March 14, 1943, Early Evening, Stalag 13, Germany

The last full day came upon them very quickly, passing by in a furious blur. Well, except for Carter; he sat in solitary confinement and counted the cracks in the walls. The others weren't highly sympathetic. It was his fault anyway. Hogan had spent the entire morning acting as the local pincushion, while being fitted for a Wehrmacht major's uniform, complete with staff markings. Newkirk did the sewing, or tailoring, as he preferred to call it. Both Lebeau and Kinch had stood back and watched. Their job, to smuggle Carter's chemicals to him in his cell, would come later this evening. Olsen was in Hammelburg, shadowing the field marshal, keeping an eye on his activities.

As for Rommel, he had spent most of the second day on social and business calls to several individuals in the area. The Lord Mayor of Hammelburg had insisted on his dropping by; the pudgy, novel-reading wife was absolutely thrilled. It wasn't every day she got to meet a real soldier, and she never let a minute go by without some such comment. He was reminded of an American saying-"Grin and bear it." Lang and Daniel hung always in the background. The German was just finishing a satisfactory evening with his family and Strolin, when several miles away the excited heroes went to work…

"Hey, Lebeau, what if Schultz doesn't let us in with all this junk?" Kinch was almost having to juggle all the pots, pans, and coils in his arms as they staggered across the compound. Correction, he staggered; Lebeau carried only a few bottles of liquid and a large steak wrapped in brown paper. He claimed the easier load since it was all his idea.

"Don't worry so much, Schultz will think he has no choice," Lebeau waved the champagne bottle. "His stomach never fails to get us through." His taller companion snickered and opened the cooler door.

Predictably, the heavy German superimposed himself over the entrance, his small eyes bright with suspicion. "What goes on here? What what what?" His gaze focused on the food in their arms. "No visitors in the cooler, Kommandant's orders."

"We're not visitors, Schultzie," Lebeau kept waving the bottle. "We're prisoners."

"Oh, well, he he, that's different-" he started to step aside, stopped again. "Wait a minute… what are you trying to do?

Kinch sighed and tried to explain. "Look, big guy, we're trying to cheer Carter up with a little cooking show. That can't hurt, can it?" He nudged the paper-wrapped steak in Lebeau's hands.

"Jolly jokers," Schultz grunted. "I said, no visitors, unless-" he reached and grabbed the champagne bottle. "-unless they share."

Lebeau gasped in exaggerated horror. "No Schultz! Don't drink that!" His warning came too late, for the guard had tilted the end up and emptied its contents before he could get the words out. Schultz handed the dry container back to the Frenchman and licked his lips.

"No alcohol in the cooler. I saved you a lot of trouble, cockroach," he said. "But after night before last I don't know why I did. Besides, that was the worst tasting wine I've ever had. You foreigners have no tastes." He soon noticed their stricken expressions, felt his own cheerfulness dropping. "What's wrong? Why are you staring like that?"

"That wasn't champagne," the American's voice was a mournful whisper. "That was nitro glycerin, explosives."

He had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, felt very light on his feet. "I drank explosives?"

"Yep, afraid so. One bump and 4th of July comes early this year," Kinch shook his head, but he was laughing inside.

"Oh no," Schultz whimpered. "Why are you carrying explosives in a wine bottle? WHY are you carrying explosives!" His face was beginning to flush a deep shade of red.

"We didn't have any more beakers," Lebeau glared accusingly. "I wanted to make him a steak flambé, but noooo…"

Schultz was about to faint. "You've got to help me." They both stared at him.

"I know," Kinch exclaimed suddenly, making the guard jump. The German plugged his ears and waited for the explosion. "Maybe Carter can help. He used to be a chemist before the war. Maybe he can fix an anecdote for you." It was a single ray of hope in the thundercloud over Schultz's head, and he grasped it quickly.

"Ja, ja, what are we waiting for? Help me in," he swayed on his feet, moaning as they both propped him up and propelled him into the cooler. They hurried past the empty cells until they came to Carter's, where Schultz, with a trembling hand, keyed open the door. As they lurched in, Carter rose to meet them and take possession of his precious equipment. Kinch laid the guard very carefully on the cot.

Schultz kept groaning on the bed behind them while Carter worked to create the flesh-colored putty. "Why does it always happen to me? Hurry, Carter, hurry!"

The young scientist glanced at the ailing man. "Whatever happens, don't let him blow up-" Schultz let out a wail. "-I mean, throw up. If his stomach gets upset, we're in for an explosive turn of events." Another sob.

"Carter, why don't you just do your job?" Lebeau sighed in exasperation.

"You got it, boy," he stirred in the ingredients, one by one. Mere minutes later, he was done with his work. Lebeau and Kinch stuffed it under their jackets while Carter approached the ailing German. "Here ya go. This should terminate the negative effects," he handed him a glass of water. "Of course, you probably don't want to get too excited for some time, say 24 hours. Just for safety, really."

"Thank you, Carter." Tenderly, cautiously, he sat up in relief. "How can I ever repay you? For an enemy, you aren't such a bad fellow."

"Oh, I'll think of something. Good luck, fellas," he grinned at their retreating backs. "Come again sometime. It was a real blast."

ooooooooooooooooooooo

"You got it?" Hogan asked the minute they entered the barracks. He was rewarded with a handful of putty and triumphant grins. He grinned back. One more hurdle jumped. "What condition did you leave poor Schultz in?"

"He's just fine. A little shaken up, but fine," Kinch assured. "The power of suggestion is amazing. No German guards were harmed in the making of this putty."

"Good, very good." Hogan passed it from hand to hand, held it against the back of his arm and noticed the similar color. "I'm impressed, Carter," he said in the direction of the cooler, then turned to the others. "Newkirk's almost got the uniform done. We're barely ahead of schedule."

"That's very good, right, Mon Colonel?" Lebeau encouraged.

"It really is."

Hammelburg, Germany

"I suppose I should make something plain before you go, Rommel. About what I said yesterday." Strolin pulled the Swabian to a stop on the hotel's first landing. They had just arrived from the nicest restaurant that Strolin could find. Rommel nodded slightly and sent Lucy and Manfred on ahead to their room. He assured them he would be right up.

"All right, old friend, do tell. I can't deny I've been wondering about it."

"Tis a conversation best left going in a quieter place," Strolin cautioned. "Will you do me the honor of joining me for a quick drink in my room? It's right here handy." He motioned to the first door by the stairs. "I can better explain."

"Perhaps I should," Rommel followed him inside. Lang remained outside and gently pulled the door closed. Strolin set down his briefcase and poured the still-warm coffee into the cups. He handed one to Rommel, raised his own with a queer expression.

"To the glorious, all-powerful, and invincible Third Reich, may she never lose the confidence of her people," the glasses raised slowly in the toast. Strolin took a deep swig and sighed. "A little sarcasm never hurt anyone. Now," he pushed the cup away and got down to business. "I will explain. My question seemed rather strange, I know, but there have been rumors…" he averted his eyes.

"What rumors?" Rommel gripped his marshal's baton tighter. Somehow, before it was explained, he knew what Strolin was getting at. In a way, he didn't want to hear it. And yet, he wanted it made perfectly clear; one thing he couldn't stand was confusion. "Stop being so mysterious, Karl, and get to the point."

"Rumors that say, the defeat in Africa was helped on by the High Command, in an indirect way of course," he shot a calculating look at the younger man. "Something about some fantastic order. Only rumors though, right?" Rommel didn't answer immediately, but walked over to the room's mirror. He stared at his reflection. How much of Germany knows about that order? Why does he have to bring this up now? I don't want to talk about it, not now, or ever. It's all one big mess, this whole war is all one big-

"Right, Erwin?"

He gritted his teeth and sighed, loudly enough to get his point across. He would give Strolin what he wanted, but make no mistake about it, Rommel wasn't happy with the direction of the conversation. "Wrong, Karl, there was such an order. Still is." He reached in his pocket and pulled out the worn sheet, tossed it down on the table. "There you are. What of it?" Challenge rang in his voice. Just looking at it was making him angry and frustrated all over again.

Strolin coolly picked it up, read it with ponderous intensity. "…victory or death, hmmm…" he mused, peering up at him. "Quite the order our beloved Fuhrer gave you, friend. But he is, after all, one of the greatest military minds ever. Like that brilliant stop at Dunkirk to rest the troops, or more recently the move to end the war over there at Stalingrad," he smiled faintly, cruelly.

"Karl…"

"We must trust his greater judgment. It's true, what he said. He has made Germany unrecognizable."

"Karl." The words were treasonous, disloyal, and he wanted no part in them. Yet, they were true, so true, so horribly true. He had never wanted to hear lies so badly in his life. Now, when he did, the harsh truth came out. I thought you prided yourself on telling the truth. Or are you like every one else in Germany nowadays?

"Tell me, what do you think of this war?" Strolin leaned forward.

"It does not matter what I think," he snapped. "I do my job, that's all. Now please-let's get off this unpleasant subject, ja?"

Strolin remained fixed on him, but reluctantly agreed. "All right, Rommel. I apologize for pressing you so hard. We all do our duty. A toast to your health." He raised his glass again.

"And to yours," he was extremely relieved. It's over, for now. But it would be coming back, more and more as time went on. And someday, he wouldn't be able to dodge it.

Another chapter so soon. Like I said, I had some of this stuff written quite some time back. It's a matter of moving it to the computer. Hope you like it. And the next one begins the journey to Berlin. Finally, some action coming up!