Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 10

It was quiet in Barracks 2. Some of the twenty men were already sleeping. Most of the others were on their bunks, reading or talking in quiet voices. Hogan's crew — LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk and Kinch — were still sitting at the table, waiting for the door to open, waiting for Hogan to return.

LeBeau shook the coffeepot. "There is still a little left. Anyone care for a cup?"

The others shook their heads as Newkirk said, "Save it for tomorrow."

LeBeau grimaced. "It will taste like tar tomorrow."

"Yeah, but with the coffee rationed, it's still better than nothing."

"Or that ersatz stuff the Germans drink," Kinch added.

LeBeau shrugged and put the pot back on the stove.

The rattle of the bunk hiding the ladder to the tunnels sounded loudly in the quiet room. All eyes went to the tunnel entrance. Baker grinned as he saw the others staring at him.

"Trouble?" Kinch asked.

"No. Lt. Miller is spelling me for a few minutes."

"Miller?" Newkirk asked. "What for?"

"Seems he wants to go into radio after the war," Baker said. "Thought it would be good practice."

"After the war," Newkirk said in a dreamy voice. "The three loveliest words in the English language."

"Yeah." Carter sighed. Then he straightened, his eyes going wide. "Hey! I never really thought about it before."

"You never think at all, Andrew," Newkirk said as the others laughed.

"No," Carter said. "I mean it. What are you gonna do after the war, Peter?"

"Sleep for a month, take long soaks in a hot bath and eat every kipper I can find."

"No," Carter persisted. "For real. What are you going to do? Stay in the RAF?"

Newkirk opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut. Every once in awhile, the kid made him uncomfortable. Stay in the RAF? Hell, he'd only joined because his kid brother did. Mum was so proud of Hal. So, what was he going to do but join as well? Fat lot of good it did either of them. Stay in? Not bloody likely. But, do what? What was he really good for? It was a disturbing thought.

"Maybe for a bit," he found himself saying. "Until I figure it out." He looked at Carter. "What about you? Go back to Bull Frog? Do the drugstore thing?"

Carter looked unusually somber. "No," he said slowly. "With Mary Jane gone . . . There's nothing in Bull Frog."

"Your folks are there," Kinch said quietly. "And your kid brother and baby sister."

"Yeah, they are. And I miss them. And I can't wait to see Kenny and Betsy Sue. But . . . I don't know . . . After all this, Bull Frog . . . " His head shook. "I don't know. And being a pharmacist . . . I'll have to go to school. College and then a pharmacy school. That costs money."

"They passed a bill last year," Kinch said. "Help GIs with tuition, books and things if they want to go to school after the war. That's what I'm doing," he added.

"School?" LeBeau asked.

"Yeah, finish college."

"And do what?" Baker asked.

"Well, before the war, I read about this thing they had at the World's Fair in New York. Something called television."

"Never heard of it," Newkirk said.

"Like radio with pictures. They said there's gonna be one in every house someday."

Newkirk wasn't convinced. "Right."

Kinch smiled. "Something new, something that I think will be big. I'd like to get into it. And there's another thing that's gonna be big one day. Something to do with calculating machines. There's a company called IBM that's working with things like that."

"You invest in it, Kinch?" asked Paul Hammond from a nearby bunk.

Kinch grinned. "Yeah, I did. Last I checked it was doing pretty good."

"Oh, Kinchy's going to be rich," LeBeau kidded.

The grin grew. "You never know. What about you, LeBeau?"

A faraway look in LeBeau's eyes. "My own restaurant on the Champs Elysées," he said positively. "I've dreamed about it . . . well, forever, I think."

"That'll take some money," Newkirk said.

"I can borrow it from Kinch," he said brightly as the others laughed.

"Me, I'm going home," said Carr from a bunk.

"Your folks have a farm, Lester. In Georgia?" Walter Red Hand asked.

Carr nodded. "Yeah. Their own too. Not sharecropping like most colored(1) folks. Good land. Good people there too."

"Me," Hammond said softly, "I'm going to school."

"Doing what?" Carter asked.

"Teaching." He laughed. "When I was a kid, I hated school. But after being here, and taking some of the classes we've had . . . Never thought I'd say it, but I like school. Want to do it right too. Teach kids like me who don't like it."

There were nods from the others in the barracks.

"What about you, Baker?" Red Hand asked.

"Don't really know," he said thoughtfully. "I'll have to think about it. But I do know one thing. After the war's over, I'm going to ask to stay here awhile."

"You're what?" from LeBeau.

"You're nuts, mate," from Newkirk.

Baker smiled. "Yeah, sounds like it. Trouble is . . . Well, I've been here over two years. Boring, scary, exciting. And, well, I don't know . . . Going from war to peace to home, that suddenly . . . I guess I need time."

"You've got folks in Atlanta, Rich. And a younger brother and sister," Kinch said.

"Yeah, and I want to see them. But I need to do this, I think. Kind of get used to peace again before going back. Especially since I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Think they'll let you?" Newkirk asked.

Baker shrugged. "Why not?"

"Maybe we could all stay," Carter suggested. "For a bit anyway. Make up our minds after the war ends."

"Maybe," Newkirk said.

"What do you think Hogan will do?" Hammond asked.

"Heck, he's a flyer," Kinch said with a grin. "He'll keep flying." The grin grew. "You should see his face whenever he hears about those new planes, even the German ones, the jets. His eyes light up. He can't wait to get into one of those things."

"Hey, I just thought of something!" Carter exclaimed. "What if they want to ship him to the Pacific?"

"Why would they do that, Andrew?" Newkirk asked.

"Well, that war's not close to being over. They need flyers. Maybe they'll give him back his old group."

"I think that would probably tick off the new CO," Kinch said dryly.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And after years in this place, I don't think they'll ship him off to combat," Baker added.

"Maybe. Hey!" Carter brightened. "Maybe we can all stay together, until it gets sorted out."

"Hell," Newkirk said as he walked over to the sink. He got himself a cup of water. "They'll probably just ship us out without even asking." Odd, the thought suddenly hurt.

"But that's not fair," Carter complained.

"Life's not fair, mon ami," LeBeau said sympathetically. He also turned away from the others. Much as he wanted the war to end, he didn't want to lose what he'd found in this godforsaken camp. No, life really wasn't fair.

A loud, cheerful tapping on the door startled them. LeBeau walked over and opened the door.

"Evening, gents," Sergeant Wilson said with a smile.

LeBeau looked behind him. "Where's Colonel Hogan?"

"He's not coming," Wilson said. And grimaced at the uproar he caused.

"What do you mean he's not coming?" Newkirk out-shouted the rest of the men.

"If you'll give the man a chance to say a word," Kinch interrupted.

"Thank you," Wilson said exaggeratedly. "He's spending the night in the infirmary. That's all."

"Why?" Kinch asked.

"It's nothing much," Wilson said in a light voice. "He's picked up a mild infection. I can keep an eye on him, change the bandages, that sort of thing."

"We can do that," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, you could," Wilson said with a slow drawl. "If you took the time to finish any of those courses I was giving. You didn't, so you're not."

"Now, look, mate . . . "

"Sorry," Wilson said firmly. "None of you has the training. None of you knows what to look for. And he can do without you guys fussing over him."

"Who's fussing? Okay, okay," Newkirk said. "We're fussing. But . . . "

"No buts."

"Are you sure it's a mild infection?" Kinch asked.

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. He just needs the rest."

"Who doesn't?" Newkirk murmured.

"If it gets worse," Kinch started.

"Shouldn't."

"If it gets worse," Kinch said again. "Then what?"

Wilson sighed. "I do what I can."

"Doctor Bauer in town?" Baker asked.

Wilson shook his head. "His supplies aren't better than ours."

"We could ask for an airdrop of penicillin," Carter suggested. "We've done it before."(2)

The others nodded.

"Look, don't go borrowing trouble," Wilson said. "He's just got a mild infection. Probably be gone tomorrow."

"Yeah. Just make sure you let us know, mate," Newkirk said.

Wilson smiled tolerantly. "Will do. Goodnight."

Glum goodnights followed Wilson out.

"What do you think, Kinch?" Baker asked.

"I think he's telling us what the Colonel wants us to hear," Kinch said. "But I also think he thinks it is a mild infection."

"So it's okay," Hammond said.

"My mom," Carter said hesitantly. "They didn't tell me at first . . . But she got an infection when the baby was born in January. She got really sick."

"Infections can be bad," Red Hand agreed.

"I had an uncle," Kinch said soberly. "He died when I was six. A blister that got infected." Though it wasn't only the infection. He didn't get it treated at first; the colored hospital was too far away.

Kinch turned to his bunk and started pulling off his clothes. And when it got too bad, the whites-only hospital wouldn't take him. He died on the way to the colored hospital.

The others were also preparing for bed. Outside, the guards were knocking on the doors — lights-out in ten minutes. Kinch climbed up to the upper bunk over the tunnel entrance.

Baker was going down the ladder to the tunnels. "See you later, Kinch," he said softly.

Kinch nodded; he'd spell Baker in a couple of hours. He turned over, facing the wall, and drew the thin blankets over his shoulder. But he wasn't sleepy. Tired, yes, but not sleepy. He'd almost forgotten about his Uncle Ivan — his mother's older brother and his godfather. Hence, his own middle name of Ivan.

Funny, before his uncle's death, he'd hated the name Ivan. But after the funeral, he announced to his startled family that from then on, he'd be Ivan to his family and closest friends. He also changed his mind about moving north to Michigan where his father's sister lived. His mother wanted to go, his father was neutral. It was his decision whether they went. He was only six, but he'd learned what racism was. And he knew that was the real cause of his uncle's death. He didn't want to leave his friends and the only home he'd ever known. But after his uncle's death, he'd hoped it would be better up north. And they moved that summer.

In some ways, in many ways, Michigan was better. There weren't any whites-only places nearby. None officially that he knew about. But he knew there were places where coloreds weren't accepted or allowed. The racism was subtler than in the South, but it was still there. But James Ivan Kinchloe was ambitious and smart. He was going to school, was going to be somebody. And when they moved to Detroit after his daddy got achurch there, he knew he could do it. Even got to work for the telephone company. The pay was good, and he'd made friends there. A few were even white, though he wasn't always sure if the friendship was real or only, to use an expression, skin-deep.

Weird. He had to come to a German POW camp to be fully accepted as a human being. Here in racist Germany, he wasn't judged by the color of his skin. And not only by Hogan and his guys, but also by the Germans he was closest to. Klink and Schultz didn't care he was colored. And neither did the underground people they met. At least, he didn't think so. Like most coloreds, he had a second sense about that kind of thing.

He nearly laughed. In Nazi Germany, for the first time in his life, he felt truly equal to the whites around him. My God! How do I go back? And do I want to?

...

Corporal Peter Newkirk was also wide-awake. Damn Andrew! Why did he have to dredge up bad memories?

What was he gonna do? He'd had fun bumming around before the war. Tried his hand at everything — theatre, magic, road shows. A regular nomad he'd been. A lark, he'd had. He'd never told anyone, including Hogan, but a few of his larks were less than legal. He had to admit that if it weren't for the war, he might have wandered more and more into the underside of British life. His mum had been afraid of that. His sister Mavis too. Both had been so glad, and proud, when he'd joined the RAF. Of course, he had to when Hal joined. After all, Hal was his kid brother, and if the kid did that, how could he not do it? He'd look like a ruddy fool. Or a coward. Now, all things considered, he'd made the right decision. Though he'd been mad as hell when he was shot down and captured, he'd actually done better here in this POW camp than he would have in the RAF. Here, he was doing something useful. And he'd had fun, well for the most part, doing it.

But what now? Or rather, what later? After the war? What to do after he got out of here? He didn't have a bloody clue. It was a thought that kept disturbing his sleep until it was his turn to man the radio.

...

Sergeant Andrew Carter fell asleep fast enough, but his slumber was broken by dreams of Mary Jane(3) and his hometown. Mary Jane was his first love — his only love — from the time he'd first seen her in seventh grade. Her father, who worked for the Forest Service, had just been transferred to Bull Frog from Washington D.C. A big strapping man, he loved the outdoors and the area. But Mary Jane and her mother didn't. They were big city folks, and the tiny town was boring and intimidating. They probably would have left within a year, except that Mary Jane's mother had a stroke. The town gathered around the strangers and pitched in to help the shaken father and the stunned girl. Andrew's mother would go over once a week to help the family, and he'd go too. Finally, he worked up the nerve to talk to Mary Jane; he'd been far too shy to do so in school. After that, all thoughts of leaving the small town were forgotten.

Mary Jane adapted after the shock wore off, and she and Andrew would have long talks on the way to and from school. After a while, she allowed Andrew to carry her books as they walked home, and Andrew knew she was the only one for him. Mary Jane still dreamed of big cities and the excitement they held. But it was okay because Andrew did too. Sort of. The little town was hide-bound in many ways, and sometimes smothering. And there wasn't much to hold anyone's attention, save for farming or lumbering. Andrew already knew he didn't want either of those. His parents tolerated his dreams, thinking he'd outgrow them. Mary Jane, she understood. It was her encouragement that prompted him to go to Mr. Swenson, the town's pharmacist, for a job. Andrew had always enjoyed playing with chemicals and things, especially the ones that went bang. And Mr. Swenson didn't discourage him. Andrew knew it took money to go to college and to a pharmacy school. Money he didn't have. His grades were decent enough, but not good enough for a scholarship. So, he worked in the drugstore, and saved his money.

And there was Mary Jane. She was the practical one. Andrew wanted to get married right after high school. "No," she'd said. It took money to be married. Money he needed to go to school. There was time. They were young, in love, and they had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

Or so they thought. Well, it turned out not to be. Mary Jane's mother died, leaving her a small inheritance. She'd taken it and went back east to visit some cousins. She came back, more impatient with the town. More impatient for Andrew to go to school. And he would have. Except he was drafted.

Mary Jane was thrilled every time she saw him in uniform. And she wanted to get married right away. But this time, Andrew held back. He didn't know what was going on in Europe, but he'd seen and heard enough to worry. And he found himself too busy to have a wife. The Army kept sending him to schools and camps once they learned of his interest in things that went bang.

Then the war came, right before he was going home for Christmas. The Army let him go home, but on January 2, 1942, they sent him to England for more training.

He'd never forgotten his goodbyes. His folks were proud and scared, though they hid it. Mary Jane was just scared. She'd buried her head in his shoulder and kept crying. But Andrew wasn't sure if she was scared for him or herself. She'd talked about joining the WACS or getting a job in a defense plant. All of that stopped a few months later when her father was seriously injured in a logging accident. And shortly after that, Carter was shot down.

He'd gotten a few letters from Mary Jane. But it was his folks who told him that her father had died. And told him that the town was suddenly hopping with activity. The war effort needed lots of lumber, and lumber company executives were always around. A few weeks later, Mary Jane sent her letter, telling him she was marrying someone else. His folks sent him a letter as well. One of the company men was taken with Mary Jane, and his manners, money and big-city ways swept her off her feet. She'd closed the home her parents had left her and gone off with him to get married.

Andrew was wide-awake now. God, how it had hurt when he'dgotten that letter. And he'd thought that if he went home, he could find her. The guys in the barracks tried to talk some sense into him, but he wanted to leave anyway.

Until he met Mady(4). She had been sweet and sympathetic, and, he blushed in the darkness, loving. But then she left, finally getting permission from the Nazi government to go home. By then, Andrew had come to realize that leaving the camp wouldn't have done anything to his relationship with Mary Jane. The Army would just have sent him where they needed him. So, he was glad he'd stayed in the camp. Here, he felt useful. Here, he was needed. That felt good. Few people needed him, including, it seemed, Mary Jane.

Which was why he was staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. What would he do after the war ended? He didn't know. But he did know one thing — he would never again live in Bull Frog

...

Corporal Louis LeBeau found himself tossing and turning so much that he expected Newkirk in the upper bunk to complain. And he wasn't sure why. He, unlike the others, did know what he wanted — his own restaurant right on the Champs Elysées. And he even knew where he wanted it, just down the street from the Arc de Triomphe. A perfect location. Before the war, he'd talked to the owner of the property, an elderly widow, and told her of his dream. Madame Mathieu had been impressed. The price was dear, but he'd anticipated that. He'd received an inheritance from his favorite uncle — that was the down payment. He was going to borrow the rest from a bank. The capital outlay would have been the highest cost. At first, his employees would be family. His mother would be the hostess, his young brother the busboy, and his sisters would be the waitresses. His sisters' fiancés would be in the kitchen with him, both of them chefs, though not as good as he. And Rachelle . . .

He turned over in his bunk.

The day he was going to the bank, war broke out, and his plans, his life, were put on hold. He'd been in French Air Force in his youth and was still in the reserves. When war came, he found himself in an airplane. He'd even been captured for a few weeks but had been freed by the armistice. And he returned to his beloved Paris to find it occupied by the Germans. That's when things really went wrong, with the restaurant, with Rachelle, with his life. He joined the Free French and not long afterwards, found himself in Stalag 13.

Thanks to a certain cocky, self-assured American, he was more useful as a prisoner than as a soldier, though there had been a few times when he didn't think so, times when he'd nearly left.

Now, the war was nearly over, and he would eventually leave for good. But so much had changed since he'd made those plans. The Germans had killed his younger brother a few months after he'd arrived at Stalag 13. His sisters had married their fiancés not long after the war broke out. He knew that Marie had lived with their mother in their Paris apartment until the Germans forced them out. They then moved in with Marie's father-in-law, a quarrelsome old man. Louis's mother had died; he'd heard that. But he had no idea where Marie, a widow with a four-year-old son, now lived. Danielle had moved to Marseilles where her husband, missing a leg after Dunkirk, had relatives. The last time he'd heard from them, he'd learned that they'd had twin sons. But that was almost two years ago, and he had no idea if they were still in Marseilles.

Then there was Rachelle . . .

He turned to face the wall. He'd never told anyone about Rachelle, not even Peter. Rachelle — his very practical wife(5). Though they hadn't lived as man and wife since 1940. Their families had known each other forever, and he and Rachelle had grown up together. It had always been expected that they would marry. And one day, they did. Rachelle loved him, he knew that. What he didn't know was whether he loved her. Not that he was unhappy; he wasn't. They had much in common, and she was as excited about the restaurant as he had been.

Then the war came and he was gone, and she returned home to her parents. And he found himself in places he'd never been and surrounded by temptations he'd never noticed before. And he succumbed to those temptations. He always felt guilty after he did, but not guilty enough to stop. When he finally went home, Rachelle knew, but she never said anything. Perhaps that was the problem; she never fought back. And he began to think that she didn't care.

Their last goodbye had been unpleasant. That's when she told him she was moving to Lyons to her sister's home. That's when she told him that she was taking their religion more seriously. And he'd been upset with her, with their marriage. After he was captured, she had written him every couple of months or so. But after a year, the letters stopped. By that time, he didn't care. He'd found other girls to write to, and strangely enough, here in this prison camp, he'd even had other girls to love. But as the end of the war came closer, he found he was losing interest in the girls who were friendly to him, and his thoughts started to turn to Rachelle. Where was she? Was she alive? Was she happy? Did she think of him at all?

Maybe he was finally growing up. Maybe he was finally beginning to realize that regardless of the way their marriage started, the vows they had taken meant something. And finally, in the dark, drafty wooden building, he realized he loved his wife.

1 In this time, blacks would refer to themselves as "colored", as in NAACP — National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Whites would use the word "Negro", which superseded the world "colored" by all races after the war. And we all know the word that racists used back then and now.

2 "Is There a Doctor in the House?" and "That's No Lady, That's My Spy"

3 "Request Permission to Escape"

4 Ibid

5 LeBeau mentions his marriage when he's alone in "Happy Birthday, Adolf"