CHAPTER 17: BAD NEWS

March 25 rolled around and as promised, LeBeau produced a cake for Garlotti's birthday. It was more of an apple tart, and it was small but delicious. That evening, as LeBeau meticulously cut it into 15 pieces to share among all the men of Barracks 2, Kinch appeared from the tunnel with a somber look on his face and waved Hogan into his quarters.

They'd been waiting for a week for someone in London to make a decision and tonight the word had been handed down from General Putnam. He'd considered the matter, consulted with a few people, and concluded that, as he put it, "The boy should come home." Hogan had a week to figure out how to sew up loose ends. A submarine would be waiting on April 2, when a new moon would ensure low visibility, making conditions ideal for undercover activities.

Hogan pushed open his door and peered out at the scene before him. Newkirk and LeBeau were seated together at the table with Garlotti, Olsen and Goldman, smiling as they savored every bite. Carter, sitting nearby in his bunk, waved off his slice, complaining of a sore throat, so the extra piece went to the birthday boy. They all looked relaxed. Newkirk was telling a joke.

Hogan shut the door and turned back to Kinch. "Dammit," he said. "Dammit. Are they discharging him?"

"No, Sir. He'll be allowed to remain in the RAF, but he'll be assigned to safe duty with a support squadron, helping anti-aircraft batteries calibrate their predictors and radar sets."

"He's going to go out of his mind with boredom," Hogan groaned. "Where is this 'safe duty' supposed to occur?"

"Somewhere in Scotland. Inverness, possibly," Kinch said, sounding almost apologetic. He couldn't see Newkirk in the remote north of Scotland, and felt sick at the idea that he'd have to find a way to fit in all over again.

"So he's not going to be anywhere near his family," Hogan groused. "And he doesn't have the technical qualifications to be an instrument calibrator, so he'll probably be filing requisition requests. Or maybe answering the phone, which would kill him all by itself. Terrific." He sat down heavily at his table and rested his head in his hands. "I'll break it to him tomorrow," he said.

XXX

"When, Sir?" The voice was flat, unemotional and utterly resigned.

"You'll need to leave here late at night on April 1 to be in position on April 2. Six days until you depart. I'm sorry, Peter, but London wants you out of harm's way until you're able to make the decision to serve," Hogan said. Kinch was with him as he delivered the crushing news to Newkirk.

"Even though I've already made the bloody decision," Newkirk observed drily. "And I'll be discharged?"

"No. If you want to serve, they'll let you stay in with your father's permission. As, um, an aircraftman," Hogan said.

"What, they're going to bust me down three ranks? Take my stripes?" Now Newkirk's outrage was back.

"Peter, I'm sorry. They'll restore your rank…"

"When I'm of age. I know. I've heard. At 12:01 am on December 22, I'll magically be able to make decisions for myself. Wise decisions, not stupid, childish ones like stepping up to serve my country and applying myself diligently to every task given to me. Is that all, Sir?"

"It's not all. Sit," Hogan said. "You're being assigned to RAF Inverness to work on signal calibration supplies."

"A supply clerk. Very good, Sir. Now is that all, Sir?"

"Peter," Hogan said with a sigh. "What don't you round up LeBeau and Carter and go kick your football, around, all right? Let off some steam and we'll talk this afternoon. Maybe there's something I haven't considered yet."

"In case you haven't noticed, Carter's ill," Newkirk snapped. "But yes, Sir, going out to play, Sir. I'll get my toys at once. I'm quite sure I have some tin soldiers in my footlocker as well. I keep them with my storybook. I'll get them all out and I can amuse myself for hours, like a good little lad," he snarled. "Can I be dismissed, please, Colonel Hogan?" His sneer was audible as he spat out the officer's rank.

"Yes, you're dismissed," Hogan said, adding gently, "Corporal Newkirk."

Newkirk looked startled. "Thank you Sir," he said softly. Hearing his name—his proper name, with his proper rank—was a small consolation on what was shaping up to be the worst day of his life, at least for another six days, when things would be even worse.

Hogan and Kinch watched as Newkirk left—not in a storm or a huff, but with slumped shoulders, looking totally defeated. He sat down next to Carter, who was lying in his bunk, now ill with a fever to go with his sore throat.

"No stutter," Kinch said. "He's mad as hell."

"He should be," Hogan said. "I've failed him." He sighed and turned back to sit at his table. "All right," he said. "How are we getting him out of here without damaging Klink's perfect escape record?"

XXX

Hogan and Kinch batted around options and settled on having Newkirk transferred for some misbehavior to ensure that he would escape while he was on another Kommandant's roster. April Fool's Day was starting to look like a miserable joke and Hogan and Kinch were glum as they blocked out the plan.

They were debating the merits of a transfer to LuftStalag 12 versus LuftStalag 10 when there was a ruckus in the main barracks room. Schultz was shouting and Newkirk was shouting back. They emerged to witness Newkirk twisting as Schultz gripped him by the collar.

"Stop it! Stop it at once!" Schultz lectured Newkirk. "Be still!"

"Leave off, you great git," Newkirk said, then stomped his boot down on Schultz's foot and broke free. "I don't have to listen to you!"

"Owwww! Newkirk, you foolish boy! Do you want to get shot?"

"Yes! Go ahead, shoot! You can't make things any worse!"

By this time, Kinch had Newkirk in a clutch, and Hogan was settling Schultz onto the bench to recover from the pain Newkirk had just inflicted. "What the heck is going on, Schultz?" he asked.

"Newkirk threw a rock at the guard's tower, and then another and another. He has a very good arm, Colonel Hogan, and when Corporal Fleischer came over to warn him to stop, he hit him on the shoulder with a rock."

"Only because he dodged," Newkirk said. "If he hadn't moved, I'd have clocked him on the head."

"I have to take him to the cooler for this, but Colonel, I wanted you to talk to him first. Tell Newkirk he must not throw rocks at Germans!" Schultz said. "Ohh, Newkirk, you give me so much trouble!"

"I don't ruddy care!" Newkirk replied.

Colonel Hogan sighed and attempted to pull Newkirk to one side to find out what on earth he was thinking, but Newkirk wouldn't budge, nor would he look Hogan—or anyone else—in the eyes.

"J-j-just lock me away, Schultz," he snapped. "I don't bloody care what you do with me. There's nothing for me here."

XXX

The sentence was a week in the cooler—exactly enough time for Hogan to engineer Newkirk's transferred. He knew what he had to do—convince Klink that Newkirk had become such a menace that he was no longer welcome in the barracks, so that Klink would set his transfer and escape in motion.

But not yet, Hogan decided. Newkirk was leaving in only six days. And back in Barracks 2, his closest friends were angry and distraught that he was already, for all practical purposes, gone from them. He needed Newkirk out for at least a few days so they could all say their goodbyes.

LeBeau was furious—with everyone, including the Germans, the Allied High Command, and Hogan himself. Carter, flushed with fever, was indignant. He couldn't believe the gall of their captors to punish a man for throwing rocks when he was leaving in a few days anyway. When Kinch pointed out that the Germans didn't know Newkirk was leaving in a few days, Carter looked like bewildered. Maybe it was the fever, but that hadn't occurred to him.

Kinch was disappointed—with London for ordering Newkirk home, withHogan for not having a brilliant scheme to prevent it, and with himself for not being able to spur Hogan into action. The Colonel, he realized, was as devastated as anyone.

That evening, Hogan went to visit Newkirk in his cell and was met with complete silence. Newkirk, sitting on the cold stone floor, looked straight ahead, studiously ignoring every effort Hogan made to soothe his fears or engage him in conversation. He ignored the sandwich Hogan slipped out of his pocket. He offered no thanks when Hogan beckoned to Schultz to bring fresh drinking water. He yanked his head away when Hogan reached out to stroke it before returning to the barracks.

He was angry. He'd been abandoned. He had to go back and he'd be off to stupid bloody Scotland, where'd he'd have to start all over again. He'd have to learn a meaningless job and be tough and stay quiet so no one would laugh at him when he stammered. He'd feel useless. And he'd never find a mate who liked him as much as Carter did, who understood him as well as Kinch did, or who cared for him as deeply as LeBeau did. He'd never have any other big brothers.

And he'd never, ever, ever trust another officer or make the mistake of thinking of anyone, especially an American colonel, was almost, practically, very nearly the good father he'd never had.

His stomach was rumbling, and despite his fury, he reached for the sandwich. He took a bite, swallowed, and winced. He sipped at the water and winced again. He took another bite, groaned, and threw the sandwich across the room in frustration. His throat was too sore for him to eat anything. He watched a mouse scurry and nibble at the bread. Then Newkirk closed his eyes and fell asleep there on the stone floor.