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belphegor1982Fandom: Hogan's Heroes
Chapter: Cassoulet à la Toulousaine (3/5)
Characters: Sergeant Schultz, Corporal LeBeau, Corporal Newkirk, Sergeant Kinchloe, Colonel Hogan
Rating: G
Genre: drama, humour
Pairing: none
Chapter Three: Cassoulet à la Toulousaine
November 28th, 1942
The snow had taken everybody by surprise.
Not that it was unheard of at this time of year, far from it; it was the suddenness and intensity that was unusual. The cold was damp, bone-chilling, and followed you everywhere, no matter how many covers you piled up to keep yourself from freezing at night.
Since snow had been falling non-stop for two days, shovelling detail had taken over every other activity in camp, to keep the roofs from caving in and the windows and doors from sticking. Schultz knew it was a dull, tiring job in the cold and wet, and the prisoners were very vocal about working in shifts all day long knee-deep in the snow. On the other hand, as Sergeant of the Guard, he also dealt with complains from Corporal Langenscheidt and the other men, who would rather be shovelling snow alongside the prisoners instead of standing guard over them while they worked, freezing their feet – and various other body parts, if they were to be believed – off.
This meant that every single man in the camp – prisoners and guards alike – was in a tetchy, miserable mood, and Schultz was no exception. Especially while he plodded through the falling snow in the early light of morning in the direction of Barracks 2.
It also didn't help that, as soon as he opened the door, he was greeted with cries of "La porte!" "Oi, shut the bloody door!" and "Yeah, you're letting all the cold out!"
They were all huddled around two tables that had been put together in the cramped quarters, Newkirk, Olsen, Davis, Kinchloe, Saunders, Harper, Baker and Addison; some were eating, some had not been served yet and by the look of it Saunders and Baker had just finished. They sat on Olsen's nearby bunk, not too far from the stove where LeBeau was stirring the contents of a large pot.
There was not a single one of them that didn't have dark shadows under his eyes and a wan look about him.
"Jolly jokers," Schultz mumbled, brushing snow off his shoulders and rubbing his fingers. "It's colder outside."
"Won't be for long, if this keeps up." Colonel Hogan stepped out from his office and took Saunders' recently-deserted place at the table. "And if old Iron Eagle doesn't get the men at least one extra blanket each, escapes won't be a problem. He won't have any prisoners left at all."
"At least, if we all die, with this weather you won't know the difference between 'ere and the Russian front," Newkirk grumbled, much of his usual biting sarcasm absent from his voice. He was shivering so hard the knuckles of his gloves strained where he clutched his fork. "Thanks, Louis. Smells ruddy marvellous."
This was to LeBeau, who had just poured into his plate a generous helping of what appeared to be beans. The rare compliment got a tight-lipped smile.
Schultz caught a particularly eloquent look from Kinchloe. If Newkirk not only accepted what the little French chef put in his plate, did not even make one disparaging comment, but thanked him honestly to boot, things were getting serious indeed.
Schultz felt sorry for them – they might be a troublesome lot, but they had good hearts, all of them – but he tried not to get sidetracked. He had a duty to do.
"Colonel Hogan, perhaps you'll want to speak to the Kommandant about more blankets and more wood for the stove –"
"Oh, I will, Schultz."
"– And you can do that later. That's what I came to tell you: Kommandant Klink wants to see you in his office. There's a new prisoner."
Hogan had just got himself some of the food; his fork stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth. Then he put it down with a stony expression.
"Whoever the unlucky guy is, he's got rotten timing. Okay, Schultz, I'm going." Before he opened the door, he turned to his men. "LeBeau, keep some of that stuff hot, the new guy will need a bite. And I didn't get my breakfast."
"Oui, mon Colonel."
The door opening and closing brought a fresh wave of wet, cold, sticky snow. Everybody shuddered, not least Schultz despite his great coat. What he would not give right now for something piping hot …
Then he spotted the pairs of eyes staring at him from the table, and could not help getting a little worried. They looked like the same idea struck each of them at the same time, and with these men, it was never a good sign.
And speaking of bad omens … Newkirk's cheeky grin – a somewhat toned-down version of it, anyway – resurfaced.
"Oh, Schultzie? Why don't you sit down and tell us all about that new bloke, eh?"
"It would be a shame to let the cassoulet go cold." Of course, LeBeau did not miss a beat. "You can have the plate, there's still a lot left in the pot."
"What did you say it was?" asked Schultz, determined not to give in without at least some semblance of reluctance.
"Cassoulet. Beans, a few sausages, onions, bits of carrot, ham, and bouquet garni."
"What?"
"Herbs," Kinchloe explained succinctly. "So – new prisoner, huh?"
Between Kinchloe's quiet smile, Newkirk's piercing gaze, Olsen and Addison's steady stare and the still-steaming plate in LeBeau's hands, Schultz's inner resistance didn't stand a chance. Even though he was honestly tempted to fall back on his 'I know nothing' routine, the relative warmth of the barrack and the promise of a good hot meal was too much.
He sat at the table where Harper and Davis had just left, squirmed himself a spot between Olsen and Newkirk, and broke into a heartfelt smile when LeBeau put the plate in front of him.
"Ja, an American – with a big jacket like Floyd's and a furry hat. He seemed nice enough, but there's something funny about him." He stopped to swallow his mouthful of beans; the plate was still steaming faintly, and the contents burned his tongue on the way down. It felt wonderful. "He didn't say much on the way from Stalag 5 – that's what Corporal Langensheidt said – but he doesn't look like the quiet type to me."
Schultz could feel himself thawing from the inside. His toes were still curled up with the cold, his fingers still blue and sore, but his chest and stomach were gradually warming their way up to normal.
"What d'you mean, 'doesn't look like the quiet type'?" Newkirk asked with an eyebrow raised as he shifted a bit down the bench, allowing LeBeau to sit beside him with his own plate. Schultz shrugged, and gulped down another mouthful.
"He has a look about him, that's all. You know how it is for new prisoners, at first they don't want to say a word …" He trailed off as a number of variations of the same dark look passed on the faces of everyone around him. Sometimes – not often – he tended to forget that these men were essentially in prison. They were not likely to forget it.
He tried to rally the best he could.
"… But after some time, they are more like themselves again. And Sergeant Carter looks like a nice boy. So … Was ist das!"
His fork had just caught something – a sort of strange little bundle of green, with leaves and a few stems sticking out, with a bit of string tied around it. He stared at his find, nonplussed.
LeBeau's eyes went round; he gave up trying to speak around the mouthful of beans, and instead scrambled to his feet to pick the bundle up and drop it back into the pot on the stove.
Kinchloe gave a quiet chuckle. "You found the bouquet garni, Schultz."
Schultz stared around, still taken aback; his eyes found Newkirk, who shrugged.
"Don't look at me, mate, I only stole it – don't even know what it's for."
"It adds flavour to the dish. You're not supposed to eat it, though," LeBeau explained, taking up his place near Newkirk again. "There's thyme in this one, with parsley and sage."
The Engländer's offhand remark belatedly registered. "Oh, Newkirk, you went and stole it? From where? LeBeau, you asked him to –?"
There went that cheeky smile again.
"Nah, Schultzie, I was just pulling yer leg. We bought that at the market in Hammelburg last Saturday."
Schultz's heart rate slowed down, and he sagged a bit. "Oh, that's good." Wait a minute … "What! Hammelburg? But you –" He groaned. "Monkey business again. You never, never stop. You never think that you could get in serious trouble – and get me in serious trouble, too! When Carter gets here," he added earnestly, "I hope you don't try to include him in your usual mischief as well!"
The reactions ranged from mild outrage to looks so innocent it made him instinctively want to search his pockets – Newkirk's was the worst, as always.
"Schultz, mate, I'm disappointed in you."
"Yeah," Baker added from his bunk, "that's not a very nice thing to say."
"Just after we discussed making you an honorary member of the Escape Committee, too."
Schultz almost choked on the beans. He managed to swallow and goggled at Olsen.
"You have an Escape Committee?"
"Sure, guys gotta have a hobby."
"We were thinking of making badges, too," said LeBeau, his face absolutely deadpan, "but we couldn't agree on what to put on them. After all, we all come from different parts of the world."
"Yeah, Saunders suggested a kangaroo, but nobody listened. Wonder why."
"Shut up, Davis – like a leek was any better!"
Schultz groaned. "Oh, quiet. I don't know if you are making fun of me or not, but I hear nothing and I know nothing about that."
Kinchloe gave a rare wide white-tooted smile.
"Even about the new guy? Where is he going to bunk?"
Either the plate was too small, or his portion had been. Schultz realised he had cleaned the whole thing off thoroughly in record time.
"Here, in this barrack; there's a few unoccupied bunks. This one there should do …" He stopped as he caught a look between some of the men – it certainly was meaningful, but whatever meaning it had was lost on him. So, as usual, he chose to ignore it.
"Well, I'd better go get him – the Kommandant and the Colonel will have finished interrogating him soon." He rose from the bench – ignoring the ominous creak of protesting woodwork – and stole a forlorn glance at the pot on the stove. What he had eaten had done wonders to warm him up, and it had been delicious, but there had not been anywhere near enough for his liking.
Maybe some other time.
"Thank you for the meal, Cockroach," he said with as much heart he could muster while thinking about the cold, long day ahead of him. After all, the French chef always looked very pleased whenever people praised his cooking skills, and compliments cost nothing. "It was perfect. If I can get my hand on a duck or a goose next time I'm in town, you can make some more, ja?"
Sure enough, LeBeau's face brightened instantly.
"Merci, Schultz. That would be great. Or I can make something else – I have a lot of recipes for duck and goose."
It was on occasions like these – when the prisoners weren't running circles around him, or Kommandant Klink wasn't berating his Sergeant of the Guard for his incompetence – that Schultz didn't mind that not a single prisoner in the Stalag seemed to fear him. Not one bit.
He plodded his way to the Kommandantur, warmer than he had felt for days.
When he came back to Barracks 2 with Colonel Hogan and the new prisoner in tow, he stayed just long enough to watch the introductions and the men's reactions. He was not disappointed.
"Guys," said Hogan, clapping a friendly hand on the new prisoner's back, "this is Sergeant Andrew Carter, US Army Air Forces. He's gonna be a fellow guest of the Krauts for the duration. Say hi, fellas."
Baker, Saunders, Davis and Addison got down from their bunks as the rest of the men gathered around Carter; Kinchloe stepped up to shake his hand, Newkirk threw an arm around his shoulders and proceeded to introduce everyone, until LeBeau got a hold of him, made him sit at the table and put a steaming plate of cassoulet in front of him.
"All right, everybody, let him eat. Newkirk, you can give him back his watch now," said Hogan, sitting down at the table in order to finally enjoy his delayed breakfast, a gleam of amused affection dancing in his eyes.
Newkirk complied with a theatrical flourish.
Schultz watched the bemused look on Sergeant Carter's face turn into a huge grin; then he closed the door and trudged back to Klink's office with a smile of his own.
For all the problems they caused, and the trouble and worry they regularly put him through, these men had a way of making someone feel happy and warm.
In more ways than one.
Translations/notes:
La porte!: (Close) the door!
Was ist das?: What's that?
'Mon Colonel' doesn't mean 'my Colonel' – it comes from what used to be the proper way of addressing officers of equal or higher rank, which was 'monsieur le Lieutenant/CapitaineColonel', etc. Eventually, the 'monsieur' got shortened into 'mon' (which I find funny, because 'monsieur' and 'mon' are pronounced quite differently). If you're, say, a sergeant and you're talking to a colonel who is a woman, you don't say "mon Colonel" either; you say "Colonel"; if you're a civilian, you can say "Madame le Colonel". Yes, French language is complicated, even for native speakers.
Fun bit of trivia: there's an urban legend that says that, after the defeat of the French "Marine Royale" at Trafalgar, Napoleon 1st held the officers responsible and decided to punish them by not using the "mon" before the rank. Whether this is true or not, now the proper way to address an officer of higher rank is either just "Amiral/Capitaine/Commandant" etc. (almost always used) or "Monsieur/Madame l'Amiral/le Capitaine", etc.
As for bouquet garni... You can put basically everything you want to in it, but the most-used ingredients seem to be thyme, parsley, sage and rosemary :o]
