By 1000 on the 19th the weather at Stalag 13 was so hot and windy that Corporal Tim "Smoggy" Ashe, a tobacco addict from California, said it was "like Culver City in a Santa Ana." On the other side, Corporal Funke appeared to be in a bad mood. As Hogan and Newkirk watched from beside the doorway to their barracks, Funke grabbed a cigarette from the mouth of an older private and ground it out.
"Do not smoke again. Don't you see how dry it is, you'll burn this camp and its surrounding area." Funke saw another man with a lit cigarette and rushed over.
"Working hard to be popular, ain't he?" Newkirk said.
"Yeah." Hogan frowned. Funke was acting much like a Nazi on an anti-smoking campaign, but his body language was of a commissioned officer rather than a thug.
Klink stepped out of the Kommandantur and went to his Mercedes. Funke marched to him and saluted.
"Herr Kommandant, men are smoking when they mustn't. It is very dry and the fire hazard..."
Klink wagged a finger. "Private Funke, or have I not got around to demoting you, I make the rules and I will decide when smoking is to be forbidden. Now go to the motor pool as you were assigned!"
"Same old Klink, all bark," Newkirk said.
A gust bared Klink's head. He ran after the hat, which came to rest against a dull green clump of grass. The color was odd, and as he inspected the blades they fell apart in his fingers.
Klink turned, glared and pointed. "Hogan, you tell your men to put their tobacco and matches away! As of now smoking and the display of flame are verboten." Klink's finger was steady - he was ready to bite if Hogan didn't obey.
"Yessir," Hogan said. He turned to face inside the barracks. "Smoggy, put that out. No one's to smoke or light a match until further notice."
Men booed. Klink, holding the hat, marched to his office. Seconds later the loudspeakers crackled.