Colonel Hogan's core team of four men was listening intently to the coffeepot in his quarters as their commanding officer attempted to reason with a visitor.

He was Sir Tarquin Morecombe-Flaxby, Baronet, cousin by marriage of Sir Charles Chitterly, and inventor of the Tactical Snow Transmogrifier. A slight, wheezing, bespectacled, balding, bow-tied, 40-something gentleman, he had arrived a few hours earlier and was settling in for the night as a guest in the camp's VIP quarters.

Sir Tarquin had arrived at LuftStalag 13 in the middle of the afternoon to visit Colonel Klink. He reminded the baffled Kommandant that they'd met once on a ski party. He was passing through Hammelburg on his way back to the mountains and thought it would bally good fun to catch up with such a witty acquaintance.

That was all the flattery it took for Sir Tarquin to find himself being hailed as an old friend. Klink couldn't wait to show off to someone, anyone, that he actually had a friend, and Hogan was handy, so he was hauled over to dine with the two old chums. During the meal, Sir Tarquin passed a coded message to Hogan, and that was what brought them together as darkness fell.

In fact, Sir Tarquin had never clapped eyes on Klink before. He had been sent by his cousin, Leslie, Lady Chitterly, to save himself before things got any uglier for Sir Charles, who had been arrested by the Nazis for treason, was now facing execution, and wouldn't have had a much kinder reception in England.

As Sir Tarquin chatted privately with Colonel Hogan, his story unfolded rapidly and urgently. Since his summer boyhood rambles in the Alps, he had been toying with an idea, and his old family friend "Dolf" had kindly provided the lab and resources to develop it. For the past four years, he had been a pampered guest of Germany in Berlin, researching and developing his pet project. The TST, Sir Tarquin proudly explained, could displace 1,000 cubic feet of wind-packed snow in under three minutes at the push of a button. "It will be great fun on mountaineering holidays," he crowed.

"And it will give the Nazis a great advantage in winter warfare," Kinch observed as they listened. "Does he realize he's taking Nazi government money to finance his invention? Does he understand how they'll use it?"

"Does even he care? Hark at him," Newkirk said with a wave at the coffeepot. "He's going on and on about some bird."

They bent their ears as Sir Tarquin prattled about his latest stay at Berchtesgaden with "my Mariel," as he referred to the apparent love of his life.

"Oh, my Mariel loves Bavaria, which is really quite surprising, as she's a native of a much warmer climate. Dolf is very fond of her."

"Really? Where does she come from?" Hogan asked.

"Oh, I picked her up in Tangiers quite a few years ago," Sir Tarquin said airily. "She's lovely and beautiful and so docile, even if she is prone to bickering."

The men around the radio stared at one another. LeBeau shook his head in disapproval.

"That's a fine way to talk about a lady," Carter huffed indignantly. "He 'picked her up'? My mom would have my head, but only after my dad took me to the woodshed for a good thrashing. And he doesn't even believe in corporal punishment! But boy, if I said that stuff, I'd deserve it."

They shushed Carter in time to hear Hogan asking a question: "Is Mariel your wife?"

Sir Tarquin sputtered out a laugh. "If only, my dear man. If only. No. In fact, she tried to get away from me a few times, but I wouldn't let her flee. I clipped her wings, and she's been by my side ever since. Oh! How I hate to get up in the morning when she's not there!"

"OK, do you happen to have a photograph?" Hogan asked. They could hear a rustling sound. "What is this? It looks like ten pounds of bananas."

"Her favorite meal. Before the war, of course," Sir Tarquin said sadly. "She's behind them, nibbling. It was so cute I simply had to take a snapshot." At that moment, the coffeepot crackled. They could hear Sir Tarquin apologizing for not having a better photo, but the sound deteriorated as he launched into his explanation.

"Coffee grounds," Kinch said irritably as he fished a screwdriver and a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. While he fiddled with the device, the other men dissected Sir Tarquin's character.

"You wouldn't expect a scrawny bloke like that to be a bounder, would you? It's always the quiet ones," Newkirk tut-tutted.

"It sounds like he's holding her hostage, feeding her on nothing but bananas," LeBeau added. "No wonder she pickers."

"Bickers, mate. Bickers," Newkirk said with an audible eye-roll.

Kinch shushed them in time to hear the parting words.

"You must reunite me with my lovely girl, Colonel Hogan," Sir Tarquin had pleaded. "Do that, and I will gladly surrender my plans to your 'Allies.'"

"Don't you care about helping our side win? You are British, after all," Hogan said.

"Oh goodness, no, I never get involved in politics," Sir Tarquin said dismissively. "Nazis can be quite nice people, you know, and they've never done a thing to hurt me. Politics is such a crashing bore."

They could hear the dismay in Hogan's voice as he agreed. "All right. You've got a deal, Sir Tarquin," he said.

=H=H=

Hogan tended to think of the fight against the Nazis as a matter of the future of civilization, not politics, but there no point in arguing with an empty suit. Sir Tarquin was clueless about the principles the Allies were fighting for, but he had something Hogan needed, and he wanted something in return. This happened all the time, and Hogan's job was to make it work.

Still, Hogan was fuming as he crossed the compound to return to his quarters. What an annoying little man. What a ridiculous request. The wheezing runt seemed to have no idea that he had nearly handed a valuable weapon to the Nazis—that he could be home if he would simply cooperate—and that instead, he was asking Hogan to put men in harm's way as a condition for swinging over to the side of the Allies. And for what? A flighty female from Tangiers?

Colonel Hogan shut the door to his quarters and slammed his back against it as if he could shut out the world that way. Lips tight, nostrils flared, eyebrows creased to a wrinkle, he looked over at his men, who were huddled around the coffeepot expecting him to say something. He shook his head and let out an aggravated gust of breath.

"All right. OK. You heard everything. He's going to cooperate. But first, we have to get his bird back."

The men all looked startled at Hogan's choice of words, although Newkirk followed it up by smirking with satisfaction. Clearly he was rubbing off on the Colonel.

"We didn't actually get that part, Sir," Kinch said. "We had a little static on the line." He scowled at LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter.

"It's surprising they're not married," LeBeau interjected. "The way he keeps moaning, "My Mariel, my Mariel," I assumed…"

"Very funny. He had me thinking that too. But you heard. I asked him directly and it was a big joke to him."

"We heard him laughing. He's a selfish blighter if you ask me," Newkirk put in. "Who would drag a bird all over Nazi Germany and lose her on the way? He picked her up, enjoyed the pleasures of the town, and then left her flat? So much for the bleeding aristocracy having any class."

"I don't know, Newkirk. He was staying at the Hauserhof, preparing to come to see Klink, when he caught a whiff that the Gestapo was looking for the man who was traveling with Mariel. And, well, she's a pretty distinctive companion." The men nodded; she was from Tangiers, after all, and undoubtedly looked exotic to Europeans.

Hogan continued, "He said he couldn't grab her fast enough. It seems to me he had to leave her behind. But clearly, she's special to him. He wants her and he won't hand over his work to the Allies until he gets her back."

He couldn't "grab her"? Newkirk wasn't well-born like Sir Tarquin, but he was bloody well decent and honorable where women were concerned. Had this bloke's mum never drilled home the notion of "ladies first"? Newkirk was getting angry on the poor girl's behalf. He wouldn't blame her if she turned on him.

"What if she sings to the Gestapo, Sir?" Newkirk asked.

"What if she does? It's what they do, isn't it?" Hogan replied. "Or is this the kind that just repeats everything you say? I'm never sure."

Newkirk bit his lip and didn't say what he was thinking, which was "That's quite cynical, Sir." He wasn't sure it would fly coming from the resident cynic.

"Well, does she want to go back to him?" he asked

"Oh, I doubt she has an opinion on the matter. They're not exactly known for being contemplative creatures," Hogan said.

Newkirk was flabbergasted. LeBeau, Kinch, and Carter fought to control the looks of outrage on their faces. Hogan forged ahead anyway.

"I guess you can ask her when you see her, Newkirk. Maybe she'll squawk for you," Hogan snickered. "You're handling this part of the mission."

"What? Why me?" And, he added silently, "Squawk? Really, Sir?"

"You've always been very fond of birds," Hogan smirked.

There it was, that word again. Everyone flinched. How peculiar of Colonel Hogan to keep saying that.

"Yes, Sir, I'm quite good with them, actually. I've had a great deal of experience," Newkirk said. The Colonel was acting so oddly that Newkirk thought it would be best to simply be agreeable.

Hogan's countenance suddenly turned serious. "Have you really, Newkirk? I didn't know that about you. You certainly have an interesting background."

Now everyone was looking at Hogan with increased worry.

He's not having me on. He means that, Newkirk thought. He's gone round the bend.

"Sir," Newkirk replied as gently as if he was speaking to a doddering grandparent, "of course I know my way around birds. I've mentioned it many times. You remember, don't you?" He looked around at his friends with an expression that said "Help me out here, fellas." They all nodded enthusiastically.

"He's excellent with, uh, birds, Sir," Carter said. "I've seen it myself."

"Pierre has always had a talent for putting the ladies at their ease," LeBeau added graciously.

Hogan smiled at that. Everyone could see the tension melting away. "Good, good," Hogan said. "This one's female."

Newkirk had to remind himself not to let his jaw hang open. "They're all female, Sir," he said.

"No they're not," Hogan replied, arching an eyebrow as if he'd been taking lessons from Kinch.

"Of course they are, Colonel," Kinch replied. "Birds. Girls. Ladies."

Hogan looked at his men bewildered. Worried. Maybe they'd all been away too long. Surely they hadn't forgotten about the birds and the bees. Then the penny dropped.

"Who exactly do you think Mariel is, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"His mistress, obviously, since he's been with her for years and hasn't had the decency to marry her," Newkirk replied.

"OK, sit down," Hogan said. "We need to clear a few things up."

=H=H=

"So Mariel is an actual bird," Newkirk said.

"Yes," Hogan replied. "A parrot."

"A parrot," Newkirk repeated. If he sounded stunned by the turn the conversation had taken, it's because he was.

"An African rose-ringed parrot. Technically, I guess it's a parakeet, but much bigger. It's from Tangiers," Hogan said.

"Tangiers," Newkirk responded

"Are you parroting me on purpose, Newkirk?" Hogan asked in the tone of a man who already had a big, bad headache and did not wish to be trifled with.

"No, Sir. I honestly don't know what I'm doing or saying anymore," Newkirk replied. "You want me to go and liberate … Mariel… from… where is it again?"

"She's in the basement of Gestapo Headquarters."

"Gestapo Headquarters."

"You're doing it again," Hogan warned.

"I'm sorry, Gov, I'm just wrapping my mind around this. I'm to steal a parrot from Gestapo headquarters. By myself."

"By yourself."

"Now you're doing it."

Hogan pulled off his crush cap and sighed. "It's catching. Listen, I know this is possibly the stupidest mission I've ever asked you to go on."

"There was that time with the cuckoo clocks, Sir," Newkirk offered. "And that time you made me drive a tank into camp."

"Yes, fair enough. But by and large, this one is extremely stupid. It's also simple in its way, though. We've got Sir Tarquin right here in camp. Getting him underground and on his way to England will be a snap once he's confident Mariel will join him."

"Righto." Newkirk bit his lip and decided to beg. "Can't someone come with me, Colonel? Anyone? Because this mission has fiasco written all over it." He looked at his watch. "It's already very late, and we won't go home till morning. I might need some help trapping it…"

"Her, Newkirk. It's a lady parrot. Show some respect," Carter interjected.

"… trapping her and then explaining why I'm carrying a brightly feathered friend through town. Please, Colonel?"

Hogan considered his options. Carter had an appointment to blow up Sir Tarquin's car in the wee hours of the morning to provide cover for his disappearance. Kinch was needed at the radio. And he sure as hell wasn't going. That only left one option.

"OK, fine. LeBeau, you can be Newkirk's wingman."

=H=H=

Hogan considered having his men wear their sabotage blacks but quickly realized that detection was unavoidable on this mission, given that they would be abducting a bird of a breed known for its garrulousness. So after 15 seconds of careful deliberation, the Colonel decided it would be best to send Newkirk and LeBeau forth as two members of a special cleaning crew dispatched by Hammelburg Animal Control—an old woman and her idiot son.

"All right, let's go over a few things before you leave," Hogan pointed to a map as Newkirk stood beside him, trying to straighten his ample bosom. "Mariel was seen being carried into Gestapo headquarters this morning. Our inside contact who supervises the cleaning crew says she's in Basement Room 7, which is right here." Hogan thunked his index finger down on the map.

LeBeau leaned in. "If we can make our way through the front door, we take the corridor to the right, then a left, a right onto the service corridor, and down a flight of stairs halfway along. Exit out the window of Room 7."

"There goes another pair of my stockings," Newkirk sniffed. Once he was in character, he was all the way in. "Do we have a cage for the bird?"

"Mariel was transported in her cage, so that shouldn't be a problem," Hogan said. "But you need to look the part, so you're going to carry a large net and some bird treats." Carter appeared behind Colonel Hogan as if on cue, holding out a net he'd improvised from a broomstick, some wire, an embroidery hoop, and string.

"You're crackers," Newkirk said as he accepted the net.

"Parrots loves crackers. They'll win her over," Carter said enthusiastically.

"What, Christmas noisemakers?"

"No, crunchy tidbits to eat," Carter explained. "Here," he said, pulling a packet from his jacket pocket. "We had some soda crackers in our Red Cross packages. They also like millet, but I couldn't get my hands on any of that."

"Right. You've thought of everything," Newkirk said. He handed the crackers to LeBeau and examined the net in his hands. "It's tightly woven."

"You could use it for the catching of fleas or butterflies," LeBeau marveled.

"You don't want the net loops any wider or the parrot might slip through or hurt its wings," Carter said.

=H=H=

Newkirk and LeBeau ascended the steps of Gestapo headquarters shortly before midnight and presented themselves for inspection. They made an extraordinary sight.

The old lady, tall for a woman of any age let alone an elderly one, was dressed in a horrific ensemble of flowered dress, musty lavender shawl, long grey gloves, and a fussy little hat. Her grey hair was tucked into a neat bun, and she had a handbag over one wrist and what appeared to be an extremely large butterfly net in the opposing hand.

The small grumbling man at her side wore thick glasses, a porkpie hat, and a corduroy suit. He grunted out monosyllables and had a murderous look in his eye.

"Who are you? What are you doing here at this hour?" asked the guard on duty.

"Mein Liebling and I are here to assist with the bird that was brought in earlier, aren't we, Sonny?" Newkirk said sweetly.

"Unnnnh," LeBeau rumbled in what apparently was the affirmative.

Newkirk addressed the guard. "Don't mind my dear child. He isn't much for humans, but he's remarkable with animals. We are Frau Selig and Sohn, Certified Animal Wranglers. We've been summoned by the cleaning staff. They're accustomed to all sorts of messes, this being Gestapo headquarters…"

"Blood," LeBeau interjected with a disturbing grin. "And other bodily fluids."

"Quiet, bitte, mein Liebling, and think gentle thoughts," Newkirk said, pressing a gloved hand onto LeBeau's shoulder. She turned back to the guard. "As I was saying, your regular crew is accustomed to many messes, but not…"

"Animal droppings!" LeBeau interjected gleefully.

"Yes, just so, mein Liebling," Newkirk said, pressing again on LeBeau's shoulder. "There are so many messes we enjoy cleaning up, but none more than birds. And your poor staff…"

"What do you know of our staff?" the guard asked.

"I know a great deal!" Newkirk said in a shrill voice, straightening his back as he thrust out his bosom. "The crew supervisor, Frau Finzel, and I were ladies' maids together during the Kaiser's reign, God rest his soul!"

Frau Finzel was summoned, and Newkirk instantly regretted that last bit of improvisation. She was around 30; she couldn't have been more than five or six at the end of the Kaiser's regime.

"Ladies' maids together?" the guard snarled.

Frau Finzel looked confused and Newkirk was babbling out a desperate answer when a glaring LeBeau stomped his foot down on the guard's instep and croaked out two entire sentences: "Don't pick on Mama. She gets confused sometimes."

"There, there, mein Liebling," Newkirk said to soothe the agitated lad. He turned to the guard, who was hopping up and down in pain. "Don't mind me, dearie. I was thinking of Frau Finzel's mother… in-law." He leaned in closer. "And about my dear son… you must understand, there is a reason he is not a brave man in uniform like you." He made a circle at the side of his head with his index finger. "But every little snowflake is special, don't you think?"

"Liebste Tante!" Frau Finzel said, throwing her arms around Newkirk. "I'm so glad you've come to help. It's been very difficult for me—I'm just a lady in the dark with wild wings flapping overhead." She turned to the guard with tears in her eyes. "Herr Oberschütze, Frau Selig has been sent to help us capture the bird and sanitize the space."

The guard reached out for LeBeau angrily. "Fine. But that son of hers is coming with me! He cannot attack me! I'm a private first class!"

"Ah, but he is the sanitization specialist, Herr Oberschütze!" Frau Finzel said. "Please, try to understand. We must contain the risk of … of… of…" She looked around frantically. She hadn't had to improvise this much since a childhood career on stage.

"…Histoplasmosis and other bird-borne diseases," Newkirk said. "Goodness me, we can't risk that!"

=H=H=

"I would let it fly off if I were you," Frau Finzel was saying as she led Newkirk and LeBeau down the steps. "What a horrible creature it is. Beautiful plumage, but most unpleasant." They arrived at a heavy metal door and knocked.

An old man peered through a tiny window in the door and then, with great difficulty, drew open its massive weight. "You need keys to see the bird," he said. "Everybody wants a key to my cellar."

"Why? What's down here now besides the parrot?" There was trepidation in LeBeau's voice as he asked the question. This part of Gestapo headquarters had once been familiar to him; he'd spent time dangling by his thumbs in one of the cells. But he hadn't been here in some time.

"A beer hall called Dina's Underground. I know it's a peculiar location, but it keeps the nice Gestapo men safe from the rabble, and an evening in the kitchen at Dina's is probably Hammelburg's best-kept secret."

LeBeau inhaled the nauseating scent of sauerkraut and bratwurst as the sounds of an oompah band playing The Donkey Song battered his ears. "Hia, hia, hia, ho," brayed a chorus of Nazis. "Hia, hia, hia, ho."

"I hope they can keep it a secret," LeBeau said in his best attempt at sincerity.

=H=H=

They made their way into Basement Room 7, and there, flapping away near the ceiling, was Mariel. Her cage, with its door brazenly open, was on a table in the middle of the room.

"Who let her out of the cage?" Newkirk asked wearily. The net was meant to be a prop, for decoration. He wasn't planning on having to capture the ruddy bird.

"Nobody let her out," Frau Finzel said. "She muscled up to the bars and then, zoom." She smacked a palm to the back of her hand.

"Zoom," Newkirk repeated, gesture included.

"Yes. Are you parroting me on purpose?" Frau Finzel said with annoyance. She was here to supervise the cleaning crew, not argue with POWs in ridiculous get-ups.

"Sorry, no, I'm just feeling pettish. Extremely stupid missions do that to me." Newkirk turned to LeBeau. "All right, Louis, I'll see if I can get Mariel with the net. When I catch her, I'll slap her down to the ground and you can help me settle her into her cage, right?"

"Wrong," LeBeau said. "You'll hurt her."

"We have this special net that can't hurt their wings, Louis," Newkirk pointed out.

"Think about it, mon pote." LeBeau supplied the sound effects of the scene he was imagining. "Whoooosh. Splat."

Newkirk's shoulders slumped. "I'm a sneak thief, not an animal behaviorist. I'm not cut out for this wildlife rescue rubbish. All right, what's your idea?"

"We'll offer her treats," LeBeau said. "Let her come to us. If she's down on the ground eating when you get her with the net, she won't go splat."

"It's always about food with you," Newkirk replied. "Fine, we'll do it your way."

LeBeau began whistling jauntily and soon Newkirk chimed in.

"Come on, Polly," Newkirk chortled. "Pretty Polly Parrot." He paused to observe her blue and green plumage. "Blimey, she is pretty, isn't she?"

"Yes, but why are you calling her that? She has a name," LeBeau scolded as he crumbled a cracker into bits in his hand.

"I thought all parrots answered to Polly. It's like calling a boy 'lad,' or calling your friend 'mate,'" Newkirk reasoned.

While they were arguing, Mariel swooped down and grabbed the cracker bits from LeBeau's outstretched hand and took a hunk of skin with it.

"Aïe!" LeBeau shouted. "She bit me!"

"I told you calling her was not going to work." Newkirk addressed the bird: "You're a very naughty, spoilt little parrot, Mariel! Don't bite the hand that's feeding you!"

Mariel replied by circling directly over her visitors' heads.

"Oi! No buzzing! You're not in approved airspace!" Newkirk snapped. "Blimey, I've had it with that bird. Frau Finzel, how about fetching two buckets of water?"

Frau Finzel went off with a smile. She liked the sound of this.

"Pierre, what are you going to do to the parrot?" LeBeau asked nervously. He had no qualms about finishing off animals that were edible, but as far as he knew there was very little meat on a parrot, so Mariel clearly fell into the categories of "pet" and "not to be harmed."

"I'm just going to get her a bit damp," Newkirk replied. "If we stun her, we can catch her. Blimey, I thought they couldn't fly once their wings were clipped," he added, ducking as the bird sped past him, making his wig wave.

"They can still fly. They just can't get much lift," LeBeau answered just as Frau Finzel returned and triumphantly placed two hefty wooden buckets on the floor.

"Here you are," she said. Frau Finzel gestured up at the bird, who had perched on a window sill. "Oh, how charming! If she bobs her head at you, she wants your attention."

"Does she really?" Newkirk said. "Because she's about to get it. Get your bucket in position, Louis. On three. One, two…"

Just as "three" was about to cross Newkirk's lips, Mariel flew into her cage of her own free will and perched on her little swing. The sudden change of direction happened in a flash, and it was just discombobulating enough to throw LeBeau and Newkirk ever so slightly off balance. Just enough off balance that they threw the water at one another. They were staring at each other and dripping when they heard a tiny thud.

Mariel had fallen off her swing.

"Oh dear. I don't think she's at all well," Frau Finzel said.

"Little parrot, are you still alive?" LeBeau shouted at the cage.

Frau Finzel and LeBeau were deeply distraught but Newkirk saw what happened next. Mariel opened one eye and shut it fast.

"That bird just winked at me," Newkirk said in astonishment. "You horrible little sneak. Get back up on your swing this instant."

There must have been something authoritative in the command because Mariel twitched and then stirred and then hopped up to her swing. She winked again.

"You cheeky little pest," Newkirk snapped as a trickle of water dripped down his face. "Wait till we tell your father about this!"

LeBeau and Newkirk climbed out the cellar window with Mariel, her birdcage, and the net that they didn't even use. Newkirk wanted to leave it, but LeBeau wouldn't let him. Luckily, the oompah band and the braying Nazis drowned out the noise they made while clambering and clattering to safety.

They plodded damply back to camp, arriving in the wee small hours of the morning. As they descended into the tunnels, they could hear Sir Tarquin speaking in sweet, coaxing tones. What an eccentric man, they both thought as they drew closer to his voice.

Then they heard it. A squawk. As they entered the radio room, wings fluttered past them and a bird squawked again. It perched on Kinch's desk—a stocky, short-tailed green parrot with a yellow head.

"Where did that thing come from?" Newkirk thundered as he held up Mariel's cage. "I thought you wanted this one."

"Oh. I didn't think you'd pull it off, you see," Sir Tarquin replied. "So I got a new one. A yellow-headed Amazon parrot. Isn't she gorgeous? Beautiful plumage. Her name is Andrea."

Carter popped his head out of his lab. "He named him after me 'cause I met up with the delivery guy for him," he said proudly.

"Delivery? We've only been gone three hours!" Newkirk said in astonishment. "How do you get a yellow-headed Amazon parrot delivered in the middle of the night?"

Colonel Hogan and Kinch entered from wherever they'd been lurking, looking very weary. "From something called Amazon, apparently," Hogan said. "It's Prime Day, whatever that means. I'm not sure how they found our address, but they're very efficient."

"Well, what are we going to do with Mariel?" Newkirk practically screamed.

"Have you ever noticed that sometimes after you get what you want, you don't want it?" Sir Tarquin asked. A bit of a wobble had come into his voice, almost as if he expected violence or bloodshed to ensue.

"I. Have. Never. Noticed. That." Newkirk, in his wig, his fetching little hat, his shawl, his flower dress, and his thoroughly shredded stockings, loomed over Sir Tarquin, a portrait of menace. He yanked Sir Tarquin by the bow tie, pulling it off in a single snap of the wrist and slapping him across the face with it. "You take your Tactical Snow Transmogrifier, your bow tie, and your two bloody parrots and go back to England where I hope you shall stand trial not only for treason but for sheer selfishness."

He gestured at Mariel, who was looking at Sir Tarquin and then Andrea and then back at Sir Tarquin. "Look at that beautiful bird," Newkirk said. "Just look at her. You're broken her little heart."

There was unmistakable disappointment in Mariel's beady red eyes as she muscled up against the bars of her cage and flew out. She circled the room three times, made a well-targeted deposit on Sir Tarquin's wispy, balding head, and then glided toward her destination: the shoulder of one Corporal Peter Newkirk. Mariel fluffed her feathers, cooed, and rubbed her head against her new friend.

"Blimey," Mariel said, looking straight at Andrea. "Blimey, I've had it with that bird."

"Oh, bloody hell," Newkirk groaned. "Now what?"

"You got bananas for Freddie, now get bananas for me," Mariel squawked.

Note: Mariel has somehow seen s3e29, "Monkey Business," possibly with her Amazon Prime subscription. And The Donkey Song, complete with hee-haws, is an Oktoberfest staple.