onto the porch.
"Report!" he shouted with a shiver in his voice. Schultz saluted and replied all present and accounted for.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Klink spun around and ran back inside.
Wimp, Newkirk thought smugly. Schultz hurried them back into the Barracks and after the last prisoner entered, slammed the door.
The men moseyed back to whatever they were doing before, including Carter, who opened the door to the tunnel, and climbed down. Newkirk was curious as to the Americans protectiveness of his cousin. He was always hovering over Ryan, and was awfully upset about him being here. Trying to think of a reason, a memory struck him.
A long while ago, Carter had made a reference to his deceased uncle and aunt. It must have been Ryan's parents that had died. He supposed that made sense, seeing as they had died a while ago, and Ryan couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen. Twenty tops. The kid would've had to move in with his closest relatives, and from what Carter had said, the couple had lived no more than a few miles away from Carters home.
Let's see, he had mentioned the eleven-year, um, anniversary, a few months ago, and Carter said he had lived with them since he was twelve, so that would make Ryan, he paused his thoughts. There was no way that kid was twenty-three! He looked no older than seventeen! Newkirk shook his head, unbelieving. Just then, Carter and Ryan popped out of the tunnel, and they were both wearing smiles that spoke of good memories. Ryan's smile sat slightly crooked on his face, like a goofy school kid. At least, like a very sly, deceptive school kid.
That little sneak-thief... Newkirk thought begrudgingly. He hated the fact he, The Trickster, had been tricked. By someone he had at least six years on. Just thinking about it gave him a headache. He picked up a deck of cards and started shuffling them out of habit. Carter saw the movement and looked at Newkirk expectantly.
"You wanna play Gin Rummy?" he asked delightedly. Newkirk's headache worsened. Gin Rummy was the one card game that Carter could play properly, and in fact, he dominated even Newkirk. One of the few things he held over the others, actually.
So when Carter asked about it, Newkirk glared daggers into his friend's eye sockets.
"Or we could play poker" the other man said cautiously, taking a half step back.
Better. Newkirk began to deal cards, and his mood lightened. Not all the way, granted, but it improved to where he didn't feel like the next person to talk should drop dead. He saw Ryan move slightly out of the corner of his eye, and looked up at the newcomer curiously.
"I suppose you want to play as well?" he asked with a touch of irritation. Ryan studied him for a moment and his lips tightened ever so slightly. Then after a long while, shook his head slightly. He took a seat next to his cousin anyway. As cards flew across the table, the prisoners chatted back and forth as usual, with Ryan looking on silently. At first Newkirk thought he perhaps didn't know how to play, but the look in his eyes said he wanted to play but felt it unnecessary to further prod Newkirk's temper. Newkirk had to respect the wisdom of the Americans decision.
Hogan entered near the end of the third round of poker, and shut the door in a fashion that caught every man in the barracks attention. The hands on the table ceased their motion as the Colonel scanned the room and his eyes came to rest on Ryan and Carter. He gave the two a curious look and then frowned in such a way that puzzled Newkirk.
"Why didn't you tell us that you were part of the Underground?" He demanded.
Newkirk froze and stared at Ryan, who was sighing and rolling his eye. Ryan made an indignant gesture to his throat, which made Hogan's left eye twitch with anger. No-one in the barracks had ever seen someone sass their leader and get away with their pride or dignity intact. The look on Hogan's face was priceless, but Newkirk hoped that it would never be directed at him.
Newkirk felt his eyes widen at the frankness this newcomer used while talking, er, signing to Hogan. Hogan would have been quick to put anyone else in their place, but for some reason, he simply took the smarmy remark in stride.
"You could've told us instead of us using other resources, Bluejay." he punctuated the last word. Everyone in the barracks perked up at that, Carter included.
Bluejay was an infamous Underground agent that had no face recognition except to the highest leaders in the Underground. A highly trained, highly resourceful agent that was known for finding out the most preciously kept secrets of Germany, Bluejay was a miniature legend surpassed only by Tiger and the Unsung Heroes.
The small American just shrugged, smiling at the reaction of the prisoners. Carter looked quite flabbergasted at the revelation. Ryan, or Bluejay, made a flippant gesture with his hand, and signaled something to his cousin. Carter stuttered and relayed the message to Hogan.
"He-uh, Says that he wanted to see how much you knew about him… sir." Hogan tilted his head and nodded distantly.
"Why?" his nodding stopped. Ryan raised his eye into the far corner of his eyelid, as if accessing a thought. He rapidly gave Carter another encrypted message and looked back at the Colonel.
"No specific reason, just, uh... er, just wanted to see how much you would be able to find out. Ya know, to uh, test your efficiency." Carter appeared to have reworded his cousin's statement, probably not wanting to provoke the Colonel.
Ryan rolled his eye in mock exasperation towards his cousin. He smiled in a cat-like fashion, and touched his fingers to his forehead, in a casual salute. Hogan returned the smile but not the salute.
"I find it interesting that a big-time spy, like yourself, would only make staff sergeant in a rinky-dink group like the Cloud Raiders." he was taunting Ryan's position in one of the lesser-known squadrons, that much Newkirk could see. Ryan glanced at the stripes and insignia on his jacket, and quick as a flash, a look of devastation, not humiliation, crossed his face.
Something about the Colonel's statement had triggered a memory. Newkirk knew how to read people, and he had seen that expression before.
But Ryan looked up at Hogan and gave a sauntering smile, shrugging one shoulder. With a dismissive gesture, he flexed his hands, and then popped his knuckles in a loud series of snaps. Rolling off the bunk he had taken position on, he dropped to the floor without making a sound. Hogan's eyes narrowed.
"Going somewhere?" Ryan looked up at the rhetorical question. He pointed at the door and puffed out his cheeks and stomach in imitation of something, then jumped into the open tunnel without use of the ladder. Not even a second later, Schultz banged open the door.
It was uncanny how Ryan saw and heard things no-one else could, or at least before anyone else.
Schultz stomped the snow off his boots and addressed Hogan.
"Colonel Hogan, the Commandant wishes to see you in his office."
Hogan looked between the men, and then put his arm around the fat sergeant's shoulder.
"Will do, Schultz." he headed to the door, then turned back. "Coming, Schultz?"
Schultz had remained in place, and throwing a winsome and longing look at the food LeBeau was preparing, followed Hogan out the door in a sad, shuffling manner.
Carter closed the door after the fat German, and then making sure that he wasn't going to return, went into the tunnel after his cousin.
Newkirk shook his head and followed. He regretted promising to find and adjust clothes for the newcomer.
Snotty little rat, he grumbled to himself. A bit of his conscience tapped at his forehead. He's probably not all that bad, Peter. You're just grumpy that he got the best of you, he tried to dislodge the thought he knew was true, but didn't want to admit to.
He made his way to the living quarters in the tunnel. The first thing his mind registered was a flurry of movements, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Ryan sitting on top of
Carter's back, arm wrapped around his cousin's neck.
At first, Newkirk thought that they were having an actual fight, but the hysterical expressions plastered on their faces told him otherwise. He leaned back on the wall, not wanting to break up the entertaining scene before him, and watched quietly.
Carter wasn't the best grappler Newkirk had ever seen, but he could handle himself with ease and was relatively fast for a brainless oaf. But even so, Ryan was making mincemeat of him. The kid was everywhere at once, dodging and twisting Carter's limbs into awkward angles, with the agility of an acrobat. Newkirk winced at the punctuation of Ryan's final blow, which was a double-fist into the back of Carter's knees, and a solid kick in the chest.
Carter tumbled backwards, and then simply lay gulping like a fish on the dirt floor, his face red with fatigue and humiliation.
Ryan shook in silent laughter, and then made a gurgle as blood escaped from his mouth sheepishly, he wiped it away, and the spit the remainder onto the floor as he extended his hand out his cousin. Carter waved away the hand that was smeared with sweat and blood, smiling with amusement.
"You've certainly gotten better at grappling, Cuz." He said in a laughing tone.
Ryan smiled and bowed dramatically. Then he saw Newkirk, and the smiled waned. Ryan assumed a military stance, and Carter turned towards Newkirk, seeing him for the first time. Ryan adjusted the eye patch that was slightly askew.
"Oh, hey." Carter greeted him awkwardly. "I guess you're here to help with the clothing?"
Newkirk nodded and pulled his pocket kit out. He felt Ryan's gaze follow him as he walked across the room and sorted through the clothes basket. It was unnerving, to say the very least. The presence of the watchful eyes left him, and when he turned around, Ryan was riffling through his bag frantically. His face revealed panic, and he dumped out the entirety of his bag.
Newkirk, his hands full of clothing, cleared his throat loudly, trying to catch the young man's attention. Ryan turned at the sharp noise.
"Looking for something?" He asked rhetorically. Ryan nodded distractedly, and continued searching the items, indicating with his hands a small square.
Newkirk instantly knew what he was looking for, the box that he had found in Ryan's sack of belongings. He nonchalantly felt inside his jacket for the tin, and when Ryan turned his back to him, Newkirk slipped the box out and onto a nearby table. As soon as it was on the tabletop, he stepped quickly away from it, and ignored its presence.
Ryan kept rummaging through his bag with so much vigor Newkirk feared he would soon be patching rips in the sack. Newkirk started laying out clothes, inspecting them thoroughly. The hard part would be finding clothes that matched, and he hoped, were relatively small. Though he was a tailor, Newkirk didn't like doing unnecessary work. He went quickly through the uniforms, and found an outfit that used to belong to one of the newer prisoners: A sergeant Baker. They were the only matching clothes, but were much too big for the tiny staff sergeant. Sighing resignedly, and looked up from his work at Ryan.
He smiled with relief when he saw that the young man had found the box, and didn't seem suspicious.
"Ryan!" he spoke loudly across the room. "Come 'ere, if you will."
The American complied and quickly was on Newkirk's side of the tunnel. He looked expectantly at Newkirk, head cocked like a dog's. His face was flushed, and his uncovered eye was bright and sparkling from the frantic search. Newkirk felt the tiniest pang of guilt for stealing the box, but mentally shook it off. It was what he did; he was, after all, the thief amongst the team.
"I need to adjust these, so if you'd be so kind…" He held the measuring tape out towards Ryan. The smaller man looked at him eye to eyes, and smiled, with a shake of his head, he snatched the tape and clothes out of Newkirk's hold, and began the work himself measuring, cutting and pinning, all quite diligently.
Newkirk frowned. This little American was full of surprises.
I pulled the thread back and forth, in and out, savoring the distraction it provided. It was nice to be able to sew without it being considered, well, girly. I wasn't necessarily a fan of sewing, but I happened to be good, and most guys found it hysterical. It gave them another reason to hassle me; I was short, skinny, and couldn't shoot a handgun for my life. If it wasn't for my stealth and infiltration skillset, I would be the shame of the Air Force.
I smiled. I was also was pretty dang good with an Anti-aircraft gun.
Shards of metal and rolling flames smeared across my vision, and I dropped my handiwork onto the dirty floor. I felt the fear re-envelop me, and I grabbed my head with my hands, as if I could grab my memories and pull them out. The horror in their voices seared my mind.
"Watch it, mate!" the Cockney accent startled me, and I looked up at the unhappy face of the Englishman, Newkirk.
"We only have the one shirt to spare. Be careful!" he berated me.
I gave an apologetic look that had a hint of irritation in it, and picked up the shirt. An unexpected volley of coughs racked my body, scaring the life out of me and my grumpy companion alike.
I shivered with sudden cold, and turned away from Newkirk's irritated glance. I frowned at my shaking hand, wishing I had a stronger immune system. The cold of the tunnels had taken its toll on my body. I hoped it would go away before someone noticed. If they sniffed out a weakness, a disability, or instability, they might poke and prod until I couldn't take anymore, and then they might tell the High-Ups. The head of the Underground didn't like having any weak parts in the elaborate puzzle we formed. Any broken parts were dutifully replaced.
I stitched the shirt pieces back together slowly and steadily, and let my mind fall into the recurring mechanics. Up, down, up, down. In, out, in, out. The needle and thread kept a consistent rhythm, and I vaguely heard a complement come from another prisoner regarding my handiwork. And then I heard a quiet snarl come from Newkirk, him and his stupid pride issues. A twirl of the thread, and a pass under a loop, and a knot formed. I leaned over and bit the thread; a small snap sounded, and I held the garment out for inspection. I smiled at it. Lovely.
I pulled it over my head and tucked it over the baggy undershirt I had been lounging about in. My eye patch strayed from its place, and I hurriedly nudged it back in place. It was a bother to wear, but that stupid eye was a source of mockery and a cause for others to isolate me. Though it was kind of funny-looking for a skinny, five-three kid to wear a patch, it was better than the alternative. No win-win situations about that.
I was relieved that the sweater vest wasn't awfully big, and could be worn the way it was. Knitted materiel always gave me trouble. And then the final garment that needing mending was the pants, which I only had to hem and take in the waist. That process only took twenty-some minutes, so looking around and seeing no one, I quickly dodged behind a wall and changed garments. I had no need of them seeing exactly how skinny I was. Belch.
I tucked everything into place, and put on the boots I had been given. I didn't like the way they wobbled loosely on my feet, but they were warm.
Lastly was my hat. A snug, olive-green woolen cap with a small brim; almost as if a toboggan cap and a baseball cap had been blended together. I loved wearing hats. I felt so very mysterious when wearing them, and they were part of my job. Technically, disguises were part of my job, but hats were part of a disguise, so same thing.
Andrew came in as I straightened out my outfit. He smiled brightly at me and rubbed his hands together mischievously. I smiled along, knowing what that face meant.
"Wanna help me with a project, Charlie?" He asked, already knowing the answer. I gave an instant thumbs-up and followed him.
When Andy said "Project", he meant something that went BOOM. Andrew and I were infamous around the neighborhood for causing loud disturbances. We would show up at the house black-faced, smelling of gunpowder and Aunt Jen would be going between wringing her hands and scolding our foolishness. Ah, those were the best of days.
Andrew opened a door and held it until I entered. I looked around the room and took in all it had to offer. An assortment of jars, tins, beakers, and, well, everything imaginable was scattered about a workbench that showed evidence of experiments gone wrong. The place was a battlefield of the worst sort.
I looked at my cousin with an eyebrow raised. You really need to clean this place up.
Andy waved off my message.
"It works for me." He said as he shoved a pile of debris off his chair. A loud popping sound echoed and we both jumped. I nudged the pile that he had dumped with my foot, and revealed a now-detonated pile of pressure-activated fire crackers.
I stared at him for a very long moment. He smiled sheepishly in return.
"I suppose it could be cleaner…" I sighed and shook my head as I picked up object after object from the floor. Andrew was becoming even sloppier now that he wasn't under constant supervision.
How do you find things in here? I signed. He shrugged and made no other response. I had a feeling that I would have my work cut out for me. I found a sense of peace in keeping things orderly, so this was like dying and being stuck in purgatory.
"Hey, Charlie, you don't need to clean that." If I was able to laugh hysterically, I would have. After a long while, the room was clean enough for my satisfaction.
So, what are we making? I asked. He got a wicked grin and handed me a piece of paper that had a list of chemicals. I read the components and I felt a smile similar to his come across my face.
Ah, the joys of dynamite.
In the blink of an eye, we were gathering nitroglycerin, diatomaceous earth, and clay. Plus a few extra things we had discovered aided the explosion. I watched as Andy carefully poured the mixture of nitrogen and glycerol. His hands were steadier than when we had last blown something up. I smiled at his concentrated look.
He's learning.