With an affectionate smile, Thomas watched Sam smooth Frodo's blanket and gingerly feel his forehead for any sign of fever.  The soldier sat down on Hogan's footlocker, and Sam scooted down to the foot of the bunk.

"Do you have younger siblings, Sam?" Thomas asked quietly.

"Only my sister Marigold," Sam replied.  "I'm the youngest but one."

Thomas nodded.  "I just wondered, seeing the way you care for Frodo."

"Well, I'm a gardener, sir.  I suppose caring for any living thing gives you experience dealing with others.  And I've looked after Mr. Frodo plenty before this."

Thomas blinked.  "How old are you?"

"I'm 39, sir, and Mr. Frodo's 50.  I know he doesn't look it," Sam added when Thomas' mouth fell open.  Catching himself before he could reveal the true reason for Frodo's youthful appearance, he continued, "The Bagginses were always well-preserved.  Mr. Bilbo, now, he never looked a day over fifty, even when he turned eleventy-one."

"And here I thought you were children!" Thomas exclaimed, still stunned.

Sam chuckled.

"I guess one reason why is that you remind me so much of my cousin John.  He loves to help around the house, and he's good with animals and kids.  He's still in school, but I expect he'll either go to medical school or take holy orders."

Sam frowned.  "Holy orders?  What are they?"

Thomas thought for a moment.  "Well, basically, when a person takes holy orders, he swears to dedicate his life to serving God through chastity, obedience, and poverty.  Some people who do this join a monastic order, and some who can't do that still associate themselves with an order as lay members.  But as much as John loves people, I expect he'll become a priest."  He chuckled.  "John Francis Patrick Mulcahy.  We sometimes joke that with a name like that, he's bound to be a saint!"

"What's a priest?" Sam asked, bewildered by all the strange terms.

Thomas was somewhat taken aback.  "A priest is someone who goes between God and His people and who watches out for their well-being."

Sam thought hard for a moment.  "I think the king does that—did that, I should say.  We haven't had a king in a long time, and I don't remember that much about our history."

Thomas blinked again, trying to reconcile this concept of royal priesthood with what he knew about English history.

"Of course, it wasn't the same in Gondor and Arnor as it was in Númenor, where they had the Mountain and prayed there three times a year…" Sam continued, his brows knitted in concentration.

That remark made the whispers that these strangers were from a different world suddenly ring true for Thomas.  "Well, I hope your king comes back soon," he smiled, not knowing quite what else to say.

"Thank you, Mr. Thomas.  So do we," replied Sam.


Sgt. Richter's normally proud shoulders sagged as Klink glared at him.  "I have no excuse, Herr Kommandant," he sighed, answering Klink in German.  "I know I should not have left my post.  Something just… drew me to those barracks.  I cannot explain it, and I do not understand it."

Klink frowned.  "Something drew you?"

"Ja.  It was like a voice told me to search that area—only not quite that concrete."

"Why would whatever it was attract your attention?  Schultz is guarding those barracks."

"I do not know.  It does not make sense."

"No, it doesn't."  Klink placed his hands on his desk and stood.  "Well, Richter, I am glad you decided not to deny your guilt.  And since you are unable to resist whatever drew your attention, I am restricting you to your quarters until the matter is cleared up.  Cpl. Langenscheidt will take over your duties in the meantime."

Richter bowed his head dejectedly.  "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Klink strode to the door, opened it, and beckoned to Schultz.  "Schultz, please escort Richter to his quarters and assign Cpl. Schneider to guard his door.  Then assign Cpl. Langenscheidt to the arsenal and return at once."

Schultz saluted.  "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"

Richter pulled himself together and saluted, then left with Schultz.

Klink sat down at his desk and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  Something strange was happening; of that he had no doubt.  The remarkable makeup job on Kinch; the mysterious death of the SS man—Amazing how an autopsy can determine the type of weapon used to kill a man, Klink mused—and the subsequent annoyance of Hochstetter; and now this incident with Richter… was it all a coincidence, or were these events all connected?

Well, we'll find out, Klink concluded, and he sat back to wait for Schultz to return.

Meanwhile, Richter kept on a brave face as long as he was in sight of the prisoners.  Once he and Schultz rounded the corner to the guards' barracks, however, he let the façade drop, and his despondency was plain once more.

"What's wrong with you, Richter?  You've been in trouble before," observed Schultz.

"Yes, but always before it was Col. Hogan's fault," Richter replied miserably.  "This time I have no one to blame but myself.  I have failed in my duty."

Schultz, understandably worried, took Richter's gun and searched his room for anything that Richter could use to harm himself before leaving Cpl. Schneider on guard outside.


None of Hogan's men were quite sure whether Tiger or Hilda stood the best chance of becoming Mrs. Robert E. Hogan after the war, but to be safe, they instituted an unspoken hands-off policy toward both of them.  Sure, they might whistle at Hilda in the line of duty or pretend to be in love with Tiger on a mission, but since the last men who got fresh with either woman came very close to being "shot while escaping," the other prisoners had long ago decided not even to fantasize about either one.  As a result, the men had formed real friendships with Tiger, although some were closer to her than others.

As everyone settled in after noon roll call, Olsen spotted Tiger in the corner and thought she looked lonely.  So he walked over and sat down beside her.

"This is madness," Tiger sighed, watching Merry and Pippin play gin while Boromir and Gimli looked on.

"I think we're all a little rattled," Olsen confided to her.  "It's not every day nine strangers out of the Middle Ages just appear out of nowhere."

"And Legolas… I don't know what it is about him, but…."

"He's an elf," Olsen shrugged, as if that were the only explanation needed.

Tiger sighed again.  "I will be glad when things get back to normal!"

"Ah, what's the fun of being normal?" Olsen winked, then gave her a friendly side hug and a smile to let her know he understood.

Pippin pulled the card from Merry's forehead and discarded one of his own.  "Gin."

Merry gave his cousin an amused glare.

"Hey, would you guys like some coffee?" Olsen offered, standing and moving back toward the table where the visitors were seated.

"What's coffee?" the hobbits asked in unison.

"Well…" Olsen hesitated, unsure how to explain the concept.  "It's a drink.  There's a certain kind of bean that grows in the Near East, and if you roast it, grind it up, and brew it like tea, you get coffee.  It's a lot stronger than tea, and it's kinda bitter if you drink it black.  It helps to put cream in it, but I'm afraid we don't have any cream."

"Is that what's in that pot?" Merry nodded toward the coffeepot on the stove.  "It sure smells nice."

"I'll try some," Pippin stated.

"Mind if I share?" Merry asked him.

"No, but if it's good, you should get your own cup."

"It's a deal."

"I would like some, also," Gimli added.

Boromir looked skeptical, but he nodded.  "As would I."

Merry frowned.  "But you don't even like tea, Boromir."

"One should always try a new thing before deciding whether or not one likes it," Boromir replied bravely.

"Sounds like your mom taught you well," Olsen laughed, turning to the stove to fill three mugs—and missing the brief flicker of pain on Boromir's face.

Pippin, who was seated next to Boromir, recognized the look as one that had passed over Frodo's face in times past and remembered that Boromir would say little more about Findulias, his mother, than that she had died when he was only ten.  He patted Boromir's hand in sympathy, and Boromir smiled his thanks.

"Here ya go," Olsen grinned, handing out the requested coffee.  "And don't say I didn't warn you."

Boromir took an experimental sip, gulped it down, hurriedly set the mug back on the table, and began coughing and spluttering.  Pippin's eyes widened in shock at the taste, and he, too, swallowed quickly.  Alarmed, Merry snatched Pippin's mug in case he began coughing.

"My, that's strong," Pippin squeaked, blinking back tears.

Merry gingerly tasted the coffee, and his eyes also widened.  "Whoo," he said when he was finally capable of making sound.

Gimli alone seemed unaffected.  "Tastes like the sort of thing that could keep a body awake at night," he remarked, taking another drink.

Boromir recovered his breath and looked at Gimli suspiciously.  "You have had this before, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli twinkled at him.  "Aye, we Dwarves enjoy it on occasion; we used to get it from Harad, I think.  Nor is it unknown in the Shire, although apparently it never reached Buckland or Tuckborough.  I seem to recall hearing that Bilbo served quite a lot of it when my father and the rest of Thorin's expedition showed up unexpectedly for tea."

"Gimli, that was nearly eighty years ago," Merry retorted.  "If it came from Harad, we'd be hard pressed to get any after Sauron declared himself and took control of Harad and Rhûn."

Boromir frowned.  "I seem to remember some kind of drink that was made from a bean from Harad that was served at great feasts when I was a child.  It was served in tiny cups and mixed with honey, cream, and spices.  I think mine was mostly cream, though; Father said it was too strong for children.  We did not have it often, and I think Father stopped serving it altogether after Mother died."

"That sounds like Turkish coffee," Tiger remarked.

"Strider might know if it's the same thing," Pippin pointed out.  "He's been to Harad."

"He might," Boromir nodded.  "I know it did not taste like this," he added, looking at the coffee cup in front of him in distaste.

Gimli chuckled.

"Kindly stout, ain't it?" twinkled Mills, who was from Amarillo.

"Naw… you want stout, come down to Louisiana and try chicory sometime," drawled Beauchamp.

Olsen laughed.  "You think this is bad?  You should have been here last month.  LeBeau was in solitary for a week, so we had Mills make the coffee.  Little did we know he makes it cowboy-style!"

"Strong enough to float a horseshoe," Walters added parenthetically.

"Well, that's the only way I know to make it!" Mills replied defensively.  "My granddaddy always said that coffee ain't strong enough unless a spoon'll stand up in it."

"It ate my spoon," Saunders said mournfully.

"Oh, hush," growled Mills, playfully swatting at Saunders before getting up and going to watch the door. 

Marcus Simms, who had been at the door, collapsed on Carter's bunk, doubled over with laughter.


Lt. Bergmann slowed and stopped some twenty yards in front of Barracks 2, his attention inexplicably drawn to the hut.  He took a bite out of his pumpernickel-and-cheese sandwich and frowned.  Why did he think he needed to go inside?  The prisoners were laughing; wasn't that a good sign?

A delicious aroma suddenly wafted from the barracks and tickled the portly officer's nostrils.  Coffee.

Bergmann hadn't had real coffee in months.  The smell made his mouth water.  He was tired of water and tea; he longed for a nice strong cup of coffee for a change.  Besides, the bread on his sandwich was so stale and dry, it was like eating overdone toast without the flavor of burned bread and melted butter.  Coffee would wash it down perfectly.

Perhaps I should go in and ask for some, Bergmann thought.

He had never had much contact with the prisoners—not like Schultz, who was almost close enough to the men to be on a first name basis and who was forever being showered with such scrumptious treats as Apfelstrudel and croissants.  Schultz shared coffee with the prisoners.  Bergmann doubted he'd get a similar reception.

On the one hand, it seemed unfair.  On the other hand, it would be fraternizing with prisoners, and that could get a person in trouble.

The pumpernickel really was stale.  He hoped Col. Hogan would complain about it soon so they could get some fresher bread.  Maybe if he went in and asked for some coffee, he could talk to Hogan about it.  And pickles, too; some of the men had had scurvy, and he vaguely remembered reading somewhere that pickles were good for preventing that sort of thing.  He knew they tasted good with this kind of sandwich.  As did coffee.

He ought to go in and ask.

Bergmann hesitated again.  The prisoners might not share.  He knew how they hated it when the guards stole their Red Cross packages, and they might consider his request to be the same sort of thing, only more polite.  He didn't exactly blame the guards for swiping some of the packages, though; some of the things the prisoners received in those packages were now so rare in Germany that one might pay hundreds of marks to get a tenth of what the Allies sent their men every month.  That didn't make it right; it just made it understandable.  The prisoners didn't seem to mind sharing with some people, but Bergman didn't know if he fell into that category.

Was this bread actually crunchy?  He really could use a good cup of coffee to wash it down.

Still he hesitated.  The scent came to him again, and suddenly Bergman was overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness.  He longed for the war to be over; he wanted to be back home with his wife and children, drinking good Dutch coffee and eating the delicious little Brötchen his wife loved to make.  Everyone here, except Schultz, laughed at him for caring more about food than about military business.  But Schultz, the toymaker, understood; they were serving only because their country was at war for reasons they neither quite understood nor agreed with, and although they loved the Fatherland dearly, they didn't really care if Germany lost, so long as they got to go home and things went back to making sense again.

His sandwich tasted like sand.

He really could use a good cup of coffee….

Throughout his internal debate, Bergmann had been thoughtfully munching on his sandwich and staring at the barracks.  It was in this state, just putting the last bite into his mouth, that Klink and Schultz found him.

"Bergmann!" Klink said sharply.

Startled, Bergmann choked.  Schultz pounded him on the back until he stopped coughing.

"Yes, sir?" Bergmann finally wheezed.

"What were you doing here, Lieutenant?" Klink demanded.

"Nothing, sir.  Just thinking."

"Well, get back to work!  We don't have time for you to stand around thinking!  And if I catch you thinking over here again, I'll have you confined to quarters.  Is that clear?"

Bergmann gulped and saluted.  "Jawohl, Herr Kaffee—ähm, Herr Kommandant!"

Throwing a plaintive look at Schultz, who shrugged, Bergmann hurried away, feeling very disappointed.  He reminded himself that the prisoners might not have shared their coffee with him anyway.


Mills sobered as he watched Bergmann staring at the barracks, looking slightly wistful and slightly puzzled.  Since Bergmann wasn't moving, Mills decided to wait to alert his fellow prisoners until something else happened.

That something else was the arrival of Klink and Schultz.

"Krauts!" Mills barked, cutting off the good-natured banter being exchanged around him.

"Who and where?" Olsen frowned.

"Klink and Schultz.  They're headed this way… at least, they were before they stopped to talk to Lt. Bergmann."

"Quick… in the office," Simms ordered, tapping Pippin lightly on the shoulder and pointing.

"Col. Hogan's in a conference and can't be disturbed," Olsen told the other prisoners as the five visitors scurried across the hut, ducking past the windows as they went.

"What if Klink won't accept that?" O'Brien asked.

"Klink's got a ton of paperwork to do today," volunteered Hammond, who had cleaned the outer office that morning.  "So whatever Hogan's 'doing,' it's something he wanted to take care of without bothering Klink."

"Discipline problem?  Disagreement?" Saunders speculated.

"Investigating rumors that someone's trying to escape without his knowledge?" Walters suggested.

"Disagreement… an escape rumor would only make Klink insist on finding out what's going on," Olsen decided.  "We don't know what it's all about, but Col. Hogan thought it wasn't serious enough to disturb Klink about, so he's trying to solve it himself."

"Right," chorused the other eight prisoners, committing themselves to the cover story.


Thomas and Sam looked up as the door opened and Merry and Pippin ducked inside.

"Krauts!" Pippin hissed.

Merry glanced at his cousin's sleeping form and noticed that Frodo's hand was on his chest on top of the blanket and that Sam had his hand covering Frodo's.  Looking at Sam, Merry frowned slightly, the quirk of his eyebrows portraying both curiosity and concern.  Sam barely nodded, and the grim look on his face answered Merry's unspoken question.

Gimli entered next, with Boromir hard on his heels.  "Someone approaches," Boromir whispered.

"Gestapo?" Thomas asked.

Before Boromir could answer, Tiger slipped inside.  Thomas automatically stood.

"Klink and Schultz are coming," Tiger explained.  "We have a few moments to spare, but they will probably be coming in.  The men will say that le colonel is settling an argument and left orders not to be disturbed."

The five conscious members of the Fellowship exchanged a meaningful look.

"Klink might still insist on coming in here," Thomas frowned.  "We've gotta hide you all."  He looked around the tiny room for a moment, thinking.

"I stood in for Kinch at roll call this morning," Boromir observed.  "It will endanger naught if I am seen."

"I can hide in the closet," Tiger offered.

"And I under the bed," added Gimli.

"If you put Mr. LeBeau's hat over Mr. Frodo's face, you can say that he's Mr. LeBeau and still sleeping because of his head injury," Sam pointed out.

Thomas nodded.  "Good ideas.  Sam, you hide under Frodo's blanket.  We'll put Merry and Pippin on the top bunk and say that it's Col. Hogan taking a nap."

Boromir quickly lifted the two younger hobbits to the top bunk and arranged the blanket over them while Thomas and Gimli helped Sam get situated in a position that was comfortable for both gardener and master while allowing Sam to keep his grip on Frodo's hand.  Tiger then disappeared into the closet, and Gimli crawled under the bunk.  Boromir and Thomas moved over to stand by the door and listen.

"I just wanted to ask Col. Hogan a few questions about the Richter incident," Klink was saying.

"Sorry, sir," Olsen replied.  "He gave strict instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed.  He's trying to settle some sort of argument."

Schultz had apparently been counting the prisoners silently, for he interrupted by saying, "Herr Kommandant, five of the prisoners are not here."

"Right," Saunders replied.  "They're all in the office with Col. Hogan."

"What kind of argument is it?" Klink asked.

"No idea, sir," Olsen answered.  "They went straight in after roll call; the rest of us never heard what it was about."

"Do you think he needs my help?"

Thomas couldn't see, but he assumed that Klink looked toward the office with that remark.

"No, sir," Hammond said emphatically, as if he were moving to stop Klink from walking toward the office.  "I think he was trying to handle this without disturbing you."

"Why?"

"Well, I told him you were busy today, sir.  He said it wasn't serious enough to interrupt what you were doing."

"Oh.  That was thoughtful of him."  Klink didn't sound convinced.

Thomas got Boromir's attention and whispered something in his ear.  Boromir nodded.

In the main room, the prisoners were on the verge of moving en masse to block the office door when the door opened and Thomas walked out.  Thomas turned in the doorway and saluted, saying, "Yes, sir," in a clearly disgruntled voice.  Klink got a good glimpse of "Kinch" grinning triumphantly before the door closed.

Thomas muttered something under his breath and strode angrily toward the stove.  "Honestly," he said louder, pouring himself a cup of coffee, "just because Kinch went to college doesn't mean he knows The Idylls of the King well enough to…."  He broke off, seemingly discovering Klink's presence for the first time, then set down the coffeepot and saluted.

"Idylls of the King?" Klink frowned.

"Yes, sir.  It's a series of poems about King Arthur by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.  We're trying to turn it into a play."

"That's what the disagreement was about?"

"Yes, sir.  Kinch and I had a difference of opinion about a place that needed to be edited."

"I thought you were in dress rehearsals already.  Sgt. Kinchloe said he was playing Gawain."

"That's right, sir," Thomas replied, mentally thanking God that he had guessed the same play idea that Hogan and Kinch had used when talking to Klink earlier.  "But there's one part that still doesn't quite work.   And I thought… well, here, sir, look at this and tell me what you think."  He started toward his locker.

"Thomas, you know we're not supposed to go over Col. Hogan's head when he makes a decision like that," O'Brien chided.  "He is the director, after all."

Klink had begun looking uncomfortable as soon as Thomas asked for his opinion, and he took O'Brien's remark as an out.  "That's right, Thomas; you should abide by Col. Hogan's decision."

Thomas stopped and sighed.  "Yes, sir."

"Well, I'd better get back to my paperwork.  I can discuss the Richter situation with Col. Hogan later, when he and I are not so busy."  With a curt nod, Klink turned and left as quickly as he could with dignity, and Schultz followed him without saying a word.

Marcus Simms watched the retreating figures through the door, and as soon as they were well out of earshot, he shot the group a thumbs-up.

"Mighty hard not to go above Col. Hogan's head when he's down in the tunnel," Mills chuckled.

The laughter that greeted that statement served as an all-clear signal, and soon everyone except Sam and Frodo came out of Hogan's office.  After receiving a few pats on the back, Thomas went back to his post beside Frodo.

Moments later, a knock echoed through the pipes, and Olsen ran to open the tunnel entrance.


A/N: This update is extremely long, so I cut it into two chapters. Notes for this chapter will be included with Chapter 7, which will be posted as soon as I get it edited (read: sometime this afternoon).