"Why can't we be the ones who spring you?" Carter asked plaintively.

"Because you've got to be tucked up in your bunks like good little POWs when the train blows up tomorrow night," Exasperated, Hogan bit his tongue and began to explain, for what seemed the hundred and eleventh time, why he wanted to be rescued by strangers.

Of course, his men expected to be involved in it. Of course, he vetoed that at once. He wanted nothing to go wrong with the sabotage mission and he wanted nothing to go wrong with his escape. Both possibilities were more than probable with Crittendon nearby.

He had to be sprung near wherever Klink was transferring him; therefore, it had to be done by the resistance fighters in that area. But trying to convince the men of that was like trying to convince Schultz that strudel was a poisonous substance.

"It's much too risky for you guys, " he argued. "Blowing up the Berlin Express will draw more than enough Gestapo attention here. Add my escape to that, and Hochstetter will smell a connection." He turned away from them, rubbing the back of his stiff neck, and fought his strong desire to pace the barracks. "It can't be done here; and it can't be done by you." His voice sounded hoarse and strained. With an effort, he regained his air of command and turned back to them. "I want Klink to see you in barracks, sleeping like innocent children, when the train and the Kessling plant blow, and I want all of you in some goon's sight from the moment I leave here to … well, to the moment it's known I'm gone."

Newkirk squashed out his cigarette butt on the scarred wooden table and glared down at his cold coffee. It wasn't that he did not trust those blokes, but Colonel Hogan was their colonel. They should be responsible for his safety, not some Kraut underground.

He cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, Colonel, but Wee Widdle Wolfie will still tear the camp apart. If the underground's concerned enough to free you, he'll know he was right about you all along."

"Well, he'll be too late to do anything about that, won't he?" Hogan casually slid his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, stifling the urge to ball them into impotent fists. The truth in Newkirk's words hit him a blow to the gut. The moment Hochstetter learned of his escape, the demented little Gestapo sadist would take it out on his men, hard, because they were his men.

Moaning about it would not help them. He had to boost their spirits, make them believe they would survive and win on their own. It was all he could do for them now.

He looked around the ring of anxious faces and smiled his assurance. "He'll suspect me; but he'll never be sure of you. I know you'll take care of that."

"You've always been with us when we have, sir," Carter replied with a quaver in his voice.

"You've always been with me." Hogan gently corrected him. He summoned up all his persuasive skill. "You'll do it, Carter. I know you'll do it. With or without me, you'll come though okay."

Carter looked doubtful, but Newkirk managed to smile back. "Right, guv'." Then he added, softly, "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," Hogan replied, just as softly. Then in slightly louder, bracing tones: "Don't look so glum, fellas. It will work out fine."

LeBeau could not help but snort. "With Crittendon?"

"I'll get you a decent commanding officer, if I have to kidnap one. Just hold together till he comes."

"And how long will that take?" LeBeau grumbled, but low. He did not want le colonél to be annoyed; but he wanted him to know he was not satisfied.

"Company's coming!" Olsen shut the outer door and moved hastily to his bunk.

Hogan straightened. "This is it, fellas." He gave each man a quick, meaningful glance, trying to convey his trust in them, and his gratitude to them, one last time. He felt his heart stab him again. They were the best, and they would suffer for his sake. How could he leave them to Crittendon? How could he leave them at all?

The door flew open. Klink strutted inside, an armed guard at either shoulder.

Hogan motioned the men to attention. He glanced at Crittendon, almost hidden by Schultz's titanic tonnage. Crittendon's eyes slid away from him and fixed to the back of Klink's head. Hogan saw him nervously nibble on his moustache.

"Oh, oh. How'd you foul up this time?" He repressed an exasperated sigh and turned to goad the Kommandant. Klink's smile irritated him. He'd rather have a sour Klink than a sunny Klink around him any day. "Steady, boy. You won't have to look at his puss much longer."

"Have a nice brisk stroll around the compound, sir? Your cheeks look less pasty than usual."

Klink swaggered up so close that his monocle nearly touched the American's nose. His smile turned acidly sweet. "So you thought you could cut short your stay at my little resort hotel, just because I gave Colonel Crittendon your private room and you now have to bunk with the men. Uh. Uh. We can't have that," Klink wagged a finger so close to Hogan's face that he was sorely tempted to bite it. "No, No. We can't have our guests dissatisfied, can we, Schultz?"

Schultz, jolted out of his doze by the alarming thought that the Kommandant had asked for his opinion, began to stammer.

Klink did not wait for his reply. "My dear Colonel Hogan," he cooed. "If you insist on your privacy, I have just the accommodations you'll enjoy. Nothing to do all day. Meals delivered to your door. A location so exclusive that you won't see another prisoner for at least thirty days. And the security…" He kissed his fingertips. "Not even your president is so well guarded."

Klink chortled as he saw Hogan's jaw clench and his cheeks flush. He made slicing motions close to Hogan's face. "Chop, chop, chop."

Hogan refused to flinch. "What about the view?" he asked coolly. "I was hoping for a change of scenery – say, the Manhattan skyline?" He shrugged, as Klink appeared taken aback. "I'm not fussy. Berlin blazing through my window would suit me just as well."

The Kommandant recovered his poise. "Oh, I'm afraid the accommodations do not include windows, although there is a charming watermark on the north wall that seems to fascinate our long term guests."

"I've seen it. Hardly rates a star in the Michelin guide. What about entertainment?" Hogan smiled wolfishly. "Dorothy Lamour in her sarong…or out of her sarong…hmm? I would not complain if it was at the cleaners. I've got my love to keep her warm."

"You are the one who is going to the cleaners, Hogan my friend, or rather, to the cooler." Klink lilted. He motioned the guards to step forward. "Escort Colonel Hogan to his cell. Make sure he has the full V.I.P. treatment: bread, water, his own personal lice."

"That's not V.I.P. treatment!" Carter spluttered before Kinch's hand muffled his mouth.

Klink's toothy smile broadened. "Oh, but it is, Carter. It's what Stalag Thirteen gives to all Very Impertinent Prisoners. I'd offer it to you too, but Colonel Hogan is an officer, so he gets priority treatment. He wishes to be alone and undisturbed for the next thirty days. I'm sure you respect his wishes, don't you?"

Carter felt fifteen pairs of eyes – Hogan's, his barrack mates' and Schultz's – glare him into silence. The guards looked woodenly at the Kommandant. Crittendon seemed to be contemplating a new colour scheme for the walls and a re-arrangement of the bunks. No help from him. Abashed, Carter shrank back against Kinch. He scarcely felt his friend's firm hand move from his mouth to squeeze his shoulder. All he felt was miserable.

Klink, still smirking, extended his hand to the door. "Shall we go, Hogan?"

"Just a minute. I haven't finished my lecture to Newkirk." Hogan looked hard at the Englishman. "Now, listen, Corporal. I've had it with your sloppy appearance. Remember the keys to good health: cleanliness, orderliness and sobriety."

Newkirk bobbed his head under the rebuke. "Right, sir. I'll remember."

"No, I don't think you will," Hogan said in his severest tones. "You're always coming to meals with unwashed hands. And look at your hair! Mussed and greasy. It's a bird's nest."

He turned to Klink, who was pursing his lips and tut-tuting. "Kommandant, I can't let Colonel Crittendon be embarrassed by one of his own. Allow Corporal Newkirk to walk me to my cell, so that I can make him look somewhat presentable." Nodding toward Carter, Hogan whispered in Klink's ear, "I can't scold him about some of his bad habits in front of the others."

Klink attempted to look wise. "Oh, very well, Hogan; but you should have instructed your men in personal hygiene long ago."

Hogan hung his head. "I'm aware of that, sir; and I am heartily ashamed of it. But let me rectify my error with Newkirk. It isn't right for Colonel Crittendon to reprove him on his first day in command."

Klink lapped it up. He never had felt such joy since he was made Kommandant of the Year. "Certainly. Certainly. Certainly." He turned away, waving his crop distractedly to stop Hogan's flow of obsequious thanks.

Hogan winked at Kinch. "How's that for playing 'Steppin Fetchit'?"

Kinch cocked an eyebrow. "Not bad for a white boy, Colonel, but you need more practice eating humble pie."

The colonel gave the sergeant a mock frown, but his eyes twinkled. "Just see to things and give Doktor Pacifist my love." Grasping Newkirk's sleeve, Hogan motioned his guards to follow and sailed out, head high, in Klink's wake.

Crittendon, ever the conscientious senior officer, hastened after them. After all, Hogan needed his help to devise 'Plan B'.

Carter turned to Kinch and LeBeau the moment the door closed. "Newkirk always washes his hands before he eats."

LeBeau shrugged. "How can you tell? He is always eating."

Olsen swung a leg over Hogan's stool and plopped down on it. "Well, all the Colonel got was the cooler, not a transfer out." He looked up at Kinch. "What do we do now?"

Kinch ignored him, turning to Carter. "The Colonel wanted Newkirk along so he can steal the key to his cell from Schultz."

Carter thought it through. "I suppose that does make sense."

"Glad you agree." Kinch replied drily. He beckoned the men to close around him. "Now, we don't know what the Colonel will do with that key; but let's be prepared for when. Meanwhile, we've a train to catch." He looked up at Carter. "Got your stuff ready?"

The tech sergeant nodded. "Real beauties! They'll blow up the train so high that … well, they'll blow it up real high."

"Good. We'll go out right after curfew. LeBeau, finish baking that chocolate cake. We'll need to tempt Schultz with a very delicious bribe."

Both men looked puzzled. "Why?" Carter ventured.

"You weren't listening too well when the Colonel outlined this earlier, were you?" Kinch said with forced patience. "Well, listen now. We've got to keep Crittendon away from what we're doing tonight. The Berlin Express carrying all that ammunition and passing by the refinery is a 'once in a blue moon opportunity' to kill two birds with one blast. We can't let him foul it up."

He looked around the ring of intent faces. "Crittendon's a stickler for correct protocol, right?"

The men nodded as one.

"Group Captain Donovan's next ranking officer, right?"

They nodded again.

"Donovan's got to meet Crittendon, but he's laid up in his quarters with a broken leg, right?" He paused. "If the mountain can't come to Mohammed…"

Olsen chortled. "Mohammed must go to Barracks Eleven."

Kinch nodded. "And if the group-captain has the makings of a nightcap, Mohammed will stay there awhile."

One of the prisoners spoke up. "But Crittendon looks like a 'scotch and soda' man. Donovan's Guinness and Irish whisky."

"Big Michael can drink any man under the table with any liquid except gasoline," Olsen replied, laughing. "And I wouldn't be too surprised if Irish poteen isn't stronger than gas."

"We have every drink he'll need in our cellars," said LeBeau. He raised his hands at the howls of protest. "It is le Colonél Hogan's private stock, not for the likes of you."

"Maybe we ought to taste them first," Olsen teased. "Make sure they haven't turned sour."

LeBeau drew himself haughtily erect at this insult to his stewardship. "What do you know about fine wines - you who guzzle Coca-Cola like a pig?"

"Hey!" Carter jumped to his feet. "The Colonel likes Coke too!"

LeBeau snorted. "Pah! Mon Colonél has the palate of a Frenchman. He would not permit himself to sip such a revolting beverage."

"Then he's a Pepsi-Cola guy," Olsen snickered.

Kinch raised his hands to quell the incipient quarrel. "Let's stick to the point. We've got what it takes to keep Crittendon from messing up the mission, and the colonel will want us to use it. Since you're the self proclaimed wine expert, Olsen, you can help Carter and me carry a nice selection to Donovan while LeBeau bakes his cake." He gave the scowling men his 'command' look. "And no tasting on the way. The stuff goes down Crittendon's throat, not yours."

Olsen crossed his arms and threw the staff sergeant his hardest glare.

"Maybe the group-captain will let you have what's left over," Carter said, anxious to keep things calm.

"He'll need it for the next night, and the next, and the next," Olsen groused. "If we're going to survive until Colonel Hogan gets us a decent C.O., Crittendon's got to be kept dead drunk all the time."

"Yeah." Kinch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose that's what he's got to be."

"So that's what we've got to use to do it," he said to Carter later, in the latter's laboratory.

Carter nodded vigorously, unlocking his box of dangerous drugs. He poked through the contents, then handed the black sergeant a small bottle. "It's a good thing we got this via airdrop from London. I don't think Doktor Falke keeps chloral hydrate."

Kinch had to smile. "I don't think she'd give us a sample if she did."

Carter looked apprehensive. "It doesn't seem right, knocking out an officer on our side."

Kinch eyed the contents of the bottle. "I'd prefer it if he passed out on the group-captain's whisky; but a little insurance doesn't hurt." He sighed wistfully. "We can't use this all the time, or we might kill him."

"No. I guess we can't," Carter agreed. "I wish we could send Colonel Crittendon home, and keep Colonel Hogan." He eagerly grabbed Kinch's arm. "What if we drugged Colonel Crittendon, and, when he's asleep, we put him in Colonel Hogan's uniform, and shave off his moustache, and put him in the trunk of Klink's car and take him to the sub? Everyone there will think he was Colonel Hogan, and they'll take him back to England."

"And when he comes to and tells them he isn't?"

"It'll be too late then." Carter waited expectantly, watching his comrade bite his lower lip. "Well? Don't you think it'll work?"

Kinch bent his dark eyes on the excited young man. "How do we explain Crittendon's no show to Klink? Or Colonel Hogan wearing Crittendon's uniform? Besides, do you see our colonel willingly giving up his leather jacket, even for the cause?"

Carter's face fell. "No. I don't."

"Good try, though." Kinch wrapped a consoling arm around Carter's hunched shoulders. "At least you thought of something. That's more than I've done."

"There must be a way to keep him with us." Carter implored.

Kinch looked away, and sighed. His arm slipped from Carter's shoulders. "I know. I know. I keep telling myself it's for the best, but I don't believe it." His lips twisted into a half-smile. "Maybe your plan's worth another think through. It would get us court-martialed and shot, but it would rid us of Crittendon and keep the Colonel with us a little longer."

He watched Carter lock up his cabinet, then handed back the bottle. "Run this up to the group-captain now, while Newkirk's still got his eye on Crittendon. I've got to watch the switchboard. With any luck, Colonel Hogan's key stunt should panic Klink into arranging his transfer. We have to know what lucky Stalag gets him, so we can arrange he doesn't get there."

At Evening Roll-Call:

Crittendon ran his eye over the motley crew of POW's. They did not look in fine fettle. No, not in good shape at all. Hogan was too lax with them.

He inhaled the crisp air deeply, puffing out his chest. Callisthenics in the open air. Just what's needed to perk up their spirits and show Jerry the British are still a force to be reckoned with. Maybe the French and the Yanks are too – not like us of course, poor souls – but who would believe it from the little French frog's hang dog monkey face. What was his name? LeBeau? Funny sort of name for him – 'the Handsome'. Doesn't suit him at all.

And the Negro bruiser – Kinchloe. Never heard such a name as that. Don't know what Hogan saw in him. Doesn't look smart enough to be in charge of himself, let alone a vital operation. I'm sure Newkirk must have saved the day countless times – mongrel type that he is, he is English. I confess I'm rather disappointed in him though. Jolly brave of him to stand up to me for his friend but if he was one of the better sort, he would have better friends.

Salt of the earth though, those 'Tommies'. We don't need to have our officers shot when we can send in men like Newkirk.

Crittendon regarded the last man of Hogan's crew beneath his frowning brows. Young Carter. Good man. Loyal. Enthusiastic, especially about explosives. A nit-wit, though. Imagining secret papers tasted better cooked. Looked mulish over my demoting his friend Kinchloe; but after all, they are both American. With a harrumph, Crittendon straightened his posture to ramrod stiffness as Schultz jabbed his forefinger at him and muttered 'Eins'. But he should not rebuke an officer, even by looks. I'll let that insubordinate behaviour go this time, but Hogan's been too soft on him. Too soft on the lot of them.

LeBeau noted Crittendon's sour expression. I am certain the imbecile does not even appreciate French cuisine, let alone French valour, LeBeau muttered sotto voce.

Schultz blinked, thrown off his count. "Did you say something, Cockroach?"

"Just translating your counting into a civilized language, Schultzie."

Schultz blinked again, at the bitter edge in LeBeau's voice. "Oh. Why?"

"Because I do not like 'Eins. Zwei. Drei.' I am not a 'Zwei'. I am a 'Deux'."

"No, you're not!" Newkirk poked his ribs. "You're a 'One and a 'Aff'!" He turned to the men in the row behind. "Ain't he, mates?"

A chorus of laughter and insults followed: some directed at Newkirk, some at LeBeau, some at Schultz. Even the dour Simms cracked a smile. It died into a hard frown as he looked across Carter to Kinch. His friend was not participating in the chaffing but was staring across the compound, arms crossed over his chest, gnawing at his lower lip.

Carter caught Simms' change of expression and anxiously turned to his right. Schultz's muttered 'Jolly joker' seemed to have struck a chord in Kinch, for the black sergeant turned briefly to the commotion with something like agreement in his eyes before resuming his brood. Carter turned back to Simms, his own expression deeply troubled. They could read their friend's mind from his face. How am I to mind the store without Crittendon catching on? How am I to keep these ' jokers' alive and the operation running?

The two men exchanged anxious glances. They both knew that Newkirk was just letting off his steam by baiting LeBeau and Schultz. LeBeau knew it too. If he had been truly insulted, he would have lunged for Newkirk's throat, not shouted back at him. They knew that Kinch knew Newkirk was 'just being Newkirk'. In other circumstances, when Colonel Hogan allowed the horseplay, he would join in heartily. Why not now? They had their ups and downs, but, aside from themselves and LeBeau, and Donovan, and of course, Colonel Hogan, Kinch trusted no man more than he did Newkirk. He'd back up Newkirk in whatever it was Newkirk was attempting; but he wasn't doing it now. Being demoted had really done a number on Kinch.

Simms saw Carter's face working with the effort of seeking a word of comfort for their friend. He nudged him and sadly shook his head. "Don't offer it now. Wait till he can bear it."

Schultz, unable to stem the increasing noise, turned beseeching eyes to Kinch. Newkirk paused, his face half-turned, expectant. Then he shouted all the louder, laughed all the harder, encouraging those around him to do likewise.

Carter realized what Newkirk was trying to do. If Crittendon saw Schultz, the sergeant of the goons, appeal to Kinch to control the men, then he'll see even the enemy respects Kinch, so he should too. And Newkirk will stop clowning on Kinch's first word. So will the other guys. Surely then it would get through Crittendon's skull that Kinch, not Newkirk, was the guy who should be in charge of managing the operation.

Kinch gave Newkirk a measuring glance. His mouth rose at the corners as he gave Newkirk a infinitesimally small shake of the head, then nodded slightly toward Crittendon. "Thanks, old buddy; but it's not my place anymore."

"Oh, isn't it though? Newkirk rolled his eyes at him. "Fine. If you won't step in, I'm certainly not going to stop what I've started."

Seeing Klink appear at the doorway of his office, the Briton started making cawing noises. "'Ello. 'Ello. 'Ello. Wot got loose from its cage at the zoo? I do believe it's the famous Hairless Three Eyed Whooping Goose of Hammelburg!"

The laughter was so loud that the guards in the towers flanking the main gate swivelled their machine guns toward them.

Kinch gripped Carter's wrist as a warning to remain silent, but he made no move to silence the other men. If Newkirk still wanted to play the clown, Newkirk knew what he'd get. Maybe he thinks if he's thrown in the cooler, Crittendon would be forced to put up with me. But Carter can't go with him. Not when we need him for the job tonight.

Klink's pale face flushed darkly. "Silence in ranks!" he shouted.

The men ignored him. He strutted over to Crittendon, who was standing at stiff attention. "Why don't you control your men, sir?"

Crittendon saluted and permitted himself a smile. "Far be it for me to discourage their distain for the enemy, Kommandant Klink."

The men exchanged incredulous glances. Then they broke out in cheers that drowned out the guards' repeated 'Achtung!'

Klink's mouth gaped open, unable to believe his pet prisoner had insulted him to his face. He swallowed several times, spluttered out a 'Disss-missed', then scuttled back to his quarters.

Kinch chuckled low. "You know, Andrew? I might learn to like Crittendon after all."