December 7, 1941 -- Stalag 13, Germany
"Good God, LeBeau," Captain Scott gasped around the thick concoction in his mouth, "could you have made this taste any worse?"
"Captain," he replied softly, "it is not intended to be eaten."
"Not to be eaten?" he questioned, sandy eyebrows rising half-way up his forehead. "Why in God's name would you make travelling food that is not intended to be eaten. How are our boys supposed to survive?"
"Those are the blocks of dye that Laurent and Irving use to darken our uniforms. The energy bars that I have made," he explained, trying hard not to laugh at the Englishman, "are on the other side of the table."
Without another word Scott took off for the door to the barracks. Throwing open the flimsy wooden door with a bang, and forgetting the system of stooges for the moment, he leaned over and spit the mouthful of bitter dye out onto the frozen ground.
"What'd you go and do that for?" demanded LeClerc from his undignified position on the ground. When Scott had burst through the door he had knocked the lanky Frenchman from his stool and into the pile of snow to the side of the step. "I've got half a mind to…"
"My apologies, LeClerc," Scott answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "There was a minor incident in the kitchen."
LeClerc looked at Scott as though he had grown another head. "Captain," he started, somewhat awkwardly, "I'm not sure if you knew, well, if you were aware that, um…"
"Out with it already," Scott said, placing his hands on his hips and gazing at the prone Frenchman. Scott did many things well, but tiptoeing around a subject wasn't one of them.
"Your mouth, sir, it's black."
"Actually, I was aware of that." Scott's face turned red despite his nonchalant tone. LeBeau appeared in the doorway, white cap worn high on his head in an attempt to extend his height. "What is it, LeBeau?"
"It's the men in the tunnels, sir. They've shut down all work and Brown has sealed them down there because no one seems to know what the problem is. The forgers have hidden everything away. The tailors are apparently going frantic trying to hide everything and Newkirk's stuck with a was of Reichsmarks as big as his fist. Mind you, he's not complaining, but if there's a search…. And this barracks doesn't have any hiding places for it," LeBeau rattled off quickly, looking first left, and then right, and then back again, in search of the Germans that everyone feared would be knocking down the doors any second. There were none in sight.
Scott started, eyes darting from building to building, searching for Germans or for anything that would appear out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. There wasn't a guard closer than the wire. The only thing that was unusual was the black spot on the snow that Scott had created. "What signal went up?"
"Je ne sais pas," LeBeau said shrugging, his eyes still moving in all directions. There was a trick to it, making sure that you could see everything but not turning your head so that the guards didn't know that you were watching for them. "But it must have been big."
Four men were approaching from different directions, their walks carefully casual, their pace brisk, but not too fast. They didn't dare call out or signal, but they were obviously preoccupied. Scott, followed closely by LeBeau, walked at the same carefully casual pace out to meet them. "What the hell is it, men? Why has everything shut down?" he growled, his voice low.
"Captain," one of them whispered anxiously, "one of our stooges suddenly vanished. We don't know what happened, and it's not like him to desert his post."
LeBeau looked back to where LeClerc was wrapping his blanket around himself and retaking his seat on the stool. "Um, Captain Scott," LeBeau started. Scott cut him off.
"Not now, corporal. What do you mean he vanished?" Scott demanded irritably, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand again. "You mean that he sent up a signal? Shifted position?"
"No, sir. The man on cross-watch looked at the left grid and all was fine. Then he checked the right grid. There was nothing. But when he looked back at the left grid again, the stooge was gone. Vanished, he said. There was no sign of the signal or anything."
"Captain Scott," LeBeau tried again.
"Not now, corporal. Would he have gone inside for a moment to warm up? Fallen asleep? Surely he couldn't have vanished."
"No, sir. This one's completely reliable. Nothing save an emergency would take him away unless someone relieved him, that's why he was in that spot."
"Captain Scott, when you…."
"I said not now, LeBeau," Scott snapped. "We've got everything in emergency mode and if we don't figure out what's going on, the Germans are going to. That is, if they haven't figured it out already."
"LeClerc was a stooge," LeBeau blurted out before Scott could stop him.
"LeBeau, back to the--" Then he caught himself. "What do you mean, LeClerc was a stooge?"
"LeClerc was the hinge for the left grid. When you burst out the door…" LeBeau let his voice trail off.
Scott picked up, "I knocked him off his seat and out of sight of the cross-watch." Scott sighed and passed his hand over his mouth again. "It's all a false alarm, fellows. Get everyone back to work. Tell them that it was a bad case of French cooking."
"Mais Captain!" LeBeau protested.
"Well, what would you have me tell them?" Scott asked with a black-tinged grin.
"It was a bad case of English taste."