Chapter Seven: On the Fifth Night

June 8, 1940

The past five days had gone on slowly and dreadfully. Most of the sick and wounded that would not recover were dead, having been killed on the side of the road. Some had died during the night, which the prisoners agreed was better than being shot. There was, they said, some dignity in it. Whenever someone did die, his closest comrade would take up his personal belongings. If he carried another man's those were taken as well. No one wanted to be forgotten. On the roads, the French civilians did what they could. Haussler made it a point to avoid the larger towns, so it was all countryside and villages. Civilians left pails of water out for the men. Sometimes, the prisoners spotted children crouched in the grass, watching them go by. At first, the prisoners would pick up the pails and pass them around. But after while, Haussler ordered that the pails needed to be gotten rid of. So, when they were spotted ahead, Haussler's men would go ahead, and kick the pails over. The running water on the dirt roads was just more reason for the thirsty prisoners to hate Haussler.

Their nourishment came at night, when they stopped at dusk. They were kept in an open field, often packed closely together, so that night guards could watch them. Then, they were given a piece of bread each, and canteens were passed around. Sometimes, the guards would just toss them bread. But the prisoners remained civilized, ensuring that there was an even amount for everyone. This seemed to bother the guards, but they never messed with how the prisoners ate. Sleep always came easily, no matter where they slept, and morning always came too quickly.

On the fifth night, however, the prisoners were in for a small treat. They stopped at a large farm, with two large barns. There was enough room to ensure that all the prisoners had a roof over their heads, even if they were packed in like cattle. Inside, they found warm hay. The nights were much cooler than the stifling days, and the semi-comfort of the hay was a welcome to their aching bodies. They collapsed onto the hay with heavy weariness. The guards tossed them their bread and filled the water troughs. They were no longer bothered with feeding like animals. It was survival now. The prisoners fell upon their food and drink. The guards watched until they were through. Then, with a depressing thud, the doors were shut and locked. After getting their meager fill, Louis and Peter found one of the last places open where you could stretch your feet some: a large stall. There were four other men already in the stall and everyone exchanged introductions. There was a rough looking Scotsman, Sergeant Stephen McLean; a suspicious looking RAF officer, Squadron Leader James Lawrence; a frightened young infantryman, Private Luke Fairnth; and an intelligent looking French soldier, Caporal-chef Marcel D'Orléans. LeBeau and D'Orléans exchanged some pleasantries, and then dove into quick French that none of the British men tried to decipher. Peter looked to his fellow countrymen and nodded to the young Luke Fairnth with an easy smile.

"You're shakin' like a leaf, mate," said Peter. He laid a gentle hand on the Private's shoulder. "Don't worry. It won't be like this forever."

Luke looked at him uncertainly. "You think so," he asked tentatively.

"Well, yea," said Peter, as cheerfully as he could muster. "We won't be marchin' forever. Eventually, they'll stick us in some ruddy POW camp, an' I s'pose that's where we'll spend the duration. O' course, I don't plan in bein' locked up that long."

"You would try to escape," asked Luke.

"You bet," replied Peter. "Ole Peter Newkirk 'as never been locked up for long!"

"Could the bobbies even catch ye, matey," asked Stephen McLean with a roguish chuckle.

Peter chuckled back. "Oh, they did a few times. But they never 'ad anythin' good on me, ya know?"

"You probably had your buddies up in there working for you," said the Squadron Leader Lawrence distastefully. "Better yet, you Cockneys would never become officers."

Peter scowled. "Now, lookit 'ere. We might come from the gutters, but we do got 'onor."

"Oh, you've got as much honor as Herr Hitler," spat Lawrence.

Louis heard the comment, and was able to stop Peter from pouncing on Lawrence and picking a fight with him.

"Steady, mon ami," he said. "Just let it go. You do not 'ave to be around 'im all the time."

"Oh, shut up, Frenchie," said Lawrence.

"Look, wot's got ye all wound," asked Stephen defensively. "We've all been captured. There's no need tae take oot yer anger on us. If ye want tae vent, go take on Jerray."

Lawrence scowled, but thought better of saying anything. He lay down and tried to go to sleep. Soon after that, the guards started beating on the doors and walls, telling everyone to shut up and go to sleep. No one complained. They were ready to end the day and go to the next. One more day finished meant they were one day closer to reaching their destination. They had no idea where that was, or how brutal it would be, but so far they knew the march to be the harshest experience yet; nothing could be worse. They all went to sleep.

Except Peter. As they had been coming onto the farm, he had noticed several large bins of potatoes. He was sure they were not very tasteful, but the chance to get more food and feel full once again was too tempting to pass up. So, pulling out his lock picks, which had yet to be confiscated from him, he carefully walked over everyone and picked the lock of the barn door. He paused, to see if anyone had noticed his movement. No one had. He pushed the door open to a small crack he could slide through, and then crept out. He quietly shut the door behind him and waited in the shadows. He heard a few guards walking around, but easily dodged their paces. He soon came to a small cabin where the officers were eating. They were talking and laughing loudly, so he had no trouble slipping around the cabin, where there was the least security.

On the far side of the cabin, he found himself on the edge of the farm; or at least on the edge of the buildings. In front of him, lay a vast field for about five hundred yards, and then the woods. The night was cloudy, and there was no moon. If he was careful, he could probably make his way to the woods, and would be away from this place. It was most likely that there would not be a hunt for him from here, as the Krauts would still need to supervise the other prisoners. That would give him at least a day's start to get ahead, and possibly to a French underground system. He might even get home.

On the far side of the cabin, he also found himself squatting next to the bins of potatoes, and was reminded of the reason he was here. No, not reason…reasons. He was there, sitting next to abandoned potatoes, at an abandoned farm, where a French family had once lived and thrived. Where were they now? Only God knew. Why weren't they there? Because someone had taken over their home, their livelihood, their business, and what for? To house themselves and their prisoners. The potatoes, which had most likely been cared for since they were planted, and painstakingly harvested were now going to waste. Well, not if Peter Newkirk had something to say about. With a last, forlorn look to the field, Peter picked up a bin of the potatoes and starting creeping his way back to the barn.

He had one hair-raising moment when a guard looked behind him. The guard was actually looking straight at Peter, but since the Englishman was in the shadows he was virtually invisible. When the guard was satisfied that his suspicions were false, he left and Peter breathed easier. But he would not breathe easy until he was back in the barn. Finally, he was there, and he crept back in only to find that no one had missed him. Everyone was so exhausted; they did not even notice Peter carrying a bin of potatoes over their heads.

He placed the bin down in his stall and shook Louis awake.

"Que?" grumbled Louis, only half awake.

He rolled over, trying to see Peter in the dark. He waved his hand around some, and Peter grabbed it. Louis looked at him with confusion when his eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw that Peter was wearing a triumphant grin. His eyes narrowed.

"What did you do," he asked suspiciously.

"I got food," answered Peter in an excited whisper. He moved to the side so that Louis could see the bin of potatoes. Louis's eyes went wide.

"'Ow did you—". But Peter cut him off.

"Forget it," he said. "Just start wakin' everyone up, but quietly. Send 'em over 'ere an' I'll 'and 'em out."

Louis nodded, and began his task. They got a line going, and Peter got each man two potatoes. It went over well enough. Fortunately, ever man realized the importance of the situation and there were almost no words exchanged. No one complained about potatoes either. It was better than just the bread, and knowing they would have a full stomach to go back to sleep on was something they could not complain about. A few times during the process, everyone froze in terror when they heard a guard really close by, or someone made a noise that sounded loud only to them. Even though it went quickly enough, it felt terribly long. Afterwards, there were a few left over, and Peter secretly passed them out to those that lay closest to him. Reluctantly, he gave one to Lawrence.

Before going to sleep, he snuck out once more and put the bin outside, and away from the barn some. It would not do any good to be found with it in the morning.

Back inside the barn, they all fell asleep again more easily this time, with full stomachs.

***** ***** *****

June 9, 1940

Louis woke up with a start. Something felt wrong. He looked around him in the stall, and up at the ceiling. But the barn looked different than it had when they had entered. But it was just the same. Except…what was it? Then, he realized with a start what it was: it was bright inside the barn, as if it was later in the day. Yes, that was it. He looked at his watch. 0900?! They should have left two hours ago! What were they doing still here? He rolled over so that his nose was practically between Peter's shoulder blades. The Englishman was soundly sleeping. It sounded as if everyone was. But no one was sleeping outside; that he was certain of. He could clearly hear their captors moving about, already into the day's work.

Louis got on his knees and peered through a knot hole in the back of the stall. The Wehrmacht were moving around quickly, appearing to be preparing for the next leg of the march. This only confused Louis more. They were obviously leaving, but why so late? The Nazis were so punctual about being on time. Louis felt a strange uneasiness. A break in routine usually meant that something was wrong. Louis just hoped that this meant nothing was wrong for the prisoners. His gut told him it was exactly that.

He looked through the knot hole again. This time, his peek was interrupted when the barn door burst open, followed by cries of surprise by some of the prisoners. Instinctively, Louis fell flat on the ground, even though the stall wall concealed him from most eyes. There were a few mutterings towards the rude awakening, but everyone fell quiet. Louis sat up, and saw that Peter was blearily opening his eyes, and looking around. The other prisoners in the barn, who had not been trampled by the door, were doing the same. Louis quickly saw the looks of surprise and worry on everyone's faces that could see the door. Louis peeked out.

His blood went cold when he saw Hauptmann Haussler standing in the doorway, flanked by four of his soldiers. Haussler looked especially pleased this morning, which meant nothing well for the prisoners. He began to walk through the barn, and his eyes glinted as he looked over all the prisoners. He stopped in the middle, and looked around. He smiled down at them all, as if he was pleased to see them that morning. But, knowing him, this only made the prisoners more wary.

"I am here to make sure you are given your breakfast properly this morning," he said calmly.

The prisoners looked at one another with confusion. They had never gotten breakfast before. Haussler ordered something in German and two more soldiers entered, each one carrying a bin of potatoes. They set them at Haussler's feet, and then stepped away. Haussler looked up, smiling again.

"I would offer you some bread, but you all seem very fond of potatoes."

Not all of them in the barn could conceal their feelings of shock and fear, and Haussler was obviously very perceptive. So, it came to no surprise when his eyes fell on the terrified Luke Fairnth. Haussler stalked over, smiling evilly. He stood between Peter and Lawrence as he stared down at Luke.

"How did you get them," he asked.

Luke was pale, but he managed a weak glare.

"How do you think we got them…sir," stuttered Luke. He almost sounded sarcastic, but his fear drowned it out.

Peter could have kissed him, but he didn't want the boy to get hurt for sticking up for him. He took a deep breath and then tapped Haussler on the leg.

"What," spat Haussler, not taking his eyes off Luke.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I'll just tell ya the truth, an' we won't 'ave t'go through all this," said Peter.

Louis swallowed. Luke's eyes looked like they were going to fall out. Stephen shook his head sadly. Marcel spoke heavenward in French, asking God if Peter was crazy. Lawrence narrowed his eyes, thinking something was up. Haussler turned to look down on Peter.

"Really," said Haussler, expecting foul play. "Go on."

"Well," began Peter. "When we come in, we didn't notice it at first. But one o' the bins o' potatoes was in 'ere, covered in hay an' all. I found it when I fell against it. Now, you can't really blame us for eatin' 'em, sir, 'cause we were 'ungry. I mean, no one else was goin' t'eat 'em. In my mind, it was like lettin' 'em go t'waste, somethin' I was taught not t'do when I was a lad, growin' up in the 'ard times. Now, we all lived durin' those times, so you must 'ave an idea o' wot it's like to be 'ungry. Can't you remember goin' t'bed 'ungry, or just not satisfied? Well, that's 'ow we been feelin' lately. I won't be blamin' you blokes, not directly, 'cause war is expensive. But wot's wrong wif just feedin' ourselves when we find the chance? That's just called survival o' the fittest. I mean, it was sittin' there lookin' us straight in the face. We couldn't very well just ignore it. Well, that's the truth, sir, an' I just 'ope you don't come down on us too 'ard for just eatin' some food."

There was a stunned silence from the prisoners. But when Haussler looked over them all they put on innocent and thoughtful expressions, that they hoped would steer him to thinking that Peter had told the truth. Haussler stared over them for a long moment and then looked back down at Peter. Then, with unanticipated speed, he backhanded Luke across the face, startling everyone.

"Where did you get them," Haussler asked again.

Luke glared, and it was apparent that he was not going to give away any secrets just like that.

"But, sir," cried Peter. "That was the truth!"

"I do not believe you," snapped Haussler. He walked out of the stall, and looked over all the prisoners. "If no one confesses to the crime of stealing the potatoes, you will not be getting your food today. And perhaps not any other days either."

No one said anything. Haussler just nodded and then started walking to the door.

"It was the Cockney!"

Everyone's eyes went straight to Lawrence, who was pointing to Peter. Peter's eyes were wide. He wanted nothing but to melt away. But he snapped out of his frightened gaze with a sudden flood of anger to Lawrence. He pounced on the Squadron Leader, and no prisoner stopped him. He went for the throat, and he was too quick for Lawrence to stop him. He got both hands around it, and squeezed as hard as he could. He wasn't sure if he was really going to kill him…he didn't think he had the will to do it, but inflicting pain and fear was the goal.

As soon as Peter had leapt for Lawrence, the guards quickly made their way to the two prisoners. The other prisoners made no effort to move out of the way. The guards pried Peter off Lawrence. Lawrence sagged against the stall wall, breathing hard, with his eyes closed. Peter was slammed against the opposite wall by the guards. He thrashed his feet a bit, and then stopped when he realized he did not want to evoke anymore anger against him.

When Peter was pulled away, Louis contemplated on jumping Lawrence himself. The cowardly officer had betrayed his friend, and he wanted to inflict some revenge of his own. But he knew that now was not the time. The other prisoners knew it as well. Right now, the Nazis would not tolerate much more from them. No one wanted to end up dead.

Haussler walked over to Peter, and looked down at him. Then, he looked at Lawrence.

"I thought that British officers were made of tougher material," said Haussler, with a smirk. "I suppose I was wrong." He looked down at Peter again. "But British trash, as I have been taught Cockney means, seems to be made of tough stuff. Tell me, Corporal, have you ever been caught stealing before?"

Peter glared, but told him the truth. It wasn't going to matter anyway. "A few times."

"And you never learned," stated Haussler.

He gave some orders in German. The two guards dragged Peter out into the middle of the barn. The prisoners cleared the way. Haussler walked up to Peter, pulling out his club. He patted it with his hand as he circled the Englishman with pleasure.

"That is why the English are losing the war," he said. "They are too soft. You English…you let trash like this walk around, roaming your lovely streets of London, giving you all a bad name. You are losing because street rats are fighting, and—" he looked at Lawrence "officers with no backbone lead them." He gave another order in German. The guards secured the doors shut. Haussler looked down at Peter. "You never learned not to steal. Now, I will teach you."

Peter felt no shame, only fear, when he threw his hands over his head as Haussler brought the club down.

***** ***** *****

They moved out at noon. The guards hollered and pushed them into their two, single file lines on the road.

No one had been allowed to help Peter. After he was thoroughly beaten, and obviously unconscious, Haussler stopped bringing down his club. The guards dragged him out of the barn, and the prisoners did not see him again until they were leaving. Peter had been dumped into the mud a few paces from the door. When the prisoners were leaving, they had to step over him. He was a warning to the others. The prisoners were sure he would either be shot before they began the march, or by the end of the day, because he would not be able to continue.

When Louis came to Peter, he fell to his knees, and tried to wake him. He desperately shook him. The guards pushed the little Frenchman away, and beat him back with their own clubs. Louis fought to stay at Peter's side. Marcel and Stephen dragged Louis up themselves. He even fought them, until they were in line.

"We cannot just leave 'im to les filthy Boches," he argued, tears brimming into his eyes. He saw Lawrence out of the corner of his eye. "We should leave him."

Marcel turned Louis to face the front. "Shhh, be quiet. We do not want to anger the guards more."

Louis scowled at Marcel as well, but knew he was only speaking the truth. He glanced back at where Peter lie, prisoners and guards still stepping over him as if he were a piece of trash in the way. Once everyone was lined up, two guards approached the battered Englishman.

"Look," whispered Louis.

The prisoners who had heard him turned to see the guards dumping a pail of cold water onto Peter. They did not even wait for him to fully open his eyes. They yanked him up to his knees and then dragged him to the front of the line. Louis sadly noticed that there was no resistance coming from the Englishman. He was brought before Haussler, and dropped like a sack of potatoes at his feet. He struggled to get up, before Haussler lost his patience and, grabbing him by the collar, jerked him off the ground, and onto his feet. When he let go, Peter swayed, but the prisoner behind him held him up. He waited until Peter gathered enough of his bearings to stand up on his own. Haussler smirked and then addressed the prisoners.

"Note the consequence for your first offence in stealing," he said. "The consequence for your second offence will guarantee that it will be your last: you will be shot." No one moved. No one said a word. No one doubted him. Haussler knew this and with a triumphant smile, he looked at Peter. "You are to remain first in this line. If you fall behind, even to the second position, you will be shot. Do I make myself clear?"

Peter managed a glare, and through his swollen lips he said, "Crystal…sir."

Haussler's smirk disappeared, but he just patted Peter's swelled cheek lightly. "We will see how much of your cheek lasts, or how long you last."

He turned away, and they began the sixth day of their march. Peter began to trudge along, wincing at every movement. He grimaced, which was not unnoticed by Haussler. They both knew it was going to be a long day for the Englishman.

Throughout the day, the man behind Peter kept him up. Peter was tiring just after the first hour. He continued to remind himself that it was only for half a day, because Haussler would never risk traveling by night, when prisoners could slip away more easily. He also gained strength from his fellow prisoners.

The past few days, the prisoners had been experimenting on what they were allowed to do. After some time, they discovered that they were allowed to sing or whistle. They often picked military tunes, to keep them marching. But today, the British found the urge to sing traditional English tunes. It was not long before someone integrated traditional Cockney songs into the singing as well. The Frenchmen listened at first, before joining in with some sense of pride. They also threw in their two bits of French songs, but today the British were roaring. It was a roar of singing, though. At first, it was delicate and precise, with the usual English punctuality. But then, they started mixing up the songs, singing them to different tunes, and trying always to put a Cockney undertone to them. The Nazis could never understand exactly what they were doing with the Cockney, because they could not see the differences; their knowledge of the English culture failing them. Peter never sang, because he didn't want to give it away that he was drawing strength from the songs. If Haussler knew that, he would make them verboten.

But, by the fifth time they were singing There'll Always Be an England with Run Rabbit Run and Lambeth Walk as their choruses, the Nazis had had enough of it. After all, Lambeth Walk was supposedly "Jewish mischief". (1)

Peter took pride that the prisoners had come by with some sort of respect for him. That was something he had not experienced before. At first, he thought it was a ploy to keep the Germans on their toes, but it was hard to deny the fact that they were cheering him on with their songs. He also continued to catch friendly smiles and helping hands of his fellow prisoners as the day wore on. Even the Frenchmen did not mind showing some respect to an Englishman. Louis happily continued to hum the British tunes that were now stuck in his head.

They did not stop until twenty-hundred hours, two hours later than normal. The songs had ended at fourteen-hundred hours, but humming and whistling had not been able to be stopped completely. At least the trek had not been in complete silence. They stopped at last in a field again. Peter was held away while the food was tossed out. It did not take long for the prisoners to devour the meager meal, and only then was Peter released back into the prisoners. He found Louis, who was sitting with Marcel, Stephen, and Luke. When Peter sat down, Stephen handed him a piece of bread.

"We took the libertay o' takin' away Sqaudron Leader Lawrence's bread," he explained. "That filth doesn't need tae be eatin' when a fighter like ye needs it more."

Peter took it wordlessly and nibbled on it. He handed it back to Stephen. "I can't eat it. Don't let it go to waste." He sank back against the haystack they were sitting beside.

Louis sadly looked at him. He took the bread from Stephen. "Non. You must eat. You need your strength." He tried to give it back, but Peter pushed his hand away with a painful expression.

"Please, Louie, me stomach 'urts," he said.

Louis gave him a stubborn expression. "I am sure it does, but you must eat." He broke off a piece of bread. "'Ere. Just take a little at a time." He held it up to Peter's mouth. Peter took it away and chewed it slowly. When he swallowed, Louis handed him another piece. "And my name is Louis," said the Frenchman. But he smiled kindly. Peter barely smiled back.

It did not take them long to finish the one piece of bread, and afterwards, Peter sought water. But Louis had nothing to give him.

"Oh, here you are," said Luke. He was holding his hat in his hands, which was carrying some water. "I got some out when they filled the troughs."

Peter gratefully took it and drank it. He handed Luke back his hat.

"Thanks mate," he said. "An' thanks for not sellin' me out back there in the barn. No offence, but I really thought you would."

Luke smiled. "Don't worry. I was scared. But I would never sell a fellow soldier out. Not like that Squadron Leader." He glared distastefully.

Peter chuckled, and then groaned when his abdomen started hurting. "Don't worry about 'im, mate. A bloke that weak won't last long around 'ere."

"Oui," said Marcel. "But I thank you L'Anglais."

"Me," asked Peter. "For wot? All I did was get Jerry mad at us."

"Non," said Marcel. "You may 'ave, but you showed us that we were not really alone. You showed us that we could care for each other. Maybe we will not steal for one another so much, but now we know that it is okay to care about one another. You see, we were treated like animals for so long, we sort of forgot that we did not 'ave to act like animals." He gave a sharp bow of his head. "Merci beaucoup."

Peter almost replied, but Louis put a hand over his mouth. "S'il vous plaît, we do not need to 'ear your 'orrible French."

They all laughed, with Peter ending it with his groans.

"Stop," he grumbled. "Laughin' is too painful."

Stephen patted the haystack. "Rest yer head, matey. We'll watch oot for Jerray for ye."

Peter smiled gratefully, and made himself comfortable on the hay. When he closed his eyes, it did not take him long to fall asleep, knowing that he had some friends watching his back.

When Louis saw that Peter was asleep, he dabbed some of the dried blood off Peter's face with a handkerchief. As he became rather squirmy, and the others could tell, Luke stopped him.

"I'll do it," he said. "You just get some sleep too. You've been worrying about him all day, old man."

LeBeau smiled. "Merci. I guess I will get sleep then."

He lay down, and went to sleep as well.

(1) The "Lambeth Walk" was a song from the musical Me and My Girl, a popular play in London, first showing in 1937. The dance that came with the song "Lambeth Walk" was performed became popular throughout Europe. Since it was of English origin, in 1939, it was decreed "Jewish mischief" by a Nazi Party member. Thus, it was banned. However, in 1942, the BBC got hold of a film showing Nazis goose-stepping through Germany. The BBC edited the film to have the Nazis walking to the "Lambeth Walk". It was a hit in England, and made Goebbels furious. That's one for the BBC! You can watch the film on YouTube, called "Doing the Lambeth Walk". It's funny.