LeBeau turned to his grandfather, taking in his broad, pearlescent wings. It was a much younger form of his grandfather—the strong, muscular man whom LeBeau recalled from his younger years.

"There is much to talk about, Louis," his grandfather said.

"Yes; so much has happened," LeBeau agreed. "I am sorry that I was not able to stop our beloved France from falling."

"And that is why you hope to help free her now?" the angel asked.

"I hope to," LeBeau admitted, but he didn't sound as sure as before. "I thought about it for a long time once Marie told me about the general's orders. And it gave me time to think about my situation. The others kept on telling me that I was already fighting for France here, but…" He shook his head. "Tell me, Grandfather—how does cooking enough food for the Germans to stuff their faces help our France?"

He sighed, upset with himself.

"I know I should not complain. At least I am allowed to go on missions outside of the camp; poor Kinch and Baker usually have to stay by the radio. But it pains me to have give comfort and good food to the enemy—food that I want to give to our soldiers and our countrymen! And the food I make for my friends is rarely appreciated. I know Grandmother showed me how hungry they were without me, but it is difficult to keep giving them good food when I receive complaints! Pierre is the worst when it comes to that—'Cor blimey, Louis, can't you make English food for once?'"

He had said the last part in an honest but terrible attempt at a Cockney accent. His grandfather listened to the rant patiently; the angel knew that seeing the visions of the past had impacted the corporal, and his next words confirmed it.

"And yet, I know that Pierre honestly wants me to stay. I never imagined that my not being there would make him snap at André like that. But, other than that and filling German stomachs, I do not do anything special. The colonel leads everyone, Pierre does all the thieving, André makes our weapons, and Kinch and now Baker handle all of the transmissions. The Leader, the Thief, the Munitions Expert, and the Radiomen… Years from now, everyone will hear of them and know the important role they play. Then they will hear of me—the Chef! Chefs do not win wars; they battle unruly ingredients, not enemy soldiers! It is as I said to Baker—years from now, when I have a child, I will have no war stories to tell!"

LeBeau took a deep breath, glad to finally get it off of his chest.

"I am sorry, Grandfather; I know you came here to show me something, but other than a moody Pierre, I do not see what else will be different."

"You might very well be surprised, then. Come, Louis," the angel said, leading him towards the bunk bed trapdoor.

LeBeau hesitated for a moment, but followed his grandfather's spirit down into the tunnels. He shuddered, nervously trembling as he looked around.

"What… what is happening to me?" LeBeau asked, as he started to hyperventilate. "I have not had a reaction to being in the tunnels since…"

"…Since you started digging them," his grandfather finished. "In this new present, you have not had the exposure to the tunnels. Nor were you here to go on those missions where you were forced to hide in small spaces. You were not able to overcome your claustrophobia."

The corporal's head was spinning.

"Grandfather, I must go back up…" he began, but trailed off as he heard a familiar voice up ahead. "Pierre?"

He headed forward, trying to ignore the feeling of the tunnel walls closing in on him, heading to the source of the voice. He gaped as he arrived to see a very drunk Newkirk angrily berating Carter for another recent mistake. They were both noticeably thin from hunger.

"You forgot to set the ruddy timer again! 'ow do you keep doing these things?" he slurred, angrily. "Blimey, you should've gone off when we got you out of 'ere. Why'd you 'ave to come back and be a bloomin' 'eadache for all of us!"

"Sometimes I wonder why I did come back," the sergeant retorted, looking more hurt than angry. "But Colonel Hogan was saying that he needed a demolitions expert, and I was halfway back when I decided, 'Hey, that could be me—'"

"What kind of 'expert' forgets to set the timer—more than once!" Newkirk roared. "I knew you were nothing but trouble the minute you showed up 'ere and started nattering!"

"You know, maybe if you'd just lay off the scotch for a little bit, you'd pay more attention to the good things I've been doing," Carter said.

Newkirk's eyes flared, and he aimed to throw the bottle at him. Carter yelped and dashed out of the tunnel before he could.

LeBeau just stood, shaking his head slowly as Carter fled past him.

"This… this isn't right," he said to his grandfather. "They are supposed to be friends; Pierre acts as though he cannot stand André."

"He cannot," the angel answered. "A closed heart knows no compassion; you will meet someone later who can tell you that firsthand."

LeBeau just gave half a nod as he watched Newkirk pour himself another drink.

"Drunk…" he murmured, more to himself than his grandfather. "He has become a drunk. He used to tell me about how his father was a drunk, and how he hated it, and now… he is just like his father…"

"Newkirk!" Hogan's voice echoed from down the tunnel. He walked right by the two Frenchmen without even seeing them, crossing to the Englishman. "Newkirk, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Carter 'ad it coming, Sir," the corporal replied, still slurring his words together. "That ruddy fool should be more careful with what 'e's doing, anyway; it's a miracle that we 'aven't been sent to Kingdom Come, the way 'e carries on!"

"That's no reason to grind his morale into the ground," Hogan countered. "Anyway, we need to come up with a different way to take out those baby tanks; they're plowing through the area thanks to that synthetic fuel."

"Baby tanks and synthetic fuel?" LeBeau asked. "It cannot be…"

"…The same baby tank you drove in the real world," his grandfather finished. "And the fuel, of course, is the research that Professor DuBois was working on—research that was later continued in that research lab that you had snuck into after DuBois died."

"Died? But… DuBois escaped!" LeBeau protested.

"Only because you covered the escape by impersonating him," the angel reminded him. "Here, he was recaptured and put to death. His daughter suffered the same fate."

A sudden chill crossed LeBeau's heart as he forced himself to listen to Newkirk and Hogan's conversation.

"I say it's 'opeless," Newkirk insisted, still drunk. "We can't do anything to stop those ruddy tanks. We couldn't even stop Burkhalter from stealing that painting—that Boy With the Flute, or whatever that was…"

LeBeau's jaw dropped. Not the painting he had struggled to save!

"Fife," Hogan corrected him. He sighed, staring at nothing in particular. "If only Tiger were still here… she'd have come up with something." He clenched a fist. "I wish I'd been able to save her."

Newkirk mumbled something.

"Tiger is dead, too?" LeBeau asked, horrified.

"She was executed by Colonel Backsheider in Paris after she refused to answer his questions," his grandfather said. "Marya wasn't as willing to help Hogan without you there to convince her; without her help, Mademoiselle Monet's fate was sealed."

LeBeau shut his eyes, Tiger's young and beautiful image coming to him. Tiger… gone…

"Grandfather, please tell me that there are no others dead on account of my absence," he pleaded.

"Not dead," the angel assured him. "But do you remember that young Dutch lady who had captured your eye?"

"Not Wilhelmina…!" the chef exclaimed.

"She is being held by Major Hochstetter."

LeBeau cursed the major, angrily. Now even more upset by this horrible reality, he focused back on Newkirk and Hogan.

"You'd better sober up," the colonel was saying to Newkirk. "We're going to have to go out tonight, most likely."

Newkirk responded with a grunt. Hogan didn't bother with trying to get him to see the light or even take the scotch away from him; he headed back to the barracks, a faraway look in his eyes as his thoughts turned to Tiger. Not being able to save her had been a deep blow for him on more than one level.

LeBeau watched him leave, but then walked over to where Newkirk was sprawled over the table.

"Do you wish to speak to him, Louis?" asked his grandfather.

"Yes," the corporal replied.

The angel snapped his fingers, allowing himself and his grandson to be visible to those in this reality. But Newkirk was so drunk, he didn't even notice the other corporal standing beside him.

"Pierre?" LeBeau asked, softly. He gently tapped the Englishman on the shoulder.

Newkirk suddenly seized LeBeau's wrist as a reflex.

"Who are you?" he demanded, earning a shocked and hurt looked from LeBeau.

"Pierre, it is me—Louis!" The Frenchman was horrified by the dark, cold look in the Englishman's eyes; they completely lacked the warmth and the mischievous twinkle that LeBeau had been so used to seeing.

"I don't know any Louis," Newkirk spat, shoving him aside and turning back to the scotch bottle. "I don't even know 'ow you got down into the tunnel; you'd better 'ave gotten the Guv'nor's permission."

"Pierre, look at me, please…" LeBeau pleaded. "You always call me your little mate."

Newkirk let out a derisive chuckled.

"You're barmy, you are," he said, not even looking at him as he spoke; he poured himself yet another drink. "I don't 'ave anyone I'd call a mate, and I certainly don't know you."

"What about André? You and he have always been close… All three of us have been…"

"Leave off, whoever you are," Newkirk ordered, raising the glass to his lips.

"Stop!" LeBeau gasped, knocking the glass out of his hand. "Pierre, you know better than to drink so much!" And it was most unlike him; Newkirk did enjoy the odd drink, but LeBeau had never seen him this drunk before. And it horrified him to see it now.

But knocking the glass out of his hand had been the wrong thing to do; Newkirk got to his feet. An English fist connected with a French chin.

LeBeau cried out, retreating. How ironic that their first meeting in the real world had also included him receiving a punch from Newkirk, but the situation had been so different. The Frenchman had to admit to himself that he had picked the fight with him then. Now, however, Newkirk had hit him in a drunken rage, and it was the circumstances that hurt more than the strike itself.

"Pierre, please—!" LeBeau cried, yelping as Newkirk aimed another punch at him now.

The angel intervened, using his arm to block the Englishman's second blow. Newkirk took one look at the winged man and mumbled something to himself, sitting back down and reaching for the scotch bottle again.

"Louis, we must go," his grandfather said.

"But…"

The corporal trailed off as his grandfather placed his hand on his shoulder and led him away. But he did not take his eyes off of Newkirk until the Englishman was out of his line of vision.

"Is… is Pierre always this drunk in this world?" LeBeau asked.

"Most of the time," his grandfather admitted. "Oddly enough, it doesn't seem to harm his ability to perform his duties on missions. But, regardless…"

"…He should not be this way," LeBeau finished.

"It is as I said earlier," the angel added. "The organization did not fall apart… but it was never really together to begin with."

"But this isn't real," LeBeau said, more for the benefit of reminding himself. "I did come to Stalag 13, and Pierre became my closest friend. And Pierre did not become this…" He gestured in vain to the direction where they had come from. "If I leave Stalag 13 now, after being here for so long, he would still be the kind and caring Pierre he is in reality."

"But for how long…?" a new voice asked.

LeBeau gaped as a man he did not recognize appeared. He was another angel, but his wings were shiny black, and he was purposefully keeping half of his face hidden from view.

LeBeau noticed that his grandfather gave a somewhat cool look towards the new arrival.

"I trust you will use some tact when explaining what you have to say?" his grandfather asked the third angel. "You are not known for your subtlety."

The dark-winged angel grunted in response. LeBeau's grandfather took it as a "yes."

"Louis, I must go now," he said. "He will tell you the rest of what you need to hear."

LeBeau looked uneasy as he nodded and said goodbye to his grandfather as he vanished from sight. It wasn't just because LeBeau was somewhat put off by this newly-arrived, strange angel; he had a feeling that what the angel had to say was not at all what he wanted to hear.

Notes: Episodes referred to in this chapter are "Tanks for the Memories," "The Scientist," "Art for Hogan's Sake," "A Tiger Hunt in Paris," and "LeBeau and the Little Old Lady."