The usual mail-call melee had been slightly less horrible than it might have been, Schultz thought. He had been knocked about, bumped and jostled, and the strap of the mailbag had chafed his ear rather sharply when someone had tried to snatch the bag from his shoulder, but nothing seemed to be visibly bruised, and nothing was broken. With a sigh, Schultz left the barracks. He had nothing against the prisoners—they were only enemies for political reasons, and he made it a point to ignore politics as much as he could—and, for the most part, they were all very nice boys.

Except for mail call, at which point they turned into a horde of raving berserkers. The possibility of dying in combat, however honorable and glorious those who had never seen a battlefield seemed to think it was, pleased him not at all; the prospect of being ripped limb from limb over a handful of letters exponentially less so. Next time, he thought hopefully, perhaps he could open the door, throw in the mailbag, and run away while they were fighting over it. Surely the Big Shot would understand, and would rather lose a canvas bag than a Sergeant of the Guard, right?

…No, no he wouldn't. Sighing again, he trudged back to his post.

Back in the barracks, Hogan tore open his letter, releasing a cloud of perfume that was practically visible, and skimmed the first few lines.

Dear Rob,

I have to begin this letter with a warning, darling; I'm awfully tired tonight, and might not be as chatty as usual. But then, there isn't really much I can say that you haven't already heard a thousand times, is there? All my thoughts are like broken records, spinning in the same channels, over and over, and no matter what else I do, I can think of nothing but you.

Oh, Rob, how I wish you were here with me tonight— every night. How I long for you; your arms, your eyes, your kisses…

Olsen whistled. "Wow, Colonel, I sure wish I could get some mail like that!"

The others laughed. "Weren't you taking those correspondence courses on radio repair?" Mills asked. "Ask your tutor to spray some toilet water on your transistor diagrams, why don't you?"

"Nah. That would be if he taking a correspondence course in plumbing," Kinch wisecracked.

"I wish he was," Carter said. "The faucets on the sink are getting all hinky again."

"No surprises there," Newkirk said. "Considering that we've probably got the only 'ot and cold running periscope in Europe."

"Pfft. That piece of junk never ran hot, even before we turned it into a periscope," LeBeau grumbled.

Newkirk winked at him. "If you aim it just right, mate, you can see Fraulein Hilda. That's 'ot enough for me." As the men considered that little nugget of information, Newkirk opened his mail, and raised an eyebrow. "Allo, allo, allo, what 'ave we 'ere? Seems that dear old mum's written me a letter. Wasn't that nice of 'er?"

Carter looked puzzled. "Gosh, my mom writes me all the time."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid my mum's not much of a correspondent. But, then, seeing as 'ow she's been dead since I was ten, I don't like to think what the postage must have come to." Newkirk laughed, and held up a sheet of paper with so many holes in it that it looked like a doily. "Not much left of it, is there? The angels are rougher censors than the Krauts. 'Ere you go, Colonel."

Hogan laughed too, and took it. London had assigned each of them a few fictitious correspondents as a method of sneaking information past the censors. "Well, God can't be too careful. Remember, the last written message He delivered was on a stone tablet, and the mailman went and smashed it." He picked up his letter again, enjoying the perfume. He wished the girlfriend who had allegedly written it actually existed—whoever they had drafting these dummy messages had a real way with words, not to mention lovely handwriting and excellent taste in fragrances.

Tabling that thought for the time being, he placed the missive from Mrs. Newkirk on top of it, lining up the corners precisely. He then read through the holes. "Warning. Usual channels compromised. Radio silence. No moves until further notice." He clenched his jaw, folded up the letters, and stuffed them in a pocket.

"...Cor," Newkirk said after a moment. "If that's the kind of news she's going to go and write about, I'm glad she doesn't often take the trouble."

"What are we going to do, Colonel?" Carter said.

"Only thing we can do. Wait for further instructions, and be good little prisoners until we get them. With any luck, Mrs. Newkirk will start to get very chatty over the next couple of weeks." He forced himself to grin, as if nothing was wrong, as if any of his men would be fooled by false joviality. "Oh, and one other thing. She hopes you're wearing your long underwear and brushing your teeth regularly," Hogan said, and went into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The rest of his core team traded a complicated glance, then followed him.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: We do see them using the barracks sink, as a sink, in several episodes, so it really was functional. Don't ask me how that was possible, because I would have imagined that the water pressure would wreak utter havoc with the mirrors they must have installed in the pipes in order to use it as a periscope!

As for Mrs. Newkirk, he mentions her a couple of times, usually when he's spinning nonsense in order to distract someone. As probably goes without saying, none of the stories match, so sometimes she's dead and sometimes she isn't. The idea that she died when he was quite young is my own.