Life, such as it was, went on. It became an accepted fact of life that the camp had acquired its very own Mutt and Jeff. (Of course, there was the minor difficulty that neither of the men concerned recognized the reference, but nothing is ever perfect.) Newcomers were often taken slightly aback upon seeing them in action; the two of them sniped at each other constantly, unmercifully, and not at all subtly, which occasionally led some poor greenhorn to make the mistake of saying anything even the slightest bit uncomplimentary about either. At which point he found himself facing a united front, and no one ever tried it a second time.

They covered for each other with the Germans. Backed each other up with the other prisoners, not all of whom subscribed to the 'we're all in this together' school of thought as regarded their captivity. Newkirk still bounced in and out of the cooler like a blue-clad pinball—over the course of that desperate first year, he'd built up a reputation as an incorrigible troublemaker, and that made him an easy scapegoat when the guards needed to look as though they were earning their pay—but he had stopped indiscriminately lashing out or antagonizing the guards. He didn't need to anymore. Solitary confinement had, quietly and unobtrusively, ceased to be the mechanism he used to protect himself from himself, and his behavior reflected that.

…Mostly.

While they did not resume their larder raids—both were painfully aware that that the Kommandant's promise to halve their bread rations was no idle threat—Newkirk did discover a certain flair for black marketing, and LeBeau an ability to strike the fear of God into any grocer who attempted to palm off bad produce. Some of the more easygoing and/or corrupt guards could be bought, and it helped immeasurably. It could not be said that the men of Barracks Two ate well. But they did eat.

LeBeau managed—somehow— to pull Newkirk through a bout of cholera that everyone, including the medics, agreed he'd had no chance to survive. And when LeBeau, with a deep gash on his calf that was most emphatically not caused by a less than successful attempt at circumventing the barbed wire fence, no sir, absolutely not, began displaying signs of blood poisoning, Newkirk tended him round the clock; the general consensus was that he must have bullied, browbeaten, or otherwise irritated the Angel of Death into leaving the Frenchman alone, because it certainly was not attributable to any known medical technique or treatment.

In short, as LeBeau had put it, they 'took turns.' Having someone to lean on made camp life survivable, but no less hellish, and there were no shortage of dark times for any of them. Birthdays, holidays, and, perhaps worst of all, camp anniversaries came and went, grim reminders of the passage of time; wasted time that none of them were ever going to get back. LeBeau celebrated his birthday and his sixth month of imprisonment in the same week, if 'celebration' could be said to be the correct word. It hit him hard, but, credit where it was due, he kept his word; no one else was hit, either metaphorically or literally.

It was the same with news of the world outside. There was no radio in camp, no newspapers, not even mail; nothing but whatever propaganda the Germans chose to inflict on them. The old-timers were hungrier for information than they were for anything else—food, drink, or even sex, which was saying one hell of a lot—but when they received it, usually via new prisoners, who could be counted on to know at least vague outlines of how the war was truly going, it was equal parts pleasure and pain. On the one hand, they desperately needed to know what was happening back home, needed to remember what they had been fighting for in the first place, needed to remember that the world outside the fence still existed. On the other hand, so much of the news was so unrelentingly bad that, in retrospect, even the uncertainty seemed kinder by comparison. Newkirk's reaction to hearing about the Blitz, after it had already been going on for months, was something LeBeau never liked to remember afterwards.

Late that summer, the Kommandant—a lovely fellow by the name of Muller, just the nicest bloke you could ever hope to see drawn and quartered—was caught doing… something… and was replaced. None of the prisoners ever found out exactly what he'd done. Some theorized that he'd been caught with his fingers in the camp till; others disagreed. That is to say, no one doubted that he'd been lining his own pockets at their expense, but they thought that any brass who happened to learn of it would, in all likelihood, have simply demanded a piece of the action, received it, and the matter would have ended there. Some thought that the Kommandant had been caught doing something unnatural, something the Nazis frowned upon; probably involving farm animals in some way. Others, less given to inquiry and introspection, just shrugged it off as God's justice finally catching up with the old fiend. The truth, as it happened, was simpler and uglier; it seemed that he had a Jewish grandmother, and he also had enemies who did not hesitate to make use of that fact. As a loyal Party member, he was allowed the option of handling the matter quietly, and he took it. Perhaps the irony of his situation crossed his mind before the bullet did. Or perhaps not. Not that it mattered much either way.

In any case, Muller's replacement, one Major Lange, turned up, and the prisoners realized how good they'd had it up until then. That however bad things seemed, they could always become worse. And then, what with one thing and another, 1941 was gone.

Richmond was halfheartedly sweeping the Kommandant's office one morning—so far as he was concerned, the Jerries could force him to work, but they could not force him either to care or to do a good job—when he heard the man talking on the telephone. Richmond's German was scanty at best, but he had picked up enough to understand words such as 'important,' 'inspection,' and, most importantly, 'Red Cross.'

Deciding that the office looked clean enough to be going on with, he hurried back to the barracks.

"I was just in the office," he said. "Lackwit Lange was on the telephone. From what I could make out, the Red Cross will be coming here to perform an inspection. I don't know when, but I'd imagine it's soon."

LeBeau smiled. "Wonderful! We will have a great deal to tell them when they arrive. Should we list our complaints alphabetically, or in order of importance?"

"Oh, for my money, I'd say the latter, unquestionably. This could be it," Forrest said, his sunken eyes lighting up. "This could be our salvation. The Red Cross takes a dim view of the sort of cruelty and neglect that's par for the course around here. All we have to do is get one of us close enough to the representative to pass on a letter detailing the conditions, and they'll have to do something about it!"

"Even if we can't get close enough to contact them directly, they're bound to do a barracks inspection," Richmond said. "We're stacked in here like cordwood. There's no way that's permissible under the Geneva Conventions."

"They'll do a barracks inspection, all right," Newkirk cut in. "And I'll bet you anything you care to name that they'll be shown around a bleeding palace, with two blankets for every man and fluffy new mattresses, a roaring fire in the stove and probably gingham curtains at the windows. Then Lange will show them the mess, and stone the crows, what'll they see but the Krauts fixing us a three course gourmet meal, with port and cigars to follow. We'll all be deloused for the occasion, the guards will smile for the camera, and everything will look as pretty as a picture. And five minutes after the Red Cross blokes 'ave finished their tea and been sent on their merry way, they'll strip us back down to nothing."

"We can still tell them the truth, no matter what sort of show the Boche put on," LeBeau said. "A letter, as Forrest said, if nothing else."

Newkirk shook his head. "We say anything—anything—to make the Kommandant look bad, and they'll put us through the tortures of the damned. Lange can't risk a bad report. Not after what 'appened to Muller. Even if the Red Cross geezers believe our story, they won't 'ave the authority to do anything on the spot. Not worth it."

"I never took you for a coward," Richmond said.

"Well, there was your first mistake," Newkirk shot back. "But one thing you can say for us cowards—we tend to think out all the angles before we make our move, instead of rushing in with the fools."

"What are you suggesting, then? That we lie? That we say all is well when it is not?" LeBeau asked. "How will that improve anything at all?"

"Yes. We're going to say just exactly what the Krauts would want us to say. 'The Kommandant is very 'umane. The Germans are very good to us. We're treated according to the Geneva Convention. No complaints, sir.' But there are ways and ways of saying it, if you get me drift."

Forrest looked disgusted. "What on earth are you talking about? This could be our only chance, Newkirk!"

Newkirk nodded. "Too right, it could," he agreed. "Look. It's like this." He smiled, clapped a congratulatory hand on Forrest's shoulder. "You're a fine fellow, mate," he said heartily. Then he turned to Richmond and snorted, a look of utter disdain on his face. "You're a fine fellow, mate," he sneered, straight-arming him back a pace or two. His demeanor altering yet again, he sidled closer to LeBeau, ran a teasing hand up the chef's bicep, and purred, "And you're a fine fellow… mate."

LeBeau pulled away, annoyed. Newkirk laughed. "See? Same words every time. Same actions, even—my right 'and to your left shoulder. And three different messages that not even a fool could mistake. That's what we're going to do."

"Watch who you're shoving; I outrank you." Richmond made a face. "I'd rather take our chances with the letter, if it's all the same to you. You're seriously suggesting we flirt with the Red Cross representatives?"

"What you do in your spare time's no business of mine, but no. Not flirting. We're just going to tell them that the ruddy Krauts treat us better than our own mums did. And before I forget, someone do me a favor and belt me one, all right? Something nice and visible."

The other men exchanged looks. "He's gone mad," Forrest said, with genuine pity in his voice.

"I most certainly 'ave not. Go on. Blacken me eye," Newkirk urged.

"Why?"

Newkirk sighed. "So I can stand before the Red Cross looking like five miles of bad road and swear on me mother's grave that the Krauts didn't work me over."

"Newkirk, what the hell are you talking about?"

"This. I'm talking about this," he said. Before their eyes, his body language shifted one more time; he cowered, suddenly seeming smaller, and the palpable terror in his face was unnerving. "What, sir? No, sir… the Germans are… they're very good to us, sir," he got out, his eyes flicking back and forth between Forrest and an imaginary guard, silently begging for approval, and he made a small, nervous sound, somewhere between a cowed whimper and a hysterical giggle. His breath came in short, panicky gasps. "What's that, sir? Was I beat? N-no, no! No, sir; I… they're very good to us. They're… they're very 'umane. Very… 'umane. Sir." He straightened back up, shedding the servile cringe and sliding back to his usual persona so swiftly as to be almost disconcerting. "Now, if it were you, would you believe a single word of that rubbish?"

Forrest blinked. "No. No, I wouldn't," he said slowly. He nodded as it all came together. "And not a word in it that Jerry could object to."

"Right. We all say the same words in the same order, and it'll sound memorized and phony. Reel it off like you're 'alf asleep, or cringe and repeat yourself a lot, or just stare at your shoes and mumble, but it'll set off an alarm or two in their 'eads, if anything will."

"…Right, I see. It'll look like the Krauts beat those answers into us," Richmond said. "That's actually pretty damned clever."

"Glad you approve. We've got to work fast; this won't work unless every man in camp is on the same page."

"The Kommandant is very humane. The Germans are very good to us. We're treated according to the Geneva Convention. No complaints, sir," Forrest ticked them off on his fingers. "Anything we're asked, that's what we answer."

Newkirk nodded. "Exactly. Tell them what they want to 'ear, and with any luck, they'll 'ear what we want them to know. It's not always what you say. It's 'ow you say it, eh, Louie? Pleasure to meet you, right?"

"Screw you, too," LeBeau agreed, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "What are we waiting for? Let us go talk to the men in the other barracks."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Mutt and Jeff were the titular characters of a well-known American comic strip, running from the early 1900s to the 80s. Mutt (the tall one) and Jeff (the short one) were a pair of schemers, so it fits, but their outstanding physical characteristic, the one usually being referenced when their names are used as descriptors, was the extreme and comical difference in their heights. I stretched a point in not having Newkirk recognize the names; I don't know if the strip ever made it to France, but it was popular enough in England that 'Mutt and Jeff,' sometimes elided to simply 'mutton,' was incorporated into rhyming slang as a term meaning 'deaf.'