A/N: 1) I own nothing. 2) Sorry this is short-ish; I do have some idea of where it's going, but since homework is ganging up on me and just writing this much took a lot of research, I figured it would be better to post a shorter chapter now than wait until May for a longer one. (Hopefully it won't take me that long to write more, but you never can tell with bees or profs....) 3) Even though I did do research on certain aspects of this, please correct me if I have anything wrong. I'm a stickler for accuracy. 4) There is a time lapse of about an hour and a half between the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this one; some of the events that occurred in the break are implied/discussed here, and some will come out later. 5) Thanks to all my kind reviewers! :-) And marylinusca, imagine turning Ivan Dixon into Sean Bean and you'll know why Hogan said it took all night. 6) Stay tuned for more trailers after the show! ;-)
"Wake up, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, gently shaking Frodo's shoulder.
Frodo groaned and put a hand to his head. "What happened?" he asked groggily without opening his eyes.
"We fell," Sam answered simply. "An' you 'it your 'ead on a rock."
Frodo opened one eye and focused it on the speaker. "Hullo, Sam. How long…."
"You've been asleep for about two hours. The healer called it a con… con… concussion, I think. But we're in the queerest place, Mr. Frodo; there's tunnels downstairs, and lots of Big People with funny accents and strange clothes all talking about places I've never 'eard of, and there's some sort of war going on and people called Krauts and other things that they 'aven't explained yet."
Frodo frowned and opened his other eye, then blinked as he looked around and took in his surroundings. "Odd sort of place for Men to build," he remarked. "It's all wood, and awfully plain."
"Boromir says it's a prison."
"A prison?!"
"But it doesn't seem like it somehow. Colonel Hogan an' LeBeau an' the others don't act like prisoners… although Mr. Hogan did say we're to 'cover' for LeBeau an' Carter while they're gone, but for the life of me I don't know what 'e means. But 'ere, 'ave some soup. Mr. LeBeau made it."
"Strange name," Frodo commented, sitting up and taking the proffered soup bowl.
"'E's one with a funny accent. Calls me 'pehteet ahmee' or something like that… and he speaks a language not even Gandalf knows. 'E's shorter than most o' the Big People, too. But 'e's nice… 'as a merry twinkle in 'is eye, y'know. Almost like Tom Bombadil."
"And he makes good soup. Not quite like anything I've ever had before, but it's good. Would you like some?"
"No, thank you. I might have some in a bit, though, if you don't eat it; there's still some left that's keeping warm. There's a big metal thing in the middle of the room they call a stove, and it's got a fire in it, and that's what they cook on. And they've got lights that aren't candles and something called a radio that they use to send messages to a place called London. And there's a man called Kinch who does the sending, and what do you think, Mr. Frodo? His skin's all black! And so are his hair and eyes and moustache!"
"Really?!"
"Really! Almost like the Swertings the Gaffer told me about, only I don't think the Swertings have black skin. There are a few other men here like that, too, and I think at least one of them, Mr. Baker, sends messages, too. I think it must be some sort of magic that only black-skinned people know. Gandalf hasn't seen anything like it, and neither has Strider. Merry says they tap out some sort of rhythm with a lever, and it makes a beeping noise, and then another set of beeps comes back and Mr. Kinch writes down what it means."
Frodo sipped his soup thoughtfully, digesting this bit of information.
Just then Merry and Pippin burst through the door. "Someone's coming!" Merry hissed, and the pair dashed into Hogan's closet.
Sam snatched the soup away from Frodo and placed it on Hogan's desk, then mashed LeBeau's beret down on his master's head and forced him to lie back down.
"What…" Frodo squeaked.
"Lie still!" Sam whispered and jumped into Hogan's footlocker.
Bewildered, Frodo did as he was told.
"Where is ze Cockroach?" a strange voice with an odd accent asked outside.
"Lyin' down in Col. 'Ogan's quarters," answered another. "'E tripped and 'it 'is 'ead on the table. Got a nasty goose-egg. So Col. 'Ogan said 'e could lie down in there till 'is 'eadache goes away."
"But I have been outside this hut all morning. I would have heard him yell when he hit his head… but I heard nothing."
"Go a'ead an' look if you don't believe me!"
Realizing that the voices were not discussing him, Frodo quickly flipped over onto his stomach so that his face would not be readily seen. Seconds later, the door opened.
"You were right, Newkirk. I apologize," said the first voice softly.
"Not to worry, Schultzie, no 'arm done."
"Actually, I'm looking for Col. Hogan. Where is he?"
"Right here, Schultz," replied a third voice. "What's up?"
"Oh, Col. Hogan, the Big Shot wants to see you and Kinch in his office."
"Okay. We'll be there as soon as the boys finish getting his makeup off."
After a pause, Schultz asked, "Is there some monkey business going on?"
"Not at the moment, no."
"Is Herr… Bo-ro-mir still here?"
"Can't tell you that, Schultz. It's classified information."
"Jolly joker."
"Oh, that reminds me, I owe you something." There was a rustle of fabric and paper.
Schultz's voice sounded much happier as he stated, "I'll wait outside."
"Thanks, Schultz." Hogan's voice also held an audible grin.
As soon as the outer door banged to, Newkirk and Hogan came further into the room. "Right, mates," Newkirk nodded.
The closet and footlocker both popped open, and Frodo turned his head to see his hosts for the first time.
"Hallo, Frodo! So you're awake at last! That was a nasty knock you got. Not so bad as that stab wound, but still…" Merry began.
"Aye, th' healer thought 'e might 'ave tae put in stitches," Pippin put in. "Rather a switch from Elrond, eh? By the way, 'ow's that soup? Smells terrific."
"Hullo, I'm fine apart from a splitting headache, and the soup is quite good," Frodo answered in a single breath.
Newkirk and Hogan looked at each other, obviously amused.
"Mr. Frodo, this is Mr. Hogan and Mr. Newkirk," Sam interrupted, climbing out of the footlocker.
"Welcome to Stalag 13," Hogan grinned.
"Thank you," Frodo grinned back, rolling onto his side. "And please forgive my cousins. They're… well, they're tweenagers, and hobbits, and Took-Brandybuck stock…" He paused, then seeing that the explanation neither explained anything to the men nor completely pleased his cousins, he continued, "and a little… impetuous."
"Is that so bad, Master Baggins?" Merry retorted a little too loudly. Frodo winced, but there was still a twinkle in his eye.
"Not as long as you stay out of trouble," Hogan answered.
"Leave 'em to me, guv," Newkirk chuckled.
"After that last hand of gin, I'm not sure I should!"
The others, including Merry and Pippin, burst out laughing.
Just then Kinch appeared in the doorway. "Did I miss something?"
"Never mind," Hogan sighed, shaking his head with a grin. "C'mon, Klink wants to make sure you're still here."
"Right, Colonel. Mornin', Frodo. Glad to see you're okay."
"Good morning, and thank you," Frodo returned, hiding his surprise at the communications officer's appearance and the rich timbre of his voice; both were quite unlike anything he had heard or seen in the Shire or on his travels.
As Kinch and Hogan left the room, Newkirk clapped Merry and Pippin on the shoulder. "Right, chaps. Let's let Frodo 'ave a little peace and quiet, shall we?"
"We'll come back later when your headache is better," Merry promised as the British corporal herded them out the door.
"Welcome aboard, lad," Newkirk winked at Frodo and shut the door gently.
After a brief pause, Frodo mused, "You know, Sam, if I didn't have such a headache, I'd think I was dreaming."
"I know what you mean, Mr. Frodo."
"I'm glad somebody does…. Say, do you think Strider has any herbs for headaches?"
Legolas sighed as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree in which he'd stopped. Something just didn't feel right, and he couldn't define it. Granted, they were in a different world; he had surmised that fact from the slight difference in the languages of the trees and other living things when he had left the tunnel before. Still, that difference alone could not account for the unrest he felt.
"It's been fifteen minutes," he heard Carter whisper below him. "Where is she?"
"It's not like Tiger to be late," LeBeau replied, obviously concerned. "Something must have happened."
Aha, Legolas thought. Tiger is a lady of their league, and something is amiss. Glad for the confirmation yet still uneasy as to what it might mean, he subconsciously reached for his bow.
A split second later, his elven ears picked up the sound of someone coming through the bush with stealth and speed. He sensed the two men on the ground tense as the person drew nearer. Soon, a blonde young woman darted through the glen and joined the men at the base of the tree.
"Where you been?" Carter demanded softly.
"I was followed by ze Gestapo," the new arrival answered. "I had to be extra careful."
And you're still being followed, Legolas added mentally as another being, this one with a hint of evil about it, came within elven earshot. Since Tiger and LeBeau were conferring in rapid whispered French, he focused his attention on the pursuer, silently fitting an arrow to his bowstring.
"Hey, shouldn't we get out of sight?" Carter finally asked.
As if on cue, the pursuer stepped on a twig. The trio at the base of the tree started and scurried into the brush; Legolas winced at how loud the rustle sounded.
"Halt! Wer geht's da?" shouted the pursuer, emerging on the far side of the glen.
Silence fell over the forest.
The man in black crossed the open ground and began beating the brush with his weapon in an attempt to drive out the men and woman. Legolas watched his every move from his perch in the tree. As the searcher approached the place where the others were hiding, LeBeau had to duck to avoid being brained by the rifle barrel. The searcher paused, as if he had heard the slight rustle of leaves that was not caused by his sweep.
LeBeau suddenly felt cold metal brush his nose as the rifle came past again.
Legolas took aim.
"Raus!" shouted the man in black. "Hände hoch!"
Carter, Tiger, and LeBeau stood… and dodged as the Gestapo officer fell headlong, an elven arrow having pierced his heart from behind with deadly accuracy.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Tiger, crossing herself.
"Golly!" breathed Carter.
"But who could have done it?" LeBeau wondered aloud. "You were right here, and Newkirk's back at Stalag 13… who else knows how to shoot a bow and arrow?"
"One whose name is here unknown, save only to those deemed friends," answered a voice from above them. They had no time to place it before Legolas swung easily to the ground and retrieved his arrow.
"Legolas?!" gasped Carter and LeBeau at the same time.
"Well met!" Legolas returned, wiping his arrow on the grass to clean it before returning it to its quiver. "But you would do well to be more cautious in the future. It would have proved ill for you had I not followed you at Aragorn's bidding."
"Who is this?" Tiger finally asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Underground work had taught her not to trust anyone she did not know, and Legolas did look… odd.
Carter shook his head once, remembering that Tiger was unfamiliar with their companion. "Uh, this is Legolas Greenleaf. He and some friends kinda… dropped in this morning. Legolas, this is Tiger. She's one of the Underground leaders we work with."
"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, hiril-nin," Legolas greeted her with a low bow. "A star shines on the hour of our meeting. But come," he continued, turning to Carter. "We should not tarry here. I doubt that this man was alone in his pursuit of Lady Tiger."
"No, he was not," Tiger admitted.
"You're right, Legolas," LeBeau agreed. "Let's get out of here."
"Wait a minute," Carter frowned. "If we've got Krauts on our trail, we can't just lead 'em straight back to Stalag 13!"
"I have little knowledge of this forest," Legolas broke in, "but if you will allow me, I will lead you on a path no man can trace."
"Through the trees?" LeBeau guessed. "But how…"
"Aw, c'mon, Louis! Let's try it," Carter interrupted.
"Oui; if it will keep the Gestapo from finding us, it is worth the risk," Tiger agreed.
"Besides, if Legolas was able to follow us all the way from camp without us knowin' it, he should be able to help us get back without anyone knowin' it!"
LeBeau made an I'm-not-so-sure-about-this face.
"You shall have the Prince of Mirkwood as your guide," Legolas coaxed, placing a hand on LeBeau's shoulder. "And since I seem to be the only elf in this world, I doubt that you could find a better. No harm shall come to you."
LeBeau sighed resignedly. "All right."
Legolas climbed into the tree first, then caught Tiger's hand as Carter and LeBeau helped her up. Carter gave LeBeau a boost and then clambered up himself.
"Follow me," Legolas ordered and began wending his way expertly through the trees.
"Did he say he is an elf?" Tiger whispered to Carter as they cautiously followed his lead.
"Wait'll you see his friends," Carter whispered back. "One of 'em's a wizard."
Tiger murmured some French exclamation of surprise, and Legolas barely restrained a laugh.
"Tell me again why we're doin' dis," Colonel "Racetrack" Higgins sighed, watching the British countryside roll by as the Jeep bounced along the road toward Oxford, his New York accent thickened by sleep deprivation.
"Hogan said he needed to talk to the man," General David Jacobs replied with a shrug. "Apparently it has something to do with a mission."
"Yeah, but hobbits? Dat don't sound like some super-secret mission to me," Lieutenant Colonel "Mush" Meyers groaned.
"Me, either," Sergeant Les Jacobs agreed from the driver's seat. "And why do we hafta talk to some professor who teaches old languages?"
"And made up a few of his own," Race added.
"And at this hour," Mush commented, looking at his watch. They'd been running short enough on sleep as it was; being pulled out of bed at 5 a.m. GMT to run this errand 45 miles from HQ hadn't helped at all, and the fact that the final transmission explaining the request hadn't come through until nearly 6 just made it worse. David seemed to be the only member of the group whose mood had not been adversely affected, but he had always been the temperate one, so no one was surprised. "It bettah be important… I think he forgets he ain't in de same time zone."
"Crazy kid," General Frances Sullivan, better known to his friends as "Cowboy" Jack Kelly, grumbled. "Don't he know dere's a war on?"
David chuckled. His 62-year-old brother-in-law was probably the only person he knew who routinely called Colonel Robert E. Hogan a "crazy kid." Forty-five years ago we were the crazy kids, he mused, recalling the improbable success of the New York Newsboys Strike of 1899. But I guess Jack has a right to call him that; after all, we are about thirty years older than he is, and I don't seem to recall any newsie who would have tried any of Hogan's stunts back in our day. Well, we have had our moments… He shook his head, remembering both the unusual tactics they resorted to during the strike and the way they found themselves in the military some 17 years later. When the first world war broke out in 1914, Jack and Sarah had been married and settled on a small ranch outside Santa Fe (purchased with a small loan from Medda) for seven years, with Crutchy helping out with the bookwork and Les as their foreman, and David was in Albuquerque doing graduate work at the University of New Mexico. Whenever David came to visit, the five of them would discuss the news from Europe and about the latest revolution in Mexico, and by May of 1915 Jack and David reached the conclusion that they would more than likely need to join the army before much longer. Sarah didn't like the idea of her husband and brother both putting themselves in danger of facing the horrors of the Western front or the rebels allied with Pancho Villa, but she had to agree with Crutchy that it was better for them to join in peacetime than to be drafted. So Jack and David had enlisted at Fort Sam Houston, and they moved up to the rank of sergeant fairly quickly because of the severe shortage of manpower. But with the rumblings of war overseas growing louder, the pair was soon called upon to help with recruiting, and Jack knew the perfect place to go. They came back to New York in January of 1917, and Jack wasted no time in explaining their return to the friends who had met them at Tibby's the day of their arrival; some of the guys were still working for the paper after all that time. David could still remember the conversation.
" We want you to join the army," Jack had said with characteristic bluntness.
"What? Why? What for? Why us?"
"Youse guys are newsies an' you don't know what for?"
"You really think we're gonna join de war, Jack?" Mush asked after a stunned silence.
"Yeah. I don't see no way around it. It ain't goin' nowhere without us, an' wid dese submarines de Germans are puttin' out… we can't just sit back an' watch, y'know? An' some o' the brass are startin' to say de same thing."
"But why us, Jack?" Race frowned. "Yeah, we done our share o' fightin', but… de army?"
"Yeah, some of us got families now," Specs added. "We join de army, we could get killed."
"You think Sarah's thrilled with the idea?" David interjected.
Jack sighed. "Look, somebody's got to go, right? An' maybe… if we go, some other kid won't hafta put his life on de line."
Spot took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, Jackie boy. I'm in."
So they had joined, enough of them to make their own battalion, which David and Jack managed (through sheer persistence) to persuade the army to keep together as a unit rather than separating them; none of these life-long friends were willing to lose track of the others. Crutchy bitterly lamented his inability to go along, but Jack charged him with looking after Sarah and the ranch, since Les had also decided to enlist. And it was just as well for Crutchy that he stayed behind; less than half of the newsies came back physically unscathed (even fewer mentally unscathed), and a fourth of them never came back at all. But much to everyone's surprise, a handful decided that military life was perfect for them. So, in the years of relative peace that followed, they had worked their way up through the ranks to their current positions, gaining a real education along the way and even making contributions to the modernization of the armed forces, and most of them had retired before the attack on Pearl Harbor spurred them to follow the same course of action they had taken in 1917. This time, however, there would be few newsie casualties, since most of them were too old for active duty and ranked high enough to be most useful on the General Staff.
"I mean, it's not like we didn't have more important things to do," Jack continued, breaking into David's reverie. "It's June 1. You'd think dey coulda sent somebody else…."
"Spot jus' likes to mess wid us, Jack. You know dat," Mush interrupted from the front seat.
"Yeah, he thinks he's so special 'cause he's in intelligence—as if dat mattehs," Race added, grinning at the improbability of the "king of the newsies" growing up to become Colonel Conlon of the OSS.
"We do still outrank him," David laughed. "But hey, it's a chance to get out of the office, right, guys?"
The other men grudgingly agreed that it was.
By this time they had reached their destination, and Les parked the Jeep in front of 20 Northmoor Road. The five aging Yankees piled out and trooped up to the front door. Race rang the bell, praying that the inhabitants were early risers.
"May I help you?" asked the lady who answered the door.
"Mrs. Tolkien?" Mush asked.
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"General Jacobs, ma'am, U.S. Army Air Corps. This is General Sullivan, Colonel Higgins, Lieutenant Colonel Meyers, and Sergeant Jacobs. We need to speak with your husband for a moment, if we may."
Mrs. Tolkien looked worried. "Why? What do you need to speak with him about?"
"Um… hobbits," Jack answered, slightly embarrassed.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, obviously relieved. "For a moment, I thought you had bad news about our son. Please come in!"
"At least she knows what we're talking about," Race grumbled to Les.
"Glad somebody does, 'cause I think Hogan's off his rocker," Les replied, disregarding the fact that although Hogan was his junior in years, he was his superior in rank.
Race gently socked his arm, a habit he'd gotten into when Les finally grew too tall for Race to rumple his hair.
David simply shook his head. Yeah, Jack, I think you're right. Spot would have to send us to do this… and it's gonna be interesting.
Halt! Wer geht's da? = Halt! Who goes there?
Raus! Hände hoch! = Out! Hands up!
Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo, hiril-nin = A star shines on the hour of our meeting, my lady.
A/N continued: I hope people understand that Frodo and Sam's shock at seeing an African-American comes strictly from the fact that there are few, if any, blacks in Middle-earth--at least, not that they have ever seen. The only reference I could find in LOTR was to "out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls with white eyes and red tongues" who fought for Mordor, and they don't show up until chapter 6 of The Return of the King during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields (roughly 500 pages after Moria). There don't seem to be any nice blacks like Baker and Kinch mentioned in the book anywhere. (I don't think Tolkien was racist, BTW; that's just the way it worked out. And since we don't know much at all about Far Harad, these could well be slaves captured by Sauron and brought back to Mordor to fight against their will; Sauron did have tons of human slaves in addition to his hordes of orcs, goblins, and trolls. shrug) And in case anyone's wondering, Fort Sam Houston is in San Antonio, TX, so Sarah probably moved to San Antonio with Jack and David, leaving Crutchy and Les in charge of the ranch, until war was declared and Jack sent her back to Santa Fe.
