LeBeau lay in his bunk above the tunnel entrance and slept. Wilson had tended him after the long, painful car ride back to Stalag 13. The guys hadn't asked him any more questions, other than the 'how are you?' and 'does it hurt much?'... what a stupid question - silly Americans, of course it hurt. He slept fitfully, often being jarred awake by sharp, throbbing pain. When this happened Kinch would usually get him some water and more aspirin. He would swallow it down and go back to sleep.

The next morning camp life went on around him, albeit more quietly. Hogan had convinced Klink to allow LeBeau to be counted in bed… something about a highly contagious disease. Klink hadn't paid too much attention once the unimpeachable, Sergeant Wilson attested to his level of infirmity.

With LeBeau sleeping and unable to cook, all the men ate breakfast at the mess, which was honestly what it was… a mess. It might have been oatmeal, but then again it might have been farina. Carter thought it was probably corn mush, while Newkirk believed it was one of Klink's old boots chopped into itty bitty pieces and stewed in milk. Whomever was right made no difference… it was inedible.

Carter had made sure to get two servings one for him and the second to take back for LeBeau; but after one bite he was unsure. Looking at the rest he ventured, "I suppose we ought to give it to him, right?"

"You try and feed that to him, and he'll bite your hand off."

Carter frowned, "But he has to eat, Newkirk. Wilson said so."

They all looked down at the goopy mess. Carter gave his another stir. As the cereal cooled is began to harden into what could best be described as not-quite-set cement. He gave it another go, maybe he could figure out a way to fix it enough to be edible. Finding he couldn't swallow, so in uncharacteristically bad manners, he spat it back into his bowl and shuddered.

"We can't give that to LeBeau," he agreed, downing a half-mug of bitter, but still drinkable black coffee in hopes that the taste would leave his mouth. It didn't, so he took another mouthful and gargled.

Kinch pushed his tray forward and said, "Okay, then what are we going to feed him? And ourselves, too."

"I bet the Colonel's having a better meal with Klink," Newkirk muttered darkly. "RHIP."

"Don't be too sure of that. Schultz was cooking."

Carter snapped his fingers, interrupting Newkirk's retort. "We'll make chicken soup!" he said, eyes lighting up excitedly as his mind raced ahead. "My ma always made it for me when my sisters and I were sick."

"Shame yer ma ain't here."

"Oh, don't worry about that. When my sisters were sick and I wasn't she'd let me help her."

Carter chewed on his lower lip, thinking over the ingredient list. If he closed his eyes and tried to picture it… There was the kitchen with the big, black wood stove. Ma stood at the kitchen counter, her hair pinned back and her pink apron with little blue cornflowers all over it was tied around her waist. The big metal stockpot bubbled away, the smell was so real and delicious it made his stomach growl. He just had to 'see' the card where she wrote out her recipes… yes, got it!

"We'll need chicken, and onions and celery. Water, of course. Salt and pepper for seasoning… oh, and a bit of rice," he said, opening his eyes.

Kinch frowned, "rice?"

"Ma always put rice in it. My little sister always used to drink the soup part then make pictures of little houses and things with the rice. Papa didn't like that; he said food was for eating, not playing."

"I'll just drop in on the Colonel's brunch and get Klink to let me have a pass to China for some rice."

Newkirk rolled his eyes as Carter pondered this development. He shrugged, nothing major to worry about. Even Ma used substitutes sometimes, especially when the check was short or long on coming.

"You get me some ingredients and I'll make it work," he said confidently.

Newkirk gave the cereal another stir, grimaced at it then up at Carter. Whatever the Yank did it couldn't be worse than breakfast, so he agreed. If Colonel Hogan gave the okay for some shopping, he'd collect what he could. With the plan decided on, he and the others went in search of their commander.

H~H

"Are you sure about this?"

Kinch hovered over Carter's shoulder as they inspected the items Newkirk had scrounged from the kitchen in the mess and from the brief trip to Hammelburg. A small bird, species unknown. A few potatoes. Some rather twisted, dubious looking carrots. A few other vegetables, at least he thought they were vegetables. However, the real prize of the lot was a bit of sweet butter and white flour. Carter scratched the back of his head and nodded slowly.

"It'll work," he said. "I will make it work."

Newkirk sat down at the other end of the common table and pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. "You let me know how that goes," he said, starting to shuffle.

"You're not going to help?" Carter asked, his confidence wavered a little bit.

Newkirk dealt a game of solitaire and smirked. "Not me, mate. Louis is one of those picky sorts. When you go down in flames, it will be a solo-mission."

Carter looked over the ingredients and then to the pot, doubt flooding his mind. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. His attention was drawn to LeBeau's sleeping form when he shifted in his sleep and let out a soft moan of pain. Carter set his jaw, picked up the unidentified bird and shoved it across the table at Newkirk.

"You will pluck and clean this bird," he commanded.

Newkirk's gaze drifted from the bird to Carter and then to Kinch, who was wearing a delighted look on his face. He sighed in resignation, picked up the bird and out the door he went. Carter let out the breath he'd been holding, so grateful that Newkirk hadn't chosen to argue.

Kinch grinned, "what do you need me to do?"

"Golly, thanks. I could use a lot of help peeling and chopping these vegetables."

So Kinch took the paring knife and started to peel while Carter sought out LeBeau's chef knife. He found it in the Frenchman's footlocker, wrapped in a soft cloth and stowed beneath the many magazines LeBeau collected 'for the recipes'. He checked the blade and found it razor sharp. He started to chop, giving Kinch no end of anxiety that he would cut himself. LeBeau shifted again and began to snore. A gentle reminder of what they were cooking and why.

H~H

Hours later, LeBeau roused from his sleep with a groan. His whole body ached, but the smell… oh, what was that smell? He forced his eyes open, though it took some blinking and deep breaths to focus them, and he spotted Carter at the stove… HIS stove. He attempted to sit upright, but the pounding in his head and the sharp pain in his side chastised him for being so foolish. He settled for propping up on his least painful elbow.

"Que se passe-t-il?"

Carter looked up from the big pot at which he was stirring away furiously. Kinch and Newkirk were playing cards at the common table. They also looked up. Kinch laid his cards face down and warned Newkirk against cheating. Newkirk made some innocent remark about knowing better than to cheat boxing champs, but LeBeau couldn't follow the silly Englishman - he was too concerned for his utensils. They were his lifeblood in this camp, without them he was no longer the chef. And, thinking rather uncharitably, all he could imagine is what corrosive chemicals that maniac had put into the pot.

Kinch helped him to sit up and used his own pillow to aid in support. It did little, as the camp provided pillows were mostly sawdust with a few feathers mixed in to make them only a little softer than a slab of rock. Still it's the thought that counts, and LeBeau murmured a soft, 'merci' before asking what Carter was doing with his pot.

Carter grinned wide and mopped his brow, thankfully away from the cookpot. "Wilson said you were to get something good in your stomach when you woke up," he said cheerily. "Those aspirins can give you an awful stomach ache."

LeBeau sniffed the air again, now that he knew it was food and not explosives, he tried to identify it… onions? Garlic, maybe? He scowled.

"What have you made?" he asked. His tone came out sharper than he'd intended. He noticed a distinct wilt in Carter's smile and some tension in Kinch's stance. He cursed to himself; that wasn't what he'd intended.

Carter pressed forward and renewed his smile, "Chicken soup. My ma's recipe."

LeBeau tried not to let the dread that filled him show on his face and offered a smile. He knew it was weak from the snort Newkirk gave. Blasted fool, he could read LeBeau well, as could Kinch. But perhaps Carter was not so good. "Is it ready?" he asked, forcing some sort of excitement into his voice. It must have worked, or perhaps Carter had just decided to take the least uncomfortable way out of the awkward situation.

"Golly, sure!" He said, moving back to the stove and stirring the concoction again. He ladled out a bowl and placed it on a tray that he'd fashioned from an old packing crate he'd kept in his lab. Saw the slats off of all but one side, sand it down and boom, a sick bed tray.

"I've been letting it simmer away all afternoon," he added, as he brought the tray over and set it gently on the Frenchman's lap. He placed the spoon down beside him and waited.

LeBeau dipped his spoon into the light colored broth, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. Carter's were especially hopeful and puppy-dog like. He blew on it softly and then with a quick look to the heavens, he closed his eyes and took a bite. His face froze and his eyes flew open. He swallowed and darted a quick look at Carter…

"What is this?" he demanded. If his voice had been sharp before it was positively cutting now.

Carter fumbled for something to say, his cheeks turning quite red with embarrassment, "Chicken soup… well, it's not chicken. Newkirk couldn't get the chicken… or the rice…"

LeBeau shook his head mumbling in French as he took another bite. "Magnifique!" he proclaimed. Newkirk's jaw dropped in surprise. He only knew a few words and phrases in French, but he knew that meant something good. He hurried to the pot and took a swallow straight from the ladle.

"Blimey," he said. "That's proper soup."

LeBeau didn't even pay attention to the insult, he was trying to fish the recipe out of Carter, who knew exactly how to make Ma's chicken soup, but was having a harder time remembering all the substitutes he'd made.

His eyes twinkled, "Gee, you'll have to get tortured more often, LeBeau. It might take me a couple of tries to recreate it."

LeBeau threw his napkin at him and he ducked away before LeBeau could find something else. He finished his bowl as the rest of the men crowded around for their serving since it had been fully vetted and not found wanting. Carter hung back, waiting his turn, while Kinch dished a bowl for the colonel. LeBeau studied the men then took stock of his injuries, did the math, and once again decided that he'd come out in the black. What was it Alexandre Dumas wrote?

"Tous pour un, un pour tous"

The End…

maybe

Translations

Que se passe-t-il? - What's going on?

Tous pour un, un pour tous - All for one, one for all