A Quick Note: This is an idea that has been bothering me for years. And what can I say? I'm having fun. Also I proofread this myself this time, but if anyone is interested in being a beta, I would love that.
Pilot Officer Grant guessed he must have run all of five miles in his battered boots before his left foot found a hole in the ground and he felt his ankle twist under him with a crack that made his stomach turn. As sharp agony blossomed up his leg from the injury, he curled up on the wet ground of the forest, biting his tongue to keep from groaning. He tasted blood, and wondered how far the Germans were behind him. They'd probably be here any second, yanking him to his feet, slamming the butt of a rifle into his gasping abdomen. As he began to lose touch with reality, he wondered if the ruined state of his uniform would give the Gestapo enough cause to shoot him right there as a spy, for wearing mud and his own blood as a disguise. The bastards...
The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, so much so that Grant was now counting his (thus far successful) escape from Stalag Sixteen as his worst war experience to date. Never volunteer for anything, he heard in the back of his mind, wafting in from a distant memory of his officer's training. Never volunteer, not even to escape, he thought. He could have kicked himself had not his left ankle been rapidly swelling to three times its original size.
Pull yourself together. Where was he headed again? It was starting to rain - it had been spitting miserable frigid rain on and off since he'd left the prison camp. Oh, right. A farmhouse. That's what Major had told him. A little farmhouse in the Hammelburg woods, and make sure to take the back route past the second bridge over the river, and through the woods, to Grandmother's house - Grant hissed a curse between gritted teeth.
He knew he'd passed the second bridge. He was pretty sure. He really had no idea - how was a guy supposed to know where the hell he was anyhow? Throw him out of a prison camp and into the middle of a dark, wet, god-forsaken German forest and tell him to find one specific little farmhouse? The only thing Grant really knew at this point was that he was a long way from Saskatoon. The trees suddenly felt like they were circling him, closing in - God, he wished he were home -
The soft snap of a wet twig behind made him freeze.
For a moment, he didn't want to turn around. He wanted to sit here, staring into the sopping wet blue-black Hades of the forest before he had to deal with the reality of a Luger pointed at his forehead. But when no harsh command to get up broke the silence in the moments following, Grant's curiosity got the better of him and he turned around.
Two big, brown eyes were looking at him with a frown. A tiny woman with black hair and full lips was contemplating his fallen body with concern. The last thing he thought before he succumbed to pain and hours of exhaustion was that, for a girl in army boots, she was pretty cute.
The first thing Grant was aware of as he slowly oozed back into consciousness was a voice speaking in German. A woman's voice, kept low and soft in an effort not to disturb him. Warm light crept in through his closed eyelids, and eventually he worked himself into cracking one eye open, and then another. A low, rustic beam and plaster ceiling was above him as he rested on a worn velveteen couch. After a moment, he noticed that a couple of the couch springs were getting too friendly with the small of his back. He tried to sit up.
A pair of hands steadied his shoulders and helped him sit. Grant blinked, orienting himself with his surroundings. The plaster and beam ceiling met white walls with dark wood panelling. A little masonry heater decorated with yellow and red flowers sat in the corner on the stone floor. In a chair across from him, the woman who he had heard speaking German leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped in front of her.
She was in her thirties, tall and trim, with a straight brown wool skirt, the matching jacket for which was hanging over the armrest of her chair. Her cream blouse bore a masculine collart, and her dark brown hair was pulled into an updo that was both attractive and practical - much like the polished oxford shoes she wore.
She was looking at him with interest, even a little amusement, and saying something, and that is when Grant realized there were other people in the room. Two other women filled the little living room, their attention, like the dark-haired woman's, was on Grant. He was suddenly very aware of how long he had gone without a shower.
Standing behind the first woman was a younger woman - this one not much out of her teens. She was not particularly tall, but youthfully gangly, and wisps of dirty blonde hair fell around a narrow face with big blue eyes that searched the room tirelessly. Her grey overalls and green shirt looked strangely military in combination with her childlike expression. Perched at the end of the couch he was lying on, another woman in her twenties was still holding the gauze she must have used to wrap his ankle not long ago. She was sitting very comfortably, eyes sparkling as she spoke in return to the dark haired woman. She was dressed in all black - a windbreaker and trousers that still looked damp from the rain. One small, capable hand dangled at ease while the other carelessly held a lit cigarette. When she saw Grant sitting up and coming to, she offered the pack for him to pull from. He gratefully accepted.
As he took a drag, the door to the living room swung open and a familiar face entered. The tiny woman he had seen in the forest entered, wearing the same black outfit as the smoking girl. In the better light, he could see that she too was no older than thirty, with dark hair framing large brown eyes and full lips. She handed him a cup of coffee. He sniffed it, suspiciously. They were still Germans, after all.
As if she had been waiting this whole time for him to be situated, the dark-haired woman in the chair turned to him.
"You know about birds?" She asked, in a careful German accent.
Grant was momentarily stunned. Then he remembered, from distant hours past before his escape - the code words, "Not much about eagles, but I know that homing pigeons always head home." He hoped he had that right.
"Alright, he's clear," she said to the room at large. At her American accent, Grant's jaw dropped.
"Well, that's bloody relieving," the girl at the end of the couch said, in the voice of a born East-Londoner. "I'd hate to think we hauled him all the way here for nothing." She looked knowingly at the short woman, who nodded in fervent agreement.
"You carried me here?" Grant asked.
"Oui, and what were we supposed to do? Sit there and wait for the Gestapo to show up to ask them for for help?" Apparently, the short woman was French.
"Oi, Jerry, give a girl a hand?" Both the French and English woman dissolved into giggling, until the woman in the chair told them to knock it off. Evidently, she was in charge.
"So, American, French, English, and -?" He looked inquiringly at the blonde girl, who had been quiet until now.
"As American as apple pie," she beamed.
" So you're Mama Bear." Grant sat back, taking everything in.
"Not exactly what you were expecting?" Mama Bear with a smile.
"I don't know what I was expecting," Grant replied.
The blonde American piped up. "Well, that's fair. I mean, considering-"
"You'll be staying downstairs, Pilot Officer - what is your name?" Mama Bear interjected.
"Grant - uh, Kevin Grant."
"Well, Mr. Grant, there's a room under this floor where we keep our radio. You'll be with us until your ankle heals and you can make it to the coast to meet the sub. We can't risk the Germans finding you, especially not here, if you don't mind me saying."
"I get it, don't worry."
"Good. When you're finished your coffee, Newkirk will help you downstairs."
"Newkirk?" At Grant's question, the English girl raised a hand.
"Present."
"Oh right - I should introduce the girls, I guess. This is Andrea Carter," Mama Bear gestured to the lanky blonde. "And the two that brought you in are Petra Newkirk, who you've just met, and Louise LeBeau." Mama Bear indicated the tiny Frenchwoman. And I'm Colonel Roberta Hogan."
"Colonel?" he asked.
She grinned. "Rank bestowed by the Allied forces through Intelligence. It means you and all the other officers through here have to do what I say."
" Why didn't they just make you a general then...if I may ask, ma'am." He tacked on the last bit out of caution. Never get on the bad side of a higher ranking officer, even (and perhaps especially) one in a skirt.
"Too high and mighty, I guess. The rest of the girls have ranks, too. LeBeau and Newkirk are corporals and Carter is a sergeant."
"My thinking is the Yanks just wanted to outrank everyone." Corporal Newkirk said with a hint of snark in her voice.
"Newkirk, watch it."
"Sorry, ma'am."
"Other than mine, the ranks don't matter so much to us, Pilot Officer," Colonel Hogan continued. "I give the orders and these three carry them out. Oh, and there's one more you'll meet down in the radio room."
"You've got someone who stays downstairs permanently?" Grant asked.
"Oh, no," the Colonel replied, with a chuckle. "Just through the radio. Our London contact."
"You've got quite the system." He was impressed.
"It's worked so far," Colonel Hogan replied. "Alright, let's get you downstairs. Newkirk? Give me a hand."
The trapdoor to the radio room under the floor was concealed ingeniously. A hydraulic system lifted the heavy masonry fireplace and allowed it swing aside easily, revealing the small door underneath. Anyone searching the house would leave the fireplace alone, thinking there was no way anyone could shift its mass. As they went down, the colonel mentioned something about having to specially brace the fireplace to stand over the trap door, but Grant didn't completely follow the technicalities of the conversation.
The radio room was dark, but cozy. A rough table held the big radio on one side of the room, while a rack full of clothing, both male and female, sat to another side. Behind the clothing rack, a cot had been set up. And there was an extra surprise.
"You have tunnels."
"We have tunnels." Newkirk's voice carried a note of pride.
"Where do they go?"
"Here and there," said the Colonel, cryptically. "They've been useful more than once. We've got one to the local POW camp - Stalag Thirteen."
"For smuggling guys out?"
"Definitely not." Newkirk replied.
"Stalag Thirteen is the one camp we don't organize escapes from." Colonel Hogan added.
"How does that work?"
"As long as the Germans think that that camp is the toughest in Germany, they keep sending important people and things there. We collect information on them and get it back to London."
"Don't any of the POWs try to use the tunnels to escape?"
"Most of them don't know. The tunnels were dug from this end. No one expects anyone to tunnel into a prison camp." The whole great trick they were playing on the Germans from their tiny farmhouse was obviously a great source of enjoyment for both Colonel Hogan and Newkirk, if their faces at the moment were any indication.
"I guess not," Grant laughed.
"The tunnel entrance is under the Senior Ranking Officer's bunk. He and a handful of others in the barracks are the only ones who know."
"This is incredible."
"Well, you know," the colonel laughed. "Just doing our bit to end the war."
After making sure the Pilot Officer was settled, the Colonel and Newkirk returned up the ladder and into the living room, swinging the fire over the trap door. The mechanism to open the door could be worked from below, but in the event of an emergency the secret door could be locked down from either side. It was always helpful to have an escape plan.
"So you carried him all the way back?" Colonel Hogan asked when they were upstairs.
"With LeBeau's help, yeah. Pretty big fellow, isn't he?"
"You girls must be pretty tired."
"It's all in a day's work, ma'am." Newkirk blew off the remark.
"That's not what you were saying on the way back here," replied LeBeau, who was tidying up after Grant. "The whole time she was complaining - how heavy he was, on and on -"
Petra looked offended. "I had the ruddy great giant over my shoulder half the time, didn't I? And it is a bleeding awful night to be trudging around the woods."
"C'est vrai." LeBeau nodded. Both she and Newkirk were still damp with the rain.
"Go get into dry clothes and get some sleep, both of you."
"Sounds lovely," Petra sighed, stretching in a very unlady-like way. "Have we got any tea left?"
"No tea," Louise's voice wafted in from the kitchen, where she was washing the mugs. "You drank it all already."
"Oh, bugger."
"I'll see if I can trade the guys at the camp for some," said the Colonel. She was the secretary to the commanding officer at Stalag Thirteen. "What have you got, Newkirk?"
"A packet of cigarettes," Petra offered.
"You must really want that tea." Andrea remarked, from where she sat on the couch, leafing through a propaganda magazine with an expression mixing curiosity and disgust.
"Oh, shut up, Andrea. They're German cigarettes." Petra came back at her.
"So basically, you have nothing to bargain with," Louise said, entering from the kitchen.
"Newkirk, no one is going to want one measly pack of German cigarettes."
"It's all I got, unless any of them want a picture of me in me knickers."
"You, a pin-up girl?" Louise laughed. "I guess it has been a long war."
"LeBeau, I swear -"
"Okay, that's enough." The Colonel interrupted, breaking up the impending argument. "Newkirk, you're not trading photos of you in your underwear for tea, or anything else for that matter."
"Fine. Then I'm off to bed." She left to go upstairs.
"Who is on radio tonight, Colonelle?" LeBeau asked, after a moment.
"Not you, LeBeau, you've had a full night's work. Andrea's downstairs tonight."
"Okay, good night, then." She turned to follow where Newkirk had gone not long before, the old wooden stairs creaking beneath her.
Andrea, already heading downstairs to the radio, turned to the Colonel. "Are you going to bed, ma'am?"
"Not yet, Carter. Wanna get me on the line with Kinch?"
Jamie Kinchloe, the last member of their team, was their anchor in London. For security reasons, she was the only operator through which they spoke to High Command. Jamie had a gift for learning of all kinds - she was fluent in German, French, and Italian, and could build radios and repair tech like another person might build a wooden airplane from a kit they bought at the drug store. The only reason she wasn't over here with the rest of the team was that she'd never look like German woman. At least, not in Hitler's Germany.
That didn't mean that all she did was sit in a radio room in London and convey messages to Mama Bear. Jamie was a friend and an integral member of the team. She coached them through multiple technical problems and the occasional medical mishap. She made calls pretending to be secretaries and wives and occasionally even assumed a deep voice that could pass for male. Each of the women had their own relationship with her, and had the situation called for it Jamie would have been parachuting into Germany in a matter of hours. The Colonel was pretty confident, however, they'd never need her to do that.
"Mama Bear, it's good to hear from you! How's everything in Wonderland?" It was a damn shame they were forced to speak in code most of the time.
"Pretty good, Alice. Is the Real World treating you alright?"
"Pretty good! You know how it is. Rounded up a few Mad Hatters this week." 'Mad Hatters', double agents - not good to hear they were prowling around anywhere close to the London end of things. But Jamie's tone was easy and relaxed, which indicated there was nothing to worry about, at least for now.
"Good to hear. Our March Hare" - Colonel Klink and the rest of the Luftwaffe personell at Stalag Thirteen - "is still as mad as ever, you can tell that to your Mum and Dad." Mum and Dad was High Command. Sometimes this code language felt really idiotic.
"Roger. Did you find your White Rabbit okay?" Now the questions had turned to their guest from the RCAF.
"He's fine. Should have been carrying an extra foot though - he got unlucky and broke a thumper." This wasn't even official code anymore, just a strange conversation. If the code was "on-theme" enough, the Colonel and KInch could have a conversation without breaking out of it.
"Really going to be late, huh?" Kinch was laughing on the other end.
"Speaking of that, can we stop our watches on it for a bit? The rabbit's foot isn't going to be ready to go for at least a couple weeks," replied the Colonel.
Jamie sobered up. "Alright. Do you need anything in that area?"
"Nothing but time."
"Okay. Keep me in the loop."
Colonel Hogan knew that Jamie couldn't help sometimes resenting her position. It was hard to be the only one left out. Jamie and Roberta went back longer than the war - in fact, their friendship, and Jamie's talent was what had lead to this arrangement when the Mama Bear project was begun.
It had started with Yvonne Jamie Kinchloe and Roberta Edie Hogan before the war, when Hitler's rise to power began to become more and more of a threat. Roberta was a pilot, and Kinch built radios in her living room. Not long before the war, the two had travelled to London and begun work with British Intelligence, and somehow, impossibly, the idea was hatched to start an official spy cell for the purpose of smuggling captured soldiers out of occupied territory - code name Mama Bear. Initially, Roberta was to be alone, with Jamie as her contact back in London. Not long after Roberta shipped out, Allied High Command sent two young women to join her - Louise LeBeau, a French refugee who could cook and sew and could slip in and out of the smallest spaces; and Petra Newkirk, a lockpick, safecracker, pickpocket and all-around con artist placed with Intelligence to keep herself out of trouble. Both had come with attitudes and anger issues so strong it had taken the Colonel weeks to really get them both under control. For some reason, the arrival of their demolitions expert, a gentle, waif-like American girl with large, curious eyes,had brought some stability to the group. Now, just over a year later, they worked like a well-oiled machine.
No wonder Jamie felt like she was sometimes missing out.
"We'll keep in touch, Alice. Let us know when Mum and Dad have something new for us."
"Take care."
"You, too."
The transmission was over. With a quick goodnight, Colonel Hogan left Carter alone in the radio room and headed for bed.