"Well, I – I think – that is, perhaps we should look on the bright side."
Corporal Langenscheidt looked from one of his companions to the other. He saw little in the way of encouragement. The Englishman didn't raise his head from the arm of the sofa where he was resting, but continued to gaze, with half-opened eyes, at the white blur outside the window. Major Hochstetter, however, turned his attention from the tiny flame in the open fireplace, and fixed Langenscheidt with a dark, interrogative glare.
"You think there is a bright side?" he asked. "I do not share your optimism. Nor, I suspect, does the prisoner. But I am sure you are prepared to enlighten us."
"W-w-well…" Langenscheidt stammered. Then he took a deep breath, and stumbled into speech: "Well, after it's over, we'll all know each other better."
The last few words wobbled, as if he'd just realised what he was saying, and to whom. But Hochstetter relaxed into a cynical smile. "Are you sure this is something you want?"
"N-no, Herr Major – I mean, y-yes, Herr Major – I mean…"
"And what about you?" Hochstetter turned his attention to Newkirk. "Are you looking forward to the three of us becoming better acquainted?"
"Can't hardly wait, sir," replied Newkirk.
Hochstetter studied him with narrowed eyes, then went back to his appraisal of the fire. Langenscheidt stayed by the door, shivering as the draught from outside reached him, too timid to move closer to the fireplace. He was all right, for a goon; he'd behaved quite decently since this whole business had started. Newkirk knew he should shift up and let him take the other end of the sofa, but he still felt too poorly to bother with being nice.
He shuffled onto his side so he could keep Hochstetter in sight, and to all appearances dozed off again. But although his eyelids drooped and his breathing slowed, his mind stayed busy, looking for a way out of what had so quickly developed into a very awkward predicament.
It would have been a relief to blame Hochstetter, or even Langenscheidt. But it was just bad luck, a series of accidents, which had brought this ill-assorted trio together in uneasy company; and it was Newkirk who, quite unintentionally, had started it.
For the life of him, he couldn't have said how or when he'd broken his back molar. But he knew when he'd become aware of it: the previous night, or to be specific, at four o'clock in the morning, when he'd been woken from a deep, dreamless sleep by the worst pain he could ever remember having, a piercing, ice-cold pain which had taken possession of the entire left side of his face.
He didn't want to disturb his mates' well-earned rest; they'd had a long night out of camp, creating trouble for the Germans. So he set himself to the task of enduring as best he could.
It seemed like an eternity before the rest of the barracks started to stir. He heard the patter of bare footsteps going past, the rattle of the door on the little iron stove, and a soft exclamation in French: "Merde alors, qu'il fait un froid de canard!"
Carter, from his bunk, just below Newkirk's, added his opinion. "Oh, boy, is it ever cold this morning."
"That's what I just said," LeBeau called back.
Carter's train of thought had already gone off on a different track. "Say, Newkirk, you were real restless last night. Did you have that dream again? You know, the one about Hedy Lamarr?"
Newkirk rolled over and propped himself up, preparing a caustic response, but the movement sent a further streak of pain through his upper jaw, all the way up to his eye socket and into his ear. He might have cried out, he wasn't sure. LeBeau took one look at him, and ran to fetch Colonel Hogan; and the result was an early morning visit to the Kommandant's office.
"Another toothache?" Colonel Klink, sitting at his desk, gazed through his monocle at Newkirk's swollen face. "Didn't this man have dental trouble only recently?"
"That was six months ago," replied Hogan. It wasn't true, but nobody wanted too many questions to be asked about Newkirk's last trip to the dentist.
Klink stood up and walked around the desk until he was standing uncomfortably close. "It certainly looks painful. He's very flushed."
He raised his hand, as if about to poke the distended cheek with his finger; but, seeing how Newkirk flinched, he held back. "Open your mouth," he snapped. "Now, let me take a look at...oh. I see."
He backed away, and without any further questions, he scribbled out a pass and called Schultz into the office. "Give this to Corporal Langenscheidt, and tell him to take this man straight to the dentist in town."
"You don't want me to go, Herr Kommandant?" asked Schultz.
"After what happened the last time? Forget it! And tell Langenscheidt to take the motor cycle and sidecar."
"But, Kommandant, can't you let them take the staff car?" Hogan protested. "It's snowing out there. Newkirk's already running a fever, and Langenscheidt's got a weak chest."
"The staff car is for my personal use, not for ferrying prisoners around the countryside. No, Hogan." Klink cut off any further objection before it started. "I will not enter into any discussion. The motorcycle, or they don't go. Dismissed."
And that was that. Half an hour later, with Langenscheidt in charge and Newkirk in the sidecar, the motorcycle passed through the main gate, turned to the right and headed off at a sedate pace through a light but persistent fall of snow. Newkirk was well wrapped up in his RAF topcoat and a borrowed scarf, but the cold air still made him shiver. He would rather have been driving; they'd have got there a lot faster. Langenscheidt, though steady, was at all times a cautious motorist.
By the time the dentist had finished with him, Newkirk had no desire whatsoever to drive. The gas had left him light-headed, but hadn't done much to make the extraction easier to bear, and the procedure had left him with a persistent dull ache in the empty socket, a taste of blood in his mouth, and a tingling sensitivity which sent ripples of pain across the surface of his skin at the slightest touch.
The weather had worsened while he was in the dentist's chair. The snow was falling thick and fast, and Langenscheidt went even more carefully as the motorcycle left town and took the road back towards Stalag 13. All his prudence, however, wasn't enough to prevent the accident.
It wasn't Langenscheidt's fault. He saw the headlights of the car approaching from the other direction, but the driver of the truck which suddenly came barrelling up behind him didn't, until he'd already swung out to overtake; then, realising his error, he swerved back, clipping the motorcycle and sending it off the road before sideswiping the car. There was a loud bang, a screech of metal on metal, and a final crunch as the car skidded in the snow, spun halfway round and came to a sudden stop against the trunk of a large pine tree.
The truck kept going, and within seconds had disappeared from sight.
Somehow, Langenscheidt had managed to stop the bike from tipping over. He scrambled clear, clinging to the handlebars and hyperventilating. Newkirk struggled out of the sidecar, too shaken to even register whether he was hurt. The wind was picking up, but wasn't loud enough to drown out the furious tirade coming from the other side of the road, and Langenscheidt pulled himself together and stumbled across to help. Newkirk started after him, but overbalanced under a wave of dizziness, and dropped to his hands and knees.
The front wheel of the cycle was right next to him, close enough for him to see the damage; the fork twisted out of shape, and the tyre ripped out of the rim. It wasn't going anywhere, any time soon.
The sound of voices alerted him to the approach of Langenscheidt and the other driver, and a sudden feeling of dread rose to the surface of Newkirk's consciousness. That high-pitched, grating tone was all too familiar. He pushed himself up and managed to get to his feet just in time to meet the malevolent glare of the last person he wanted to see.
Hochstetter didn't seem pleased to see Newkirk, either. "What is this prisoner doing outside the camp?" he demanded.
"Bitte, Herr Major, I have been trying to explain." Langenscheidt had to almost shout to be heard over the wind. "The prisoner needed to have a tooth extracted, because..."
"Bah!" Hochstetter swept the explanation away with a sweep of his hand. "This could have been done in the camp. Klink is too soft with the prisoners."
Seeing Langenscheidt was too timid to respond, Newkirk took it up: "Couldn't agree more, sir. I mean, how many Kommandants would have sent us off on a lovely motorcycle ride through a snowstorm?"
Even in his own ears, he sounded weak and hoarse; and apparently Hochstetter couldn't hear him, since he spoke over the last few words: "My car is too damaged to continue. It is imperative that I reach Hammelburg without delay. I am commandeering this motorcycle."
"Good luck with that, sir," said Newkirk, raising his voice and gesturing towards the mangled front wheel. "Bit of a sticky wicket, isn't it? I mean, you could wait for another vehicle to come along and flag it down. But even in good weather there's not a lot of traffic along this road, so it might be a long wait."
He glanced up, but couldn't even see the clouds, let alone the sky. "In the meantime, I think you'll find we've got a bigger problem on our hands. This storm's turning nasty. Perhaps we ought to think about finding some shelter."
"I agree, Herr Major," Langenscheidt put in. He shrank back as he said it, but Hochstetter, after one piercing look at him, turned to survey what could be seen of the landscape, his fury diminishing as he realised the seriousness of their plight. Encouraged, Langenscheidt found the nerve to offer a suggestion: "Could we not shelter in your car?"
"No," Hochstetter snapped back. "The rear window shattered, and let in the snow which was shaken from the tree by the impact. We would surely freeze to death. Are there any houses nearby?"
He directed this question towards Langenscheidt, but Newkirk stepped in again. His teeth were starting to chatter, causing him a new and almost unbearable level of pain. He needed to get out of this, as quickly as possible. "There's an old abandoned farmhouse in the woods, over that way," he said. "It's probably our best chance."
He set off in the direction of the long-deserted farm. Langenscheidt hesitated, then followed. Hochstetter stared after them, then ran back to his car. Half a minute later, he returned and tagged on behind Langenscheidt.
Newkirk had spoken confidently, but even though he knew this area well, he'd never tried to find his way around under such adverse conditions. Nor was he sure he wanted to lead Hochstetter to the old farm. The prisoners had never made use of it, but it might have come in handy as a safe house some time. Under the circumstances, however, he didn't have much choice.
His head was spinning again before they got there, and he hardly noticed at first when Langenscheidt, without asking, took his arm and helped him along. It was just enough to get him there, and when the outline of a building came into view through the whiteout, he had to blink to clear his eyes before stumbling on.
Hochstetter pushed in front as they reached the doorstop. "The door is locked. You – Corporal – break it down."
"Sh-should we do this, Herr Major?" Langenscheidt was shivering almost as much as Newkirk. "It might get us in trouble."
"He won't get in trouble," muttered Newkirk, "and I don't much care if I do."
Langenscheidt gave the door an apprehensive once over before he backed up and prepared to throw his weight against it. But Newkirk stopped him in his tracks. "Don't bother. It's solid oak, you'll only hurt yourself."
He dropped on one knee, studying the lock. "Can you lend me that penknife of yours?"
Hochstetter growled under his breath, but Langenscheidt, with an air of relief, produced the pocketknife. It was a nice piece of kit, with a range of blades and tools. Newkirk took a moment to select the most useful implement, and set to work. It was a quality lock, stronger than he would have expected on an isolated farmhouse, and it took him longer than usual, but at last the door swung open.
Inside it was quite dark. Instinctively, Langenscheidt tried to find a light switch, but there wasn't one. Nevertheless, a beam of light suddenly cut through the gloom, as Hochstetter turned on the flashlight he'd fetched out of his car.
The light revealed a homely, old-fashioned sitting room, dusty and neglected but apparently structurally sound, and furnished in the heavy style of many years ago. The windows had neither curtains nor shutters, but the glass was intact. A small open fireplace was set into the plastered wall opposite the door, and a pair of paraffin lamps stood on the mantel.
Hochstetter slammed the door closed and advanced towards the fireplace. "Matches!" he snapped over his shoulder.
Langenscheidt gave a start. "I-I don't…"
Once again, Newkirk came to his rescue, producing a matchbox from his pocket, and tossing it across to Hochstetter. "I shouldn't think there's any oil in them," he said.
Hochstetter had already removed the glass from the first lamp. "We shall see," he replied.
He struck a match and applied it to the wick. It caught immediately, and he frowned as he attended to the second lamp, which also took the flame without any trouble. He studied it for a moment, then glanced down at the fireplace. "There is wood here. Are you competent to build a fire?"
In the warm glow of the lamplight it was hard to tell whether Langenscheidt had blushed, but he hastened to the task. Hochstetter continued his survey of their surroundings. If he had an opinion, he wasn't about to share it. Newkirk, too weary to stand on ceremony, made his way over to a sofa to one side of the room and lay down.
The ache was beginning to ease, or he was getting used to it. Either way, it didn't stop him from dozing off. By the time he opened his eyes, Langenscheidt had coaxed a feeble little flame into life, and retreated to stand just inside the door, as far from Hochstetter as he could get without going out into the snow. Hochstetter had taken up a position beside the fireplace, leaning on the mantel. Whether there had been any conversation between them, Newkirk couldn't tell; but a few minutes after he roused up Langenscheidt offered his tentative invitation to look on the bright side.
"I must confess," said Hochstetter thoughtfully, after a long period of reflection, "I am curious about one thing."
Only one?
Newkirk wasn't about to ask that question; he already knew the answer. Instead, he went for something a little safer: "What's that, then, sir?"
Hochstetter looked around the room. "This house. You have been here before?"
"Well, no," said Newkirk slowly, feeling his way, looking for the trap in Hochstetter's question.
"No?"
"No, we don't get much of a chance to wander round, being prisoners and all. Colonel Klink's very strict about it."
A smirk hovered on Hochstetter's lips. "Yet you knew it was here. How is this possible?"
"Well…" Newkirk didn't have time to think, but he had to come up with an answer. "Well, you see, we were on a work detail. Road repairs. Now, when a bloke's doing road works, and he gets caught short, the usual thing is to take a little stroll into the woods."
"Caught short?"
"You know. Call of nature. Seeing a man about a dog." Seeing Hochstetter's continuing bafflement, Newkirk turned to Langenscheidt. "Help us out, chum."
"Ein Bedürfnis," said Langenscheidt. He made a vague gesture which might have been meant for clarification. "Verstehen Sie, ein...ein dringendes..."
"Thank you, I have it now," Hochstetter interrupted. "So, it was on one of these little strolls that you came across this building?"
Newkirk pushed himself up to a sitting position. "That's right, sir. Just behind the trees, it was. I'd have taken a closer look, but the guard who was keeping an eye on me called me back, so I never got the chance."
"Just behind the trees?" Hochstetter's eyebrows went up. "How far into the woods did you venture for this – what did you say, call of nature? Because we are quite a long way from the road."
"Well, yes…" Newkirk felt a prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. This was getting tricky. "The thing is, sir, it wasn't that road we were working on. There's a turn-off just a little way back, goes off towards Weizenfeld, and it goes right past the back of the farmyard. That's where we were working, sir."
It wasn't bad for an off-the-cuff fabrication, and for a moment he thought he'd sold it. Then Hochstetter's gaze turned towards Langenscheidt. "Is this true?"
Langenscheidt hesitated, glanced at Newkirk, then drew himself up. "Y-yes, Herr Major. The road to Weizenfeld is not far from here, and the prisoners have done work there."
Newkirk suppressed a sigh of relief. He hadn't expected Langenscheidt to back him up; the poor blighter was so fixated on toeing the line, it was almost pathetic. Yet here he was, lying to the Gestapo. Maybe he wasn't so timid, after all.
"I see." Hochstetter took a few steps back and forth, then fixed on Newkirk again. "And you have never been to this place since then, nor ever been inside?"
"No, sir. Even if I could leave the camp, why would I come up here? It's just an old abandoned farm."
"And yet, there is something wrong here." Hochstetter looked around., then returned his eyes to Newkirk's face. "You say it is abandoned, but the place has been kept in good condition. The lamps have been cleaned and filled with oil, and there was good firewood stacked by the fireplace. And then there is the lock on the door, a very secure lock for such an isolated house. Do you not find this peculiar?"
"I wouldn't know about that, Major," said Newkirk, but behind his poker face, a trail of conjectures was taking shape, leading towards an uncomfortable conclusion.
Hochstetter, following the same path, got there first. "Someone is using this place, and probably for illegal purposes. And it seems to me that the most likely suspects are you and the other members of your band of criminals."
He glowered at Newkirk, who countered it with a convincing air of wounded innocence. "Criminals? Us? Nothing of the kind. We're the most law-abiding lot of prisoners you'll find this side of Wormwood Scrubs. Mind you," he went on, forestalling a further attack, "you could be on to something. There's definitely something dodgy about it. What do you think, Langenscheidt?"
Put on the spot, Langenscheidt opened his mouth, closed it again, looked at Newkirk, then at Hochstetter, and finally back to Newkirk. "I-I don't – "
"Of course!" Newkirk interrupted. "Black marketers! Langenscheidt, you've cracked it!"
"Black marketers? Nonsense!" growled Hochstetter. "Why would they come all the way out here, when their business is in town?"
"Exactly!" Newkirk leaned forward to emphasise his point. "Nobody would ever suspect this was a black market warehouse, would they? Why, I'd set up here myself, if I was going into that line of business. Of course, I wouldn't never…"
He fell silent at an impatient gesture from Hochstetter, who seemed to be turning this new idea over in his mind. "There is another locked door, over there," he said abruptly. "You have already demonstrated unsuspected skills with such things. Can you open it?"
"Well, I can try," murmured Newkirk, not best pleased. Hochstetter was getting to know him a bit too well. All the same, he turned to Langenscheidt. "Can I borrow your penknife again, chum?"
"You still have it," replied Langenscheidt reproachfully.
"So I do. Honestly, I get more absent-minded…"
"Enough with the chatter," Hochstetter blazed. "I want that door opened, now."
"All right, keep calm." Newkirk got to his feet. The dizziness he'd had earlier was almost gone, but he still tottered slightly as he went to the door which had captured Hochstetter's interest. He pursed his lips at sight of the lock.
"Well?" demanded Hochstetter.
"Well, it's a nice bit of hardware. Let's see how I go." And without committing himself further, Newkirk set to work.
It took less time than the previous one, but that might have been because his fingers weren't as cold. As soon as it was done, Hochstetter pushed past him into the room beyond. Langenscheidt was about to follow, but stopped at a curt command from the major: "Keep watch!"
Since he assumed this order didn't apply to him, Newkirk gave Langenscheidt a grin, and went in. He found himself in what appeared to be a small storage room, with the windows boarded over and several wooden boxes stacked against the walls, illuminated by Hochstetter's flashlight.
"See? I told you," said Newkirk. "Black market."
"I don't think so." Hochstetter had thrown open the lid of the nearest chest. He drew aside the linen sheet which covered the contents, and Newkirk leaned over to take a look. The box was full of books, and they looked old.
He knelt, and with one finger, gently opened the nearest volume. The leather binding creaked, and the pages within felt curiously soft and warm. The light played across the drawings revealed: strange, fantastic animals and otherworldly birds, faded by time but still clear and wonderfully detailed.
"I know what these are." Hochstetter spoke in a low growl. "There was a library in Schlossheim, a collection of rare and valuable mediaeval books. It was destroyed last year, by fire. These books were believed to have been lost."
"Well, looks like we found them." Newkirk sat back on his heels. "What do you suppose they're doing here?"
"They must have been removed before the fire." Hochstetter's brow lowered. "There are collectors who will pay almost any price for such things."
Newkirk knew this perfectly well, but he wasn't about to let on. Hochstetter already knew too much about him. He studied the illustrations with an air of bemusement. "Really? For a bunch of dodgy animal drawings? Just look at that giraffe. It's got no neck."
Hochstetter's lip curled. "Fool!" he muttered. "Close the box. I have seen enough. This must be reported without delay. Langenscheidt!"
He strode to the door, almost colliding with Langenscheidt who had come running. "Bitte, Herr Major…" he broke out.
Hochstetter cut him off. "How far is it to Stalag 13? You must go there at once, on foot, and report what has happened. Klink is to send an armed escort and a truck."
"B-but…"
"Don't argue, there is no time to lose. The storm has ceased, and the road is clear enough. You will have no trouble getting there. We must have reinforcements before the thieves return for their plunder."
Langenscheidt's voice rose almost to a squeak in his desperation to make himself heard: "Herr Major, I think they have already returned. There is a vehicle approaching the house."
"What?" Hochstetter thrust him aside and hastened to the window. "Ach, du Scheiße! No matter. We will arrest them when they arrive."
Newkirk had gone to the other window. The daylight was fading, but the headlights of a car could be seen, slowly driving towards the house. "They'll know someone's here as soon as they see the door's unlocked. Perhaps we should slip outside and ambush them."
Why he was offering advice to the Gestapo, he had no idea, but Hochstetter seemed to be taking it on board. "Yes, this is a better plan – We? You have no business with this. You will keep out of it. Langenscheidt, you have a gun?"
Langenscheidt went red. "I don't have my rifle. I have a pistol, but I am not a very good…"
"That will do." Hochstetter squinted out again. "You will take up a position to the left, behind that tree, and challenge them as soon as they come close. I will surprise them from the other side. You – " He jabbed a finger at Newkirk. "Extinguish the lamps, and then keep quiet. One sound from you, and you will regret it."
He eased the door open, pushed the unhappy Langenscheidt out, and followed. Newkirk dealt with the lamps, and went back to the window, crouching as low as he could to avoid being seen. The car was getting close, although obviously finding it heavy going. He couldn't see Hochstetter, but Langenscheidt was still in his line of sight. He had drawn his pistol, but didn't look too handy with it.
This is not going to end well, thought Newkirk.
The car stopped, and two men got out. The numbers were even; so far, so good. But they were big blokes, and while Langenscheidt wasn't exactly a short-arse, he wasn't by any means a bruiser either. As for Hochstetter, Newkirk didn't rate his chances if it came to a fight.
His misgivings were well-founded. In the first place, Langenscheidt waited much too long, and the two heavies were almost on top of him before he stepped out from behind the tree, uttering a nervous, tremulous cry: "Halt!"
At once, the nearest thug swung round, slapped the pistol from his hand, and grabbed him by the throat. Hochstetter, seeing things had already gone pear-shaped, came rushing out, tripped over some snow-buried obstacle, and crashed to the ground.
Newkirk reacted by pure reflex. He burst through the door and tackled the brute who was strangling Langenscheidt. The three of them staggered backwards, and Langenscheidt was flung clear as his assailant turned on this new foe. He swung a punch; Newkirk ducked, and charged forward. His shoulder met his opponent's chest, driving the man back into the tree where Langenscheidt had been hiding. They hit hard, driving the air from Newkirk's lungs. The nerves in his face, which he'd almost forgotten about, roused up in a fierce, united shriek of protest. But the other bloke was winded, too. It was the only chance either of them would get, and Newkirk took it; he grabbed the man's head with both hands and slammed it against the tree. Then he dropped.
"Pass auf!" Langenscheidt's warning shout reached him, and he looked up. The second heavy was pointing a gun at him.
Well, this is it, thought Newkirk.
He flinched as he heard the shot. But it was the gunman who went down.
Hochstetter limped forward, his pistol still in his hand. He glanced at the body as he went past, then proceeded on to inspect the other one, who was out for the count.
"This will make things much easier," he remarked.
"Not for him, it won't," Newkirk croaked, jerking his thumb at the dead man.
Hochstetter dismissed this with a grunt. "Langenscheidt, you will not have to walk, after all. Take the car, drive to Stalag 13 and bring back a truck and a squad of guards to assist with loading the boxes. Tell Klink to call Gestapo Headquarters and inform them of this. And take the prisoner with you."
Newkirk, with Langenscheidt's help, had staggered to his feet. "I thought you wanted to get better acquainted, sir."
"I have already learned as much about you as I need to for one day," Hochstetter growled back. "I will be adding some very interesting footnotes to your dossier when I return to headquarters. Langenscheidt, why are you still here?"
Langenscheidt saluted, and went quickly to the car, but Newkirk lingered. "You could have let him shoot me. Or shot me yourself."
"I could have."
"Why didn't you?"
Hochstetter regarded him with a scowl. "Perhaps I want to save that pleasure for another day. But unless you are out of my sight within the next thirty seconds, I may change my mind."
He sounded as if he meant it, but Newkirk waited a full twenty seconds before he turned and slouched off to join Langenscheidt.
They drove in silence for some way. Langenscheidt seemed to have something on his mind. Finally he stopped the car.
"What's up?" mumbled Newkirk. For once in his life he couldn't wait to get back to Stalag 13. He'd never been so tired in his life. Not even another toothache would wake him up tonight
"You saved my life." Langenscheidt gave him a sideways glance. He was gripping the steering wheel tightly, as if he couldn't let go.
"Well, no need to take on about it. Hochstetter saved mine, you don't hear me making a fuss. He's probably as browned off about it as I am." Newkirk chuckled softly. "Look at it this way. You did me a favour back there, and I always like to return favours."
Langenscheidt's eyebrows drew in, as he stared in silence at the snow-covered woods; and Newkirk, contemplating this enemy, who had lied to Hochstetter for him, found himself smiling.
After a while, Langenscheidt smiled, too. "You still have my knife."
"Oh, all right, I'll give it back," said Newkirk. "Now suppose we get on, before it starts snowing again." He leaned back, and closed his eyes.
Langenscheidt had been right, after all. For better or worse, now it was over, the three of them – Newkirk, Langenscheidt and Hochstetter – really did know each other better.