Stars
The tacking-on ceremony was an honor, and Hogan wasn't about to pretend he hadn't rightfully earned this, but it felt hollow. For security reasons, he'd been forbidden to include anyone from Stalag 13. And people who didn't know about the Unsung Heroes operation were already muttering that spending most of the war as a noncombatant and/or collaborator made him an odd choice for promotion. It was grimly lonely, and he had no mission to concentrate on anymore.
Hogan lifted a hand to touch the new stars on his shoulder and wondered what could possibly come next that wouldn't seem anticlimactic.
*.*.*.*.*
Study
Kinch turned a page. Always something new to learn, and not a whole lot else to do on nights like this, when it was just him, a sleeping camp, a silent radio, and whatever book he'd scrounged most recently. Knowledge was power.
After all, high school French and German classes sure had paid off, as had the electronics repair courses and the crystal radios he'd built as a boy. He wasn't sure what his parents would think of his learning to build bombs, but they'd been the ones to teach him that no knowledge, of any sort, is ever wasted.
*.*.*.*.*
Lucky
Lucky in cards, unlucky in love, they say. And probably vice versa, Hogan thought. He was pretty sure he hadn't won at cards since his capture, although he was also pretty sure that at least some of that was his own fault. Why did they always let Newkirk deal?
But it was worrisome, too. It implied that there was only so much luck to go around. Which meant it could run out anytime. That it would. Balances had to be maintained.
Not that he was relying on luck.
Well, not relying entirely on luck.
Lucky in sabotage, unlucky in… what?
*.*.*.*.*
Underneath
Underneath the barracks is a bunker full of everything a saboteur could ever want or need.
Underneath the barbed wire fence is a tunnel to freedom.
Underneath the dogs' kennel is the entrance to a subterranean base.
Underneath the oh-so-patriotic framed photograph of the Fuhrer in Klink's office is a microphone catching every word he says.
Underneath the lid of a coffeepot is a receiver sharing those words with men who will use them in ways they were not intended.
Underneath the proud Luftwaffe uniform is a man grieving for what he has been forced to watch his country become.
*.*.*.*.*
Kiss
Softly, tentatively, she kissed his cheek. Even that gentle, almost chaste gesture shattered his control, and he pulled her close, closer, and with a desire that approached need, bent his head to hers. Their lips met.
It wasn't simply a kiss, it was a consummation, and she melted against him, offering more, begging for more, needing more…
"Well, I'm not waking him up," said Newkirk, looking, with some envy, at LeBeau, apparently having the best dream of his life. Or anyone else's. "I'm not that cruel."
Kinch, in the bunk directly underneath, grimaced, but acquiesced. Carter, several feet away, snickered.
*.*.*.*.*.*