In the Bleak Midwinter, a Hogan’s Heroes fanfic by *blinkblink*

Notes: This was written for 96 Hubbles' challenge, #271 Ye Olde Bone-Chilling English Christmas over on ff.net. Disappointingly, it apparently doesn't actually get very cold in Germany; we can just pretend.

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Christmas and New Year's had passed, with what little cheer they could bring, into the long icy stretches of winter; dark, dull and unrelenting. The snow lay nearly a foot thick above the icy ground, frozen hard. It had stopped snowing two days ago. Since then the daylight sky had been a pale water-colour blue while the washed-out orb of the sun lingered near the horizon, the night perfectly black with the stars shining bright cut-glass white. Every day the mercury dropped further, while the strong winds added an extra chill that the thermometer couldn't account for.

The day before, the men had been granted a temporary reprieve from all outdoor activity, the guards with their often inferior winter gear unwilling to participate in the more frequent patrols loose prisoners required. Klink had even agreed for barracks checks to take the place of roll calls until the unusually harsh cold let up.

With the tunnels available if the poorly heated and uninsulated barracks became truly unliveable, the men hadn't given too much thought to the cold snap. Then a shrieking windstorm had torn down a huge oak near the emergency tunnel, the great boughs staving in sections of the tunnel's roof and letting the cold stream in like water through a broken dam. With the cold and the snow and the frozen earth, repairs were impossible, would have to wait for warmer weather. Which meant the tunnels, while still useable for missions, were useless as refuges from the cold.

The day before, Carter had predicted it was going to get colder, and advised cancelling their night mission in Hammelburg. Hogan, doubtful but unwilling to outright ignore the advice of a man used to winters which dropped to the minus forties, had postponed it for one night. The camp had woken in the morning to the news that Champlain from barracks 12 had gone out in the middle of the night to visit the john in just his night clothes and a blanket, and had crawled back in fifteen minutes later suffering from moderate exposure. The medic reported 20 new colds on top of the 42 already afflicting men, three of which had turned towards pneumonia in the night.

At which point the cold snap began to be taken seriously.

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"So we're doubling up the barracks," explained Hogan to the men of barracks 2, gathered in a tight knot around the stove. It had warmed slightly in the wake of the previous night's near-arctic temperatures, but a building made of a single layer of wood heated by one small fire would never be comfortable in temperatures below 15, where they were now hovering. "You'll all share a bunk with your bed mate, and the men from barracks 3'll have the extras."

Chaos broke out immediately, men standing in protest as complaints flooded in from all corners of the barracks. No one wanted to share his bunk with a man, no one wanted to share his bunk with a man; with the cold weather making everyone snappish no one wanted to share anything, period.

"Look," broke in Hogan, waving gloved hands for quiet, "until it warms up, the barracks are just too cold for safety. Even if the Kommandant authorized new stoves, the cold snap would be over before they were installed. The only way to warm up is to get more bodies in here. Plus," he added, in a positive tone, "we'll have double the wood allowance and blankets."

"We understand that, Colonel," said Newkirk, long wool coat buttoned tight over his short jacket and hands held out to the stove's faint warmth. "But why're we sharing our ruddy bunks? They're small enough as it is!" Several men spoke up in agreement again, reiterating their points from a minute ago. Hogan waited for most of them to cool down, then outshouted the remainder.

"For one thing, there's nowhere else for them to sleep. We don't have enough floor space in here for fourteen more men, even if that were fair!" The colonel didn't have to indicate the tiny amount of spare space in the barracks; with fifteen men clustered around the centre of the hut it was entirely obvious just how much free space there was outside the bunks.

"They can sling hammocks," suggested Williams, to popular approbation.

Hogan eyed him. "Uh huh. And how many of you would like to sleep in a nice open exposed hammock in this cold? Because if we do that, it'll be half of you and half of them."

That quieted the men, but hardly pleased them.

"Look, no one's happy about this. We're all cold and miserable. But this is unusual, even for Germany, and it'll pass pretty soon. Maybe even as early as tomorrow, or the next day. And then we can all go back to our nice routines of tunnel-digging and callisthenics."

That got a laugh, even from Newkirk. Hogan gave it a moment, then cut in again. "Alright, alright. When the guys from Three get here, you'll have to organize who's sharing which bunks. For Pete's sake don't go pairing Blakney with McCallum," Hogan named the heaviest men in the two barracks. "And keep the lighter pair on the top bunk. Let's use our heads, okay?"

Newkirk looked to Carter, hunched thin and miserable next to him, gloved hands outstretched. "Well, at least I'll get to keep me bunk."

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The men from Three arrived after lunch and the hurried rush back across the frozen snow to regain the shelter – if not warmth – of the barracks that meals had come to entail.

Fifteen men in a building 30 feet by 18 was tight but liveable. 29 was not far from a sardine tin.

Crowding around the stove was quickly discovered to be impossible, causing LeBeau to organize a rota with places shifting every fifteen minutes. His as coffee-maker was guaranteed, although coffee meant the john, which meant a three minute trip outside, which meant demand for coffee was down. The men not clustered around the stove sat in the bunks reading or talking; with all hands either protected by gloves or stuffed in pockets, hand-crafts were impossible, and in the restricted space not much else was possible. The thinner men or those with less winter clothing sat crouched tight, dreading the much colder night; those with better clothing or more weight shifted uncomfortably in the limited space, irritable in their confinement and snapping at the least provocation.

By the time dinner came around, men trooping through the biting cold to the mess hall in a sullen bunch, it had become clear that unless they were given something to do they would all go stir crazy.

Their barracks was currently in the late rotation for dinner, which meant that when they hurried back across the icy path the snow had been trodden into, the night wind was whistling in the trees and the stars shining bright and cold above. Having the door open for the single minute it took to stream the twenty nine men into the barracks was enough to let out all meagre heat not already stolen through the cracks in the door and uninsulated walls, and the men immediately flocked to the bunks to wrap their thin woollen blankets around their shoulders for all the extra warmth that brought.

"This is no way for men to live," hissed Newkirk from his bunk, the upturned collar of his coat all that was visible below the brown blanket flipped up over his head like a shawl. "We'll be bloody icicles before tomorrow."

"N-nah, just real cold. 'S not c-cold enough in here to freeze t'death," replied Carter, sitting next to him with his legs hanging over the edge of the bunk and his teeth chattering.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "I'm so relieved!"

"Oui, tell us something we want to hear," added LeBeau, hunched over the stove with his blanket wrapped up over his head as well.

"Anyone else starting to feel like part of an Antarctic expedition?" asked Olson, from a corner.

"Just no one go outside for a few minutes," replied Williams, to a few chuckles.

"Yeah, tell that to Champlain."

"Too bad we don't have a Scott."

"Probably just as well, really."

The men had just begun to loosen up slightly when there was a shuffling outside the door. It opened without further warning, letting in a gust of shrieking wind with it. The room was thrown immediately into uproar, men protesting and jumping away from the door towards their bunks, others wrapping blankets tightly around themselves and burrowing down into what little protection the straw mattresses offered.

"B-bed check," announced Schultz, stammering, as he forced the door closed behind him, ignoring the sea of complaints and raising his clipboard.

"Arlington?"

"Here."

"Axworthy?"

"Here."

The sergeant continued on down the list, ticking off names with a pencil. Meanwhile the men had returned to the bunks and were tucking themselves in in preparation for lights out and the door's being opened again. Most of them wore their full day clothes, including jackets.

By the time the sergeant was reaching the end of his list, most bunks had settled down, men shifting awkwardly as they tried to find a non-invasive way to share a sleeping space hardly more than a yard wide.

"Axworthy, your foot's on my side."

"Can't you budge over?"

"Stop fidgeting, you're rocking the whole goddamn bunk."

And, finally, in the sudden gap as Schultz finished, Newkirk's hiss carried clear through the whole barracks, "If you think you're sleeping on your back, think again."

That, at least, caused muffled laughs and chivvying.

"You tell 'im, Newkirk."

"You gonna take that, Andrew?"

"You're all a bunch of jolly jokers," said Schultz, sourly, ambling over to the light switch. "Be thankful you will be spending the night inside."

"Be thankful you have a winter coat!"

"Oui, Schultzie, and a warm bed to sleep in."

"And as much hot coffee as you want!"

"Bah. I would rather be in here, with you, then out there with my coat." Schultz flipped the lights out without warning. "And remember, do not go out!"

"Don't worry, no one's gonna pull a Champlain, Schultz," came Kinch's voice out of the darkness. Schultz didn't bother to answer, just pulled the door open and let another burst of freezing wind into the creaking wooden shack before he shut it again.

The only light was the flickering orange glow of the stove, shining out weakly from the thin grates carved into the iron door. Outside the wind was howling over the camp, throwing itself against the barracks and causing the entire building to shudder.

They all lay there quietly for some time, 28 men and one officer, jammed into beds like sardines, dressed in all the clothes they owned.

It was still bitterly cold.

After a while the men started shuffling, trying to find more comfortable positions in situations where there was none to be found without extreme awkwardness, and trying to keep warm at the same time. The creaking of the bunks joined the roaring wind and the crackling of the fire in filling the barracks with unnerving sounds.

Broken, again, by the most voluble pair in the room.

"Newkirk, would ya stop elbowing me?" Carter was whispering, low and intense, with no trace of sleep in his voice.

"Stop bloody shifting and go to sleep, then." Newkirk didn't sound any more tired than Carter, just irritated.

"I c-can't, it's too cold."

"I thought you were from a cold climate," replied the Brit, in what passed for a scathing whisper.

"Yeah, cold outside. We're not used to 20 inside."

"Would you two knock it off," said Kinch, from across the room. "Some of us're trying to sleep."

"Carter's right, it's too damn cold for sleep," came Olson's voice from near the tunnel's bunk.

This met with general agreement, voices chiming in from all corners of the darkness in low murmurs.

"Last time I was this cold, I was in Oslo," muttered Arlington, in his well-bred London accent.

"Last time I was this cold, I was in a snowdrift," spat back Williams.

"L-last time I was this cold, I was in my dad's c-car," stammered Carter, "with my candle."

There was a general pause.

"Your candle?" asked Newkirk, after a minute, in a long-suffering tone.

"Yeah. You k-keep it in your car in the winter. The heat's enough to keep you alive, if the c-car breaks down."

"Remind me never to visit you in the winter," replied Newkirk.

"My car broke down in the winter, once," said Kinch in a low tone, from the other side of the room. "It wasn't a bad one, for Chicago. Not too much snow and ice, yet. I was driving along the lake – forget why, now. Anyway, there wasn't too much snow on the ground, but a storm blew up out of nowhere and before I knew it, it was a full white-out. I couldn't see three feet in front of me, so I pulled over to the shoulder to wait it out. I could hear the roar of the lake waves even through the storm." He paused, and there was a low shuffling.

"Et? So what?" prompted LeBeau from beside him.

"So I was sitting in the car, nothing but white all around me, and there came this tapping. I looked over, and there was this girl standing out by the passenger window, knocking on the glass. She was dead white with the cold, blue lips and hair soaking, but real pretty all the same. I almost fell over the gear shaft I leant over so fast to open the door."

Some of the men chuckled, others whistling. Kinch went on grimly.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. She got in and shut the door behind her, but as soon as she stepped in all the heat went out – through the door, I figured – and it got cold, real cold. And damp, like a fog, except of course there was just the snow. I asked her what she was doing out there in the middle of the storm; if she was in trouble. She shook her head, so I asked if there was somewhere I could take her. It was funny, it must have been 25 at the most outside, but I could feel water beading on my skin. It was forming on the glass too, and freezing; I remember watching a drop freeze on the mirror. I couldn't understand why it was so wet all of a sudden, so moist I could even feel it in the air, in my lungs, almost like trying to breathe underwater. But I was still caught up in this girl, so I wasn't really paying attention." Kinch took a long breath, barely audible over the shrieking wind. "Anyway, I asked her where I could take her. And she said 'nowhere,' in this quiet voice, almost a hiss, really. I told her I couldn't just leave her out in the middle of the storm, that I could give her a ride somewhere. She didn't even look at me, just reached out to put her hand on my wrist, real slow. It felt strange, cold and clammy and – smooth, like ice. So I looked down and… there was nothing but bones and seaweed. I turned to try to get out of the car, and the door was frozen shut. When I turned back, she was gone. The seat was so wet, it took two full days to dry out."

There was a momentary pause, then someone said "Boo!"

Carter shrieked, and wood creaked. "That wasn't funny, Newkirk," he hissed. The rest of the barracks broke into laughter.

"Très bien, Kinch."

"Yeah, not bad, Sarge."

"Would'a been better if she'd had no face."

"Or no head."

Kinch groaned. "Everyone's a critic. You think you can do better?"

Several men did, but had offered too quickly and had nothing ready when silence fell.

"Fine, fine, I will go," came LeBeau's voice out of the darkness. "It is a true story, mind you. It happened to my brother when he was attending université in Lyon. I do not know if you know of the history of Lyon, but it is very bloody. Many battles, many sieges. They say that the streets ran red with blood more than once. Many buildings there are said to be – how do you say it?" he broke off to ask in a low tone, and received an answer from Kinch, "haunted. My brother, though, he is not one to believe in such things. If you cannot see it, it does not exit for Jean-Marie." LeBeau paused, and then went on in a less explanatory tone.

"In his first two years, he lived in a campus building. But in the third he tired of the system there and decided to try a new place. He chose to live in an old Huguenot building, a real relic of those times which had recently been divided into small rooms for students. His was in the attic, one of only two up there on the old creaking floor. It was a cheap room, both warm with the heat of the house and draughty with the old windows and ancient stone and mortar, but quite close to the campus and otherwise convenient, so he did not feel that he could complain about the man living in the other half of the attic. You see, it was supposed to be rooms for single students, but he would often hear the man's child running about and laughing, playing with blocks or toys or what-have-you. He felt sorry for the man as well, as he never heard a woman – and for that matter the man himself was quite silent – and so he said nothing to the landlady. Yet he felt that even if she could not hear the child from her apartment in the bottom of the house, she must surely notice him taking the child to school or the park or to meals."

Outside the wind gathered its force and slammed into the side of the barracks again; several bunks creaked.

"Eventually, though, it occurred to Jean-Marie – who I must say has never been so very quick to take notice – that he never heard anyone coming to or leaving from the room, nor did he ever hear the child in the stairway. So one autumn evening he finally decided to ask the landlady about his neighbours. She answered, with surprise, that he had none. She had been unable to let the final room because of noise complaints; she had the key on her ring. He insisted to see the room, telling her he knew there was a child living there, perhaps an orphan.

"They went up together and she opened the door for him. The room was a mirror image of his own, but covered in dust-sheets and with a layer grime on the windows and dust on the floor, and the light of sunset lying red across it. There was no trace of anyone living there, nothing at all never mind toys. Jean-Marie was completely astounded, but thought perhaps he had heard the student below him and mistaken the room. He was turning to leave when he heard a child laugh behind him and turned, flicking on the overhead light. The floor, he realised, was not red because of the sunset." LeBeau paused, and finished with a wry smile in his tone, "He spent the night in a hotel, and moved out the next day."

There were appreciative murmurs, and a muffled pat on the shoulder. "If we need a ghost story, we know who to go to, LeBeau," said Kinch appreciatively. In the stove something crackled sharply, red firelight flaring for a moment before dying back again.

"You 'aven't 'eard much of a selection, 'ave you?" said Newkirk after a second's pause.

"Oh, you have a better one?" returned the Frenchman.

"Just so 'appens as I do. Mine's genuine too, 'appened to me uncle in the last war." Newkirk paused for dramatic effect, letting the wind blow itself out of its current whistle before continuing. "It was late in the war, and 'is unit was 'iking to catch up to the Front; never too forward in risking 'is skin, was Uncle John. Anyway, they were 'iking through the French countryside, through miles o' tiny villages with the same names 'n not a pence to any of 'em, bivouacking in fields and barns as they found 'em. Not too pleasant."

"It was not so pleasant for us, either," muttered LeBeau.

"Anyway, Uncle John, 'e was never one to sleep in a field if there was a chance of a bed. So when they stop for a kip in some old wheat field, 'e nips out past the guard 'n heads for a cottage he'd spotted just before the sun set. 'E doesn't make it that far, though, 'cause this bird pops up out of nowhere, right there in front of 'im looking scared outta 'er 'ead. I'd say she was good looking, but to tell you the truth it wouldn't've mattered to Uncle John if she were an ogre so long as she was of the female persuasion."

"Then she'd be an ogress," put in Carter, drowning out less salubrious comments regarding Newkirk's own standards. Newkirk ignored them all.

"So Uncle John says somethin' bloody stupid like 'where'd you come from, then?' and the girl just kind of stares at 'im for a minute and 'e thinks 'e's run up against the language barrier good and sharp, but then she tells 'im to come with 'er and leads 'im up to the cottage."

Someone groaned at the predictability.

"Shut up, you ain't 'eard the end yet, 'ave you? What was I saying? Oh, yeah, she motions 'im towards the cottage. Uncle John isn't behind in followin' 'er, you can bet. So 'e steps into the cottage, expecting to be shown the bed, toot suite. 'Cept it turns out that there's this old man sitting waiting up for 'er, thin as a rake and staring at 'im with 'is eyes none too friendly as you might imagine. And this old coot says to 'im, 'So, you're looking for a place to sleep?' in pretty good English for a provincial. And Uncle John says, begging 'is pardon, yes. So the old man tells 'im if 'e'll do a few chores for them they'll give 'im somewhere to kip for the night and a bit of stew as well."

LeBeau gave a snorting laugh. "Ce n'était pas un peu sinister? We were not giving out food to just anyone who came along."

"Yeah, well, like I already said Uncle John wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, alright?" replied Newkirk, getting irritated with the kibitzing, and took up the story again. "'E agrees to do the work for the bed, and the stew, and the 'ope of a little something extra if I know 'im. So the bird takes 'im out back to this 'uge wood pile and says that 'e's to chop wood. So 'e chops some wood, 'til 'e's got a nice little stack, and brings it inside. Then she tells 'im she wants 'im to put the plough in the barn; seems the leads broke 'n they sold the 'orses and with one thing and another it'd gotten stuck in the mud of the yard. So 'e uses some water from the pump to soften up the ground 'n drags it out and into the barn. Then she says as she wants 'im to fix some broken slats in the barn. 'E's getting pretty shirty by this time, but she tells 'im that's almost all the chores done. So 'e goes and gets the 'ammer and nails and starts fixing the slats, and 'appens to notice as the 'ay loft's full and the mangers are too, and the 'ens 'ave plenty of grain in their trays. By now Uncle John's startin' to get a bit suspicious, but the girl says there's just one more thing she wants done. There's a well out back behind the 'ouse, and she needs water for 'er bath; won't 'e bring some up for 'er? All 'e 'as to do is follow path; the well's right at the end of it. Well, you can guess 'ow quick 'e was to agree to that."

Most of the barracks agreed that yes, they could.

"Still, like I said, 'e was getting a mite suspicious. So when it turns out to be pitch black in the back garden, what with the cottage shutters closed and the girl gone with the light to get the fire stoked up for the water, 'e goes around pretty cautious-like, especially since it's just occurred to 'im that if they've got the barnyard pump what do they need with an open well? Rather than 'urrying along the path, 'e goes slow. And sure enough, as 'e's scuffling along the path 'e shuffles 'is foot forwards and finds nothing but a dirty great 'ole. So 'e finds a stone and tosses it in: nothing. 'E's just thinking it's time to 'igh-tail it outta there when 'e notices something in the dark on the ground; a pair of red stones. 'Cept there ain't no ground in front of 'im, only the pit, and they aren't stones, they're eyes. Shining bloody red in the dark right dead set in front of 'im." Newkirk paused for a breath; there was no sound inside the barracks except for the crisp pops of the fire.

"'Course, 'e did a bunk quick enough, but not before 'e felt a cold 'and tearing through 'is trouser cuffs. The girl ran out and tried to stop 'im as he 'opped the fence back to 'is unit, shouting about 'im needing to go back and finish 'is job, but 'e wasn't stopping for ruddy love or money. Close as 'e could figure they 'ad some deal going with whatever lived in that pit, but 'e didn't stick around to inquire."

There was a silence while the barracks digested the story and the wind whistled and the fire continued to crackled quietly.

"Your uncle may be a bigger liar than you, Newkirk," said Olson, after a moment in a muffled voice that suggested he was speaking through his blanket.

"'E's got the trousers to prove it. I saw 'em once," protested Newkirk in tone of false injury.

"Oh ho," said LeBeau, sarcastically.

"Well at least there was a bally ghost in mine," returned the Brit.

"You think."

"Yeah, maybe it was an ogress," put in Williams, to general amusement.

"I heard a ghost once," said Carter in a contemplative tone which never-the-less killed the rest of the jeering. "Or maybe it was an angel," he continued, in the same thoughtful tone.

"An angel?" said Newkirk, sceptically.

"Well, I don't think you usually get ghosts in planes, d-do you? I mean, someone has to have died there, and I'm pretty sure no one died in my plane, before – well, anyway." He paused, shifting while the wind rocked the far wall again and then picked up when it calmed. When he went on, he had mostly mastered his shivering. "I was flying as waist g-gunner in the old 1649H, Baby Blue, a B-17; she'd been in the war longer than me by the time I was assigned to her. She was getting pretty rickety, but she was a good flyer all the same; the captain'd swear by her, said he'd rather have her than any new bird they'd care to give him. And it was t-true, we took some hard hits and she always got us home.

"Well, the RAF came up with a new target out of the blue and needed immediate action with all the forces they could muster, so we got drafted into the squadron; it was the first time I'd flown at night. I was real nervous, what with the dark and the new squadron and all, sitting down there in the waist. Our intercom had been acting up in the last mission, and when we got up there it started up again, spitting static through the lines. It was t-terribly cold, colder even then the day, colder even than now," Carter paused for the laugh. "I was trying not to sweat, trying to keep an eye on my oxygen mask, and trying to get the radio to quit hissing at me. Thornton the radio operator ran waist sometimes, but this flight he was up front, trying to get the thing working properly so I was all alone in there. Something back towards the tail of the plane was rattling, and that was all I could hear over the engines.

"I had no idea where we were. Usually I could see the Channel, at least, and then the ground when we got past it, to judge how far we'd come but in the dark I couldn't see anything. I had no idea how I was supposed to zero in on enemy fighters; I had no idea how I was supposed to keep from zeroing in on our guys if they broke formation."

"Practice," said Newkirk, beside him, in a dry tone.

"Yeah, well, I don't envy you guys. I was sitting up there watching the window with my eyes peeled as soon as we got up to cruising altitude, wondering if I'd see anything if it was out there, when the radio started hissing again, so loud I actually nearly knocked my headset off. I told Thornton to turn down the volume if he couldn't stop it; he said it wasn't that bad. Our co-pilot was a stickler for keeping off the air if we didn't have anything to say, so I piped down and thought about going forward to give Thornton a kick instead."

"Nice, Andrew," snorted Olson.

"The static was getting awful, and I was really almost thinking about taking off my headset when I started hearing something through it. It was garbled real bad, not just with the static but like the receiver wasn't picking it up right, and I could hardly hear it anyway. I couldn't recognize the voice at all, couldn't pin it down to any of the crew. I asked for a repeat, and the co-pilot came on loud and clear telling me to quit harping on the radio and that we'd be over our target in five minutes so to keep my eyes open. The static was back as soon as he cut his transmission, so bad I couldn't hear myself think."

"Not that loud, then," muttered Newkirk. Carter ignored him.

"I couldn't take my headset off so close to the target so I just sat there, listening. And after a minute, I started to make out something. Sounded like Back, and something else, still all cut up. I reached up to fiddle with the volume and it came through all in one burst; it was a woman's voice, one I didn't know. It was saying Turn back, turn back." Carter paused to swallow. "I can tell you, there weren't any girls in our crew, and we sure didn't have room for a stowaway, and no way was someone using our internal intercom from the ground or even another plane. I didn't know what to do – what could I do? – but the next minute the nose gunner was calling a squad of ME-109s coming in fast and I could already see the light as some of our squad began firing. Whatever was rattling in the back started up for real, and the static was blaring with new words, now. Even trying to shoot down the Messerschmitt I could hear it; Parachute, parachute. They cut off for a minute when the tail gunner cut in to report a plane going down behind us, but as soon as he closed the channel it was squawking at me again, so loud I couldn't think any other thoughts. In the back, the rattling stopped and the plane lurched. I got right up and put on my parachute. A minute later, the captain came on to say the tail rudder was jammed. He didn't even finish before they shot out the engine on the other side from me; it took the wing with it; a second later it was like… like someone cleaved the plane open with a knife. I never jumped, I just fell, almost got tangled up in all the wreckage. I was the only survivor; none of the other guys had time to put on their chutes before she broke up."

There was a long moment of silence, even the fire lying low, wind moaning in the distant trees.

"That's not exactly scary," suggested Newkirk eventually.

Outside the wind knocked free one of the window shutters, and it slammed against the side of the barracks with a terrific bang. Five men jumped right out of their bunks, landing in embarrassed heaps on the floor; one of them was Newkirk.

"Not so scary, huh?" said Carter, smugly, from the top bunk.

From somewhere inside the dark of the barracks came a long, rasping creak. Every man froze, wrapped tight in blankets and pressed hard against cold walls.

"You guys had enough of your ghost stories yet?" came Hogan's wry voice from the door to his quarters. The men relaxed, almost inaudibly.

"Just a bit of fun, sir," said Newkirk, hopping back up into his bunk and promptly running smack into Carter.

"Right. So who'll be going out to do up the shutter?" As if hearing his words, the wind knocked the wayward wood against the side of the building again.

There was a long silence.

Finally, Hogan broke it in a falsely cheerful voice. "You know, I never told a story, and I happen to have one that's just perfect for the occasion. It's called, 'The colonel who never issued an evening pass again, Newkirk.'"

There was a sigh, and then a thud. "If you're not on your side of the bunk when I come back," said Newkirk from beside his bunk, "so 'elp me I'll strangle you and then use you as a duvet." A moment later the door opened and closed, letting a blast of frigid air in. The shutter slammed against the window frame, falling silent, and then the door opened and closed a second time. It was all done in less than thirty seconds.

"Right," said Hogan. "Now try to get some shuteye. Save the rest of the stories for tomorrow night, huh?" There was another shorter creak as he disappeared into his quarters.

"We're going to be here again tomorrow?" asked LeBeau in a despairing tone.

"The r-rest of you b-better start thinking of something g-good. With gore," chattered Newkirk, chafing his arms and shifting sharply under his thin blanket.

"And tropic temperatures, preferably," added Kinch.

"Hey, what about sharks?" asked Carter, and then yelped.

"You just go to sleep," hissed Newkirk. "And stop ruddy stealing me blanket."

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