"This is great."

Hogan certainly sounded convinced, but the pile of large jagged mirror shards in the kitchen drawer didn't look the least bit encouraging to Robinson. "This what you had in mind, then?"

Hogan nodded. "We'll need more, but it's a good start."

"Well, the fellows are still on the prowl. Charlie sounds determined to get his hands on Schreiner's shaving mirror as a trophy, and I think he's taking it as a personal challenge. I for one wouldn't bet against him." Well, no use putting it off any longer. "It's time for me to ask you for those details you promised me, Hogan. I can't allow this to go any further until I know more about what's going on in your head. A bit of pack-ratting to play dodge'em with the guards is good sport and all, but…"

"I won't say it'll be easy, sir, but I think I can at least outline it so it makes some kind of sense." The heavy butcher-block table in front of them was wide open and bare; Hogan soon fixed that by scattering a thin layer of flour over half of it. "The lighthouse is here." He traced a rough representation in the flour with his index finger. "And here…" Off to the left he traced another boxy outline, nearly on the same level. "Is our barracks wing on the top level of the castel. The roofline right below us is on about the same level as the dome of the lighthouse, which is attached to the far side of the same structure. With me so far?"

Robinson nodded. "So far."

"Okay. What I want to do is reassemble all those bits and pieces of mirror, mount them on top of our roof, block out about two-thirds of the glass on the ocean side of the lighthouse dome, and reflect the light from right here…" He indicated the lighthouse with a left-facing arrow. "... over to the mirrors here."

Robinson realized his mouth was open a bit, and he closed it. Hogan's reputation for creativity certainly hadn't been an exaggeration… the American was either an unparalleled genius, or completely barmy. "Good heavens, man..."

"From the vantage point of any approaching ships, I figure it'll look like the light is about a hundred yards to the west of its actual location. From what I understand about the channel, that should be enough to make it alter its course and run aground… and if we're lucky, there won't be much left to salvage if the seas are rough enough to pull it all out with the tide. That'll be one less shipment of ordnance that'll make it to the front, and if it's big enough mess maybe they'll decide to discontinue the use of this port altogether. Any chance we've got to make it harder for them to bring in arms is another step closer to ending the war."

"And… you actually think this might work?"

Hogan folded his arms pensively and surveyed his finger-painting in flour. Sometimes he had trouble convincing himself of these types of untested capers. What had sounded pretty good inside his own head that morning wasn't looking all that convincing when done up in an actual diagram, especially as crude as this one was. "Well… we used to sabotage, wreck, and derail trains and convoys all the time, and it usually went like clockwork, but this is my first ship. I'm sure there are a few details I haven't ironed out yet."

"The devil's in the details, as they say." For not the first time since he'd ended up as the senior Allied officer on this remote rock, Robinson found himself at an impasse. He didn't hold out much hope for Hogan's lighthouse-moving scheme, even now that it had been made clear that moving the actual structure wasn't his game. There were so many things that could go wrong… how did all those things stack up against the fairly remote possibility that this would actually work, and that they might manage to scuttle one of the Nazis' supply ships? It would be a nice boost to the ego, true enough… not to mention a fitting tribute to the memory of Dowling and Drake… but would it be worth the risk to the still-living? "How do you propose to block out the real light?"

"That's one of those details I haven't ironed out yet," he admitted.

"I'll have to chew it over a while, Hogan. No harm in the men continuing to collect bits of mirror here and there, but that's all I'll sanction at present."

"I understand, sir. But there is a supply ship coming in the day after tomorrow."

Robinson nodded. "I'm aware of that. It just might not be your ship that's coming in, at least not this time. I'll let you know when I've made my decision."

Even if Hogan had thought pushing his case any harder would help… and he didn't… Crittendon would have derailed him as soon as he entered the kitchen, glancing furtively over his shoulder to see if he were being observed. "Just one for dinner tonight?" Hogan inquired. "Table near the window okay? I'll send your waitress right over with a menu."

Crittendon took one more cautious, thorough glance behind him. "I can't understand it. Haven't spotted a guard on my tail in days. Thick on the ground, normally… makes no blasted sense at all."

Actually Hogan knew that it did, but Crittendon would never understand it. The guards weren't bothering to follow him around because they already knew that whatever he might be up to posed no threat whatsoever to the security of Castel Fiocco. He was the only prisoner able to roam the corridors at will, day in and day out, without attracting the least bit of unwanted attention, and he also had to be the only one they couldn't even trust to gather up a few simple pieces of glass without doing something stupid to foul up the whole operation, so he couldn't even help them. What a waste. Oh, Hogan wouldn't say he hadn't been tempted to try him for something this deceptively simple, but in the end it was just too much of a risk. Crittendon already had enough natural bad luck without adding broken mirrors on top of it, and they couldn't chance having his misfortune spill over onto what was now the only workable plan they had to throw a monkey wrench into Schreiner's machine.

Only workable plan. The words rang ominously in his mind. And it centered on something he had never done before. Hogan couldn't blame Robinson for not leaping for joy over it; he himself was growing more dubious by the minute. Did he really have any chance at all of pulling this off? He liked his odds for successfully blowing up railroad bridges a whole lot better, but those were in short supply in this neighborhood and his repertoire would need to be expanded if he had any hope of keeping himself out of mothballs until the war ended. So far the only boat he'd ever dealt with had been Klink's floating officer's club… that had gone off without a hitch, but he himself had never actually been anywhere near the water and had depended on others to come up with most of the necessary expertise in building and moving the boat. This idea to wreck the supply ship was his, and his alone. If it flopped, the repercussions would all be on him.

Crittendon switched gears, something he was pretty good at, rubbed his hands together and sidled over to Robinson and Hogan. "Nearly done with the hang-glider, you know." He angled his chin in the direction of his concealed wing. "Can't wait for you to see it in action."

"Right… I can't wait either," Hogan agreed without a morsel of sincerity. The best outcome Crittendon could hope for would be not dashing himself to bits on the rocks below, but it had been proven time and time again that there was simply no chance of talking him out of the attempt, and nobody had the time, patience, or inclination to keep trying. He was pretty sure the Italian phrase to describe it was che serà serà… what will be, will be.

"Should be out of here and free as a bird by the end of the week. All that's still to do is decide where best to launch from." Crittendon turned his attention to the diagram on the tabletop. "What's all this, then?"

"Oh, just a spill." Hogan used the edge of a breadboard to scrape the sprinkled flour back into the bin. "What's that you were saying about launching?" Nothing like feigning interest to divert attention. It had always worked on Klink.

"Need to find just the right spot for it. But once I've made that determination, all I need is a brisk tailwind and I'll be off to the mainland. Could be any night now. I only wish I could take both of you chaps with me."

"Perish the thought," Robinson replied, just short of making it an order. "That's your egg to hatch, Rodney, and you know how we operate 'round here… one man's victory belongs to every other man, if only in spirit."

"I shall depart with that in mind, sir." He saluted. "I thank you."

"Don't mention it." And I mean that.

With a homemade hang glider and a drawer half full of broken glass as the only two ideas anyone around here had at the moment as far as striking back at their captors, Robinson couldn't help but wonder one thing: which of his cellmates was really crazier than the other? From Robinson's perspective at that moment, it appeared to be a dead heat.

oo 0 oo

There were two things Newkirk never wanted to see again: shovels and barrels. At the moment, he'd had more than his share of both. Oh… one more thing. He never wanted to see Schultz in the same barracks with him again, ever.

Last night had been a horror show. It wasn't bad enough trying to keep out of the sergeant's sight the whole time everyone was awake, but after lights-out and they'd all hit their bunks for the night had come the worst yet: the snoring. Having done a considerable amount of time in a barracks already, and that time being spent with many different chaps, Newkirk had seen and heard plenty, but nothing like Schultz's snoring. It could have shattered windows five hundred feet away. He didn't think he'd closed his own eyes more than a few minutes all night long, and he was dead on his feet.

So, when the duty sergeant had seen him shoveling oily residue into a wheelbarrow because the last empty barrel out in the compound had been filled, he'd taken severe exception to the dressing-down he'd received and the orders to go get some more empty ones from the storage area. That was where he was at the moment, taking advantage of a few private moments away from his Kraut baby-minders to try and touch base with the others back at Stalag 13. He crouched in a corner with the radio and spoke into it as loudly as he dared. "Chimney Sweep callin' Papa Bear! Do you read me?" No immediate reply. "Papa Bear, come in!" Still nothing.

The sound of someone else rattling the supply room door brought him up short. He switched the walkie-talkie off and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Safe enough? Maybe not. If anyone caught him with that radio, there would be no explaining it. And if it was that plonker of a sergeant on his way in, radio or not he'd likely get extra duty for taking too long. With that in mind, Newkirk did the only thing that occurred to him: he popped the lid off one of the empty barrels and climbed inside, crouching down low enough to be able to balance the lid on top. If they couldn't find him, they couldn't put the touch on him. Simple as that.

Schultz entered the supply room as always: heavy on his feet. That other sergeant, the loud-mouth… he was more annoying than an Offizier. Who told him he was boss, anyway? The way he'd berated Schultz just now, like it was his fault there were no more empty barrels… or that the full wheelbarrow was his fault. He knew no-thing about the dummkopf who had filled it up with oily sand, but now it was his job to fix it.

He shoved the heavy wheelbarrow ahead of him, maneuvering it with some difficulty through the narrow doorway. First a long night away from his own bed, now this. He was beginning to think that it didn't really matter who won the war, as long as it was over, and soon.

The line of empty barrels seemed to mock him. They would probably have to fill all of these up before the job was done, and it seemed endless. He started to try and muscle the first barrel in the line towards him, then stopped, surprised at how heavy it was. Was this one already full? Had some other dummkopf put it back with the empty ones? Couldn't anybody do anything right? He gave it a frustrated kick with the side of his boot, then popped the loose lid off the top of the heavy barrel… it nearly fell off... and peered inside.

The startled face of the Englander Newkirk looked up at him. It might have been an even bet which one of them looked more startled. "Um… hi, Schultzie… fancy meetin' you 'ere…"

"Newkirk…?"

"Uh… yeah… it's me, all right…"

Schultz's face broke into a wide grin. "Here you are!"

"Yep… here I am…"

"I have found you!"

"You 'ave at that."

"The Kommandant will be so pleased!"

"Well, there's a downside to everythin'."

Schultz grasped the collar of Newkirk's overcoat and pulled him to a standing position. "You naughty boy!"

Newkirk didn't quite have time to come up with a retort for that rbefore a voice from the doorway ran both their blood cold. "Sergeant Schultz!"

Reflexively, Schultz pushed down on Newkirk's collar twice as hard as he had just pulled up on it. Newkirk didn't resist. "Jawohl!"

"I ordered you to empty that wheelbarrow and bring more barrels!"

"Jawohl… and I was just about to do that… but… but…"

"Now!" He pointed so there could be no chance of misinterpretation. "Empty that wheelbarrow!" Schultz began to fumble with the lid on the barrel next to the one that contained Newkirk. Maddeningly, the top that had come off the first barrel so easily was unevenly matched by this one; he struggled even to get one edge of it pried loose. "You fool, use the open one! We do not have all day!"

With reluctant, trembling hands, Schultz hefted the shovel and took up a small scoop of oily dirt. "Jawohl…"

"Schnell!"

Neither of Schultz's options looked good, but one looked worse than the other one did. With considerable reluctance, he dropped the shovelful of oily slop into the open barrel. He didn't hear it hit the bottom… because it hadn't, and he knew why. He was only hoping the sergeant wouldn't figure it out.

"Finish up in here and bring more barrels outside!" The sergeant turned on his heel and left the supply shed.

Schultz really didn't want to look, but he eventually did, after a few seconds of trying to imagine how bad it actually might be. He was greeted by the sight of Newkirk slowly getting to his feet inside the barrel, covered with muck that ran from the top of his head all the way down over his shoulders.

"Thank you…" Newkirk said, remarkably calmly under the circumstances. "I needed that."