[August 15] [Hogan's Heroes] Red and Blue, chapter 2

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Title: Red and Blue, chapter 2: A Common Goal
Day/Theme: August 15; Trusting Strangers
Series: Hogan's Heroes (pre-series)
Characters: Corporal Louis LeBeau and Corporal Peter Newkirk
Rating: T (WWII-era fandom)


In spite of LeBeau being sent to the kitchen to start his preparations, the tension in the stalag did not reduce. Klink and the guards only grew more nervous as they prepared to perfect everything for Burkhalter’s arrival. The majority of the Englishmen grumbled as they were forced to clean everything, soon pushing the Frenchman from their thoughts as they worked. Only Newkirk was still fuming over what had happened.

Ruddy fool is asked to cook a meal and decides to declare a personal war on the entire place while I’ve got to shut up after I’ve lost two of me best mates!? He’s lucky that Schultz dragged him off to the kitchen; if he had stayed here a moment longer, I’d have knocked some sense into him!

Newkirk got up after finishing the scrubbing of the floors, cursing everyone he could think of for this indignity. With any luck, he would have to endure no more by the close of the day.

Schultz returned to shoo them into formation as Burkhalter arrived. The rotund colonel cast an unimpressed glance upon the assembled Englishmen as Klink babbled on about how nobody had ever escaped from Stalag 13.

Look at them, Newkirk thought, bitterly. They’re a right set of madmen—the lot of them. Klink goes on like an idiot while that human blimp acts like he’s the master of our fate… It’s ruddy sickening, if you ask me. But never mind that; once we’re dismissed, I need to figure out a way to get that Colonel Burkhalter without letting them know I did it.

Newkirk’s mind raced as he struggled to come up with a plan. They would soon be restricted to barracks, he knew, while the colonels ate dinner. That would be the best time to strike. If he could somehow get across the compound without being seen, throw the knife, and make it back, he would have an airtight alibi. The problem was, however, finding a good throwing spot so that he could have a chance to aim and follow through.

He pictured the interior of Klink’s quarters; he knew it well, having been forced to serve as a waiter on some of the previous occasions when Klink had entertained visitors. It would be impossible to approach the dining area from the front without being seen by the guards.

But what about approaching from the side of the kitchen? There was no “back door,” but there was a window in the kitchen just big enough for him to enter through. He could then open the kitchen door ever so slightly and do what he had to do. The only hiccup with that plan, of course, was that LeBeau would be in the kitchen. He knew that LeBeau hated the enemy as much as he did, but there was every chance that he would stop him—either out of fear or out of spite. That could easily be resolved by knocking him out—something that Newkirk would have no qualms about doing after their most recent brawl.

Nodding to himself, he proceeded to put his plan into action.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, LeBeau was hard at work on the dinner. Burkhalter had demanded, in advance, a serving of hasenpfeffer as the main course. LeBeau had to accept.

He is going to keep coming here just to eat my cooking, the Frenchman fumed. That is all I shall be doing for the remainder of the war… unless I escape.

LeBeau wanted to escape as much as any of the Englishmen in the stalag, but he was far more practical about it. He knew that escape would be meaningless without a foolproof plan to ensure that he would come out of the attempt alive. He was thinking more about his mother than himself; her already-devastated state would increase a hundredfold if she were to receive word of her younger son’s death. And, of course, LeBeau wanted to live. He wanted to live to return to battle as one of the Free French, liberate his homeland, and return to his mother as a triumphant hero of the war. Yes, that was the glory he so longed for—to fight for his beloved France once again, not remain in a cage for the remainder of the war, cooking for overweight enemy officers!

The corporal’s thoughts were diverted as Schultz entered the kitchen.

“The colonels are getting hungry,” he said. “Is the food ready?”

“The hasenpfeffer needs just a little more time,” LeBeau replied, coldly. “You can give them the bread to whet their appetites.”

“But first, I must taste everything,” the sergeant insisted. “I am the food taster; I must make sure that you are not trying to poison the Kommandant or Colonel Burkhalter.”

“I wouldn’t be that foolish,” LeBeau admitted. “I intend to survive this war.”

“Very wise,” Schultz commended. “Then you can open up a restaurant after the war—preferably in Heidelberg; you would have a steady line of customers.”

“Really?” the Frenchman asked, eyebrows arched.

“Ja—my family.”

“As intriguing as your offer is,” LeBeau said, sardonically. “If I am going to open a restaurant, it would most certainly be in Paris.”

“A bit of a drive from Heidelberg, but well worth it,” Schultz insisted, pausing to take in the mouth-watering aroma of the hasenpfeffer.

LeBeau rolled his eyes, trying to hide that fact that he was partially amused by Schultz. He had to admit to himself that the good-natured sergeant was practically impossible to hate. Goodness knew that LeBeau had tried to do so upon arriving at Stalag 13, believing him to be just like all of the other enemy soldiers that he had dealt with up to that point. But Schultz was not like them. It was because of the sergeant’s willingness to supply him with ingredients that allowed LeBeau to cook in the barracks, though Schultz often requested several samples of the finished product in exchange.

“The next time I go home on furlough, you must let me take some of your creations back with me,” the big man went on. “If you could only teach my Gretchen how to cook like this…”

“Schuuuuuuultz, what is taking so long?!” Klink’s voice called from the dining area.

Schultz gulped and ran out with a dish of bread, explaining that the hasenpfeffer needed more time, leaving LeBeau alone in the kitchen again to put the final touches on it.

It needed just a little bit more pepper, the chef realized, but that would require grinding it out himself. Though tempted to serve it as is, chef’s pride ordered that he make the necessary addition; after all, he would be eating what remained.

He poured himself out a few peppercorns and began to use a mortar and pestle to grind them. The task caused him to turn away from the window.

And that was what the Englishman outside the window had been waiting for. Newkirk silently slid the window open and clambered inside without a sound; it was an easy task for a cat burglar like him. Slowly and silently, he let his feet touch the floor as he began to creep over towards LeBeau. A sharp blow to his shoulders would render him unconscious long enough for Newkirk to throw the knife and have done with.

LeBeau had just finished grinding the pepper and had turned to walk back towards the stove when he saw Newkirk standing inches from him, his arm raised to strike.

Neither of the two corporals moved nor spoke for a moment as they registered the situation. LeBeau was the first to act, moving to defend himself. He thrust the mortar full of ground pepper into the Englishman’s face.

“COR—!” Newkirk began, shutting his eyes. LeBeau had clapped a hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

“What is going on in there?!” Klink asked, hearing Newkirk’s cut-short yell.

“It is nothing, Monsieur Commandant!” LeBeau called, as he proceeded to hold the temporarily-blinded Newkirk in a headlock. “I… I just found a rat in the kitchen!”

Newkirk let out a muffled protest, followed by a sneeze.

“And what was that?!” Klink asked.

“Sorry, Sir; I dropped some pepper, as well!” LeBeau bluffed.

“Klink…” Burkhalter said, his eyes narrowing as he pushed the plate of bread aside, his appetite waning considerably. “I highly recommend that you make sure that there are no vermin around the next time an officer comes by to hold an inspection—or eat here.”

“But of course, Colonel Burkhalter…” Klink said, going pale. “Sergeant Schultz will see to it that the rat is expelled from the camp. Schultz, help LeBeau get rid of that rat!”

“No!” LeBeau called. “Do not open the door; he might escape that way!”

“Impossible; no one ever escapes from Stalag 13—not even a rat!” Klink insisted.

“Klink, shut up,” Burkhalter ordered, with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, Sir; shutting up…” Klink murmured.

“Now…” Burkhalter said. “Tell your sergeant to go inside there and ensure that the food has not been contaminated.”

“You heard him, Schultz; go!”

“At once, Herr Kommandant!” the big man said.

LeBeau pulled Newkirk over to the edge of the kitchen, panicking as the Englishman, whose eyes were watering, let out another muffled sneeze.

Schultz opened the door and cautiously looked inside. He froze, and his jaw dropped as he beheld the sight of the two corporals. LeBeau could only give him a shrug and a helpless glance, as if to say that he wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into Newkirk, either.

Schultz shut his eyes as he pulled out of the kitchen, repeatedly mouthing, “I see nothing…!”

“Well, Schultz?” Klink asked.

Schultz gave the two colonels one of his sheepish grins.

“I am sorry, Herr Kommandant, but I am somewhat afraid of rats, and if I go in there—”

“Mmmph!” Klink replied, shaking his fist at the sergeant. “Oh, Colonel Burkhalter, they send me the men that they have scraped from the bottom of the barrel! The fact that I am able to maintain such strict discipline in this camp and have such a perfect record is a miracle! Though, I am certain that my natural skill as a leader might have something to do with it…”

“Klink…” Burkhalter said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps we should forget the hasenpfeffer tonight.”

“Yes; if the colonel will allow me, I would be most honored to buy you a meal at the Hofbrau in town.”

“Fine,” the rotund officer replied. He could enjoy the Frenchman’s cooking some other time—when he was certain that the place was free of rodents.

He got up from the table and headed outside, aiming to get inside his staff car. Klink was right behind him, apologizing profusely for the nonexistent rat ruining the meal for the both of them.

It was only after that LeBeau saw them drive off through the window that he released Newkirk, who let out another giant sneeze.

“Me eyes…” he gasped. “Water… me eyes…”

“Not a chance!” LeBeau shot back. He cursed the Englishman. “You were trying to attack me when my back was turned!? Miserable coward!”

“Oi, you tackled me in the barracks when me back was turned!” Newkirk countered. “That makes you as much of a coward, if not more so!”

“Non, I tackled you when you were still turning way,” LeBeau insisted. “It is not my fault that you did not notice me!”

“What is going on in here?!” Schultz demanded, entering the kitchen. “Never mind; I do not want to know! Both of you, get back to the barracks!” His expression softened. “And if there really is no rat, may I have some of the hasenpfeffer?”

LeBeau gave Schultz a long stare.

“I will stay and clean up the kitchen before returning to the barracks with him,” the Frenchman said. “Let me handle this, and I’ll see if you can have some hasenpfeffer later.”

“Ja, but no more monkey business! …Please?” Schultz added, before going. “And no fighting!”

LeBeau didn’t reply as Schultz left, looking instead at Newkirk, who was on his knees, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

“D’accord, d’accord,” he murmured, filling a pot with water. “Try to open your eyes, if you please…”

Newkirk obeyed him, for once, but still yelled out a few well-chosen curses as LeBeau poured the water over his eyes, trying to flush the pepper out. LeBeau continued to do so until Newkirk was able to open his eyes and see again without too much pain.

“What on earth possessed you to sneak in through the window just to attack me?!” LeBeau demanded. “You could have waited until I walked through the barracks door first—not that I am trying to give you ideas!”

“Oh, leave off!” Newkirk ordered, his eyes still watering slightly. He sneezed again before continuing. “Don’t flatter yourself by thinking I went through all that trouble to get back at you; you weren’t me main target. I just ‘ad to knock you out to get to the next phase, and Cor blimey, it’d be even more of a pleasure to do it now after what you just put me through.”

“You received exactly what was coming to you,” the Frenchman retorted. “I am not some helpless person just because I am short!” He paused, frowning as Newkirk’s words sunk in. “You were trying to attack one of them? That is suicide!”

“Not that you would care,” Newkirk shot back, coldly. “You ruined the one chance I ‘ad at finishing off Burkhalter!”

“Finish him off?” LeBeau repeated, incredulously. “How were you going to do that—invoke a mysterious power and force him to choke on his bread?”

“It doesn’t matter to you what I was planning; I ‘ave to give it up now.”

“Well excuse me for coming to my own defense,” the Frenchman replied, sardonically. There was a pinch of pepper left in the mortar, he realized. He proceeded to add it to the hasenpfeffer for the sake of completion; Newkirk recoiled involuntarily. LeBeau rolled his eyes before continuing.

“You are lucky that I stopped you from such a foolish endeavor,” he went on. “Had you tried anything, they would have had you put to death—even if you had failed.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to make it obvious that I was the one what done it,” Newkirk replied, darkly. “In the confusion, I would go over the wire.”

LeBeau looked at the Englishman.

“You were going to leave like that?” he asked. “You don’t have anything—food, map, overcoat…” He shook his head. “You would have gotten yourself starved, lost, or frozen; knowing you, perhaps you would have managed to do all three! You are probably lucky that all of your escape attempts have failed—you were saved from the elements!”

“And I suppose you ‘ave developed the perfect escape plan that takes all of the ‘elements’ into detail?” Newkirk asked.

LeBeau knew he was being sarcastic, but he saw no reason why he couldn’t be smug about it.

“Perhaps I have.”

The Englishman’s eyebrows arched now, and LeBeau could tell that he was debating on whether or not he should swallow his pride and ask him what he was planning, or if he should stubbornly try to escape on his own yet again.

“Right,” he said at last. “What exactly is this plan of yours?”

“You expect me to help a man to escape after he tried to attack me?” LeBeau asked, derisively.

“I told you, I was after Burkhalter!” Newkirk said. “If I ‘ad done it without knocking you out first, you would’ve been blamed for it!”

“Oh, merci; I did not know you cared so much!” The Frenchman’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Look; I just want to get out of ‘ere,” Newkirk said.

“And what of me? You think I like cooking for these animals?”

The two corporals exchanged fiery glances for a moment, but then they looked away as they realized that beneath all of their differences, they had a common goal. And when it came down to it, they were on the same side.

“D’accord,” said LeBeau. “If you make it worth my while, I will help you get out of here. But you are on your own after that.”

“What do you want?” Newkirk asked.

“I know you have a nice collection of money that you got from the others after your poker and blackjack games,” LeBeau said. “I want travel funds.”

“Of all the cheeky—!”

“I might need it to help me along the way—train tickets, or possibly bribes. You do not have to agree, of course; if you would rather stay here…”

Newkirk gritted his teeth.

“Right; supposing I give you the money, what do I get in exchange?”

“You would get my help in getting past the outside grounds of Stalag 13, plus provisions,” LeBeau said, indicating the hasenpfeffer.

Newkirk stared at the stew, and then at LeBeau again.

“You could leave me alone with nothing after I give you the money,” he said. “Just ‘ow do I know that I can trust you?”

“You do not,” LeBeau said, matter-of-factly. “Nor do I know if I can trust you. You could attack me when my back is turned again and leave me unconscious for the guards to find.”

“So now I know you’ll be carrying more of that ruddy pepper on you. Blimey, that stuff is murder on your eyes…”

“Be grateful that I did not use chili powder,” LeBeau countered. “And after what you tried to do, I have more of a right to say that I cannot trust you.”

“Well, at least we know where we stand,” Newkirk said, wryly.

LeBeau gave a nod. They knew where they stood, but they also knew that they would both have to trust each other to get out of here.

“Right; when do we make our move?” asked Newkirk.

“Now is the best time; Klink has stepped out, and people think we are chasing a rat,” he said. “We will go to the barracks and tell Schultz that we went to get something to catch the rat. We grab the essentials we will need for the journey, then come here for the food.”

“And just ‘ow do we go about getting out?”

“I will explain that as we go along,” LeBeau said. “I am not going to risk having you run off to save your own skin.”

Newkirk’s eyes narrowed.

“You’d better ‘ave a plan,” he said, scowling.

“Believe me, I want to get out of here as much as you do,” LeBeau said. “I could leave any old night, but I do not have the monetary provisions. Working with the likes of you is an inconvenience I am willing to put up with temporarily to ensure my freedom.”

“Likewise,” the Englishman said, darkly. “Don’t expect me to shake ‘ands to finalize this…”

“Believe me, I wasn’t going to ask,” LeBeau assured him. “Come; our time is limited.”

The Frenchman and the Englishman departed the kitchen, glaring at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

It was going to be a most uneasy truce.