Author's note: I always found drama hard to write, as I'm usually afraid of lapsing into mawkish; therefore, when I do, I tend to go for the minimalistic approach. You tell me if it works in this snapshot :o)

Disclaimer: CBS owns the rights to Hogan's Heroes, and I don't even own the DVDs. Which is a bloody shame, I know, but c'est la vie, right?

Stalag by Starlight

4. Letters From Home

Something Newkirk notes about the little Frenchman who has been sharing his barracks for a few months now is that he can get quite demonstrative when he's in a good mood; it doesn't happen often – none of them really have reason to be in a good mood, not in a prisoner of war camp – but when Louis LeBeau is happy, really happy, he talks a lot with this huge, infectious grin on his face, and for all that he's about five foot three he actually seems a lot larger.

The first time Newkirk notices that is one spring morning in 1941, a little after Schultz delivers their mail. He has been engrossed in a letter from Mavis, reading between the lines that his little sister is scared and sad and tired, struggling to keep a brave façade as German bombs destroy their old neighbourhood and kill their friends. Harper's and Mills' faces look as grim as he feels, and Davies only looks a mite better; so when Newkirk sees from the corner of his eye LeBeau downright beaming down at his letter, he peeks over the Frenchman's shoulder at the words he can't understand, because frankly he could use some cheering up right now.

"Looks like you got some good news there, mate," he says, fully expecting to be told to mind his own business. "What happened, Krauts buggered off Paris?"

LeBeau's face looks blank for a second – he's still not used to the finer points of English slang – but he works it out soon enough and laughs. Newkirk suspects it's more because of whatever's in the letter than because of the rather poor joke.

"Non, but frankly, today they can go get stuffed – is that how you say it? – for all I care. I'm an uncle!"

Newkirk's eyebrows shoot up, and a few heads turn his way.

"I've never been an uncle before," he adds, the ridiculously big grin still lighting up his whole face.

Newkirk doesn't quite know what to feel. On one hand, he's thinking of his sister sleeping in Tube stations and writing him letters from bomb shelters; on the other, the mere thought that somehow, in the middle of war, pain and disaster, something as innocent and miraculous as a baby can be born is making him feel a little warmer.

"Congratulations, Louis," he says, and he means it. And then LeBeau shows him a picture of his sister Adèle – young, rather pretty with a round, fresh face and the same dark eyes as her brother – and her newly-born daughter – a nondescript little bundle in her arms – and Newkirk sometimes has a bit of trouble understanding his half-French half-English ramblings, but that's okay. He listens to the Frenchman's giddy chatter, and while Mavis doesn't leave his mind, he can't help but grin, too.

A few months later, when it looks like Hitler is too busy with the new Russian front to keep bombing British civilians, Newkirk talks to LeBeau about Mavis, once or twice. He doesn't elaborate, he doesn't say that sometimes the letters he got – and the one letter he thankfully didn't – keep him awake for nights on end, but he knows the little Frenchman is good at reading between the lines.

And then, one autumn in September, Newkirk is reading a new letter from his sister (who sounds more optimistic, even though life is still hard), and he becomes aware of the absolute silence from the top bunk in front of his.

LeBeau is sitting with his back to the room, and he's staring at the letter in his lap; Newkirk can't quite see his face, but his shoulders are slumped and his head is bowed, and that can't be a good thing.

Plus, he looks small. LeBeau never looks small.

Everybody is busy with their own mail, so nobody really pays attention to Newkirk when he climbs down his bunk and up on LeBeau's.

He tries to peek at the letter, but it's in French, and it's upside down.

"Who's it from, then?" he asks quietly, and the dark eyes finally focus.

"Adèle." It's a good thing Newkirk has good hearing. Otherwise he would have missed the whisper. "I, er … I'm not an uncle anymore."

Newkirk thinks about the smiling, dark-eyed young woman and the bundle in her arms, and says nothing, because he doesn't know what to say.

After a few minutes, LeBeau raises his eyes and says slowly, "Do you have a picture of your sister?"

He does, and he goes to get it from his locker. It's more than two years old, and he hasn't looked at it in a while; maybe Mavis has got thinner since the last time he saw her. Maybe she's had her hair done, or bought another dress. But it's still her in that picture, shielding her eyes from the sunlight and grinning mischievously at the camera.

She's good-looking, his Mave is. Any other time, he'd warn his friend that she's off-limits, because he's seen the little black book he carries around in his pocket, quite similar to his own; but not today.

LeBeau looks at the picture, smiles a little and says, "She looks a lot like you."

He doesn't make it sound like it's a bad thing.

The next time LeBeau is in a good mood, he talks a lot, and hums snippets of songs Newkirk has never heard while he stirs the contents of the pot on the stove. He gets the usual few grins and eye rolls mixed with a bit of annoyance from the other fellows; Newkirk just watches him from the corner of his eye and smiles.

One of my great-aunts is named Adèle – she was born in 1917, so it fits, dates-wise. I think it's the first time I was able to look in my own family's names for a fanfic, and I'm inordinately happy about it :o)

Thank you for reading, and see you next week :o]