chapter 20

Hogan paced the length of the barracks and back twice before he spoke. "What if Burkhalter shows up tomorrow with no Newkirk?"

LeBeau frowned from where he sat on the table. "He will be here. Burkhalter's aide said so."

Hogan snorted. "It's General Burkhalter, he's got a short temper and if Newkirk says the wrong thing, then he's going to end up shot."

Kinch stood to one side with his arms folded. "If Burkhalter murders Newkirk, he knows that he'd be in trouble. And if he did decide to murder Newkirk, there's nothing that we can do to prevent it."

Carter began to wring his hands. "But he won't! He won't have any reason to hurt Newkirk! He has to bring him back here."

Hogan rubbed a hand over his face. "Carter, he's still a Nazi and he could just up and decide that it's too much trouble and dump Newkirk in a labor camp. Or.." He paced away again. "Or he's inspecting other camps, what am I supposed to do if he just leaves Newkirk at a different camp?"

Hopping off the table and going to pull out his pot to begin working on soup, LeBeau spoke calmly. "If Burkhalter leaves Newkirk at the wrong stalag, then you will convince Klink to have him transferred back here. Burkhalter might be a dirty pig of a Nazi but he wouldn't want to have the Red Cross looking too closely at him over a missing prisoner and he knows that if Newkirk disappears, you will start a huge fuss with the Red Cross and the representatives from Switzerland and everyone else that can cause him trouble. So it's easier for him to just bring Newkirk back here." The Frenchman's tone was casual and firm but the viciousness he put into chopping up potatoes belied that calmness.

Giving in, Hogan nodded. "You're right, LeBeau." He reached to pat the Frenchman's arm. "Newkirk will be fine and Burkhalter will bring him tomorrow. There's no good reason for him not to, and several reasons for him to not harm him at this point. Burkhalter always looks out for his own interests first."

Kinch agreed quietly. "Yeah, either way, we'll know tomorrow. Things can get back to normal." He held up his wrist. "I'm almost beginning to expect to see my watch every time I look for it, and that's just not normal when Newkirk is around!"

Carter grinned. "Yeah and I haven't seen a magic trick in forever."

Olson coughed softly, bringing everyone's attention to him and his wry smile. "And... the guards are beginning to think they're supposed to have so many cigarettes. None have been disappearing from their pockets."

Hogan laughed. "Well, see, that tears it. Newkirk will have to come back tomorrow. He's probably enjoying good food and wine with Burkhalter while we worry over him. He'll have charmed those Germans into letting him eat at the officer's table and if they don't watch out, he'll leave with half their pay from playing poker games."

Everyone had a little bit of a laugh, even if a few were slightly uneasy still. There was no reason to worry over Newkirk, after all, the Cockney was well able to finagle his way through most situations just fine.

Newkirk grimaced as he lay on the cement floor reaching through the bars as far as he was able. "Blimey... this isn't funny guys!" The 'dinner' he'd been brought was a metal cup of watery soup but the guards had decided to play a game of setting it just out of his reach. They'd put bets down on how close they could set it to the bars but have it still be out of his reach.

The two cooler guards continued to laugh, exchanging small bills as one won a bet from the other. Newkirk twisted and stretched further, feeling the burning pain of his injured rib as he did so. The manacles that had never been removed forced him to use both arms, increasing the difficulty. But his fingertips brushed the edge of the cup sitting on the floor just barely out of his reach. "Bloody gits... "

The guard who had won stepped over and leaned down to grin at him. Newkirk jerked his arms back to safety behind the bars. "Englander, you do not want your dinner?" His boot nudged the cup just a fraction closer to taunt him. "Come, take it. You are not hungry?" He laughed harshly as he turned back to his fellow guard. "Maybe he doesn't want it."

"Bloody bastard Krauts." Newkirk glared up at them. He hadn't eaten since the evening before. Sitting back, he undid his belt, hunching over to hide his actions. They were both still chuckling to each other over their fun prank. Scooting to the bars again, he looked to be certain they weren't paying attention and slipped his arms back through the bars and quickly flipped a loop of belt over the cup and dragged it within easy reach, grabbing it and pulling to himself just before the riflebutt smashed into the bars with a loud clang. He stood up quickly, drinking the rancid soup down in case they opened the cell to take it back.

Both guards cursed at him and then began to argue whether his trick had negated the bet or whether the winner had to give back the money since the prisoner had managed to get the cup in the end. While the argument branched out to whether one moving the cup closer mattered or not, Newkirk finished off the cold slimy potato wash and wiped a finger around the inside of the cup to catch every drop. He'd eaten worse food and wasn't about to waste any. It was highly unlikely the guards would fall for that trick a second time.

His keen eyes watched the guards argue and he wondered how long it would be before he was allowed to lie down and sleep. One more night and one more car ride and he should be back in Stalag 13. He watched the guards and recited his lines of information in his head and tried to feel positive.

A tiny part of him cataloged how many miles of ditches there were on that drive and resolved to keep his mouth shut around Burkhalter.