Stalag 13 was a camp full of traumatized men. One didn't become a prisoner of war without acquiring some emotional baggage. Everyone knew it, but no one talked about it. Fortunes of war—it happened to everyone, none were special, and talking about it only made a man appear weak. It was his burden to bear alone—no need to trouble anyone else with it anyway.
But trauma, no matter how well one ignored it, didn't just disappear because one wished it would. Whatever was in a man's heart always clawed its way to the surface, exposing his true self, or his dark secrets to everyone.
In the day, it was easier to keep the demons at bay. But there was no denying the way Carter's breath caught in his throat whenever the Gestapo showed up. Or how Kinch flinched at the sound of gunfire. Or the almost imperceptible shake in Newkirk's hands whenever someone mentioned solitary. Or the way Olsen hoarded food. Or how Hogan always checked for a window in a room. They hid it well, quickly shoving their weaknesses back down so they wouldn't interfere with the mission. But LeBeau noticed all the same.
At night, the terrors really came out to play. There was an unspoken rule to ignore another man's nightmares. But it was hard. Nightmares didn't care for a man's pride and viewed it as a challenge to make him cry.
LeBeau, though he denied it, had always been a kind of mother hen. And he had developed a sixth sense for when one of his friends was distressed. It made for some long, sleepless nights as he watched them grapple with horrors only they could see behind closed eyes.
He tried his best to stave them off before they even came by making sure his friends had a good dinner and that the stove was as well-stocked as possible so the hut would be cozy and warm. But, more often than not, those efforts proved to be in vain.
Olsen's nightmares never lasted long and were few and far between. LeBeau wondered if that was because, out of all of them, he had the most incentive to fight them off. For the others, nightmares could be embarrassing, but for Olsen, they could be downright dangerous. LeBeau didn't know how often Olsen had company in his Hammelburg bed, but a civilian might just question his nighttime terrors. Still, Olsen was no superman, no matter how dangerous it was to be otherwise. And when he just couldn't fight them off, Olsen's nightmares made him mutter in Danish or German—never English—and throw off his covers. And then he'd bolt upright, clutching at his chest where he had been shot after evading capture for nearly three months. When he settled back into bed, LeBeau would grab his blanket from the floor, and stand on his tiptoes so he could lay it back over him.
It was no surprise that Carter talked in his sleep. The man always talked—why would something as inconsequential as unconsciousness stop him?
The words weren't always coherent (was that any surprise? It was Carter, after all) but some were as clear as day.
"Damn cat."
"Wait! No! Stop!"
"Hatch? Barton! Parker!"
"Snowman, snowman." (That one always confused LeBeau.)
"Suzanne!"
Without fail, whenever he cried her name, he'd sit up, panicked and sweating. He'd gulp down a few breaths and then he'd bring his knees up and bury his face into them. LeBeau was painfully aware of his sobs, though he tried not to actively listen in an unseen attempt to save Carter's dignity.
LeBeau didn't know the story behind the girl—it was the only thing Carter didn't talk about—but when Carter finally settled back down into a tight little ball, LeBeau would kneel beside his bed and rub his back until his breath steadied and he was well and truly asleep.
Newkirk was a sleepwalker. And a stealthy one at that. Sometimes LeBeau's sixth sense failed to trigger until well after Newkirk was out of bed. He could never be sure if Newkirk was actually asleep or just prowling. He'd watch for a while until the telltale sign when Newkirk would suddenly stop, sit on the floor, and hold himself. That was his cue. LeBeau would climb out of his bunk and gently grab Newkirk's shoulders and rub his arms.
"Up. Back into bed, mon pote."
Still asleep, and with childlike obedience that clashed with his obstinate nature, Newkirk would get up and climb back into bed. Then LeBeau would cover him up and brush a hand through his hair.
"Louis? Louis, that you?" Newkirk would always mumble.
"Yes, it's me."
"'m sorry. So sorry, mate."
"Shhh. I am fine. I am okay, Pierre."
Newkirk would snuffle and settle back into his pillow. The same thing every time.
LeBeau knew Newkirk's nightmares centred around their first few years of captivity when his sharp tongue and stubbornness often brought about beatings. Not just for Newkirk, but LeBeau as well. A kind of secondary punishment meant to guilt Newkirk into submission. It had almost worked, but no one could say LeBeau wasn't also stubborn. There was no way he'd let the stupid Boche break him, or use him as an emotional cudgel to beat Newkirk. They had made it through together, though LeBeau himself was still plagued by similar nightmares.
Kinch was a tough nut to crack. LeBeau had no idea what flashed through his mind when he had a nightmare. And if he hadn't shared a bunk with the man, he might not have known Kinch had nightmares at all. But Kinch had a tendency to kick at the bedpost, shaking LeBeau awake. He'd peer over the side of his bed and see Kinch with a tight face, clutching at his blankets with a vice-like grip. And then, the American's eyes would snap open and he'd take a few moments to regulate his breathing.
And then Kinch, the man who never asked anyone for anything, who never wanted to impose, who seemed to bask in solitude, would get out of bed and quietly make his way over to Goldman. He'd shake the other man awake (that was if Goldman wasn't already awake from his own nightmares) and they'd talk in hushed voices. And then Goldman would squeeze his shoulder, and Kinch would return to his bunk.
Sometimes the roles were reversed and Goldman would be the one to seek comfort. LeBeau knew they had been on the same crew although how that came about was still a mystery to him. A lot of Kinch's job required him to be alone, and LeBeau felt somewhat relieved that, for this at least, his stoic friend had someone to share his burden.
Though he was in another room, it wasn't hard to tell when the colonel had a nightmare. LeBeau's sixth sense would wake him just before Hogan came into the common room. The commanding officer would fix himself some cocoa and would tour the room, leaning into every bunk and watching his men as they slept. Perhaps he was checking to make sure they were all still alive. LeBeau would peek out at him but always pretended to be asleep when he drew near.
He wondered at the habit and the nightmares that brought it about. Had Colonel Hogan been terrorized by the idea that a mission would go wrong and he'd lose everything? Or were memories to blame? How many men had Hogan already lost? From his bomber crew? From his squadron? LeBeau didn't know, but since Hogan never talked about it, LeBeau couldn't help but assume that, like many of the men here, he'd been one of the few survivors of his plane crash.
Perhaps that explained why Hogan was such a contradiction. He obviously cared for his men and showed his affection in a multitude of little ways—while of course always preserving the distinction of rank. But there were times that he was downright callous about their safety. Times when he'd ordered them to do something ludicrously dangerous or reckless, without really considering the consequences. LeBeau wondered if that was just because the mission took precedence over any one of them or if, perhaps, Hogan's heart was already too broken to ever break again. Maybe he had just seen too many of his men die and he had grown numb to it. Maybe that was why Hogan kept his distance, rather than his rank—either to protect himself or because he had very little left to give.
Either way, the next morning, without ever revealing the reason for it (although, perhaps everyone knew already) LeBeau would take up a collection and would make sure that Hogan's cocoa supply was topped up. It was the only comfort he could provide the officer. Some burdens really did have to be borne alone for the sake of military decorum.
LeBeau wished it could all be out in the open—that they could all talk about the things that kept them up in the night. But that just wasn't done. For whatever reason—society, pride, convention, shame—it could never be done.
So LeBeau kept his nightly vigils. Perhaps, one day, the monsters would retreat on their own and leave his friends to sleep in peace. Until then, he'd don his imaginary armour and fight the dragons that came in the night. And when he just couldn't keep them back and they gobbled up his friends, he would still be there, with a tender touch, words of peace, and a bit of cocoa.
My dear sweet baby girl often has night terrors and there's not much I can do about it. After she fell back asleep last night, this story popped into my head.