Before the Dawn
by gaerwn

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light..."

Snow glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. The dead of night was near bright as day, as the full moon shone on the fresh snow. Driven by a brisk wind, snow danced in the air, swirling and drifting on cold wind; tree branches rattled like old bones in the breeze. The forest wasn't silent - far from it, as the wind buffeted all that stood in it - but the sounds were, finally, natural and the blue-clad figure huddled in a depression in the snow under the branches of a drooping tree could breathe a little easier. The shouts of men, the snapping of branches, and the shuffling of snow flying as they ran had eased into relative stillness.

The mission was completely shot but at least he hadn't been caught. Yet. Corporal Peter Newkirk was not a man who often looked at the silver lining. He cupped his bare hands in front of his mouth and blew on them before rubbing them briskly together. Somewhere in the mad scramble, he'd lost his thick gloves. He was pretty sure it was at the point where he'd taken a nice tumble down an embankment; whether it was before or after his back had made such lovely contact with the log at the bottom was a question he'd never find an answer for. At least he still had his heavy greatcoat. In uniform, he could have managed to at least not be shot on sight if he'd been caught with the downed flyers he'd come out here to pick up; that would have still left him in quite a predicament and he'd rather not have to put the whole operation in danger because he wasn't quick enough to keep out of German hands.

Beside that, he had his prior commitments to Stalag 13. It just wouldn't be right to end up prisoner of another stalag.

He wasn't far from camp now. An hour's walk maybe but he was unwilling to move just yet. If the patrol was anywhere near, he might inadvertently lead them back and that would have been worse than simply getting caught.

... And he stayed put because his back was killing him. Every movement sent a sharp slice of pain shooting through his back, shoulders to hips. His knee was starting to complain, a dull ache that had him favoring his right side slightly, and he was pretty sure his wrist had taken a lovely sprain. At least the cold was keeping the swelling down. It also kept him from feeling the scrapes across the back of his hand - or even the tips of his fingers, really. Probably not a good thing.

It was that thought more than anything else that got him moving again. The colonel could probably explain away a prisoner freezing to death not an hour's walk away from camp with an escape story - it still wouldn't be a successful escape, so that would stand at least - but Newkirk would rather not have him have to do it. Still, trying to think of what the colonel might say at a eulogy kept his mind busy. The colonel wasn't one to speak ill of the dead, but Newkirk had a feeling he'd slip in a few good-natured remarks here and there. He managed it well enough to Newkirk's face, after all.

He kept his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets as much as he was able. He felt unsteady on his feet, back and knee both complaining loudly, and found himself reaching out for branches or tree trunks to help ease his way through the snow. The one good thing about heavy patrols in the area was that even new-fallen snow sported tracks and the disturbance shouldn't raise any suspicious brows. Just in case, he'd be sure to mention tracks in snow near the tunnel entrance and see if the boys could manage to make them look a little less conspicuous.

It seemed as if he had no sense of time anymore as he walked. (Or, well. Hobbled, in point of fact. There was a part of him that worried over the injuries; the rest of him - the practical side - told him to shut it and quit thinking. It was just the cold having its way with him.) He kept as sharp an eye as he could manage on his surroundings, ready to flatten himself into a snowdrift at the first sign of trouble. Doing so, though, meant he had to take some concentration off of walking, which in normal circumstances would be fine. Tonight, it meant he flattened himself in a snowdrift once or twice completely by accident. He was almost surprised by the old stump that served as an entrance to the tunnel.

Almost, because he was too weary to actually register emotion.

His hands were shaking so badly that he fumbled the entrance; the lid slipped through his fingers and closed again with a soft thud. Peter muttered a curse under his breath. Served him right, really, if he ended up freezing to death right here next to safety because he couldn't get in the bloody tunnel. Snarling at it - and at his hands for good measure - he finally managed it.

Getting down the ladder was a whole other story. At least he got inside and pulled the door closed over him before he stopped, shaking hands white-knuckling the ladder and slowly trying to stretch his knee in a vain attempt to convince it to cooperate. He didn't notice anyone come up behind him until a large hand settled in the center of his back, just below his shoulder blades.

Kinch removed it just as quickly when Newkirk hissed and drew away from the touch. His hand wrapped firmly around Newkirk's bicep, giving the Englishman an anchor that he sorely needed as he hung onto the ladder for what felt like dear life.

"You're late." Kinch's voice was warm with concern.

Newkirk very deliberately unfurled his fingers from the rung of the ladder. Now his hands just hurt; he couldn't even feel the cold anymore. "I'm freezing." At least, he tried to say that. His teeth were chattering too hard, and his voice stolen by exhaustion, to make much more noise than a breathy whisper.

"I noticed." Kinch was steadfast, not moving and not forcing Newkirk to move until he was ready. He glanced up at the closed exit. "Just you?"

Newkirk forced words past chattering teeth. "Bit of trouble out there."

"No kidding." Kinch squeezed his arm and then left for a moment. Newkirk turned his head ever so slightly to watch him pull the cord that would alert those upstairs that they were needed in the tunnel. Wonderful. That's all he wanted was an audience while he tried to navigate a ladder.

So what he needed to do was get off the ladder before anyone else got down here. Newkirk gingerly put weight on his knee again and started his descent. Still slow and he was grateful - though he'd never say it - that Kinch came back in time to steady him at the bottom of the ladder. Mindful of Newkirk's earlier hiss at the touch on his back, Kinch kept his hands on the corporal's shoulders as he guided him toward the bench just off the ladder.

Newkirk sat, unwilling to even put up a token argument against being manhandled. Kinch knelt in front of the bench and, almost absentmindedly, began rubbing Newkirk's hands between his.

Which, of course, had Newkirk hissing and pulling his right hand away.

"Now what?" Kinch pulled his hands back and frowned.

"Took a fall." Newkirk took a breath, trying and failing to still the chattering teeth and all-over trembling.

"That what happened to your back, too?"

He tried for a cocky grin; it didn't quite get there. "Just a bruise, mate." One very large, very painful bruise, but simple bruising nonetheless.

Kinch's frown didn't ease, dark eyes critical as he took in Newkirk's slightly battered state. "You're soaked through."

There was a moment of silence; Newkirk stared at Kinch, shivering and miserable, and answered in as deadpan a tone as he could manage. "Yes, I am, mum."

His reward for it was a quick, bright smile. Kinch reached for Newkirk's shoulders. "The coat needs to come off."

Newkirk snorted; he wasn't so far out of it that he couldn't take his own coat off but Kinch helped anyway. There was a soft clatter of footsteps in the tunnel before Colonel Hogan appeared next to Kinch, worry and confusion marring his brow as he reached to pull Newkirk's sopping wet coat off. Kinch took it and hung it on one of the many hooks near the entrance.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Hogan said as he laid a hand on Newkirk's shoulder, "but weren't you supposed to come back with a couple RAF guys?" He peered into the corporal's face, then nodded once as if something he saw there put him a little more at ease. (Newkirk, after a moment's thought, decided it might be that he sported no signs of concussion; he, somehow miraculously, hadn't hit his head anywhere.)

Newkirk folded his arms across his chest and hunched over. He shot Kinch a grateful look as a blanket was settled over his shoulders.

"It's warmer in the barracks," Kinch said in a low undertone.

Hogan nodded and gently clapped Newkirk's shoulder. "I'll get Carter moved. You," he told the corporal, "tell Kinch what happened out there." With one last pat on the shoulder, the colonel jogged back upstairs.

Kinch looked expectantly at his still-shivering companion. Newkirk stared back through half-lidded eyes. He was too miserable for this. "Patrol," he said. "Be a toss up whether they take those boys to nine or come here."

"You got away, then."

The look he gave Kinch was sarcasm in and of itself. "Usually try that first."

Kinch held out his hand. After a moment, Newkirk took his right hand from the folds in the blankets and held it out for Kinch to see. The sergeant winced at the scrapes along the back of his hand, then carefully probed Newkirk's hand and wrist. "Nothing broken," Kinch said. His patient offered a rakish (and weary) grin. "What happened?" he asked.

Newkirk pulled his hand back; it needed bandaged but there was plenty of time for that. "Lost my footing." He gestured with his left hand, slicing through the air at a downward angle. "Went down a hill. There was a lovely downed tree at the bottom."

Kinch shook his head, amusement lighting his eyes. "I'm gonna have to talk to the Colonel about sending you out on simple things. Wasn't it just last week that a patrol almost picked you up?"

"That wasn't my fault."

"Exactly. You scared up a rabbit and the noise alerted 'em."

"That rabbit was a Nazi. Still say we need to turn it into a nice hasenpfeffer 'fore it rats us out."

Kinch shook his head, concern giving way to relief as Newkirk's voice grew stronger. It seemed that just a few moments of rest, out of the cold and away from the stress of a patrol on one's heels, was doing wonders. "Come on. There's only a couple hours 'til roll call. Colonel's getting Carter's bunk cleared for you."

He grunted, but allowed Kinch to help pull him to his feet, blanket falling discarded to the bench. On his feet, Kinch allowed him to wait a moment before steering him toward the ladder that led up into the barracks. "You want to get changed down here?"

Peter snorted. "I'll manage. Not so bad that I can't just shrug off my jacket and boots and grab a kip."

"You sure?" Kinch nevertheless didn't want for an answer and steered a still-limping Newkirk toward the ladder.

"I am." He gingerly tested weight on his knee and let out a breath when, though it still hurt, he could put nearly his full weight upon that leg. He grinned at Kinch. "It's not so bad. Just needed to catch my breath."

"And warm up a little." Kinch frowned and kept his hand under Newkirk's elbow as they reached the ladder. "That wrist needs wrapped up."

"If you don't mind," he replied as he carefully stepped onto the ladder, "I'll happily let you take care of that as soon as I'm layin' down."

The bunk opened above them and, between Kinch and Hogan both being somewhat over-solicitous, Newkirk was soon enough sitting on the edge of Carter's empty bunk. He glanced up at the hand hanging down from the top bunk. Hogan snorted, dark eyes lit with laughter, and tucked Carter's arm back under the blanket.

"Figured he'd be awake," Kinch muttered as he bent to help Newkirk work the wet laces on his boots.

"I don't think he actually woke up when I moved him." Hogan took Newkirk's jacket from him and hung it on the bunk-post. "He muttered something about rabbit collaborators and hasanpfeffer on his way up."

Newkirk gave Kinch a lopsided grin. "Told you."

Kinch replied by pulling Newkirk's boot off; Peter reached down and stripped his sopping wet sock off his foot. There was a sigh of relief as he dropped the sock onto the boot, then turned to start working at the laces on his left boot one-handed. Kinch swatted his hand away. At Newkirk's affronted look, he merely raised a brow and said mildly, "I don't want to be here all night while you try to unlace this thing, all right?" He nodded toward Hogan. "Have the colonel look at your hand while I'm doing this." Newkirk's expression went flat and Kinch added, "that could be an order, Corporal, if you need it to be."

"I am not an invalid."

"You're one-handed, bruised all to hell, and still shivering," Kinch replied, gaze cutting to Hogan as he said it, and Newkirk suddenly understood exactly what he was doing: giving a report to the colonel in such a way that Newkirk couldn't exactly argue any of it. "The way I figure it, you're lucky that patrol didn't pick you up, too."

Yep, giving a report. Newkirk snorted as he answered Hogan's wordless gesture and held up his right hand. "They didn't want to follow me down that hill."

"Don't think I would have, either," Hogan commented absently as he grasped Newkirk's forearm and turned the back of his hand up. Newkirk very carefully didn't flinch as he palpated the wrist. "It's a little swollen but I don't think it's too bad." He reached across to the table, where the box that served as a first aid kit (which usually resided in his own locker) rested. He pulled out a long strip of bandaging and set to work on Newkirk's wrist, careful to keep from aggravating the scrapes across the back of his hand.

For a few moments, Newkirk simply sat there and let them do as they will. He understood worry and the ways people responded to it, but he also wasn't infinitely patient. (Nowhere near it, in point of fact.) As soon as the bandage was tied off, he pulled his hand from the colonel's grasp and started fussing with the blanket. "I'm sleeping." He pulled the blanket back and nearly kicked Kinch's hand away. "Leave off. I'll get it."

Kinch clasped a strong hand over his knee, glared at him, and pulled the boot off. With an inarticulate grumble, Newkirk reached down to take care of his own wet sock. "Sleeping," he muttered and shoved his cold feet under the blanket. Kinch held off from pointing out that his pant legs were still damp after a look from Hogan.

It took Newkirk a minute or so to find a position that didn't hurt - his back was stiffening up - but when he did, he drifted off quickly. He took note of Hogan sitting on the corner of the bunk, near his feet, and talking quietly to Kinch, then fell into dreamless sleep.

Hogan started under the hand at his shoulder and came straight from blissful rest to uncertainty. He blinked sleep out of his eyes, tense and definitely just this side of coherent, and found Kinch grinning at him.

"Roll call, sir."

Hogan blinked at him. "Huh?" The reply was about as eloquent as his muddled thoughts and it took him a moment to realize he was still in uniform, rather than sleep-clothes, and definitely not in his bed.

And there was a hell of a crick in his neck.

LeBeau appeared, neck craned to peer over Kinch's shoulder. "Coffee?"

"Please." At last, a real word. Kinch held out a hand and Hogan accepted the help to move from leaning against a bunk post to actually sitting up. "I fell asleep." He was getting more coherent by the second. How he had fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against a post, he'd never quite understand.

"Nearly mid-sentence, sir." LeBeau materialized again to push a steaming mug into Hogan's hands as Kinch spoke. "Though I'm sure Newkirk will thank you for keeping his feet warm."

Hogan glanced at the still-sleeping man.

"He's fine," LeBeau said before he could ask. "We wanted to let him sleep." He shrugged. "He's cranky in the mornings anyway."

"Yeah." Carter peered down from the top bunk. "No one wanted to face that."

Hogan took a sip of coffee and rubbed his face. "I can't believe I fell asleep right where I sat."

"You must have been really tired, sir." Carter sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes and confusion settling in his expression. "How did I get up here?"

"Supervised sleepwalking," Hogan replied. He stood and stretched, crackling rippling up his spine as he finally straightened. "Time?"

"Ten minutes until Schultz comes in here."

Hogan nodded and handed his coffee off to Kinch, then bent to shake Newkirk's shoulder. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

The corporal made a noise that sounded suspiciously like "get stuffed." Hogan rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience. He needed it to deal with cranky noncoms. "Roll call in ten minutes."

"He can get stuffed too," Newkirk mumbled, accent as thick as the sleep in his voice.

"You'd say such things to an enemy? Newkirk, I'm shocked." Hogan flipped the corner of the blanket back and lightly tapped Newkirk's shoulder - over and over and over again. If his man was going to be a child about getting out of bed, Hogan was going to be a child about waking him up. It might get him a nice telling-off here in a minute but it would be worth the look on Newkirk's face when he realized what he said to the colonel.

Not-quite-awake people were fun to mess with sometimes.

"Oh, sod off." Newkirk moved to swat the hand away, probably not even realizing who he was speaking to, and then stopped abruptly with an indrawn breath. His eyes flew open. "Oh."

He must have really stiffened up in the two hours since he'd laid down. Hogan crouched to put himself into Newkirk's line of sight and watched with no small amount of amusement as confusion, realization, and mortification all flitted across the corporal's face. (He, however, was not amused by the undercurrent of pain through all of it.) "You were saying, Corporal?"

Newkirk blinked. "Sod off, sir."

"Much better." Hogan patted his shoulder lightly. No hard feelings. "There's coffee."

"Oh, good." Newkirk accepted a hand to help pull himself into a sitting position. He hissed, sitting hunched over his knees, and allowed himself a moment or two just to breathe. "Ow."

"How bad?"

Newkirk peered up at Hogan and grimaced at the audience he had; it seemed every person in the barracks was watching him try to convince the muscles in his back to quit spasming. That was enough to spur him to putting on a damn good front. "Fine, sir. Just a bit stiff is all."

Hogan believed that. Really. "Someone needs to actually look at your back," he said softly; only Newkirk, Kinch and Carter, who were nearest, heard the statement.

"It's really just bruised," Newkirk answered just as softly.

"Humor me," Hogan said and dropped Newkirk's boots on the floor next to him. "They're still a little damp," he said a bit more loudly. "Kinch had them next to the stove, but..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Newkirk nodded and, with a grunt, pulled the boots close. After a moment's consideration, he simply began to shove his feet into them, socks be damned. (They'd just get wet anyway.) Kinch reached out to lend a hand and received only an irritable growl for his trouble. He sat back, hands held up, and mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a smile.

Hogan choked back a chuckle; if Newkirk was cranky, he'd be fine. It was one of the many things they'd come to learn while stationed in the camp. He looked up as the door blew open, immediately filled by the girth that was the sergeant of the guard.

"You're early."

Schultz brushed snow off his shoulders and gave Hogan what was almost an affronted look. "I walked fast."

"Too cold for even you, huh?" Hogan clapped him on the shoulder. "Still snowing?"

"Ja. It is too cold for the Big Shot, too," the guard continued. He leaned toward Hogan, speaking lowly as if he was passing confidential information along. "He is too busy sneezing to get out of bed."

Hogan raised a brow. "What about roll call?"

"I am to do a head count in the barracks."

Muffled exclamations from the men followed that statement but Hogan's attention was drawn to Newkirk, who was staring at Schultz as if contemplating how much trouble he could land in if he chucked one of his boots at the guard's head. Hogan caught his eye and tilted his head in silent reproval. Newkirk turned one hand palm up and gestured to the wet boots he'd just shoved onto his feet. Hogan grinned at him and turned back to Schultz. "All heads accounted for, Sergeant."

"I will do the counting, Colonel Hogan." And Schultz did just that - at least right up to the point that Carter, still on that top bunk near the door, noticed something.

"Hey, Schultz. What's in your coat?" Carter leaned over, fingers clumsily questing for the corners of paper sticking out from under Schultz's topcoat. Schultz swatted at Carter's hands, but failed to noticed LeBeau taking up the cause. "Are those envelopes?" Carter continued.

LeBeau pulled the bundle free and held it up high while Schultz sputtered. "Our mail, Schultzie?"

Carter turned the most pitiful gaze he could muster - which was considerably pitiful - onto Schultz. "Weren't you going to give those to us?"

Schultz reached for the bundle; LeBeau danced away. "They are here. I am here. Of course I was going to give them to you. Give those back!"

"They are ours," LeBeau returned, then passed them off to Colonel Hogan.

"Shame on you, Schultz," Hogan said, shaking his head. "Keeping letters from the men."

"Colonel Hogan..." Schultz sputtered, then huffed loudly. "I have brought the mail."

Hogan grinned while untying the bundle. "Thanks, Schultz."

With another huff, Schultz left the barracks - and he'd forgotten to actually take a headcount. Not that anyone was missing, for once. Hogan shook his head and began to distribute the letters. It wasn't often that everyone in the barracks ended up with at least one letter - there was always someone who didn't get an envelope once in awhile; letters tended to be staggered well enough to almost guarantee that - but this time, every man had one.

The barracks descended into chaotic chatter as men tore into their letters and shared tidbits of home with each other. Garlotti called something about his family's restaurant doing well, to which LeBeau responded with something (probably good-natured and slightly unsavory) in French. Mills cracked up laughing, sharing bits of a story about his younger brother. Carter had jumped down from the top bunk and perched on a bench at the table.

Hogan stuck his letter in his jacket pocket - it was from his dad and he'd read it in due time. He tended to like to savor those in relative peace and quiet. Right now, he preferred to watch the happy chaos that mail call usually brought. Oh, once in awhile, there would be bad news from home but for the most part, this was about the happiest he got to see the guys and he rather liked it.

It took him a few moments to realize there was a voice he wasn't hearing. Newkirk's rasping Cockney was usually laced in amongst the comments, always with something to say about whatever tidbits of others' lives that floated through the air. Hogan blinked at the absence and his gaze sought out the English corporal. Still seated on Carter's bunk and damp boots still on - that was a bit surprising, all things considered - Newkirk read his letter with an expression that bordered on blank.

Hogan watched with narrowed eyes as Carter noticed the lack of response from his friend; Carter moved to sit beside Newkirk and, after a whispered conversation, Newkirk pushed himself to his feet and crossed toward the tunnel entrance. If anyone else noticed him descending into the tunnel, they said nothing. Carter folded his own letter into fourths and carefully placed it an inner pocket in his jacket.

Then he clasped his hands, rest his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. The movement of the bunk entrance closing caught Kinch's eye; he looked first toward it, then found Carter, then his questioning gaze settled on Hogan, who shook his head in consternation.

Whatever had just happened, Hogan didn't know what it was. Oh, he could guess but he dearly hoped that the first few things that occurred to him were wrong; Newkirk's home had taken beating after beating and there were days when Newkirk's worry for family and friends had him restless and short-tempered. If something had actually happened...

Hogan cut those thoughts short. No sense in borrowing trouble, and he was a firm believer in not prying unless absolutely necessary. Hopefully, this one wasn't necessary. When Kinch nodded toward the bunk, Hogan shook his head.

Let Newkirk go for now. He had exactly twenty minutes before Hogan tracked him down himself; if nothing else, his back still needed seen to. It would give Hogan a good enough excuse to seek him out before long.

tbc...

Author's Note: A general note now, before we get into the meat of the story: This one will deal with some fairly dark themes now and again as I delve into both external and internal issues with the guys. While I do enjoy the light-hearted nature of the show – and I have a few things in the works that are humorous and light-hearted – this story explores some of the harsher realities of war, including grief and loss.

That said! This is my first foray into longer, more plotty fiction in this fandom. I tend to deal in one-shots, but sometimes the ideas take hold and I gotta go with it. Questions, comments, concerns, you know where to find me. :)

-gaerwn