James Kinchloe sat by the radio in the tunnels. It was almost check in time with London and Kinch had his supply list ready. He only wished he could order in a doctor.
There was a sound in the tunnel and moments later LeBeau and Carter dropped down off the ladder.
"Everything OK up top?" Kinch asked quickly.
LeBeau shook his head; the emotional Frenchman had tears in his eyes.
Carter answered. "Newkirk said the Colonel is burning up with fever. Temperature's up to 103."
Kinch lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. Things were spiraling out of control way too quickly. He felt bereft in a storm.
"The radio crackled to life. "Goldilocks calling Papa Bear. Goldilocks to Papa Bear. Are you receiving?"
Kinch stubbed out the cigarette and put on the headset. "This is Papa Bear, Goldilocks. We receive you fine."
"How is Papa Bear tonight, Goldilocks? No more bad porridge, I hope," the cultured British voice asked.
"Porridge still bad, Goldilocks. We need some refills of good porridge," Kinch said, using the code for penicillin.
"Roger, Goldilocks, what else?"
"Any chance of some medical help nearby? Kinch asked.
"We could ask around but I'm afraid there is none close by. Perhaps in two days." The voice sounded regretful.
"Depending on the situation, I'll ask again." Kinchloe then read off the list he and Hogan had compiled a few days ago. When he finished he thought they were about to sign off when London said, "By the way, Papa Bear. Bad news. Our friends say Snow Cardinal has gone away to a different nest."
LeBeau and Carter wore stricken expressions. Kinch keyed the mike. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
The voice was deeply regretful. "I'm afraid it does. Happened last night. Now the doctor who treated him has the ruddy stuff. Good luck, Papa Bear."
Kinch, LeBeau and Carter all stared at each other with icy dread on their faces.
HH HH HH
How could he be so hot and yet so cold at the same time?
The fire inside the Goldilocks collided with the freezing cold air that rushed in the shattered windshield of the crippled Flying Fortress. ME 109s and FWs swarmed the B17, like carrion birds circling a dying prey. Bullets rattled the plane and the noise was deafening.
Robert Hogan tried to reach the bailout bell to alert his crew to abandon the plane but he couldn't seem to locate it. He tried keying his throat mike to make an announcement but it was gone too. Turning to his copilot, Hogan was appalled to see Klink there, eyes wide with fright. Even the monocle had fallen out.
He will be useless, Hogan thought, resigned to the fact. He turned around to see Schultz stuck in the top turret. It should have been funny, for all that was visible of the big man was his waist and his legs. But Schultz's pleading was heartbreaking. "Save me, Colonel Hogan. You must save me!"
No matter how hard he tried, Hogan couldn't move.
The plane began to shudder and break apart. With mounting horror, Hogan watched as first LeBeau, then Newkirk, flew out the waist gunner windows, cart wheeling into turbulent air. They both looked up at him as they plummeted to earth.
There was a grinding howl of metal breaking and the bottom suddenly dropped out. Looking down, Hogan saw the nose of the plane drop away, along with the terrified faces of Kinchloe and Carter looking back up at the cockpit. Carter seemed to be crying but trying not to show it. Kinchloe met Hogan's eyes and offered a final formal salute as they fell.
Hogan sat stunned and briefly wondered why he was still flying. Glancing over to his copilot, he saw Klink still had not moved but now he had a small bullet hole in his head. Schultz too had ceased whimpering and the legs sticking out of the turret were slack.
Robert Hogan turned away from the carnage, sick to his stomach, which seemed to be on fire internally.
Looking down he saw a large swastika on the earth below. Hogan did not take the time to marvel at the sight. He put what was left of the Fortress in a dive straight at the symbol of Nazi Germany. "I'll be there soon, fellas," he whispered.
HH HH HH
Peter Newkirk heaved a sigh of relief when Col. Hogan limply fell back on his bunk. The Governor had been fighting him all the way and Newkirk was exhausted just struggling with him. Hogan was soaked in sweat and Newkirk himself was flushed and quite warm. He sat down on the wooden chair and dipped another cloth in water. As he placed it on Hogan's forehead, there was a soft knocking at the door.
Wearily, the English corporal went over and opened the door a crack. James Kinchloe stood on the other side, LeBeau and Carter close behind him. "How is he?"
Newkirk swallowed. "It's not good, gents. His temperature is up to 104."
Kinchloe sagged. LeBeau crossed himself and Carter looked stricken. "We'll have to get him a doctor then," Kinch said slowly.
Newkirk looked troubled. "Kinch, mate, I don't know if we should."
LeBeau immediately bristled. "What are you saying?"
Newkirk jerked a thumb back into the room. "He's off his head. Delirious. He's talked about his missions, his plane, us … and the tunnels."
Kinch looked even more desolate. "Oh no."
"We can't just let him die." Carter spoke up for the first time. "I mean, is that going to stop us? We sacrifice him because of that."
"Carter's right." LeBeau broke the grim silence that followed Carter's question. "We cannot let mon Colonel die."
"A lot of guys are paying the ultimate price right now," Kinchloe observed. "If we try to save him, it will probably mean giving up the operation."
LeBeau shrugged. "Without mon Colonel there is no operation to give up."
"I think we're overlooking the fact that if the Governor talks, Hochstetter or some other Gestapo goon will torture him and then it's off to a quiet unmarked grave," Newkirk said soberly.
"We could take him to the Underground," Carter said in an excited, happy I have an idea voice.
"We'd risk infecting everyone we meet. They might not want to risk it," Kinchloe said.
"Tiger would," LeBeau replied sharply. Everyone knew of the blond Frenchwoman's strong attraction to Colonel Hogan.
"Her people might not go along with it though," Newkirk observed.
"I heard Klink tell Schultz that Wilson should be back in two days," Carter announced.
"Klink's deadline is tomorrow morning," Kinch reminded them.
"Look, I don't think there's really much more that Wilson can do that. I've already given him the medicine we have. It may just be a question of waiting it out." Newkirk fidgeted; he wanted a cigarette so badly. "But if we can't stall ol' Klink one more day, I say we should go tonight. Hide out somewhere, until the Governor gets better, then go home to England." Newkirk left unsaid any suspicion that Hogan would not get better.
"I don't know what London will say." Kinch said slowly, the burdens of command decision making weighing heavily. How come it usually seemed so easy when Hogan was doing the deciding?
"The hell with London," LeBeau declared vehemently. "Mon Colonel has done enough. And so have we."
Carter looked nervous. "They're not gonna like that."
Newkirk met Kinch's eyes. "At least the Governor would still be alive."
Kinchloe sighed. God, I hope this is the right move. "All right, we'll try it. We'll try and stall Klink for one more day and then move out tomorrow night." He turned to LeBeau and Carter. "You know the drill. Gather what we'll need, destroy everything else. Carter, you wire the tunnels."
The two nodded agreement and left. Kinch continued to worry.
Looking at his expression, Newkirk said, "There's really no choice, mate. Not if we want to save the Colonel."
"I keep thinking about the guys we leave behind here. The Krauts will take it out on them, you can be sure of that."
Newkirk sagged. "I know. Lord, I know. But should we sacrifice Colonel Hogan for them?"
Kinch gave him a sharp look. "I know what he would choose."
"Yeah, I know. But that's why we sometimes have to look after him, innit?"
Kinch managed a smile at that. But it faded when he looked, really looked at the tired man in front of him. "Peter, you look a little flushed. Are you all right?"
Newkirk nodded wearily. "Just tired, mate. And I could murder for a cigarette."
Kinch continued to search the Englishman's face. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Look, the Colonel's givin' off enough heat right now to warm Buckingham Palace. It's a bit toasty, that's all."
"I want you to take a shot of penicillin as well. Just to be sure."
"Oh no, that's for the Governor. And that blighter Snow Cardinal. How is he, by the way?"
Kinchloe looked grim. "I'm afraid he's dead, Newkirk."
The Englishman looked stricken as Kinch left to get the penicillin.
HH HH HH
In the shadows between the barracks in the early morning darkness, a very young RAF corporal waited. As usual, he was terrified; the constant state of his life ever since this blighted war had begun. If Adolf had stayed where he belonged, Corporal Samuel Powers would be in his second year at university, making Mum proud and escaping his domineering father. Patriotic duty was forced on him, as there was no place in England for a healthy young man to be walking around without a uniform on. With no choice, he joined the RAF and his Lancaster was shot down on its first mission. He'd been marooned in this godforsaken Stalag 13 ever since. He had wanted to do his duty, at least enough to placate his father but he never bargained on something as dreary and frightening as a POW camp. Every day was a terror.
Finally, Corporal Schmidt came around the corner, stopped in surprise and pointed his rifle at the RAF corporal. "You, Englander! It is verboten to be out of the barracks! Get back now!"
"Take it easy, Jerry. I'm going to do you a favor. You'll be a big man with the Kommandant when I'm done."
Schmidt, one of the few guards who was fairly proficient in English, looked suspicious. "What is it?"
"One of my mates in Barracks 2 –"
"Newkirk?" Schmidt didn't hide his distrust; he'd fallen victim to Englander's pranks before.
"No, not him. Can't stand the cheeky blighter. That young American, Peterson. Only arrived a couple of weeks ago." The corporal lowered his voice. "He tells me that Yank colonel has influenza."
"Mein Gott!" Schmidt's eyes grew large. "I lost a brother to that after the last war."
"I lost an aunt and cousin. That's why I'm scared and I'm not taking any chances. The Colonel's men are protecting him; they don't want the Kommandant to find out."
Schmidt started to leave but the Corporal grabbed his arm. "Don't tell Schultz, Jerry."
"My name is not Jerry." The German guard said stiffly.
"Mine isn't Englander either, chap, but that's not important now. Sgt. Schultz is too chummy with that Barracks 2 bunch. Tell Mueller."
The corporal started to walk off but loitered long enough to see Schmidt find Mueller, confer and then both head for the Kommandant's quarters.
The young Corporal sighed. He'd only done what was best for the camp. No one, not even a hot shot Yank Colonel, could be allowed to start an epidemic. He told himself he'd done the right thing. Chaps would be thanking him in a few days.
So why did he suddenly feel so guilty? Instead of righteous relief, Powers suddenly felt even more uneasy and alone than before.
HH HH HH
"You should have informed me about Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Kinchloe. I cannot risk exposing the entire camp to influenza for the sake of one man. I know you are not an officer but you should know better than that." Colonel Wilhelm Klink spoke with a mixture of reproach, fear and anger to the sergeant who stood silently at the head of the prisoners who inhabited Barracke 2.
Colonel Robert Hogan lay on a stretcher carried outside by two German orderlies wearing masks. Kinchloe could not tell if Hogan was aware of what was happening or not. He had been unresponsive for most of the previous night. The Colonel's face was almost completely covered by the blanket and he was unmoving.
"Are you listening to me, Sgt. Kinchloe?" Klink continued in his grating voice. "After this, I doubt that I can allow you to take Col. Hogan's place as liaison for the prisoners. I shall have to get another officer in here.
Some of the men called out encouragement as Hogan was loaded into the ambulance. Sergeant Schultz and the other German guards kept the men well back. The rest of the prisoners were confined to their barracks.
Kinchloe stood by silently. He slowly lifted his hand in a salute, quickly followed by LeBeau, Carter and the rest of the men of Barracks 2.
Peter Newkirk came out under guard. He returned the salute and shouted cheekily, "Don't worry, mates, we'll be back." The guards tried to hurry Newkirk along but were hampered by the fact they didn't want to get too close to the infected man. Finally they got Newkirk into the waiting ambulance; shut the doors and the vehicle roared off.
Kinchloe wearily dropped his arm and finally deigned to look at Colonel Klink. "We didn't know for sure if it was influenza, sir. As far as getting some other officer in here, don't. Colonel Hogan will be back."
Klink shook his head, eyes sad. "Sergeant, you must be realistic. Millions died from influenza just after the Great War. It is still a dangerous disease."
Kinch bit his lip; no way could he tell Klink about the penicillin. And maybe it wouldn't be enough anyway. One question remained however. "Why are you so sure its influenza, sir? No doctor has examined the Colonel yet."
Klink gave Kinch a steely look, enhanced by the monocle. "Because there was one man in camp who thought more of public safety than personal loyalty. You knew it was influenza, Sergeant. Your personal loyalty to Colonel Hogan is to be commended but sometimes you must consider the greater good. I know you're not an officer, so it is hard for you to grasp that concept but you must try," Klink finished pompously.
Kinchloe gave Klink a hard look that few people would have credited him with. Red hot anger warred with suspicion as he struggled to control his suddenly raging temper. "I don't suppose the Kommandant would care to tell me who this public spirited person is. I would like to thank him personally."
Klink wagged a finger in Kinch's face. "Sergeant, I'm not going to fall for that. I can see by your face that you still do not grasp the total situation. I am a command trained officer; you must know that you cannot hope to outthink me."
Any reply Kinch might have made was mercifully interrupted by Schultz. "Herr Kommandt, the ambulance has left."
"I can see that, dumkopf. Be sure and keep the men from Barracke 2 from the rest of the camp. We must make certain that the illness has not spread. Sergeant Kinchloe, I will get another officer in here to speak for the prisoners. Dismissed!" With an emphatic stomp in his walk, Klink went off to his office. Fraulein Hilda retreated from the office window, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Klink did pause for a quick glance at the gate where the ambulance had departed and stood silently, before going inside.
Schultz lumbered over to where Kinchloe still stood, a sad look on his perpetually hangdog face. "I am sorry about Colonel Hogan. Och, what trouble he could get into! Always a jolly joker!"
"He's not dead yet, Schultz!" Kinch snapped.
Schultz shook his head. "Perhaps it was not so bad in America. But influenza killed many people here after the Great War. You cannot take chances with it, even for Col. Hogan."
Kinch was tired of hearing it. The fact it might be true grated on his nerves even more. "You're taking a big chance right now, Schultz. I might be infected and just standing here could give it to you."
Schultz threw up his hands in horror. "You must not say such things, Kinchloe! It is bad luck. Now you and the other men must go back inside. I must have roll call for the other barracks."
As Schultz continued to shoo him back to the barracks, Kinch obsessed over who might have given the game away to the Krauts. He shouldn't have frightened Schultz; now he'd get nothing from him except the old 'I know nothing' routine. His expression lightened however when he saw LeBeau approaching. Schultz loved LeBeau or at least his strudel. LeBeau would get answers.
