Stealthily, the five black-clad men crept back towards the light of Papa Bear's radio-room. Hasso, the strong miller, carried their limp prisoner as if he were a bag of flour. They had wrapped the guy from head to toe in Oskar's black cloak, in order to make him as inconspicuous as possible in the dark of night.

As they approached the radio-room, Udo motioned the others to a halt, and went to check out the situation himself. It would make things so much easier if that radio guy was still asleep...

And fortunately, he was. One by one he gestured for his comrades to go past. They continued down the only lit passage towards the exit through the treestump. Somehow, by hook or by crook, they managed to haul their limp prisoner up the ladder without the camp guards outside noticing, and once they had all gathered behind the nearby bush where they had kept out of sight earlier that evening, they quietly set off through the night, disappearing in the black shadows of the woods around Stalag 13.

Sergeant Baker jerked upright at the insistent beeping in his headphones. Instantly awake, he reached for the morse key and glanced at his watch as he tapped the go-ahead sign. It was barely six o'clock – nearly time for roll call. But first he grabbed a pencil to jot down the incoming message.

"Stand by," he replied when the beeping ceased.

He scribbled down the decodation of the message, and scratched the back of his head with his pencil. Better let Colonel Hogan take a look at this before proceeding here, he thought.

So he opened up the trapdoor, jolted LeBeau awake who slept in the bunk above it, and made his way to the Colonel's office under a stream of muttered French curses.

A knock, a grunt, and in he went to the barely awake Colonel. "I just received this message from Little Red Ridinghood, sir." He handed him the note. "Do you think it merits an emergency evacuation by sub?"

Bleary-eyed, Hogan stared at the blue paper in his hand. Top priority. Have super VIP prisoner on our hands. Please arrange pick-up by sub with all possible speed. Little Red Ridinghood.

Hogan blinked a few times and stifled a yawn. "Well, it sure sounds urgent. I wonder who they've got? But knowing Ridinghood, this is more than the local constable. A lot more. So sure, go ahead and get them that emergency pick-up."

"Right, sir." And Baker turned to go.

Hogan rubbed the last remains of sleep out of his eyes. "That devil of a Danzig," he muttered to himself. "Who did he get his hands on this time? A super VIP prisoner? Must be a real big shot..."

Half an hour later, young Franz dropped his civilian coat on an old chair, pulled the black balaclava over his head and descended into the damp cellar of the dilapidated farm in the half overgrown clearing in the woods. Two slow taps on the door and he heard the key being placed in the lock and being turned.

Udo's eyes peered out from the narrow opening of a similar balaclava. Seeing who their visitor was, he nodded to his fellow guards inside, and stepped out in the stairwell. "And?"

"All arranged. There'll be a fishing-boat waiting for us in Altheim tonight, and we have the coordinates for the rendezvous with the sub."

Udo nodded. "Good. We better get going then. This is one boat I don't want to miss!"

The two men entered the dim cellar again, and Udo gave the two other black-clad men the thumbs-up sign.

And Franz peered at their prisoner on the cot. Blindfolded, gagged, tied and unconscious, he sure was a sorry sight. To imagine that such a miserable little creature was the cause of so much suffering and death – it was unfathomable.

One by one now, the four men went upstairs and returned dressed in full Gestapo regalia. Udo was the last to go and change. And when he returned, Karsten gave their prisoner an extra dose of chloroform for good measure, put the cloth in his pocket, and Hasso the miller lifted the miserable little creature over his shoulder. His hat fell off in the process, but Franz picked it up and followed the others up top and through the inner door into the shed where the car was parked.

Unceremoniously, the limp body was dumped on the floor of the car between the front and the back seats, and covered with a dark blanket. The house was locked, and the four men climbed into the car – Hasso in the driver's seat.

And as he started the motor, Franz whispered to Udo next to him, "Not many people can say they've had the Führer under their feet. But oh, how I'm tempted to crush him..."

Meanwhile in Klink's private quarters, the new pseudo Hitler had gotten dressed in the old one's uniform, and discovered – as he had expected following his encounter with the man the day before – it fitted him well enough to pass inspection. He quickly touched up his practically indistinguishable make-up, and applied a new layer of pomade to his dyed, naturally somewhat wavy hair.

And it was Hitler himself who looked back at him from the mirror.

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts were with his comrades. If everything had gone as planned, they might already be on their way to the coast by now. He had sufficient faith in Maryse's persuasive powers and Colonel Hogan's contacts and quick understanding to entertain well-founded hopes that the bloody Führer would be out of the country by midnight tonight.

He allowed himself a little sigh. For that still didn't mean that he himself could go home by midnight. To avoid casting suspicion on Stalag 13, and consequently on Papa Bear's operation, he'd have to wait till that stupid key would arrive, head south to Berchtesgaden as planned with his three adjutants, and then he could only pray for a moment of general lack of attention on their part to give them the slip. Only then would the Führer disappear for real.

And then he'd have to find a way to change his outfit as soon and as inconspicuous as may be, and head back to Hamelburg to resume his duties as Corporal Langenscheidt a.s.a.p. After all, he couldn't suffer from the effects of an asthma attack for more than a few days. A week at most, but that already would stretch credulity a fair bit.

He closed his eyes for a moment. A week at most. Then he'd be able to take Maryse in his arms again and reassure her that he was still in one piece.

Or else he would be dead. If he were lucky, that is...

A knock on the door, so loud as to split its wood, started him out of this dooming gloomy reverie. And the instant transformation that came over the man was almost eerie. "Ja?"

"Ihr Frühstück, mein Führer."

"Herein."

And in came Schultz, with a trolley full of breakfast aromas.

He saluted and dutifully clicked his heels together. "Guten Morgen, mein Führer. Haben Sie gut geschlafen?"

Hitler instantly boiled over. "Sie blöder Idiot! Why is everyone here so concerned about my sleeping? If you would be equally concerned about the war, we wouldn't be losing on all fronts! You especially, Sergeant – you're a disgrace to the German uniform! Now get out of here and don't let me see you again!"

A trembling Schultz brought out a shaky, "Jawohl, mein Führer," and clearly couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

And the Führer glared at the slammed shut door, and strode over to the breakfast trolley. He lifted up some of the lids. "Eggs and toast. Again? Paah!"

When Schwarz and Addison left Klink's quarters after their breakfast with the fake Führer to resume their guard posts on the porch and in the office respectively, they glanced at each other and shared a silent burst of laughter.

"He's really into it this morning, isn't he?" Schwarz said quietly. "The way he kept alternating between joviality and arrogance, and being pleasant and insufferable, and then those rants out of the blue...!"

Addison grimaced. "I really felt I could sink through the floor when he bawled me out like that. And that from our happy-go-lucky Carter!"

Schwarz snickered. "Yeah, he really had it in for you there. But I suppose he's right." He switched to German. "After all, you never know who might be overhearing us. We'd better keep up the act and stick to German all the time."

Addison agreed – in German. "Interesting though. Did you notice that because he only spoke German this morning, automatically none of us used any English either?" He grinned. "By the way, did you notice that he didn't even touch the ham and the sausages? That certainly was a first."

Schwarz had another chuckle. "If this keeps up much longer, we're going to have trouble convincing the guy that his name is Andrew J. Carter..."

Our new pseudo Führer in the meantime was raiding Klink's bookshelf in order to find something to pass the time. He could of course call in one of his adjutants for company, but unsure of their relation to the Führer, and still in the dark about his lieutenant's name, it was a safer bet to pass the hours in solitude.

He finally settled for a book with crossword puzzles. Klink had started on nearly all of them, but not finished a single one. That should keep him occupied for a while.

So he sat himself down at the table with the crosswords and a pencil, and began to complete the puzzles. He did take care to disguise his handwriting though – even if it were only capitals. After all, it wouldn't do if anyone accidentally discovered that Corporal Langenscheidt had been filling out the Kommandant's crossword puzzles...

Midday roll call for barracks 2 went pretty much as it had gone since Hitler had arrived in camp.

Two of the escapees from the tunnel had been posing as Carter and Addison around the clock since the happy charade began, as had Captain McCall for Schwarz and another escapee for Kruse. Wearing their namesakes' uniform, living in their barracks, sleeping in their bunks, and a general order to lay low and not attract unnecessary attention had fooled the guards so far.

Or... fooled?

As the men settled down in formation, Schultz pulled out his pencil and clipboard and started calling out the names of the inmates of barracks 2. "Addison."

"Here."

Schultz closed his eyes, determined not to see that this man was not Addison at all. So he simply continued, "Baker."

"Here."

"Beauchamp."

"Here."

"Carter."

"Here."

Schultz peeked at the respondent – and literally turned a blind eye. "Davis."

"Here."

"Garth."

"Here."

"Hammond."

"Here."

"Harper."

"Here."

"Colonel Hogan."

"Here, Schultz."

Schultz gave him a look that wavered between pleading and upbraiding, and sidled up to him. "Colonel Hogan, when are Carter and Addison coming back? The real Carter and Addison?"

"They'll be back any day now."

Schultz closed his eyes in horror. "Any day now? That is not good enough, Colonel Hogan! They should be here now! Today! Please, Colonel Hogan?"

"Don't worry, Schultz. They'll be back. Soon."

"But Colonel Hogan, who are these two men that say they are Carter and Addison?"

Hogan turned to look at the two men Schultz meant. "Those two? Oh, they just dropped in here out of thin air and are waiting for their flight back home."

Once more, Schultz closed his eyes. "Colonel Hogan, you know that I should report this. It is verboten for the prisoners to pretend to be anyone but themselves, and..."

"Right," Hogan cut in. "So you go tell Klink that there are two strangers in camp, impersonating Carter and Addison. What will be the first question the Kommandant will ask?"

"Um... maybe: where are Carter and Addison?"

"Right. And when it comes out that the real Carter and Addison are missing, you will be on the next train to the Russian front. Is that what you want?"

Schultz shivered with anticipatory cold. "No. Not the Russian front. Please, Colonel Hogan...!"

Hogan smirked. "That's what I thought. So just rejoice in the simple fact that you got your fifteen men and be done with it. And Schultz..." He leaned over to the big guard with an air of confidentiality. "If it's any consolation, Corporal Neuhaus of barracks 12 and Sergeant Werther of barracks 17 have impersonating prisoners as well. Have they reported it at all?"

Schultz closed his eyes, just for a change. "Colonel Hogan, I want to know nothing. Nothing!"