--

THE WATERY GRAVE

--

It almost reminded him of home.

Fat rain drops splashed into the puddles that swamped the cobblestone roads. Street lamps and lighted windows cast an eerie glow on the darkened city blocks. The sounds and laughter that radiated from nearby hofbraus were muffled in the cold, wet air. Beside him, water gushed out of a drainpipe and into an overflowing barrel.

Newkirk flipped up the collar of his black overcoat and wiped the rain out of his eyes. He vainly tried to shake off the rain, but soon gave up. With the minor exception of his stay in Germany as a prisoner of war, he'd lived all his life in England- a most decidedly wet country. He knew ever kind of rain that existed and so he knew it was no use trying to stay dry in this kind. The only thing to do when this kind of rain showed up was to find a nice warm tavern and wait it out with a few drinks and fine female company.

Unfortunately for the English corporal, he was on a mission in enemy territory and couldn't indulge in that sort of thing. At least, not until he had the radio parts and had delivered them safely back to Stalag 13.

Reminding himself of his mission, Newkirk crept out of his dark alley and darted under the safe shelter of a doorway.

The mission was simple, if not a little risky. For almost a week now, the underground had been trying to pass along spare radio parts to the prisoners at Stalag 13. But so far, all their efforts and attempts had failed miserably. A week had been too long to be without a radio for Colonel Hogan, so he had 'volunteered' Newkirk to retrieve it from their contact in Hammelburg.

"Why me?!" Newkirk had protested.

"Quite simple Newkirk. To go out in that weather, you either have to be crazy or English-"

"Shucks Colonel, aren't those the same thing?" Carter had interjected with a goofy smile. Newkirk had shot him an dirty look.

The Colonel had just laughed. "I guess it is Carter. What do ya say Newkirk? Volunteer?"

"Do I have a ruddy choice?"

"Not really. But if you like, we can put it to a vote. All right boys, all those who want Newkirk to go, raise your hands." Everyone had to Newkirk's chagrin but not surprise. "Well?"

"Well, when you put it that way guv'nor, I suppose I volunteer."

Newkirk rolled his eyes as he recalled that conversation. Hogan was always 'volunteering' him. Well, when he caught pneumonia, the colonel would have no one to blame but himself.

Newkirk checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to weave through the city to his contact's home. Though he was dressed as a civilian, Newkirk decided to stick to the back alleys, flooded as they were. The colonel had been right- to go out in this weather, you either had to be crazy or English. Of course, that did mean no one would be outside to see him, but he'd better play it safe anyway.

Stepping out of his shelter, Newkirk dodged into the street and to the alley across the road.

A small grin played at his lips.

Yes, it was almost like home. It was funny how some things always stayed the same, even when he found himself far from the streets of England. He could well imagine himself in similar straights back home, dodging bobbies instead of Germans.

Newkirk grinned. As he ducked and darted his way through the city's alleys, his mind wandered back to happier times.

--

"Thank-you ladies and gentlemen! And now, for me next trick, I need a member of the audience to come up here and assist me." From the small stage Peter Newkirk scanned the crowd that filled the local pub and with a sly grin, picked out the pretty face he'd been eyeing all night. "You there." The lady blushed and pointed to herself in surprise. "Yes you, come up 'ere." With another blush, the young lady made her way up to the stage. Peter took her hand and pulled her up. "And what's your name then?"

"Elizabeth," she announced, shooting him a shy smile.

"No need to fret Elizabeth love. Just a bit o' magic," Peter assured her. Pulling out a deck of cards, the magician shuffled them and fanned them out in his hand. "Now me lady, pick a card, any card." It was a shameless trick, he knew. It wasn't really meant to please the crowd, only the lovely creature in front of him.

The young lady hesitated, touching several cards before finally pulling one out. "Now show it to the audience and then put it back anywhere you like." She smiled and turned to face the only half-interested audience to show them her card. Peter closed his eyes as she slipped it back into the pile. "All right then, we'll just shuffle these about, say the magic words- abracadabra, hocus-pocus and…" he flicked the stacks and smacked it. Then he pulled out a card. "Is this your card?"

A worried expression crossed Elizabeth's face and Peter had to fight to keep from laughing. "No," she finally apologized.

"Well, 'ow about this card?" he asked, pulling out another. Again, she shook her head. Peter scratched his head and checked both of his sleeves. "Well, that's the funniest thing, I-" he stopped and laughed. "Oh, I see where it went." Reaching behind her ear, he pulled out a card. She opened her eyes in shock as he showed it to her. "Is that your card?" She just blinked in surprise which elicited the laughter of the crowd.

"Why, yes, it is!" Suddenly she laughed with him and the rest of the crowd. "That's a wonderful trick! How did you do it?" She took the card to look at it closely and then handed it back to him.

"No me dear, that's for you. Now off you go," he said, shooing her on her way. The crowd applauded and Peter grinned. He knew they weren't clapping for him, but his shy volunteer. It didn't matter, either way, he was happy. At least they weren't throwing stuff at him.

"Thank-you ladies and gents. That's all for tonight, I'll be here all week!" A with that, Peter gave a exaggerated bow and hopped off the stage.

The noise in the pub grew louder as the small group that had actually watched all of his performance turned back to their drinks and conversations. Peter pushed his way through the crowded room to the bar.

"Another fine performance Newkirk," the bartender, Leo Stanley, said with a wry grin.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Thanks mate. Worthy of pay this time I 'ope."

Leo looked offended. "I always pay you."

"All right, all right. But this time, don't let me drink it all."

"In that case," Leo said handed Peter a mug and filled it, "I suggest you drink it slowly mate."

Peter thanked him and turned his attention to the on goings of the pub, his eyes scanning the crowd for his lovely assistant. He scrunched his nose when he failed to find her.

"I tell you, that Hitler bloke is nothing but trouble!"

Peter looked over at the two men beside him. One was holding a newspaper, while the other just rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink.

"Get off it mate. 'E ain't hurting no one. Just takin' back what was theirs to begin with."

"Oh sure, today the Rhineland, tomorrow France."

"France 'as the Maginot Line. 'Sides, what more could 'e want? We gave 'im the Rhineland, that belonged to 'im anyway. What more does 'e need?"

The first man grunted. "It's not about what 'e needs, it's about what 'e wants. I mean, look at everything 'e's done since he took over the ruddy place. Building an army, forming an air-"

"You're overreacting. It's not our problem anyway."

Peter turned away from the conversation and took a sip of his beer. The second chap was right. They had just given Hitler what had already been Germany's before the great war. Besides, after the licking Jerry had taken during that war, Peter highly doubted Germany would want to go up against Britain again.

Ignoring the argument going on beside him, Peter continued his search for his strawberry blonde prey. His eyes widened when they fell on someone else entirely.

Shrinking into his coat, he lowered his head and focused on his beer. "Go away, go away, go away…" he repeated quietly, hoping he wouldn't be seen.

"'Ey!!!"

Bloody 'ell.

Peter stiffened and turned, jumping off his stool. "'Ell Rawlings," he said cheerfully as the biggest man he had ever seen marched up to him. "'Ow's life treatin' you?"

Rawlings scowled and grabbed Peter by the collar. "Don't 'ello me mate. You owe me money!"

"Well, time are tough," Peter replied, loosening his jacket from the man's grip. "'Ow about a drink. Leo!" He grabbed a beer and handed it to the hulking man in front of him. Rawlings smacked it out of his hand.

"Funny 'ow you always 'ave money for beer, but none for your rent."

"Yes, that is rather odd, isn't it."

"I've already thrown your junk, what little there is, out on the street. But you owe me mum two months."

"Ah yes. 'Ow is your mum then?"

"Don't change the subject."

"And what subject were we on?"

"Money Newkirk. Now. Or I break your bleedin' nose."

"Ah, right, money." Peter patted his pockets. He looked down and grinned when he saw Rawlings follow his movement. Taking a deep breath, Peter's head shot up, along with his fist. He punched Rawlings right in the jaw. Not waiting for the bigger man's reaction, Peter bolted away, only to be blocked by two of Rawlings' friends. Peter pushed into them. A moment later, fists were flying from both sides. The rowdy patrons of the bar shouted and cheered before they too broke out into fights.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Peter managed to flatten his sparring partners. He ducked through the crowd, grinning ruefully at the chaos he'd caused. It was very unlikely that Leo would welcome him in again. His chances completely disappeared when a man was thrown through the window.

A whistle blew not too far away. Peter grimaced and raced to the door and slipped out. Rain assaulted him as he stepped out into the street. Down the alley, he could spot a small group of policemen running towards the pub. One shouted at him, but he didn't stick around to see what they wanted. Instead, he dodged down the alley and disappeared into the rainy night.

He didn't stop until he was sure no one was after him. Sighing, he leaned against a dirty doorway, out of the rain, and shook himself off. He ran a hand through his sopping wet brown hair and fished a cigarette out of his pocket. As he looked for a lighter, he groaned when he remembered Leo hadn't paid him. Figured he'd leave before he got any money.

Peter shrugged and cracked his knuckles. There was more than one way to 'earn' money.

--

Newkirk grinned. Yes, even though he was in Germany, not much had changed. He still got in too much trouble.

The rain still hadn't let up as he got closer to his objective. He only had one more street to cross. Then he would get the radio, go back to Stalag 13 and curl up in a nice warm blanket by the stove.

The thought warmed him and he almost forgot about the rain as he stepped out into the street.

He never saw the car.

--

Hans Drechsler would be the first to admit that he'd had too many beers that night. But it didn't matter. He could barely see the road through the rain anyway.

He definitely didn't see the black form stepping out into the street before it was too late.

His car hit something with a sickening crunch. Hans slammed on the brakes and brought his vehicle to a stop before stumbling out into the rain. He blinked and shook his head several times before his brain registered what had happened.

Gasping, he ran up to the unmoving heap that was crumpled on the road. It took a minute for him to realize it was a man. Biting his lip, he knelt down beside him and shook his shoulder. Nothing. Hans checked for any sort of reaction but when he found none, he checked the man's pulse.

Hans paled and started to shake. Feeling sick, he looked around and quickly jumped back into his car and sped off.

The rain continued to pour down, completely indifferent to the body lying in the street.

--