FUSSY, CHAPTER 35: UN SENTIMENT MALADE (A Sick Feeling)

Newkirk emerged from mending LeBeau's uniform, but the bickering went on all afternoon, and not even Hogan dared to interrupt.

By the time it was 1800 hours, Hogan had a headache from listening to them. He cautiously took a seat at the head of the table for the evening meal and listened in amazement as the arguing persisted.

Most of the men of Barracks 2 were lingering outside to catch the last rays of sunlight after their mess hall meal. Inside, the heated discussion turned from the French national team's ejection from the Five Nations Rugby tournament in 1931, to British bombings of the French fleet in 1940, to the invention of manned flight, which led to… well, no one could follow. Hogan certainly couldn't.

"Why do you think it's called a parachute? It's obviously a French word! It was invented in France!" LeBeau, seated at the table between Hogan and Newkirk, thumped his fist and made the dishes jump.

"Do me a favor, Louis… all I said was…" Newkirk blew a mouthful of smoke in LeBeau's direction.

"… Invented by Louis-Sébastien Lenormand. Every French schoolboy knows this." LeBeau coughed his way through the explanation as his hand waved the smoke away. "Ugh. You are disgusting."

"… All I said was, the hot air balloon was a br-brilliant invention, by French standards. That was a compliment. You French aren't exactly known as innovators—you do realize that, don't you?" Newkirk stubbed out his cigarette on his plate and rolled his eyes in silent communion with Carter, who was sitting across from him. Carter, however, averted his eyes and concentrated on his spam. He knew better than to get involved, even with a gesture.

"Just remember who the first two trans-Atlantic flyers were," Newkirk argued. "Alcock and Brown! They were British, they were!"

"Bah! What about the pencil sharpener! The stethoscope! Food tins! Braille! These are all French inventions! What have the English ever invented besides capotes anglaises?" LeBeau was on his feet now, irritably clearing dishes, although he did note with satisfaction that Newkirk had cleaned his plate.

"What, besides st-steam engines and locomotives and, and, and Tarmac? Well, how about the queue, then? That's the foundation of modern civilization, mate." He added with a scoff, "Pencil sharpeners indeed."

LeBeau was grumbling to himself in French now. Clearly, he had moved into the phase of the argument where he wouldn't give Newkirk the satisfaction of a reply. So Newkirk softened his voice and began muttering, "And what the hell is a capotes anglaises? Do I even want to know?"

"Pretty sure you don't," Kinch interjected, gesturing with a fork in Newkirk's direction. He'd been late to the table as he was receiving last-minute instructions from London, so he was still eating. "Ease up, LeBeau. You're baiting him. And quit arguing back, Newkirk. You two act like you don't want to work together tonight."

"It would be better if he stayed in camp," LeBeau grunted from his place near the stove, where he was inspecting the coffee pot and clearly finding it lacking in some way, based on the grimace on his face.

"It would be better if he st-stayed," Newkirk replied, crossing his arms angrily and turning his back to LeBeau.

Hogan had been silent long enough. Kinch, sitting at his right side, recognized the signs of a pending eruption and quirked an eyebrow. "Sit down, LeBeau," Kinch said quietly. He did, and everyone went quiet.

Hogan had a look on his face that his men had seen only glimmers of before. He knew what it was. He was having flashbacks to riding in the back seat of his dad's 1915 Pierce-Arrow Model 48 Seven-Passenger Touring with his brother and sisters, and he was involuntarily channeling his father's voice saying. "Don't make me come back there." Of course, the phrase wouldn't have made sense to anyone present, but it made sense in the Colonel's mind. His father had invented it, mostly because of him.

When Hogan finally spoke, it was in a tone that managed to both even and menacing. "I'm this close to saying both of you should stay and I'll manage with Carter," he said.

Carter, who had been sitting there innocently, listening to the squabble, winced and slumped his shoulders. Hogan noticed, tried not to sigh, and immediately clarified his thoughts.

"Carter has all the necessary skills, and he could do it," Hogan said as Carter straightened up his back. "But he's been getting a workout the last few weeks. And there's some stealth involved tonight, and a very small space as well, so this mission has your names written all over it. I'm stuck with you two, so I need you to stop arguing."

LeBeau and Newkirk sat silently, neither one budging.

"Do you understand?" Hogan asked sternly.

"Oui, mon Colonel," LeBeau said, casting his eyes anxiously at Newkirk. "Je compris. Et toi, Pierre?" he added gently.

"Oui. I mean yes. I understand, Sir, and I pr-promise I'll be ready," Newkirk said, looking up at Colonel Hogan.

"Good," Hogan said, rising to his feet. "I've got a few details to take care of. We leave at 2200 hours. Kinch, you finished?"

Kinch took a last bite of food and picked up his plate, but Carter snatched it away. "I'm washing dishes tonight," he said. "Go, the Colonel needs you." Kinch followed Hogan into his office.

LeBeau and Newkirk remained at the table. Carter was humming to himself, and the other men were quietly filing back into the barracks.

Newkirk looked up nervously at LeBeau. "Sorry, Louis," he said in a whisper. "It's j-just been a while."

"A month is a long time, mon pote," LeBeau agreed. "You'll be fine. C'est simple comme bonjour!"

"That's easy for you to say," Newkirk joked. "Saying hello has never been qu-qu-quite so easy for me."

LeBeau smirked and elbowed Newkirk in the ribs, making him grin.

"We'll do it together, then eh? Just as we always do. Now, t'as une clope?"

"Of course, mate," Newkirk responded, digging his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He handed one to LeBeau and lit it for him, then lit one for himself.

XXX

By day, Red Rover was Ernst Klippel, a senior member of the Hammelburg merchant class and the owner of a successful winery, farm, hotel, and restaurant enterprise. Sort of.

The farm, hotel, and restaurants had been seized for war work. However, Klippel was permitted, as an officer in the local Nazi party apparatus, to manage the farm in exchange for a modest salary, and to operate the winery much as he had before the war.

There was one small condition: 90 percent of the winery's output went directly to the government. Bottles of Klippel Riesling and Silvaner were on every Heer and Luftwaffe officer's dinner table within a radius of 100 kilometers of Hammelburg, and some bottles even made their way to Hamburg and Berlin. The small portion that Klippel could sell himself ended up with customers like the Hauserhof.

His management of the farm and winery meant that Klippel was in constant contact with military officials, a growing number of whom were losing faith in the Third Reich's prospects. Klippel took his time cultivating his contacts, because he couldn't risk getting tied up with double agents.

Over time, the Quartermaster of the Hammelburg Heer garrison had proven to be a regular and reliable informer. He was the one who introduced Klippel to the Heer engineers who were overseeing the test firing of the Rheintochter surface-to-air missiles. After a long evening in Klippel's private tasting room at the winery, the engineers became quite relaxed and chatty—so much so that Klippel's wife was able to slip off their coats to make them comfortable and photograph the documents they were carrying in their breast pockets.

And just like that, Klippel had his hands on vital information. He trusted Papa Bear to convey it to London. He was seated at his regular table at the Hauserhof when Heer Oberst Hellman strode in flanked by two aides.

Klippel smiled warmly at Hellman, better known as Papa Bear. He knew the other two men also—in the underground they were known as Lightning and Phantom, although Klippel was quite sure they had other names as well. Lightning was the feisty Frenchman whom he'd seen recently at a dinner reception hosted by Stalag 13's Kommandant, that buffoon Klink. Phantom, an Englishman, had not been seen much lately. He seemed to be living up to his name by appearing ghostlier and thinner than Klippel remembered.

Klippel greeted Hellman warmly as the Oberst's two aides stood at attention. Then, with a snap of Hellman's fingers, the lieutenants patrolled the room as Klippel and Hellman sat together. Working separately, they looped through the dining room, staring down at patrons and stopping now and then to make a crisp inquiry.

Most patrons, in the face of a strutting young officer who was clear examining them for signs of disloyalty, were chastened. If they looked at Newkirk and LeBeau at all, it was with a weak grin and a subservient dip of the head to acknowledge that they were in the presence of military authority.

Newkirk noticed, however, that one man's eyes were following him. He decided he'd better size him up, so stopped at the table occupied by the young man and his female companion. They looked to be in their mid-30s and the man was in civilian attire.

"Are you not in service to the Führer?" Newkirk asked sharply.

"I was, until Bryansk," the man replied.

"Bryansk was a great victory for the Fatherland," Newkirk said skeptically. "Why are you out of uniform? Surely you have medals to display."

"It was indeed a great victory," the man replied. "But such victories come at a personal cost." He reached to the floor for a cane and struggled to his feet, or rather, foot. He was missing his right leg from just below the hip.

Newkirk nodded briskly. "I beg your pardon. Please sit. I see you have served with honor, Herr…?"

"Hauptmann Löhner," the man replied. The man took his seat. "I am now the city manager of Hammelburg. The Bürgermeister presides, of course, but I see to it that the work is done."

Newkirk bowed deeply from the waist. "It is an honor to meet you, Hauptmann Löhner," he said. "Please, continue your meal." He continued making his rounds, trying to look as imperious and intimidating as possible to remind patrons that the Heer was in the room. Inside, however, he was rattled. The man might be an enemy, but he had paid severely for his service.

Returning to the table, LeBeau and Newkirk nodded to Hogan, who gestured to them to sit. They spoke in low voices.

"Room's clear, Sir," Newkirk reported. "Nobody concerns me, except for that bloke I was speaking to. We should keep an eye on him. He was watching me."

Klippel laughed softly. "You found Hauptmann Löhner," he said. "Very astute, Leutnant. But not to worry."

"You know about him?" Hogan asked under his breath.

"I recruited him," Klippel said. "Witnessing atrocities, and barely surviving one, has a way of concentrating the mind on doingwhat is right." He turned his attention back to Hogan. "I have your package."

"Not here at the table." Hogan nodded to Newkirk. "You first." Then he turned to Red Rover. "Give him a minute, then follow him to the men's room."

Newkirk and Klippel did as Hogan said. In the men's room, Klippel handed a slim package to Newkirk, who stuck it in a pocket, nodded, and disappeared into a stall. "Don't wait," he murmured.

Klippel seized the opportunity before him, then washed his hands and returned to the table. He could hear that the man he knew as Phantom had removed his jacket and was fiddling with something behind the privacy of the door.

Klippel emerged from the men's room and was about to slip back into his seat when he felt a hand clamp down on his arm. He turned quickly and found himself face to face with the Quartermaster. Two men in Gestapo plainclothes were striding toward the table.

"This is your man," the Quartermaster announced. "Who are you?" he said sharply as he turned his attention to Hogan and LeBeau.

"I am Oberst Hellman, and this is Leutnant Landau," Hogan replied, standing up to face the man and hoping that his height would prove intimidating.

It didn't help. The Quartermaster wasn't that tall, but the Gestapo men behind him were burly. As they handcuffed Klippel, the Quartermaster addressed Hogan. "I'm afraid I must ask you to accompany me, Oberst Hellman. You are material witnesses to this man's activities tonight."

Inside, Hogan was panicking, but he didn't let it show. This was supposed to be a simple mission—what had gone wrong? But he snapped into character and let out a mildly exasperated sigh. As he did so, he briefly locked eyes with Newkirk, who had just emerged from the men's room. He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head slightly, and with that signal, Newkirk disappeared into the crowd. He was in the alleyway beside the restaurant when he saw Hogan, LeBeau, and Red Rover being loaded into a Gestapo staff car.

I think the French was understandable in context, but just in case:
"Je compris. Et toi, Pierre?" means "I understand. And you, Pierre?"
"C'est simple comme bonjour" literally means "it's as easy as saying hello." We might say "It's as easy as riding a bike," with the point being that you wouldn't forget how.
"T'as une clope?" is "Got a cigarette?"