Chapter Text
“Oh boy, it sure doesn’t feel like Christmas this year,” Carter grumbled into his cards. “December 21st —no tree, no decorations, no presents, nothing.”
LeBeau rolled his eyes at the earnest blond American. “You’ve said that three times already today,” the Frenchman complained, rearranging his hand. “Our barracks,” he said, gesturing to the sparse, worn furnishings of the prison camp room, “Are clean, at least. When have we had time for decorating?”
Carter shrugged. The POWs of Stalag 13 had been exceptionally busy the last few weeks. So many Nazi enterprises to sabotage, so little time.
“And at least you know your hometown isn’t filled with dirty bouche,” LeBeau added.
Newkirk grimaced into his own hand, partly in agreement, partly to hide his own luck: a high straight, without even pulling in the extra king that was hiding up his sleeve. “Well, if you don’t like it, Carter, let’s do something about it. I mean, we steal tanks and build bombs; who’s to say we can’t rustle up a little Christmas cheer, eh? I raise,” he concluded, tossing in two more homemade poker chips.
“I fold,” said Carter with a sigh. “What do you mean, Christmas cheer? Like singing Christmas songs?”
“We could drown out Klink’s violin for once,” Kinch laughed.
“Call or fold?” Newkirk asked.
The dark-skinned sergeant looked the Englishman in the eye. “Whenever you raise, my chance of winning seems to go down. I fold.”
“Well, I call,” LeBeau said. “And I don’t feel like singing carols!”
“It’s not like most of us are ruddy canaries, are we?” Newkirk agreed. “Well, LeBeau, maybe we could find you a nice goose to roast.”
“Where are you going to find a goose?” LeBeau sneered. “And why do you think I’d cook for you? Three of a kind,” he declared proudly, sitting the cards face up on the table.
“Because, Louie,” Newkirk added with a smile, “I win, and that’s what I want from you. Straight.” He placed the cards down beside the Frenchman’s.
Kinch shook his head. “You fooled me!” he said, flipping over his cards.
“Nice flush, mate,” Newkirk grinned, pulling in all the chips on the table. “That would have been good one. You know you shouldn’t trust me.”
“Englishmen,” LeBeau huffed and then smiled. He was used to losing to Newkirk by now.
“And, what do you want from us?” Carter asked. With both chips and the capital they signified limited, the men had long ago agreed to trade favors rather than keep a tally of winnings. By tradition, those who had folded had to make a smaller concession than those who remained in the game.
Newkirk cocked his head to look at Carter. In Newkirk’s opinion, Andrew Carter was by far the most irritating of his fellow prisoners. The boy—because that’s what he was still, nearly a boy—was terribly naïve. He used words like “gosh” instead of proper profanity. He was careless with explosives—a habit that had nearly cost Newkirk his life more than once.
But, the American sergeant had also had perfected the most pathetic sad puppy eyes Newkirk had ever seen. The British corporal sighed and then spoke. “Carter, you’re breaking m’ heart with that face. Look, how about you organize a Christmas gift exchange. We can all draw names.”
Carter’s face lit up. “Really? This is way better than the time that you made me…”
“Carter, they don’t want to know about that!” Newkirk interjected. He was still ashamed of some of the most hated camp chores that he’d had Carter “volunteer” for after a particularly devastating loss at cards.
“And me?” Kinch asked.
“Can he help me with getting presents and decorate? Be my elf?” Carter asked.
The Brit laughed aloud at the thought of thin, young, earnest Carter in a Father Christmas suit being followed around by tall, gangly Kinchloe dressed as an elf. “Sure. Kinch can help. We’re going to have to move fast if we want ‘em by Christmas.”
At that point, one of the lower bunk beds suddenly rose by several feet and a dark-haired, middle-aged man in a bomber jacket emerged from the concealed tunnel. Giving the bedframe two sharp raps to conceal the tunnel once more, he strode to the middle of the room. All eyes shifted to him. Even without the insignia of a colonel on his jacket, Newkirk reflected, it would be hard to confuse Hogan for anything but a leader.
“Who’s Kinch been helping besides me for the past hour?” Hogan asked. Kinch looked to LeBeau and Newkirk in surprise. No one had noticed how long their leader had been down in the tunnel; he being gone for that long usually meant bad news.
Carter, as usual, did not pick up on the shift in mood. “Me, Colonel!” he declared, happily. “Newkirk beat us at cards, so we’re going to make it feel like Christmas. Kinch and I are going to decorate and organize a gift exchange. LeBeau is going to cook a goose!”
Hogan shook his head slightly. “If we don’t solve these other problems, our goose is going to be cooked!” Newkirk blinked at his commanding officer. The guv’nor must be really worried. The colonel was the only man in camp with a poker face better than his. If it was slipping, that meant double bad news.
“Project Rumpelstiltskin is in trouble,” Hogan explained. “Remember all of those miniature bomb parts we made?”
“’Ow could we forget,” Newkirk grumbled, “Those tiny timers nearly killed me hands.”
“Well,” Hogan continued, “Our contact was picked up last night. He exposed a whole string of contacts, and our codes for all we know. It’s going to take weeks for the Underground to sort it out.”
“But the Resistance is running low on supplies!” LeBeau protested. “They won’t be able to organize another raid until next year.”
“Exactly,” Hogan interrupted. “We do have another contact who can meet us in Dusseldorf by Christmas Eve, but she can only meet during the day. We need a cover.”
Over the next half hour, the men cycled through ideas, each one wilder than the last. It was about the time that Carter suggested hiding everything in a giant snowman that the exercise period was announced. “We’ll think of something,” Hogan concluded. “We always do.”
“What about the gift exchange?” Carter asked.
The colonel cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. “That might be just what we need—at least as a distraction. And I’ll go ask Klink. The man’s full of ideas, whether he realizes it or not."
“Oh boy!” Carter shouted. “Christmas is coming this year after all!”
Newkirk smiled. He’d never seen the man be so excited about anything other than shiny new explosives. Maybe he should be generous in his winning more often.