A/N Unbetaed. Written for the SSSWC 23. Used line in bold. Posted while it was still July 2 in Hawaii.
Heroes
Jones closed his eyes, pretending to be relaxed while he waited in the hangar for his flight. Since he had taken up the pen to write for the war effort, he hadn't been this excited. For the first time, he'd get the chance to meet real heroes operating behind enemy lines.
Unable to stay completely still, he drummed with his fingers against his thighs, pressing his back against the wall in an attempt to stay out of the way.
He'd wanted to serve but failed the medical. Too many sicknesses as a child had left their mark, and he was deemed unable to fight in a meaningful manner. So he took up the pen and crafted stories about heroes.
"Jones?"
He jerked. "Here!"
A young corporal stood in the big door, a clipboard in his hands. "Your ride's here," he said, turning on his heel and marching away.
Jones hurried after him. The general had been clear in his instructions. He was supposed to write an article about the real heroes of the war. He was not to reveal anything about the operation or the identity of its members. And he was not to interfere with their operation. If something went wrong, he'd become a normal POW, just without ever being an airman to begin with. But Jones wasn't worried; Papa Bear was a pro in this business.
Walking a step behind the corporal, Jones clenched the small bag in his sweaty hands. He'd write his best work, telling the world about the true heroes of the war.
:~:~:~:
Heroes by Adam Jones, winter 1944
I always knew what a hero was: a man made out of steel, who moved faster than a bullet and was smarter than any enemy. A hero never felt hunger or pain and didn't get tired. He always knew what to do, and it was always the right thing.
And I always knew who wasn't a hero: a tired and sick man who put together engines, like my father. If he'd at least designed new ones. Or a woman like my mother, who stayed home to take care of all her neighbors when the alarm sounded. If at least she was a nurse.
But after I met real heroes in Germany, I had to question what I thought I knew about heroes.
:~:~:~:
"Listen up!" Hogan clapped his hands together, trying to get the attention of everybody in Barracks 2. Schultz had already been by, and for once, there weren't any big plans for the night. Slowly, one by one, they put down their socks, cards, or magazines and came to the table where Hogan waited.
"The Allied Supreme Headquarters had a new idea," Hogan said and crossed his arms.
"Isn't this London?" Carter asked.
"London is a beautiful, rainy city. It shouldn't be tainted by the headquarters' newest idea," the colonel replied, grimacing. Since he'd read the message, Hogan had constantly asked himself how this could've come from London.
"We're supposed to drive a tank to Berlin?" Newkirk said it in jest before his face fell. "Please tell me it ain't so."
"No, worse."
"Crittendon?" Kinch asked, and his shudder wasn't entirely played.
"No!" Hogan took a deep breath. "Don't say his name. Or we really have to deal with him." Or maybe it had been Crittendon's idea. It would fit.
"Then what is it, mon colonel?"
Hogan tapped his foot and said, "They'll send a reporter."
"A reporter?" A choir of men asked before talking all at the same time.
"Fellas!" Hogan needed several attempts until the protest or maybe agreement had died down. "He's supposed to get here tonight, conduct a few interviews, watch us work and write his piece, and then be gone by the end of the week."
"Why do we need a reporter?"
"Beats me." Hogan shrugged.
"Can we tell him whatever we want?"
"No, and you also can't give him a private message for your family back home." Hogan rubbed his eyes. "Everything he's writing has to go through censorship, but I'm not sure if I can count on their intelligence if they send a reporter. To us from all the places."
:~:~:~:
Jones climbed up the last step of the ladder and ... came out of a bed into a big room, a barracks by the look of it.
In front of him, an American colonel with crossed arms expected him.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Jones said, aiming straight for the boss and offering his hand. "Colonel, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Adam Jones and -"
The colonel didn't move. "You do realize that our operation is top secret. No matter what London apparently thinks."
Jones dropped his hand. "I know what's at stake, and I promise you I won't do anything to endanger your mission. But a lot of other units could use some inspiration and maybe some hope. That's my mission. And the generals have seen the extraordinary work you do."
The muscles along his jaws twitched, and then the colonel dropped his arms. "Colonel Hogan, United States Army Air Corps." He relaxed further, even if it seemed forceful. "Here are the rules: you do what we say the moment we say it. You're only allowed to talk to people I tell you. You won't talk to any Germans. And you're not offering to carry personal messages for or to anybody. Got it?"
"Absolutely," Jones said. His excitement at being here wasn't so easily squashed. It had been a fight to be allowed to do this. He wouldn't jeopardize it by failing to follow some easy orders.
"Good." Hogan took a step back, allowing Jones to fully enter the room.
Hogan's men stood or sat around, some smoking, some reading, most just staring at him. He spotted American and British uniforms, and even a French one. He smiled with what he hoped was a disarming expression. But apparently London hadn't quite managed to explain his visit in a charming way and he was met with hesitation and weariness.
Jones walked around the table, along the rows of bunks, until he came back to the one he'd climbed out of.
"So you start your missions by going into bed and finish them by climbing out?"
Colonel Hogan's lips didn't twitch, but he raised an eyebrow. "That's about right."
"Good. That's something a lot of people could cut a slice off."
:~:~:~:
Newkirk dealt out the next round of cards. The reporter wasn't a complete waste of time. Jones had brought new cigarettes and was losing them fast, while Newkirk's own stash had grown considerably since they started to play.
The storm outside forced everybody into the barracks, but the hut didn't help much against the cold or moistness.
"Is it always this damp in here?" Jones asked, staring at his cards.
"No. You're lucky. Klink had given us tools and material to repair the roof last week, or it would've rained in."
Jones' gaze traveled along the roof.
"LeBeau cooked for days our coffee with the water we collected," Newkirk said, part to shock him, part to make it clear that this was a POW camp and not a hotel. He chose a card and put it on the table.
"How long was the roof broken before you could repair it?"
"Since last year," Carter said, playing his card. "The men sleeping in the lower bunks got lucky. They were only awakened by the cursing, not by the rain in their faces."
"Lucky," the reporter sighed, folded his cards, and put them down. "I don't feel lucky right now. And by the way, Corporal Newkirk, you're cheating."
"Am I?" Newkirk asked. "Well, how do you think we get our information from the guards? By asking nicely?"
:~:~:~:
At home, stealing or cheating is a serious crime, but not here. This operation requires daring robbery, shameless lies, and an eye for opportunity.
And nobody has a quicker finger than this Englishman. I cannot tell you any more about this incredible fellow, who offered his gift selflessly to the war effort, but I wish you could meet him.
A true hero uses does the necessary even if it would be frowned upon at home.
:~:~:~:
On day two of the visit from the reporter, Carter was outside washing their clothes as Jones sauntered over.
He shouldn't be outside; the way he moved, the way he looked, the way he glanced at the guards—everything screamed 'I'm new here'. Carter made a mental note to inform the colonel as Jones stopped right next to him.
"What are you doing?"
"Doing laundry," Carter pointed out the obvious. "It's finally dry again. We need to use the time wisely."
Jones stared at the washtub and washboard. "Isn't there anybody else who'd do it for you? Don't you have more important things to do?"
Carter shrugged. "It's nice and calming. I like doing laundry."
"You're the demolition expert, Sergeant Carter, right?"
"That's right," Carter agreed.
"Is this some special ingredient you mixed yourself?" Jones indicated with his chin to the washtub as if he couldn't imagine that Carter just liked the work.
"No, this is just soap. Normal soap." Carter took a step back, drying his hand. "Here, do you want to try it for yourself? It's really relaxing."
Bewildered, Jones let himself pulled forward and started to scrub some clothes.
:~:~:~:
If the slightest mistake could cost your and your comrades' lives, you need nerves of steel. It was the job for a real hero. The demolition expert has created hundreds of jumping crackers, smoke bombs and explosives.
But that didn't stop his desire to help and didn't fulfill his curiosity, and so he invented soap that could clean even the dirtiest uniform. This was a necessary feat to hide their missions from the Germans.
A true hero doesn't stop with just the necessary, he goes the extra mile with a smile and a whistle on his lips.
:~:~:~:
LeBeau noted the reporter sitting at the table, staring a little lost at his notepad. He'd already been here for five days, and with every passing day, he became quieter.
Louis had seen this many times, but usually in the other direction. After capture, the men tended to be angry or fearful, but then they calmed down in the boring routine of the camp. Whereas Jones had started with excitement and yet ended up with the same dull expression.
Except for LeBeau, only Jones was in the barracks. After a short pause on day two, the rain and wind returned with force. The unexpected sun today had lured everybody outside. But LeBeau used to quiet to cook without an audience and comments from the peanut gallery.
"Does this often happen?" Jones suddenly asked into the silence.
"What?"
"That you can't go out for days on end?"
LeBeau shrugged, while he stirred the soup. "It happens. We can't go on mission if the weather doesn't allow it. And in camp, there's only so much you can do."
"How long are you here?"
"Here, as in Stalag XIII or prisoner of war?"
"Is there a difference?" Jones stood up and walked over to LeBeau.
LeBeau smirked. "Big enough for the Eiffel Tower to pass through. Twice."
Jones gave him a small smile, apparently understanding what LeBeau wanted to say. Sometimes you found sentiment in the strangest places. "Smells good."
"It's potatoes with water and some spices," LeBeau said. "Do you want to taste it?"
Carefully, Jones took the spoon in his hands and put it in his mouth. Surprise appeared on his face. "Delicious. Is it only for you?"
"No, for the whole barracks."
The reporter froze. His expression showed his shock. "This little soup for all the men?"
"We haven't been in town the last few days. And even then, it's not a guarantee that you'd get what you want."
Jones opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the door opened, and Schultz strolled in. "Cockroach, I'm starving. Please tell me that you have soup for me."
LeBeau pushed Jones slightly away. Getting angry wouldn't help him now, but somebody hadn't watched the door like he was supposed to.
Instead, he focused on his unwanted guest. "Schultzie, don't you see I'm busy?"
"It smells so delicious. You wouldn't believe what they served in the mess the last few days."
"Do you want to taste?" LeBeau easily captured Schultz' attention until Colonel Hogan arrived who steered Schultz out of the barracks without him ever seeing the reporter.
LeBeau sighed relieved.
:~:~:~:
At first glance, cooking isn't a wartime operation, but in the hands of this man, it becomes a deadly weapon. No matter if you need a way to deliver some sleeping pills or to pry out a few secrets, he's your man.
His kitchen is his workshop, the place he designs and creates his deadly deeds.
There's never a pause; everybody needs to eat, and so he's also responsible for the strength of the crew by creating delicious food so nobody is hungry.
With enough ingredients he could single-handedly defeat the Germans by feeding them until they were too full to fight.
A real hero uses whatever he could get his hands on.
:~:~:~:
Kinch sat by his radio, waiting. In his mind, he went through the new code again.
Suddenly, he felt a presence next to him and opened his eyes. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No," Jones said. Since Schultz had almost caught him, he hadn't ventured upstairs again, instead choosing to stay in the tunnel. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"In case London has a message or the underground needs our help."
"You man the radio?" The reporter voiced his sentence like a question despite that it should be obvious.
Kinch raised an eyebrow.
Jones grimaced, apparently realizing how stupid his question sounded. He shrugged and tried again. "Is your job always this boring?"
"No. It's usually even more boring. Tonight, I'll at least expect a message. London needs to tell us how you're going to get back."
Jones nodded but then he pulled the second chair over and sat down right next to him. There wasn't really enough space for two, but they managed. Then they waited together.
:~:~:~:
The radio operator keys the secret message with fingers so fast they blur. But for him, this is not a problem. In his spacious radio room, the man has everything under control. No matter if it's orders from London or news from his local sources, he's always on top of everything. Nothing escapes his ears; no code is too hard to break; and his finger has Morsed a message before you'd read the script.
He's truly a master of his craft. His knowledge alone is something the Germans should fear.
A real hero always hones his skills, never letting up in his chase of getting better.
:~:~:~:
"Not living up to your expectations, huh?" Hogan said after reading the reporter's draft. Or maybe Hogan had expected something else. On one hand, Jones really kept his words and didn't use any identifiable descriptions about their setup. On the other hand, Hogan didn't even recognize his own mission.
"I expected more excitement and less boredom and fear," Jones said. The jacket fit him easier now; he appeared less green and more believable as an airman and POW.
"Well, you visited us at a dull moment. Usually we're up to more shenanigans." Hogan shrugged. "I'd invited you to come back, but I still think this is a bad idea to send a reporter here."
Jones nodded. "I got this the last five times you mentioned it."
"Good. Make sure the Allied Supreme Headquarters gets it too, and we're even." Hogan held out his hand.
They shook hands. Tomorrow, Jones would return to London, and they'd return to normal operation. If the rain let up.
:~:~:~:
For a moment, disorientation confused Jones, and the resulting adrenaline woke him up fast. He scrambled up, breathing hard.
Slowly, he went toward the noises coming from another arm of the tunnel system.
First he saw LeBeau with his bright red beret. He was running around half a dozen men, carrying cups and plates. The men slouched on the floor or leaned against the walls. An air of exhaustion and dread surrounded them.
Jones ventured further. He didn't recognize any of them, couldn't remember ever seeing these men in camp. But LeBeau didn't seem worried, just busy. It helped to calm down his own nerves.
Then suddenly, Hogan came around the corner. As one the new men raised, something his crew had stopped doing, but Hogan just waved them off. "Captain Cartridge. I see you managed to find us well this time. This wasn't how I wanted to see you again," he said.
"Didn't plan for a second rodeo," the captain joked.
One by one, the rest of Hogan's crew arrived. Kinch, with his ever present notepad, asked questions and noted their answers. LeBeau continued to bring food and water while Newkirk and their medic cleaned and bandaged wounds. The dread and fear started to ebb away, and the exhaustion damped the noise level.
Jones moved back as he realized that he couldn't contribute. He looked back for a last glance, and what he saw he'd never forget.
The youngest of the new arrivals, barely twenty, had buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He didn't seem to be injured or in pain; it was just the terrible fear and dread that had engulfed this young man.
Jones was about to look away to give the man some privacy as he noted that Sergeant Carter approached him without hesitation. He clapped the young man on the shoulder and started to talk.
They were too far away for Jones to hear what Carter said, but he could see what the words and the hands on the young man's back were doing. They soothed an oozing wound, cooled a fevered forehead, bandaged a glaring hole, and healed burned skin.
Just then LeBeau arrived with a steaming cup of soup and handed it out. Newkirk cracked a joke and offered his cards to play a round while Kinch was on the radio trying to arrange an escape for them.
Jones vowed to do these heroes justice with his article. They would get their pedestals. He couldn't do much; he couldn't fight, shoot, or contribute to the war effort with labor. But writing was something he could do.
:~:~:~:
Jones stared at the paper in front of him. He had polished and perfected his text, and it was ready to be turned in. And yet, he hesitated. As they said goodbye, Colonel Hogan congratulated him for a good job, not writing about his men but about fictional heroes.
He knew what his boss expected—to satisfy their readers' desire for a good story about real heroes. But he also knew what he owed Colonel Hogan and his men.
Without further hesitation, he grabbed his draft and tossed it in the bin. He would write the truth. Papa Bear didn't need any exaggeration. The truth would be enough.
:~:~:~:
I always knew what a hero was.
But then I went to a secret place in Germany, knowing I was about to meet real heroes. What did I find? Did I find men working around the clock with no fear and no regrets? With a smile and a song on their lips?
No, I found men who waited patiently for hours for one small radio transmission. And then they waited for hours again, contemplating if they had done the right thing.
I found men who got tired and sick—men who went to bed cold and hungry and got up again to put another small screw into an engine. They had learned to deal with frustration, boredom and all-engulfing fear and conquered these emotions, allowing them to act wisely even in the moment when contact with the enemy happened out of the blue.
I saw people scared, hurt, and in pain who got healed with a clap on the shoulder and an encouraging word. None of the wounds the Nazis inflicted vanished beneath the touch, but if you looked into their eyes, you saw the healing. It was the same power my mother had whenever she helped her neighbors into shelters. Human hands have the power to heal fear, uncertainty and loneliness.
As long as I sought heroes in the superhuman, I was out of the game. I wasn't superhuman; I wasn't a hero. I needed to go to Germany to learn that a hero is not a single man but a group of people where everybody is willing to do their small task.
A real hero isn't superhuman; he's just human. Our strength is our unity. I can be a hero. And so can you. It doesn't matter how small or big your contribution is. What matters is that it's a contribution to the right thing.
So, let's go—let's all be heroes.
The End
A/N Thank you for reading.