The very youngest guard at Stalag 13 was only 15 (and a half) and had hardly three inches over LeBeau. And even the guard's rations weren't much, so he was a bit skinny, and his overcoat (which most of the time he wore unbuttoned, unless there was visiting brass or it was really cold) flapped a little aimlessly behind him.
Klink, upon his arrival, had taken one look at him and set him to kitchen duty, since he really didn't offer much in the way of… anything. What was he supposed to do with a kid?
Of course, the way Klink's luck went, peeling potatoes was the one place Grenadier Augustin Hertz would get into trouble. Because anyone who stood between Caporal Louis LeBeau and the pantry was in for it.
It began on his third day in camp, when the Frenchman abruptly fell through the window of the mess kitchen.
LeBeau's initial panic at the racket he'd caused on his way to the floor was only heightened by the yelp and clang of metal from somewhere else in the room, and he scrambled to his feet.
He found himself face-to-face with Hertz clutching his bloody left hand, and in between them a monstrous pile of potato peelings.
"Uhhh, hello," LeBeau said at length, "You seem to have cut your hand."
Hertz pulled in a soft gasp and glanced down at it and paled further, but then he glared up at LeBeau, "Well, if you hadn't come crashing in - you're not even supposed to be here! What are you doing?"
"I was coming for some spices and vegetables and things," LeBeau said, tentatively stepping around the table, "But it appears that that has changed. Wait a minute," He glanced up, "You speak French?"
Hertz turned bright red, "Sure. My friend's French. What're you doing?" He pulled back as LeBeau reached for his hand
"I'm looking at your hand."
"Why? Just get your stuff and get out before you're caught."
"You are still a boy, and I wouldn't feel very good about myself if I left a wounded boy - and it's my fault you're hurt, too," LeBeau grabbed a rag and gently cleaned off the blood, and then glanced up suddenly, "What?"
Hertz just looked at him curiously.
"You said for me to just get my stuff and get out," LeBeau prompted, "You mean you would not turn me in?"
Hertz shrugged, "The prisoners' rations aren't very good, even with your Red Cross packages and whatnot. Most of it goes to the officers anyways, and they get more than enough."
LeBeau looked back down at the wound, "It's deep. Where is the knife?" He looked around and his eyes widened at the size of the knife, "You use that to peel potatoes?"
"Aren't I s'posed to?"
"Non!" LeBeau exclaimed, "You use a paring knife. Look, go to the infirmary, tell them you cut your hand - do not mention me, please?" Hertz nodded, "Oui. And tomorrow I come back and show you how to use a paring knife."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Hertz asked.
LeBeau snorted, "You have been fraternizing with the enemy for the past five minutes. If you weren't so young, Klink would send you to Stalingrad faster than you could say potato peel," Assured that Hertz had his wound under control, he began to move around the room, plucking a few select things from the shelves. A clove of garlic, two tomatoes, a chunk of cheese, and other such things.
Hertz just watched him, and asked, "What're you gonna make?"
LeBeau frowned, "Cottage pie. Pah. Usually I wouldn't make something so unsophisticated, but it is Newkirk's birthday tomorrow, so I make an exception."
"I didn't realize there was garlic in Cottage pie."
He shrugged, "Non, but there is in this one."
"Oh."
"Hey," LeBeau grinned at him crookedly, walking back to the window, "As an apology for causing you to cut your hand, I will try to save some leftovers for you." If Schultz didn't eat the whole thing.
Hertz' eyes fairly lit up, but then he ducked his head and nodded, "Danke."
"Sure," LeBeau grabbed the bottom windowsill and hoisted himself up and out.
Cottage Pie is pretty much the same as Shepherd's Pie, but with lamb instead of beef or vice-versa, I don't actually remember.
