His mail was missing. Not a letter from Helen, Mrs. Troy, or any of the extended family. It was a significant disappointment as much as it was a sign that their scheme was working. Ignoring the men reading their letters and arguing over the childish scribbles sent for Private Tenner, he ducked into Barracks Two a few moments later to find Colonel Hogan and his staff assembled in his office.
"My mail has been stopped."
"That's illegal, "Carter piped up, "messing with a man's mail."
"We know," Hogan nodded, "Kinch," the man waved, "just intercepted a call from Hochstetter. He's on his way." Did Colonel Klink have any privacy? How would he react at the end of the war when his failures came to light? "Do you have your story straight?"
"I do," he tapped his fingers against his thigh. "And should this scheme fail, Colonel Hogan?"
"Depends on where it fails," Newkirk added, squinting at his letter and then at Dietrich. "Look here, Colonel, my sister's made friends with some yanks."
"He's right," Hogan told him, correctly interpreting the glare Dietrich had leveled at the Englander. "But the chance to put a spy in the legion and in London, especially one with your skill, is too pretty to overlook."
"They will have to assume that I have succeeded in getting information out of the men," he reminded the colonel, who frowned. The men stared between the two, and Hogan's eyes crinkled as a devious smile spread.
"That's a great idea."
"Oh! Another corker!" Newkirk crowed, "what 'ave you got, guvna?"
"Nothing yet. Kinch," he turned toward his radioman. "Radio London, tell them we need enough information to bait a trap for the Luftwaffe that could sound like it came from a prisoner. We need it before Hochstetter gets here."
"Yes, sir." Dietrich side-stepped the man, letting him brush past without comment.
"You're worrying too much, captain."
"Very well," nodding, he excused himself from the colonel's office and returned to Barracks Five to find a lively debate had blossomed over the artistic nature of Lucy Tenner's scribbles. He couldn't help the fond shake of his head at the debate, framed as art critics at the opening of a new gallery.
"Thoughts, Captain?" Private Tenner perked up as he entered, gesturing at the bright scribbles. He was noting down the observations into a letter to send back and seemed thrilled by the first interesting conversation in weeks.
"She had broken the rules of art convention," he mused, "truly an American spirit." A cheer went up, and he excused himself from the discussion to re-read some of the letters.
It wasn't until Corporal Lebeau burst into his office with a rasping cry that Colonel Hogan had been taken did he realize the true extent of the man's miscalculation.
3434343
Overconfidence had gotten General Bittenbender sitting pretty in an English POW camp after being framed for desertion. It had gotten more Gestapo officers shot by the underground; it had gotten Hogan arrested.
Hammelburg. He was still in Hammelburg, the Gestapo headquarters that had been raided more than once, and he knew the ins and outs better than some of the men here.
Prodding at this split lip, he kept his body language deliberately casual as the door was flung open by a gleefully seething Hochstetter. There was something casually cruel in the man's everyday demeanor, but he stank of rabid hatred today.
"Colonel Hogan." The man stalked, followed by two beefy guards, forward, eyes glittering with dislike. "Welcome to the comforts of Gestapo headquarters." He was waiting for something, and Colonel Hogan tilted his head to the side.
"You need a new interior decorator."
"Yes," a toothy grin aimed his way sent the much-starved sense of self-preservation screaming. "Tell me, Papa Bear; you have been trouble for too long! "
"Papa Bear?" He asked, and when he didn't deny it, Hogan scrubbed at his forehead. "Really? Papa Bear? You need a hobby." Hogan wasn't at all surprised when the man hit him again.
#$#$#
A miserable pallor hung over Barracks two, over the entire camp, and the staff crowding around Colonel Hogan's office was whispering to each other as Thomas and Lebeau crossed the threshold.
"What happened?" He asked, turning his attention to Hogan's de-facto second in command. Sergeant Kinchloe was slowly turning a pen over in his hands as he composed his thoughts.
"He came for Colonel Hogan; he says he's got proof that Hogan is Papa Bear."
"Does he?"
"No idea," Carter added, pale at the thought of returning to Gestapo custody.
"What does London say?" He realized, with truly sinking pain, that he was now the senior POW officer.
"If we can't rescue him," Kinch muttered with damning finality. "To pack up and get out. We can't...we can't risk the whole operation for Colonel Hogan."
"Now, hold on a minute!" Newkirk protested hotly, "we can't leave him! Not with Hochstetter! We can't just pack up and go! He's the guv'nor!"
"And if we stay," Kinch told them, "we'll all die."
"But that's if we can't rescue him!" Carter pointed out. "If we break him out of prison."
"If we break him out," Lebeau snapped, "they'll know for sure."
"And if we can't get him back, they'll kill him….if he's lucky." A shudder went through the room, and for a minute, they contemplated the likelihood of Hogan's rescue and Stalag 13 resuming normal operations. Hogan was the one with the ideas and schemes, the one who made men's heads spin with the sheer audacity of his plans. He could weave a basket with a single weed, and his men followed loyally...but they weren't officers.
"Hey," Olsen poked his head in the door. "Shultz is here for you, Captain."
"Klink," Kinch's eyes narrowed. "We'll be listening."
"Good," he straightened, "don't do anything rash."
"Rash?" Newkirk muttered, only to be silenced by a pointed frown from Kinch. Dietrich stepped out of the office, raising his chin as a visibly terrified Shultz waited at the door.
"Sergeant?" With a regal gesture at the door, "after you."
"Please, Captain Troy," the man begged as they moved across the compound. Groups of silent prisoners watched the proceedings; guards included nearly every eye in camp rested on his shoulder. "Don't do anything crazy."
The hat on his head weighed more than its original construction, carrying the legacy of the man who had worn it but held his head high as he entered the kommandant's office.
"Captain Troy," Colonel Klink glanced from Shultz to the door and then to the window. He was paler than usual, trembling from head to toe, and was scrubbing his monocle again and again. "As Colonel Hogan has been...arrested...you are now the senior prisoner of war officer." Shultz made a small noise that they both ignored.
"I understand, sir. Why was Colonel Hogan arrested?"
"Major Hochstetter…" a brief, pained expression crossed his face. "Still believes that Colonel Hogan is a spy and a saboteur."
"Madness," he muttered. "I will be filing a complaint with the Red Cross, Kommandant. This is against."
"A complaint?" Klink paled. "Schultz! Get out!" For a large man, he certainly could waddle quickly when he wanted to. "What do you mean by a complaint? You aren't really the senior POW officer."
"I am the senior POW while Colonel Hogan remains in Gestapo custody." He adjusted his hat under his arm. "I will file a complaint with the Red Cross, and if at all possible with Major Hochstettors commanding officer. This is a waste of resources and time to harass a man who has not succeeded in over 200 escape attempts!" His voice rose faintly. "This is against military regulation on all levels."
" Are you mad ?" Klink demanded. "You are not American! If General Burkhalter sees that complaint!"
"It is a matter of maintaining my cover," he lied. "This is exactly what the men will expect."
"Oh," Klink fell back. "Then."
"I will still file a complaint." He reiterated, and the man slapped the desk.
"Nonsense!" He waved a hand. " Diiissmisssed !"
Dietrich saluted, turning on his heels and leaving his office. Hilda was at her desk, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
"Miss Hilda," he sighed, and when the woman looked up, burst into noisy tears. She turned away, and he knelt beside her desk. "Please don't cry," he said, and she lifted wet eyes, and he was struck just by how beautiful she was. "Please."
"He'll be killed," she sobbed, reaching out to grab his shoulder. "You don't understand, Herr Hauptmann, he'll be killed ."
"No, no, no," closing his hand over hers, he offered what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. "He won't, Miss Hilda." She was a German citizen, shedding tears over an American prisoner...and he was a German officer being retroactively adopted. What a strange world he lived in. "I won't let it happen."
"How can you?" She shuddered with desperate grief. "It's Hochstetter ! You don't know half of what he does to...to us. "
"To us?" To whom? Women? Hilda in particular?
"To Germans ," she cried, "my friends have disappeared! My cousins are only 16, and they're being called up for basic training. People vanish, and they never come back, and," Hilda sobbed harder, nearly sagging against the astonished captain. "I'm so scared, and Colonel Hogan brought me hope, and if they."
"Listen to me." He squeezed her hand again, harder this time. She stared up at him, eyes bleary with tears and fear. " Listen to me , Hilda."
"Captain?" She hiccuped.
"Are you listening?" He demanded, and she nodded. "Good, then listen very well, Hilda, because I will do my best to help Colonel Hogan."
" How ?" Her despair abated somewhat, and he sighed to himself. "How can you help? You're not even."
"I will do my best," he promised, "but Hochstetter must not see anything out of the ordinary. Do not take off ill or deviate from any of your plans for the evening. Understand?"
"No...but I will do it." Still clearly frightened, Hilda dabbed at her eyes. "What are you going to do?"
"Nevermind that," Dietrich had a plan worthy of his hat. "Fix your make-up, put on a smile, and pretend nothing is wrong."
"I do every morning," Hilda observed morosely, and she leaned away.
"There is still a war on." He reminded her, and ducking out, moved across the compound with a singular purpose to find Colonel Hogan's staff. Back in Barracks two, he eyed the distrustful men who stood to lose everything, and smiled. "What was next on the schedule, Sergeant Kinchloe?"
"Schedule?" Kinch blinked, "an ammunition dump on the other side of town."
"Good, then we strike the dump tonight." He lit a cigarette as the men gaped. Even Sergeant Thomas, his steady right-hand man, gaped.
"Sir?" Carter piped up, "Colonel Hogan is."
"In prison, and under suspicion of sabotage and espionage, which puts him outside the purview of the Luftwaffe. Hochstetter could not have made that arrest without sufficient evidence, which means he had grounds"
"But the colonel has the ideas."
"I too, have ideas," he reminded the men firmly, "and any sign that the Gestapo have arrested the right man means that Colonel Hogan will face either a firing squad...or worse. We cannot give Hochstetter a sign that he has the right man, which means we must continue with the sabetogae plans tonight. That ammo dump will be a weak point."
"You're mad," Newkirk said with such a tone of awe, that Dietrich could only smile faintly.
"Thank you, Corporal."
"That ammo dump won't have the protection of the SS anymore," Lebeau added, "if Hochstetter thinks he has Papa Bear, then he will pull his guards."
"Exactly," he tilted his cigarette in the Frenchman's direction.
"Overconfidence," Kinch muttered to himself. The words cooled the racing thoughts, bringing him sharply back to reality.
"And we cannot infiltrate the Gestapo to take Colonel Hogan back unless we intend to give up the Stalag 13 operation. We must arrange for the Luftwaffe to demand Hogan back."
"How are you going to manage that? Klink knows you're one of his, and he'll never buy a yarn you spin him."
True, but the lack of faith stung faintly. "There are other ways to apply pressure," he told them. "And tonight we'll go out to detonate that ammo dump."
"Uhhh, Captain...we don't have anything to blow the dump with," Carter cringed at the sighs that followed.
"We don't?"
"We're waiting for parts from London, blasting and detonator caps too. It's supposed to come in on our next drop." Kinch told him.
"Can you not contrive one from the materials at the dump?" He wondered. Carter's lab was an ode to mad scientists everywhere, surely he could do something.
"Oh," the man brightened. "I guess I could. It would take a few minutes longer, though, Cap...Captain."
"Then we will do what we must. Corporal Newkirk, have you finished with my Gestapo uniform?"
"Yes, it's ready." The man squinted, "what are you on about?"
"Tonight we will go as Gestapo men. Carter and I will go into the dump to set the charges, while you and Lebeau remain on guard. Sergeant Kinchloe, radio London and tell them that we are not folding the Stalag 13 operation." The men brightened, hope reigniting. "We will have Colonel Hogan back by the end of the week."
"If he can hold on that long," Carter added, and the room sobered instantly, all eyes turned to Dietrich, who met their gazes evenly.
"Colonel Hogan will do his duty," he reminded them, "We must do ours."
#$#$#
General Barker squinted heavily at the information now out in front of him and wondered when his headache was going to fade.
"You mean to tell me," he said evenly to the assembled officers, "That Colonel Hogan has been taken into custody by the Gestapo, and the Stalag 13 operation hasn't folded yet?"
"Yes, sir." Major Deeds nodded. "According to Sergeant Kinchloe...Captain Troy has taken the role of senior POW officer and has insisted on going forward with sabotage and has contrived a plan of his own to get Colonel Hogan out."
"Captain Troy remembers that there are thousands of men's lives at stake, correct?"
"It seems so, sir." Major Deeds coughed into his fist, avoiding looking at the assembled generals. "And given Captain Troy's record with the legion, I would say that it is worth a shot. Having an entire operation like Stalag 13 hinging on one man is risky business, sir."
Barker glared at the major and then at Captain Scamander. "Well?"
"Captain Troy is confident in his capabilities, sir, and as long as the rest of the heroes are willing to follow him, I do not see why we can't give him a whirl. He has an impressive record and the same version of insanity that the rest of the Heroes enjoy."
"If Colonel Hogan cracks or Captain Troy fails, then we could lose our entire operation in Germany," he mused, eyeing the other generals.
"We'd lose it anyway," someone added from down the table, "if Hogan's men pack it in early. At least this way, we might have a chance."
"True," he was in charge of Hogan and his men. He was responsible for the Stalag 13, and as much as he wanted the accolades of helping keep this operation running until the end of the war, he didn't want the ghosts of a thousand murdered men haunting him. "Did Captain Troy say anything else?"
"Only that he planned this to be Hochstetter's, Operation Diamond." The newly promoted Major Boggs grinned, an odd expression on such a stern man.
"Major Boggs?" Unique in having dealt with Dietrich as an enemy, his insight on the matter was nearly priceless.
"Sir, I would suggest giving... Captain Troy ," he let the word slide around in his mouth. "This opportunity to prove himself. He's a cunning bastard, excuse my French." The lone Frenchman in the room scoffed. "And pretty damn capable. He's managed this far."
"Then," Barker turned to Deeds. "Radio Stalag 13, tell them they've got the go-ahead….what is it?" The pained expression on Deed's face told him what he needed to know. "They've already gone ahead with it?"
"Yes, sir." All eyes turned to Major Boggs, who seemed absurdly proud of the enemy turned defector.
"Your rats have taught him too well."
"Good thing too," Boggs added, and Barker decided to ignore the insubordination. He'd assign the man as Dietrich's handler when the man did end up in London. That would teach them both.
#$#$#
Gestapo men really could get away with anything, and not a single question was thrown at Dietrich and his men as they approached. The ammo dump. The few soldiers on duty, practically boys, we're relieved to be sent away, accepting the expertly forged papers dismissing them with something approaching gratitude. It gave him a small comfort that they would not be within the blast radius when the dump went up.
Perhaps what startled him the most, not just that the average German seemed to cringe away from their uniform, was just how well the heroes transformed into properly intimidating gestapo men. Carter's transformation was the most startling, and his cold-eyed glare had sent an entire group of infantrymen on leave from their side of the street to other.
Standing behind Carter as he rigged a timed explosive device at two in the morning, with only moonlight to give them light, he was struck by the sheer insanity of what he was doing. He hoped that Sergeant Troy would appreciate his efforts.
"Captain?"Carter stood, brushing dirt from his uniform, and stepped back. "We've got ten minutes."
"Good," he eyed the boxes upon boxes of ammunition, remembering the blazing afternoon when he'd infiltrated the military base, only to be foiled by the timely intervention of the Rat Patrol. "Let's go."
"Sure thing," the cruelty had slid off Carter's face as easily as it had molded onto it, and the man nearly skipped as they moved toward the exit to find Lebeau and Newkirk on guard.
"They really didn't have guards," Newkirk wondered.
"He's too sure that he's captured the right man," Dietrich scoffed at Hochstetter's arrogance as he slid into the passenger seat of their stolen staff car. Lebeau took the driver seat.
"It will be harder after this," he warned Dietrich, and the German accepted the news with a regal nod, hardly raising an eyebrow at the distant explosion. "Ah, I wish we could have blown it on Bastille day."
"It would have been nice to blow up on the Fourth of July," Carter chimed in, and Newkirk scoffed. Of all the men, Newkirk had been the most reluctant to accept Dietrich's command, even if he'd gone along with his plans anyway.
"I wouldn't want to be Hochstetter right now," the Englander muttered.
"Maybe they'll do us a favor and shoot him for incompetence?" Carter suggested, cheerful as ever.
"That's too good to be true," Lebeau muttered, and pulled onto the side of the road where they were due to leave the car. "And too useful for us."
#$#$#
Name, rank, and serial number.
Name, rank, and serial number.
Name, rank, and serial number.
Repeating the words in his head somehow helped him on an even keel as the door to his was flung open with violence Hochstetter was known for. He emerged from the lighted hall, and Hogan squinted against the sudden light.
"What do you know about the explosion at the Hammelburg ammunition dump?" The short man demanded, marching toward the chair Hogan had been tied to since that morning.
"What?" His throat hurt, his face hurt, but he refused to let the hateful little bastard get his satisfaction. "What explosion?" There was a figure just behind Hochstetter, tall and lean and shaded in the light to the point where Hogan couldn't even identify the rank on his uniform.
"Sabetoues snuck destroyed the ammunition dump," the major was explaining as his voice rose, "and you are responsible!"
Hochstetter had been in charge of the ammunition dump...and the dump had been on their 'To-Do' list for several days. The team must have hit it, but...how? How when there were so many SS troopers guarding it...unless they'd been pulled off or relaxed because the major was sure he'd captured the leader of the sebeatour ring.
"I've been here all afternoon." Repeated blows to the head meant time had gone fuzzy, and someone had stolen his watch. "Sitting here, alone, in the dark."
" This is your Papa Bear ?" The newcomer demanded. " I came from Berlin to see a filthy American pilot and sabotage still taking place! " They were speaking German; he couldn't tell them he understood, so he let his head list to the side and his eyes unfocus.
" Hogan is the ring-leader of the sabotage ring!" Major Hochstetter was protesting.
" You called Papa Bear a daring mastermind. " The man scoffed. " I see another reason the Luftwaffe will be after your head, you idiot!" Momentarily applauding the man with gumption enough to insult Hochstetter directly, Hogan forced himself not to flinch as the major slapped him again.
"What do you know about the sabotage?" Hochstetter demanded, just a hint of desperation inching into his voice.
" That ammunition dump was under your command," the newest man approached, and with a cold hand, forced Hogan's head backward. Hogan found himself face-to-face with the man whose cruelty was so well known that Hogan had been ordered to kill him if he'd ever come within Stalag 13's range. The underground was filled with stories of the man's callous disregard for any life. Colonel Fuchs regarded Hogan with blue eyes so lacking in empathy and humanity that Hogan wondered for a wild second if he was being seized by a corpse. " And you blame this filth for your failures ?" He let go, and Hogan resisted the urge to shudder.
" If he is not behind it, then his men must be !" A good thought, Hogan agreed, His men should be on their way to London, having packed in Stalag 13 to save lives. If they'd gone against orders, then he'd be in big trouble with General Barker.
" Investigate how these saboteurs were able to infiltrate your dump, Major Hochstetter. Find where they came from and what happened. I will investigate your Stalag 13 for you."
"Sir!"
Shut up!" Colonel Fuchs ordered with a voice cold enough to flash-freeze the desert, never rising in anger. Hochstetter shut up.
He had to get the message out; he thought wildly as the two men left, and he was plunged into darkness again. They had to know that death was approaching.
$#$#
Colonel Klink was in a good mood all things considered. True, an ammunition dump had been blown to kingdom come at some point last night, but that just meant that Colonel hogan couldn't possibly be the spy Hochstetter had increasingly accused him of being.
"Shultz!" He called, and the fat man waddled into his office. "Get me, Captain Troy. I wish to speak with him." Rubbing his hands together in delight, he considered just how easy it would be with a German as the senior POW officer. Dietrich was a soldier, and a good one. He would follow orders, and no longer would Klink be forced to negotiate. His cigars and liquor hadn't gone missing!
His gleeful mood only increased as Captain Dietrich presented himself with every bit of military exactness Hogan refuted. " Captain Troy," he snapped off a cheerful salute. "General Burkhalter is due this evening in part to review your complaint. We will need the services of the cockroach."
"The cockroach, sir?"
"Corporal Lebeau," Klink explained with a lazy wave of his hand.
"You refer to Corporal Lebeau as the cockroach, Colonel Klink?" Dietrich's brown eyes slid from the spot next to Klink's shoulder to his eyes. Disliking the sensation of being judged and found lacking, Klink drew himself up.
"General Burkahutler will expect a good meal." Klink wondered if Dietrich had noticed anything in his time in Stalag 13.
"Then I hope Private Fitz will be able to meet the general's expectations." Stunned, Klink maneuvered around the desk and loomed beside the captain .
"What do you mean?" He demanded. "Corporal Lebeau is to be the cook!" The disdain was palatable now, thinly veiled beneath military manners. Acutely aware that Shutlz was gasping in shock, Klink watched resolve harden on Dietrich's face. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Corporal Lebeau is not available to cook for General Burkhalter," the man told him firmly. "Your own will have to suffice."
"Very well, an extra half-slice of bread for every man and twenty minutes of electricity tonight if you lend me your cook." He was low-balling it, and Colonel Hogan would have laughed at his pathetic offer. Captain Dietrich's eyes didn't even flicker.
"Corporal Lebeau is not available."
"An extra slice of bread and twenty minutes of electricity for the next two nights if you lend me your cook"
"Corporal Lebeau is not available."
"Have you lost your mind? Captain?" He demanded finally. "Do you have any idea what will happen if the general does not have a good meal?"
"Perhaps it will put him at an acceptable weight, Kommandant." Shultz gasped, and Klink floundered blindly for an appropriate response.
"You go too far!" He snapped, shaking a finger at the man. "I should have you thrown into the cooler for such insolence!"
"Corporal Lebeau will not be available to cook for the general," the man repeated, active dislike for the man flavoring every word.
"Two pieces of white bread," he rasped, "and an extra hour of electricity for the next week.
Dietrich remained unmoved, even as Klink tried to bribe, threaten, and cajole him into lending the Frenchman over for the night.
"What do you expect me to tell the general?" He demanded, furious with the man in front of him. He was German ? What was he doing sympathizing with these prisoners?
"The truth," Dietrich replied, proud as ever. "That I am not willing to negotiate."
"Are you mad?" He gestured for Shultz to leave, and he did so gratefully. "What if he suspects you as a traitor? Have you considered what will happen? "
" You would have had a riot on your hands last night," Dietrich informed him, " had Sergeant Kinchloe not convinced the men otherwise." Ice raced down his veins as he considered a thousand prisoners rioting in protest. It would be a bloodbath, and his command would be gone. "Colonel Hogan has the respect and admiration of every man here, and I am viewed as an interloper at best. My disguise is an American commando, not a pilot, a commando."
"And to earn the respect of the men, you must...why must you be so difficult? I could be shot for this !"
" I could be murdered for this ." The man replied, and Klink immediately felt foolish.
"It is a major inconvenience!" He exclaimed and was met with an unforgiving and utterly disinterested gaze. "Very well, dismissed !" The man was gone in an instant, and Klink cursed the day that he had been brought to camp.
#$#$#
"I really don't have to cook for him?" Lebeau's demand was wreathed with a beatific smile that validated the enormous headache between his eyes. "Please tell me, mon capitan . I do not have to cook for that fat pig?"
"You do not," he told the man, who crowed with delight and yanked Newkirk down far enough to press a kiss to each cheek. "Do not cook for him or Shultz or any of the guards." He glanced between the men. "No more including them in poker games, no more including them in anything."
"You want us to freeze them out?" Kinch asked, and he nodded.
"Let them see how differently Colonel Hogan treated them," Dietrich said firmly. "And they will complain enough to help us." He glanced at Lebeau, who was still beaming.
"Too bad," Newkirk groused. "I really could have used sommat that 'ot water."
"This will be the fastest way to leverage what little authority we have. Klink will be begging for Colonel Hogan's return by the time I am through with him."
"What else do you have planned?" The Englander's suspicion hadn't faded, but he seemed more accepting than before.
"A litany of complaints from the perspective of a German officer and an American one." He nodded to Sergeant Thomas, who brightened considerably. "Do you have?"
"Here," the man passed his copy of the Geneva convention over. "Have fun."
"I intend to."
#$#$3
"What is this?" General Burkhalter stared at his dinner. It was standard German fare and nothing what he had come to expect from Colonel Klink's cooking staff.
"The cockroach, Herr General," Klink blustered. "Is unavailable to cook this evening."
"Could he have anything better to do? He is a prisoner!" It was decent enough, but nothing compared to the delicacies of having French cooking in the middle of a prison camp. "Klink! Do not tolerate such things from your prisoners!"
"I will not!" Klink assured him firmly but grimaced. "But I cannot force him to cook….and Captain Troy refuses to negotiate."
"Captain Troy! That cowboy!" He remembered the conversation with a tightlipped Rommel and was about to exclaim that Troy was Dietrich when he remembered the presence of Schultz and another enlisted man. "That is absurd!"
"Colonel Hogan was much more agreeable," Klink moaned. "And that little weasel, Hochstetter, has arrested him."
"I know," the outrage of being served this food was forgotten. "He is trying to undermine my authority, but he has enough evidence."
"Even with that ammo dump being destroyed?" Klink's wide blue eyes focused stupidly on the general, and he wondered how Klink had ever become an officer ."Hogan was a prisoner of the Gestapo; if he were a spy, then the dump wouldn't have gone up."
"And were Hogan's men all accounted for?"
"Every single one, Herr General. I doubled the guards and added a bed check. Not a single prisoner was unaccounted for."
"Perhaps we could use that." Hochstetter's smug insistence that Hogan was Papa Bear, despite the presence of a German officer keeping a close eye on the prisoners, and all evidence pointing to the contrary, again and again, was beginning to wear thin. "I don't like them getting involved with my prisoners!" He slapped the table, and the food wiggled unpleasantly.
"Colonel Hogan would have allowed the cockroach to cook for us." Klink reminded him with the cowering wheeze he was known for. "But Colonel Hogan's arrest has put the prisoners up. There was nearly a riot yesterday." That would have been a disaster. "Captain Troy managed to quell it before it started."
"So," he leaned back, "he is good for something."
"Herr General, I."
"Herr Kommandant," the door opened to reveal a pale-faced Langenscheidt. He saluted carefully. "A Colonel Fuchs is requesting to visit tomorrow."
"Colonel Fuchs?" The name was enough to give him heart palpitations. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't eaten rich French food. Burkhalter clutched his chest, and Colonel Klink blinked stupidly. "What does he want? Who is he with?"
"He's with the Gestapo, Herr Kommandant." The corporal winced. "He wishes to speak to a few of the prisoners."
"Colonel Fuchs," Klink rallied momentarily, "is... welcome to come, but he is to be advised that no prisoner interrogations can take place without a Luftwaffe officer present!"
"Jawohl, herr Kommandant." Saluting, the nervous corporal vanished, and silence descended over the room.
"Colonel Fuchs is dangerous, Klink. Far more dangerous than Hochstetter and ruthless. He would shoot your prisoners as soon as interrogate them just to make a point!"
"What can I do?" Klink wrung his hands together, frantic and terrified. "What can we do? What will he do to them?"
In barracks, two Dietrich and the others stared at each other, the same question in their eyes.
#$#$#
The worried pallor that had fallen over the camp hadn't faded by the time the black staff car rolled into camp. Even the guards, unused to being frozen out by the prisoners, were on edge. Shultz had fielded complaint after complaint that assumed the prisoners were about to stage a mass breakout. Shultz, who hadn't gotten his usual bribe from Lebeau, was equally miserable and even hungrier than before was miserably standing guard in front of Barracks Two's inhabitants as the guest stalked toward them, Klink following directly behind.
Colonel Fuchs was tall, cold, and cheerless and had eyed Stalag 13 with such obvious contempt that Shultz marvelled that it hadn't burst into flames. He moved with animal grace, coming to a halt before Captain Troy with a sneer that the American returned.
"A cowboy then?" Fuch's wondered, his spotless black uniform in great contrast to Troy's tan, rumpled gear. "
"Captain Sam Troy, senior POW officer, and gloating hours are between three and four on alternate Tuesdays...you've just missed them." Shultz quelled inwardly, eyeing the tall cowboy with horror as a muted gasp ran through the crowd. Whatever Fuch was expecting, it clearly hadn't been that; something close to amusement glittered in his eyes.
"American insolence," he mused. "You are not a pilot, Captain Troy.'
"Captain Sam Troy," the man repeated, "Senior POW officer."
"You have replaced Colonel Hogan, a remarkable man," the officer told the assembled men. " Breakable ." The camp held its breath, and it was only the thin line of control that kept Newkirk from leaping at the man. Sergeant Shultz trembled. " We do not need to have an unpleasant conversation, Captain Troy."
"In your presence, Colonel, the conversation can only be unpleasant." Klink made a noise like a mouse being stepped on, and Fuchs's smile, if possible, grew colder. The dead eyes turned toward the men. Skipping over Newkirk, Kinchloe, and then Lebeau, and settled on the nervous Carter.
Carter, who kept a mouse as a pet, shared stories of home with some of the guards, who were cold to Shultz but still offered an apologetic smile. Carter, the biggest kid in camp, with innocence and kindness that had been beaten out of the rest of the men. Stupidly gentle and undeserving of the attention of the Gestapo officer.
"Bring him," he pointed at the startled sergeant, who gulped as the bodyguards seized his shoulders and pulled him from the formation. They vanished into the kommandant's office, and Shultz eyed the tall American. His dark eyes glittered with undisguised hatred as they fell out of formation, only softening when Sergeant Kinchloe approached. An unnatural silence fell over the camp as Hogan's troublemakers vanished into his office, and Shultz prayed that his son was in kinder hands than these men were.
$#$#
"Boy," Sergeant Carter was the sort of American Colonel Fuchs despised. Soft, pleasant ,and stupid, with a dull expression that roamed over the parlor a few times before settling on the teacup of coffee sitting on the table in front of him. "I thought you'd drag me to the cooler."
"If you would prefer a more sinister ambience," Fuchs offered, ignoring Klink's presence. "I could certainly oblige."
"No, sir." Sergeant Carter shook his head, "this is fine."
"Then," he propped his head upon his hand, watching the nervous American closely. "You're on Colonel Hogan's staff?"
"Erm?" Carter shrugged.
"He is," Klink interjected frantically, only to quail backward from a glare, words sputtering to death on his lips.
"You are," Fuchs offered the tidbit as an opening bargain, "very loyal to Colonel Hogan."
"Uh, yeah...I mean, yes, sir." The man was truly child-like. A Hilter youth child could have bested him, and Fuchs settled in for a conversation that would unravel both Stalag 13 and Colonel Hogan. "I guess."
"It is commendable to be loyal to one's commanding officer; I can imagine it is not easy to be loyal to a newcomer such as Captain Troy."
"No, yeah."
What ? Fuchs eyed the American, wondering what the hell that double contradiction meant. It was no and a yes, so which was it. "He is not a pilot."
"Yeah, no...sir."
" Captain Troy was with the Long Range Desert Patro l," Klink added, wriggling his hands together.
" Then what is he doing here?"
" Major Hochstetter ordered it. " Fuchs wondered briefly at Klink's visible discomfort and dismissed it. He would discover its purpose later.
"A commando...leading pilots? A cowboy leading gentlemen?" He tried for flattery, but Sergeant Carter only shrugged. The man was...thin, carrying the weight of long-term imprisonment and clearly in awe of his surroundings. Leaning back, he considered the various angles. Torture was well and good, but Carter was under Luftwaffe protection, and the politics that involved sinking his fingernails into one of their prisoners were absurd. Plus, Hochstetter had blown his chances when he'd prematurely arrested Hogan. Now he had Burkhalter and Georing getting into a hissy fit, over overstepping his authority. That pint-sized animal would ruin their chance at finding Papa Bear.
Prisoners, he found, would say anything to get the torture to stop, which weakened his investigations.
"Drink your coffee." He ordered, leaning back and taking a sip from his own cup. "You have been a prisoner long?"
"Uh…" he wasn't touching his cup. "Yes, sir."
"How long?"
"I don't remember the exact date," Carter scratched the side of his head, almost like a puppy. "I hit my head when my plane went down."
"I see how unfortunate. But it has been over a year since you came...almost six months after Colonel Hogan."
"No, yeah," Carter brightened. "Boy, I remember that like it was yesterday. He sure was friendly about the whole thing."
"You have been here long enough to know about Papa Bear then."
"Papa Bear?" The man tilted his head to the side, utterly guileless. "Like...Goldilocks? Mama Bear? Because if we're bears, then Captain Troy is more like Papa Bear, and Colonel Hogan is more like Mama Bear. I think...I think Lebeau would be Goldilocks..no, maybe Newkirk? Oh!" The American snapped his fingers, grinning. "Webber, he's basically still a kid. Cap gave him one of the sweaters his mom knitted."
"Papa Bear," Fuchs relayed, voice oozing irritation. "Is the code name for a spy."
"Really? No, yeah. Major Hochstetter's always here talking about that. One time he cut up every mattress in camp to find a radio, and then he dug about four feet beneath Barracks two to find a tunnel. Oh! He thought he found a map, but it was just some pictures of Betty Grable...he set that one on fire….he's always in and out talking about it."
"Talking about Papa Bear?"
"No, screaming at Colonel Hogan. Which isn't very polite. You're not supposed to scream at officers unless you're dying or a medic." Carter's hands animated the story while his words printed out evidence of Fuch's subordinates' idiocy. "One time, he blew up his own car in the middle of the compound! Shattered most of the Kommandant's windows with debris and sent one of the guards to the hospital with shrapnel in his leg." Of the many cars Hochstetter had needed to be replaced, they had all been destroyed by the underground. This was news. "He had to bury his driver too." A thoughtful expression came over the American's face. "Poor fella, he probably signed up to die in war."
"Bury his driver?" He glanced at Klink, whose hands were shaking back enough to rattle his tea-set.
"Sure, he was in the driver's seat when it blew up….we buried what was left of him." The man blinked, "it was a nice memorial service….I think."
"How did the car explode?" Fuchs wondered, and sensing the ire; Carter drew back.
"He shot the gas tank."
"He shot the gas tank?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why did the major shoot the gas tank of his own vehicle?"
"I don't know, sir. I was doing laundry when it happened. Ripped up most of the blankets hanging out to dry."
"I see." Leaning back in his seat, to took a bracing sip of coffee. How was this man on Hogan's staff when he was clearly as stupid as a child? The information he was getting wasn't about Hogan! It was about his own subordinate. "Do you remember the name of the man who died?"
"Which one?"
"Which one?"
"Yes, sir. He blew one of his drivers up, and he shot another, and I think the third one...walked onto a landmine."
"How do you know it was a landmine?"
"It's a pretty distinctive sound, sir." Carter grinned.
" Why was a man in a mined area ?" He turned to Klink.
" I don't know...Major Hochstetter brought a button into camp, saying it had been found near a mined area not far from here. " Klink's eyes turned to Carter, and the man was staring into his coffee with a confused expression. A waste of trained men to find a fucking button?
"I didn't know their names," he said finally, having judged the coffee safe enough to take a sip. "But gosh, he's here about once every two weeks and almost every week since Captain Troy came."
" I will need your records of the front gate, Kommandant. " He said, and when the man didn't move, snapped. " Now !" Klink bolted from the room.
"Gee, is he alright?"
"Concern for your jailer?" Irritated by the entire proceedings, he frowned coldly at the oblivious American who stared blankly at the opposite wall with such an unfocused gaze Fuchs wondered if there was anything going on in his head.
"I guess you already knew that, though," Carter continued a moment later, shaking his head. "The major is always telling us how the Gestapo knows everything there is to know...makes me wonder why he bothers to stop by if he knows everything."
"What were you thinking?" He demanded, leaning forward as the American looked away. "Sergeant Carter, I am being friendly because it is easier, but I."
"It's silly," the American blurted, looking back. It wasn't a secret...he was embarrassed.
"I am sure it isn't."
"I just...was thinking about math."
"Math?" What was wrong with this man? Didn't he realize what sort of position he was in? Fuch could deal with men who were afraid or pretending; how did you deal with a man who didn't know what was going on?
"Sometimes my brain likes to run numbers," he blurted as Klink returned with a ledger. "You know, multiply things to see what they mean. "
"And what were you multiplying?"
"Gas."
"Gas?" This was one of Hogan's trusted men? This was someone Hochstetter thought was a spy? Every thought was clear on his face.
"Gas?"
"Sure! Gas is pretty expensive right now because of the war, so when I said the major was here at least twice a week, I was trying to think of how much money he'd spent on gas. I mean, I don't know how you guys have gas stations, but that's a lot of gas….and he did blow up two cars...three. He did walk to camp one day."
Petrol was prohibitively expensive, and rations were getting tighter the longer the war went on. He listened as Sergeant Carter laid out the mental calculation, from guessing how much petrol the car held, how much was spent getting from Hammelburg, and then multiplying that by the number of visits until the most generous estimate of Hochstetter's desire to make Hogan his scapegoat was in the low thousands of marks. It was impressive to hear the idiot lay out the numbers so exactly, and perhaps this was why Hogan seemed to trust the man. He didn't have a head for numbers...but not much else. "I remember one of the guys we buried had a scar like a star." Fuchs's attention shifted back to Carter, who was staring at the ceiling and idly tracing a path over his thin neck. That same sort of scar had adorned the neck of one of the best men in the area. A rising star in investigations and capturing prisoners and undesirables. He had reported being killed by the resistance. "Isn't that weird, what you remember about people? I couldn't tell you what he sounded like, but I can tell you about his scar. It looked like it came from a knife. That's what Newkirk said, and Newkirk would know the best."
"Really?" This was proving to be a complete waste of time. The only thing he had uncovered was his own subordinates' idiocy and generous editing of his reports.
"Gosh," Sergeant Carter blinked, "don't you think it's funny, though. Him always showing up in camp when there's something getting blown up to blame the only guys who can't go anywhere?"
It was interesting, and Sergeant Carter was too stupid to know what he was really saying. "You would like to go home, ja?"
"Oh, sure!" His expression brightened. "Ma said that huckleberries came in great this year. She makes the best pies with them. I'd sure like to be home to try one, fresh out of the oven and with cream if we're lucky." Before the conversation could descend into pointless sentimentality, Fuchs waved him down.
"Get out," he ordered, regretting his choice of prisoner immensely.
"Sir?"
"Get out," he snapped, patience wearing thin as his mind ticked over the evidence before him. "Now."
"Yes, sir!" Saluting hastily, Sergeant Carter bolted for the door, and when he re-appeared out the window, he was being escorted by the fat sergeant and was chatting amicably. "Fucking idiot." he sneered, eyeing the trembling Luftwaffe colonel. "No wonder your prisoners can't escape, Kommandant. They're too stupid."
"Of course," he agreed weakly. "Not for lack of trying."
Ignoring the man, he opened the ledger and eyed the many, many visits from Hochstetter. "Major Hochstetter has visited often, Herr Kommandant."
"Yes, he has...he has routinely harassed Colonel Hogan."
"He has a vendetta against the man then." Not a question, a statement of a fact.
"Yes." Klink agreed hastily. "I can certainly imagine hating Hogan as an enemy and a prisoner, but the major has personal hatred of the man that I just do not understand. Hogan cannot be this Papa Bear. He was in Gestapo custody when the ammunition dump went up, and Papa Bear routinely works several hundred kilometers away from Stalag 13. Colonel Hogan doesn't understand German! How can he get to Paris? Berlin? Russia? Take my word for it, Colonel Fuchs; if Colonel Hogan could make it to Berlin, he would be headed for London."
"Indeed. I want some of your men, Colonel."
"My men...why my men?"
"Sergeant Carter mentioned burying several Gestapo officers at Major Hochstetter's behest. I want their bodies exhumed."
"Exhumed?" Disgust crawled over Klink's face. "I have their names on record, Herr Oberst...there is no need to disturb their rest….and Corporal Bittin...there wasn't much left of him."
"Was he buried with his tags?"
"Yes." Klink really was stupid too. These Luftwaffe idiots who allowed the Allies to bomb German cities and the stupid Allies who couldn't escape.
"Then we must exhume their bodies." He stood, tucking the ledger under his arm.
"Colonel, what of Colonel Hogan?" There was more backbone in Klink that Fuchs had given him credit for.
"If he is cleared, he will be returned to your precious prison camp...there are better camps for him." If at all possible, the man paled even further but rallied.
"Colonel Hogan is a prisoner of war!"
"Keep your pet American then. If he is so pretty he certainly has his uses." Pulling one of the stolen American cigarettes from his pocket, he lit it. "Your men, Kommandant. I want those bodies."
#$#$#
"Carter," Andrew looked up, feeling every nerve angling awkwardly as he accepted the cup of coffee being thrust at him. Captain Dietrich was kneeling beside the chair, eyes hard. "What happened?"
"Gosh," he knew his voice was shaking. "He really is scarier than Hochstetter."
"And harder to kill," Newkirk muttered.
"Kill?" Dietrich turned to the other man.
"Colonel Fuchs is on our list," Andrew explained, "but he doesn't come down, and we have to arrange a really good accident; otherwise, we'd all be shot."
"List?' Dietrich really was getting better at being an American, and Carter told him so. "Thank you, Sergeant. Did he hurt you?"
"Just scared me down to my bones," he shivered. "Captain, he's evil, and he's crazy, but I promise I didn't say anything. He had to be nice because Klink was there, but he was sure...sure scary. I think I got him off the Colonel's trail."
"How?" Kinch wondered, and Andrew felt some of his worries melt away as his friend's voice broke through the fear. His voice was nice and friendly so Carter told him so. "Thank you, Andrew."
"Carter, "Lebeau snapped, "focus."
"Hochstetter murdered some of his men, and he's been wasting gas...and I think I got him to start thinking that Hochstetter could be Papa Bear." He drained his coffee and handed the cup back to the captain. "Can I go to sleep?"
Dietrich really did have nice brown eyes that dipped toward the floor with familiar irritation. "Yes, Sergeant. Unless there is something you think we should know."
"No, sir." Carter tipped sideways on his bunk and pulled his blanket over his head in an effort to cut out the freezing cold that seemed to be clinging to his bones. "This is much better." An unfamiliar hand patted his shoulder, and the last thing he realized before he passed out was that Captain Dietrich really was turning out to be a great officer.