[August 20] [Hogan's Heroes] Red and Blue, chapter 3

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

Title: Red and Blue, chapter 3: Into the West
Day/Theme: August 20; Home is where we are not
Series: Hogan's Heroes (pre-series)
Characters: Corporal Louis LeBeau and Corporal Peter Newkirk
Rating: T (WWII-era fandom)


The corporals’ indifferent barracks-mates didn’t even give them a second glance as they entered and rummaged through their footlockers for essentials, namely money and leftover snacks from their Red Cross packages. They took their collection of letters, as well—the only sentimental objects that remained with them, though Newkirk also took his deck of cards.

It was Schultz who questioned their actions, asking them why they were leaving the barracks with their overcoats.

“We need something to catch the rat in,” LeBeau said, as though he was stating the obvious. “Do you expect us to try to catch it with our bare hands?”

“They bite, you know,” Newkirk deadpanned, as he walked by the sergeant.

Schultz gave an “I know nothing” shrug and let them return to the kitchen.

“Take the bread from the dining room,” said LeBeau, once they were inside. He had managed to take a pair of sacks from his footlocker—one he had previously used to store various odds and ends. He now stored several servings of the hasenpfeffer inside the sacks, hoping that the stew wouldn’t spill as they traveled, as Newkirk retrieved the bread. He handed half of it to LeBeau.

“Right, so we’ve got our provisions,” said the Englishman. “Just ‘ow do we get over the wire?”

“At what point did I mention anything about going over the wire?” LeBeau asked. “Going over the wire was your idea—one that, in my opinion, would not have worked.”

“Can we get to the plan, if Your Lordship is done with ‘is chiding?”

“Some time back, Schultz gave me permission to dig just outside the fence to get some mushrooms for a meal that Klink wanted me to make,” the Frenchman replied, deciding to ignore Newkirk’s sarcasm. “I dug a little deep just under the fence, and I covered the hole up with brush, with a layer of dirt on top. That way, when I finally managed to get the funds I needed, I would have a way to escape when the time was right.”

Newkirk had to admit to himself that it was a clever idea, but he refused to admit it out loud.

“And you mean to say that Schultz didn’t realize what you were doing?” he asked.

“Please,” LeBeau said, with a wave of his hand. “He would not notice an escape if we ran by him blowing trumpets and waving flags as we did gymnastics over the wire. The caution is for the other guards.”

Newkirk rolled his eyes, trying to hide a vestige of a smile that had formed involuntarily upon being amused by the Frenchman’s joke.

“Fine, Schultz won’t see us go out,” he conceded. “But ‘ow do we stop the other guards from seeing us, eh?”

“That is even simpler,” LeBeau said. “Do we have everything?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t answer the question…”

LeBeau stuck his head out of the window in response, calling for Schultz.

“Are you mad?!” Newkirk hissed. “Why are you drawing attention to us?!”

“I told you, I am the one who has reason not to trust you; just play along!” the Frenchman instructed, as Schultz came running by.

“Was?” the sergeant asked, close to panicking.

“Schultz, the rat went out the window—he went towards the east fence!” LeBeau pointed. “Oh, he is a big monster, Schultz! Have the area searched; you can then trap it!”

“Ja, and the Big Shot will be pleased!” Schultz finished. He began to call for some of the other guards, leading them to the east fence.

The searchlights began to follow the running guards out of habit, as LeBeau had been counting on.

“Now!” he hissed at Newkirk before taking his bundles of food and clothes and climbing out the window.

Newkirk stared for a moment before quickly following.

Right. I’ll admit it. Ruddy good idea, if it ends up working…

Creeping from shadow to shadow, the two corporals made it to the part of the fence with the hidden breech. LeBeau pulled the brush out of the hole, pushed the food across it, and slipped under it himself. Newkirk followed suit, the two getting up and running off for the woods. It was only after they were a significant distance away that they paused to catch their breath.

“And that is how you successfully escape,” LeBeau said, with a satisfied smirk.

“Right,” Newkirk sighed, pulling the wad of money from his pocket; while most of the money was in pounds, there were a fair amount of marks that he had won from Schultz on several occasions. “Pounds won’t do you any good until you get to London, but if you think you’ll be needing some—”

“I can have my own money in my bank account converted to pounds when I stop in Paris,” LeBeau said, with a wave of his hand. “I shall only need marks for now.”

“You’re going to Paris?” Newkirk asked, incredulously. “You do realize that it belongs to them now, don’t you?”

LeBeau responded with a piercing glare.

“La belle France shall always belong to her people!” he hissed. “It is for her that I return to battle; let me look upon her once more before I go!”

“Spare me the poetic drivel,” Newkirk said, rolling his eyes again. “Just take your money and give me the food.”

LeBeau handed him a sack full of bread and hasenpfeffer and accepted his share of the money in exchange, muttering under his breath about London being even worse than Paris.

“What do you mean, we’re worse than your Paris? We ain’t the ones who surrendered!”

“Please,” said the Frenchman. “When I arrive in Paris, I do not have to worry about being caught in an air raid; I only need to hide from the monsters patrolling the streets, and I can count on other to help me do so. You are returning to London while they are still under heavy attack; my chances of survival are far better than yours! And mark my words; one day, France will be free!”

Newkirk’s thoughts briefly turned to his two dead friends, both killed within the vicinity of their own homes. LeBeau’s words were eerily true; Newkirk had no idea what he was coming home to. He wasn’t even going home at all—he would be going to some Heaven-forsaken shelter to try to get his sister out to the countryside… and even then, he wasn’t sure how he could afford to put her up somewhere while he returned to combat.

His shoulders slumped. Newkirk had been so spurred by impulse that he had failed to fully think things through. LeBeau, on the other hand, had been planning things since… well, Newkirk didn’t even know for how long LeBeau had been keeping the fence hole a secret.

LeBeau seemed oblivious to the Englishman’s inner turmoil.

“You have your food; use the rations wisely, and it should last you for some time,” he said. “Sleep is a luxury that you cannot afford; remember that, or else you will find yourself sleeping back in the prison barracks—or worse, you will be caught in an endless sleep.”

“Right…” Newkirk replied, somewhat blankly.

“Then there is nothing left to say,” LeBeau said.

Without even bothering to wish the Englishman good luck, the Frenchman headed off in the southwest direction, towards Paris. The Englishman, on the other hand, stood for a moment as he pondered his options before realizing that he actually felt jealous of the Frenchman. LeBeau knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do; more than that, he was going to an unbroken family. Newkirk had handled the mail before and had taken note of the number of family members keeping in touch with the Frenchman; left with only a sister and a so-called father who loathed them both, Newkirk’s resentment towards him had probably grown due to that.

Newkirk sighed, starting his long journey after getting his bearings, heading northwest.

Well, it was over, wasn’t it? He would never have to deal with Louis LeBeau again. He was going home—to Mavis… assuming that she hadn’t died since sending that letter…

Newkirk was jolted from his thoughts as the alarm rang out at Stalag 13. He cursed; he had hoped that it would have taken longer for the guards to realize that the two corporals had gone missing.

He quickened his pace. With any luck, his pursuers would end up following the Frenchman; it would be satisfying to see them on the receiving end of a handful of pepper. And it would be an interesting irony for the Frenchman’s escape to be foiled after he has so elaborately planned the whole affair.

He tore ahead, stopping only when he became aware of another presence not too far away.

Two German soldiers were searching the area; they had been patrolling the woods, and were now alert upon hearing the alarm at Stalag 13.

Newkirk sunk to his knees, now crawling around the soldiers to avoid being seen by them. Thankfully, the foliage was still sufficient enough for him to hide.

One of the guards turned his head in Newkirk’s direction as he heard the underbrush rustle from the corporal’s movement. Newkirk froze, his heart racing in his chest. Almost ironically, the childhood games of hide-and-seek he had played with Mavis and their friends returned to his mind. Trees and shrubbery had been his favorite hiding spots even then; he would deftly move from spot to spot as Mavis ran around, looking for them all. Newkirk always managed to be the last found, and now, hiding in the dead of night with the full moon ready to betray his presence, he was praying that this old skill would save him now. This was one hide-and-seek game that he could not afford to lose.

As the solider took a step towards him, Newkirk snapped out of his musings. This was not a game, though some of the more carefree spirits in his old RAF squadron had treated it that way; it had never been a game—not even from the start! This was war; this was a fight for survival and freedom. He could no longer worry about avenging George and Patrick or squabbling with a patronizing French chef; he had to focus on surviving this war, and making sure his sister did, as well.

As the soldier took another step towards him, Newkirk’s eyes narrowed, and his hand once again went for his pencil sharpener. This time, however, he would use it in self-defense.

He drew his arm back and took aim—just like he would have done at the dartboard back in the Red Lion. But before he could follow through, the other soldier suddenly let out a surprised cry. Newkirk couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he suddenly realized that the light of the full moon had momentarily reflected off of the knife blade; the other guard must have seen it for a split-second.

Now both of the enemy soldiers were approaching him, and the sweat began to pour down the Englishman’s face. He could not take on both of them at once; even trying to deal with one of them would have been a difficult task. Trying to escape from these two would be nigh impossible.

He silently cursed himself for ruining his own escape. That Frenchman was well on his way home while the Englishman would once again be thrown back into Stalag 13. The irony was at his expense, considering he had been thinking about the reverse happening.

An odd, metallic sound suddenly echoed from the opposite direction. Both of the two guards turned to face it, and they, along with Newkirk, saw the unmistakable sight of moonlight reflecting off of another metallic surface.

The two soldiers ran over to it, perplexed as one of them lifted the lid of a piece of cookware from the shrubbery; the sound they had heard had been the lid hitting a nearby tree. Newkirk’s eyes widened.

Why? Why would he, of all people…

He stopped himself. No couldn’t afford to worry about LeBeau, even if his diversion just saved him.

You need to focus on getting back to London, his mind instructed. Forget about that French bloke. Think about Mavis.

But Newkirk’s conscience wasn’t going to remain silent, either.

He just saved you; nobody told him to do it. You are now in his debt.

Debt? What debt? his selfish side asked. It’s true—nobody told him to do it. You certainly didn’t tell him. If he is expecting you to help him in exchange, he’s dreaming. Get moving, or else you’ll lose this one extra chance you’ve got.

He snuck out of his hiding spot from the underbrush and darted silently westward, pausing behind every large shrub and tree trunk to scout the immediate area ahead.

A tap on the shoulder made Newkirk freeze in his tracks. The Englishman whipped around, drawing his pencil sharpener again. LeBeau stood before him, his arms folded. The moonlight was enough to illuminate the Frenchman’s down-turned mouth as he glared at the Englishman in disapproval.

Neither of the two corporals said a word for a moment. Newkirk eventually rolled his eyes and put the knife away, resuming his scouting and darting. The Frenchman was able to keep up, which surprised him; Newkirk hadn’t expected him to be able to, considering his shorter legs.

LeBeau broke the silence as they continued westward.

“Just out of curiosity… do you have a desire to look Death in the face?” he asked, sardonically and quietly as he ducked behind the tree where Newkirk had hidden behind. “You know, you did not have to go through such trouble if that was the case. Did you not think that the moonlight would reflect off of the knife? And how did you get the knife here in the first place?”

“Leave off; it’s none of your business. Anyway, I thought you were going to Paris. Why did you come back?”

“Do not think it was because I knew you would not last five minutes without my help—even if it is true. The southwest area has too many guards patrolling around,” LeBeau said, dodging a few trees as he ran. “I figured I would head west until I found an opportunity to bank southward. And I have news for you—there will be more of them as we go further to the west and to the north; they know that escaped Englishmen will be struggling to get back to London. You are likely to meet many more going northwest; good luck to you.”

Newkirk frowned, realizing that LeBeau had a point. Now that the word was spreading about their escape, it was to be expected that more and more guards would be filling the woods. But that still left one question unanswered.

“You said that you were planning to ‘ead to London yourself to get back into the fighting,” Newkirk said, having fallen behind due to getting lost in his own thoughts. “Just ‘ow did you plan to manage that with all of those Germans wandering about in Paris?”

“The French Underground,” LeBeau responded, as though he were stating the obvious. “After I was shot down near Salon, I made contact with one of them; she said there was a way to get me to London—they have a network all over France, and Paris is certainly a center for their operations.”

The Englishman’s eyebrows arched.

“Then ‘ow is it you ended up ‘ere at Stalag 13 if the Underground was going to ‘elp?”

LeBeau’s expression darkened as he darted behind the next tree, now officially claiming the position of leader from Newkirk.

“Unfortunately, the next link in the contact chain was a Vichy double agent; he turned us both in, but was silenced by other members of the Underground. I do not know what became of the girl, but I was sent to Stalag 13 after long hours of questioning.” Absently, he felt his thumbs; the very memory of the questioning sessions caused them to hurt now and again.

Newkirk took note, but decided not to address it, as they darted behind some more shrubbery. He didn’t even know why he bothered asking for the Frenchman’s story; it certainly didn’t concern him in the slightest.

“I need to get back to London as soon as possible,” he murmured. “Are you trying to tell me that I ‘ave a better chance of getting there quickly if I go to Paris instead of the coast?”

“If you want the short answer, yes.”

“What’s the long answer?” Newkirk asked, eyebrows arched as they had to traverse a clearing in the forest.

“Yes, assuming you can make it to Paris,” LeBeau said, once they had made it past the clearing. He scouted ahead once again.

Newkirk stared at him as he caught up.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he had an idea.

“I mean that luck is not on your side when it comes to escapes, and whatever hiccups you come across end up thwarting you. Judging by how the first five minutes of your escape has gone, you will not make it to Paris. You will not even make it to France! Do not try to tell me that you are not aware of this yourself.”

Newkirk fumed; LeBeau just wanted to see him swallow his pride again.

“Right,” he said, bitterly, as they navigated through some close-growing trees. He put on an upper crust accent out of sacarsm. “Kind sir, wouldst thou guide me to thy native land?”

LeBeau crossed his arms, as though pondering over his decision.

“Perhaps I shall,” he said. “But you must be vigilant and do exactly as I tell you. I will not allow you to be the reason why I am recaptured. Should you start creating trouble and draw the enemy towards us, I will have to let you fend for yourself.”

Newkirk clenched his fists as he had to put up with the Frenchman’s condescending tone.

Heaven give me once chance to abandon him when the enemy gets “drawn towards us,” he mentally hissed, as he followed LeBeau around a large, dead tree. Just one chance…

Maybe this was a game after all, he realized. It was a chess game; he was the knight, racing to save the queen. This chef was just a pawn.

A pawn? his conscience chided. He did save you back there. Does that mean nothing?

Absolutely nothing, Newkirk’s selfish side countered. Any chess player knows that the pawn is always cast aside for the sake of a knight.

This game would be no different.