Work to Do

by Goldleaf83

A story set around Hogan's overnight trip to England in the run-up to D-Day. A sequel of sorts to my earlier stories "The General Swap" and "There's No Place Like Stalag 13," but it's not necessary to have read them to get this one. Nonetheless, this ties up a few trailing threads from them that you may enjoy if you've read them. Part of Abracadebra's D-Day Commemoration Challenge.

1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story finishes up a plot arc that started in "Swapping Generals" and continued in "There's No Place Like Stalag 13," my rewrites of the episodes "The General Swap" and "Hogan Go Home." I've pulled them together in a sequence never intended in the original television series. I'm resolving a few remaining dangling plot threads in this final story, which is essentially a set of missing scenes set before and during the first part of "D-Day at Stalag 13." I started this story a few years ago, stalled out, started again recently, then realized the 75th anniversary of D-Day was at hand, and perhaps I could get this finished for it. I discovered, thanks to Snooky, that there was going to be a D-Day challenge, and that provided extra incentive. Although this story contains references to my earlier two stories in this loose arc, you don't absolutely need to have read them. The conclusion of this story will make more sense if you have, however, especially if you've read "Swapping Generals." Do be warned that the first chapters run long.

I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. And though I borrow some of the dialogue written by Richard M. Powell in his memorable episode "D-Day at Stalag 13" in my later chapters, I acknowledge the ownership of the creators and writer and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story.

ooOoo

Chapter 1

Night, June 1, 1944

Hogan leaned against the wood post next to the radio table, using the post to take some of the weight off his feet and allow aching muscles to relax. He felt beat in just about all senses of the word.

You chose this, he reminded himself grimly. You chose it TWICE. First when he had established the operation all those months ago, and then again last month when the Allied High Command had given him a chance—hell, had ordered him—to go home.

He could have been home right now if he had obeyed that order. His mind strayed briefly to his parents, the letter he had gotten from them two weeks ago cheerfully assuring him, as all their letters did, that all was well with his family. He hoped it was true. He worried that they wouldn't tell him if it wasn't.

But obeying that order would have meant leaving Crittendon in charge of the operation. Through his half-closed eyes, Hogan glanced down at Kinch, sitting on his stool, headset on, gaze distant, listening intently for the expected signal from London.

No, Hogan told himself firmly. Absolutely not. The operation would be blown and everyone would probably all be dead by now. You made the right decision. The English idiot hadn't even managed to stay in command successfully for 24 hours before he'd been caught trying to sneak back into Stalag 13 from the wrong side of camp. They had just been lucky that Klink had made the obvious assumption that Crittendon had actually been trying to escape from camp, not re-enter it.

Hogan shifted his weight again, hoping he wasn't testing the strength of the supporting beam too much by leaning against it. He should probably find a seat on one of the wood storage boxes that held essential supplies instead.

The problem was that he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back on his feet if he sat down.

All you've gotta do is last through whatever message London has decided is so important that you have to be down here to take it in person, he told himself. Surely it would be coming through any moment now. Then he could go up to his quarters and lie down. And finally sleep.

He hoped.

His movement attracted Kinch's attention. Hogan saw the sergeant's glance skitter towards him, his brows wrinkled slightly, but Kinch didn't raise his eyes far enough upwards to meet Hogan's own. Hogan sighed inwardly, from irritation born of regret and guilt mixed with the dregs of anger. Relations between the two of them had been badly strained for the past day, with plenty of fault to go around on both sides.

ooOoo

24 hours earlier…

"Ready to go?" Hogan asked Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau. Dressed in their black camouflage, they were standing around the radio table where Kinch was sitting on his stool in his regular uniform.

"Why yes, sir. It's a nice night for an evening stroll by a river," Newkirk answered, smiling. "As I remember from last time, there are very good views of the Krummenbach from the supports underneath its bridge."

"And I've made some of my best bombs ever this time," Carter agreed fervently, his hand caressing the four packs that held the charges, timers, and detonator wires they would need.

"The ones you used last time worked pretty well." Kinch spoke almost absently, looking down at notes on the table.

"You are smart, colonel, to wait until le Bosche finished rebuilding it before we blow it up again," LeBeau said, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Hogan shrugged. "Letting them use maximum resources and effort without getting anything out of them is just practical strategy." He glanced down at his watch, then over at Kinch. "London'll be in contact at 2415; we should be working on the bridge by then. If everything goes on schedule, we'll all be back by 0300."

Kinch nodded but didn't look up from his notes. Hogan knew, of course, that Kinch was already fully aware of the night's schedule. Highlighting the time conflict just eased the niggling guilt in his own mind that Kinch wasn't coming with them on this mission as originally planned.

It didn't help much that Kinch himself had seen the necessity for it as soon as Hogan had. The moment Hogan had read aloud the information on troop movements that Newkirk had deftly lifted that afternoon from the gun belt of their unwitting courier, Schultz, planted on him earlier that day by one of their informants in town, they had both known they would have to use the next contact window that night to send the information on to London. And that meant that Kinch wouldn't be with them on tonight's mission: the time conflict was too direct. Hogan had glanced up in time to see Kinch sigh, his shoulders slumping. But to his credit, Kinch hadn't said anything beyond offering to get the information put into proper code right away for transmission that night, keeping his disappointment to himself.

Hogan regretted the necessity of leaving him behind tonight, partly because this was the kind of mission that Kinch was particularly useful for, given his height, reach, and strength, but also because Kinch got fewer chances than the others to leave camp. Given that this mission required no contact with Germans, it was a perfect one for Kinch to contribute to. But the contact with London conflicted with the time for the mission to the bridge, and they both knew that the radio message had priority.

"Time to move out," Hogan said, and the four of them began shouldering the packs. Hogan paused by Kinch's side before following the others down the tunnel. "Mind the store for me till I get back," he said quietly, patting Kinch on the back.

"Sure thing, Colonel," Kinch answered. But his voice was distant and again he didn't look up.

And yet, as Hogan reached the entrance to the passageway to the tunnel exit, he heard a soft "Good luck, sir." Glancing back, he saw Kinch glance at him briefly before the radioman dropped his gaze back down.

"Thanks," Hogan responded then headed down the tunnel, warmed by Kinch's gesture.

ooOoo

Three hours later as he dashed through the woods, closely followed by Newkirk, Hogan wondering if this was the night his luck would run out, despite Kinch's good wishes for them.

The group had been successful in reaching the bridge undetected and had accomplished the exacting task of laying the charges and timers to Carter's specifications without being discovered. By design the bombs wouldn't go off until 0630, during roll call: whenever possible, Hogan liked to be in camp and within reach of a potential alibi. With the explosives laid, they began heading back toward camp, a process that went faster than the trip out, now that they had left most of the heavy explosive material in their packs behind, tucked and fastened to the bridge pillars.

Despite cutting through the woods for cover, they still had to cross roads in two places. On the first crossing, Hogan paused in the shadows of the trees, listening carefully and doing his best to look down a road he could only dimly see in the starlight, now that the slim moon had set. Deciding it was safe, he gave the signal to his men to move out across the road—only to have a patrol with flashlights come around the bend in the road at just that moment. The beams lit the team enough despite their black camouflage gear that the soldiers spotted their movement, as their shouts all too clearly indicated.

Fortunately, the Germans were still some distance away.

Unfortunately, they had dogs.

"Run!" Hogan ordered. They all four charged into the woods in the general direction of camp, doing their best to stay on the barely visible path. The dogs barking behind them made clear that they were being pursued. Hogan knew they had to shake off the patrol tracking them: these weren't the camp dogs, who would respond to LeBeau's overtures and commands. As the four of them came to a fork in the path, he said, "Carter, LeBeau, peel off and head for camp; Newkirk and I will distract the patrol."

Carter and LeBeau obeyed him, heading on the more direct path to camp. He and Newkirk took a very short breather: they were going to need it for the upcoming dash when they would be the fresher scent that the dogs should follow. After a moment the two of them took off, working their way through the trees to provide sound as a signal as well as scent. Shouts from the patrol indicated that had worked—maybe too well. Hogan led the run at a heading that took them back across their previous trail, and then looped around to cross it again. It was a risky strategy, but there was a good chance that the crisscrossed trails would confuse the dogs. Finally, they headed at full tilt to the Krummenbach, the same river that their target bridge crossed further upstream, pausing only to slip silently into the water to shake off the dogs' pursuit of their scent.

Hogan was trying to stay near the bank, where the water was shallower, when he heard an "Ooof!" followed by a splash behind him. Turning, he saw Newkirk pushing himself up out of the water and back to his feet. "All right?" he whispered.

"Yes," came the quiet reply—except that as Newkirk stepped toward him he abruptly stopped and cursed softly.

"What?" Hogan asked, sharply.

"I've twisted me ankle, or something," Newkirk muttered.

Hogan reached out and grabbed Newkirk, slipping his arm around his back. It was awkward, given the packs on their backs, but at least both packs were mostly empty and fairly flat now the supplies had been used at the bridge. "Lean on me; we'll get to the middle of the river and float down for a way. That'll be quieter anyway," he whispered.

A few steps took them into deeper water where Newkirk let go, able to use his buoyancy in the water to manage his weight with his injury. Hogan held his pistol up to keep it from getting wet and followed Newkirk into water that was almost chest high, but they were careful to keep out of the stronger part of the current. They listened carefully as they moved downstream: the dogs were still barking in the distance, but the sound gradually receded.

After about five minutes Hogan pushed toward the bank, and the two of them sheltered under an overhanging tree for another five minutes. Finally Hogan judged it safe to come out of the water. They had come a good distance downstream away from the searchers, but the river was bending the wrong direction and he didn't want to take them further out of their way back to Stalag 13. Both of them were shivering: although the night had been comfortable in their sweaters and jackets earlier, they were now thoroughly chilled by the river. Hogan helped Newkirk onto the bank and then checked his ankle.

"I don't think it's broken," Newkirk gasped softly as Hogan's fingers probed the sore place, "just strained some when I stepped on a rock that tilted. Sorry, sir. But I think I can put some weight on it."

Hogan nodded his agreement: if were the joint broken, the Englishman would probably be in much worse pain than he seemed to be. But the injury was still going to slow their progress homeward considerably.

There was nothing to do but get on with it, though.

He tucked away his pistol in its holster, where he could still get to it with his right hand, then slung Newkirk's arm over his shoulder and put his left arm around the corporal's back to help brace him, and the two of them started forwards, Newkirk leaning heavily on Hogan to manage the hike. They went slowly, Hogan listening carefully for any sound of pursuit. Walking at least warmed them up some, and eventually they were no longer dripping, even if still wet to their skin. It took them well over twice as long as it should have to reach camp, especially since as they got nearer they twice had to hide to dodge patrols. As the hour grew later and later, Hogan was beginning to wonder if they would lose the cover of darkness, or even make it back in time for roll call.

Finally they reached the entrance to the tunnel, with less than thirty minutes before roll call to spare, and Hogan sighed in relief, knowing that shelter was only a few yards away. He was more than ready to be back in the relative safety of camp, and the idea of a dry uniform had never seemed so attractive. He helped Newkirk negotiate getting into the stump, then he dove for cover behind it as the searchlight passed close by, dangerous even in the twilight of early morning. He climbed in himself and down the ladder to the tunnel floor where Newkirk waited for him in the darkness. Hogan once again pulled Newkirk's arm over his shoulder and they proceeded toward the distant light of the main radio room that lay beneath Barracks 2.

As they entered the main room, LeBeau and Carter, both still in camouflage blacks, looked up, LeBeau calling out "Newkirk!" in apprehension simultaneously with Carter's relieved "Colonel!" Both rushed forward and eased Newkirk from Hogan's grip and onto one of the wood boxes that they usually used as a seat. Newkirk gave a little sigh of relief.

"Were you shot? Are you bleeding?" LeBeau asked anxiously. "You are both soaked!"

"We didn't get hit. We used the Krummenbach to throw the dogs off our scent, then Newkirk turned his ankle on a rock and we wound up taking a swim," Hogan answered wearily. "Let's get him upstairs and back into uniform up there, so he's there when Schultz comes in for roll call. Newkirk, you can report in sick—you fell out of your bunk, all right? We'll get Wilson to take a look at you after roll call. You guys need to change too." He looked around. "Where's Kinch?" he asked, stretching his shoulders as he removed the backpack.

LeBeau and Carter traded an uneasy look that got Hogan's attention immediately. "Where is he?" he demanded sharply.

"You were so late—we were all worried," LeBeau explained. "Kinch went to look for you, about twenty minutes ago. You—you didn't see him?"

"No, we didn't see him!" Hogan snapped. "We don't have time for this! We have to fall out for roll call in—" he looked at his watch "—barely twenty minutes." He huffed in exasperation. "Both of you, get changed, pronto, then get Newkirk upstairs and into his nightshirt—before Schultz comes in!"

"Oui, Colonel," LeBeau answered, heading obediently for the alcove they kept their gear in.

Carter followed him but apparently couldn't resist taking the time to ask, "What're you going to do, Colonel?"

"I'll change, then go wait for Kinch if he's not back by then. I'll be up before Schultz gets here, one way or another. Now get moving!"

In a little less than five minutes, Carter and LeBeau were back in uniform and assisting Newkirk to climb the ladder with his one good leg. Hogan had skinned out of his wet black camouflage and yanked on his uniform without trying to dry off, a minor inconvenience that had the effect of further irritating him. He looked at his watch and swore silently. They had about ten minutes. If Kinch didn't make it back in the next seven, Hogan was going to have to go up above and deal with whatever fallout came from having a missing man at roll call. And Kinchloe wasn't someone that Schultz was likely to overlook.

He headed down the emergency tunnel, fuming, debating whether to climb the ladder and crack open the entrance to see if there was any sign of his missing man. He was not going to go back outside the fence to look for Kinch: having both of them out there was just inviting further trouble. There wasn't time anyway.

As he approached the ladder, his eyes readjusting to the darkness, he heard rather than saw a man climbing down from above, accompanied by a whiff of fresher air as the tree stump entrance was pulled closed. "Kinch," he said, as soon as he'd reached the tunnel floor. He didn't make it a question.

Kinchloe jumped slightly. "Colonel?"

Hogan could hear the relief in the sergeant's voice, but he only answered, "This way." Kinchloe followed him down the tunnel back towards the radio room. As the first wave of relief ebbed, Hogan felt a rising tide of fury within him. He reined in his temper only long enough for them to get far enough from the tunnel entrance that he could be absolutely sure no sound would leak to the outside. Then he rounded on his radio man so abruptly that Kinch nearly plowed into him.

"What were you doing out there?"

He could see Kinch's head snap back in surprise at his tone, eyes widening then narrowing as he searched his commanding officer's face in the dim light. "Looking for you—sir. You were more than two hours overdue."

"Carter and LeBeau must have explained we would be late and why. I didn't expect to find a man missing when I finally got back here—especially not the one I left in charge! You don't walk out on that responsibility, Sergeant." Hogan put both fists on his hips, glaring at the slightly taller man.

Kinch shifted his weight a little, drawing himself up to his full height. "I didn't, Sir," he answered, his voice level and formal. "I thought you might need help—"

"I left you in charge. When we got back I expected to find you at your post. Instead you were outside the fence, with less than half an hour to roll call!"

"Looking for you, because you were over two hours late! With roll call coming! And I made sure that I got back in time—"

"Enough, Sergeant!" Hogan cut him off. "We don't have time for this. Get up to the barracks, now! Move it!"

Kinch glared back, then pushed past him, stopping at the radio just long enough to blow out the oil lamp before he mounted the ladder, followed by Hogan. After stepping into the barracks, Hogan pounded on the hidden spring that lowered the bunk into place, hiding the tunnel entrance.

Turning, he saw that Newkirk, his nightshirt covering his trousers, was on Carter's bunk, biting his lip as LeBeau worked off the shoe as gently as he could. "You should have been wearing boots—that would have kept your ankle straight," the Frenchman scolded gently as he got the shoe off and pulled off the wet trousers, leaving his friend dressed for bed.

"Not flexible enough for climbing on bridge struts and too heavy for running through the woods to avoid dogs," Newkirk grunted as LeBeau began to towel off his wet legs and feet. He glanced up as Kinch approached him and grinned. "How about you run through the woods and I'll send the radio message next time, eh Kinch?"

"Deal," Kinch answered tersely, but put his hand on the Englishman's shoulder and squeezed. "You gonna be all right?"

"Oh sure. I'm going to skip out of standing in formation the next few days, and you'll all be envying me, lying at my ease here in my cozy bunk. Or more likely, Andrew's cozy bunk down here." Newkirk smiled and patted the blanket he was sitting on, just as Schultz came through the door.

"Uuup, uup! Everyone up, up, up! Rrrooolll call!" He stopped and looked at them in surprise. "You are all already up!" He frowned. "Have you been up to monkey business?"

Hogan pushed forward. "We've been worrying over Newkirk, Schultz. He took an unexpected trip off his bunk last night and landed wrong—I've been telling Klink we need to get rid of these dangerous double-decker bunks and redecorate with all twin beds."

"Jolly joker," Schultz sniffed at the sarcasm, but peered at Newkirk's ankle. "How bad is it? Ach, it looks swollen!"

"He needs the medic. Can we get Sergeant Wilson over here before roll call?" LeBeau asked.

"Ja, I will go fetch him," Schultz promised.

"Thanks, Schultzie," Newkirk said gratefully.

"Everyone else, get ready for roll call!" Schultz reminded them, getting a chorus of assurances that they would. No one wanted him to change his mind on the medic.

Hogan retired to his office. Standing over his sink, he washed his face well, trying somehow to scrub out the weariness left by the night's exertions. The stubble of his unshaven face was rough on his hands—he generally had trouble with a five o'clock shadow at the best of times and always needed a shave in the morning. He debated trying to shave now, but there really wasn't enough time, and there certainly wasn't any hot water. Given his fairly heavy beard, he always used hot water to shave. He knew, though, that he was inviting criticism from Klink if he went out for roll call without a clean chin. A fast dry shave wasn't an option, though, given the state of the blade in his razor.

Another call from Schultz filtered through the closed door, ending his internal debate, and he dried his face quickly with the worn scrap of fabric that served as his towel before stepping back into the main room of the hut. Sergeant Wilson had arrived and was seating himself on the bunk next to Newkirk.

"He can examine Newkirk while the rest of you are outside to be counted," Schultz said firmly, drowning out LeBeau's objections that Schultz knew he was there and he should stay behind and help Wilson. "Everybody out, out, out! Rrrroooollll caaallll! Nein! You must all be outside for the count! Raus! Raus!" He flapped his hands at LeBeau, herding the protesting Frenchman out.

Hogan followed the others out, hoping that for once Klink would be on time and not keep them waiting for ages—and that the Kommandant wouldn't pontificate over whatever supposed German victory he had heard about on the radio propaganda last night. Brushing past Kinch, who was standing in his usual place in the back row, Hogan took his own customary spot just in front of him without giving him a glance.

As usual with Klink, however, Hogan's hope for a short roll call was doomed. They waited during the count of their own barracks, and while that was tallied with all the other barracks counts, and then waited some more, LeBeau fuming not-so-silently in a constant stream of impatient French, despite Carter's and Chapman's occasional attempts to pacify him. By the time Klink finally emerged nearly thirty minutes later, stalking down the steps of the Kommandantur to the center of the compound to receive Schultz's report that all prisoners were accounted for, it was nearly 0630.

"All accounted for—not present?" was Klink's sharp rejoinder to Schultz.

"Ja, Herr Kommandant. The Englander, Newkirk, has hurt his ankle and is being tended by the prisoners' medic."

"Hmph. Very well. You may—"

Klink's comment was cut off by the boom of a distant explosion.

"Right on time." Carter's satisfied murmur was barely perceptible to Hogan.

"What was that?" Schultz's bemused question was audible to everyone as the big sergeant turned to look in the direction of the sound.

"No doubt some kind of artillery practice—or perhaps an unexploded bomb from an earlier raid," Klink answered dismissively. "Yet another example of shoddy manufacture from your American factories no doubt, Hogan." He gazed disapprovingly at his senior POW officer.

"Sounds to me like it eventually did whatever job it was supposed to do—if it was ours in the first place," Hogan answered with a shrug.

"Hmph!" Klink launched into a long panegyric on the recent glories of the Reich troops on the eastern front, and Hogan folded his hands in pockets, covertly studying the sky and trying not to listen. He was too tired for satirical repartee this morning and had no wish to prolong Klink's speech.

Finally Klink wound down and spoke the most welcome word of the day so far: "Disssmisssed!" Unfortunately, he immediately followed it with, "Colonel Hogan! A word with you."

Hogan sighed inwardly, knowing what was coming, but he strolled over to Klink. He could hear his men behind him, LeBeau apparently bolting back into the barracks given that Carter and Chapman were calling after him, promising to bring back breakfast for both him and Newkirk from the mess hall.

Klink had adopted the pedantic look of a headmaster about to take an erring student to task, an attitude that automatically raised Hogan's hackles. "Colonel Hogan," he began officiously, "in the German army it is customary for officers to set a good example for their men. I know you Americans pride yourselves on your informality, but really, Colonel, how can you fall out for roll call with such a slovenly appearance? Unshaven, your uniform untidy. . ."

"Because in the American army an officer's first duty is to look after the welfare of his men," Hogan answered caustically. "I was more concerned about Newkirk's injury than the state of my whiskers."

"And is his injury so serious?"

"I wouldn't know yet—I haven't had a chance to hear our medic's report," Hogan snapped.

"What happened to him?"

"He fell out of his bunk and landed wrong."

"'Fell out of his bunk,'" Klink quoted, his face pinched tightly with skepticism as he drew himself up and back from Hogan slightly.

"Sure, forgot he was in the top bunk and rolled out to answer nature's call—you know how it is when you're still mostly asleep. I keep telling you, Kommandant, that we need to get rid of these dangerous double-decker bunks and redecorate with all twin beds. You know, Simmons Beautyrest mattresses would be best—if they're good enough for Eleanor Roosevelt, I say they're good enough for my men."

Klink waved his hand dismissively. "That is not the point. Colonel, all your men need to show up to formation shaved. You in particular."

"Fine." Hogan crossed his arms in front of him. "How about you move roll call thirty minutes later, and put in an extra sink—then we can all manage that. You don't get out here any earlier than that. What are you doing with all that time? Shaving?"

"You have a sink in your quarters, Colonel. How about we move the call for all of you to get up to thirty minutes earlier instead?" Klink responded, eyes narrowed.

Hogan glared back—that was the last thing he needed. "I'll speak to the men. And I'll make sure I'm shaved. Happy now, Kommandant?"

"Deliriously," Klink answered dryly. "Dismissed, Hogan." He saluted and stalked off, hardly noting Hogan's irreverently sloppy salute back.

Hogan turned and headed back toward Barracks 2. He nearly ran into Wilson at the doorway, who was on his way out.

"How's Newkirk?" he asked.

"He'll be fine, Colonel. He's got a mild sprain, some swelling but not too bad. He said you two were in a river?"

Hogan glanced around in alarm, noting with relief there were no guards in earshot.

Wilson looked guilty. "Sorry, sir," he muttered. "Anyway, that probably helped, cold water and keeping his weight off it as much as he could just after the injury." He kept his voice low.

"So he just needs to keep off it now?" Hogan answered.

"Yes sir. I've got it wrapped, and if he stays mostly off it for a few days he should be all right for light work if he's needed. No running around for at least a couple of weeks, though—maybe longer."

"Got it," Hogan nodded.

"If you'll pardon me, sir, you look like you need breakfast and a nap," Wilson recommended with gentle candor.

"Yeah, that's in the plan." Hogan managed a smile and clapped Wilson on the shoulder, then he headed inside. Annoyingly, Klink was right: though Hogan felt genuinely hungry, he needed to shave before he appeared in the mess hall in front of all his men. He glanced to his left once inside the hut. LeBeau was perched on the bench by the table; Newkirk was sitting up in the lower bunk just across from him, leaning back against the post. There was no sign of Kinch.

"Colonel, I put water on to heat: there should be enough for you to shave with in a moment. I'll bring it in to your office if you like, sir," LeBeau suggested, glancing up at him.

"Thanks, LeBeau. That would be great. You doing all right, Newkirk?"

"Doc says I'll be right as rain in just a tic, sir," Newkirk answered brightly. "I'm going to have a kip, and after that maybe I'll be ready to dance tonight."

"No dancing for you till Wilson says so," Hogan warned, but he smiled as a reward for Newkirk's cheerful demeanor before crossing the room to his office. He closed the door behind him, removed his hat and hung it on its usual peg, then leaned on his desk. He took a deep breath, trying to let go of all the tension accumulated from the mission, the nearly disastrous return trip, and the conflicts with Kinch and Klink. He was going to shave, eat, and sleep, in that order, and then he was going to have a talk with Kinch, when they were both less tired and more rational and could sort through the events of the night and come up with a reasonable set of protocols for the future.

A tap at the door signaled LeBeau, with a kettle of water in one hand and a tin plate in the other, with a small hunk of black bread with butter scraped across it.

"Here you are, Colonel: hot water for your face to ensure a smooth shave, and a delicious breakfast pastry for your refreshment. I thought you would not want coffee this morning."

Hogan smiled in spite of his mood. "You're right about that," he admitted. "Where'd the breakfast come from?"

"André brought it for Newkirk and me, but this is my share. I am about to go over to the mess hall and get my own," LeBeau replied, pouring the water into Hogan's shaving bowl. "You can shave and eat, and go straight to bed, sir."

"Thanks, LeBeau, I'll do just that," Hogan replied, grateful for the Frenchman's tactful concern and service.

Ten minutes later, clean shaven and . . . well, not full, but at least no longer truly hungry, Hogan pulled off his jacket and climbed up into his bunk. He wasn't going to undress for a nap, especially since there was no telling if he might be needed in camp, but he was hoping to sleep till early afternoon, for at least four to six hours. That would make all the difference, he thought, yawning as he stretched himself out on his bunk, then shifted to his side, using his right arm to pillow his head, the wall comfortingly behind him as he drifted off.

ooOoo

Author's note: Eleanor Roosevelt did in fact promote the Simmons Beautyrest mattress from 1927 through the early 1930s, in both print advertising and on her radio show.