Note: Thanks to Sierra Sutherwinds for pointing out the time issues, hope this clears it up for you!
LeBeau took several quick, shallow breaths from behind the tree he was using as cover. He had only narrowly avoided being spotted by a patrol, but managed to get past them with a little fancy footwork and a large amount of luck. Now he was within sight of the town. For a moment he watched the people moving through the streets, all nervously glancing around them and going about their business as fast as they could. People were jumpy these days, and with the Gestapo stationed in town, they had reason.
It took LeBeau a second to gain his bearings, but eventually he spotted the tall, slanted roof of the building he sought. With luck, it would take him only twenty minutes to walk there. However, lately luck had not been with his team as often as it usually was. He should definitely count on time spent hiding in alleyways from German guards.
Perhaps he should wait until dark instead. The sun was low on the horizon; it could not be more than an hour and a half till sundown. Under cover of darkness, it would be much easier to slip past guards and other patrols. He would be no good to Newkirk if he got himself captured.
Then again, he would be no good to Newkirk just sitting here either. Any minute Colonel Hogan would discover that he had left, and come after him. Then he would be taken to Stalag 13 and Newkirk would rot in a jail cell. No, he would have to go now. It would be risky, but he had no choice.
And so the little Frenchman slipped quietly into the town.
This time, luck was really with him. In just a short half hour, he found himself staring at Gestapo headquarters and discovering that he had a problem. The entire time he had been so focussed on getting away from Hogan, and into town, and then through the town without being caught, that he hadn't given any thought to what he was going to do once he was there. Getting in shouldn't be a problem, Gunter and Heinrich had proved that the back of the building was relatively unguarded. But how was he supposed to get Newkirk out once he was in? Even if he was able to steal the keys to the cell, it wouldn't exactly be easy to smuggle a half-blind Englishman with a broken arm through Gestapo headquarters.
And yet easy or not, it would have to be done. He was the only one who could save Newkirk from whatever horrible torture the boche had in store for him.
With that thought heavy on his mind, LeBeau began his quiet, one-man assault on the building. He had a sharp memory, and retracing their escape route out of the building was only too easy. Once inside however, things became a little dicey. There were Gestapo men everywhere, and it took every ounce of skill the minute Frenchman had to sneak past them into the cell block below. It took more skill than he had to snitch the keys from the guard's belt as he passed, but he had taken lessons from one of the great pick-pockets of his time. Somehow, the keys ended up in his hands.
He hurried towards Newkirk's cell, but then paused, suddenly anxious. The last time he had seen Newkirk, he had accused him of being a traitor before abandoning him to the mercy of the krauts. What kind of welcome could he expect after that? It was then that the full reality of what he had done finally sunk in. How would he react if Newkirk had left him behind, not caring whether he lived or died?
Therefore he approached the door apprehensively, actually frightened now. Not of Newkirk hurting him, but of how much hurt he had caused Newkirk. Because whatever the Englishman had done after, he saved LeBeau's life that night in the barn. That night, and many times before it. How could he possibly meet Newkirk's eyes after such a complete betrayal?
Steeling himself for whatever awaited him within, LeBeau slid the key into the lock and slipped quickly through the door. Before turning, he pushed the door until it was almost closed. Then he spun slowly on his heel, braced for anything.
Or so he thought. The man lying on the cot before him was not Newkirk. It couldn't be Newkirk. The entire right side of his face was so swollen that the eye was almost hidden. A hard, dry, red substance covered most of his face and neck, and LeBeau had to look farther down the man's torso to avoid fainting. One of his arms was bent at an awkward angle across his body, the other had a vicelike grip upon his shoulder as if trying to hold himself together. No, this could not be Newkirk. He must have gone to the wrong cell.
Suddenly the prone man blinked an eyelid open. It looked as though he was going to immediately close it in disdain, but a flash of recognition kept it open.
"L-Louis?"
LeBeau's breath caught in his throat. This man, this hurt, broken, helpless man, was indeed Newkirk. He ran to his friend, kneeling at the edge of the cot.
"Mon ami," he tried to say more but found that the words would not come out. He was in too much shock. The krauts had hurt Newkirk worse than ever, and he had allowed it to happen, enabled it even. What could he say to make up for that?
"Are-are you really 'ere?"
"Oui, Pierre. I am here," LeBeau pushed the words out, forcing them through the gag of guilt and sudden self-loathing.
"What," Newkirk tried to raise himself to a sitting position as he spoke, "are you doing 'ere?"
His tone was weak, but LeBeau could still hear the accusation in it.
"I am sorry," he blurted out, anxious to convince Newkirk he was here to help, and not to cause him further pain, "I am sorrier than you could believe. I hate myself for allowing this to happen to you, for betraying you when you needed me. You have never left me behind, but I abandoned you. I would die to help you, to somehow make up for what I've done."
Words failed LeBeau after that. His emotions were to strong, all he could do was offer a hand to help Newkirk pull himself up. To his surprise, the assistance was accepted.
"I thought you believed them," Newkirk spoke slowly, carefully forming the words around his split lip, "I thought you believed I was a traitor."
"I thought I did as well," LeBeau admitted, shamefaced, "But then I realized I was a fool to believe some lying kraut. I know you could never betray us mon ami. I am only sorry it took me so long to see it."
Slowly, painfully, a small smile formed on Newkirk's face.
"S'all right Louis. You're 'ere now aren't you? So where's everyone else 'iding? Not like Carter to keep quiet for so long."
The petite Frenchman could not quite meet his friend's eyes. It would do no good to hide it, Newkirk would find out soon enough. He opened his mouth to answer, but Newkirk beat him to it. He had seen the look in his small friend's eyes.
"They didn't come did they? So that's it then. Everyone still 'ates me, and you're only 'ere because you ruddy feel guilty. Nice."
"Non Pierre!" LeBeau jumped to his feet, shouting, "It isn't like that! André wanted to come, and le Colonel was just figuring it out-"
Staring at something over LeBeau's shoulder, Newkirk cut him off.
"I wish you 'adn't come Louis," his tone was closed off, shuttered, "You should 'ave just left me 'ere."
"What?" LeBeau was incredulous and close to hysterics now, but Newkirk just kept on staring past him, "Do you want to stay here and rot Pierre?"
"Oh, he won't rot."
Newkirk's mouth hadn't moved, but LeBeau didn't need that to tell him someone else was speaking. He had heard this cold voice before, and for a moment he felt sheer panic. The feeling heightened when another, nasally voice continued the thought.
"Or at least, he won't rot in this cell."
The Frenchman whirled to face the two men he knew would be there, flanked by a group of heavily armed guards. Franz stared at him coldly, while the nasally man leered with glowering eyes.
"I am so very glad you could join us Corporal LeBeau," Franz said, not a hint of emotion in his voice, not even excitement, "Double executions are twice the fun, don't you agree?"
The hint of a cruel joke did not match his ice cold eyes. The two of them stared at the corporals for a moment longer, then turned as one.
"Leave them in here until you have prepared the firing squad. And guard this door properly, do you hear? I want no more interruptions until I get to see someone shot."
As swiftly as they came in, the door slammed shut behind them leaving LeBeau alone with Newkirk once again.
"Pierre?" LeBeau did not turn, but stared straight ahead, "What did he mean?"
"He means," Newkirk's tone was one of condescending sarcasm, "That before you got 'ere 'e was just going to shoot me. Now you're 'ere, 'e may as well shout us both while 'e's at it."
"You-you were going to be executed?"
"Not just me now mate. You 'ad to go and feel guilty, and now you're just as caught up in this as I am. You said you would die? Well it looks like you're going to get your wish."
LeBeau felt his knees weaken, and he sat on the cold floor before they gave out and he fell. As he leaned back, he felt his head touch the cot and he used it for support. After all he had gone through to get here, he had done nothing except to give the Gestapo even more satisfaction from their firing squad. He had tried to save Newkirk, but now they were both going to die. Some rescue.
"I was a fool," he muttered, then his voice grew stronger, "I was a fool to think that I could walk in here to rescue you, and that you would want my help. I was a fool not to see that what I have done to you is beyond fixing. I have broken our friendship. I am glad that I will die for it. I only wish that you did not also have to suffer for my errors."
As Newkirk listened to his friend's speech, and heard the over-whelming honesty in his words, his bitterness softened slightly.
"It's not your fault Louis," he tried to withhold his anger to comfort his friend, "It was a load of rotten luck on our part and some bloody krauts who decided to play dirty. We've always made it out clean and clear before 'aven't we? There was bound to be one time where things didn't go our way."
"I will never forgive myself for allowing this to happen," the French corporal was boiling with anger and guilt, "Never."
Sighing heavily, Newkirk carefully reached over to place his good hand on LeBeau's shoulder.
"Listen mate," nearly all traces of anger were gone from his voice now, "We've only got about an hour left. This is going to be the last time we see each other. Do you really want to spend your last hour arguing about who's to blame?"
Turning his head up to meet Newkirk's gaze, LeBeau could hardly believe his ears. It was not like Newkirk to be sentimental or forgiving. When he voiced these thoughts however, Newkirk shrugged.
"Guess I figure that time is short when you're dying, and you should make the most of it."
For some reason, that actually made sense, and LeBeau nodded. He thought for a moment as he looked up at his oldest friend. Newkirk was right. Did it really matter who was to blame? All that mattered was that he was with his friend, and they would share their last moments together as they had shared everything else. A small smile appeared on his face.
"Do you remember when Klink bought that cat, to get rid of all the mice? It started chasing Felix around the camp, with André following after them. And then Felix ran past the laundry, and André ran into the clothesline-"
"-fell into a bucket of dirty water and got his silly ass stuck in it! 'Course I remember! I was one of the five lads it took to pull him out!"
The two corporals laughed, and for a moment, they forgot about the events of the outside world. All thoughts of betrayal, abandonment, treachery, and even firing squads, were forgotten. For a moment.
