Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes, no matter how much I wish I did.
Author's notes: I added a few paragraphs to the previous chapter. No matter how hard I tried, they just wouldn't fit here. I'm sorry this took so long. My professors must have realized that I said a week, so they piled on homework, projects, and tests. Added to that was a major family crisis of the minor variety, so I haven't had much time to write recently. Thanks as always to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta.
Chapter 4: Newkirk
The fog began to dissipate, and revealed not the bloody field that Andrew expected, but a crowded, bustling cityscape. The sky was dark, but judging by the number of people still on the street it was still early. Carter recognized London from his brief stay in the city before he was transferred to an airbase, but there were a few major differences from the war-torn city he remembered: there were no burned out buildings, no craters in the streets, in short, there were no signs that the city had been subjected to the blitz.
His joy at seeing the city unscathed was short lived, however. He soon noticed a second difference. The last time he had been in London, people didn't wear red armbands or swastikas. Maybe it's not that bad of a trade, he thought to himself. At least they're alive.
As Carter followed the warrior along the crowded street he noticed something odd. The Londoners walked right past the pair, even brushing against them on occasion, yet never noticed them. If the two Sioux were truly invisible, the Londoners should have walked right through them, but they didn't. It was as though the pedestrians did see them, yet did not notice anything wrong.
And that was just weird. Andrew might have been able to escape notice in his sergeant's uniform, still dirty from the night he spent in the cave, but he was willing to bet that six-foot tall Sioux warriors in buckskins and war paint did not usually walk the streets of London. "How come…" he started to ask.
:This is our destination: They stood in front of a rather run-down theater. As they walked calmly past the ticket booth, Carter noticed that most of the patrons were equally shabby, and the American took a moment to wonder why the stranger wanted to see a show.
They took seats at the rear. They had just missed the start of a magic act, but that was no great loss. The magician wasn't bad, but most of his tricks were slight of hand, and he lacked the polish that even Malcolm Flood had shown during is brief stay at Stalag 13.
A few tricks later, Andrew realized the magician was familiar—Peter Newkirk. Andrew had never seen his friend in this situation, so he sat back to watch the show. All too soon, Newkirk bowed himself offstage among half-hearted applause. Moments later, the stranger rose to leave. Andrew followed at a trot.
"Um, where are we going?"
:There is something you need to see backstage.: The stranger proceeded to lead Carter through the maze of corridors before stopping in front of a door. He gestured for Carter to enter.
Tentatively, Andrew turned the knob, fervently hoping the room was empty, or at least that the invisibility thing was still working. The room was occupied, but only by a single man sitting at an old battered desk writing in a book of some sort. He paused when he saw the door open, but only shrugged slightly and returned his attention to his desk. The man didn't even seem to notice the door click shut.
The rest of the room resembled what Andrew expected a theater office to look like. The walls were covered with old posters and playbills advertising a multitude of acts. The wood floor was scarred, and the old filing cabinet tin the corner seemed equally battered.
Carter turned toward the stranger to ask why exactly he had to see this, but there was only empty space. The warrior had vanished again.
After a moment, the door opened and Newkirk stormed in. He must have come almost directly from his performance, for he had only done an indifferent job of washing of his stage makeup, and he still wore his costume.
"What do you mean you're cutting my pay?" he asked angrily.
"Newkirk, face the facts. Your act isn't that good. Plus, they raised the taxes again. I can't afford to pay you more."
"I can barely afford to live on what you pay me now!"
"If you don't like it, take your act somewhere else. You're lucky I'm keeping you around at all." He matched Newkirk glare for glare. Newkirk looked away first.
"Fine!" With a final glare, he turned and stomped out of the small office, rage showing in his every movement. Andrew followed him.
The Englander didn't bother changing into street clothes before he left the theater, all the while muttering about the theater, the manager, and the Germans. None of it was complimentary. He continued to roam the still crowded streets, seemingly at random, until Carter was completely lost.
About the time Andrew was ready to swear left was right (or was it up?), Newkirk entered a seedy looking pub with a sign proclaiming it to be The Bear's Den. The smoky room wasn't crowded; there were maybe a dozen people inside. They were all of a type: hard, expressionless faces, strictly controlled movements, and shabby clothing. With a start, Carter realized that Peter fit in perfectly. Even his magician's costume did not seem too out of place.
Newkirk made a beeline for the bar, and the bartender handed him a glass with out him needing to ask. Drink in hand, he headed over to a table in the corner, joining the four occupants with a nod of greeting.
"If it isn't 'light fingers' Newkirk," said a black haired man in a strong Irish accent. "And you didn't even stop to change? Were you that anxious to see us?"
Newkirk snorted. "Hardly. I was that anxious to get out of there. The guv'nr"—the contempt in his voice clearly made the title an insult—"is cutting my wages again. Claims they're raising the taxes or something, and I'm not good enough to be paid more. It's enough to drive a man barmy, it is. Of course he can't cut his own pay!"
"Surprised, mate?" another asked, his eyes flashing in anger. "There may not even be a tax, he just wants an excuse to line his own pockets, or the government does. That's what the governments do, whether they're the king or the Nazis."
"Careful, Greene," broke in a third. "You're talking treason."
"Why, James," Greene retorted with an angelic expression on his rugged face, "are you telling me you're a member of the Gestapo?" At this, all five men burst into laughter. They could obviously not think of a person less likely to be a Gestapo agent.
"Seriously," said the Irishman when the laughter subsided. "We don't have to worry about the Gestapo here. There is no one here we don't recognize at least by sight, and no one is close enough to overhear anything we say. Besides, with the so-called 'freedom fighters' in the countryside, I doubt the Gestapo agents are listening in pubs for treasonous talk."
"Too right," Newkirk agreed. "Besides, there are plenty of better pubs."
"But none with quite the same clientele," said the fourth man, who had been silent until that point. "And speaking of the uniqueness of the patrons here, how do you plan to live, Newkirk? The usual method of making up the pay difference, I assume?"
"Of course. I lifted a few wallets on my way over here, but if any of you have anything bigger planned, I'm game. I'll need the money."
Andrew looked at him in shock. He certainly hadn't realized Peter had been picking pockets on his way from the theater. In a way, that was understandable, for he'd had no reason to suspect the Englander. Certainly none of the people Newkirk had relieved of the possessions at Stalag 13 had noticed anything, and they had reason to be suspicious.
However, that was the least of the American's confusion. At the Stalag, Newkirk used his talents to help the operation. Sure, he'd frisk new prisoners or even steal a German officer's medals, but he never hurt anyone with his thefts, and he didn't steal for personal gain. Here he was casually discussing taking money from random strangers as though there was nothing wrong with it. And these people he was drinking with were obviously criminals!
:Surely this does not surprise you: said a familiar voice. :Where did you think he learned the talents you utilized at Stalag 13? Certainly he did not learn to open safes for his magic act.:
"But he's hurting people."
:This is the Newkirk from before he joined the military and before he met Colonel Hogan. He does not see his activities as harmful to others. He is simply trying to survive.: With a final glance at where Newkirk and the others were discussing larceny, the stranger made an abrupt gesture with one of his hands, and the pub began to fade, only to be replaced by fog. :I believe you've seen enough.:
"At least Newkirk is still alive," Andrew said. He was grasping at straws to put this in a positive light, and he was well aware of the fact.
:This is not much of a life. He is struggling to make enough money in order to live and must use illegal means to do so. He still does not thrive. He will continue on this path until he is caught with his hand in a pocket or inside the wrong house. At that time he will be imprisoned or killed.:
"Greene said it was the same before the Nazis. Newkirk was the same with the king in power," Andrew retorted.
:But he would not have remained the same. The operation at Stalag 13 made him realize that other people mattered. He changed from the pessimistic, immoral person you saw here to a person who would send you ahead while he distracted the pursuit in hope that you might survive.:
"Alive and selfish is better than dead and noble!"
:Is it really:
Carter said nothing. What could he say? But his silence did not mean consent.
:You are still not convinced. If you desire another example of someone who meant no harm to the Nazis, I will show you one.:
