Rain
It was hard to believe that it had been only five days…
Hogan found himself tapping a rhythm in counterpoint to the relentless thudding of rain on wood, the splashing of water against glass and the tinny 'Plink!…Plink!' which identified all those places where a careless roof tile didn't quite meet its mate and the rain had gleefully taken the opportunity to join them in the barracks. Mugs, bowls, buckets, hats; a discreetly placed upturned guard's helmet amongst them, decorated every threatened surface, forcing residents to adapt their usual positions and sleeping arrangements to accommodate.
Requests had been made to the Kommandant to allow emergency repairs. Attempts were permitted on the first day, but denied thereafter. Two falls in high winds, unsuitable timber and useless nails actually making sieve-like properties worse and concerns that the foul weather reduced prisoner observation to the detriment of security put an end to such efforts. Exercise of the legitimate supervised yard variety, and of the illegitimate unsupervised running-through-the-woods-with-explosives variety were deemed impossible until the weather improved. The inevitable result was that bored, confined, restless men were becoming infinitely more bored, confined and restless…and damp. Clothes were damp, bedding was damp and spirits were also very much in line with the waterlogged theme.
Only Newkirk seemed anything like his normal self. He was very familiar with rain; a British cliche with more than a fragment of truth. It made the place feel almost like home; far more than the unbelievably long winters did. It particularly reminded him of treasured visits to his grandmother's cottage in Wales; dull grey slates transformed to shining wet blackness, tightly closed windows steaming up with condensation from over-boiled potatoes, endless cups of tea and bara brith and his family settled in against the world outside. As long as his playing cards and cigarettes remained dry, he was content to sit it out. He deigned, however, to grumble half-heartedly at frequent intervals, as was universally expected.
Carter was more used to rain being welcomed and celebrated; essential for growing crops and livestock, and for replenishing household supplies and swimming holes. He was not used to sullen relentless downpours where the chill crept in bone deep and sapped one's energy. He remained optimistic that the heavens would be emptied eventually and that the sun would indeed return, but had lost a little of his bounce after several sleepless nights. The nocturnal steady drip-dripping sound had proved impossible to ignore. This made him realise how effective such a water torture would be, which led him to enthusiastically share this thought with anyone who cared to listen, and everyone who didn't. Somehow, his tale also brought in elements of ancestral folk wisdom, an elderly mule called Betsy, and the startling events which brought his cousin Mary's wedding to an abrupt halt. The constant drip of water was, alas, not the only relentless ordeal his captive audience was subjected to.
LeBeau simply felt restricted by the rain. The lack of outside excursions severely limited the usual additions to the Barracks diet. He eked out supplies as best he could, but stored perishable foodstuffs were increasingly graced with a sheen of mould without and rot within. The tunnels beneath had not flooded, yet, but provided vanishingly few accessible dry airy spaces. As well as culinary constraints, he missed the release offered by exercise and movement. A fierce ball of barely suppressed energy at the best of times, he let off steam via the only acceptable route remaining. Newkirk bore the brunt of these verbal explosions, and even appeared to encourage them. Spark to tinder box, flame to fuse, objection to "foreign looking" soup; similar outcomes expected and achieved, all observers remaining at a safe distance till the smoke cleared.
Kinch, perhaps surprisingly, also struggled with the rain. He had caught a rare cold, lost a favourite, well-thumbed novel to the deluge, and had no legitimate excuse to disappear for hours into the quiet, sheltered tunnels. London had simply instructed him to get in touch at the first hint of less inclement weather and then temporarily ceased communication. The storm was widespread, severe and had hindered operations on both sides. A temporary reprieve for some, perhaps, but soul-destroying for those hunkered down at the mercy of the elements. Barracks inspections were also being carried out more randomly; the Kommandant being wary of the potential for escape in reduced visibility. Kinch sniffed once, sneezed twice and drew his long legs up and away from pooling water, attempting in vain to ignore Carter's latest instalment, and an acrimonious comparison of the merits of the Thames and the Seine.
Sergeant Schultz, despite recent strudel deficiency, had gained weight. His greatcoat had failed dismally as far as weatherproofing qualities were concerned, and was now heavy with water. His helmet had disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and his boots were really not up to wading through mud, day after soggy day. He had incurred the wrath of his "boys" two days previously, when long anticipated mail was presented as a sodden heap of ink and papier mâché, and he dreaded the irregular inspections and roll calls which simply brought more sodden misery to all. He didn't think the Kommandant had left his quarters even once in the past five days, merely observing events through his office window. He had always suspected that life wasn't fair, but evidence of this was disappointing, nonetheless.
The background rhythm remained constant. There were only so many different patterns which Hogan's fingers could tap out…
Thud!
Splash!
Plink! Plink!
It was hard to believe that it had been only six days…
~0~
( Bara brith a Welsh bread including tea dried fruit and spice)