The month of January 1942 was bitter, especially so for one Corporal Louis LeBeau. Not only was he in yet another miserable POW camp, but this one – Stalag 13 – made his last POW camp look like a resort in comparison. Even worse, all of the prisoners had been split up so that there were no other French prisoners in the same barracks as he was.

One of the most disagreeable of his fellow barrack mates was a lanky English corporal who had already been at the Stalag for some time. He only knew man's last name from roll call. Newkirk. The man was a non-stop complainer who did not appreciate anything in Louis' opinion. He had only been here a couple of weeks and had yet to hear anything resembling something pleasant come from the man. Even today when Louis had used his skills and some meager ingredients to fix a soup far superior to swill that the Germans expected them to eat, the man had just looked into the offered bowl and made a face.

The implied insult to his culinary ability caused a good bit of cursing in French – not nearly as satisfying as it would have been had anyone else been able to understand him. But, his grandmother had always said that the pickiest of eaters will eat when they are hungry enough. The thin man would eat when he was hungry.

Then Louis thought back and frowned as he could not actually recall seeing the man eating. But he must be eating. Mustn't he? Taking a longer look at the young Englishman, Louis didn't like what he saw. The man had a drawn appearance and a coloration that did not strike him as healthy. He pretended to be doing other things so that the English corporal wouldn't realize he was being watched. When Newkirk believed himself alone, a look of pure misery came over his face that seemed to pierce straight to LeBeau's heart. He couldn't recall ever having seen a look like that on a man before, but he still pretended not to see as the Englishman finally pulled the bowl to him and started to eat.

Normally, such a move would have filled the Frenchman with pleasure, but he was not watching the act of eating. He was watching the man's expression and it was one of desperation. He had an uneasy feeling as he watched Newkirk and decided to follow when the Englishman quickly left the table after emptying the bowl.

Louis almost stopped himself from following when he noticed that the Englishman was going behind one of the currently unoccupied barracks, but then he heard it. The unmistakable sounds of someone being violently ill. The English corporal had something obviously wrong with him. Was he possibly too stubborn to admit it and ask for help?

With the thought that perhaps one of the corporal's countrymen might be able to do something for him, LeBeau went to the senior British POW, a Group Captain Fetherston who he found to be completely unsympathetic to Newkirk's problems. In fact, the man's attitude shocked LeBeau to his core.

"If that thieving Cockney bastard can't hold down his meals, stop feeding him. Rations are tight enough around here without them being wasted on the likes of him."

His tone made LeBeau wonder what it was that Newkirk had stolen to warrant such venom.

"What is it that he stole?"

"Who knows? Bound to have though. All of his kind do, you know. Are you related to that Frenchie that used to be at our camp?"

The captain was now eyeing LeBeau suspiciously, which was grating on his nerves and making Newkirk look like a charming dinner companion in comparison.

"Not that I am aware of."

"Well, it you aren't related to that Frenchie, why would you give a rat's ass about the Cockney?"

"Why would my relation to that man make a difference in my opinion of Corporal Newkirk?"

Making a rude noise, the captain dismissed LeBeau with a wave of his hand as he made his last comment on the matter.

"You aren't, so it doesn't matter in the least, does it?"

The whole exchange had left LeBeau furious. No wonder the English corporal was keeping his pains to himself. The RAF officer sounded as if he'd be thrilled if he were dead. He just hoped he had not somehow made things worse for the lanky man. But he was also intrigued. There was a mystery here and he would get to the bottom of it. As he was able, he spoke to his French comrades in the other barracks and asked them to see what they could find out from the other RAF men about Newkirk and whoever this Frenchman was that had been so near the RAF base.

Heading back into the barracks, LeBeau began to try a small experiment in cooking. What he made was, to his highly educated tongue, hopelessly bland and unappetizing. But the clear broth was one that his own grandmother had sworn by for feeding those who were ill. By the time evening roll call was finished, it was ready.

The first time that LeBeau walked straight over to Newkirk and put the mug of hot broth into his hands, Newkirk looked puzzled as he realized it was not coffee or tea. Then he smelled it and blinked. It was the first time in what seemed a lifetime that the mere smell of food hadn't twisted his stomach. Taking a cautious sip and then another, he lifted his head and met LeBeau's eyes fully for the first time. He hadn't even known Newkirk had grey-green eyes before.

"It's ruddy well marvelous. Thanks, mate."

The smile was so small as to be almost non-existent, but it changed the entire look of the Englishman's face. There was a slight tremor as he held the cup and took tiny sips, but LeBeau noticed something else as well. He was responding to a simple clear broth like a wilting flower reacting to water. The man had been far too close to the end of his endurance.

After roll call the following morning, two of his comrades caught up with LeBeau in the exercise yard. Not many of the RAF enlisted had anything good to say about their captain and added that the man had a genuine dislike for Newkirk that seemed strictly due to the man's parentage. As for the mysterious Frenchman, what they had heard was that Newkirk had been raked across the coals by the captain for sneaking out rations to him. The only reason Newkirk hadn't gotten into serious trouble was that he had only given the man some of his own rations, not any that he stole, though the captain had certainly accused him of it.

The answers he had gotten led to more questions than answers, but Louis continued to make sure Newkirk had a mug of clear broth as regularly as the other men had coffee. In just three months time, the two of them had moved to an odd relationship that contained a good deal of verbal sparring, made tricky by the fact that, due to the language barrier, half of the time one man couldn't truly understand what the other man was saying. Anyone who hadn't being around them before might even have mistaken them for mortal enemies. That is, until the food incident.

The current Kommandant decided that the already slender food rations were more than the prisoners required. Not only were rations cut in half, but now any incoming package was stripped of anything resembling food as well. The Kommandant even decided to come down on LeBeau's cooking even though the resourceful Frenchman used nothing but the scraps that he was able to glean.

It was at the morning roll call that the Kommandant came out with his accusations that LeBeau had stolen food from the camp kitchens. Newkirk had been in the Stalag when Lt. Colonel Lange had first come to take over and knew the man was out to punish someone. Facts were of little to no matter - someone was going to be punished. LeBeau, quite naturally, denied being a thief and then, to the utter shock of everyone in their barracks, Newkirk spoke up.

"The Frenchie's right, y'know, sir. 'e ain't yer man. I am."

While the POWs were all still stunned, the Kommandant jumped on the confession and had Newkirk taken away for a two-month stay in the Cooler.

Louis was still stunned when the formation was dismissed. Then he became worried. Newkirk had just recently lost his gaunt look. Two months in the Cooler were not going to do his English friend any favors and he began to fret.

Anyone that hadn't been sure about the bond between the unlikely friends had any doubt erased in the first week. The Frenchman spoke to anyone he thought might be able to talk Kommandant Lange into shortening Newkirk's sentence. He very nearly lost control when Group Captain Fetherston made the suggestion that it would be acceptable to him if the Krauts lost the key to Newkirk's cell altogether.

When word came that the Kommandant had decided to release Newkirk after three weeks, everyone assumed at first that LeBeau would be ecstatic. But while happy, Louis was more worried. Lange had made it abundantly clear just the week before that he intended to make a full example out of the English corporal and wouldn't shorten his stay by so much as an hour. Something must have happened and that something was unlikely to be good.

He was impatiently waiting for when Newkirk would be released when a staff car came rolling through the gates and the guards went into panic mode, ordering all prisoners out of their barracks and into lineup. General Burkhalter had arrived for a surprise inspection and he had a colonel in tow with him along with a representative from the Red Cross.

In a spectacular case of bad timing, the guards from the Cooler were bringing Newkirk out just as the men were getting out of the staff car. Carrying out would have been the more accurate phrase as the English corporal was not coming out on his own two feet. While all of them had gotten thinner with halved rations, Newkirk was painfully - obviously - thin now. It was all LeBeau could do to stop himself from going over to him while the Red Cross representative was expressing his displeasure at the state of the Stalag and, from his gestures, using Corporal Newkirk as a prime example.

Burkhalter was turning a shade that was a good indicator of just how angry he was. LeBeau finally got his chance when the General called out for a couple of volunteers to come get the Englishman and take him back to his barracks. He went immediately over and found, to his surprise, that the newest man in their barracks had gone over with him. The man, an American he knew only as Sergeant Kinchloe, took Newkirk's shoulders while LeBeau took his feet.

As none of the other POWs had been released from formation, the three men were alone in the barracks. Louis was scolding Newkirk from the second the door closed.

"How could you have done that? You know as well as I do that you didn't steal any food. You couldn't have eaten it anyway."

Newkirk's voice was stronger than they expected, though he did sound tired.

"Louis – you didn't take anything either, mate. I already have the rap for the sticky fingers. You don't need that. 'Sides, yer me mate. Best one I've got."

LeBeau was taken aback slightly. Newkirk had never used his first name before. The large American just stayed quiet for the moment and supported the English corporal while LeBeau brought over the broth he'd gotten started as soon as he'd heard Newkirk was going to be released.

"You know, mon ami? I do not even know your first name."

"Not like I 'ave folks 'round that use it, so no reason you'd 'ave 'eard it."

Newkirk looked uncomfortable then.

"If it bothers you, I won't use your first name again, mate."

"No, no – please. Use it. But I would like to know yours as well. And yours."

That last was said to the black American sergeant, who just smiled.

"Sergeant James Kinchloe. USAAF. Folks generally just call me Kinch."

"Corporal Peter Newkirk. RAF. Since I was ruddy drafted, I've just gone by Newkirk."

"Corporal Louis LeBeau. French Air Force. Louis or LeBeau – either is fine, at least among we three, mes amis. Oh, Pierre? Your Captain Fetherston said something about a Frenchman you were associated with?"

"I got no use fer that bloke, Louis. 'e's 'ad it in fer me since the first ruddy day 'e 'eard me accent. But t' answer yer question, 'e musta been talkin' 'bout young Emile. Nice enough bloke hisself. Let me give a guess - th' Cap'ain said me an' him stole food back then as well. Was me own food. Could do with me own food as I pleased, I reckon."

Seeing that Louis was reluctant to say more, Kinch decided to insert himself into the conversation.

"You don't exactly look like you've had food to spare, Newkirk."

It wasnt' said as a question, but after he finished off the cup of broth, Newkirk treated it as one.

"Emile reminded me o' me. 'e 'ad a sister 'e was tryin' t' support an' she'd just had a wee one. They needed it more'n th' likes o' me did."

Then it was as if he felt he needed to clear the air with the two men while they were all alone.

"I'll not lie t' you two blokes. I've had me hand in a pocket or two. Kept me an' me sis fed that way after our da took off. Never took nothin' from no-one that couldn't afford it though."

"Too personal to ask when you started supporting your sister?"

"I reckon not. Was just gettin' toward fourteen."

Kinch and LeBeau both digested that quietly as the mug was refilled with broth. Kinch broke the silence.

"That sounds like it was rough."

Newkirk swept the subject away with a shrug.

"Always been a bit rough on th' end o' town we were born in. Blokes like Fetherston that get up me nose 'bout me family get on me last nerve though. Reckon you've 'ad yer share o' blokes judge you without botherin' t' know you as well though."

That got the first laugh either of them had heard from him out of Kinch.

"Reckon you're right there. Nice to remember there are folks around that don't operate that way."

Kinch smiled again and continued to help support Newkirk as he drank the second mug of broth. The unlikely duo had expanded seamlessly into an even more unlikely trio. That trio grew tight knit as Newkirk's health improved while the camp began to adjust to the turnover of the Stalag to a new Kommandant – Colonel Wilhelm Klink. A trio that would, in just a few short weeks, welcome a new POW into their barracks and become the base from which that POW, an American pilot named Colonel Robert Hogan, would build his Heroes.