Chapter Twenty-Seven: End of Freedom

November 8, 1940

Peter was slowly waking up. He felt too rested to actually get up and move on. But once he became fully aware, he sat up and swore. It was dark; the sun completely set. He should have been traveling by now. He pulled out a match, lit it, and looked at his watch. He sighed with relief. It was only 1800. He had only slept for about four hours. Now that he was fully rested, he quickly packed everything up, and started heading further north.

He went down to the base of the mountain, but kept to the woods. He decided he would traverse around the farmlands and towns by staying in the cover of the woods. Hopefully, he would reach the next ridge by morning. Determined, he set on at a quick pace. He was alert, but heard and saw nothing, assuring him that he was the only one out there. That was his greatest mistake. He became too comfortable.

Two hours later, and he was passing the outskirts of the first town. It was quiet. Lights were even scarce from homes and businesses. The only noise he could hear came from the opposite end of a street where he spotted a pub. Even there, the noise was dim. Still, the less he heard, the more comfortable he was. He believed he was alone. He believed that he had really made the slip. No one was on his trail.

As he moved on, heading towards the next town, the thought that no one was onto him gave him confidence. And the thought of continuing onto the coast was becoming increasingly more appealing. If there was no one on his trail now, and he continued on the route he had seen on the map, he could probably make it all the way. He would just keep to the woods and only travel at night. He could snitch food when he needed it. He knew where the Nazi outposts were. All he had to do was make sure he went well around them. The more Peter went through those thoughts, the more he truly believed he could make it all the way.

But something stopped him. He had made a deal. If he came back with this information, he would be helping many of his comrades have a far better chance at reaching freedom.

But if you could do it, they certainly could, he thought. Look how easy it was to get yourself this far. They would be able to do it as well.

No. It was bugging him. He would not be able to live with himself if he went on, and never knew if that information would help. He thought about Louis, Luke, Marcel, and Stephen. And then there was Everley and Dean and others he had become close to. What would they think of him if he just left? Coward stuck out to Peter the most.

What would they think of you if you were dead? They might pity you for a few days, even call you a hero, but you're in a war. They'll move on, and by the time they get out of there, you'll just be a tragedy they might mention some years later.

Ugh! It was so frustrating! There were pros and cons to both sides. Every time he went through this argument it was harder. And he always thought he made a sound and unwavering decision each time. But no, the further he went on…

In mid-thought, Peter halted. That was it. The further he went on, with each day that passed in this near-freedom lifestyle, the argument became harder to battle. The further he went, the less he wanted to give himself up. He was building his confidence up with each hour his presence went unnoticed. Peter sighed, realizing he had to make a decision now. Go on, and never look back or stop here, and turn himself in.

Peter was going to seriously weigh every pro and con he could think of. He knew this was a decision that would affect him greatly. He knew that what happened here was going to decide much of an already uncertain future.

Well, he was about to begin to think it over, when he suddenly heard the sound of trucks. It was coming from the road he was walking parallel to. He was a good three hundred yards up a hill from it, and could clearly see down on it. On the road, military trucks were stopping. Wehrmacht soldiers got out the trucks, obviously armed for a thorough search of the woods with their flashlights and dogs.

Peter swallowed and on instinct, he ran, not looking back. He was making his decision now.

As he ran through the woods, he could hear the dogs being released. His adrenaline began to pump even more and he ran even faster. He was going at a dead sprint, in the dark through woods that he had never laid eyes on. Peter knew it was a good way to hurt himself, but he wasn't going to stop now. Even though he tripped sometimes, or stumbled, even falling flat into the ground, he always kept running. Then, he came to an abrupt halt when he nearly ran off a steep hill…that would have sent him into an icy river. Breathing heavily, he looked back. Since the dogs had had to run uphill, he seemed to have thwarted them for the moment. Still, he knew it would not be long until they picked up his trail. Peter looked back at the river, and skidded carefully down the hill till he reached the bank. He looked up and down for any crossing. He hurried down the bank some, but could hear the dogs barking. So, he went down further, to where it was most narrow. Then, without a second thought, he jumped in.

He hit feet first, and was relieved to find that the water only came up to his knees in that spot. But it was ice cold, and his legs were already beginning to feel heavy. He persistently moved on though, and it wasn't soon till he found himself halfway across but in waist deep water. He held his bag over his head, to keep everything dry. He wanted out of that water right then; the cold was nearly unbearable. But he pushed on. Suddenly, the ground beneath him dropped a whole foot, and he was shoulder deep in the water. The cold hit him like cement in the chest, and he thought he was suffocating in it. He was able to keep the bag dry, though. Only a few steps later, the ground began to go up, and within another minute, he was at the next bank, stiffly climbing out.

Once he was out, he only wished to lie there, curled up in a little ball, until he was warm. But he knew he couldn't. This was emphasized by two German Shepherds coming into view on the other bank, noses to the ground, obviously on his trail. Peter rolled over, and pushed himself up, to climb up the bank. Just as he ran out of sight, the Wehrmacht soldiers arrived beside their dogs.

Peter ran on, just as blindly as before. He had heard that water confused dogs, and hoped that the crossing had bought him enough time to get out of reach for the night. But he had no intention of stopping anytime soon. He kept running, and just when he thought he was going to slow down, he heard dogs barking. So, he ran faster. Then, he came to a skidding halt. Dead ahead he spotted more soldiers with more dogs. Peter swore, and turned left, and began to run in that direction. But the dogs were closing in, and Peter found himself running more in the direction he had just come from.

Then, he heard shouts indicating that he had been seen. And with that, the finality of the situation struck him. He couldn't run anymore. They would catch him. They had him cornered like a mouse. So, he slowed down, raising his hands up in the air. And when he stopped, despair hit him harder than ever before. Now, he had to go back. Breathing hard, he turned around to face the soldiers. He kept his hands up, even when the dogs came close. They never attacked, but warned him not to move with their growls. Soon, the soldiers caught up, and their flashlights blinded Peter. Roughly, he was thrown on the ground and handcuffed. The bag that Irena had given him was violently ripped off his shoulder. The contents were spilled out onto the ground. The soldiers inspected them. The gloves Rupert had given Peter were also pulled off, as well as the jacket made from his blanket. He was searched thoroughly, and the only thing Peter could smile about was that they could not find his knife, which was in his boot.

Peter was yanked off the ground. One soldier grabbed each arm with an iron solid grip, to ensure that he try nothing. But Peter would not. He had succumbed to the fact that he was going back to camp. They left the woods, and came out onto the road, where trucks were waiting. Peter realized then that they had found his trail, and had come out knowing they would succeed in catching him. These Krauts were just good at that. He was roughly pushed into the back of a truck, where more guards piled in after him. He was made to sit on the floor, his hands still cuffed behind him. But he showed no signs of resistance. Truthfully, he felt more tired than ever, for he had depleted himself on that last desperate run. He had depleted himself physically, mentally, and emotionally. When the truck lurched to a start, he ignored the vicious looks from the soldiers, and their boots annoyingly nudging him. He let himself relax against the wall, and he closed his eyes.

Damn. I just wanted out.

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

November 9, 1940

Before even the camp woke up, the truck arrived at camp. The prisoners never saw it, because they were sound asleep. If anyone did, they thought nothing of it. The truck went straight to the cooler, though, and its prisoner was shoved in. The only thing they had done was cuff his hands in front. This at least made it slightly more comfortable.

Peter had not slept at all on the way back, for he had been constantly in thought. He had run. His last decision had been to abandon the mission and make a run for it. Never mind that he had been tracked down. His conscious decision at that point had been to not look back. And even though Peter wished he could have made it, that he had escaped, he was ashamed of that decision he made. Maybe when everyone realized he was back, they would think he really did give himself up. They would think he was brave. But he wasn't. He was still the same ole Peter Newkirk that thought for himself in the end. His safety. His life. His future.

Peter finally sat down, hoping that at this point, since he was at his final destination again, he might as well get some sleep. He had no doubt it would be easy to do. He was uncomfortable, because his clothes were still wet and since his adrenaline had finally stopped running, he became aware of numerous bruises and scrapes that he had gathered throughout his adventure outside the Stalag. Still, exhaustion was overcoming anything else, so he began to drift off into sleep. But just when he was finally going oblivious to the world, the door busted open, startling him wide awake. He looked up to see that Duerr and Berg had come in. Berg looked passive, and Duerr appeared intensively angry. Peter swallowed nervously.

"So, did you like your little field trip," asked Duerr.

Peter hesitated. "Up until the part when the teachers found me."

Duerr hit the side of the cooler. "Do not play smart with me! You have cost us a lot. The soldiers needed to find you were supposed to be on their way to Africa. Now, they are two days behind schedule."

"Sorry," said Peter unemotionally. "'Ow was I supposed to know you chaps were startin' a new front?"

Duerr ignored the comment. "Where did you get the bag, blanket, gloves and bread?"

"I stole it from some farm on the other side of the ridge," answered Peter, as he began to gaze away from the Major.

"Look at me," ordered Duerr. Peter obediently did, though his face still held no emotion. "What farm?"

"I dunno. The first one I saw when I got over the ridge," said Peter. "I was 'ungry. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Well, we just want to make sure they get it back," said Duerr.

"Sure," said Peter. "Just bein' a good neighbor."

"Right," said Duerr. "Now, how did you escape?"

"Easy," said Peter, this time with a cocky smirk. "We didn't 'ave any guards around us. So, I just 'opped the fence and ran into the woods. I even fooled me ole friend Luke who was workin' wif me. 'E didn't even see me go."

Duerr squinted thoughtfully. "What about your French friend, Corporal LeBeau? Were you supposed to meet up with him?"

"Excuse me," said Peter, looking confused. "I don't know wot you mean."

"Yes, you do," stated Duerr. "Corporal LeBeau escaped the same day as you, as I am sure you planned out."

Inside, Peter began to feel uneasy. How much had Duerr guessed? On the outside, he still showed blank confusion. "Look, Major, I've not a clue wot you're talkin' about. If 'e escaped, great! But I didn't know. I didn't tell anyone I was leavin'. I was afraid that if I did, you goons might get wind o' it."

Duerr paced the cell once, and when he stopped he looked right at Peter. "Listen, I know you two had planned it. And eventually, I will figure out why."

"Why," asked Peter. "You know why. We wanted to escape."

"Yes," said Duerr. "But you were going in two different directions. That is what puzzles me."

"Look, Major, think wot you want," said Peter tiredly. "All we wanted to do was escape. And the way you make it sound, we've both been recaptured." Peter dearly hoped that Louis had not been recaptured.

"You are correct," replied Duerr shortly. "Corporal LeBeau was recaptured the first night out. I am sure he will tell you all about it when you are released."

"Which will be…?"

"Three weeks," said Duerr.

"Three weeks!"

"You are not needed for work, and you need to be punished. Both of your privileges have been revoked until I believe you have learned a lesson."

"Don't worry, I fink I already 'ave," said Peter sheepishly.

"Trust me," said Duerr. "Not yet."

With that, he left the cooler, Berg following. Peter dismally listened to the door being locked, and then everything went silent. Peter had never felt more alone.

Still, what he wanted more than anything at that moment was sleep, so finally, he fell asleep, this time hoping he really did get some peace.