James woke up with a splitting head ache that seemed to ripple through his entire body. The only thing that didn't hurt was his nose. However, the fact that his entire body needed one large aspirin wasn't what concerned him. No, what concerned him were the plattings of wood above him. His eyes shifted to the side, for moving his head was out of the question, to stare out at what was beyond the bunk.
A small table with a kettle sat a few feet away in the middle of the small room. He also saw girlie pictures from magazines and a few black-and-white family photos taped to the wall.
His breathing quickened as he realized these were barracks. Barracks of a prison camp to be precise. Not any barrack he had stayed in, but every prison camp barrack had similar features.
James tried to sit up but felt his movements constricted by so many blankets. Odd. Or maybe his strength had finally reached rock bottom. In any event, he used what little amounts of strength he could scramble together and pushed the blankets off of him. He then swiveled out of bed only to fall on his knees, hacking. The rush made him nauseous, yet with so little in his stomach, he could barely conjure up spit.
He wiped his mouth of dribble and felt the itchiness of a bandage. He pulled his hand back from his mouth to examine it and saw a bandage wrapped around it. A hazy memory from last night floated back to him. He'd fallen and cut his hand on a rock. He flipped his hand to see the palm and sure enough there were small droplets of blood seeping through the layers. It needed to be changed, but from experience James knew he was lucky enough to even have a bandage.
Speaking of bandages, as James pulled himself up to sit back down on the bed, he noticed both his feet wrapped in tight gauze. The only thing peeking out were his toes. They didn't look like frostbite had gotten to them, but the cold was a terrible trickster.
The odd thing was, however, while he was lucky to have his hand bandaged, it was a downright miracle to have both his feet covered. This was no regular prison camp…
His heart fluttered for a moment. Was this…Stalag 13? James closed his eyes to try and conjure every memory from last night. The snow and the search lights came flooding back to him with ease but not how he ended up here. The last thing he could remember doing was throwing the rock that had cut his hand at the fence in blind rage. Had it somehow hit the barracks?
Well, even if it did, that didn't mean it was them who found him. The Krauts could have easily found his body and his wounds tended to by the prisoners.
He hung his head and tried to get a grip on the situation. Things he knew for certain were: this was a prison camp, and he was still alive. Anything else was still up for debate.
James had gone to rocking himself to stay calm. A total panic attack would only worsen the situation. In the middle of his ritual, however, the door to the room opened and caused the young man to jump nearly out of his skin.
"Ouch," he seethed, rubbing his head from where it had hit the top bunk.
"Well alright then, he's awake," the man who had entered said. He wore a blue uniform, and there was a slight accent to his voice. James eyed him warily. While the uniform was that of a soldier's, this did not mean he was in Stalag 13. Though a small part of him already popped the champagne in celebration.
"Hey Colonel, our guest is awake!" the man called back behind him. The man kept the door open and walked to James before sticking his hand out in greeting. "I'm Corporal Peter Newkirk. You gave me quite a fright last night throwing that rock at me window."
James took his hand and let his arm go limp as the other shook it. "Is this….is this Stalag 13?" the young man asked softly.
The other smiled at him. "Well I sure hope so. If not, I've been in the wrong camp." Just then four more men entered the already cramped room. One of them sported a leather hat with an eagle pin on it, signaling him as the Colonel.
A woosh of air left James' lungs as he tried to speak. This was Colonel Hogan of Stalag 13. The Colonel Hogan.
"S-sir," James started, trying to stand yet toppling into Newkirk. The man caught him and the others tensed. Newkirk settled him back onto the lower bunk and placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting.
Colonel Hogan smirked and sauntered over to the boy. "Little excited, are we?" he asked, getting on one knee before him.
"Y-you're Colonel Hogan?" James asked, eyes misting.
"The one and only," the man replied. His smirked could even be found in his eyes. "But everyone here already knows that. Why don't you share some new information with us? Such as, what's your name?"
For a moment, James was too stunned to speak. Right in front of him was the fabled Colonel Hogan. Never in a million years did he think he'd be face to face with the man even if he did make it to Stalag 13.
"James, James Foster," he said, extending his hand almost into Colonel Hogan's chest. The Colonel looked down at the thin, boney hand before gripping it lightly.
"Pleasure to meet ya. This here is Corporal Newkirk, resident magician and lock smith," Hogan said, nodding to the Brit. "The one with mustache is Sergeant Kinch, next to him is Technical Sergeant Carter, and finally is our cook Corporal LeBeau." The three men gave James a hello and a wave. James gave a nervous nod to all of them. "Now, tell me, what brings you to Stalag 13?"
"I-I heard that you…you could get people out of Germany," the boy managed.
The corners of Colonel Hogan's face dropped down to a straight line. He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. James felt his heart fall to his stomach. "That's part of our operation, yes, but I'm curious. Why would an American civilian need help leaving Germany?"
"Civilian?" James echoed. He hadn't been called that in a long time.
"Well you don't look like a soldier, so you're not a POW."
James glanced at the men around him. There were no smiles. Only dead, serious eyes stared back at him. Sure, this was Stalag 13, but that didn't mean they'd have a passport ready to go. Hogan looked at James as if expecting more of an explanation and the boy felt his cheeks go rosy. He tapped his fingers on the side of the bed before saying, "I was a prisoner. The Germans don't just take soldiers, ya know. Anyone they don't like can end up in a camp or ghetto."
"How does an American end up as a German prisoner? Last I checked the Krauts were still struggling with the Reds," the Brit said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"I was in France for work when the German's invaded," James replied, trying to give as little information as possible.
Suddenly LeBeau stepped forward right after James had spoken and extended his hand. A sudden smile sat plastered across his face as he shook James' one good hand with both of his. "Corporal Louis LeBeau at your service. It has been quite a while since I last met anyone from France. Even if you are an American," he said, shaking James' hand.
Hogan placed a hand on LeBeau's shoulder and called his name in a stern tone. LeBeau let out a sigh and stepped back. "So how did you escape this prison camp? And how did you hear about Stalag 13?" Hogan asked.
"W-we were being moved to a new camp because the old one flooded. They shoved us into cattle cars and told us the journey would take two days. There would only be one stop to refuel so I took my chance then," the boy explained, starting to rock again at the memories. Everything rushed back to him as if he had to do it all over again. The smell of dung and unwashed bodies wafted around him as did the feeling of the biting cold. The Colonel's second question got lost in the sound of dogs barking and gun shots.
The scene before him played out like a movie, and he felt his chest tightening. As the sound of guns shots faded, they were replaced by his heavy breathing and the snapping of fingers. The movie reel started to fuzz at the edges until the picture melted into real life. Colonel Hogan kneeled before him again and Newkirk held his arm tight. James' face flushed a bright red. "I-I-I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know what came over me…"
Hogan sighed and shook his head. "That's alright. It happens. But I do need to know how you heard of us. If word of our operation slips to the Krauts then we may not be able to get anyone out of Germany," Hogan told him.
"Just word of mouth, sir. A rumor here, some gossip there. The officers and most of the prisoners chalked it up to fantasy because no one had ever escaped Stalag 13. But…but I thought I had to try."
Hogan gripped the boy's thin shoulder and gave him a nod. With that, Colonel Hogan stood and called LeBeau's name. The Frenchman stood right at attention. "Whip up something for our guest. He's practically skin and bones. And Kinch, get London on the line. Tell them we have a new package that needs to be picked up." Both men gave Hogan a "yes, Colonel" before exiting out of the little office. "Newkirk, when he's up for it, take his measurements. He'll need to look like a German. And Carter, see what you can do about getting more bandages." They both gave another "yes, Colonel" and left the James alone with the Colonel.
"Thank you, Colonel Hogan," James said softly. "I know I'm no soldier or spy, but I really do need to get out of Germany."
"Don't worry about it, kid. Just lay down and get a few more minutes of rest. In a few days you're going to be very busy."
James nodded and slowly fell back on the bunk. Hogan left after a few minutes to go check on things regarding the camp. When the door to the office closed for the final time, James knew now he just had to play the waiting game.
