Newkirk didn't move for a moment. By habit, he glanced at the now-empty top bunk over the trapdoor. The sight of the rolled-up mattress on the bare wood was no comfort to him.
"Louis…"
What was he doing here, sitting around as though nothing was happening! LeBeau was in danger! What if that dream was some sort of warning!
Steady on, Peter, the rational side of his mind chided him. Since when have you ever believed in such things as premonitions? Your mind simply knows that you blame yourself for what happened.
All the same, though, it wouldn't hurt to take some sort of action to make sure that LeBeau was alright. Perhaps he could make contact with the underground near Dusseldorf and ask one of them to check on the situation in Stalag 6…
He attempted to make his way down from his bunk to the floor. The wood creaked loudly in protest as he moved.
"Huh? Whazzat…?" Carter sleepily mumbled from the bottom bunk.
Newkirk froze as the young American stirred slightly; it soon became clear that there would be no possible way of opening the bunk bed trapdoor without waking at least one person. All that the person had to do was awaken Hogan, and that would lead to an even stickier wicket.
With a disgusted sigh, Newkirk clambered back into his bunk. He stared blankly at the barracks roof. He knew that would not be getting anymore sleep, and it had nothing to do with the horribly lumpy mattress.
There had to be some way of finding out what was happening to LeBeau at Stalag 6. If the radio idea didn't work, then he would have to go there himself. He would have to choose a day when there was not much going on—a day when his absence was least likely to be missed. That was no small task.
You won't be able to do anything on your own without Hogan finding out. You're going to have to take someone into your confidence. And there's only one man for that job.
The Englishman's thoughts turned to the man in the bottom bunk. Carter wouldn't like it, but there was no one else who would even consider covering for Newkirk at a time like this.
The fact that Carter would consider it was one step forward. It would take some smooth talking from Newkirk to convince him to go through with it; Carter never disobeyed orders, and he wouldn't be keen on breaking this tradition.
The Englishman sighed again. How could it be that meeting one woman would cause such a domino effect?
The only voice that responded was that of the howling winter wind. It provided no answers.
LeBeau's first night at Stalag 6 went considerably smoother than that of his worried friend. Hochstetter had decided to return to Hammelburg immediately after dinner; however, the major had promised to return again for another meeting with Mullenberg at an unspecified date, complimenting him on the new chef he had found. LeBeau had been relieved that Hochstetter had been in too much of a hurry to thank the chef personally.
Hardly daring to believe that he had somehow escaped being noticed—for that night, anyway—LeBeau had collapsed onto his bunk that night, sending a small prayer of thanks, along with a wish that he would be able to get himself, along with the eight men in the cooler, out of here before Hochstetter came back.
LeBeau managed to sleep a long, dreamless sleep that night. When morning came, and his eyes were still shut, he temporarily forgot where he was.
"Corporal? Corporal, the kommandant wants you to prepare his breakfast."
"Tell Klink to make his own breakfast," LeBeau mumbled, turning over in his bunk.
"Mullenberg, Corporal," the voice replied. LeBeau now recognized the voice as Major Vulsor. "I think he has plans to question you about Stalag 13 after you serve him."
LeBeau now jerked awake, quickly sweeping away his mental cobwebs. He clambered out of his bunk, cursing Colonel Mullenberg as he grabbed his red sweater.
"It's bad enough that I have to cater to his every hunger; now I have to put up with interrogations, too?"
"Just relax, Corporal," said Vulsor. "I have every right to be present while you're being interrogated; and you are not required to tell him anything."
"Don't worry about that," LeBeau said, darkly, as he and Vulsor headed back to the kitchen. "I am just lucky that Hochstetter has left." He paused, looking around to make sure that they were not being overheard. "You were saying that you wished to talk to me, as well?"
"I did, but it dawned on me that I doubt that I would get much from you, either," he replied. "Perhaps the less I know, the better it will be for us—and for those men in the cooler. I will leave you to whatever it is you have planned." And I'll leave you to whatever Papa Bear has planned, too. But if there's any way that I can help, I will do my best to do so.
LeBeau blinked, turning to face the major. He was grateful for the American's discretion; the last thing he needed was anyone hounding him for information, regardless of which side he was on. The Frenchman gave him a nod and set about preparing a quick breakfast for Mullenberg.
"Major Hochstetter spends a lot of time at Stalag 13," Mullenberg said, as he began to eat. He glanced at the corporal, who knew very well what was coming. "It's only a matter of time until he finds out that you are here, and will then proceed to use his own methods of interrogation on you. Your good friend… ah, what is his name—that American colonel at Stalalg 13? He is not here to protect you from Hochstetter anymore." He snapped his fingers. "Was ist sein Name…?"
LeBeau had to force himself not to roll his eyes at Mullenberg's obvious attempts at trying to trick him. He cast a glance at Vulsor, as though asking if Mullenberg was really crediting him with this level of intelligence.
Vulsor only shrugged, but gave a silent warning that the colonel would soon resort to other means if this one soon proved to be useless.
"Why do you ask me?" LeBeau asked. "What makes you think that I ever speak to the man? I am but a corporal and a chef; I have better thing to do than to socialize with an American colonel who is concerned with other things!"
"All it takes is a phone call to find out the man's name," Mullenberg said, frowning.
"Go right ahead; I am not stopping you!" LeBeau replied. "More toast?"
"Nein," the colonel replied, beginning to get annoyed. He was going to have to take a different approach with this Frenchman. "Even if you do not associate with that colonel, surely there is someone you associate with at Stalag 13. Why else were you reluctant to leave?"
"Your reputation preceded you," LeBeau replied, without missing a beat.
Vulsor suppressed a snicker as Mullenberg grew more and more frustrated.
"I suppose that you expect me to believe that you are a loner," the colonel said. "You keep yourself busy in the kitchen, so you don't talk to anyone else?"
"More coffee, Colonel?"
"Nein. You don't even associate with people in your own rank, like that British corporal who was going to be transferred here before you?" Mullenberg asked, recalling the name that Klink had mentioned to him. "I believe his name was Newkirk?"
LeBeau froze for the briefest moment, but picked up his composure again in an instant. He let out a derisive laugh.
"You expect me to let him into my kitchen?" he replied, even though it was somewhat the truth; food was one topic that he and Newkirk would never see eye-to-eye on.
LeBeau paused, trying to come up with a good retort. "Why don't you ask Major Vulsor here to sit in on one of your staff meetings? It follows your logic—if you can call it that!"
Mullenberg glowered at the insult, missing LeBeau's initial unease at Newkirk being brought into the conversation.
"Corporal, you do not seem to realize that I am trying to help you; wouldn't it be easier for you to talk to me now rather than face Hochstetter's interrogation later?" he asked. "Whatever it is that you refuse to tell me, Hochstetter will get it from you in ways that are highly unpleasant."
"You will resist Hochstetter's discovery of my presence for as long as you can," LeBeau replied, calmly. "You took me from Stalag 13 to be your personal chef; why would you want Hochstetter to haul me away?"
"Try my patience for much longer, and I will call him right now and hand you over to him!" the colonel promised.
LeBeau wasn't worried; it didn't take a genius to see that Mullenberg wanted to deliver information to Hochstetter, not a person. And there was nothing that would make the corporal talk.
"How did those ten men disappear?" Mullenberg went on. "Captain Anderson and the rest of them could not have vanished into thin air!"
"You don't believe in magic, Colonel?" the Frenchman asked, with mock surprise.
"No, I do not," the colonel spat. "I agree with Hochstetter—there is something going on, and you know something about it!"
"Louis LeBeau, Corporal, H124-"
"Enough!" Mullenberg said. "Perhaps some time in the cooler will loosen your tongue!"
LeBeau pretended to glare in angry protest; this was working out better than he had expected, but he could not afford to let that become obvious.
"Sir, you can't do that!" said Vulsor. "You can't throw a man in the cooler for not giving information that he isn't even required to give!"
"Watch me," the colonel snarled. "And any protests from you will result in you serving time there, as well!"
Vulsor exchanged a glance with LeBeau. He blinked at the look in the Frenchman's eyes, and, with a mock sigh, stood aside.
"I am sorry, Corporal," he said. "I'll try my best to see if I can get him to change his mind."
"A futile effort," Mullenberg promised, as guards came to take LeBeau away. "He will only be released to prepare lunch."
Vulsor watched LeBeau being taken away, still feigning the look of disapproval. In truth, he was becoming more and more intrigued by this corporal, idly wondering how long it would be until he found a way to get those eight men to freedom—and if there was any possible way that the corporal could find a way to free the major, as well.
"If that's all, Kommandant, I think I'd better be getting back to the barracks-"
"That is not all," Mullenberg replied. "I am surprised at you, Vulsor. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you hold no animosity towards this corporal?"
"Should I?"
"It would be expected, I should think, after what the sergeant told me last night; he was able to get the gist of your conversation in the kitchen—something about someone from his family ruining your dear mother?"
Vulsor cursed; he had a feeling that the sergeant had lip-read the first half of their conversation.
"And yet, you insist on taking his side in this whole matter," the colonel continued. "You could be in a position to avenge your mother."
"If you're wondering whether or not I'd tell you anything he told me about Stalag 13, I won't," Vulsor replied. "He didn't even tell me anything, first of all."
"Dastardly clever," Mullenberg said. "He doesn't trust you; you shouldn't be so quick to defend him, either. You know very well that what I said is true; if I don't get him to talk, Hochstetter eventually will. I can't keep the corporal a secret from him forever."
"You're wasting your time, Colonel; I'm not going to try getting any information from Corporal LeBeau."
"I am not asking you to do anything of the sort," the colonel said. "All I would like is a little more detail on your mother's research."
The American froze. "You want her truth serum," he realized.
"Either the sample, or the formula—just what I need to get any information I want from that Frenchman," Mullenberg agreed.
"What kind of rat do you think I am!" Vulsor shot back.
"As you wish; I don't need you," the colonel said. "I'm sure the details of the case are on file in Paris; one call to Colonel Backsheider might be even more effective than trying to ask you for assistance."
"Won't Backsheider get suspicious when he hears you asking about truth serums?" asked Vulsor. "That's his racket, not yours."
"I don't think so; he knows that you are a prisoner here. I could be getting the information on your mother in order to check something on you." Mullenberg smirked. "You may go."
The American departed the office, knowing that he had to warn LeBeau of this development; the ugly truth of the matter was that chances were good that Mullenberg was right.
"No! Absolutely not!" the young sergeant exclaimed, as he stared at the Englishman in shock.
"Andrew-"
"Boy, you've got guts to even think about going against Colonel Hogan's orders," Carter said. "But now you want me to get in on this, too!"
After they had dispersed after morning roll call, Newkirk had taken Carter aside with his proposition of asking him to help. Carter was not as open to the idea as Newkirk had hoped he would be.
"Andrew, you don't understand," said the corporal. "Just 'ear me out for a moment." He hadn't told Carter about the nightmare yet, mainly because he didn't want to be accused of believing in something as ridiculous as premonitions, but it was looking as though that he had no choice.
"Look, I know this is about Louis," Carter replied, with a sigh. "I didn't like the idea of sending him out there, either. But I trust Colonel Hogan. I mean… when you messed up by bringing Gretel in here, he was the one who figured out how to save us!"
Newkirk winced. "I deserved that, I did," he murmured.
"Sorry to bring it up, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that you should give his plan a chance! The last thing the colonel wants is for anything to happen to Louis."
"I know that, but not even the colonel is perfect!" Newkirk retorted, his voice rising higher than he had intended. "What if e's wrong this time! What 'appens to Louis in a case like that?"
"I don't know," Carter answered, honestly. "But we have to hope for the best."
"That's not good enough for me," said Newkirk. "Based on me past experiences, I can't trust anything to fate. I'm not an optimist like you, Andrew. I see things as they are, not as they might be, and I act based on the moment."
"Right, and bringing Gretel through the tunnels was the best idea you had at that moment?" Carter hated having to play the Gretel card for the second time, but he was desperate to keep Newkirk from getting into further trouble.
"Yeah, at the time, it seemed like the best ruddy idea I 'ad," Newkirk admitted. "But this isn't about some civilian we don't know well; this is about Louis—our Louis."
"I know!" Carter exclaimed. "Don't think that this isn't hard for me, too, because it is! You don't know how tempting it is to throw on the General von Siedelberg disguise and get him out of there!"
"We don't need to go that far; we just need to make sure that Louis is okay in there," said Newkirk. "I don't want to stop 'im from going 'ome; I just want to make sure that 'e gets there! Look, I've seen Kinch and Baker use the radio before; I just need to get in touch with the Dusseldorf underground and ask someone to see if they can just check on 'im."
"What happens if that agent gets caught?"
"I'll tell 'im not to put 'imself in any danger; if there's no way to check, then forget it," said Newkirk. "And then I'll think of another plan."
"I don't like this," Carter said, shaking his head. "I really think you should reconsider and leave everything to Colonel Hogan."
"I can't, Andrew. I just can't," the Englishman replied. "I can't stand the thought of something 'appening to Louis that we could've prevented. Can you?"
The sergeant's mouth dropped open slightly. "Of course not!"
"Then are you in, or are you out?" Newkirk asked.
Carter took a moment to reply, trying to weigh each of the choices he had to choose from first.
"Okay," he sighed. "I'll keep an eye out and make sure that no one's coming down to use the radio. I can give you five minutes—ten tops."
"That'll be enough," Newkirk said. "And if anyone asks you anything, just pull a Schultz and say that you knew nothing." He sighed, grateful that he had at least one person on his side, albeit a reluctant one. "Thank you, Andrew."
"Yeah," said Carter, forcing a wan smile. "No problem." I hope.