"Perhaps we could use smoke signals," Carter suggested.

"There is too much wind," LeBeau pointed out.

But Carter was not to be discouraged. "Or a rocket? That new baby rocket we stole from the Germans last month is still lying around in the tunnels. If we write down our nominations and put them inside..."

"Forget it." Hogan picked up his coffee and drained the mug in one go.

Protests broke out among the other residents of Barracks 2.

"Cool it!" Hogan shouted. "I'm thinking. I didn't say we're going to have to forego on nominating; I just said we're not going shoot our nominations to London in a rocket."

Everybody watched him in silence as he paced the length of the barracks and back. And snapped his fingers.

"Yes?" Carter asked wide-eyed.

Hogan gave Kinch a grin. "If our radio is out, where can we find another one in this camp?"

"You mean..."

"Bloody charming!" Newkirk butted his cigarette. "Surely you don't mean to steal Klink's radio and use that?"

"Of course not. The Kommandant will be happy to let us use his radio." And with that, Hogan straightened his cap and walked out the door.

"Kommandant?" As usual, Hogan barged into the office without knocking.

And Klink, who had gotten used to it over the years, didn't even look up from his paperwork. "Yes, Hogan, what is it."

"Permission to use your radio, sir?"

"Denied."

"Aw, come on, sir! We're not going to break it or anything."

"Of course not." Only now did Klink look up. "Because you're not going to get it. Prisoners are not allowed to use the radio. I am sure not even the Geneva Convention would require that."

"Perhaps not, but... Oh well. There goes your chance at fame." With a dejected mien, Hogan began to leave the office. Only to be called right back – as he expected.

"Hogan! What do you mean – my chance at fame?"

Hogan looked back. "Why should I bother telling you? You're not interested in our little games."

"Oh yes, I am! Tell me, Hogan – what game is it that would make me famous?"

"The Papa Bear Awards of course! Do you know how many stories there are about you? Great stories, showing the tough but fair Kommandant as a hero?"

Klink dropped his jaw. "There are?"

"Of course! Someone like you could inspire even the most dismal writer into literary bliss." He shrugged. "Oh well. If we can't use your radio, it's all for naught anyway. Then we can't send in our nominations."

"Oh, but Hogan...!"

"Yes?"

"For such a worthy cause, I'm sure I could make a little... exception?" Klink waggled his head. "I'm sure General Burkhalter wouldn't mind."

"Especially if he never finds out," Hogan grinned.

"Yes. Exactly. So... for how long would you need to use the radio?"

Hogan looked at his watch, visibly made some calculations in his head and... "Until midnight, I'd say."

Klink raised his eyebrows, nearly losing his monocle. "So long? What do you have to transmit?"

"Well, there's hundreds of POW's who want to send in their nominations. And in the category for Best Story of the Year, it's the number of nominations that'll determine whether or not a story qualifies to participate. So the more people send in their nominations..."

"Yes, of course. Well then." Klink rubbed his hands. "You go and get your men, and I'll bring the radio into Fräulein Hilda's office. She's gone home already; she won't mind. But...!" He raised a finger. "Schultz will be guarding every word you say on that radio. We cannot allow you to use it for any clandestine messages to the Allies. Understood?"

"Understood, Kommandant." Hogan saluted. "You really are the best, you know."

Ten minutes later found Kinch at the Kommandant's radio in Hilda's office. Schultz sat next to him, and had already fallen asleep after a long night shift.

Outside stood a long line of POW's, talking and chatting and trying to keep warm in the perpetual winter of Hamelburg. And strutting back and forth along the line was Kommandant Klink, exhorting the men to nominate stories featuring him. "If you don't, you're not allowed into the office!" he threatened. "And Schultz is there. He'll hear every word you transmit. So you can't fool me!"

"Schultz. Schultz?" Kinch carefully prodded the big Sergeant until he blearily opened his eyes.

"What's for breakfast?"

Kinch grinned. "Nothing yet. But we're through with all the transmissions for the Papa Bear Awards. Perhaps you should escort me back to the barracks – before the other guards shoot me for being outside after roll call."

Schultz moaned. "Don't make me exercise before breakfast. It's bad for my indigestion."

"Sorry, Schultz." Kinch got up.

But at that moment, the radio came to life again. "Goldilocks calling Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear."

Kinch grabbed the mike. "Go ahead, Goldilocks." He refused to look at Schultz who mouthed, "You are Papa Bear?"

"Hello Goldilocks. I just want to acknowledge the receipt of your transmission tonight. Our boys in the cryptogram department have put it through the codebreaking machine, and we want to confirm that the urgent bombing run on Stalag 13 tonight will go ahead as requested."

"What?!"

Even Schultz sat up in alarm. "What what what what what... What bombing run?"

"Goldilocks, we did not – repeat: NOT – request a bombing run. All we transmitted were our nominations for the Papa Bear Awards. And they were NOT in code!"

"Oh! Ha ha. Jolly good show, Papa Bear. I suppose you have Jerry listening in with you, have you? Well, don't worry. We understood your message anyway. Bombing run confirmed – tomorrow morning at 6 a.m. Or is that p.m.? I always forget..."

"Goldilocks!" Kinch cried. "We did NOT request a bombing run! Please cancel it immediately!"

"Sorry, chaps – can't be done. The plane is already under way. It's a long flight to Hammelburg, you know. And the pilot is nightblind. He needs to bomb by daylight."

Kinch could have strangled the man – if he had been within reach of his hands. "Goldilocks, I repeat – call off the bombing run. We don't need to be bombed."

Schultz pulled the microphone out of his hand. "No, we really don't want to be bombed. Please, Goldilocks! Be a nice little girl and go and play with the three bears!"

Shocked silence on the other end. "I say..." Crittendon's voice came at last over the radio. "Was that Jerry speaking to me?"

"No, it was Hans. Sergeant Hans Schultz. Serial number 824..."

Kinch took back the mike. "Never mind that now, Goldilocks. Are you going to call off the bombing run, or do we have to evacuate?"

"Evacuate? Why on earth would you want to evacuate?"

Kinch rolled his eyes. "Because – you just told us that you've sent a bomber to bomb us out."

"I did? Oh my... Well, nothing that can be done about that now. Just keep calm and carry on, chaps! Goldilocks, over and out."

Schultz looked up to Kinch with big, frightened eyes. "Sergeant Kinchloe, what is going to happen?"

Kinch straightened up. "We better prepare for the worst, Schultz..."

Meanwhile, over at Headquarters in London...

"Group Captain, here is a file for you from the cryptogram department." The beautiful lieutenant handed him a folder, together with a nice cup of tea, and Crittendon felt his heart melt.

"Thank you, my dear. That's extremely kind of you." He put down the file and stared after the luscious curves as they moved away, back up the stairs. Yep – there were definitely perks to being stationed in London compared to a German prison camp!

Another Group Captain came running in in a rather agitated manner. "Has anyone seen my folder? The cryptos said they sent it back to me an hour ago, but I haven't received anything!" He bustled about, lifting up papers and folders, opening drawers and looking into cupboards – and bumping Crittendon's arm. "Oh, I'm ever so sorry."

"Oh, never mind." Crittendon shook out the folder he had had on his lap. Tea was dripping from it.

The other Group Captain's eyes went wide. "But... that's my folder!"

"Oh, you're quite mistaken, my friend. I just received this folder from..."

The Group Captain didn't wait for an explanation – he pulled the dripping folder out of Crittendon's hands. "Yes. See – Group Captain Romney Crittendon, RAF. How could anyone ever have thought that it was yours?"

He walked off with it, leaving our Crittendon at a loss for words – which was quite a feat – and returned to his own office.

"Now, finally," Romney Crittendon sighed. "The info I need to instruct my bomber group." He opened the file, brushed away some tea drops and... frowned. This didn't look anything like the codes he had been given so far. Was there a new code out perhaps? He grabbed the telephone and asked to be connected with Captain Dingle at Supply.

"I'm sorry, sir," the posh operator said. "Captain Dingle is away on a top secret assignment concerning the development of the gonculator. He will not be back until next week."

"Alright. Thank you." Romney put down the phone and stared at the gibberish in his file. Well, perhaps his pilots had been given the new codebook, and they had just forgotten to give one to him as well? With all the hustle and bustle in the bombing raids these past days, that was entirely understandable. Well, then he better pass on this info to his pilots right away.

He looked through the pages. It was quite some info. But it was an excellent code – he could make heads nor tails from it.

.

.

THE NOMINATED WORKS

Snapshots

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Amnesia?
by codenamepapabear

Chant de Guerre
by Shield-HR

Day of Days
by Sgt. Moffitt

Desire
by 80sarcades

Fractured, but Unbroken
by Belphegor

Home
by Partly

In Paradisum
by jodm

Insidious
by Belphegor

Night Light
by Tarlonniel

Taking the Shot
by 80sarcades

Time Ticks Ever Onward
by So-Sings-Nightingales

Veiled
by Goldleaf83

.

And on to the drama stories!