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"So, what do we do?" Le Beau asked desperately, as the trio watched the car carrying Hogan, Carter and Oberholzer drive out of camp.
"We go and get 'em back," Newkirk answered grimly.
"You heard the Colonel as well as I did—no one risks the operation for him." Kinch was finding breathing difficult. When Oberholzer had goaded Hogan in Barracks Two, clearly upsetting the Colonel despite all his commanding officer's attempts to hide it from the Nazi, it had taken all of Kinch's strength to stop himself from throwing the German against the wall, or worse. And when Oberholzer had gone a step further and dragged Carter, the newest of the group, into the picture, Kinch had felt sick. Now, after Hogan could do little more than throw a meaningful look back at his men and murmur a reminder of their duty to look after each other, it was all starting to hit him. Every part of him wanted to do as Newkirk declared—to go out and bring back the Colonel and Carter. But his strong sense of loyalty to the man who had made this place so much more than an ordinary prison camp forced him to try and follow the orders he had been given. Even if it killed them both.
"We can't just leave him and Carter in the hands of that bloody piece of slime—you know what's going to happen to that munitions plant tomorrow!" Newkirk protested.
"I know!" Kinch snapped back.
"Then we've gotta get them out of there somehow!"
"Well, what do you expect us to do? Oberholzer's got guards all over the place. And we can't use the radio or they'll pick up on that, too!"
"Then we'll get rid of the truck!" Le Beau announced.
"Oh, really? And who do you think they'll hold responsible for that?" Kinch resisted the urge to punch the wall of the barracks. "We can't do it, not that way."
"Then what way?" Newkirk demanded.
"I don't know!" Kinch finally burst. All the anger went out of his voice, and his face. He shook his head as he lowered his eyes to the ground. "I don't know."
We cannot just let them go," Le Beau said in a voice that barely reached a whisper. "I know what mon Colonel said about the operation, but… without him and Carter, there is no operation anyway."
"We won't give up without a fight, Louis," Newkirk promised. He looked at Kinch, who nodded solemnly, worriedly, in agreement. "You heard what the gov'nor said before he left."
"Oui. He said, 'Let it go.'" Le Beau's eyes filled with tears as he recalled the agonized look in the Colonel's eyes as he had whispered the words.
"That's right," Kinch agreed unhappily. "And you remember what he said in his office: no one's to risk the operation for him."
"That's right," Newkirk said. "But he also told us to look after each other. And he never said that didn't include Carter, did he? And if we look after Carter, we could end up looking after the Colonel at the same time. And we'd still be following orders, wouldn't we? We always agreed that we would sink or swim together. And it's time to start paddling hard."
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"You're grasping at straws, Oberholzer," Hogan said as the car wended its way along the roads toward Hammelburg. "If this is all about me, why bring Sergeant Carter into it?"
Hogan tried to offer Carter a reassuring look, a difficult task considering the attentiveness of Oberholzer, and the fact that Carter's face was turned toward the window, his eyes wide and unwilling to meet his commanding officer's. Oberholzer smiled. "The Sergeant is my insurance policy, you might say," he replied. "It is as you said back at camp, Colonel Hogan. If it were just to save you, you might not try to stop the bombing. But with one of your men in jeopardy, you will order the air strike to be averted."
"Is that what you think?" Hogan snorted. "This could go on for months: you bring me to the factory; if your information is wrong and it doesn't get bombed, you blame it on me. So you try again next week, next month, next year. Eventually, playing the odds, the plant gets bombed, you blame it on me and I'm dead. Either way I can't win. Why don't you just finish this now and let the kid go?"
Oberholzer shook his head. "I want all of them, Colonel Hogan. Not just you. Not just one or two of your sycophants. Everyone who is a part of this operation you run that causes so much trouble for the Fatherland."
"Well, you're gonna have a long wait, because there is no operation, and there is no one else. Just a Colonel who was unlucky enough to get shot down over Germany one miserable afternoon. Anything else is pure fantasy on your part."
"We will see whether that is true… tomorrow."
Carter continued staring out the window into the darkness. He knew the roads, having been to Hammelburg already once or twice in escapades with the Colonel and the others. But that wasn't what he was seeing. Carter was seeing all the small gestures that Hogan had made since the Sergeant arrived in the camp just over two months ago, to make him feel welcome, and valuable, and secure. The encouraging nods, the secret winks at roll call when Klink was being particularly pompous, the cups of coffee in the tunnel, the smiles and pats on the back. Hogan had accepted and respected Carter, bowing to his expertise in explosives and chemicals, giving the Sergeant leave to use whatever materials he saw fit for the sabotage jobs they had started doing a few weeks ago, and praising him when all went well. Colonel Hogan was more than the senior POW at Stalag 13; he was Carter's friend. And now this Gestapo Major was making trouble for Hogan, and all the Colonel could seem to do was try to get Carter out of the fray. It troubled the young man, and so he didn't meet Hogan's eye.
He was too busy trying not to cry.
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Schultz turned as quickly as he could manage in the physical condition he was in and considered raising his rifle toward the noise he heard from the shadows. But he just shook his head and "tut"-ed when he saw the source of the sound. "Cockroach," he chastised softly, "what are you doing outside the barracks after lights out?"
Le Beau shrugged. "What do you think, Schultzie? I cannot sleep with the Colonel and Carter away with the Gestapo."
"Ah." Schultz nodded sadly. "I understand," he said in a low voice. "The Major, he does not seem to be a very nice man."
Le Beau snorted. "That is the nicest thing you could say about him," he said.
Schultz ignored, or did not understand, the sarcasm. "I am worried about Colonel Hogan and Carter being with him, too," he continued. Le Beau furrowed his brow and listened. "Carter, he is very young, and he is very innocent. And Colonel Hogan… well, if he thinks that there will be trouble for Carter, he will get very mad. And if Colonel Hogan gets very mad with a man like Major Oberholzer, there will be a lot of trouble for both of them."
Le Beau nodded. "So what do we do, Schultz?" he asked.
"We do not do anything, Le Beau. You go back inside the barracks and behave, and I do not report you to the Kommandant."
"It's not enough, Schultzie," Le Beau remarked, shaking his head.
"What do you want to do—walk into the munitions factory and take them out of there?" The large guard chuckled. "Do you think that the Gestapo is going to let you just waltz in there, say, 'Can Colonel Hogan and Carter come home, bitte?' and then leave with them in the back of a truck?" The small smile left his face. "I am telling you right now, Cockroach, it will not happen."
"Well, it might, Schultzie," Le Beau countered, as the Sergeant shuffled him back into the darkened building. "It just might."
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"I hope you find your accommodation comfortable, Colonel Hogan," Oberholzer said pleasantly.
Hogan ignored the gnawing feeling in his gut caused by the mix of anger and fear dancing inside him. Oberholzer certainly hadn't been kidding: this was, indeed, the munitions plant that Hogan himself had told Allied Headquarters about, and it was, indeed, the one that was targeted for tomorrow's bombing raid by the 504th. The Colonel moved reluctantly into the tiny room—what was this in a former life, a broom closet?—unwilling to betray any emotion to the Gestapo officer, then rubbed wrists that were still aching from being in restraints for such long periods in the past few days. He looked at the bare wooden chair, then at the equally bare bulb glaring at him from over his head, and he turned his face away, memories of his time in solitary with Oberholzer still too fresh. The rest of the room was empty, aside from a small bucket in the corner. Hogan wrinkled his nose, but simply accepted the inevitable.
"Looks like we're going to have to flip a coin for the chair," Hogan said lightly, hoping that Carter, standing alongside Oberholzer, would take some comfort in his commanding officer's flippancy.
"Nonsense, Colonel Hogan," Oberholzer countered. Carter swallowed hard. Hogan froze. "What kind of host would I be if I made my guests fight over their quarters? The Sergeant will not be in here with you."
"And where will he be?" Hogan asked with difficulty.
"Sergeant Carter and I will be in the plant office, where I will have access to a telephone and a command post, to see how long it takes for your loyal and dedicated men to forgo your orders and try to save you."
Hogan shook his head. "There you go again, insisting that I'm giving orders to anybody."
Oberholzer smiled without any teeth. "You are a stubborn man, Colonel Hogan." Hogan didn't react. "Let us see if that stubbornness will be the death of you… and your beloved Sergeant."
Hogan didn't look as the door was closed and locked behind him.
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"These men aren't ready to fly, General." Hogan spoke respectfully on the phone, even though his patience was beginning to wear thin. How many times could he answer this same question?
"Hogan, the Bomb Group needs to be ready to go out on schedule."
"I'm sorry, sir, but three of the squadrons aren't experienced enough to pull off this kind of mission; there are too many greenies, and I cannot certify them as combat-ready."
"What will make you change your mind, Hogan?"
"Another two weeks at the controls, in non-combat conditions."
"You know that's not possible."
"Yes, sir, I do. And so do the men. They are ready to move out on your command."
"Then you will certify them."
"No."
"Colonel, you are making this extremely difficult. You know moving men who are not combat-certified into the line of fire goes against our principles."
"Then don't do it, sir. I won't say they're ready just to appease someone's conscience. They're not ready, and I won't order them to go."
"The higher-ups are going to rain down hard on you for this, Hogan."
"That's their decision, sir. My job is to give you my honest, informed opinion, and in this case, that opinion is that these men don't belong in the skies over Europe. If they're ordered into combat, it will not be by my hand. And I won't risk their lives just to save my own skin, sir. I could never live with myself if I did."
Hogan sat on the floor, propped up against the wall with one leg stretched out and the other bent close to his body to use as a headrest. He had tried the hard chair but found his back hurt after only a few minutes in it, so he abandoned it in favor of the concrete floor. Once again his mind flew back to his responsibilities before he got shot down over Germany… and once again he was surprised by how little had changed. The squadrons had not been ready that day in 1941, and no amount of persuasive talk had convinced Hogan to admit otherwise. And now, his men at Stalag 13 were not ready for the overwhelming task of stopping the bombing of the munitions factory and saving him and Carter, and he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he asked them to. If they could at least somehow save Carter…
Hogan shook his head slowly, his temples still throbbing after hours of interrogation followed by no sleep, all wrapped up in worry. Boy, you're really in it this time, Robert Hogan, he thought to himself. What I wouldn't give to be guaranteed a dressing-down by General Butler about this one when it's all over…if only because it would mean I'll get out of it alive….
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Dennison raised his head from his desk, alert and energetic and astonished by his sudden and obvious revelation. "I've got it!" he declared aloud, even though there was no one in the room with him. "I've got it! Why didn't I think of it before?"
He got up and flung open the door of his office. "Lewis, I've got it!" he called out into the empty corridor. You're such an idiot! he thought, even as he did it. There's no one else around to hear you! Nevertheless, he said it again. "I've got it!"
Dennison turned back into the room, grabbed his cap and jacket, and went out to tell his best friend and supporter how he planned to make the mission a success, while minimizing the risk to his men, and then to hope that his superiors would see it the same way.
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Newkirk frowned deeply and looked intently again at Wilson. "Are you sure this will work?" he asked doubtfully.
"No." At the Englishman's raised eyebrows, the medic simply let out a long breath and let his gaze drop to the syringe in his hand. "But it's the only thing I can think of."
Kinch filled the long silence that followed. "We know you're doing the best you can, Joe. We can't ask for anything more. Just tell us what we have to do."