As the sky turned from pink to purple to finally dark blue, LeBeau lead James through the tunnel system until they reached the hall for the emergency tunnel. LeBeau explained it was the emergency tunnel in case they ever needed to abandon Stalag 13 quickly. It exited out into a forest lining the main road into town.
They stopped in front of a ladder leading up slightly higher than the others. "Do you think you'll ever use it for its intended purpose?" James asked, shifting the weight on his feet.
"I hope not," LeBeau replied. The man checked his watch and nodded to James. "You should start climbing. If they didn't get caught, Newkirk should be on his way."
James nodded and gripped the sides of the ladder. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he ascended. Behind him he heard LeBeau say, "Vive la France and God bless America."
The tremor in his hand lessened as he gripped the ladder tighter. Yes, vive la France and God bless America. One day he wanted to return to those two places, but for now, England would do.
James waited at the top of the ladder; his trench coat bundle pressed against his chest. He tilted his head to get a better angle on the sound coming from above. Other than the beating of his heart, James heard nothing. He started to worry that he'd missed it when the sound of three booming knocks came from above. With a quick glance down at LeBeau for reassurance, James opened the hatch and climbed out.
Newkirk helped him up and grabbed his trench coat bundle. "You alright, mate?" the Brit asked, dusting the other off.
"Yeah, you?"
"I've had better days," the man replied, opening the suitcase and pulling out a roll of gauze. James took a deep breath before Newkirk started to patch up his eyes.
"Will I be like this the entire time?" James asked.
"Until we get to the sub. Can't risk having a freak out or someone recognizing you," Newkirk replied. With each new layer, James saw less and less. Figures morphed together to create an inky blackness.
Newkirk grabbed his upper arm and started leading him in what felt like a random direction. Every step he placed felt uncertain and wobbly. The snow and rocks made each move feel like a game of chance.
"Where are we headed?" he asked, hoping some information would make his legs work.
"To a little inn in town," Newkirk replied, pushing the other every few paces. "We got a contact there, so we have somewhere to sleep tonight. Tomorrow morning we'll catch a train and ride that till our next location: the Netherlands."
They inched along the forest in a journey that should have taken no more than ten minutes yet took the duo almost thirty. James became more and more afraid of slipping and falling despite Newkirk's assurance he wouldn't. And even if he did, the Brit would be there to catch him and help him back up. James wasn't happy, however, until his feet touched the evenness of a well-worn road.
"Finally," the boy muttered, his legs slowly untensing. He started down one direction, but Newkirk quickly turned him a full 180 degrees.
"You really should wait for me," the Brit said, leading him down the road.
With better ground, the two walked at a normal pace. Cold air hit their faces like pins and needles. The wind howled in James' unprotected ear. Ugh. This reminded him of the night he found Stalag 13. The biting cold, the banshee wind. The only thing missing were the deformed twist of the trees and the feeling of burning snow.
"Turn here," Newkirk instructed before orientated James to the correct way. His feet felt the change in ground. There were slight raises and bumps underneath as they walked up the path. Cobble stone?
Newkirk stopped him in front of something with many lights. The yellow glow penetrated the bandages enough that James could make out a building with a door. The Brit went ahead and opened the door before pulling the boy in. Inside James smelled the sourness of beer and the gagging cigarette smoke. Light chatter danced about his ears as they moved through the crowd. Somewhere, faintly, a radio or phonograph played classical music. Unmistakably German.
The Brit stopped at what felt like a bar which James leaned on. The top had a smooth, lacquered top. Probably easiest to clean. "Hallo, how may I help you?" a feminine voice asked.
Newkirk responded, "Ja, we called about a room. We hope there are no lice." James' ears perked, hearing the change in intonation of the other's voice.
"Jawohl. Room 3 has been lice free for weeks," the woman replied. After a pause and rustling exchange, Newkirk grabbed the boy by the forearm and started leading him up a flight of stairs. The going was almost as slow as the forest. His feet weren't good at judging the height of each step and often he would stumble over them. Newkirk was there to catch him if he ever did fall, yet they made it to the room without incident.
The Brit opened the door and James walked in. There was a soft thud behind the boy as the door closed. He carefully took off the gauze so they could re-use them. Newkirk flipped a switch, and a weak, yellow light spread across the room.
The lodgings were bare. Two twin beds sat pushed against the wall. Between them was a dresser with four drawers and a lamp. On the opposite wall there stood a desk with a wooden chair. Other than that the room lacked any furniture or character. James opened one of the drawers in the dresser and placed the gauze and trench coat in it. The boy then went over to the bed farthest from the door and placed his hand on the mattress.
The mattress had to be made of air. He placed both hands on it and pushed down. His body started to sink before he could stand up straight again. That position didn't last long, however, as he couldn't help but fall down on the bed. Springs squeaked and pushed back against his weight. He'd never been so happy to hear that high-pitched squeal in his life.
"Taking full advantage of a real bed, eh?" Newkirk asked.
James turned on the bed to face him and nodded. He saw the other lock the door and turn off the light before settling into his own bed.
"Get some sleep, kid. We got to be up right early tomorrow morning." With that, Newkirk settled into bed. About ten minutes later, James heard him softly snoring away.
James snuggled under the covers and lied on his back. He stared up at the ceiling as his body slowly adjusted to the softness of the bed. Sleep didn't come until well after the noise downstairs had dwindled away. And the scene that played behind his eyes were not what one would call sweet dreams.
The distorted faces of Major Klaus and Captain Marx appeared before him, dragging him away from a burning Stalag 13. Following this was unimaginable torture as his entire body became branded with his serial number and the symbol of the pink triangle. The horror didn't stop until finally the Major placed a gun at the boy's temple and fired.
James woke up with a gasp as a tight ball under the blankets. The sheets were drenched with sweat, and he felt clammy all over. After checking to make sure he didn't wet the bed-thankfully he hadn't-James shed the itchy coat he was wearing and the button up.
Coolness hit his skin, and his heart rate started to slow. It was just a dream. He was still alive. He turned the blanket over so he wouldn't be sleeping with the damp side before settling back into bed.
The night continued on in bouts of waking up in a fit and forcing sleep. While each nightmare was different, they all ended the same way: James being shot. Peaceful sleep didn't come until the boy had no energy left to even realize he was awake. His body just crashed into a coma-like state waiting for dawn.
