Chapter One
"I don't remember this part being in our plans, Guv'nor."
Hogan scrubbed a hand over his face, letting a little of his own exasperation leak into his sigh. The log they routinely used to cross the river was completely submerged except for its very ends. Those were still lying upon either bank, but the end on their side was rocking and sliding. Any moment, he expected it to be dislodged by the water cascading over it in a clear, swiftly flowing ribbon.
He looked overhead and blinked against the raindrops. He could not understand how a few hours of rain had raised the river to its present level. Then, like a light going on in a dark room, he knew the reason and his gaze snapped up and to the east.
"Ah, crap," Hogan muttered.
That morning, he had overheard the guards talking about the rain that had been falling upon the mountains for the last two days. He had walked on by, giving little weight to the information. Only now did he realize his error. All that water washing down the mountain streams and gullies had to end up somewhere. After hearing the guards' conversation, he should have known the footbridge would be unusable and made alternate plans.
He looked upstream, searching his memory for another place to cross. His hand absently went to the leather pouch in his jacket pocket. Inside the pouch were documents containing information hidden within an elaborate series of numbers, letters and strange symbols. A courier was standing by in Hammelburg to carry the papers to London, where code-breakers would begin deciphering the code.
Newkirk kicked a stone into the river with a grunt of ill temper. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead and dripped from his nose and chin. His face scrunched in a grimace as he wiped water out of his eyes. "Lovely."
LeBeau shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "I hope they have a fire burning in the wood stove when we get back."
The comment gave Hogan pause. The evening was balmy, the rain warm. He glanced over at LeBeau and swore under his breath. Below his black knit cap, LeBeau's eyes were fever-bright.
Several weeks before, a flu-like illness had struck Stalag 13's population. Nausea, fever, headaches and muscle cramps were the worst of the symptoms that appeared without warning. Some men had recovered quickly. Others had endured the sickness for days and in the worst cases, a week. Once the illness had run its course, its victim was left weak and shaky, with little interest in food or much else.
Barracks Two had been one of the hardest hit. Carter, Olsen, Braveheart, and Kinch were presently down with it, while Paxton and Graham were not quite back to full strength. Newkirk, Hogan, and LeBeau numbered among the lucky few that had managed to evade the bug. It appeared now, though, that the illness had cut that number by one.
"LeBeau." Hogan waited until the Frenchman's head turned in his direction. "Are you sick?" Newkirk swung around to face LeBeau, alarm and concern filling his expression.
LeBeau wrapped his arms tighter about himself, rocked slightly on his feet. "I am not . . . feeling quite like myself."
"Why didn't you say something?" Newkirk squawked, taking the words right from Hogan's mouth.
"Because I felt fine when we left camp," LeBeau answered, his voice breaking on another shiver.
Hogan went to him, worried by the way LeBeau was cradling his body – as if trying to physically hold himself together. "Do you "
LeBeau made a choked sound of distress. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he dashed past Hogan to a tree, braced a hand upon its trunk, and was violently ill. Hogan and Newkirk shared a worried glance, then moved closer to the river, offering him some privacy.
Newkirk pensively stared out at the moonlit waves. "Pardon my saying so, Guv'nor, but I hate this bleeding river. Nothing good's ever come from being around it."
Hogan could not have agreed more. He glanced in concern over his shoulder. LeBeau was still hunched over, his body convulsing with another bout of retching. Hogan's stomach muscles tightened in sympathy. There was no way he was making LeBeau finish out the mission, nor travel back to camp alone when he was so ill. Hogan turned back to Newkirk and hooked a thumb in LeBeau's direction.
"Help him ba"
His order cut off as without any warning, the bank crumbled and slid out from beneath their feet.
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LeBeau spat repeatedly to clear the vile taste from his mouth. The nausea was ebbing, but now he felt light-headed and weak. Still using the tree for support, he slowly straightened and wiping a shaking hand over his mouth, turned. He halted, hand still hovering near his face, as the scene before him sank in.
Hogan and Newkirk were gone and the bank where they had been standing looked as if a hungry giant had taken a bite out of it. Instantly understanding what had happened, LeBeau rushed downstream, frantically searching the water for some sight of his friends.
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"One moment, the guv'nor and I were talking and the next, we were underwater fighting for our very lives. Yes, Katie, I don't mind telling you it was a scary thing. Swimming was never one of my fondest pastimes even under the best of circumstances, and breathing air is so much better than breathing water. Ta, very much."
"Unlike myself, the guv'nor was a strong swimmer, having lived near the ocean most of his life. Somehow, when he felt that bank give way, he managed to grab onto my arm as we went into the drink. What? It's an expression, Benjamin. Drink . . . water. . . never mind. Anyway, he took such a fierce grip on my arm that I had bruises there in the shape of his fingers for weeks after. That's right, Teddy. Just there - below the elbow. Even though he held on as tight as he could, we got pulled apart all the same. Then I was too busy tumbling this way and that to have time to worry about anyone but me."
"What, Katie? What was it like? Well . . . imagine being tossed into a washer with a bunch of rocks mixed in besides. That's close as I can describe what it was like to be in that river. Too, right, Benjamin, it was bluh. . . it was awful! I think I smashed into every rock, branch and log in that river, but I could never get a good enough grip on anything to keep afloat. The current just kept pulling me under. After awhile I couldn't tell up from down and what little air I'd had when I fell in was fast leaving me. Then just when I thought I was well and done for, along came a piece of good luck."
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Newkirk's head cleared the water just as he felt himself blacking out. Drawing in a whooping gulp of air, he fought against the swirling river, arms flailing in effort to get to ground. Something caught his trouser leg and yanked him under again. The rush of water filled his ears along with his sub-vocal grunts as he struggled. He clawed through the water, straining for the surface and more precious air. He popped above the waves in time to see a partially submerged tree still clinging to the bank on his right. He was coming up on it fast. One chance was all he would get. With the last of his remaining strength, he flung his body in that direction; stretched out his hand . . . and latched onto one of the tree's branches. His prayers were answered when the branch did not snap off in his hand.
Gasping and coughing, he pulled himself further up the tree and dragged his upper body onto its trunk. Eyes closing in exhaustion, he lay, feeling the current swirling and tugging at his legs, as if the river was reluctant to give up its deadly embrace. Coughing out another mouthful of river water, he wrenched his eyes open and slid his body along the tree toward shore. His muscles were heavy, his movements clumsy, and he hurt everywhere. Upon reaching the safety of solid ground, he fell face-forward into the grass and let the darkness take him.
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LeBeau's legs gave out and he doubled over with dry heaves. He had no idea how far he had run along the flooded river, desperately praying he would come upon one or both of his friends. He had found neither and had grown too sick to continue. Reluctantly, he accepted that he had to give up his search and go for help.
Sapped of strength and sobbing with pain and despair, he attempted to get his feet under him. No sooner did he stand then his shaking legs crumpled again and he fell to the ground. Wave after wave of nausea rolled through him. Gagging, he struggled to his feet once more, then staggered into the trees toward Stalag 13.
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"Teddy, Teddy! Be patient, mate. You don't want me to tell everything at once and go spoiling the story, now do you? That would be like giving the punchline before the joke."
"Right. Now, where was I?"
"Oh, yes, yes. Thank you, Katie."
"Well, while I was passed out and poor Louis was on his way back to get help, the guv'nor was having his own troubles . . ."
To be continued . . .
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