I was shot down some time in May of 1943, the stupid thing is I don't remember the exact date. I probably would have if I had been captured, it would have been a more monumental occasion. But as it was, I, and three of my crew, were found right away by a couple of the good guys, a Cockney and a Yank who kept tripping over his own feet. And, quick as that, we were in a tunnel system underneath a Prisoner of War camp. Certainly, we'd expected to end up in a POW Camp, and ideally under it eventually, and then out and off to England, but not quite this quickly.

But the real story started when they started "processing" us for escape - civilian clothes, papers, the whole bit, I wouldn't have believed it if it wasn't in front of me. They were taking down our names and measurements for civilian clothes. I sent the other three up first, my mother always taught me to let everyone else go first, and my father taught me that if it's dangerous, and I wanted to make a good impression, then I should go first. But, unless the Cockney (his name was Newkirk, but by then he was the Cockney in my head and it stuck) got in a fight with the little Frenchman (I didn't find out until later his name was LeBeau), which they seemed right on the verge of doing, I figured it was safe.

But, eventually, O'Shea and Pillsbury and Crocker were sent on for a cup of tea and a good night's sleep, and I stepped up.

Newkirk looked me up and down, and cocked his head to the side, "Hey, you look kind of familiar. You from around Stepney?"

I shook my head, "Certainly not," I think he was a little shocked by my accent. I didn't see anything wrong with it, of course, that's how accents go, isn't it, but I'm sure to him I must have sounded odd, "I'm from the northern part, a ways away from London and those parts."

"All right, then," He shrugged, "What's your name?"

"Royston Crittendon," I said.

It was as if someone had fired a gun in the little tunnel. Every head shot up, and in unison, all of the half-dozen men in the room exclaimed, "CRITTENDON?!"

I jumped ten feet, and said, "Well - yes?"

"That bloody explains it!" The Cockney burst, "The two a' you must be related, you're his spittin' image!"

The Frenchman burst out some words that I didn't understand for the life of me, but at least three people blushed so I imagine it must have been something.

The American Colonel, his name was Hogan, strode forward, "Crittendon," He said again. I'd never seen such fear in the eyes of a man of his rank before, "Are you, by any chance, related to Rodney Crittendon? A Group Captain?"

"Certainly," I said, "He's my brother."

I wasn't certain, at that point, that LeBeau wasn't going to pass out. Newkirk appeared to be looking for the most direct exit from the room, and undoubtedly trying to think of a plausible reason to excuse himself from the situation.

Colonel Hogan sighed dejectedly, and sank back against the wall, "Another one," He murmured, and he sounded pretty pitiful, "Another one."

"I take it you've met my brother," I said, with a sheepish smile. Rodney had mentioned in his last letter that he was sent here for a period of time, come to think of it.

"Boy, have we!" The other Yank burst, "He's almost killed us - like, twice!"

"Oh, more than that, trust me," Newkirk said, and then muttered under his breath, "Bloody Crittendon plan."

This caught me by surprise, "The Crittendon plan?!" I groaned, "That idiot is still hung up on that? By George, he must've gotten conked on the head or something awful - no," A thought suddenly occurred to me, "You've got to be joking."

"We're not," The other enlisted men said in a dry monotone that certainly drove their point home.

"So - Crittendon -," Colonel Hogan winced, "Err - you have a nickname?"

"Not really," I said regretfully. And I did regret it, "Sorry."

"Alright," The Colonel sighed, "So - just out of curiosity, this Crittendon plan -," He frowned, looking for the right words.

"Is a load of the worst cockamamie rot on the whole island, and you're wondering how it came about?" I asked.

"That about covers it," The Colonel said wryly.

"I figured so," I sighed, "Well, you see, it's for my sister Eunice."

"This just keeps getting worse," Newkirk moaned. I'm quite certain he was choosing deliberately to make the worst of the situation, "How many of you are there?"

"Well, Rodney's the oldest," I said, "And then myself, and Bethany. And then George and Tobias, and Eunice is a good bit younger. She's not quite seventeen now."

"Oh, dear," Newkirk moaned, "Are George and Tobias draft age yet?"

"Well, yes," I said, "But you needn't worry, they're both in the infantry," I worried, plenty, of course, but he needn't.

"They could be here when we're liberated, though," LeBeau wanted to follow this line, but Colonel Hogan waved him off.

"Never mind the Clan Crittendon, LeBeau," He said (that was when I found his name was LeBeau), and then turned back to me, "About Eunice?"

"Well, she's allergic to geraniums," I said, "Dreadfully so. When they blossomed every spring, she would hide in her room and drape heavy curtains over the windows and cover the vents, and Rodney and I would bring her food up to her, and she still suffered something awful from these blasted flowers."

At this point, several others had been drawn to the confusion, including my own crewmates, who, despite their exhaustion, were grinning like loons. They'd heard this story many times over and they loved to hear it again. Several hands raised, and Newkirk said, "I don't follow."

"You will, I'll explain," I assured. The hands lowered, "You see, my mother loves geraniums. So even though Eunice had to barricade herself in her room every spring, she kept getting geraniums. Every color, size, whatever, she could tell you about all of their differences and whatnot. She had hundreds of them, if not more, and they were everywhere."

"Bloody Crittendons," Newkirk moaned.

I ignored the comment, "We tried to get rid of them, we really did. We tried everything we could think of; we spent hours one evening out in the woods looking for any kind of slimy bug or slug or whatever, and dumped them all all over these geraniums, and she hardly batted an eyelash. We made a fake newspaper article about geraniums releasing poison into the air, and when that didn't work we made up a friend at school whose mother desperately needed geraniums to cure some terminal illness," I sighed, "We did everything short of burning the gardens down."

One of the other fellows, I'm pretty sure his name was Kick or Lynch or something (I'm awful with names, aren't I), stuck his hand up, "Didn't you ever just suggest that she find something else? Or bring up that your sister was allergic to the things?"

"We tried," I said, "We truly did. She wouldn't listen."

"So how did this Crittendon plan come into play?" Colonel Hogan prodded.

I frowned, "I'm not sure who first suggested it. I think it was either Bethany or myself. It was just after Rodney had made Group Captain," I sighed, "It was a joke, none of us believed for a minute that Mother would be willing to give up her geraniums to plant along the runways - and if she did, she'd just get more. We all had a good laugh and at that point our plan was to get Eunice married off as quickly as possible, or make up some excuse to send her off to stay with family or friends. Neither of us realized Rodney had gone through with the idea until - well, it wasn't that long ago, actually. Rodney had finally escaped the Germans and come home, and we were all having a good laugh over that business with Admiral Todley when he brought it up."

"That mission with Admiral Todley was classified," Colonel Hogan said testily.

I gave him a pointed look - not a common practice of mine with senior officers, but truly? "You have met my brother."

"True," He nodded concedingly, "What did your family say about it?"

"Bethany fainted dead away," I answered bluntly, "Eunice - she's got a great sense of humor, for such miserable circumstances - she laughed so hard she was turning blue."

The clumsy Yank grinned, "Boy, that's something to see, isn't it? My sister did that a lot, she always thought everything was funny for some reason. One time -,"

"CARTER!" Everyone snapped at once.

"Sorry," He murmured, not unlike a small snail shrinking back into its shell.

"I'll hear your story later," I told him honestly (this would, in time, prove to be a mistake).

"So this Crittendon plan to get your mother to give up her geraniums to go towards a greater cause, was a joke," Colonel Hogan sighed, "But your brother took it completely the wrong way and actually proposed the idea to his superiors."

"He does have his good points," I said apologetically, "Logic just isn't one of them."

"Well," Newkirk sighed, "It does sound like our Colonel Crittendon."

End.