Disclaimer- I own a temperamental computer and a copy of the Silmarillion. Rogue Squadron and any/all characters do not belong to me.
The Great Escape
The guards that came for Pilot Officer Wes Janson, better known as Wes to his friends, and 'That Maniac' to his enemies, were grinning. This isn't good, Wes thought, scooping up his baseball, his constant companion through innumerable trials and tribulations, and taking his place between his escort. "So, where are we going today?" he asked lightly. Neither guard answered, but both were still grinning. "Tour of the grounds, or what?" Still no answer. Wes shrugged. "It wouldn't kill you to talk."
Finally one of the guards smiling fit to burst, spoke. "You are no longer our concern!"
Wes frowned for a moment, the guard's English was heavily accented, but he though he'd heard that right. They had reached the Commandant's office. The Commandant indicated the chair in front of his desk and stood with a wince. "Pilot Officer Janson, I wish I could say I was pleased to see you."
"Same here," Wes grinned.
The Commandant sighed. "Pilot Officer Janson, since your arrival one month ago, you have attempted to escape twelve times. That works out to three times a week. I am sure you feel you have accomplished your goal of running us ragged, but thankfully, you are no longer any concern of mine," he smiled. "You have, instead, volunteered yourself to go to a new camp. There you can try to run your new hosts ragged. I will not wish you luck, you must understand, but I shall certainly enjoy reading of your attempts in someone else's reports. That is all."
With that, Wes was escorted by two new guards to a covered truck. A few other prisoners sat in it, but Wes didn't recognise any of them. That didn't stop them from swapping escape attempt stories and Wes picked up a few useful pointers. "Any idea where we're going?" No one knew for sure, some had speculations, some of them dire. After a while, Wes tired of conversation and an idea occurred to him. He still had the knife he purloined from a guard at Luft Stalag 2, and the canvas cover that hid the outside world from view did not look very thick... He poked the prisoner next to him, a bombardier from 118th Squadron. "Any chance of some help?" he asked.
The bombardier eyed him with acute suspicion. "What do you want me to do?"
"I say-" one of the prisoners stood up.
Gottfried frowned and motioned for the crazy Englishman to sit down again.
The Englishman showed him the cigarettes he held. "I say, do you have any matches? You know, um... damn, what's the German word for matches? Feuer?"
Gottfried was fairly quick on the uptake and produced a book of matches. The prisoner grinned and gave him one of the cigarettes in exchange for a match.
Wes leapt from the moving truck remembering to tuck and roll as he did so, but he still hit the ground hard and narrowly avoided being run over by the car full of guards that brought up the rear of the convoy. He was off and running though, through the field, in less time than it takes to tell. He was doing quite well, he thought, until he tripped over a rock and fell. He scrambled to his feet, but his left ankle refused to hold his weight, and he fell again. By this time, the guards had caught up. He sighed. There was always something, it seemed. He put his hands up. "All right, you caught me, well done. No, I can't get up, I think I broke my ankle." He was not returned to the truck, his escort helped him to hop over to their car and he rode the rest of the way to the camp in it.
"Luft Stalag 10," he mused, reading the sign on the gate. It was a new camp, freshly built, all the spotlights appeared to be in working order as did the machine guns and their crews. Wes felt a little shiver of something that was part anticipation, part dread go through him. It would be interesting. The prisoners were disembarking from the trucks and he was turned loose with them as soon as the guards called over another POW to help him walk. His new friend looked strangely familiar and instant recognition hit the other man's face. "Oh no," he muttered.
"Hobbie!" Wes grinned. "What're you doing here?" he asked, flinging an arm around the other man's shoulders, partly in comradeship, mostly to take weight off of his ankles.
"Doing here?" Hobbie repeated, adjusting Wes' hold on his shoulders. "I can tell you what I'm not doing," he said. "I'm not going to escape with you. No matter what. I'd rather go alone."
"You're not still sore about that business back at the FTS?"
A glare from Hobbie told Wes he was.
"That really wasn't my fault," Wes protested.
An if possible, even more angry glare told Wes that Hobbie clearly thought it was his fault.
Wes sighed. "Is there anyone else from there here?"
"No, but your legend stayed on and spread, I think, to other stations."
"Did you see anyone you know?"
"Only Captain Antilles," Hobbie said. "I think he already has a plan to get out."
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