Back at the barracks, they were finally able to let out the accumulated laughter of a fairly tense morning.
Despite the nervous tension that still screamed through his every fiber, Newkirk looked, and sounded, as smug as the cat who'd caught the canary and topped it off with a pint of cream. The scam was working; he could just tell it was working. A couple more hours, a few days for the report to make it up the chain, and then… well, actually, probably not much.
The Red Cross would know that conditions were bad. They probably already suspected—how could they not?—but now they would know. Given that knowledge, they might be able to bring some pressure to bear on Berlin, or they might not. If they did try to make Berlin toe the mark, the Krauts might comply, or they might respond by making the problem— and the prisoners— disappear. The kriegies of Stalag 13 might well go to join the Glorious Fallen, but they bloody well wouldn't go quietly. London would know that they had fought with everything they had, and the kriegies would know that they had at least given the Allies the information and thus the ammunition that might help save others. If that was all the satisfaction he and his mates were going to get from it, then so be it. It wasn't enough, not by a long shot, but it was something. It was something to be proud of, if nothing else.
For now, they laughed; laughed at the madness of it all, laughed for the sheer relief that, at last, they were no longer alone. The world beyond the wire, as personified by a pair of weedy looking civilians, had heard their voices. Through the unlikely mechanism of silence, they had been heard. It was glorious. It was bittersweet. It was ridiculous. And they laughed, because it was that or cry.
"Pierre, mon pote, you are dreadful," LeBeau said, when he could speak again. "Positively cruel. That poor man will never be the same."
"Good," Newkirk said, grinning like a fox. "Could probably do with a bit of a change."
"I just hope the poor blighter can keep it together long enough to write his report," Richmond said. "I thought he was going to faint dead away at your feet."
"Oh, as if you lot weren't just as bad. What month is it? We're POWs, not the bloody Count of Monte Cristo!"
"That was hardly his most inventive lie," LeBeau said meaningfully.
Forrest laughed out loud. "True. When he got to the bit about how quiet a fellow Newkirk is, I thought I was going to give the whole show away right then and there."
"I know, I know; completely unbelievable. Perhaps, old chap, you should practice this role a bit more. Say, the next six months or so?"
"Insults and abuse, that's all I get around 'ere. Some bloody mates you lot are," Newkirk mock-grumbled, rolling his eyes. "At least the Krauts don't bother pretending they're on my side!"
"Ah, Pierre, we are simply trying to help you improve your acting," LeBeau mock-soothed right back. "Do not be so touchy."
"Touchy, 'e says. I'll give you touchy," Newkirk said. "I 'ad to put up with you manhandling me 'alfway across the compound and back. If I don't 'ave five little finger-shaped bruises on me arm tomorrow, it'll be a bleeding miracle."
"The stage is a cruel mistress, and we must all expect to suffer for our art," LeBeau said airily. "I knew an actress once—at Les Folies Bergere—who used to tell me so." He thought about that for a moment, a small smile on his face. "Of course, she never seemed to be suffering when we—"
"Please, LeBeau. For the love of God, man, show some mercy. Eighteen months. My heart can't take it," Richmond said.
"Who's concerned with their ruddy 'eart? I can think of a few other bits and pieces that are in much greater need of some attention—"
"Well, don't look at me, old chap."
"Believe me, mate, I wasn't. It 'asn't been that long." Newkirk glanced out the window. Hmm. The older of the two visitors—what was his name again? Ah yes, Stephens— closely attended by their beloved Kommandant Lange, the bloody sadistic swine. From the looks of it, he was pontificating to the poor Red Cross geezer, and probably had been for some time. A few paces behind them, his rifle in his hand and a scowl on his face, stomped old Bauer, one of the nastier of the guards.
The stage is a cruel mistress; prison camps are no less so. Newkirk stood up, stretched. "Back in a tick, lads."
"Where are you going? You are supposed to be too traumatized to move."
"I'm just visiting the bleeding latrine, Louie. If you try chivvying me there and walking me through that little chore the way you did lunch, I will end up too flipping traumatized to move, and I can pretty much guarantee that you won't be any better off."
LeBeau snorted agreement as Newkirk stood up, shook himself to loosen stiff muscles, and reassumed his pitiful, broken air as he opened the door and slipped out. "It is… it is almost frightening how well he does that," he said almost to himself.
Forrest ran his fingers through his newly cut hair, and grimaced at the places where the clippers had gouged near-bald spots into his scalp. "I know, LeBeau. Credit where it's due, he's a hell of an actor, but… well. You've been good for him, let me just put it that way."
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Newkirk, lending verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative, did in fact visit the latrine. Like everything else in camp, it had been refurbished to a state that rendered it, if not precisely pleasant, at least tolerable, and taking advantage of that doubtless temporary state of affairs was only sensible. Someone had removed the photographs of the Fuhrer that the prisoners habitually tacked to the sides of the slit trenches; that was a pity. It was nice to have something to aim for, after all. They'd simply have to acquire some more newspaper cuttings the next time they emptied the trash. Perhaps a nice picture of Himmler next time.
He took the long way back to the barracks, keeping well behind the little inspection party. This needed careful timing… He'd picked up a fair bit of German, mostly by osmosis, over the course of his stay here in the Rathole Ritz. Some of it was the useful sort of German that led to civil conversations and, occasionally, interesting eavesdropping. Some of it was the sort of German that led to black eyes, split lips and, occasionally, broken ribs.
No prizes for guessing which sort was going to come in handier here and now. Blimey, if I survive this, LeBeau is going to kill me. The guard paused for a moment to adjust his belt; Newkirk seized the moment. Sidling up close to Bauer, a winning smile on his face, he quietly made an observation or two on the sensitive subject of Bauer's masculinity, and followed them up with few comments about Bauer's mother that were so filthy that even he almost blushed.
The irony inherent in the fact that he had learned several of the phrases in question from Bauer himself was not lost on Newkirk as the guard, with an infuriated roar, swung the butt of his rifle directly into Newkirk's solar plexus, knocking him to the ground. He curled into a defensive ball, whimpering pitiably, as Bauer followed up that first blow with a flurry of kicks.
"BAUER!" Lange's voice was, if anything, even more enraged than the guard's had been. He had been a few paces ahead; he had therefore not seen or heard anything of the prelude, but he knew that it would not look good in the report. "You idiot! What are you doing? Stop that immediately!"
"Herr Kommandant, this dog of an Englander… he insulted me," Bauer explained. Even he realized, halfway through the sentence, how ridiculous it sounded.
Newkirk, for his part, remained on the ground in a fetal position, protecting his head with his hands and trembling as convincingly as he could. Right, me old china. Go ahead and try to justify making your boss look bad in front of the outsiders, especially after all the work he's put into soft soaping them. Explain the part the vicious beatings play in your humane and kindly administration of this camp. Go on. I really want to hear it. I'll bet Stephens does, too.
Lange, his veneer of avuncular benevolence shattered beyond repair, was screaming at Bauer. It wasn't especially coherent. It certainly wasn't especially benevolent. It did involve the words 'Russian front,' which he repeated with what must have, for Bauer at least, been more than somewhat alarming frequency, and 'immediate transfer' appeared a few times as well, a few old favorites like 'dummkopf' and 'schweinepriester' made cameo appearances, and when he started discussing the desirability of having Bauer assigned as a human mine flail, Newkirk, unable to resist, peeked up through his fingers. Lange, still howling like a banshee, was storming to his office, with the apparent intent of filling out the transfer paperwork then and there. Bauer, who had been relieved of his rifle, was being frogmarched after him, his arms twisted behind his back by two of his former colleagues, and it would seem that his chances for a long and fulfilling career had just taken an abrupt nosedive.
Stephens, seemingly forgotten, and, for the first time since his arrival, unattended by Germans, bent down to help Newkirk to his feet. "There, now, old chap, you're going to be just fi—oh! It… it's you. Heavens. Take it easy, lad. No one's going to hurt you anymore. Are you all right? Can I help you?"
Newkirk stood up straight. Looking the other man directly in the eye, he nodded sharply. "Too right, you can, sir," he said under his breath. "Look. Rate we're going, none of us will see the end of the war, and we've got men what aren't going to see the end of the year. We're about done in, sir. Either 'elp us, or just send a bomber to put us out of our bloody misery."
Brushing himself off, he started back across the compound. He'd had his head down, and Lange had been somewhat distracted; with any luck, he would get so involved with reducing Bauer to flinders that identifying the prisoner who had spoiled his little pantomime would become a secondary consideration, but there was certainly no use hanging around waiting for the Kommandant's return. It really would be just his luck to get thrown in the cooler as a punishment for being beaten.
Stephens stared at his retreating back. He did that intentionally. All of it. He incited the guard to attack him… which led to that ghastly temper tantrum from Lange... just so he could talk to me alone? What is going on in this camp?
Stephens hurried to catch up with the man. "You staged that. The beating… and that performance at lunch! You staged all of it… didn't you?"
"Not me, sir. The Krauts did the staging. I just gave you a little peek at 'ow this place works when your lot isn't nosing around." He opened the door to the barracks, let them both in.
"Pierre! What the hell happened out there—Oh. Monsieur Stephens?" LeBeau looked from Newkirk, who had his arm wrapped around his middle in a way with which they were all, alas, quite familiar, to the man in the neat gray suit, who looked stunned.
"It's all right, Louie. I've… illustrated our situation a bit, is all."
"Who did this? What did you do?"
"Bauer," Newkirk said briefly. "Who looks on track to be taking an extended 'oliday in Stalingrad." He nodded towards Stephens. "None of you lot would 'elp me fake a beating, so I 'ad to do something to show 'im what the screws are like. I think our friend 'ere gets it now."
Forrest exhaled sharply. "Trust you for that, Newkirk. Right, then. Let's start over, shall we, Mr. Stephens, sir?"
"I'd like that, yes," Stephens said. "Now… it's Sergeant Forrest, I believe? Please. I gather that conditions are… shall we say 'not good'?… but what can we do to help? What do you chaps need?"
Richmond barked a laugh. "What don't we need? Food. Heat. Medicines. Blankets. Clothing. The boys who were captured in summer kit are in rather bad straits when winter rolls around."
"We could ring the changes on all the basic necessities we're lacking, namely, all of them, but I'll be blunt. We need a Kommandant who doesn't run his camp as if he'd trying to outdo the damned Marquis de Sade," Forrest said. "Someone who doesn't think the Geneva Convention is a series of, at best, humorous suggestions."
"I don't know if I have the ability to influence German personnel assignments," Stephens said slowly.
"You 'ave the ability to try?" Newkirk's voice was harsh, and his gaze pierced Stephens like a bayonet. "Do the Protecting Powers do any actual ruddy protecting, or are they too busy 'aving tea? We appreciate the sympathy, but if that's all you've got to offer, 'anging around in 'ere won't do any of us much good."
"Oh, you have my word that I'll do my best for you lads," Stephens promised. "I must say, you've changed your tune a bit since lunch. You're quite the actor, Corporal. All of you chaps are. Whichever version of you is the real one, you're quite convincing." He contemplated the men, his eyes hardening as he evaluated. "Yes. Quite convincing indeed."
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Author's note: To 'ring the changes' means something like 'to be tiresomely thorough, go through all the variations.' It derives from the art of change ringing, a form of music played on church bells that involves playing all the bells in all possible combinations. Given, say, three bells, tuned to A, B, and C, the ringers would first strike the bells in the order ABC, then BAC, CAB, and so forth. Very English, very methodical, very mathematical. It's interesting in the abstract, but when listening to it for more than a couple of minutes at a time, I always start getting the image of a whole lot of assorted cookware falling down a flight of stairs. And a migraine.