I'm not crying for attention
I'm screaming to be heard
Everybody's listening but you
Newkirk sat on the bench outside Barracks 2, alone again. It was nice while it lasted, having mates. But he always ended up alone.
He watched from the corner of his eye. They were standing together in a knot. Smoking. Talking. Laughing. He used to join in. He couldn't do it anymore. They shut up and turned away as soon as they saw him watching. His best mates, Kinch, Carter, and even LeBeau. Not to mention Colonel Hogan.
He sighed. It was stupid, bringing Gretel back. He couldn't even think of her any more without feeling nauseated.
His inability to control himself where women were concerned had triggered a cascade of woe and nearly cost them the operation. All he'd wanted was a quick shag, and he didn't even get that. He'd been caught in town with her before he could unbutton his trousers. When he got back to camp, he was transferred to Stalag 6. Hogan was furious, but he tried to protect him, giving him a handgun and orders to escape to England. He did as ordered; he broke free. He could have been on his way home when he decided to collect Gretel—and then stupidly brought her back to camp.
He still wasn't sure why he'd done that.
No, he knew the answer. Sometimes he just did stupid things, just like he sometimes ached inside for reasons he couldn't explain. He had always been very stupid and bad. He made mistakes that put other people in harm's way. He deserved his comeuppance.
On the bench this cool autumn day, he sat and ruminated and tasted copper. He'd bitten his lip. He deserved that too.
When he came back to camp with Gretel instead following orders to escape, it had all gone to hell. But even after she was revealed as a Gestapo agent, he thought he stood a chance with his friends. His blood brothers. The Colonel ordered him to collapse the tunnel and help 10 men who were on the run from Stalag 6 to escape. With the Gestapo crawling all over the place, he was to turn himself in at the gate. Just like old times.
He did it perfectly, everything the Colonel ordered. He talked his way out of worse trouble with Klink and took his 30 days in the cooler like a man. Then he had time to think, since he had no visitors to distract him. He understood that; they were busy rebuilding tunnels. And he didn't want them to see him like this anyway, his grubby face streaked with tears as he rehashed his mistakes. Wandering day and night in the caverns of his mind, seeing and feeling nothing.
For 30 solid days, he hadn't been able to explain to himself why he'd been so stupid. It was just how he was. Reckless. Bad. Wrong.
He was released, and no one was there to greet him. Schultz led him to the delousing shed and then the showers. He cleaned up and went home to Barracks 2.
Home.
Heads swiveled when he opened the door, then turned away. He saw Carter's eyes linger, his lips twitching to speak. But he also saw LeBeau, shaking his head angrily at Carter in warning. Kinch sat there, saying nothing. Hogan emerged from his office, glared, then went back inside.
That was when he knew he was dead to them.
Without another word, he was off the team. He kept to himself and did what was required. He sat on his bunk as the other men congregated in Colonel Hogan's office. He watched the door shut and knew he'd never see the inside of those quarters again. He felt his heart sink every day. He held back tears, because he never cried. Usually.
He didn't play cards with friends — only patience.
He didn't set foot in the tunnel — only watched the entrance open and shut.
He didn't sit at the table again partaking of LeBeau's meals. He ate in the mess hall.
Inside, his spirit withered. Outside, his body withered. He couldn't eat.
Nobody cared, not even when he stumbled in formation, struggling to stand. He saw Carter move toward him; he saw Kinch hold him back. He saw LeBeau shrug and look away. He got up and tried not to fall again.
There was one thing he knew how to do, and that was steal. So he made his way out of the barracks one dark night. He reached his destination, unlocked a cupboard, and helped himself. Back in the barracks, he climbed onto his bunk.
The next morning, Schultz barged in, shouting Raus! Raus! Appell!
Schultz left. Everyone got up.
He stayed in bed.
For the first time in six weeks, someone spoke to him.
"Newkirk, for crying out loud, get up. You're going to get us all in trouble again," Kinch nagged.
He didn't budge. He stayed in bed, back to the room, face to the wall.
Colonel Hogan came out and continued the harangue. "Corporal! Rise and shine!" Angry at being ignored, especially by him, he swore under his breath. "Goddamn it, Newkirk. Carter, get him up."
Carter reached up like he'd been wanting to do for the two weeks since Newkirk had returned. He tapped him on the shoulder.
He didn't budge.
"Come on, Newkirk. Quit fooling around." He spoke softly, like he wasn't really mad. Carter stepped up on his bunk and shook him again.
Newkirk didn't budge.
Carter grabbed his shoulder and rolled Newkirk onto his back. A nauseous chill rose up in him. What had they done?
I previously published a version of this story as "Everybody Hates Peter," and I got really negative feedback on it, basically asking what was wrong with me for posting it. I appreciate the concern, but this is just fiction, and it's not about me. People have written sadder stories without getting a lot of blowback. The original story can still be found on AO3.
I like the community on this platform enough to want to rework the story with a less grim ending. I would just appreciate it if readers would please limit their comments to the story and not to my state of mind. Anyone who's genuinely worried about me can PM or email me, but I promise, this is really truly just fiction. I am fine.
This will be three chapters.