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Chapter 11

Newkirk's feet took him back to the barracks in plenty of time to join his mates in heading out for the poor fare they called supper. The food supplies were getting low and without any runs outside the wire, even LeBeau was having trouble making extra meals for them. While they were eating, Newkirk promised to lift ingredients for the Frenchman. LeBeau rather sulkily reminded him that he'd promised it earlier and then failed to follow through. That minor argument had taken them through the rest of the so-called meal and all the way back to the barracks, through washing up and although their voices dropped to mutters and whispers, through roll call. Schultz's repeated demands and then pleas for quiet went completely unnoticed.

Finally everyone was ready for sleep and Hogan made certain all their exit points were secured and eyed Newkirk closely. Newkirk looked sheepish and climbed up into his bunk and rolled up in his blanket so he wouldn't have to look his commander in the eye. They should have been relaxing in this rare down time. Instead they were all worrying over the one stupid git that couldn't manage to stay in his bunk through the night.

Newkirk sighed heavily as Schultz came in to announce lights-out. He carefully counted heads, pausing to squint at certain men to be sure they were the right ones. Newkirk's blanket was tugged sharply and he rolled over and glared at the big German. "Wot Schultzy? I told you I'm not reading you any more bedtime stories!" There was general laughter while Schultz scowled at him.

"You just stay inside." Schultz shook one chubby finger at him before he shut the lights off and left. Kinch placed the chair and the pots and pans and then went to his bunk.

LeBeau clambered up to tug at Newkirk's blankets again, making him grumble. He held up the string. "Mon ami, give me your wrist." Newkirk tried grumbling indistinctly at him and was treated to a litany of French curses.

"Fine, fine... I can't stand it when you yell at me in French... I can't tell if you're cursing me or telling me 'ow beautiful me eyes are in the moonlight." Newkirk yelped obligingly when LeBeau smacked him and gave up a wrist for his string leash. A completely useless precaution, considering it hadn't worked even once that he knew of. He yawned as LeBeau tied the string in place and went to the false bunk. "Good night, Louis."

"Dormez bien, mon ami." LeBeau's voice sounded extra tired and Newkirk resolved to actually fetch the extra foodstuffs the next day.

Newkirk lay still, keeping his breathing deep and even. Within a few minutes of the barracks quieting, he heard a soft creak. LeBeau was getting out of the false bunk. Newkirk concentrated on not reacting when he heard cloth brush the wood of his own bunk. A slight shift in the weight told him LeBeau was climbing up and he couldn't help a slight tensing in his muscles.

There was a soft touch at his ankle and he felt LeBeau attaching a string oh-so-carefully to his leg. Newkirk waited for him to tighten it, or to reach for the other leg but the weight on his bunk shifted slightly again and he heard the Frenchman return to the tunnel covering.

Now he itched to figure out what his friend had done. Any other time, he would immediately suspect some prank. Waiting until he was certain that everyone was asleep seemed to take forever. Newkirk stared up at the dark ceiling and timed the searchlights, double-checking against his memory to see if they had changed. Beneath him, Carter shifted in his sleep and mumbled softly. Kinch was the last one to fall asleep, his snores sounding remarkably like the soft buzzing of one of his beloved radios.

Finally he sat up and listened as Carter turned over yet again. The American pyro tossed and turned in his sleep nearly every night. It had taken Newkirk a month to be able to sleep through it at first. He had spent most of that month ready to punch the young man in fact. Now he knew if Carter was still, Carter was likely awake and most likely brooding over something. Carter abruptly mumbled again and Newkirk scooted down his bunk a little and reached to untie the wrist leash first. He was very careful not to move his ankle at all. His fingers found the heavy twine and untied it first. Then he traced the length of the string, expecting to find it leading off the bunk to someone, like his wrist leash. Instead his sensitive fingertips found cold metal and explored it carefully with the lightest of touches. Finally they located the same string to another metal round object until he started to lift one up and heard the slight metallic scrape of the ringer inside the bell.

He exhaled softly. Trust LeBeau to figure out another way to booby trap him. Climbing down from the top bunk, the Brit paused when Carter rolled over and draped an arm around his ankle. Newkirk had to ease his leg away slowly, causing Carter to snort and begin to mumble louder.

Twisting himself down to speak in the softest of whispers, Newkirk murmured. "Go look at the rabbits, Andrew."

Carter's eyebrows went up and he sighed happily in his sleep. "Rabbits... nuuuhhh... so soft..." He rolled over and sighed again.

Shaking his head, Newkirk let himself down onto the floor and settled at the community table. His worn deck of cards occupied his hands as he shuffled them slowly. Practicing manipulating the deck was easy even in the darkness. This old deck's cards were individuals to his sensitive fingers. Each had it's own subtle ceases and bumps, the ragged spots on the edge or soft corners. He hadn't even marked them deliberately. They had just acquired the little flaws over months of handling. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't able to ignore the little markings and tells. Newkirk did many of his tricks and cheats strictly by memory and was capable of counting cards even with a pristine deck.

He passed quite some time, sitting and concentrating on nothing but the cards. His fingers ran through flexibility exercises, stretching the tendons of each hand slowly. But eventually his thoughts turned to home and his sister Mavis and worries bubbled up from where he'd pushed them away. During daylight he could put them aside and ignore them. But the night's quiet and darkness called them up and he felt each possible scenario circling in his mind. He also felt the desire for sleep building up.

He tried again to focus on the cards, handling them one by one. But his mind pulled up memories. Some days he wanted to tell Hogan to go stuff himself and then escape back to London regardless of orders or covert missions or even loyalty to his mates here in camp. But every time that urge rose up, somehow he would be reminded that Hogan needed him and his special talents. Carter could make explosives, LeBeau could cook anything, Kinch could build or repair anything with wires and Hogan... he smiled into the darkness. Hogan could con anyone into going along with his wild schemes, he could convince a person that black was white and most importantly he could somehow inspire a man and make him believe in things bigger than himself. Even when that man was a world-wise suspicious Cockney conman. Maybe especially then.

Newkirk smirked and then rubbed his hands over his head, ruffling up his short hair and wishing for a cigarette. He would have to climb back up onto his bunk to retrieve them though and he didn't really want to risk waking Carter. What he wanted to do was to pace and stretch to wake himself up. His eyes went to the door and he let out a soft sigh. Going out of the barracks at night was forbidden. At most camps, 'forbidden' meant you got shot if you did it. Here, it meant that you at least thought about it before you went ahead and did it anyway.

Getting up, he padded over to the door and carefully removed the pans, setting them aside silently. When he went back inside, he could put them all back. After all, he'd been getting out unseen in his sleep. Cracking the door open, he looked for the guard that should be outside. Sure enough he could just make out the edge of a very large shadow as a searchlight came by. He slipped out, hugging himself against the cold and settled onto the bench next to a half asleep Schultz.

He looked up at the slowly blinking guard. "Hey Schultzy, spare a cigarette for a mate?"

"Ja..." Schultz dug into his pockets and found a pack to offer the Brit one. He automatically handed over the lighter as well. Then he blinked again and twisted suddenly. "Newkirk! Nein, nein, you go back in the barracks!"

"Shhhh, Schultz, do you want to wake the whole bleeding camp?" Newkirk shushed him. "Boy, you'd think a bloke could step out to clear his head for a moment." He took a long drag on the cigarette and held the breath in. When he let it out slowly, he relaxed a bit. "I'll go back inside in just a second."

"Oh nein, you are up to monkey business!" Schultz found his rifle to pick up. "Go back inside the barracks!"

"In a minute, Schultzy... calm down." Newkirk gestured to him. "It's too bloody cold to stay out here for long anyway, right?" He raised his eyebrows at Schultz. "Right? Come on then, just sit a minute and let me 'ave a smoke."

"One minute." Schultz shifted his bulk back on the bench and leaned against the barracks. "You cause too much trouble." He eyed Newkirk as if he feared he would disappear into thin air. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. This time, the Englishman was simply sitting and smoking though. Schultz relaxed. "At least if you are outside, you are awake, ja?"

"Yeah, I'm really not fond of this whole business of me sleepwalking around. It's not pleasant at all to wake up somewhere different than I went to sleep." said Newkirk softly. He took another long drag and let the smoke out in soft rings.

The two of them sat in the quiet night. They were on opposite sides of the war, one German versus one Englishman. A jailer versus a prisoner. An upstanding business owner and family man versus a ne'er-do-well vagabond and pickpocket. The oddest thing about the pair seated together might have been that the same thing that drove such a definitive wedge between them was the only reason they'd ever met. Newkirk snorted softly and quoted his little French mate. "It's a crazy war."

Just as he finished his smoke, he glanced over and saw Schultz's head droop forward as he slipped back into a sound sleep. Newkirk couldn't help but shake his head and reached to catch the rifle as it slipped free of the lax grip. He shook the bits of snow off and propped it on the sleeping guard's leg instead. Then he leaned back against the barracks wall and shivered. Just one more moment and he would go back in. The cold should be clearing his head and instead it seemed to be inducing sleep.

In the quiet, there was no witness to notice the two sleeping figures outside of Barracks 2. By the time that a pair of guards came strolling by, roaming the compound and looking for anything out of place, they smirked to each other at the sleeping Sergeant of the Guard on his bench... alone.

Neither of them noticed the shuffling footprints that led away from the barracks. When Schultz woke up with a start, he looked around and wondered if he'd dreamed about the crazy Englander being outside. He decided that if Newkirk had been outside, at least he'd come to his senses and gone back inside out of the cold.

End Chapter