Carter and Hogan managed to look irritated with one another as they exited the Kommandantur to return to Barracks 2.

"I can't believe you let the Krauts confiscate my Anseris Gantabulator," Carter complained loudly as he passed under Klink's window.

"That's enough, Sergeant," Hogan scolded. "I won't stand idly by while you conduct your biological experiments on geese. And we sure don't need the wrath of Klink falling on our barracks. He's not a man to stand for nonsense."

"Well, I hope he doesn't touch the dials. Not before… you know."

"Oh, I know. If he touches the dials, we're going to have big problems." Hogan rolled his eyes at this ridiculous fable, confident that Klink couldn't see him. But he was selling the story skillfully, and judging from the way the curtains shimmied in Klink's office window, the Kommandant was hanging on every word.

"Yeah," Carter continued. "I wonder if Klink really knows about controlling the geese's metabolism, and … you know… using radio frequency. Do you think so, Sir?"

"Klink?" Hogan said incredulously. Klink, standing behind the curtain in his office, tensed up, expecting another one of Hogan's childish insults.

"Of course he understands, Carter!"

There was something pitiful and subservient in Hogan's voice, Klink decided. The sound of defeat, probably. His chest puffed up.

"Why do you think he took the Gantabulator?" Hogan continued. "He knows its value. He gets the implications. I told you not to fool around with Mother Nature, but you wouldn't listen and now we may be putting important science into the hands of the Germans. My only real hope is that Burkhalter will be too dense to understand the potential here."

Klink smirked and held back a snort. Yes, he congratulated himself, it appeared that Hogan actually did understand exactly who was in charge of Stalag 13, even though he always did his best to hide it behind that infuriating lopsided grin. That scheming, slouching excuse for an officer might be more astute than Klink sometimes gave him credit for. After all, Hogan had put his finger on the very legitimate concern that Burkhalter wouldn't understand anything about Gantabulators. Perhaps Hogan wasn't as witless as he so often seemed, Klink acknowledged silently as he watched the two men outside his window amble back toward their barracks. He peered out and could see that they picked up a little speed as a goose patrol raced toward them, but they outpaced them, and the slam of the barracks door resonated clear across the parade ground.

Klink settled down at his desk and gazed once more at the Anseris Gantabulator. The dials would have been irresistible to most men, he knew, but not to a dauntless member of the Prussian aristocracy like himself. He did, however, allow himself to run his fingers over the machine and touch the shiny dials without moving them.

Then he decided a cover was necessary to keep the machine secure. After all, he had deftly and ingeniously captured it, and he didn't want anything untoward to happen to it. So Klink retreated into his quarters and came back with a folded bed sheet. There, he thought as he draped it over the Anseris Gantabulator. Safe and sound.

He stood back and looked around, dutifully allowing his focus to return to his work. But alas, the machine took up most of his desk, and moving a piece of equipment that was so delicate and strategically valuable was out of the question. Klink stroked his chin and reached a hard decision. He would simply have to take the rest of the day off, perhaps meet his landowner friend in town for dinner for some shoptalk about Gantabulators. Then he checked his watch. Better make that lunch and dinner, he decided. There was a certain blonde barmaid that he was quite sure would join him for a midday meal.

He picked up the phone to summon Schultz, and 15 minutes later, Klink was whisking his way toward Hammelburg with his faithful sergeant behind the wheel.

0000

Carter was peering through the barracks door to monitor what Klink was up to. "Looks like the Iron Eagle's on his way into town with Schultz, Sir," he called out to Hogan as the staff car pulled up.

"Good, they won't be underfoot for at least a few hours," Hogan replied. He was leaning against the bunk that Newkirk and Carter shared, drumming his fingers on his crossed arms and thinking. "Olsen, get over to Klink's office to check the mailbag this afternoon. See if we've got any updates."

"You got it, Sir." Olsen barely looked up from the table. He had just rolled snake eyes to break up a blockade on the Parcheesi board and was grinning menacingly at Garlotti, Walters, and Slim.

"Any problems getting the boys out of camp?" Hogan asked Olsen pointedly.

At that, Olsen took time to turn around. "No, Sir. They hopped right in the truck. They know what they've got to do, Sir. Lie low until nightfall, and then make a lot of noise so they'll be recaptured fast." Seeing that Hogan was satisfied with his response, he turned back to his game. "They're probably killed half a bottle of wine by now."

"I hope they have the sense to pace themselves," Hogan replied. "It's barely noon. Then again, this is LeBeau and Newkirk we're talking about."

"They can hold their drink, Sir, don't worry," Carter put in. "LeBeau's been knocking back glasses of wine since he was six. The French sure are funny that way."

0000

Entering the woods from the Hesse Road, LeBeau and Newkirk beat their way down a path to take shelter, as arranged, in a small abandoned chapel. It was a centuries-old pilgrim's waystation.

"Chapel of the Three Virgin Martyrs," Newkirk translated as they approached the shrine. He did not even attempt to suppress a grin.

"Please try to show some respect," LeBeau sighed. "This chapel was built during the Black Death, you know. It's consecrated ground, even if it is German."

"I know that, LeBeau," Newkirk replied. "We're not going to proposition them Virgins. We're just wayfaring pilgrims looking for deeper meaning in life, which I hope I shall quickly find in that bottle of wine you packed."

They stepped inside the dusty old chapel and looked up at the triptych hung behind the altar, showing three women of unquestionable virtue involved in various deadly pursuits.

"What's she doing with that hammer?" LeBeau wondered as he gazed at the art.

"What, that one?" Newkirk asked, waving lazily toward the middle panel. "That's Saint Margaret, beating a demon to death. You know, she was swallowed by Satan disguised as a dragon, but she got out alive because the cross she was carrying irritated its intestines. And look," he said, gesturing to the panel on the right, "there's Saint Catherine and her spiked breaking wheel of torment. Look at them blades." He tsk-tsked. "Of course, she touched it and it shattered. They had to find another way to do her in, plucky lass."

"How do you know all that?" LeBeau asked in shock.

"Compulsory religious education in British schools," Newkirk shrugged.

"Really? We don't have that in France. I'm surprised you paid attention."

"Well, I slept through a lot of it, but any time a Virgin Martyr was mentioned, I woke right up." Newkirk waved at Margaret and Catherine again. "Them two birds was beheaded, you know. So was Saint Barbara over there," he added, gesturing to the left panel. "Her own father carried out the sentence, and then he was struck by lightning and went up in a blaze. Bloody good story, that one. She's the patron saint of people who work with explosives, you know. I wonder if Carter knows about her."

"I doubt it. I'm pretty sure he's a Methodist," LeBeau said, adding queasily, "Maybe we can find somewhere else to shelter."

"No, I like it here," Newkirk said. "Come on, let's have that wine bottle out now."

Maybe it sounds like I made up the saint stories, but I did not. Barbara, Catherine and Margaret are the three female saints among the 14 Holy Helpers, who were popularly venerated, especially in Germany. The Three Virgin Martyrs also had a big following in many countries and they share a feast day in late November, which is on the Anglican calendar. And yes, religious education was (and I'm pretty sure still is) compulsory in British schools. Fun fact: The British call a type of firework that burns as it spins a Catherine Wheel.