The Topic Was Doom

It was the cruelest winter of a cruel war, and the men of Luftstalag XIII were cold, hungry, and dispirited.

The rescue and sabotage missions that gave them purpose dwindled in the early months of 1945. Leaving camp in the harsh winter was too risky. Trekking in snowdrifts left tracks, and patrols had orders to shoot on sight.

Firewood was scarce, and Red Cross parcels were no longer getting through. Meager rations now arrived in buckets deposited at the barracks door each morning. Recreation breaks were pointless in the snow, and they had no energy anyway. Except for roll call and latrine breaks, they were stranded. So they huddled together at tables and in bunks, trying to stay warm. Life was smaller.

In Barracks 2, banter flagged. Newkirk and LeBeau tried to maintain an air of normality by squabbling, but they lacked conviction. But Carter carried on talking, because somehow, while everyone else grew thin, pale, and listless, he remained as chatty as ever.

The topic, however, was doom. Everyone noticed; no one mentioned it.

"Hey guys, what if the sun enlarged and wildfires spread and all the grasslands turned to desert? What would happen then?"

"That would be a calamity," Newkirk replied from beneath a blanket draped over his head. Carter sat to one side, LeBeau to the other. Never one to exert himself unnecessarily, Newkirk didn't lift his gaze from the card game – patience – he had spread on the table.

"But what if there was a never-ending winter and the seas froze? Everything was ice and frost and nothing could grow."

"Exactly like here," Newkirk observed, stubbing out a fag and staring mournfully at its corpse. So few cigarettes were left.

"What if the rains started and never let up, and blue blazing flashes of lightning split the sky? A torrential downpour fell like melted, steaming glass, making you choke and cough but never drowning you? And you couldn't swim, just bob up and down? And streams of water poured …"

"Monsoons. They have those in India," Newkirk noted. "They happen, then they're over."

"But that's a season. This would never end."

"Like your nattering."

"Exactly," Carter agreed. "Hey! That's not nice!"

Hogan, seated opposite them, frowned. "Carter? Something on your mind?"

Carter shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "I've been reading to pass time, Sir."

"Reading what?"

Carter looked down, embarrassed. "Amazing Stories, mostly."

"Carter!" Newkirk groaned. "That pulp fiction rubbish?"

"Amazing Stories isn't 'rubbish,' Newkirk," Carter snapped. "Some of the stories are about survival! Stuff we could actually learn from!" He got up, rooted around in his footlocker, and pulled out a dog-eared issue dated March 1939. It depicted aliens, in a clear-domed spaceship with spider legs, attacking a vessel in flight.

"Listen to this," Carter began. "There's this one amazing story…"

"Hence the title…"

"Tais toi, Newkirk," LeBeau said softly.

"… Called 'Marooned off Vesta.' Three guys survive the wreck of their spaceship and they're trapped orbiting the asteroid of Vesta. All they have between them…"

"Among them," Hogan said absently.

"… among them is one spacesuit, two weapons, a three-day supply of air, food for a week, and water for a year."

"They can have a big feast, drown themselves and be done with it. Sounds ideal to me," Newkirk snorted.

"Païen!" LeBeau whacked the back of Newkirk's head.

"They already thought of that," Carter continued. "But they know they're going to suffocate. So one guy leaves the spaceship and uses a ray gun to zap a hole in the water tank. When the water escapes, the steam propels them towards Vesta, where there's a colony of other humans."

"What happens when they meet them?" LeBeau inquired.

"Um, the story doesn't cover that. But the science is sound."

"Well, that's uplifting, ain't it? Three desperate blokes, wondering how they'll get out alive. How jolly." Newkirk's rant trailed off under LeBeau's piercing glare.

Then the bunkbed rattled and Kinch emerged. Heads turned optimistically, but Hogan read Kinch instantly.

"Nothing from London?"

"No, Sir."

"The Underground?"

"Nothing. Radio's quiet, like it has been for three weeks."

Hogan grunted and extended his hand. "I'll take the magazine, Carter."

"Aww, Colonel. Please? It's not doing any harm."

"I want to read the story. For research," Hogan emphasized. He watched solemnly as Carter pushed the tattered magazine across the table.

"We're getting out, Carter," Hogan said firmly. "All of us. Safe and sound."

Carter's chin tipped down. He squinted. "You can't promise that, Sir. It's a war."

"Nevertheless. You have my word on it. I'll let you know what I think of the story." As Carter looked up, Hogan winked, snatched the magazine, rolled it, and slapped it against his leg. Whistling, he strolled into his quarters and shut the door. His men smiled a little as they watched him go.

Except Carter, who gulped and sniffled.

There was a long silence. Then Newkirk spoke softly.

"Hey, Carter. What if the sun could melt away all the snow and we could latch onto an ice floe and float home?"

Carter inhaled, then forced a grin. "C'mon, the sun can't melt all that snow."

"What do you mean, the sun can't melt snow? It's the ruddy sun! It's … extremely hot." Having exhausted his scientific knowledge, Newkirk collected his cards and shifted closer to Carter, adjusting the blanket.

"Yeah, but snow reflects sunlight. When snow does melt, it's not because of the sun. It's because of the warm air from the sea, so…"

And just like that, Carter was talking again, only now the topic was springtime and his audience was rapt.

Note: Carter has read Isaac Asimov's first published story. LeBeau tells Newkirk to shut up (tais toi!) and calls him a pagan (païen!) for joking about drowning oneself.