Author's Warning: I haven't written for HH in a long time, so my writing in this chapter may be a bit iffy and sketchy. The next chapter will be better, I promise. I can also promise that I've got a good story planned, so please forgive my rustiness and enjoy!
-break-
The day had been a casual one so far, with casual weather and little to no incident. The temperature was nearly the same as always – a bracing fifty degrees on the Fahrenheit scale – with snow still scattered about in slightly smaller patterns than they had been all season. Out in the yard, not far from Barracks No. 2, three men, one American, one French, and one British, were playing catch with a weighted ball, both for exercise and to pass the time. Although the weather was beginning to nip at their exposed faces and hands, the simple game kept them warm as they made the most of the fleeting sunlight and comparative warmth. Their senior officer, an American colonel, looked on from near the door of the barracks, also enjoying the weather while he could before it dropped back down to below-zero depths.
Several minutes into the game, the door of the barracks opened, the dark-colored head of a US staff sergeant emerging for a cautious look at the outside, as if barely able to believe that Germany had finally come to her senses and realized it was mid-June.
"Morning, colonel," he addressed the officer, using a casual tone but dropping his voice to a lower level, so as to avoid unwanted attention from the posted guards. Stepping into the open and closing the door behind him, Sgt. Kinchloe folded his arms and leaned against the wall beside Hogan.
"We just got a call from London," he explained, "They got an inside man with important information coming into town tonight; he needs safe passage, ID, travel visa, the usual."
Hogan nodded. "Pretty basic stuff," he commented, "Almost too basic."
"We do have good days," the sergeant mentioned.
"Every day's a good day," Hogan remarked, waxing Pollyanna levels of oblivious cheer before getting serious. "Tell London we'll pick him up; I'll go –"
"Colonel Hogan!"
The familiar, heavily-accented voice broke into their conversation as a large, tubby sergeant approached them at a somewhat accelerated pace, compared to his usual meander.
Hogan turned to face the man, not too happy to be interrupted. "What is it, Schulz?"
"Kommandant Klink wants to speak with you," explained the guard.
"What for?" Hogan looked over his shoulder toward the prison commander's office, a frown passing across his face as he noticed an irregular change of the guard. It seemed almost as though security was being heightened – not a good sign for the heroes. "What's going on with the guard, Schulz?"
"I don't know; maybe you should ask him," Schulz replied, "I have work to do, Hogan. Please just go – "
"Alright, alright," Hogan assured him, brushing a bit of snow off the old man's shoulder and smiling compliantly, "Don't fret; I'll go talk to him. In the meantime, can you check the thermostat? I think Heaven turned the heater on by mistake."
"Jolly joker," Schulz muttered, turning and walking away toward the guard tower. With the Nazi soldier gone, Hogan turned to Kinch and concluded what he'd been saying.
"Wire London and tell them we've got it handled," he muttered, "I'll be back in a minute."
-break-
"Colonel Hogan! Come in."
Hogan entered the kommandant's office with confidence, shutting the door behind him and automatically approached the cluttered wooden desk to face the jailor himself. "You wanted to see me?"
The aged German officer was smiling like a cat with a mousetrap – never a pleasant thing where Klink was concerned. "Yes, I did," he crooned, standing from his chair and parading to the open window. "I assume you noticed the movement of the guards, colonel, hm?"
"As a matter of fact, I did," Hogan replied, glad to know he'd be getting the explanation on a silver platter, "What's your game, colonel?"
Colonel Klink turned to face the American, his smile brightening like a first-grade student with a perfect report card. "Oh, nothing, no game, Hogan. Simply the mind of a superior intellect at work."
"Oh, sure," Hogan echoed, hardly masking the sarcasm.
"Yes, yes, very much so!" Klink confirmed, "You see, Hogan, I know you and your men. I know how you prisoners think. There is nothing that escapes me, and no prisoner of war will escape Stalag 13 while I am here, not today, not ever."
"Oh." At this rate, Hogan would have to do a little huckstering after all. "Well, you know how much we love this place, Klink; it's like a second home to us. You've broken us so soundly, we wouldn't even of trying to escape."
"Mm-hm," Klink responded dubiously, "So you say, but nevertheless, you keep trying and incidents keep happening."
It took a great deal of restraint for Hogan not to sigh loudly and roll his eyes. "Come on, Klink, don't be holding out," he begged, teasing the German's ego with a touch of surrender, "The guard change, the new routine, the fancy no-escape speech… What's going on?"
"Some very important work is being done by top men not very far from here," Klink reported, holding himself straight and proud as he gave an inch, "Now, I remember the last time important work was being done not very far from here, and it ended miserably, and so it did the last time and the last time."
"You can hardly blame us," Hogan protested.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," Klink admitted, "But I am a wise man, Colonel Hogan, and wise men do not take chances, not even for a moment. From today until the work is complete, the guard will be taking extra care to see that you are all in your beds, every night, no exception, and that you are all within these walls from sunrise to sundown."
"That's not fair," the American argued, dismayed at the mention of bed checks, "We've been nothing but model prisoners."
"I will see to it that even if you wanted to cause problems, you and your men will never have a chance to do it!" Klink concluded, peeved that the POW had interrupted him in his moment of strategic triumph.
"Well, fine," Hogan replied, putting on a petulant mask to please the warden, "I can't tell you how disappointed I am in how little you trust us, colonel; this really is a let-down."
"Colonel Hogan, you are a prisoner of war; why would I ever trust you?" Klink pointed out. "Dismissed!"
-break-
"That's just great," Kinch said as Hogan told him and LeBeau the news. "How are we going to get to that spy if there's an increased number of bedchecks?"
"It's nothing to worry about; I can manage Schulz," Hogan pointed out, "The only difference is I can't be the one to make the rendezvous. Hey, Carter! Newkirk!" he called to the other two, who were still playing catch without the third man. The one catching, Sgt. Carter seamlessly caught the ball only to drop it back on the ground when his name was called. Newkirk followed his friend to the others, pausing to pick up the ball and brush the snow off it, setting on the window sill when he joined the rest.
"There's a guy in town with important information for London," Hogan explained, "Klink's increased the number of bedchecks, among other things, so I can't make it tonight. I need one of you to –"
"I'll go," Carter volunteered. At the same time, both Newkirk and LeBeau put their votes forward as well. A trip to town, even a business trip such as this one, meant time among civilians, something that wasn't to be taken for granted, even by POWs of their ilk.
"Only one of you needs to go," Hogan remarked, "LeBeau, you were the last one to go outside, weren't you?"
"No, mon colonel –" LeBeau stopped himself as all four pairs of eyes locked on him, calling him out. "Oui," he confessed. One couldn't blame him for trying.
"Alright; Carter, heads or tails?"
"Heads."
Colonel Hogan took an American penny from his pocket and tossed it into the air, catching it and turning it over three times before looking down at his palm. "Newkirk, you're it."
The disappointment of everyone else was both audible and visible, but the wave soon passed in the face of preparation for the encounter and planning for what could lie ahead.
-break-
Later that night, a dark-haired man dressed in a simple, warm jacket and brimmed hat stepped into a homely local Hofbrau, glancing around for a moment before moving to join an older man who sat alone at a table near the bar, anxiously smoking a cigarette with his back to the wall. Newkirk hesitated when he saw these clear signs of instability; he wasn't exactly stupid and didn't have a death wish either.
I suppose I'd better give him a chance, anyway, he admitted silently, Whatever he's got for the Allies, it'd better be bloody good.
Taking a seat at the other side of the small table, Newkirk managed to make eye contact with the informant briefly before the frightened man's eyes darted away like those of a trapped rabbit.
"Heil Hitler," he said casually, lighting a cigarette of his own.
"Heil," replied the stranger nervously. He continued to avoid looking directly at Newkirk, finding a strange and awkward fascination with the wooden floorboards.
"I went for a walk in the woods this morning," Newkirk prompted in German, hoping the man at least hadn't forgotten the code established just this morning by British Intelligence.
There was a long pause, and Newkirk was about to give up altogether, not entirely eager to get shot because of another man's jitters, when the trembling voice of the informant asked, "D-did you see a bear?"
"Of course not," Newkirk replied, completing the signal, "It's August 1st."
The informant – Newkirk couldn't think of him as a spy at all, not anymore – finally relaxed a bit, visibly more hopeful as he turned to face the POW. "It is you," he breathed, "Good… good…"
"What's the matter with you, eh?" Newkirk demanded, keeping his voice as calm and ordinary as he could, despite the desire to give the person opposite him a good shake and a strong piece of his mind. "Keep this up and you might as well –"
"No time," the man interrupted him nervously, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a wide envelope, "There's no time…"
"Here, what's going on –" Newkirk started to ask, but before he could protest, the envelope had been forced into the Englishman's jacket. The transfer was complete. Newkirk resisted the urge to push the panicked informant away from him and gave him a strange, uncomfortable look. Something wasn't right about this, something wasn't right at all…
"You have to tell London," the informant begged him, as though he only had a few more seconds left to live, "You have to tell London what the Germans are doing –"
Newkirk looked away for only a second to check the crowd for possible Gestapo agents, and it was a lucky thing he did, for he had less than a second to react as six of the patrons suddenly rose in unison, drew their weapons and began firing on the two allies. Instinctively, Newkirk hit the floor, half-running, half-crawling his way behind the bar as the air above him was immediately riddled with bullets. The informant was dead within moments, falling to the ground with at least ten holes torn through his body, the same fearful expression he'd held when Newkirk first approached him now plastered permanently on the face of his corpse.
Knowing the bar wouldn't serve as adequate cover indefinitely, Newkirk quickly summed up his very few options, blue eyes darting frantically about what he could see of the building until he finally settled for making a break toward the kitchen door. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was the only chance he had left of getting out of there alive. Waiting until the gunshots seemed furthest apart – whether it was wishful thinking or an actual slow-down in trigger madness – Newkirk took a quick breath and sprang forward, yanking the kitchen door open, diving behind it and continuing blindly forward, afraid to think lest it slow him down as he crossed the threshold of the back door and by some luck made it into the dark alley.
He didn't wait for the Gestapo to catch up. He didn't look behind him even once. All that mattered was that the informant was dead, he was carrying the information they wanted so badly to keep, and there was still a mile and a half between him and the nearest tunnel entrance.