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Chapter Four

3 November 1944

The door to the barracks swung open, and several men reacted loudly to the cold that blasted its way in along with the Sergeant of the Guard. "Colonel Hogan!" Schultz's voice was loud and urgent, despite his obvious breathlessness.

Hogan turned away from the stove where he had been warming up a cup of old coffee. "What is it, Schultz?" he asked, motioning for Olsen to shut the door.

"Kommandant Klink wants to see you right away in the infirmary. Corporal Fisher has been hurt."

Hogan's skeptical face changed to one of deep concern. "What happened, Schultz?"

"Some kind of accident with his razor. The Kommandant says it is very serious and he wants to see you right now."

Hogan practically dropped his cup on the table. He pulled up his collar and nodded quickly toward the others. He looked back at Schultz, ready to head out the door. "Let's go."

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I'm absolutely exhausted, but I can't close my eyes and I can't sleep. I've got a blistering headache and my mind is racing at a hundred miles per hour. Writing in this book isn't going to change anything, but maybe it will let me get a few things off my chest.

Alan Fisher tried to kill himself today. Schultz came running into the barracks, said Klink wanted to see me, and that the kid had had some sort of accident with his razor. So I get to the infirmary and see Wilson hovering over him like a mother hen. That was no accident; you don't shave your wrists. He cut them open like a tin can. Thank God one of the other fellas found him before he bled to death.

Klink had a thousand and one questions for me that I couldn't answer. We don't have a camp psychiatrist but I'm hoping a call to the Red Cross will get someone here to talk with Fisher and he might be able to make it through this war with some sort of sanity intact. I worry about him, and I'm scared he'll try it again if no one's watching. Should I have seen something, spent more time with him? The kid's only nineteen years old. I know he went through a bail out and capture, but there are thousands of us that went through that, and most of us haven't tried anything like that… not that it probably didn't cross the minds of at least half the men in camp, even fleetingly. But I can't help wondering, what would have made him try that kind of thing? And how do I stop him from trying again?

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Newkirk came into the barracks, quickly closing the door to keep down both the heat loss and the complaints of his fellow prisoners. Not that it made much difference in the temperature, as the running joke was that it was colder inside the barracks than it was outside. The Englishman swung himself up onto his bunk without bothering to take off his overcoat, and as he lay staring at the wall, the spine of his YMCA journal caught his eye. Sighing softly, he pulled the book off the little shelf, opened it, and began to write.

I just got back from checking in on Corporal Fisher. "Accident with his razor." That's what Schultz said when he fetched Colonel Hogan out of here a few hours ago. "Accident" my eye: even though Wilson's not talking, it doesn't take a ruddy genius to see the heavy bandages around the lad's wrists and not put two and two together.

Why? Why'd he try to take his own life that way? He's only eighteen or nineteen, for God's sake, and he's got his whole life ahead of him. This war isn't going to last forever. The Krauts are being pushed back on all fronts, and it's just a matter of time now.

I remember when Fisher arrived, in fact, I was the one who checked him out. He was so clean he practically squeaked when I frisked him. After he got the "welcome speech" from Hogan, we chatted a few times, and I recall him saying he was from Texas. He thought it was pretty funny when I asked him if he was a cowboy like I'd seen in the cinema. Turns out he really was a cowboy, and we both got a good laugh out of it. Never spoke much with him afterwards. I suppose that comes from being in different barracks and all.

What scares me is that I wasn't too much older than he is when I was shot down. It could have been me lying in some prison camp infirmary with a mile of gauze wrapped round my wrists. It could have so easily been me.

Newkirk closed the journal and replaced it on the shelf over his bed. Collar turned up against the cold, he lay staring at the wall, waiting for the darkness of sleep to claim him.

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I'm not sure what to say here, but for some reason I really have to say something. I mean, I always thought that the best way to get through something like being a POW in the middle of a war was to keep busy and stay positive. But some people sure don't think that way.

Today one of the new prisoners, Alan Fisher, tried to kill himself. I mean he's not "new" new, we've had him for a little while, but he's new compared to some of the rest of us—especially people like Louis and Newkirk, who seem to have been here forever. But Alan—well, gee, I always thought he was pretty okay. I mean he was a bit shy, but I thought that was just, y'know, being nervous about being in a prisoner of war camp for the first time. But I know Colonel Hogan tried to have a few talks with him, and I've seen him around the camp with Newkirk. And I talked to him a few times, too. He's a nice fella. From Texas.

When Schultz called Colonel Hogan out of the barracks today, everyone got really scared. And when the Colonel came back, he was white as a sheet, and he wouldn't talk to anyone. Later on we found out what really happened. I went over to the infirmary to try and talk to Alan- we used to have some really long talks, when he was in the mood. Or maybe I just ramble. In any case, Wilson our medic told me he was asleep, and that he'd tell Alan I came by, in case he wanted to talk.

I'm beginning to wonder if I have the odd-man-out attitude toward this place. I mean people sometimes think I'm a bit scattered, and I don't mind that—they just don't understand that I cope best with a smile on my face. I mean, I was as scared as anybody when I got shot down, but it all turned out okay. I mean, not "okay" okay; I'm still a prisoner. But I couldn't ask to be with a better bunch of fellas than the ones I'm with now. And no one could look after us as well as Colonel Hogan does. But some people, y'know, like Alan, I guess don't know that yet. I sure hope he gives us all a chance to show him, because I'd be real upset if he tried it again. And it wouldn't do him any good, either.

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Le Beau put away the last of his pots and, with a dissatisfied scowl on his face, looked back at the stove. He walked over and rubbed a speck of dirt off it, pulling his hand back quickly with a French oath as the still-hot stove burned his fingertips. Turning his back on it, he released the catch to the tunnel and headed downstairs.

3 novembre, 1944

I am in a foul mood. At least I know I am not alone. But today I saw just one more example of how les Boches are making a mess of this world. There is a very young Corporal in camp, un enfant, Alan Fisher. Today he nearly succeeded in taking his own life. It was not bad enough that they had to shoot him out of the sky and put him in a prisoner of war camp. They had to take the last shred of dignity and hope that he had and totally crush it until he felt he had no choice but to end his life.

I know people sometimes say that a man who tries to kill himself is weak, and that it is selfish, and it makes me angry. I wonder if anyone who says that has had to live like a caged animal with rifles pointed at them all the time. Somehow I doubt it. But now it is me who is feeling selfish, for not having spent more time with him before this happened. I just did not have time. Or maybe I did not make time. Or maybe I am angry at myself for having to be here and know about it, and it is the Boches to blame. It does not matter, I suppose, who is at fault: Fisher still did what he did, and none of us saw it coming. And that makes me wonder—am I really seeing anything here as it really is? Or am I only seeing what I want to see? And is that how I have learned to survive—by ignoring those around me? Is that human? Or inhumane? I know I have done that before… before I was sent here to Stalag 13. What have I become?

Then, frowning deeper and deeper, Le Beau hurriedly closed his book and shoved it forcefully back into his hiding place. Then he went back up to the barracks, climbed onto his own bunk, and, slamming his head on the pillow, stared blindly at the ceiling.