Focused on his own image in the cracked mirror over the sink, DuBois very carefully guided a straight razor down his jawline, scraping away the last small patch of his week's growth of beard along with the layer of soapy froth that passed for shaving cream. "I do not see what difference it makes, whether or not I am clean-shaven for the rendez-vous."

"It could make a lot of difference on your way there," Hogan advised. "With your arm still in a sling you're likely to attract the wrong kind of attention. If you also look like you haven't had a shave in a week… and I hate to break it to you, but you do… you'll look all that much more suspicious to any patrols that might spot you before you reach the safe-house."

DuBois managed to shrug one shoulder… his left, the one that still worked properly. The shave he'd attempted holding the razor in his right hand, with that arm in its sling, had nearly ended in a second bloody injury worthy of the Croix de Guerre. He was exploring the possibilities of ambidexterity with varying degrees of success… doing all right, but it was slow going. "Whatever you think best, Colonel. I'm eager to return to my comrades."

"And we'll be eager to hear your report," Kinch reminded him. "You know our emergency frequency; let us know right away what you find out about Sascha and Gunther… and Tiger."

Hogan was relieved he hadn't had to say it himself. "We'll have someone monitoring the radio until we hear from you."

"I understand, sir."

Carter stood watch at the barely-open door, with one eye up to the crack so he could keep tabs on what was going on outside. "Schultz is heading this way."

Hogan shook his head when alarm showed on DuBois' face. "Don't panic; just pretend he's not here… that's what he'll do."

Then Carter's jaw dropped. "Holy cow… Klink's with him!"

"Now can we panic?" Newkirk demanded.

Thinking quickly, Hogan grabbed the shaving mug from DuBois' hand and scooped out every bit of what was left in it, smearing a thick layer over the agent's nearly clean-shaven face. Newkirk grabbed a chair, Kinch pressed him to a seated position, and LeBeau deftly snatched the straight razor from his hand and immediately began to re-shave him… and this would be the world's slowest shave, since the froth that disguised the agent's features was the only thing standing between him and a firing squad.

By the time Schultz opened the door for Klink to step inside, mere seconds later, it almost looked as if nobody in the room had anything to hide. Still, Klink surveyed the men with obvious disapproval… even more than usual. "It is customary to come to attention when the Kommandant enters a room, is it not?"

"Is it?" Newkirk mused. "I thought that was when a lady entered… didn't want to insult you."

"I'm sorry, Kommandant," LeBeau said without lifting his gaze, staying intensely focused on scraping the razor down DuBois' neck, the part of him Klink was least likely to recognize as someone who did not belong in the barracks. "But this is the most difficult part."

"That's right," Hogan agreed. "You don't want either of those men making any sudden moves; they could both be up for Purple Hearts. Hey, you can be next if you want; have a seat."

Klink gave him a withering glance. "Thank you, but I have better things to do with my evening than spend it with a prisoner holding a razor to my throat."

Hogan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Any particular reason for your dropping in this evening? I mean, not that you need a reason; we're always happy to see your smiling face, aren't we, fellas?"

"Just a little surprise visit," Klink said in what he intended to be a suave air of superiority, but always tended to come off sounding more pompous and smug than anything else. "One of the many ways we here at Stalag 13 maintain our enviable no-escapes record… I am watching you like a hawk, Hogan, and don't you forget it."

"Oh, we'd never dream of trying to put anything over on you, sir," the American colonel assured him. "And escape? Ridiculous."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"I mean, who'd want to escape now, just a couple days before the glee club's all-request night in the rec hall?"

Kinch, Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk hummed a chord as if pre-programmed to accompany the colonel's meaningless patter. It was three-and-a-half-part harmony at best, since Newkirk was a half-tone flat, and it was annoying enough to cause the Kommandant to take a step towards the door, which was all that mattered. They weren't bucking for a recording contract; they just wanted to win a war.

"A word to the wise, Hogan," Klink reinforced. "I'm watching your every move."

"I'm flattered, sir."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Oh, I won't… I promise."

Schultz opened the door again for Klink to exit, and was right behind him and halfway outside when Hogan stopped him. "Schultz?"

"Yes, Colonel Hogan?"

"Come here a second."

"Why?" the sergeant asked suspiciously.

"Just come here."

Whatever it was, he knew he was in for something… he always was… but Schultz silently resigned himself to that fact as usual and slowly approached Hogan. Hogan raised the sergeant's arms out to his sides and reached into the spacious pockets of his topcoat, extracting a couple of good-sized chocolate bars from the right and a ham sandwich wrapped in thick white paper from the left. "I thought you were supposed to be on a diet."

"I was… all morning."

"Schultz…" Hogan shook his head. "The Russian Front, remember?"

"That's all, I promise." Hogan just looked at him silently for a few seconds, giving him time to change his mind and own up. Slowly, from his inside pockets Schultz pulled out a slightly greasy brown paper bag containing a roasted chicken leg, then a half-loaf of pumpernickel bread and a sizeable wedge of limburger cheese, and handed them over.

Kinch chuckled. "Hey, if we added a coin slot, we'd have our own Automat."

"No snacks," Hogan reminded Schultz as he pointed towards the door. "We're trying to help you, you know. The least you can do is keep it down to six square meals a day."

"But I'm hungry," Schultz insisted with a pitiful whine.

A pile of carrots rested on the table awaiting LeBeau's inspiration as a side dish for the prisoners' dinner; Carter picked up two of the larger ones and stuck one in each of Schultz' side pockets, leaving the green tops waving like tassels. "There you go, big fella."

"Ja…" Schultz grumbled. "Danke… für nichts"

After they finally got him out the door, Hogan handed the ham sandwich to DuBois. "Here you go; a little something for the road. Actually, I think this would hold you all the way back to France if you were going that far."

oo 0 oo

The final step was to get DuBois fitted for civilian clothes that would get him safely through to his contact. Newkirk had already done most of the necessary tailoring; all that was needed was for DuBois to try on the suit, stand on a stool, and hold still for a few last-minute alterations, while Carter put the finishing touches on his forged identity papers. The tunnel was the best place for that; no chance of having any more unexpected company dropping in.

"What do you think, sir?" Newkirk asked Hogan.

Hogan looked unsure. "Pinstripes?"

"Well, he's a tall bloke; he can handle 'em. You'd never put that on a short, fat fellow; he'd look like a watermelon."

Carter handed the fake papers to Hogan for an okay; they looked fine, and Hogan passed them to DuBois to put into his pocket. DuBois scanned the document briefly; one word leaped off the page at him and he reacted with violent indignation. "Vichy? Jamais!"

"With your accent, you want to try to convince a patrol that you're Hitler's brother-in-law? I'm sorry; it's wartime… we all have to make sacrifices."

"But Colonel…" Yet Hogan wasn't budging. Grimacing with distaste, DuBois added the document to his inside pocket. "All right… just this once. I hope no one asks to see them."

Newkirk stepped around to his other side to check that the sleeves on the jacket were absolutely even, and LeBeau bent down to pick something small up off the ground where his feet had been a moment before. "Some tailor you are." He held up a British halfpenny piece. "C'est à toi? You have a hole in your own pocket. You're a disgrace to your thimble."

"Give it here."

LeBeau tossed the coin back to its short-tempered owner. "Remind me never to ask you to make me a suit… I would not want to lose my trousers at an awkward moment."

"Don't listen to 'im," Newkirk advised DuBois, jamming the coin back into his pocket. It reminded him of home, and he kept it with him for luck… he rightly figured he needed all he could get in this dodgy business.

LeBeau wasn't quite finished yet. "Why don't you give him an extra pair of suspenders just in case?" he taunted.

This time Newkirk took a swat at the corporal, who ducked away laughing. "LeBeau, I'm warnin' you…"

Kinch entered from the direction of the radio room. "All set," he reported. "We let Black Sheep know that you're well enough to travel, and he radioed back that he'll have you met at the edge of town tonight at midnight, then escorted to the safe-house in Dusseldorf. He said he'd handle it personally."

"Thank you all, for everything you have done," DuBois said sincerely.

"We're a full-service bed-and-breakfast," Hogan added. "Good luck. Stay safe."

oo 0 oo

It was almost ten o'clock at the elegant Woodlands Park House estate, but the baseline hum of activity never really shut down: it might ebb and flow, but it went on all day and all night, seven days a week. Simon Knatchbull-Quimby climbed the familiar grand staircase in the low light given off by the wall sconces, his footfalls swallowed up completely in the thick tufted carpeting covering the wide oak stairs. The staccato beat of telegraph and teletype machines sounded from behind some of the half-closed doors to the second-floor suites that he passed on his way to the third floor, the small back room under the eaves, where his own radio set awaited.

He pulled the heavy drapes closed before he turned on the desk lamp. Blackout conditions were in effect; it was necessary to ensure that no bombing raids from his own side were able to get a visual fix on the estate and blow the entire Allied transmission base… along with himself… sky high.

One of the aides had thoughtfully brought up a fresh tea tray not too long ago; the pot was still piping hot under its cozy. Simon adjusted his headset, turned on the radio, and as the tubes warmed up he poured his customary cup of Earl Grey in anticipation of his evening's contact. With predictable German punctuality, the voice crackled over the small speaker at exactly the appointed hour.

"Wolf In The Fold, this is Dagger… come in."

Simon vastly preferred that code name to 'Black Sheep'… sometimes he thought if he heard the old 'have you any wool?' jab from his cohorts downstairs one more time, he might go mad. Who did you have to know in the Allied High Command to get a decent code name, anyway? "Dagger, this is Wolf in the Fold… I read you," he answered. "DuBois will leave the Three Bears' House tonight. Intercept on Hammelburg Road, midnight."

"Understood. Dagger out."

Done and dusted. Dagger, a.k.a. the local Gestapo, would meet DuBois at the rendezvous site. Simon had handled DuBois' escape personally and would have him met at the appointed time and place, just as he'd promised Colonel Hogan he would. He sipped his tea thoughtfully.

A fine night's work.