So it was that I finally wrote another short fic regarding the first meetings of two of our favorite characters. I hope that you enjoy, and also for the Americans, enjoy your Thanksgiving tomorrow! For the rest of the world, enjoy your November 26!
When the short Frenchman arrived, he found a dirty cold camp. His fellow POWs tested the waters a little and found he was fierce all out of proportion to his size. One Englishman didn't learn as quickly and seemed to find great amusement in taunting or baiting LeBeau at every opportunity. It didn't take Louis very long to find out that Newkirk and he were more alike than not. Newkirk's near constant annoying of him was the Englishman's method of being friendly. Soon LeBeau found himself forgetting the circumstances surrounding them as they schemed and plotted against their German captors and fellow POWs.
The two of them fought all the time. Sure, they'd chat about things from back home but most of the time, they seemed to argue. It wasn't that they didn't like each other… not really. They just ended up arguing. After a while, they decided they liked arguing with each other and stopped trying not to argue. The rest of the camp tended to roll their eyes and separate them when needed.
But woe to anyone who tried to go after either man. The latest squabble would fall by the wayside to team up against the outsider. Often they'd be right back at each other's throats almost before finishing off the interloper.
The other POWs tried teasing the two about how opposite they were, to be given blank stares. The English tried to corral their countryman, pointing out that the French were not to be trusted. Those men ended up mostly limping and muttering about lowborn Cockney bastards. The few French soldiers talked to LeBeau at length, only to be agreed with and then ignored.
Even the Germans threw up their hands in disgust. They tried dividing them up in separate barracks, but got tired of writing one or the other up for being in the wrong barracks. Putting one on a work party led to the other causing more mischief than could be stood. Putting both on a work party was only done once, and never repeated on pain of being sent to a combat unit, via orders from Sergeant of the Guard Schultz.
When asked, neither would admit to even liking the other one. When they fought, they'd hold their grudges tight for days. LeBeau learned not to insult Newkirk's lowborn status, and Newkirk learned that pranking LeBeau would involve retaliation too horrible to contemplate. It had been two days before he could even keep down coffee. The rest of the barracks hadn't been any happier.
But for the last few days, the fighting had subsided. Not because either man had decided to make peace, nor because they were snubbing each other over something vague.
Newkirk had picked up the flu that had hit the camp hard. Several POWs had been laid up for days, coughing and wheezing with high fevers. The Englishman had hidden any early symptoms, his wary nature and snappy temper keeping anyone from noticing anything.
That is, no one noticed anything until he collapsed during roll call. His barracks-mates got him inside and bundled up in a lower bunk which made him complain. He coughed and wheezed and complained bitterly if anyone bothered him, even LeBeau. Especially LeBeau. So the Frenchman avoided him as much as possible.
But now it was dark and cold in the barracks. The other sick POWs had recovered. Newkirk had worsened. His lungs were soggy with phlegm and every cough was a wet choking affair. Every breath he managed wheezed and gurgled it's way into the thick lungs and back out. The quiet in the creaky building was broken by his labored wheezing. He'd stopped coughing but only because he was too weak to cough anymore.
LeBeau listened to the soft wheezes, one after another with lengthening pauses between each. His heart squeezed with pain at the sounds. The sounds ceased for a long moment and LeBeau sat up, peering through the darkness towards the bunk. When the next wheeze came, LeBeau sighed in relief. Suddenly he was climbing down off his bunk and dragging his blankets over to the bunk. When he reached a hand out to the fevered brow, Newkirk startled awake, struggling to lift a hand to push the unwanted touch aside.
"Shhh, it is only me. It's LeBeau… here." Spreading the extra blanket over the sick man, LeBeau helped him sit up and slipped behind him to support his torso. He remembered that sitting upright helped the breathing. Lacking pillows or even extra blankets to prop the man up, LeBeau arranged himself to act as the same support. Wrapping his arm around Newkirk's shoulders, he propped him up on his chest. The bunk post dug into his back and he shifted aside a bit so it wasn't right on his spine. "Shhh, just try to breathe. I know." The breathing wheezed a few more times before it smoothed out a bit.
"G'way..." Newkirk mumbled softly.
"Non. You need me." LeBeau tugged the blanket further up. "Just rest. Keep breathing. I will be here."
"G'way..." A labored breath in before he could continue. "Y'get sick too."
Suddenly LeBeau understood why Newkirk had pushed everyone away in his hour of need. He feared someone else getting sick. He didn't want another prisoner catching the same illness. LeBeau gathered him up in his arms, lifting him as best he could up onto his thin chest. "Non. I don't care. I will help you. You need me. Shhh, just rest."
A concerned face appeared out of the dark. Olson looked at the pale face laid on LeBeau's chest. "I heard him stop breathing… is he…?"
"Non." LeBeau pushed even the thought away. "He will be fine. Sitting up is better for his breathing." He ignored the heavy wheezing that began to build again. "He will be better soon." Olson nodded wordlessly. He accepted what was probably coming, unlike LeBeau who refused outright.
Olson tried to bring a cup of water but they couldn't coax more than a trickle of water into Newkirk. The American gave up and went back to his bunk finally. LeBeau rested his jaw on top of Newkirk's head, holding him in place and whispering softly in French. The wheezing began to slow again, despite the upright position. LeBeau could feel the effort it took to suck air into the weak body and forcibly wheeze it back out again. He spoke in a soft whisper, telling the Englishman about France, about Paris and how beautiful it would be in spring, how they could go and see all of it when the war was over and done with. He repeated that Newkirk just needed some help, needed LeBeau to help him get better. Even the shared body heat wasn't enough to stop the shaking from chills.
The night deepened. Little flashes of light appeared in the cracks of the shutters and then disappeared again, regular blinks of the searchlights. The air chilled more, LeBeau's breath beginning to frost up in the air. Newkirk's wheezing grew weaker, his spine arching slightly now with each effort.
LeBeau hummed to him, his throat closing over any more words. As the breathing began to falter, LeBeau felt the darkness close in around them both. It seemed to muffle everything outside of the cold bunk, cutting off the rest of the men, the rest of the world. A soft twitch shuddered through Newkirk's body and LeBeau tightened his arms, holding his friend as close to him as he could. "Non. You cannot have him." He swallowed hard and felt tears roll out of his eyes, dampening the short clipped hair under his cheek. "Non, stay with me. Please? Pierre, I need you to stay with me." LeBeau closed his eyes and shifted his embrace to pull in tighter. "You cannot have him. He has to stay here, I need him to be here."
He could feel the skin under his fingers begin to cool and stopped listening for the next wheeze. He didn't want to hear that last breath. Time passed slowly, the darkness stepped back and he waited. Bit by bit, the noises of other men sleeping filtered back into the world. The regular sweeps of the spotlights lit the barracks again and LeBeau waited.
The dawning of the new day began and LeBeau still refused to let go, refused to open his ears to hear the dreaded silence. It was not until Olson put a hand on his shoulder that he opened his eyes. "Non."
Olson shook his head. "It's okay. Let me take him so you can get out of there." He started to gather the limp body up from LeBeau's lap. "I can move him off you."
"Non. I'm not letting him go. He can't go." LeBeau panicked, clutching his friend tightly. "Please."
Olson tugged at his hands. "Easy, don't squeeze so hard, he can't breathe."
Blinking in confusion, LeBeau loosened his arms and felt Newkirk move slightly in response to Olson tilting him forward. "Pierre?" LeBeau got himself out and took the pale sweating face in both of his hands. "He's sweating, the fever… it has broken. Pierre?" He caught his breath as the eyes blinked slowly.
"Thirsty..." croaked Newkirk. They gave him water, encouraging him to drink more than he wanted. LeBeau kept patting him. The first coughing fit made LeBeau laugh with delight because Newkirk was strong enough to cough all the illness out of his lungs now. He would recover.
"Merci Pierre." LeBeau bent to impulsively give him the traditional Gallic kisses on either cheek, laughing again when Newkirk made a face over it.
"What are you thanking me for?" Newkirk's frown and grumpy tone changed into a racking cough again.
"Because you stayed, mon ami."
It took a few days before Newkirk was able to get himself up and totter about being grumpy on his own two feet. To no one's surprise, the pair of POWs took up their arguments right where they had left off.
What took a bit longer to notice was that the bitterness was missing. Now they argued mostly for the entertainment and out of boredom. Each was quicker to defend the other. LeBeau always gave Newkirk the first cup of broth out of his pot and Newkirk always stood upwind to block the winter air from freezing the smaller Frenchman.
And the next time that Newkirk made an escape attempt, there was a little Frenchman missing too. The fact that they were recaptured in less than 24 hours and brought back in chains didn't seem to dampen their enthusiasm in the least. The kommandant sentenced them both to 30 days in the cooler. The guards despaired of ever having a moment's peace now that the two worst troublemakers had teamed up in earnest.
Olson stood with Schultz outside of the cooler, sharing a cigarette with the burly guard who had allowed the American to pass two cups of hot soup in to the pair. Olson tilted his head as the sound of two very different accents drifted out from inside the heavy walls of the cooler. "Sounds like they're in fine form tonight, Schultz. Maybe you'd better put your earmuffs on before you go inside tonight?"
"Jolly joker." Schultz looked towards the doorway and then shook his head. "All they do is fight. Why do they always have to be in the same space if all they want to do is to fight with each other? Why can't they just leave each other alone?"
Olson smiled up at the guard. "Because, Schultzy, they need each other."