Hogan's Heroes: Hands Across the Sea (3/?)
Aug. 5th, 2010 08:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamSeries: Hogan's Heroes
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED, and likely to remain so
Summary: Newkirk and Carter: one of the strongest, and most volatile, friendships of the series. A series of vignettes.
Carter always wears gloves. It’s something Newkirk notices absently, in the same way that he notices that the nail that’s been pounded down in the wall beside his bunk is crooked, or that the colonel’s shoes need new laces. He’s vaguely aware of it, but it doesn’t mean anything to him.
He doesn’t have any cause to actually take note of it until a couple months after the American arrives at Stalag 13, and the colonel decides he’s picked up enough rudimentary German to be allowed out on impersonation missions.
“So we’ll need three uniforms; Carter’ll be coming along as an extra guard,” says Hogan, winding down his mission speech. The man looks up, surprised; Hogan waves it away with an easy hand. “Just a private, nothing fancy. Get him all set up, Newkirk.”
“Right, sir.”
“Get going, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter’s the same height as Newkirk himself, and although he’s slimmer all around, that means Newkirk has to take in one of his own uniforms a little – no one’ll be looking for a perfect fit in a private. Easy work. He’s finished well before the mission, and provides Carter with the heavy woollen uniform to change into a good fifteen minutes before they’re scheduled to make their final checks.
Newkirk’s putting on his own uniform when the colonel comes in, just as Carter’s finishing with his belt. Which is why the colonel is the one to catch the sergeant out, rather than him.
“Carter, what are you wearing on your hands?”
Newkirk looks up, and rolls his eyes. Carter’s wearing his thick sheepskin gloves with the Wehrmacht private’s uniform.
“Huh? Oh, sorry, sir. I just… my hands get cold, y’know? Poor circulation, or something. My cousin’s got it; sometimes his feet go to sleep when he’s just sitting around! It’s funny, really, because –”
“Okay, Carter,” cuts off Hogan. “Newkirk, get him something that fits.”
“Right, sir. I think we’ve got some gloves left over from last month’s knitting contest.”
Newkirk checks, and finds that they do indeed; issues Carter a pair of faded green gloves and finishes up putting on his own uniform. He doesn’t notice the sergeant change his gloves, but after that he takes just a bit more notice.
Carter wears his gloves to bed. Whether he takes them off when he gets there or not, Newkirk doesn’t know, but he’s always got them on when he gets in at night and out again in the morning. He wears them to the shower, although presumably not in it; eats in them; does the laundry in them; plays cards in them. As he integrates with the team, it becomes just another part of him, like LeBeau’s beret or Kinch’s moustache.
A month after the first mission Carter is promoted to Luftwaffe captain, forcing Newkirk to pick out the chevrons on his sleeves and the markings on his lapels to replace them. The Yank shows up in the mission room in his old green gloves, though, straightening his cap.
“Andrew, officers don’t wear wool gloves,” says Newkirk in the tone of one stating something patently obvious, first to notice this time. Carter glances down at them.
“Oh.” Carter pauses, then gives an awkward grin. “Got something else?”
Newkirk sighs, but goes to check. He finds a pair of unlined black leather gloves, left over from some old heavy-hitting general played by the colonel, and brings them back.
“Hey, thanks. These look great.”
“Glad you think so,” says Newkirk. He has to admit, they do lend some verisimilitude to Carter’s hard-as-nails performance.
The sergeant accumulates a whole collection of them. The wool gloves for enlisted men, the leather for officers. Orange latex for photography and chemistry, and white latex for a brief stint as a surgeon. He even gets Newkirk to sew him up a pair of white cotton ones when he’s assigned to cater dinners thrown by Klink. And, of course, the faded sheepskin for when he’s just plain Andrew Carter.
It never occurs to Newkirk to wonder why, if the Yank’s circulation’s so poor, his feet are never cold in his threadbare socks.
It’s the nature of most work to have ups and downs, and it’s just as true of theirs. They go for weeks without anything new to spy on or blow up or rescue, and then all at once they have so many missions that they’re commuting.
It’s ridiculous, really, but the colonel’s never been one to turn down an advantage, and when they finally succeed in bribing the motor pool guard to rent them cars at 10 pfennig a mile they take full advantage of it.
Tonight they’ve got two missions to run: First a quick drop-off of some radio supplies to an established agent in town, and then a meeting with a would-be cell that wants to join the local Underground faction.
The drop goes smoothly, Carter and Newkirk waiting in the car while the colonel, dressed as a Luftwaffe colonel to go along with the staff car, makes the drop and returns twenty minutes later wiping his face with a kerchief.
“That took a fair while, sir,” says Newkirk, grinning into the mirror while Carter pushes the starter and slides the car into gear.
“Cinderella had a lot to talk about,” replies Hogan, in mock seriousness.
“I can see that, sir. You missed a spot,” he adds, tapping at the corner of his jaw and raising his eyebrows at the colonel. Hogan smiles and wipes at it, lipstick staining his handkerchief irreparably red.
The drive isn’t too long; Newkirk pulls out the map and gives directions once they’re out of Hammelburg. Carter doesn’t technically need a navigator; it’s only important if they want to get where they’re going in less than a few hours.
Their destination is an abandoned barn in the middle of an old farmstead. A modern building some acres away has taken the place of this one, a ram-shackle wooden structure looming wide and crooked in the car’s headlights as they draw up to it. Once Carter switches the engine off Newkirk can see a soft glow of light seeping out from between cracks in the thin walls, painting crazy yellow strips across the uneven ground.
He goes in first, Carter following, both of them with their hands on the machine guns they carry. There are three young men standing at the far end of the barn, each holding luger pistols; in front of them an old oil lamp is sitting on a box in the middle of the derelict barn.
“Do you know my step-mother?” asks one, gun aimed square at Newkirk.
“Yes, I clean her kitchen,” replies Hogan from behind him, pushing forward between him and Carter and striding forward angrily. “Alright, put down your guns. What’re you guys doing sitting around in here with a light and no look-out?”
The men – boys, really – look sullen, but tuck their weapons away and come forward. Someone has set up old buckets and boxes around the lamp, and they come to sit down on them.
“No one ever comes out here,” one says, glaring at Hogan. “This barn was abandoned years ago.”
“Doesn’t mean someone driving by won’t see the lights.”
“No one drives here; the road leads only to the farm, and the couple is elderly. They do not go out at night,” says another. They’re in their early twenties at most, Newkirk judges, and each with a chip on his shoulder larger than the last. He walks over to the circle along with Carter, glancing around. The barn’s dirt floor is covered with the remaining scraps of its final harvest of straw. Up in the hay loft he can see low heaps in the dim light, the last of the hay abandoned along with the barn. The air is full of dust, so thick he can see it in the lamp-light, and smells strongly of dirt and must. He steps over a box and sits down on it, gun resting on his knees.
“Alright,” says Hogan, “Talk. Why did you want to see me, rather than the Underground?”
“You run the big operations; you are the one the Underground turns to when they fail. Why should we go to them?” The oldest boy, a sturdy blond in a worn corduroy jacket, scowls.
“The Underground does good work,” says Newkirk, irritated at the boy’s dismissal of his countrymen’s efforts. “They take big risks and have good results to show for it.”
The middle boy, with long brown hair in need of a cut and a long shabby raincoat, shrugs. “Maybe, but they are small potatoes. Why become involved if we cannot be in on the big action?”
Newkirk rolls his eyes.
The colonel shifts, frowning, voice hard. “Look guys, this isn’t a popularity contest, and it’s not a game. You’re not going to win any medals or impress the girls with this. You’ll be risking your lives to help your country, and you’ll be doing whatever needs to be done, no matter how small. You’re not going to be blowing up munitions factories one night and bridges the next. You’ll be passing messages, maybe giving directions or at most running limited courier service.”
“That is what the Underground said! That is why we came to you – we do not want to be messenger-boys! We want to fight, to strike back!” The oldest boy stands, nearly shouting; the other two nod in fierce agreement.
Hogan stands as well, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. “That’s what the army’s for, and too bad for you the only one that’s open for you belongs to the wrong side. We work in secret; making little mistakes count. Yes, sometimes we run sabotage missions, but that’s the exception. It’s not dashing, exciting work. It’s living everyday in fear that someone’ll notice you’re talking to Fritz in the grocery store an awful lot. This isn’t your chance for glory.”
“That’s not good enough!” snarls the boy, and kicks at the box in front of him. He connects full-force, and the oil lamp goes flying. It breaks on the floor with a quiet tinkling; Newkirk’s brain fills in the whoomph sound which he does not actually hear as the flame licks in the dust floating thick in the air and balloons out for an instant. It dies away almost immediately, but it’s enough. The fire has spread to a radius of nearly a yard, dry straw catching instantaneously.
“Put out that fire!” shouts Hogan, and hurries over to stomp at a pool of flames. Newkirk runs over to another, struggling to undo his belt so he can pull off his overcoat and try to smother it. By the time he’s succeeded the fire is spreading up two paper-dry walls. The boys have disappeared after a short-lived attempt at kicking out a few flames, and Hogan is straightening, glancing around at the fire. The hayloft goes up with a whoomph that is audible, both Newkirk and Hogan ducking as the fire fans out to engulf the barn’s upper storey. The air is already filling with smoke, thick and acrid.
“Too late, get out!” Hogan pushes both double doors open, letting in the cold night air. The fire is whistling, happily licking up the musty hay and rotting wooden slats. Newkirk hurries over in the direction of the cool air and the dark night sky.
Stops, as he realises that the colonel is standing outside alone, and turns around.
Carter is standing on the other side of the barn, coat collar in his hands while the tails trail on the floor, staring with wide eyes at the inferno. In the flickering firelight, Newkirk can see he’s terrified.
“Carter!” he bellows. If Carter hears him, he doesn’t answer. The sergeant takes a step back, and hits the wall. The fire has filled the entire hayloft, and is spreading up towards the ceiling; the air is blackening with smoke. Newkirk hisses between his teeth and dashes across the floor, bent low against the smoke and barking his shin on the box he had been sitting on. He reaches Carter and grabs the man’s arm, shaking him. “Come on,” he shouts, and without waiting for reaction turns to drag Carter out; it’s like towing a sleepwalker. The smoke is already so thick that he can hardly see, but with the intense heat pouring down from above he can sense the exit by the cool air that is still flowing in from in front of him. He pulls Carter across the floor, the sergeant tripping over something this time but hurrying fast enough that his momentum saves him. They emerge from the barn at a staggering run, bent low at the waist and coughing fit to choke. They keep going until they actually hit the staff car, parked some yards away from the barn, dark night difficult to immediately distinguish from dark smoke.
Newkirk can hardly breathe, lungs burning and mouth tasting like an ash tray, much less entirely grasp the situation. When someone opens the door in front of him and pushes him in, he goes, ignoring Carter falling in after him. He’s coughing too hard, tears streaming from his eyes, to notice the car starting.
It’s not until he’s finally purged most of the smoke from his lungs and can breath without feeling like hot ash is coating his insides that he really notices they’re in the car, heading back to Stalag 13. The colonel is driving, glancing in the mirror every few seconds at him and Carter. Carter, who’s coughing quietly next to him, partly turned away towards the door. Carter, the ruddy fool who was standing staring at a room full of fire rather than leaving as ordered. Newkirk half-punches him in the shoulder.
“What the bloody ‘ell was that about, then?”
Carter sucks in a breath and shrugs. “Not so g-good with fire,” he coughs out, ducking his head to rub at his mouth. “S-sorry.”
“You nearly got yourself killed,” says Newkirk harshly, not sure whether he’s more furious on Carter’s behalf or his own; it takes a special kind of stupidity to get stuck in a burning building with the exit readily available. Carter says nothing, but doesn’t look at him. Newkirk turns up his lip and looks away himself, disgusted.
They don’t speak the rest of the way back to camp. They leave the car at the agreed point and hike through the woods as quietly as they can, both he and Carter still coughing quietly from time to time in the cold air. By the time they reach the tunnel he’s feeling mostly himself again, chest no longer burning and gut no longer catching with each coughing spasm. He clambers down the ladder and into the main alcove without issue, Hogan and Carter following similarly.
Kinch is there to greet them when they get back, but Hogan sends him away almost immediately; “Radio the Underground and tell them the boys are out. Until they cool down they’re no good to anyone. Tell them I’m advising they avoid further contact.”
Kinch gives the three of them a hard look, but says only “Right, sir,” and disappears to do as ordered.
They head for the changing alcove, Newkirk dying for a shower and all the more irritated for knowing that having had one this morning he’s not scheduled for another until the day after tomorrow; his bed will smell like an ash-tray by then.
He is consequently changing uniforms in stony silence when he happens to glance at Carter, who appears to be lost in thought as he pulls on his jumpsuit. It’s not the sergeant’s obliviousness that catches his eye, but the fact that the man has pulled off his gloves to reveal his bare hands.
“Good God, Andrew, your ‘ands,” blurts out Newkirk before he can stop himself, staring, anger entirely forgotten.
In the mellow tunnel light the palms of Carter’s hands are a reddened, blistered, wrinkled mess. Newkirk’s first thought is that the man must have somehow put them in the fire, and he’s grabbed Carter by the shoulder for the second time that night before he entirely realises he’s moved across the alcove. “You need a bloody medic,” he says, shocked, even as Carter tries to shrug away and tuck his hands under his arms.
Hogan stops him before he gets any further, lifting his hand off Carter’s arm. “Hold up, Newkirk,” he says, softly. “Those aren’t new.”
Newkirk turns to stare at his CO, who looks back gravely, and then at Carter who reluctantly holds out his hands again. Newkirk can see, looking at them more closely, that what he had taken for new burns is in fact scar tissue from old ones, healed but still very evident. His right hand is noticeably affected, but not so much it would cause more than a passing glance. However the palm of his left, and the sides edging up towards the back, is nearly completely covered with burns, the skin red and waxy and wrinkled or blistered.
“Guess you can see why I’m not so good with big fires,” says Carter with a humourless grin, and finishes zipping up his suit; picks up his jacket.
“What ‘appened?” asks Newkirk thoughtlessly, still partly hypnotised by the unexpected horror.
Carter shrugs. “When I was shot down, we went down too fast for anyone to bail out. By the time we hit the ground, most of the bird was on fire. Getting out wasn’t so easy.” He says it matter-of-factly, but there’s a waver in his voice that tells more than his words. He pulls his bomber jacket on and then reaches for his sheepskin gloves. Puts them on, looks at Newkirk and gives an awkward smile. “Sorry,” he says, and walks out.
Newkirk stares after him, standing in the alcove in only his trousers and undershirt.
Behind him the colonel shifts, moving over to hang his coat up on a rack, pointedly not looking at the corporal.
“Did you know, sir?” asks Newkirk, staring at the line of his commanders back.
Hogan turns, and Newkirk can tell it’s not the response the colonel wanted. “I read his file when Klink got around to giving it to me,” says Hogan flatly. “He spent his routine interrogation in the local infirmary. It’s not so unusual.”
“And you never wondered –”
“If I should discriminate against one of my men based on appearance?” asks Hogan, expression watchful.
Newkirk flushes. “No, sir,” he says hotly, cockney coming on strong. “Whether ‘e’d need bloody ‘elp.”
“I think it’s pretty clear that he manages perfectly well. Bringing it up would only prompt a repeat of this scenario.” Hogan crosses his arms, staring at Newkirk with dark eyes. Newkirk looks away first, flushing again but from a different cause, and hurries towards the corridor pulling his shirt on and grabbing his jacket as he goes.
The tunnels are deserted at this time of night, the press and tailoring units shut down, the photography lab dark. Only the radio station is lit-up and manned, as always. Kinch looks up as he walks by, jacket over his shoulder.
“’Ave you seen Carter?”
Kinch shrugs, and indicates the tunnel leading towards the coolers with his thumb. “Went that way a minute ago. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” says Newkirk, and picks up his jog again.
The candles in the tunnels are always lit, but after closing hour they snuff out every two of three. It leaves the tunnels with enough visibility to avoid running into walls, but that’s the limit. Consequently, when he finally finds Carter in the long straight shot bridging the gap between the cooler and the barracks, he is only able to pick him out from the uneven darkness because this portion of the tunnel is the straightest in camp.
Carter’s leaning back against the dirt wall, just a dark silhouette in the flickering light. If he moves when he notices Newkirk approaching, Newkirk doesn’t see it.
“Carter?”
There’s a momentary pause, and then, “Yeah.” His tone is flat, any more than that Newkirk can’t read from the single word.
“I – sorry about ragging you, mate. It wasn’t fair.”
Newkirk counts five beats of his heart before Carter answers, expression unreadable. “S’okay; you didn’t know. And it was pretty stupid, freezing up like that.” There’s embarrassment in his tone, as well as Carter’s usual even temper. And, under that, a hint of gravel.
“If I’d gone down in a burning plane, I’d damn well be terrified of fire,” says Newkirk earnestly. He bailed out before the flames caught in earnest, but the smoke and noise had been more than bad, worse than most nightmares.
Carter shifts, the rustle of leather inordinately loud in the muffled silence of the tunnel. “It’s just something you try not to think about, y’know? Something you want to forget. I shouldn’t; ‘s not fair.”
Newkirk frowns, not following. “Sure it is. No reason t’ torture yourself.”
“Only me and the tail gunner made it out,” says Carter, sounding like he’s speaking through a mouthful of grit. “My captain – the guys –” He doesn’t finish, the only sound another whisper of leather.
Christ. This is why no one asks for specifics unless they’re volunteered, why no one brings up the one night they’ve all got in common. For so many of them, it’s a night they never want to remember.
“I’m sorry, mate,” says Newkirk, quietly. There’s nothing else to say.
“Thanks.” Carter’s voice is scratchy as a dusty record., but not broken.
Newkirk shifts to wait with his back braced against the tunnel, the two of them resting still and quiet in the darkness. They stay there for several minutes until eventually Carter pushes away from the wall with a soft patter of falling dirt and leads the way back up to the barracks in silence. The colonel’s the only one waiting up for them; Newkirk gives a half-nod, half-shrug to the officer. Hogan nods in return, apparently confident in Newkirk’s ability to resolve what needed to be resolved, and disappears into his quarters. They go to bed without speaking.
A couple of weeks later, Carter’s sheepskin gloves split a long seam along the thumb-line.
“Want me to fix those for you?” he asks when he notices, walking back towards the ladder from the radio alcove, gesturing to the gloves. Carter looks down at them, hooking a finger through the hole.
“Yeah, I guess.” He follows Newkirk into the otherwise empty tailoring section, sitting on the stool Newkirk indicates while the corporal fishes through his threads and needles. When he turns, it’s to find Carter holding out the glove in his naked hand with an almost natural expression on his face. Newkirk takes it and sits, turning it inside out to begin stitching, and starts to prattle on about nothing. By the time he’s finished, Carter’s bantering with him, completely oblivious of the pale hand resting on his knee. Newkirk hands the glove back, seams at least good as new, and gives a half-grinning nod. Carter takes the glove and pulls it on in with thoughtless motion, smiling back.
“Thanks.”
