Discover
Langenscheidt let out a long sigh as he trudged through the forest surrounding Stalag 13. Another dull night of patrol. Of course, he was glad to be stationed here, far from the front. But he hadn't anticipated how boring this job would be.
at Stalag 13 a month ago. Under Kommandant Klink, it had earned a reputation for never having a single escape. Langenscheidt couldn't quite figure it out. While he wasn't in the habit of speaking ill about his commanding officers, Colonel Klink didn't seem all that intimidating or competent. In fact, the senior prisoner of war, Colonel Hogan, seemed to play him like the proverbial fiddle. Somehow, in every exchange Langenscheidt witnessed, Hogan got what he wanted and even when it seemed he didn't, he still looked very pleased with himself. Langenscheidt had to admit, he admired the American.
Something he never would admit, however, was that he wished the American was still in England, flying his bomber. Oh no, he could never admit that. Not if he wanted to keep his head. He could never admit that he hated the war. He hated the man who started it. And he hated that he had been pulled away from his wonderfully ordinary life to participate in it. Oh, he loved his home. He loved Germany. And he would protect it the best he could. But he wanted the war to end. He wanted his 'glorious leader' to disappear. He just wanted peace. And he figured the best way to achieve all that was for the Allies to end this thing sooner rather than later.
All that being said, he still had a job to do. He couldn't just let the prisoners loose; Kommandant Klink would have his head. So he kept his thoughts to himself and did his duty to the best of his ability. But if a prisoner or two every once in a while happened to escape, well, he couldn't be totally blamed for that. After all, in other camps, as Kommandant Klink was fond of saying, they flew away like birds. It would inevitably happen here, no matter how attentive Langenscheidt and his fellow guards were.
The dog he patrolled with suddenly pulled on its leash, taking Langenscheidt out of his thoughts. "What is it?" he asked, kneeling down to calm the dog. It looked up at him, whined, and then once more strained against its leash. Well, perhaps something exciting was finally happening!
Langenscheidt let the dog loose and it started running. He tried to keep up, but quickly fell behind. He stopped, panting, and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. Verdammt, he was out of shape. No wonder he hadn't been sent to the front.
Langenscheidt sucked in a deep breath and waited for his heart to slow before letting it out. Then he straightened up and tried to get his bearings. He heard the dog bark once, then headed in that direction. As he got closer, he heard a hushed voice and raised his rifle. But he didn't fire. Instead, he strained to hear what was being said.
Whoever it was, they were speaking in a language Langenscheidt didn't recognize. Maybe French? Aha! A prisoner was trying to escape. Langenscheidt prepared to charge. But, suddenly, the dog tore through the brush and stopped at his feet. It gently bit his pant leg and pulled him in the opposite direction. When Langenscheidt refused to budge, the dog barked and started running.
Langenscheidt hesitated. Did he follow the dog, or the voice? The dog was a trained killer. If it had been a prisoner, it would have torn him limb from limb. But if it wasn't a prisoner, why was the voice he heard speaking French?
Before he could come to any conclusions, the dog came up behind him and nipped his bum. "Ouch!" Langenscheidt cried. "Stop it! What is the matter with you?" The dog pulled back and sat. It barked and, once again started in the opposite direction. It stopped and waited until Langenscheidt moved to follow, and then, when he did, set off again in the opposite direction of the voice.
"Fine!" Langenscheidt said loudly. "Fine, I am coming!"
Langenscheidt took a few heavy steps, but then dodged behind a tree. He didn't know what was going on. He didn't know why that dog was acting so strangely. But he knew he had heard a voice. And he knew the voice was French.
So he waited.
His patience paid off.
A few minutes later, he heard something rustle in the bushes. And then, he saw someone dart out of the tree line into the nearby clearing. Through the darkness, Langenscheidt recognized the little Frenchman from Barracks Two. Aha! So he had been right!
But… something was wrong. The Frenchman was running towards the camp, not away? Was he lost? Had the dog frightened him and now he didn't know which direction to go?
Langenscheidt didn't know what was going on, but he knew he was supposed to stop any escapes. It was his head on the line, after all.
He was about to jump from his hiding place when the Frenchman suddenly stopped and crouched by a tree stump. Langenscheidt watched, both curious and confused, as the Frenchman pulled at the top of the stump. What was he trying to do?
The Frenchman huffed in annoyance and moved to another stump and repeated the action. "Hey you guys!" he hissed as he knocked on the stump. Who was he talking to?
Finally, the Frenchman moved to another stump. This time when he pulled at it, the top popped open. Langenscheidt nearly dropped his rifle in surprise.
The Frenchman rubbed his hands together, then adjusted the sack on his back before climbing into the stump. The lid dropped back down and, like that, the Frenchman disappeared.
"What on earth?"
Langenscheidt stood, stunned. He rubbed his eyes and peered out into the clearing again, wondering if he had imagined all that.
"Bark!"
Langenscheidt nearly jumped out of his skin when the dog returned and barked right behind him. He whirled around and put a finger to his lips.
"Shhhhh!" He knelt down and patted the dog. The dog bit his sleeve and tried to pull him away, but Langenscheidt freed himself. The dog didn't look too pleased. It barked and then ran off, barking up a storm.
Great. Soon the whole camp would be on his head.
Moving as quickly as he dared, Langenscheidt crept into the clearing. He stopped at the stump and examined it. It looked perfectly ordinary. But he knew it had opened. He was sure he had seen it.
Langenscheidt took a deep breath. Then, in one fluid movement, he kicked at the top of the stump and, when it opened, swung his rifle down into it. But, again, he didn't fire. Instead he carefully peeked down into the hole. It seemed to go down forever. A very tiny flicker of light at the bottom was the only sign of life. The Frenchman had indeed disappeared.
What sort of magic was this?
Shouldering his rifle, Langenscheidt climbed into the stump, grabbing hold of a wooden ladder that descended into the pit. He climbed down a few rungs and then reached up to close the top of the stump.
When Langenscheidt reached the bottom, he figured he was at least forty feet below the surface. He stepped off the ladder carefully and looked around. His eyes grew wide with astonishment. He found himself standing in a spacious tunnel, with walls high enough for him to stand completely upright with room to spare, and wide enough to fit a car. Maybe two! Oil lamps lined the hard-packed dirt walls. Langenscheidt couldn't see anyone down the long hall, but he heard voices. Slowly, he followed them. He paused when he reached a corner and carefully poked his head around to check what lay ahead.
"Ah, I found the most beautiful truffles, mon colonel." It was the Frenchman. He held up his sack and opened it under Colonel Hogan's nose. "See."
"Beautiful, LeBeau, just beautiful," Hogan said, though the dismissive tone didn't match his words. "Did you have any trouble?"
LeBeau shook his head. "I think there may have been a guard nearby, but Heidi– my sweet princess– led him away."
"Good."
"Colonel." The black American appeared from some dark corner, with a paper in his hand. "Message from London. They want to know how many flak guns are in the area. And they want us to sabotage them if possible."
"If possible," Hogan muttered. "You know it's nice they add that little caveat, even when they don't mean it."
Suddenly a voice called down from above. "Trouble up top, Colonel." Langenscheidt recognized the Englander's accent.
Hogan hurried out of Lagenscheidt's view, but he could still hear him. "What's going on, Newkirk?"
"Dog came back to camp barking up a storm. Doesn't have a guard with him," Newkirk reported.
"What do you think it means, Colonel?" LeBeau asked.
"Dunno. Let's get up top though just in case we need to deal with it."
The other two prisoners joined Hogan out of Langenscheidt's field of vision. Ach, it must've been Langenscheidt's dog causing all the trouble. Lagenscheidt turned and quickly ran back the way he had come. He climbed the ladder so fast that he was huffing by the time he reached the top. He threw open the lid of the trunk and climbed out. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he closed it back up again.
His mind reeled as he made his way back to the main gates. He couldn't quite comprehend what he had seen. Had he heard right? A message from London? Orders to sabotage flak cannons? But how? How could these prisoners accomplish such things?
And, yet, in the short time Langenscheidt had been stationed at Stalag 13, he had seen many strange things. Many strange things indeed. Had the prisoners been responsible for all of them?
Langenscheidt was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost walked right into Schultz. He stopped abruptly.
"Langenscheidt, there you are," the sergeant of the guard said, looking worried. "When the dog came back without you, we thought something had happened."
"Sergeant, I… I…" Just what was Langenscheidt supposed to say?
Yes, he wanted the war to be over. He wanted the Allies to win and restore some level of sanity to his country. But… But this? This went far beyond anything he ever expected to encounter as a prison guard. This wasn't failing- intentionally or otherwise- to stop an escape. This went beyond hoping in his heart and mind that the Allies won. If he didn't report this it would be obvious treason! If anyone ever found out what was going on under Stalag 13, and they found out he knew about it and did nothing, he would be shot. All the guards would be shot– or worse! But if he said something, maybe he could be a hero. Maybe…
"I… saw… there was a stump and…"
Schultz suddenly clapped him on the shoulder. "You are new, Langenscheidt; I will give you some advice."
Langenscheidt looked up at the older man, hoping whatever wisdom he was about to bestow would ease his troubled mind.
"And that is," Schultz continued, "that you see nothing. You hear nothing. You know nothing. You say nothing."
Langenscheidt blinked in surprise. Did Schultz, too, know about the prisoners' activities? Was he a traitor to the Fatherland in deed, and not just in thought?
"But… I…" Langenscheidt floundered. What if they were discovered? What if Langenscheidt was accused of collaborating with the enemy? What if…
"Langenscheidt," Schultz said, his voice soft and reassuring, "you know nothing."
"I know nothing," Langenscheidt repeated.
"It is much safer that way," Schultz said.
Langenscheidt didn't know if that was true. But he also didn't know what would happen if he did say something. He didn't know what any of this meant. He didn't know… He… didn't know anything!
"I know nothing," Langenscheidt said more confidently as he came to that realization. He couldn't know anything. This was just too big for his brain to tackle. It was best to just forget he ever saw anything.
"I know nothing," Langenscheidt repeated.
"Good boy," Schultz said. "I think you will find you will be much happier this way."
As Schultz led him back to camp, Langenscheidt looked over his shoulder. He couldn't see the stump anymore. It was gone from sight and, if Langenscheidt tried, he could erase it from his memory as well.
"I know nothing," Langenscheidt repeated once more. As he said it, a smile spread across his face. Yes, Schultz was right. He was definitely much happier that way.