Tunneling under the quasi-expert direction of the two miners was no more enjoyable than doing so on the proverbial wing and a prayer, but it did prove to be a lot less exciting. Paradoxically enough, a camp full of men who complained more or less continually about boredom, and who had gone to some rather impressive lengths to attempt to alleviate said boredom, were openly grateful for hours spent uneventfully shifting dirt. If 'uneventful' translated to 'ceilings that stay where we left them,' the men seemed to agree, then bring on the monotony.

(This did not mean that creative measures to combat cabin fever slowed by so much as a fraction. One rainy Thursday, for lack of anything more interesting to do, they'd had arm-wrestling contests. No one ever quite remembered how the time-honored pastime had morphed into a team sport on that particular day, but Hogan's expression, as he entered the main room just as Newkirk, Kinch, and LeBeau, their arms entwined like vines on a beanpole, were disposing of Foxton, Richmond, and MacDonald, had been priceless. His expression a few minutes later as he, paired with Forrest and Sam, had been effortlessly walloped by the still undefeated Terrible Trio had been even more so. The expressions of everyone else in the barracks, as Hogan pleasantly congratulated the winners and then saddled them with KP duty for a week, had been the best of all.)

Much of the original tunnel had, to the pleasure of all involved, been salvageable. This had involved, to the displeasure of everyone in camp, a great deal of reinforcement and re-propping. It was warm enough outside that firewood was no longer quite so jealously hoarded, which was to say that a tunneler trying to make off with the sturdiest pieces would probably not be torn limb from limb, pun very much intended, but he wouldn't be making himself particularly popular, either. LeBeau wasn't the only one who used the barracks stoves to commit acts of cuisine, just the most skilled.

And the men who discovered, often the hard way, that most of the slats had been removed from their bunks to further reinforce the tunnel, had contributed a few colorful expressions and suggestions that the thieves should cultivate the ability to sleep with one eye open, but those were, for the most part, taken neither personally or seriously.

Hogan did his fair share of digging. It seemed to him that he would gain more in credibility than he would lose in authority— or aching muscles— by doing so, at least for the present; right now, he very much needed the men to see him, not merely as someone who dispensed orders, but as someone trustworthy, someone who shared their troubles and travails. That went for the men he was hoping to retain as well as the ones he intended to ship out.

That evening, as it happened, he was working with Newkirk. The tunnel had expanded a bit; it was now large enough that a man could sit up to work, if he ducked his head a little, rather than lying flat on his stomach. It still wasn't exactly a luxury model, but it was better than it had been.

They'd been chipping away at the hard ground for more than two hours, and they were running out of energy, good humor, camaraderie, candles, and conversation, more or less simultaneously. A minor dirtfall didn't help matters any.

"Your uniform has certainly seen better days," Hogan said with a frown, as they dusted themselves off and spat out mouthfuls of mud. Well, actually, that wasn't the first thing he said after the dirtfall, but it was the first thing he said that is at all relevant to the story. It was also the first thing that wouldn't have gotten his mouth washed out with soap. One often overlooked benefit to becoming fluent in a second language is the expanded vocabulary of profanities. "It's supposed to be blue, isn't it?"

Newkirk looked down at his ragged, threadbare jacket as if he were seeing it for the first time. The dim, flickering candlelight did it no favors, but even so, there was no denying that it had, in fact, faded badly after two and a half years of nearly constant wear. "Yes, sir," he said. "It used to be. But, then, after a couple of years in our little corner of paradise, Guv'ner, you'll probably be a bit gray yourself."

Hogan grinned. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said easily. "Anyhow, I plan to complain to the Red Cross. We should be able to get them to send you something better to wear in fairly short order."

He shrugged wryly. "I'm 'ardly the worst off for warm clothes, sir," he said. "There are a lot of men in far direr straits."

"That's definitely true. Half the camp is wandering around in getups I wouldn't use for cleaning rags. I meant that the Red Cross was going to have to resupply all of you. Plural."

Newkirk sighed. "Not too bloody likely, if you'll pardon my saying, sir. The post office isn't any too reliable in 'ere. Stuff the Red Cross sends 'as got this odd tendency to get lost in the mail. And no good trying to get it from London, either. Radios and things we can 'ide are one thing. Stuff the Krauts are going to see, like our uniforms, are another. The ladies of 'Ammelberg would be showing off their new khaki dirndls by Tuesday."

"We'll see about that," Hogan said. "We have the right to receive mail, and supplies from the Red Cross, too."

Newkirk had an unparalleled ability to convey the sense of a disbelieving snort while maintaining a poker face that would do credit to an actual statue, Hogan thought. He still found the Englishman, with his quicksilver moods and pretzel logic, hard to read. Newkirk had offered his services; Hogan had accepted. That much was clear. But it was plain that, while Newkirk was willing to gamble on Hogan's ability to outfox the Germans, there was still a reservoir of pessimistic cynicism in there, one that long predated not merely Hogan's introduction to the camp but, in all probability, Newkirk's own, as well. He was willing to stake his life, but that had to be at least partially because he already seemed to consider it as good as lost. That was entirely unsatisfactory, and on more levels than one.

Hogan turned the question over and over in his head, worrying at it like a dog with a bone as they hacked at the hard-packed soil. How did one go about convincing a man who had spent so many years getting the short end of the stick that he no longer believed that the long end even existed?

After a while, he glanced at his watch. Quarter to four; roll call was at six. "Okay, I'm bushed. I think that's enough for one night. Head up topsides; let's all get some sleep."

"Right you are, Guv'ner," Newkirk said cheerfully, putting down his shovel with no reluctance whatsoever.

Hogan rolled his eyes, suddenly irritated. It had been a very long day. "For crying out loud. Would you knock it off with the 'Guv'ner' bit? You sound like the Artful Dodger."

Newkirk recoiled. Stiffly, his diction crisp, he said, "I see, sir. My apologies, sir."

"Look, I realize that this isn't exactly the usual sort of military situation, and I'm giving you fellows a long leash, but I do think I'm owed the courtesy of some basic respect from my men."

"Basic respect?! Basic bl…" He caught himself midword, and snapped to attention as best he could, hunkered down as he was to fit in the tunnel. "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir. I give you my word on that. Sir."

"Thank you, Newkirk. Why were you calling me that in the first place?"

He didn't relax his posture a hair, nor did his enunciation falter, but his expression shifted, and there was a challenge in his eyes. "Well, sir. Permission to explain in a somewhat roundabout fashion?"

Hogan's own eyes narrowed. "Go ahead."

"Taking you as an example, you're called 'Hogan' because your dad was, and you're called 'Robert' because your mum said so. Perhaps your mates called you 'Rob.' I imagine your lady friends called you 'darling' or the like. Those are names. Easily given, and easily changed, and it's not my place to use any of them." He took a breath. "Now, you're my CO because London said so, and you're 'Colonel' because your Army decided you were worth promoting. That could mean anything or nothing; I've no way of knowing by sight."

"You've made no secret of your opinions of officers," Hogan said coldly.

"No. I suppose I haven't. I've met my share of fellows with rows of bright colored ribbons on their breast pockets and hearts like coal underneath them. But there it is, sir. I can call you 'Colonel' because you're sporting that shiny eagle pin on your collar. I can call you 'sir' because all officers like it better when I do. Or maybe I can call you 'Guv'ner' because I think you're worth following. Those are all titles, sir. Not names. Names are given. Titles have to be earned." He saluted, crisp and correct. Even covered head to toe in sweat-matted dirt, he was suddenly every inch the perfect soldier. "Permission to return to the barracks, Colonel Hogan, sir?"

Hogan nodded. "Permission granted," he said carefully, and watched Newkirk crawl back along the newly excavated section of tunnel. He waited until the other man was well out of sight before slapping a hand to his forehead, frustrated with himself. One step forward, two steps back; he was uncomfortably aware that he'd just shot himself in the foot, and being exhausted and sore was no excuse. Rebuilding the trust he'd just blown sky-high could take weeks, and that was time he simply didn't have to waste.

Not to mention the fact that the mercurial old-timer was firmly ensconced in the beating heart of the stalag; he knew everyone, everyone knew him, he knew where all the metaphorical bodies were buried, and everyone owed him a favor or six. If he chose to make any public display of disillusionment with the Colonel and his grandiose, if admittedly unorthodox, plans, Hogan might find himself out of favor not merely with Newkirk, but with half the camp.

OoOoOoOoO

The next day was rainy. Torrentially rainy. 'I just saw an old man leading pairs of animals into a big boat' rainy. Naturally, Lange took the opportunity to call a special formation, which he oversaw from the safe shelter of the porch of the Kommandantur. This had the advantage of annoying, not merely the prisoners, who considered most things Lange did, including continuing to breathe, to be a provocation and an irritant, but the guards, who were forced to trudge through the ankle-deep mud counting them.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," grumbled a lanky newcomer, shifting his feet slightly. They squelched, but he had been captured recently enough that the boots were still in fairly good, nonleaky, condition. He didn't yet know to appreciate that while it lasted, but then he'd only been in camp for about twenty-seven hours. There was time. "There's got to be something in the Geneva Convention about that."

"Forget it," Newkirk muttered back. "Cruel, yes. Unusual, no. Pipe down."

"They can't do this to us!"

"News to them. Now shut up!"

"We've got rights!"

"Do you want the goons to break your nose?"

"No, but—!"

"Do you want me to?"

"Take it easy, soldier," Hogan cut in, as the guard let loose a torrent of angry German that boiled down to a forceful request for silence.

Newkirk shrugged acquiescence. The young sergeant hunched his shoulders under the reprimand, not quite sure which of them was the 'soldier' in question, but obediently falling silent until they were finally dismissed to the dubious shelter of the barracks.

"All right, lads," Forrest said, with a rueful look at the ceiling. "Bucket patrol; you know the drill."

The newcomer, who, in fact, had no idea what he was talking about, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to get in anyone's way (with about as much success as anyone ever has in such a situation,) as bowls, buckets, and LeBeau's stewpot were placed, with mathematical exactitude, beneath the various leaks.

Newkirk walked over to the newcomer and casually wrung out his cap into the stewpot, eliciting an indignant yelp from LeBeau, which he ignored. "Right, then," he said. "Olsen, wasn't it?"

LeBeau watched the young American spend a frantic five seconds trying to decide whether or not admitting it would be a good idea. "Er, yes?"

He gave him a lazy smile, and slung a comradely arm over the other man's shoulder. "Good. First thing you want to do is learn a bit about the guards. Schultzie's one thing. You could get away with mouthing off to 'im. But Schmidt, the one who was counting us just now, really would punch you in the nose for making a fuss. And you can just thank your lucky stars it wasn't Schwartz on duty today, or you'd still be on your 'ands and knees out there, looking for your teeth."

Olsen opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Um… thanks. Which one is… ah, what'd you call him? Schultzie?"

"Schultz you cannot mistake," LeBeau said. "He is the one who looks like an overinflated zeppelin wearing a gravy boat on his head."

That surprised a laugh out of Olsen. "Okay, I'll remember that."

"Do so. We will point out the other guards as they come, and you will soon learn which ones not to provoke," LeBeau encouraged, with a sour look into his stewpot, which already had an inch of water at the bottom. "I hope no one was expecting much for dinner tonight."

"You mean besides the usual 'eartburn, right?" Newkirk gave Olsen a final pat on the back, and turned his attention to the Frenchman.

"I will give you something much worse than heartburn, you Philistine," LeBeau growled.

"You already do, Louie, you already do."

As that little discussion hurtled towards its inevitable conclusion, Olsen backed slowly away, nonplussed. No one else in the barracks was paying any attention whatsoever to what sounded like the prelude to a homicide, or, for that matter, to one puzzled greenhorn, and he thought he might do better to keep it that way. He still wasn't sure how much trouble he might be in as regarded his performance at roll call.

He backed up a step, than another, then turned to climb into his bunk, and found himself face-to-face with his commanding officer.

"Urk," he said coherently.

"At ease, Sergeant," Hogan said pleasantly. "Olsen, right? I've been meaning to welcome you to scenic Stalag 13."

"Er, thank you, sir," Olsen said. "And, sir, I'm really sorry about before. At the formation. I didn't mean to make trouble, sir; I didn't think…"

"Trouble, huh? Well, trouble aimed in the right direction is no trouble at all," Hogan said with a smile.

There was probably something about this bunk, or possibly this camp, that drove people nutty, Olsen thought. He hadn't met a sane POW yet, and it did not fill him with confidence as to his future prospects. Musing on that unappetizing thought, he completely failed to notice an exchange of meaningful glances—Hogan to Newkirk, LeBeau to Forrest, Forrest to Hogan—but the widening grin on the Colonel's face was hard to miss. "In fact, Olsen, sometimes trouble—if correctly applied, of course—is a real help. We'll talk more some other time, maybe."

Later that afternoon, Hogan got a few more details. "'E was clean, sir," Newkirk said. "Nothing in 'is pockets but lint. Not even the usual beat-up photo of the girl back 'ome. I wasn't exactly expecting an Iron Cross and a code book, but even for a POW that's pretty sparse equipment."

"His uniform looked correct," LeBeau added. "Of course, if he is a spy, he could have stolen it easily enough."

"And 'e looked as though 'e understood when Schmidt was bawling us out, sir," Newkirk said, seriously. "Not just the shouting; 'e looked like 'e understood the words."

"Well, if that isn't very suspicious, it could be very useful," Hogan said. "But just in case it's the former, we'll keep an eye on him for a few days. He goes nowhere alone until I say the word, and no one is to mention tunnels in front of the new guy, all right?"

"We'll see to it, Colonel," Forrest promised.

Newkirk met his eye and nodded crisply. Not actually saluting, but not all that far off, either. "Yes, sir. 'E's got 'imself a couple of new best mates, Colonel."

"Good. Keep me posted," Hogan said, nodding a dismissal.

Tunnel construction was being delayed again until they vetted the new guy, who might or might not be a plant, the trick bottom of the footlocker in which they were storing the radio until such time as they were able to create a permanent installation was so utterly insecure that it was giving Hogan nightmares, he still didn't know which—if any—of the other men were going to volunteer to stay, there was a new leak directly over his desk, and Newkirk's careful courtesy was making Hogan's teeth itch.

Some good news right about now would not, he thought, come amiss.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The wisecrack about the likelihood of Hogan finding himself going a bit gray was demonstrably true. The last season or so saw the good Colonel's hair silvering around the edges somewhat, but I suppose when the show lasts longer than the actual war, these things happen. Dr. Hawkeye Pierce could sympathize.

Sergeant Olsen, the 'outside man,' must, I assume, have spoken fluent German. All the characters' proficiency in the language seems to have been sort of mutable; they spoke exactly enough German to suit any given storyline. Oy.

Hogan's still having a few growing pains. Commanding a bomber squadron is nice, of course, but I do suspect that it isn't the best possible preparation for commanding an intelligence unit, especially not one filled with wire-happy paranoiacs. But he's trying, the poor guy, he's trying.