Chapter 6 - I'm New at this Misery

"There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm." - Willa Cather

He felt himself hurtling through the void again, surrounded by flame and explosions. At some unknown point, though, everything came to a stop and he stared transfixed at the scene unfolding in slow motion before his horrified eyes.

The flaming, shattered remnant of the Wellington's forward fuselage bobbled crazily beside him in a slow, flat spin. The bombs had long since spilled from the plane's belly and he couldn't avoid seeing several large objects completely engulfed by flame tumbling haphazardly from the open maw of the bomb bay. He suddenly realized what they were…oh God, the objects were…were bodies...the bodies of his crewmates! No! No! No! Denis! Robert! Jack! Fred! Johnston! Oh mates…no...please, no…! He could take no more of the hideous scene and became violently ill. He vomited and choked as he plunged helplessly earthward.

The images suddenly vanished and he bolted awake to find himself nauseated, shaking uncontrollably and soaked with perspiration. He dropped his head into his hands desperately seeking to calm himself and failed to hold back the tears that suddenly overwhelmed him. What was bloody wrong? He hadn't dreamt about this for so long and now here it's come back two days running!

What bothered him most was this night's recurrence of the most gut-wrenching of all the memories, where he saw his mates plummeting to their certain deaths, assuming that they weren't already mercifully dead as they fell out of the plane. What a horrible way to die! He buried his face in his pillow, hoping against hope that none of his mates, especially LeBeau, would walk in to find him in this state.

When LeBeau had awoken him from a deep, dreamless sleep the previous evening in order to eat dinner he had again been ravenous, as seemed to be his norm for now, and he made quick work of the meal LeBeau had prepared. The Frenchman had been true to his promise and had made sure his English friend had a hearty dinner.

Newkirk had anticipated getting a solid, uninterrupted night's rest after such a good meal, which he had gotten up to the point where the nightmare returned. As there were still several hours before dawn, he gave up on returning to sleep and concentrated on trying to return to a semblance of calm before anyone, especially LeBeau, found out.

Too soon, there came the knock on the door heralding LeBeau's arrival. "Pierre? Time to awaken mon ami! I have your breakfast!"

At first glance, LeBeau immediately realized that his English friend had spent another rough night and he bit his lip as he remembered his promise not to bring the subject of the nightmares up. He set the tray down and first went to help Newkirk with his morning ablutions.

"There mon ami!" LeBeau helped his friend sit up and then he brought the tray over.

Newkirk looked down at his breakfast and then stared at LeBeau in wide-eyed amazement. He reached for his slate. How on earth did you manage this? And why?

LeBeau chuckled at his friend's expression. "I called in a few favors mon ami. Joe explained to me that it is very important for you to be well nourished as you recover. He does not want what he called 'complications' for you."

Newkirk shook his head as he wrote out, Ta Louis. I'm sorry for acting such a sod yesterday. I owe you mate.

"Yes you do," replied LeBeau matter-of-factly. "However, do not concern yourself with that now. Just get well, oui?"

Newkirk winked at his French friend before he dove into his tray of fresh coffee, scrambled egg, ham and fried potatoes.


When LeBeau returned sometime later to retrieve the tray, he wasn't surprised to see the dishes completely clean. "These will not need much washing, eh?"

Newkirk had been doing some serious thinking and he reached out to snag LeBeau's arm as he made to leave the room. "Yes, Pierre? Do you need anything else?"

Newkirk turned the slate towards LeBeau, who read the single, underlined word chalked onto it.

Why?

"Why what, mon ami?"

Newkirk gestured expansively at himself and the tray full of dishes, then turned his hands palms up to shrug in a silent question.

"Why do I take care of you the way I do?"

Newkirk nodded and wrote again, Why do you put up with me? Kinch said I'm a pain.

LeBeau laughed, "And he is right!"

Glad you agree!

"It is obvious that someone has to take care of you. Left to yourself, you would more than likely be dead by now."

Newkirk automatically snorted without thinking and grunted at the resultant pain.

"Ah, but you know it is true Pierre. You push yourself beyond reason and do not want anyone to know when you need help. That is why I am here, because you need me."

Newkirk chuckled to himself and shook his head.

"No? You do not agree?"

The Englishman swiped the slate clean and wrote, You didn't even like me when you first came here.

"Oh ho, you remember that do you?"

How could I forget? You hated me!

LeBeau sighed, "Oui, mon ami, I am ashamed to admit that it is true. But, I hated all Englishmen then."

A strangled chuckle sounded over the screech of the chalk against the slate. You did? I thought it was just me!

"No, mon ami," laughed LeBeau. "As you were the only Englishman in the barracks at that time, I focused all of my hatred on you. I am sorry Pierre."

Newkirk well remembered his first encounters with the fiery Frenchman. What changed your mind?

LeBeau remained silent as he searched for an answer to Newkirk's question.

"I decided that I had been sent here specifically to take care of you Pierre. I finally realized that you needed help and that you would not have survived without me."

Cheeky monkey! The jibe echoed half-heartedly in Newkirk's mind as he knew that Louis' words were true.

When he first met LeBeau, he had been suffering mightily from the nightmare visions of his bomber's destruction, not unlike now. And the Frenchman was right, at the beginning he had treated Newkirk with undisguised hatred at worst and purposeful disdain at best. Newkirk always wondered what had caused LeBeau to revise his opinion of him but he privately thanked his lucky stars that he had. He more than likely would have died had he not fallen into friendship with the diminutive Frenchman.

LeBeau laughed at his English friend's mock insult. "Let me take this tray to the sink mon ami. I will return in a moment."

Newkirk nodded and settled back into the bunk after LeBeau left. He was so sleepy his head felt like it was stuffed with wadding; it certainly didn't help that the headache still lurked in the background. He tried closing his eyes but gave it up as a bad job when LeBeau came back into the room.

"You have the right idea mon ami. I can tell you did not rest well last night," LeBeau remarked as he entered with the bowl and kettle in hand. Newkirk didn't complain; he desperately needed as much undisturbed sleep as he could get so he actually welcomed the Frenchman's herbal compresses.

LeBeau nodded his approval when Newkirk finally dozed off. He decided to let his English friend sleep for as long as possible and quietly left the room.


A/N: The names I've cited for Newkirk's crewmates are those of an actual crew that was lost when No. 103 Squadron RAF Vickers Wellington Mk.1C, S/N W5656 crashed at Chateau Ledquent, Marquise, 15 km SW of Calais, France, reason unknown on 6 August 1941. Since for the purpose of this story Newkirk was the rear air gunner and the sole survivor of his crew, I therefore only named five (Wellington Mk.1Cs usually carried a crew of six).

W5656's crew were Pilot: Sergeant Denis Maxwell Greey, RAFVR, Age 28, Killed; Navigator: Sergeant Johnston Playfair Taylor, RCAF, Age 25, Killed; Flight Engineer: Sergeant Jack Moules, RAFVR, Age ?, Killed; Wireless Operator/Air Gunner: Sergeant Frederick William Alleway, RAFVR, Age 21, Killed; Wireless Operator/Air Gunner: Sergeant Robert Grattan Griffin, RAFVR, Age 21, Killed; Air Gunner: Sergeant Carl Deges, RAFVR, Age?, Killed.