Emanations of Hate

Chapter 17

Upon their arrival back at camp, after settling Newkirk in and telling him to rest up, Hogan headed directly for Klink's office. The others - who had spent the last two days depressed and apprehensive - started to give Newkirk and enthusiastic welcome home, but it died down awkwardly when they got a good look at his face. Lebeau, with a quiet approach and a cup of tea, got him to talk about what had happened at the hospital.

Afterwards Lebeau placed a gentle hand on his back. "Try not to worry mon ami, Colonel Hogan will get the Kommandant to bring him home."

Kinch came to sit on the other side of him. "Louie's right. The Colonel will get him brought back here, and then we can make sure he's okay." Then he grinned, "But just think of all the cooking Louie's going to have to do to get you both back to normal!"

"Sacre chats! Of course!" Lebeau exclaimed; he hadn't even thought of that. All the men smiled as a rapturous Lebeau started planning all of the special meals he could make for everyone.

"You know Lebeau," Kinch broke in, "I hate to burst your bubble, but maybe Carter's not going to want all those fancy French dishes."

"Eh?" Lebeau asked, reluctantly coming out of his reverie. The confused master chef did not trust the look on Kinch's face - how could anyone not want one of his meals?

"They might be too rich for him. Besides, when you want to make someone feel better you're supposed to give them dishes that are familiar to them." Kinch slipped a sly wink to the others. "Maybe Carter will want more American things - you know, ham hocks, tuna casserole, meatloaf, macaroni and cheese."

Lebeau had caught his friend's wink and played along. In a horrified voice he cried, "Meatloaf? Macaroni and cheese? Non, non, it is sacrilege!"

"Or grits."

"Grits?" Lebeau didn't even know what those were, but with a name like that…

"Or fried bologna, or maybe some pork chops with apple sauce."

Lebeau thought he could live with the pork chops, but fried bologna? Who would even think of such a thing?

But now the others were playing along. "Chili!" someone yelled out.

Wilson jumped in with, "Barbecued ribs!"

"Hey Lebeau, how about some pizza?" suggested Tony Garlotti, whose father's recipe had won over Major Boncelli for them.

"No, cheeseburgers!" Baker laughed.

"Franks and beans!" someone else supplied.

"Corn dogs!" Olsen yelled. Lebeau nearly had a coronary; Carter had told him once what a corn dog was, and there was every possibility he might actually ask for one.

Someone else yelled, "Pig's feet!" and things started to get really out there.

"Corn fritters and possum stew."

"Beef jerky!"

"Fried catfish with a side of turnips!"

"No, let's have some roasted squirrel."

Kinch, looking at Lebeau's growing dismay, had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing.

"Cream of peanut soup!" This got more than a few laughs, but it was Private Busbee's triumphant cry of, "Pig Lickin' Cake!" that brought conversation to a screaming halt. (1)

For a second they all stared, incredulous, at the suddenly beet-red Busbee.

"PIG LICKIN' CAKE?" every man in the barracks asked.

"Well, it's just a name! There ain't no actual pigs involved," a sheepish Busbee started to explain, but it was no use. Before he could get any further, he was drowned out by the wave of hysterical laughter that washed over the entire room.

After a few minutes Kinch wiped a tear from his eye and turned to Lebeau, who made a heroic attempt to stop laughing and regain his revolted and superior expression. "Well Lebeau? Are you up to it?"

Lebeau turned up his nose and sniffed. "Americans!"

"Aww, come on Louie. Are you telling me Carter's getting better isn't worth a few corn dogs?" Kinch asked, with mock reproach.

Lebeau weakened a little.

"Possum stew? Roasted squirrels?" Kinch kept going, trying to control his smile. All the men knew that Lebeau wouldn't even consider not giving Carter anything he wanted if it would make the younger man feel better.

"Well…" he wavered.

"Or Pig Lickin' Cake?"

Lebeau let out a cry of despair, dropped his head and beat his fists theatrically against the table. Then, manfully, he drew himself up, and with all of the self-sacrifice of a man martyring himself for friendship, agreed.

"Louie Lebeau," Kinch chuckled, "you have a truly noble heart." He shook his head. "Pig lickin' cake," he said to himself.

The tall radioman took a discreet glance at the man beside him. Newkirk's smile was fading quickly as his thoughts once again turned back to the situation, but he did not look as tense and frazzled as he had when he came in.

Kinch was glad, not only for Newkirk, but for all of them. The gloom in the barracks for the last two days had been palpable. While Wilson and the Colonel had been at the hospital that first day, the others who had been with them that fateful night had been at loose ends. Exhausted, yet too traumatized to sleep, they had tried their best to deal with the questions of those who had not gone. Kinch knew that they had needed to talk it out, but he had asked them to keep the full story within the barracks for now, just in case Colonel Hogan wanted it kept quiet. Not a hard thing to do when they were stuck inside because of the weather, but he knew that he could trust the men to do so in any case. More than any other barracks, this one had to know how to keep things under wraps. With all of the comings and goings, not to mention the planning, even the men who didn't go out on missions still knew more about them then anyone else in camp.

Talking it out had helped to some degree, but it had not completely alleviated the men's trauma. Despite being as dead tired as they were, sleep had not come easy, and when it did it had brought devastating nightmares to more than a few. At one point that night Kinch had heard a snuffling Lebeau trying his best to comfort Foster, who could only get out, "I keep seeing the baby…" before he broke down weeping. This morning, after roll call, the men had been silent; no one wanted to discuss things anymore. The day was overcast so they stayed in the barracks, mostly dozing on and off, and spending their waking moments staring at the ceiling, thinking about horrors that most of them couldn't have dreamt of a mere forty-eight hours before.

As Kinch had anticipated, Hogan had ordered that no one else outside the barracks be told. Even Dodd had only been given the bare bones; he was a good man and they trusted him, but he hadn't been here that long. Who knew what he'd make of all this. Besides, the fewer who knew the better. They had gotten word this morning from Jelly Roll that a Doctor Schuler, with connections to the SS, had been reported missing. A full-out investigation by the SS and the Gestapo was being conducted, due to the Doctor's "vital work". Hogan knew his men were skilled at keeping secrets, but how could you keep such a gruesome story from making the rounds? From his own experience, and from that of the men in his barracks, Hogan quickly realized that with something like this, you needed to talk to someone. It didn't matter if you were battle hardened or not, you needed to talk to someone, just to deal with your own horror. But at what price? Just one word, Hogan had warned, overheard by the wrong guard, might bring them more trouble than they were fit to handle. For the Germans, the idea of the POWs knowing such a horrifying Nazi secret might be cause enough to trigger mass executions.

"Why's Carter in such bad shape, do you think?" Foster's question drew Kinch back to the present. The Englishman had said it fairly casually, but all the conversation in the barracks stopped sharply.

"Are you asking me?" Newkirk demanded.

"No! I mean…I was just asking…wondering…" Foster tried to backtrack, confused as to why Newkirk had snapped at him so defensively.

"Wondering about what exactly?"

"Oh, for God's sake Newkirk, he's not blaming you," Olsen explained, "He wasn't even asking you! He was just talking out loud, wondering why Carter was so sick and banged up and you weren't."

Kinch moaned inwardly. Matt, for the love of God, surely you could have found a better way to phrase that! He knew Olsen hadn't meant it as an accusation, but he could see where Newkirk might take it that way.

But instead of flying off the handle, Newkirk simply looked stunned. "What do you mean 'banged up'? What are you talking about?"

"Newkirk, listen to me," Kinch said gently. "When we first brought the two of you back here we had to get you out of your wet clothes and into something dry. When we took off Carter's shirt, we found a bunch of fading bruises on his chest. We thought it must have been from when…well, from when whatever happened to the two of you happened. The only thing is, you didn't have any, and we don't know why. Foster wasn't blaming you for anything."

"That's right," Foster asserted, "It's like Olsen said, I wasn't even asking you. I was just puzzled and," his voice trailed off a bit, "and sort of wondering out loud, you know, ah, how you do," he finished lamely.

"See? No one meant anything by it," Kinch assured him. Then, after shooting an uncertain glance at Lebeau, he asked Newkirk, "But maybe you could tell us something?"

Newkirk couldn't speak. Elbows on his knees, he rubbed at his face tiredly with his hands. Bruises, he thought. He remembered Carter being slammed against the door in the cellar before he could let him out, but he also remembered pounding his fists into Carter's ribs. Bloody hell! This just gets better and better doesn't it? He shook his head without raising it, unable to look his friends in the eye. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to tell them that it was his fault, that they were fools for ever thinking they could depend on him, but he couldn't. Usually he had no trouble taking the blame, not if something was truly his fault. But this time, he couldn't find the courage. Besides, if I tell them the whole story, then I'll have to tell them why I was so angry in the first place. And that's not my secret to tell, is it?

Kinch didn't know what was wrong specifically, but it was easy to tell that Newkirk wasn't ready to talk about the whole experience yet. "I'm sorry Peter," he apologized. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot. We're just worried about the two of you. None of us can understand what you went through, but maybe if we knew a bit more, we might be able to help. But look, no one's forcing you, okay? If you want to talk about it, we'll listen, but if you don't want to talk about it, then you don't have to."

He watched as Newkirk took a deep breath and then nodded. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the tension in the room eased a bit.

Of course, that didn't last. Once again it was Foster who unwittingly stuck his foot in it, but Kinch didn't have the heart to blame him. When he asked if Carter was going to be alright at that hospital, he was only asking what they all wanted to know.

Newkirk looked at him sharply, but it was Wilson who answered. "I've been asking around. There are a few men in camp who've been treated there. From what they say, the doctors and nurses weren't the warmest people going, (or the most diligent when it came to treating prisoners of war, he thought to himself), but none of them said that they were actively mistreated."

Newkirk leaped up. " How can you say that!" he shouted. "You weren't there when they were tying 'im down to that bed! You didn't hear 'im yelling, begging them to stop!"

"I'm sorry Newkirk, I know it must have been hard for you and the Colonel to watch them do that to Carter. And no, I wasn't there, so I can't say if their actions were necessary or not, but they might not have been completely unnecessary either. It would be dangerous for Carter to be that agitated, weak as he is. And as for the restraints, maybe that was for the best. You wouldn't want him to hurt himself, would you?" Wilson's voice was both reasonable and regretful, but that didn't stop Newkirk's rising anger.

"For the best? For the BEST? Andrew wouldn't 'ave been agitated if those twisters 'ad known what they were about and treated 'im, instead of tying 'im down like some criminal!"

"Newkirk…" Kinch began.

"NO! You lot shouldn't 'ave let 'im anywhere near those monsters! You saw what Schuler did! You saw, and yet you 'anded us right over to more of the same!" Positively shaking with fury, he suddenly whipped his tin cup at the far wall. "Bloody HELL!" he screamed. Then, panting, his voice ragged with emotion, he asked," How could you do that? What were you thinking?" But then he stormed out of the barracks before the others could give him an answer.

An uncomfortable silence reigned. Without asking or needing to be told, Lebeau waited and then slipped out of the barracks a couple of minutes later and went after him. Wilson asked, "Do you think I should…I mean, he might need to be checked over…"

"No, leave it to Lebeau," Kinch advised.

"Do you think I should leave then? He probably won't want to see me when he comes back."

"I'm sorry Mike, but maybe, yeah."

"Alright." An embarrassed Wilson followed Lebeau out the door, avoiding the eyes of the others, who were ashamed to be kicking him out. Wilson was a fairly thick-skinned man - medics had to be - and this couldn't have been the first time a patient had blown up at him, but Kinch thought that he could sense the slightest bit of disappointment in Wilson. Then Kinch realized that Wilson might be more upset at losing the honorary membership in Barracks 2 he'd been given for the last couple of days. Wilson had been the only prisoner out that night who had not been from their barracks, and now he was being robbed of his chance of talking about it with the only other people in camp who would understand. In fact, because of the Colonel's orders, he wouldn't be able to speak of it at all.

"Damn," Kinch muttered under his breath.


Lebeau finally caught up with Newkirk outside the camp's rec hall. The Englishman was standing there, fists clenched at his sides, glowering.

"Newkirk mon ami, are you alright?"

Newkirk's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Come Newkirk, let's go inside," Lebeau said, and tugged gently on Newkirk's sleeve, leading him into the rec hall. The storms of the past few days had slackened to a sputtering drizzle, but it was still a cold, grey day - no weather to be out in. Strangely, there was no one inside, making the place feel abnormally quiet. Lebeau lead Newkirk to a chair and then pulled another one up beside him. Then, from one of his pockets, he pulled out a small flask and passed it to his friend.

"Here. To fight the chill."

Newkirk looked at him in surprise for a moment, then took a swig. "Thanks."

For awhile they passed the flask absently back and forth, not speaking, simply sitting in the semi-dark and listening to the occasional patter of rain on the tin roof. It was a restful, if sad, atmosphere. Slowly Newkirk began to open up.

"We've been 'ere a long time, 'aven't we mate."

"Oui. Too long."

"Do you ever think that you made the wrong decision? By staying 'ere, I mean."

Lebeau thought about this. "Sometimes I wonder if it was the best one. I wonder if I should have stayed in Paris, if I could have done more for France by being there. But who is to say? I do not think of my being here as wrong. Colonel Hogan gave me a chance to fight the Bosche and it could never be wrong to have accepted it."

"But don't you think it would've been better to 'ave stayed with your family?"

"Non. I do not have much of a family left."

"But didn't you say you had thirteen brothers and sisters?"

Lebeau laughed. "No, no. That is just something I made up for Schultzie! To explain getting all of the pieces of chicken from Alberta the pigeon!" He went on, "There is only my uncle now, and he is in the country. I worry about him because he is an old man, but there would have been little I could have done for him even if I had stayed. I could not have lived in the country with him, hiding while others fought for France. But also, he could not have moved to Paris to be with me. It would have only put him in more danger. And if I was fighting, or with the underground, I would not have been around much anyway."

Newkirk considered this. "I've been thinking about Mavis lately," he said.

"Your sister?"

Newkirk nodded. "You know, no one ever trusted me like she did. Not me mates - well, most of them were in the trade, if you catch my meaning. More than a little dodgy themselves. Even me Mum…" Newkirk's voice grew a bit shaky, "She usually thought I could be a decent bloke you know, but one time, just before I got taken up for something or other, she looked at me like…well, it's of no matter now." He took another drink from the flask. "But our Mavis was a different story. Not that she wouldn't tell me off from time to time, but still, she was always 'appy to see me. She'd smile and I'd remember 'ow she looked at me when she was a little girl. Like I was 'er big brother and no matter what anyone said about me, I'd always be there for her." But I haven't been. Not for her, and not for anyone here.

"Do you think she would want you to risk your life escaping?"

"It'd 'ardly be much of a risk, would it? The guv'nor could probably get me a plane straight to London, if 'e 'ad a mind to."

"But how would she know that? Even once you got back, you couldn't speak to her of it."

"But I'd be there Louie. Doing some good," Newkirk argued.

"You think you are doing no good here?" Lebeau scoffed. "I understand about wanting to protect your sister, and I understand what it is to want to go home and fight there, and it is your decision and no one, especially not me, will think any less of you for it. But if your sister is anything like you, I believe she will be more than able of taking care of herself. What will be the best for her and for everyone is if the war ends as soon as possible. And you are doing more here to help that than you ever could at home. Just think mon ami, if you go home, you would only be re-assigned back into the RAF. You would be stuck on a base away from Mavis, and when you weren't there, you'd be on a plane flying over here, waiting to get shot down."

Newkirk stood up and faced Lebeau. "You don't understand! It's more complicated than that. I'm not doing any good 'ere! And I'm not doing any good by being away from there! It's like I've been split down the middle, and I'm not doing anyone any good because of it! At least if I was on a base in England, I could get to see Mavis occasionally. And I'd be close by if she needed me."

"Newkirk, is something wrong at - "

"And why should I stay?" Newkirk suddenly burst out, interrupting what he knew Lebeau's question was going to be. "I don't owe any of you anything!"

"No, of course you don't," Lebeau started, puzzled by his friend's sudden anger.

"You know what? I'm sick to death of all of you!" Newkirk lashed out, brimming with defensive resentment. "I'm sick of 'Ogan and all 'is plans! I'm sick of you and Kinch always backing 'im up! And most of all, I'm sick of that stupid bloody mug in the 'ospital!"

Lebeau gasped. "Newkirk! How can you say something like that?"

"Why not? It's true." He stormed around the room. "I'm sick of 'im! Why shouldn't I feel that way? Just because 'e's feeling a bit poorly? All of this is 'is fault to begin with!"

Lebeau jumped to his feet, absolutely furious. "How can you say that? He wasn't himself and you know it! How could he have stopped it? Tell me that!" he demanded, glaring at Newkirk.

"It was all Carter's fault!" Newkirk shouted; all the time his heart was screaming that no it wasn't, that it was his. "You don't know what it was like! Being like that, and no one 'elping you! You can't know what it was like to be trapped like that! To 'ave no bleedin' say in anything that 'appened to you! And it was Carter's fault!"

"No it wasn't Newkirk! It was Townsend's! No, none of us can know what it was like for you, but it was the same for him!"

"No it wasn't! 'E let Townsend do that to 'im! Why couldn't 'e 'ave fought'em off? 'E was supposed to be my friend and yet 'e did that to me!" Newkirk couldn't believe the things he was saying - if Carter was guilty of anything, it was of being the source of guilt that was tearing him up inside, but he couldn't stop himself. He was furious at everything, and especially at being made to feel this way.

"He is your friend, but maybe you are not his," Lebeau said, disgusted. "Maybe you should go home; obviously we think more of you than you do of us." With that, he left Newkirk to stew on his own.


Eventually Kinch went down into the tunnel, unable to stand the strained quiet of the barracks any longer. He dreaded going to his radio - what if London called? They were in no fit state for even the simplest mission at the moment. But he couldn't avoid it forever. He had been down in the tunnels a good hour when Hogan pulled up a chair and quietly joined him.

"Anything?" Hogan asked, nodding towards the radio.

"Not a peep. Probably the weather. Who wants to escape or cause trouble on a day like today?"

"Thank God for small favours," Hogan said, rubbing his face tiredly.

"You should get some sleep sir."

"Mmmm." It was a murmur of agreement, but Hogan made no move to leave.

"Is the Kommandant going to let you go to the hospital to see him, sir?"

"No."

"No?"

"That's right, no!" Hogan snapped.

"Sorry sir."

"No, I'm sorry Kinch. It's just been a rotten day."

"Heck sir, it's been a rotten week."

Hogan smiled faintly. "How about a rotten month? A rotten year? A rotten war?"

Kinch snorted, "You'll get no argument from me. Look, I didn't mean to push. I guess I was just surprised that you couldn't convince the old Bald Eagle to let you leave camp. It's not like anyone's escaped lately. But it's unfair of us to expect you to always be able to twist him around your little finger."

"I will admit that my powers of persuasion seem to be a little off right now, but it's not Klink that I have to convince. I pestered him enough that I think he'd willingly be demoted to private just to get me out of camp for a few hours a day. It's the hospital. As far as they're concerned, they've already got one too many POWs there right now."

"I wish we could have taken them both to that German officer's hospital," Hogan went on. "That doctor who thought that I had Polaris Extremis probably would've been fascinated by their condition. Probably would have given them the best room and had nurses watching them around the clock." Hogan sighed. He started fiddling with a pencil and Kinch listened to him ramble without interrupting. "At the very least I wish I could have convinced them to keep Newkirk with Carter until they were both more themselves. But they told Klink that Newkirk was well enough to leave and that that made him Klink's responsibility. And so that shot that option all to hell."

"Never rains but it pours."

Hogan rolled his eyes. "Apt Kinch, very apt."

Kinch knew that his CO was preoccupied with something. "What's on your mind Colonel?"

Hogan hesitated, then casually asked out of the blue, "What's the name of that Private? The one who offered to set the charges for Dodd?"

"Fredericksen. Will Fredericksen."

"Know much about him?"

"Some. He was a miner before the war."

"We have got him working in the tunnels right? Only there seemed to be a lot of forgers around that day."

Kinch laughed. "Yeah, he's one of our tunnel men."

"How long has he been here?"

"Two or three months I guess."

"Fitting in alright?"

"From all that I've heard. Seems like a decent man. Sensible, doesn't panic in a crisis, at least underground. Knows how to keep his mouth shut. Well, except for the language. Miners are like sailors if he's any example."

Hogan smiled. "How about brains?"

"I don't think he had much chance at an education. His family were farmers. He said he'd always miss different parts of the school year for planting and harvesting. Left young to work at a lumber camp and then became a miner because there was a bit more money in it. I don't know what he'd be like at undercover work. Still, I think he's pretty intelligent. Canny might be the word. We didn't have to tell him much about the operation once he saw the tunnels; he figured it out pretty quick."

"Really?"

"He'd arrived just before we'd had that cave-in while building that tunnel to the north of camp. You remember, when the Luftwaffe was thinking about expanding us and putting in some new barracks? Anyway, he must have been close when it happened and felt it - he knew what it was right away. He'd seen us talking to each other a lot, but you and Newkirk were out on assignment so he came to me and volunteered to help. I had to make a decision. It was risky I know, but it was obvious that we couldn't lie to him about the cave-in, so I thought 'either he's one of us or he's not - if he is he can help, if not, we'll have to get rid of him anyway.' Good thing he was, because a look or two round the rest of the tunnels and he had pretty near the whole story. After that, I put him on the tunnel committee and from what I hear, he's practically running it."

"Do you think that he could learn to build bombs?"

"I don't know sir. Maybe if Carter showed him how, he could manage the simpler ones. But I think his hand would give him trouble."

"His hand?"

"Fredericksen took a bullet in the arm when he was captured. Hit near the right wrist and went along up to the elbow. It hasn't impaired him to the point where you'd really notice anything wrong, but it's caused him to lose enough movement and motor control in his hand that any delicate work like wiring might be out of the question."

"Damn."

"What's this all about sir?"

"I was thinking of moving him up in the operation."

"You mean having him fill in for Carter while he's in the hospital? Is there something you're not telling us sir?"

"No Kinch, you know all that I know. The problem is that none of us knows anything."

"What do the doctors say?"

"Well, nothing to me," Hogan complained. "but they've told Klink that he should be fine." Frustrated, he suddenly tossed the pencil he'd been fiddling with across the room.

"But he's going to be there awhile?"

"No, they said he should be back by the end of the week. They'll probably let him go before they should, but I'm not going to argue. He'll be better off with us."

They sat quietly for a moment, each thinking their own thoughts. Then Kinch asked, "Did you hear about Newkirk's blow-up?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to him, but look, tell the guys to go easy on him. He's still tense, and too run down. They can't expect him to be himself."

"I guess Carter will be about the same when he comes back."

"Probably. We'll have to give them some slack for awhile, but I think they'll both be fine eventually." But from Hogan's tone, Kinch thought that he wasn't so sure about that.

"So what's all this about then, sir?" Kinch asked, though he tried to keep it light. "All these questions about Fredericksen? Making sure Carter has a back-up that doesn't leave camp with him?"

Hogan paused and regarded Kinch closely, trying to decide on something.

"Yeah, something like that." Kinch waited for him to elaborate, but Hogan said nothing. After a few moments he got up and left.


In the hospital, the object of their discussion was just beginning to sort out where he was. His eardrums throbbed painfully and he stirred in his sleep, making a faint fretful sound. His thoughts and memories were jumbled in a knot, just out of reach at the back of his skull. It hurt to think about them, and instinct told him that he didn't want to. On a conscious level, if he could have comprehended a question, and someone had asked him what he felt, he couldn't have answered beyond saying that he felt some time had passed.

Unconsciously, he clenched his eyes tightly shut, unwilling to awaken. Distorted and abstract images followed - vague memories of being forced to watch something terrible, of being completely helpless to stop it. His breathing grew rapid and choppy in his growing agitation, but he was alone and so no one noticed. In his nightmare, he was tied down. He could see - himself? someone else? - straining at his bonds and weeping with despair. Trying futilely to break free and save…who? From what?

Slowly he swam his way back to consciousness. Weak and groggy, he opened his eyes and his previous panic faded a little as he was confronted with this new situation. In a voice slurred with fatigue, he called out, hoping someone was there, but the guard outside didn't hear him. He lowered his head back down the inch or so he'd been able to lift it, and tried to stem his rising panic. Chilled and nauseous, he felt terrible, but there didn't seem to be anyone there trying to hurt him.

However, despite his efforts to keep calm, he grew more and more worried - the fear brought on by his nightmare returning. There should be someone here. Where are the guys? Are they okay? Why's everything so bright?

"Hel..Hello?" he called again, then coughed - his throat was raw. Outside, the ever focused Sergeant Groener was concentrating on his duty.

"When you're in a strange situation, try to look around and take stock of things before you open your mouth," Colonel Hogan had once told him. Carter tried to take this advice now. What did he know? He couldn't remember being in any room in camp where the light was so glaring, so he guessed that he wasn't there for some reason. He knew that he felt absolutely awful; even his skin felt weird - sort of goosebumpy, and yet almost like he could feel the pressure of the air weighing down on him. He found that he was lying down and so he tried to sit up.

He couldn't. Turning his head, he found restraints binding his wrists and ankles to the bed frame. Puzzled, and becoming more frightened by the minute, he pulled at them uselessly. Glancing around, he saw that he was alone and in a hospital room.

Newkirk's words came back to him. "The Colonel thinks you've cracked."

Had the Colonel put him here because he was crazy? Is that what had happened?

No! The Colonel wouldn't do that to me! his mind insisted.

But…but what if I am crazy? What if I did something really bad? His stomach twisted sharply at that thought. Something about that was close; he could almost remember something. He had done something, but what? He began to shiver. Praying desperately, he suddenly knew that more than anything else in the world, he did not want the answer to that.

Still, in life, and especially in war, things that we don't want to happen, happen all the time, despite our best wishes and intentions. As he lay there, everything that had been dancing around in his unconsciousness and driving his nightmares, came flooding back to him. The tears gushed from his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Left breathless and gasping with pain at the things he had seen and done, he could do nothing else but beg pleadingly to Heaven to make it stop.


The rain went away, and for the next few days the men of Stalag 13 were treated to some of the best fall weather they had ever had. The air was fresh, the skies sunny and clear, and the days were clean and new. All the best childhood memories of county fairs, rugby games and playing stickball in the street until the long hours of the evening, came back to them with joy and sadness. Everyone ached to escape, even if only for a day or two, so they could run like free men; because the whole world should be at your feet on days like those.

So naturally the men were busy. Escaping prisoners from the other Stalags poured in; many of them less prepared than they should have been because they had been unable to wait. Run ragged, the only thing Hogan and his men could be grateful for was that nothing more complicated had come up. Packed to the rafters and missing two key players, they could only be thankful that the processing of prisoners was a comparatively easy job.

Newkirk, who was having trouble sleeping and often woke the barracks with his nightmares, was still considered to be on "sick leave". An uneasy tension existed between him and his barrack mates. After their argument, Lebeau had immediately regretted his words - the Frenchman remembering that Newkirk had blown up in the first place because he had been upset over Carter's treatment at the hospital, making it unlikely that he truly blamed Carter - and so he had tried to apologize. Newkirk had pushed him away and told him to "Sod off!" But he had also avoided looking at Lebeau when he said it, as if he were ashamed. Lebeau remembered his friend's worry over his sister, and - wondering if there was a specific reason for it - had held his temper and kept trying to get Newkirk to talk to him. But the Englishman had rebuffed him at every turn. Irritable, he spoke to no one unless he had to, and usually snapped at them when he did. The others tried their best to be understanding, but between the extra work and nightmares of their own, no one was getting any sleep and patience was wearing thin.

The team was falling apart.


(1) Seriously, I didn't make this up. I found 'Pig Lickin' Cake' (spelled just that way) in a cookbook my mother brought back from a vacation in Georgia about twenty-five years ago.