December 7, 1941 -- Stalag 13, Germany
Newkirk climbed nimbly though the window and into the barracks. As soon as the shutter was shut behind him, he declared, "Any of you fellows up for a hand or two of poker? Because I'm feeling pretty damn lucky about now." And reaching up his sleeve, he pulled out a thick wad of German marks.
But instead of the expected congratulations and round of back-slapping, Corporal Keegan, the first-line scrounger until Newkirk and his light fingers had arrived, hissed anxiously, "Ya'd better hope to God that your luck holds. We're lockin' down."
Newkirk's eyes widened a little as he ran through his options mentally. As he had been directed, he had returned to Barracks Two as soon as his little raid on the German officer's canteen and the German payroll had been completed. Scott had figured that it would be safer that way. None of the main activities were based out of Barracks Two and nothing else would be endangered if Newkirk's scheme went awry.
But something else obviously had. And Newkirk was stuck in Barracks Two, with no feasible escape, no good hiding spot, and a fist full of pilfered money. Then Newkirk's lips tightened at the corners as he remembered that Keegan hadn't said they were closing up, or sitting tight, or digging in. They had skipped the first three alert levels to head right for lockdown.
There was a quick tattoo of knocks from the north-east corner of the building. Newkirk counted them as his eyes flitted rapidly around the bare room searching a hiding place, any hiding place for the money. Eight knocks. Brown had sealed his men completely in the tunnels. It was bad if Brown wouldn't take the time to pull his men from beneath the damp earth.
Only a moment afterwards there were two knocks from the south-east corner of the building. The tailors were having trouble hiding their work. Five knocks from the north-west corner. The forgers had managed to hide the most delicate stuff and were locking their stuff away. All that remained was the knocking from the north-east corner, the corner that would give the warning heralding the arrival of the Germans. And when that knocking came, all would be too late.
The little French chef, LeBeau, heard the knocking and darted out the open door into the snow covered compound., leaving the others hastily trying to find stowing places for the concentrated food bars that he had been making. They couldn't find places for more than a quarter in the barracks. Those bars of food were the Red Cross parcels from all of the camp. If those couldn't be hidden, how did they expect to hide the wad of marks?
Sighing, Newkirk realised that there wasn't much hope for it. The food bars would only be confiscated, leaving the men with only the punishment of having to live without the luxury. But the money would bring punishment down upon the whole camp. He moved reluctantly closer to the stove, hoping against all hope that the fourth set of knocks wouldn't come.
"Anyone got a cigarette?" Newkirk asked, his jovial tone covering the distress he felt at the whole situation.
The men who were rushing around the barracks turned to look at him in shock. "How can you think of that now?" one of them asked in disbelief, hardly stopping in his rush.
"The one time that I've got money to burn, I'm not going to let the opportunity go to waste," he answered.
Keegan took the time to grin tensely at him and toss him a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Should ha' taken ya up on that offer for a poker game. Because I'd bet me fortune that ya aren't feelin' so bloody lucky now."
Newkirk tapped out one of the cigarettes, feeling the rough paper of the marks against his other hand. He appreciated Keegan's gesture more than he would ever say. In a POW camp, cigarettes were better than cash when it came to bartering. Or even when it came to bribing the German guards for that matter.
That fourth knock still hadn't come and the air was thick with the tension. Barracks Two was the command centre of the operation, not the hub of activity, so there wasn't a lot that could be done. Everything was hidden as well as it could be under the circumstances. And Newkirk was prepared to smoke the most expensive cigarette he'd likely ever smoke in his entire life.
But instead of a fourth knock, the door burst open again. Newkirk froze, his back to the grate on the stove, hiding the money from view. If it needed to be, the money would be gone in a flash and the Germans would never be able to trace it. Fearing the worst, he started inching his hand closer to the stove.
But instead of the guard that Newkirk had been fearing would appear, it was Captain Scott, the energetic SBO and close behind him was LeBeau, white cap still perched precariously on the top of his head. "False alarm, men," Scott said through black lips. "Where are my runners?" Five men stepped forward. "Brown's men first, tailors second, forgers third." They dispersed into the snow, spacing their departures so that the guards wouldn't get suspicious.
Newkirk relaxed a little, his hand starting to move away from the stove. It was looking like he wouldn't have to smoke that expensive cigarette after all. Scott was still giving orders to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. A false alarm like that was almost worse than the real thing because it could so easily go wrong and bring the Germans down on them.
"Let Barracks Six know that their entrance should stay sealed; we've likely made the Germans jumpy. Barracks Twelve should empty their hiding spots into Barracks Eleven, as of tomorrow the tailors are working out of Twelve. They'll have more room there," Scott rattled off, scarcely stopping for breath. "We'll switch the language class over to Ten."
As the runner next to Scott took off on his errand, Scott finally turned to face Newkirk. "Corporal," he said briskly, "did you manage?"
Newkirk pulled the bills out from behind his back with a flourish. "The offer still stands for a poker game, boys. I'm feeling pretty damn lucky."