I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. Nor do I endorse any of the suggestions found in this story. Mostly because I'm not game to test them.
For once, every man in Barracks 2 was in his bunk, asleep. Nobody was out meeting escapees from other prisoner of war camps; nobody was engaged in any radical modification of the local infrastructure. Even Kinch was there, deep in some pleasantly distant dream in which neither tunnels nor radio transmissions had any part.
Three a.m., the quietest time of the night. Hardly a sound broke the stillness: the slow pacing footsteps of the night guard outside; a far, faint drone of aircraft; an occasional grunt or murmur from Carter, a muffled snore or two from Newkirk, a cough from LeBeau. Then another cough. And a third.
"Oh, for pity's sake, LeBeau," grumbled Newkirk. "Not again."
LeBeau had got rid of his cold days ago; he wasn't one to linger over an illness. The mustard plaster on the chest, the unwashed sock around the neck, copious amounts of onion soup, all had done their work. But the cough remained behind, a persistent, niggling tickle which was driving him half insane, and everyone else with him.
"You know, this is getting ridiculous." Kinch rolled out of his bunk and went to fetch some water. "You should have been over that by now."
"Oui, je sais," wheezed LeBeau, between outbreaks, "mais ce n'est..." He broke off as the irritation overwhelmed him once more.
Colonel Hogan emerged from his quarters. "Not LeBeau, again?"
"It's as good as an alarm clock, Colonel," replied Kinch dryly. "A really annoying alarm clock."
"Yeah, and it goes off every forty minutes," said Hogan. "Okay, LeBeau, I know you're not doing it on purpose. Kinch, put some vinegar in that."
"Vinegar?" Kinch stopped in his tracks, the cup in his hand.
"Yeah. My grandmother used to take vinegar in hot water for a cough. It can't hurt, can it?"
Kinch shrugged. "LeBeau, you got any vinegar?"
LeBeau was temporarily bereft of speech, but he waved vaguely in the direction of the locker where he kept his culinary supplies.
"You've got eleven kinds of vinegar?" muttered Kinch, rummaging through the contents of the locker.
"Couldn't get any others. There's a war on," LeBeau choked out.
Kinch grabbed a bottle at random and added a good splash to the cup. "Okay, LeBeau. Bottoms up."
LeBeau took a hesitant sip. "Not the elderflower, Kinch," he protested huskily. "That's for the cornichons." He drank a little more, and took a couple of cautious breaths.
"Is it working?" asked Newkirk, watching with interest.
"I think so," replied LeBeau.
"See? Grandma's always right," said Hogan complacently.
Almost immediately, LeBeau was seized by another paroxysm, and Kinch was wearing the rest of Grandma's remedy. "Damn it, Louis!" he protested.
"Okay, maybe Grandma's wrong, sometimes," admitted Hogan, returning to his quarters.
Carter slept right through it, and was the only man in Barracks 2 who woke bright and well-rested.
"You know, LeBeau," he said, gazing at the invalid, "I know something that always works...no, better not. You won't like it."
LeBeau, red-eyed and breathless from the latest attack, glowered at him, but didn't speak.
"Oh, come on, Carter, don't stop there," murmured Newkirk. "Tell us about this miracle cure. I'm willing for LeBeau to try anything."
"You would be," croaked LeBeau irritably, setting himself off again.
Carter shook his head. "Just forget it. He really won't like it."
"Ginger tea," said Kinch suddenly. He had been deep in thought. "There was an old lady lived down the street when I was a boy. She swore by it. Louis, you got any ginger?"
Unwilling to speak again, LeBeau shook his head, then held up one finger, apparently thinking of something. Then he pointed, not towards his locker, but out of the window.
"You got it buried somewhere, LeBeau?" asked Newkirk. LeBeau rolled his eyes, shook his head and pointed again.
"You want us to go to Hammelburg and get some?" said Carter.
"You're growing your own supply in the woods?" was Kinch's suggestion. LeBeau threw his hands up in despair.
"The sergeants' mess." Hogan had come out of his quarters in time for this. LeBeau clapped his hands and pointed at the colonel.
"Lebkuchen," he whispered.
"That's right." Newkirk's bewildered expression cleared. "Remember? Those little ginger cakes the cook made for Christmas. Schultz smuggled some out for us. I broke a tooth on one."
"Oh, yeah. They were real...interesting," said Kinch. "I don't think they turned out the way they were supposed to. We could have used them as anti-tank missiles."
Carter chuckled. "I nearly put some into the package we blew up the Adolf Hitler Bridge with, only I thought they might survive the blast and maybe do some damage to birds flying overhead."
"You sure it works, Kinch? Okay, after roll-call, Newkirk, get over to the sergeants' mess and see if they had any ginger left over," said Hogan.
As he so often did, Kommandant Klink took the opportunity presented by morning roll-call to bring his prisoners up to date regarding "the war, of which you are no longer a part." The subdued mutterings and sniggers among the ranks did not deter him at all.
"I am pleased to inform you," he went on, "that the war in Italy is going well."
"Yeah, I heard that, too," observed Carter brightly. "My cousin sent me a postcard of the Colosseum when he got to Rome. Boy, our bombers must have really hit that hard. It's a wreck."
"Thank you for your contribution to the discussion, Carter," said Klink, regarding him with disfavour. "However, I can assure you our valiant Italian allies have successfully beaten off…what is wrong with this man?"
The interruption to his discourse had, of course, been provided by LeBeau, whose efforts to suppress the renewed irritation in his throat had just come to the predictable spluttering conclusion.
The Kommandant came a little closer, peering at LeBeau. "Hogan, you did not tell me you had a sick man in the barracks."
"He's almost better, sir," said Hogan. "All he needs is a few days recuperation. Preferably somewhere with a better climate. I hear the Riviera's nice."
LeBeau, still beyond speaking, made a vigourous gesture of agreement.
"Blackpool, Colonel," suggested Newkirk. "Lovely at this time of year, so I'm told."
"So you're told? Haven't you been there?"
"Wouldn't go near the place," replied Newkirk. "Knew this bird from there once. She had six toes on her left foot. Put me right off, it did."
Klink was still staring at LeBeau. "What is he taking for it?"
"Uh… we're consulting on that, Kommandant," replied Hogan.
"Have you tried chicken soup? Isn't that what you usually do, when one of your men is sick?"
"Well, yes, but at the moment there's a problem with that. The sick man is the cook."
"Ah, I see," said Klink meditatively. He continued his scrutiny of LeBeau, who was making a valiant attempt to control his natural reflexes. Finally, the Kommandant came to a decision. "Get some soup made up by the cook in the mess hall. And see that he takes it. I want him well by next week. I'm having a dinner party. Dismissed."
"I will not eat soup from the mess hall," muttered LeBeau, once they were back in the barracks. "The cook uses bouillon cubes. It's an outrage. Barbarian!"
"Don't worry, LeBeau. This'll work," said Kinch, putting a pan of water on the stove. "I hope."
Newkirk had sloped off immediately after assembly. He returned a few minutes later, having effected entry to the sergeants' mess by means into which his mates knew better than to enquire.
"Here we go, Kinch." He handed over a small, rather grubby tin, labelled Ingwer in ornate lettering which suggested it dated from the turn of the century.
Kinch looked doubtful. "I don't think old Mrs Trimble used powdered ginger."
"Well, it's all you're getting. And it wasn't easy finding it," added Newkirk. "It's the same stuff, isn't it? Just chuck it in there."
"I'm just not sure how much to use," murmured Kinch.
"If I was you, I'd put in the lot," said Newkirk. "More's better, right? There can't be much more than a tablespoon full."
Kinch shrugged, and tipped the contents of the tin into a mug before pouring in the boiling water. Both he and Newkirk drew back from the aroma which arose; not unpleasant, but extremely strong. Then Newkirk laughed. "Well, that'll clear his sinuses, if it does nothing else."
It did more than that. There was a moment of expectant silence as LeBeau took the first mouthful, followed by his spontaneous explosive rejection thereof. And after that, once his vision cleared and he recovered the power of speech, he proceeded to a fluently expressed and extremely detailed dissertation on Kinch's ancestry, character and prospects for future rehabilitation, which was interrupted only when the cough returned, apparently reinforced by the latest attempt at rectification.
"Could have told you that wouldn't work," observed Carter smugly.
"Well, you're not exactly helping, Andrew," Newkirk pointed out. "Any chance you might have something useful to contribute? What about this never-fail cure of yours?"
Carter shook his head. "He really won't like it." But he gave LeBeau a long, thoughtful look.