No Fuss, No Muss

Written by Tuttle4077

Well... poop.

Now we had to deal with Crittendon.

Colonel Crittendon. That incompetent lover of geraniums, that master of failed escapes, that obtuse destroyer of plans. Yeah, that Colonel Crittendon.

Let me tell you: no one took the news particularly well, especially the authors, who were ready to revolt at the prospect of sharing the tunnels with Crittendon.

He and another author, Wind-in-the-Sage, were holed up in Olsen's apartment. To keep Olsen's cover safe, they needed to be brought into camp. And in order to get them into camp they needed civvies. On that point Crittendon wasn't much of an issue, but Wind would need a dress. So, after our mission in town, Newkirk and I would drop in on them and Newkirk would either alter one of the dresses Jessica had left behind, or he would take measurements to make her a new one.

Newkirk and I were in for a long night.

At the moment, Leah and I were up top in the barracks getting ready for our assignments. It was nice to be above ground again. The barracks might have smelled like unwashed men, but at least it wasn't as stifling as the dank air of the tunnels. It was colder though. Wind whistled through the various cracks in the barracks' walls and frost crept up the windows. The fire burning in the little stove wasn't enough to warm the entire room. Maybe if I had been pulled into camp during the winter my Canadian hardiness would've protected me. But, as it was it had been June when I had left 2019, so I couldn't help but shiver.

Olsen was busy trying to fashion me into a woman of the 1940's. Across the room, LeBeau and Carter were attempting to turn Leah into a proper-looking prisoner of war. Both endeavours had drawn a crowd of spectators who occasionally heckled their attempts.

Olsen was unperturbed. He was actually pretty good with the makeup and hair. He had been responsible for my transformation into Mimi Renault the first time I had been at Stalag 13. I would have to remember to ask him where and why he had picked up his talents. Maybe he had sisters. Or maybe he was a hair stylist before the war. Who knew?

This time around we were going for a more subdued, mature look than the French maid I had played before: a look that would mark me as upper-class enough to be dining at the Hauserhof, but subtle enough not to draw too much attention.

"Almost done," Olsen muttered between the hairpins in his mouth.

"Now, tell me again what our cover story is," Newkirk said as he took one last look at himself in the mirror and straightened his hat.

"I'm your wife, Klara Richter," I replied. "Our home in Berlin was bombed, so we are heading to Düsseldorf to stay with your mother. But first we are staying a few days in Hammelburg to visit your cousin." I jerked my thumb back towards Olsen.

"And you're not going to speak at all because..." Newkirk prompted.

"Because the bombing left me with a terrible ringing in my ears, and I can barely hear anything else."

"Right. Think you can sell it?"

"I'll give it the old college try," I said as confidently as I could. With any luck, no one would pay much attention to us. We'd have a nice little dinner at the Hauserhof, I would identify Hahn, and after swinging by Olsen's, we would head straight home. No fuss, no muss. Newkirk could do all the talking.

"Right then," Newkirk said. "Good luck, Wigman," he said over his shoulder before coming up to me. "You ready?"

"Ask him," I said, again pointing back at Olsen.

"Just about... there. I think that'll do." Olsen said finally.

"Noice." I jumped up and made my way to the mirror to look myself over. "Hey. Not bad. You're a regular fairy godmother, Olsen," I said as I gently patted my hair. "Aw. I look so pretty." I couldn't help but squee a little at my reflection- it wasn't every day I got to dress up. I have a toddler; my usual style consists of sweatpants and a messy bun (and not even an intentional messy bun that takes hours to craft and actually looks good).

"Enough preening," Newkirk scolded, handing me a heavy wool jacket to put on. "We've got to be off if we want to make it to the Hauserhof by seven."

"Right." I put on the coat and took a step away from the mirror, but craned my neck to keep my face in the reflection. I tilted my head from side to side, just to get another good look before I pulled myself away. Olsen handed me a purse which I slung over my shoulder. Then he grabbed my left wrist and shook it a little.

"Fork in this hand," he instructed. Then he grabbed my other wrist. "Knife in this. No switching back and forth."

I wriggled myself loose. "I know. I always eat that way. When I was a kid we used to visit my grandparents during the-"

"You also always eat like a heathen!" LeBeau huffed loudly, cutting me off. "Remember, you are supposed to be a lady!"

"I do not eat like a heathen!" I fumed indignantly.

"Really Tuttle? I've seen you eat. Someone is liable to lose a hand around you," Olsen said with a hint of amusement.

"I eat fast! It's not like I have my mouth open and I'm flobbing food all over the place. And in my defense-"

"Just try to be civilized," Olsen interrupted.

"Fine. Sure. I'll eat like a lady. I can manage that." No one was interested in my stories or excuses.

"She can't do any worse than Newkirk," Goldman mocked whispered to Garlotti, earning a few chuckles.

"Let's be off then," Newkirk said, ignoring the jab as he opened the bunk entrance. The prisoners wished us luck and we set off.

We managed to clear the tunnels and get into the woods without any trouble. We hurried through the forest for several minutes, keeping as low to the ground as possible. It wasn't yet six o'clock, but the sun was already starting to set, leaving us little light to work with, but I did my best to keep up with Newkirk. Not that he was giving me much of a choice but to keep up. He had a death grip on my arm. In fact, he was practically dragging me along. I would've protested the treatment if it hadn't been such a dangerous situation.

Finally we came to a stop. Newkirk straightened and brushed himself off. I copied him and took a steadying breath. "We're all right now. Still have to be careful, but there shouldn't be too many patrol around here," Newkirk said quietly.

"Can we take the road?" I asked.

Newkirk shook his head. "We're not dressed for travelling; might look suspicious if someone stops us. We'll stick to the trees as long as we can." I sighed. I didn't like the idea of tramping through the forest in these heels- not that they were very high, but still, not exactly made for hiking. "Mind your dress not to catch it on anything."

"Yeah, sure. No problem. How long will it take us to get into town?"

"About an hour with you in tow," Newkirk said. He furrowed his brow. "You'll be all right, yeah?" he said with a hint of worry.

"I'm tough," I assured him. "I actually like to hike. Not usually in the dark in the heart of Nazi Germany, and never in heels, but you know, I've been known to hike up a mountain or two in my time. Even while pregnant."

Newkirk regarded me for a moment then nodded. "Right then, follow me." He offered his hand. I took it and together we began to carefully pick our way through the brush, going as fast as we could. Every once in a while, we would hear a noise and Newkirk would stop and pull me down a bit, but it always turned out to be nothing more than a critter in the trees. Better to be safe than sorry, I suppose. Still, I was never one to be comfortable in silence, so I ventured to start a conversation, albeit a quiet one.

"So... Newkirk... do you like... cheese?"

Newkirk stopped short. After a moment's pause, he looked back at me, obviously confused. "W-what?"

"You know... cheese. Do you like it?"

"I... what?"

I shook my head. "Movie quote. Never mind."

"You are an odd one," Newkirk said, but I caught a hint of a smile.

"I suppose we're all a bit strange to you."

At that Newkirk shrugged and continued to walk. I stayed silent for a bit, watching him whenever I thought the ground was clear enough for me to take my eyes off it. I couldn't help but imagine what his internal dialogue sounded like. If this were a story, I would probably have him marvelling at how ludicrous this situation was. How dangerous. He'd be wondering how on earth he got stuck with this job and how he was going to pull it off without us ending up in a Gestapo cell.

"Talking to yourself?" Newkirk suddenly asked.

"What?"

Newkirk looked over his shoulder and grinned. "You keep moving your hand like you're having a bit of a conversation with yourself."

"Oh. Ha. Yeah," I said, feeling my cheeks burn. See, I'm one of those people who has to move her hands while she talks, even if I'm just talking in my own head. Must be the French in me: the old joke is that if you want a Frenchman to be quiet, hold his hands.

"I was just thinking about what you must be thinking about," I admitted. At that, Newkirk grunted noncommittally, obviously unwilling to share. Maybe because he didn't want to worry me with the less than cheery thoughts he was having about this mission.

"You know, it's funny," I continued, "you'd think it'd be easy for us to have an actual conversation. I mean, know we've bantered back and forth, but that doesn't count."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, we do have some things in common. We both have a million siblings; we both grew up poor in rough neighbourhoods. Although, I suspect that our definitions of 'poor' and 'rough' are vastly different. I mean, there was always food on the table and I never had to resort to stealing. Which, come to think of it, I don't know if any of that's true about you anyway. For all I know, you're a duke in disguise."

"I'm no duke," Newkirk snorted in amusement.

"Yeah, I didn't think so, but anything is possible, I suppose. The show didn't give us much information on you guys. Anything you said about your civilian lives were either said to the Germans, or as some sort of excuse to get out of assignments, which means any and all of it could have been lies. Most of what we know about you is really just theories we've come up with."

"Seems like a waste of time to be speculating about us," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, I guess," I mumbled, remembering my conversation with Carter and hoping that this didn't go down the same path. Not that there would be shouting. Heck, we were taking a risk just whispering as we were. That being said, I had no doubt that Newkirk would've shut me up if he thought it was too dangerous to talk.

We fell into silence again for a good distance until Newkirk suddenly spoke up. "I've got nine brothers and sisters."

"Seven for me," I replied. "My Borg designation is three of eight."

"Borg designation?" Newkirk said, probably regretting he had started the conversation again.

"The Borg: evil hive mind of the universe that wants to assimilate everyone and everything into their collective." I knew he was lost, but offered one more point of explanation. "Star Trek. Never mind. It just means I'm the third oldest. As a side note, I have a friend who is actually seven of nine. Buuut that means nothing to you either. You know, maybe we don't actually have a lot in common."

"Blimey," was all he could say.

"Soooo... ten kids, eh?"

"Too damn many if you ask me," Newkirk grumbled. "Couldn't afford to feed half of 'em,"

"And just which one would you get rid of?" I asked.

Newkirk sighed. "None of 'em. Although Charlie is a bit of a pain."

"Yeah, little brothers; they're the worst. Of course, older sister aren't a picnic either. Ugh. You got any older sisters?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I'm the oldest."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend them. Of course, I'm an older sister." I furrowed my brow and then shrugged. "Ah heck, I'm a peach. An absolute delight. Who wouldn't want me as a big sister?"

Newkirk just heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. He was probably rolling his eyes too, but I couldn't see. "Hush now," he said, "we're almost to the edge of the forest."

I obediently kept quiet, and sure enough, the forest was thinning. Within moments we had run out of trees and were on the cusp of an embankment. Newkirk slid down and carefully helped me join him. I followed his lead as we hurried along the side of the road. The town of Hammelburg laid ahead, seemingly quiet and dark but for a few lit street lights. Good. Maybe no one would notice us.

The streets were deserted until we found ourselves closer to the main square where a few people were milling about. I suddenly became very nervous. How was I supposed to act? Did I look around? Keep my eyes on the ground? What if I made eye contact with someone? Did I smile? Look away? Stare? Blink profusely? Oh gosh, how do normal humans interact with each other? I had forgotten. I'd been stuck in those tunnels for too long.

Actually, to tell the truth, I always think it's awkward to be walking in a crowd. Is that a Millennial thing? It seems millennials all have social anxiety. Too much time on our phones, I guess.

Newkirk pulled me back into reality as he dropped my hand and instead looped my arm through his, and pulled me close. I let out my breath, not realizing I had been holding it, and instinctively snuggled close to him. He'd protect me. He'd make sure nothing bad happened.

Newkirk nodded towards a very grand looking building at the other side of the square. I hadn't had a chance to see the Hauserhof the first time I had been in Hammeburg. Somehow it seemed out of place in such a little town. It had a big courtyard and an ornate fountain, turned off either for the season of the duration of the war, added a sense of grandeur to the place. Under normal circumstances, Newkirk and I would probably be turned away before we got within a hundred feet of the front door. But tonight we were Newkirk and Tuttle- we were Karla and Franz Richter, well-to-do elites, albeit ones in an unfortunate situation.

That thought drew me out of my shell and I stood a little taller, adopting a haughty sort of expression. A doorman greeted us and ushered us in.

The lobby was spacious and elegant, although I saw signs of wear and tear: chipping paint, a tear in the rug, faded patches on the furniture. I guess it was hard to maintain standards during a war.

Newkirk led me down a hall to the in-house restaurant. He spoke with the maître-d quietly and shook his hand. The host slyly slipped a hand in his breast pocket and then with a smile and a nod to me, led us to a table in the back corner. Newkirk must've slipped him some money to get us this table. From there we were mostly hidden from the rest of the dining room, but we could see the door and everyone who used it. We would see Hahn for sure.

I started unbuttoning my coat, and nearly jumped when the host put his hands on my shoulder to help me out of it. Right. Fancy place. Of course he would take my coat. I knew it was little things like that which could blow a cover and felt myself blush. Did I thank him? Ignore him? I didn't know. We should have gone over this in more detail instead of chatting about stupid things on our way.

The man didn't seem to notice- or maybe Newkirk had paid him not to notice- and pulled out my chair for me. I quickly sat and Newkirk shooed the man away with a few words.

Newkirk sat beside me and grabbed my hand. "Steady," he murmured.

I nodded quickly and looked down at my hand in his. I kept my focus there, relying on Newkirk to let me know when Hahn entered.

We didn't talk and after a few minutes I dared to look away from our hands and observe the room. I promptly wished I hadn't. I'm no expert, but I had a terrible feeling that across the room there was a group of Gestapo agents eating. I desperately hoped they were there for pleasure and not business. I saw that Newkirk had noticed them as well, but if he was worried, he didn't show it.

Somewhere, a clocked chimed the hour. Sure enough a man entered the dining room and Newkirk subtly jerked his chin towards him.

It had been ten years, and he was wearing a German uniform, but I never forget a face. It was him. The CIA agent I had met all those years ago after our first adventure in the past. Agent Hogan. I sagged in relief and nodded to Newkirk.

I was a little less relieved when Marya strolled in like she owned the place. Even though we were already mostly hidden from view, Newkirk turned his face from her. If she did notice him, there was no guarantee she wouldn't make some sort of scene.

Fortunately, she seemed more focused on Hahn than us, although I noticed she was making eyes at the Gestapo men. I hope she wouldn't do something to blow Hahn's cover.

No. Marya was crazy, she played her own game, but she was one of the good guys. I hoped.

I very much wanted to leave right then, but that would've been suspicious, so we stayed for dinner. The food was... well... there was a war on, and there's only so much you could do with potatoes and... was this rabbit? I guess I was lucky to be getting any meat at all, but you would think a five star hotel could whip up something better than a lone Frenchman could in a POW camp. Newkirk enjoyed it, but then, isn't everything better than British food? All right, the Brits get a point for fish and chips, but other than that, I haven't heard good things.

When we finally left the hotel, I let out a long breath. We had done it. We had identified Hahn with no fuss and no muss. Now we had to go see Crittendon and Wind.

And, wouldn't you know it that was the most dangerous part of the night.