It didn't look like a wing.
It didn't look like much of anything, really; just a few lengths of warped wood crudely nailed together, with some torn sheets wrapped around it and tied on with twine. But Crittendon insisted it was a wing, and nobody so far had wanted to go to the trouble of disagreeing with him and subsequently being subjected to a long, dull speech about duty, honor, King and country. In Hogan's considered opinion it was no man's duty to kill himself in a massive display of poor planning and impracticality, but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. So the 'wing', such as it was, had been concealed behind a thirty-gallon bin of coarse-ground flour in the back of the main kitchen's pantry. And Crittendon had immediately begun work on the next essential element: a harness.
Hogan was aware of all that for two reasons. Firstly, Crittendon talked about his project incessantly, often well into the night. Hogan was already finding it hard enough to sleep with the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling lit up twenty-four hours a day, and unfortunately Crittendon seemed to have the same problem. Secondly, Robinson had been right: the Geneva Convention wasn't worth the paper it was printed on around here. All the officers were assigned to various work squads in and around the castel, like it or not. Kommandant Schreiner had decided that KP duty would best suit the newest member of Castel Fiocco's ranks, and Hogan found himself spending an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, rapidly becoming way more familiar with every nook and cranny of it than he wanted to be. Crittendon's 'wing' irked him just by its mere proximity.
He was drafting a strongly-worded letter to the Red Cross in his head that afternoon as he chopped a seemingly endless pile of turnips which would go into the thin soup that would comprise their evening meal, when the door of the kitchen swung open to admit none other than Mr. Congeniality himself, Kommandant Schreiner. Hogan had to make a spot decision: did he want to eat tonight, or didn't he? Yes, he decided that he did. He needed to keep up his strength in order to take his digging shifts in the tunnel. So he waited for the Kommandant to speak first.
"Hard at work, Hogan?"
"I like to keep busy, sir." There were lots of other things he'd rather have been doing with that short, dull knife to 'keep busy', and one or two of them involved Schreiner's internal organs. But that would probably ruin the soup.
"We will do our best to keep you supplied."
That was a statement, not a question, and as such did not require him to answer, so Hogan elected not to respond. It had been a hard lesson to learn at first, suppressing his natural tendency towards tossing out glib, smart-mouthed responses, but he was working on it. He'd missed a few too many meals lately.
As Schreiner meandered around the kitchen area, Hogan chopped turnips. And chopped turnips. And chopped some more. He was sure the head Kraut had a reason for being here, and he'd get around to mentioning it sooner or later. In the meantime, he would carry on with his assigned chore, reasonably certain that was what was expected of him.
Schreiner appeared to like a free show, especially when it involved an enemy officer being required to do something menial and degrading that the Geneva Convention specified that he shouldn't have to do in the first place, and he took a full four minutes to make one slow, deliberate circuit of the room, without a word from Hogan. No doubt he imagined that the silence was probably grating on the impertinent young officer, who longed to fill the quiet with some insolent remark or another, and he seemed to be enjoying the undeclared battle of wills. "I have something for you, Hogan," he said at last.
Uh oh. That couldn't be good. "For me, sir?"
Schreiner removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his tunic. "You have received a letter from home. I did not distribute it with the rest at mail call this morning because it required some extra redacting. We have of course removed everything that is questionable."
That probably meant just about all of it. Although this was the first piece of mail he'd received, Hogan had seen some of the incoming letters for his fellow prisoners, and often there was just about enough left to hang up as lace curtains. So the Red Cross had caught up with his change of address. Instead of making him feel better, it almost made him feel worse. Getting mail was just one more reminder that he was officially here, and not where he really belonged. "Yes, sir."
"A reminder, Hogan, that prisoners who give us no trouble will receive no trouble from us." He extended the envelope to within Hogan's reach, and Hogan accepted it.
"Thank you, sir."
"You will read it."
"Yes, sir."
"Now."
Okay, why not? The turnips weren't going anywhere. Hogan removed the single sheet from the envelope and unfolded it. He had been expecting to see his mother's flowing script, but this wasn't her handwriting. His eyes skimmed down the page to the signature at the bottom. Who else would be writing to him here?
Aunt Alice.
It took just about every ounce of willpower he had at his disposal not to show a reaction. This wasn't from home… not directly, at any rate. It had come from the States via the Red Cross as any letter for him would be expected to, so as not to arouse suspicion… but it had been written in Germany. And now he recognized Kinch's handwriting. He began again at the top of the page.
Dear Bobby.
Well, now he had to survive this war… because they were gonna get it for that. He smiled at the thought of the debate that must have gone on just to get those two words down on paper… most likely with half of them arguing that they couldn't address an officer that way, and the other half insisting that it was the perfect cover. Who would ever suspect a letter that began that way of being from anyone other than a sweet old lady back home in Cleveland, completely harmless, totally innocent?
We've been thinking about you a lot lately. We miss you and hope you are well.
As well as could be expected, he supposed. Still very aware that Schreiner was watching his every move to see if he might give anything away, he worked on keeping his best poker face as he kept reading.
We don't get to town these days quite as much as we used to, but…
Here was some of the redacting that Schreiner had mentioned; the next several inches of words had been cut out with a sharp blade, leaving a long narrow hole in the paper. What was missing? He hoped it meant the operation was still up and running, one man down but still an 'open for business' sign in the window.
There's a big party at the dance hall coming up that we're looking forward to. You know Uncle George; he always wants us to keep dancing.
Again, that sounded like business as usual, more or less, and he knew he should take some degree of satisfaction in that. He'd laid the groundwork for it, his men had been well-trained, and they knew what they were doing. Whether London, and by extension the King, would appreciate being known as 'Uncle George'… well, they weren't going to hear about it from him.
More words cut out, nearly the entire last paragraph. Then, Drop us a line if you can find the time.
Oh, he'd find the time, all right. Whether his reply would ever get where it was going or not was hardly guaranteed, but it was worth a try.
And then he was back down to the signature at the end. Aunt Alice. So the boys had played the sock. He'd passed command over to Kinch, and unless London had sent in a new CO, any coded mention of which might have been removed by Schreiner's censors, they were on their own. But they could handle it. No one man was irreplaceable.
Not even him, apparently.
Suddenly one brief letter with half of it cut out was jimmying the lock on his emotions more than any withheld meals and near-sleepless nights had been able to accomplish so far. It both surprised and unnerved him. Poker face, 'Bobby'… keep your guard up…
"Your Aunt Alice is well?"
"Yeah," Hogan nodded, carefully re-folding the letter and replacing it in the envelope. "Sounds like it."
"You will be permitted to reply, if you wish… under the usual restrictions, of course."
Of course. "Yes, sir."
"You may carry on, Hogan."
"Thank you, sir."
Schreiner let himself out and closed the heavy door behind himself as Hogan went back to the task at hand. The boys were out dancing with Uncle George, making a real difference in the way the war was going, and he was glad about that. He was. But here he stood, on some crummy island, chopping up turnips just because some lousy Kraut with a bad haircut could decide to take away his meager rations if he refused, or if he even forgot to say "yes sir". One of these days those two words were going to choke him.
He didn't just want to get out of here.
He had to get out of here.
oo 0 oo
Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter patrolled the compound with canvas rubbish bags slung over their shoulders, stabbing pieces of trash with pointed sticks and adding them to their sacks one by one. It was mindless work that left their intellects free to work on the problem of the AA installation. The pencil sketch Carter had made was pinned to the back of his jacket, and he was in the lead, the other three trailing immediately behind him, examining the problem from every possible angle as they pretended to concentrate on their work.
"What about goin' over the fence instead of in through the gate?" Newkirk asked.
"I meant to say something about that," Carter said. "When I was making that sketch I noticed a diesel generator right next to the fence. If it's meant to supply the main building, it's in the wrong place."
"So?" asked LeBeau. "Who cares where they put it?"
"Well, I can't say for sure, but it's way off to one side. So my guess is that it's supplying the wire, not the building… I think the fence is probably electrified."
"Charmin'. Forget what I just said about climbin' over it."
"Or cutting it," LeBeau added.
"Yeah. That could get very messy."
"What about disabling the generator?"
"Yeah!" Carter agreed. "We could hit it with a grenade tossed over the wire... bababoom!"
"And in the confusion we could cut the fence on the other side of the installation," LeBeau continued.
"And we're in, nice as you please," concluded Newkirk. "A few quick snaps of the control panels on them guns and we've got what London wants right in our pockets."
"The timing worries me." Kinch hadn't picked up a single piece of trash in at least five minutes; he was giving one hundred percent of his attention to the problem pinned to the back of Carter's jacket. "Look at the distance between those points. Would blowing up the generator as a diversion give us enough time to cut the wire, get in, reach the artillery, photograph the controls, and then get out before the chaos dies down?"
"Knowin' I had a Kraut on me tail, I bet I could outrun Jesse Owens," Newkirk assured him.
"Don't get me wrong; I think it's a good plan, but..."
"It's also the only one we've got, which makes it a great plan," LeBeau assured him.
Schultz's voice behind them just then startled them all into silence. "What is a great plan?"
They turned around in one smooth motion, Carter a little bit more hurriedly since he had a map of a secret installation pinned to his jacket, and Newkirk obligingly stepped directly behind him to shield the sketch from view from the rear in case anyone else should surprise them. "Hi, Schultzie!"
"Never mind 'Hi Schultzie', I just heard you say something is a great plan... what were you talking about?"
"I'm glad you asked, Schultz," Kinch picked up. "Now listen very carefully... what we're gonna do is..."
"Nein! Don't tell me anything!"
Well, it was nice to know that some things were still easy. Getting Schultz to change his mind about knowing what they were up to wasn't a challenge at all... all they ever had to do was offer to tell him. "Okay, but if you change your mind, let us know."
Schultz pointed at Carter. "The Kommandant is looking for him."
Carter paled. "What for?"
"I do not know. I do not care. All that is for me to do is to bring you to his office right away."
This was definitely not Carter's idea of a great way to spend the next half-hour, but he sighed in resignation and took a step forward. "Okay, Schultz, let's..."
Newkirk's hand came down on his shoulder like an anvil, preventing him from taking another step. "Andrew... you can't go like that."
"Well, if he won't give me time to get cleaned up, he'll just have to take me as I am."
"I mean... you can't go like that."
Suddenly Carter again recalled the top-secret map pinned to the back of his jacket. "Oh boy... tell you what, Schultz, let me go back to the barracks just for a second, okay? I've been out here picking up trash and I'm kinda..."
"The Kommandant said immediately."
"But I..."
The next thing Carter felt was Newkirk's hand moving from his shoulder to the middle of his back. "Well, look here, Andrew... you've even got some of it stuck to you. Dear, oh dear..." In the next second he had torn the pencil sketch off the back of Carter's jacket, balled it up, and stuffed it into his canvas bag before Schultz could accidentally get a look at it. "You can't hardly go see the Kommandant like that, mate. Absolutely disgraceful."
Carter swallowed hard. Another bullet dodged. "Am... am I... clean, now?"
"Squeaky."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Still shaking a little bit, Carter handed off his sack and stick to Kinch, while Schultz made an attempt to appear to be officially inspecting the area. "There are a lot of cigarette butts over behind those boxes." He gestured to a stack of crates near the entry to the sergeants' mess.
"How do you know?" LeBeau asked. "I don't see anything."
"Because that is where the guards like to smoke," Schultz replied with an insincere smile. "One thing leads to another."
"Then the guards can pick them up."
"Who is giving the orders around here, you or me?"
"I think I should; mine are more fair."
"You have the bag!"
"All right, I'll give you the bag."
As LeBeau began to shrug off the bag, chuckling at how far he'd been able to push Schultz this time, he found himself nearly lifted off his feet by the back of his coat and turned around to face the boxes. "All right, all right! I'm going!"
With Carter on his way to Klink's office and LeBeau on his way to police the area behind the crates, that left Newkirk and Kinch. "What do you make of that?" Newkirk asked, gesturing after Schultz and Carter.
"I dunno." As LeBeau bent down and vanished behind a crate, Kinch suddenly stopped thinking about Carter. "Wait a second..."
"What is it?"
"I might have figured out what to do about our timing problem at the artillery installation."
"Good thinkin', mate!"
"I haven't even told you what it is yet."
"Well, let's not get hung up on petty details."
"We'll wait for Carter to get back from Klink's office, then we'll all talk it out in the barracks."
"I know him and Louis will go for it."
Kinch had his doubts. Why would LeBeau be as eager about this plan as Newkirk seemed to think he would be, when it involved putting him in more danger than any of the rest of them?
oo 0 oo
Carter had been afraid Klink would be in a bad mood. It was actually far worse to find him smiling broadly and flinging open the office door in welcome. That wasn't the least bit like Klink. He had something up his sleeve, and Carter was pretty sure he wouldn't like it when whatever it was finally worked its way out of his sleeve and onto the table.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant Carter. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm just fine sir. Peachy. And you?"
"Very well, thank you. Would you care for a drink?"
Had he heard that right? "Um... a drink, sir?"
"Yes, would you join me in a schnapps? I often have one at this time of day. I'd be delighted if you'd join me."
This was Klink. Carter was sure of it. There couldn't be two guys who looked like that. But this was a Klink he'd never seen before, and he wasn't particularly pleased to be seeing him now. He might not like the one he usually had to deal with, but at least he knew what to expect from him. This was all wrong. Why'd I have to go and get that extra stripe? he berated himself. "No, thank you, sir. It's a little early for me. I was actually planning to wait until the Liberation."
That honest if indiscreet remark took a little of the wind out of Klink's sails, but he readjusted almost immediately. "Very well. Please, have a seat." He poured himself a small cordial and sat down behind his desk. "Prost."
"If you say so."
He polished off the drink in one swallow. "Sergeant Carter, I've been hoping the two of us might have a talk, and come to an agreement."
"Well, sure. What is it you want to agree with me on?"
Klink poured another cordial, and this time he forgot to paste his smile back on. "What I meant was... I've been reconsidering the idea of a senior POW. I don't think it's necessary."
"You don't?"
"Well, I'm quite busy. And I know you're very busy, doing... whatever it is you do all day. It seems to be difficult for us to get anything accomplished here."
"Heck, we've only had one meeting," Carter grinned. "Remember?"
Remember? Oh yes... Klink remembered. Talking to Carter was like talking to a parrot... it spoke, but it was incapable of holding an actual conversation. Words came out, but they made little sense and were often out of context. Sooner or later you just threw a sheet over the cage and gave up, and that was exactly what Klink was trying to accomplish here. He knew Carter had come back three or four times asking to see him since that meeting, but he had specifically instructed Fraulein Hilda to send him away if she hoped to keep her job. "Sergeant..."
"You don't have to worry, sir," Carter assured him. "Actually I'm really not all that busy. I don't mind coming back over and over. I'm a very patient kind of a guy. And since you're not busy right now, just sitting here having your schnapps, as long as I'm here maybe now would be a good time for us to talk about those missing Red Cross packages and the lights going out extra-early. As a matter of fact, now that I know this is the time of day you have your schnapps, I can just plan on coming over at the same time every day."
Trapped. Somehow, no matter how carefully he thought he'd had this planned, Carter simply would not go away. "I need another drink."
"You've still got one in your hand."
The Kommandant downed it in a single gulp. "No I haven't."
