Second String

Well into the third year of the Traveler's Aid Society—and the second full year of Colonel Hogan's leadership—team members realized that they needed backup. So, plans to add additional support were undertaken.

With the BBC sending coded messages every night, Hogan realized they needed 24/7 coverage on the radio. So, Kinch and Baker began training other men. Fortunately, several escapees and a few downed fliers decided to remain in the camp, and in case of an unexpected inspection or roll call in the middle of the night, every barracks was covered.

It was easy to find additional ordnance men among the rank and file. Several handled the bombs on their planes and Carter eagerly brought them onto his team

Costume design? Newkirk already had a bunch of enthusiastic helpers assisting with civilian clothes and uniforms. Sewing was one class Klink banned from the rec hall; he was paranoid and wouldn't allow it, but Newkirk had a captive audience in the tunnels; and under his supervision, the outfitting resembled an assembly line.

It was not uncommon for men to have experience with photography, woodworking and metals. Those teams were set.

However, there was one member of Hogan's core team who did not have the benefit of such success. The one time someone took over for his skill set, disaster ensued, and back-up plans never came to fruition.

This one man stormed into Hogan's office one day; fire in his eyes, his tone as cold as ice. The four men discussing the success of their second-string operations froze as one, and then stepped back.

"Mon colonel, I cannot do this anymore. I will lose my temper and that will not be good. I'd rather spend a month in solitary before dealing with these sorry excuses for men. Did no one teach them anything?"

The French corporal was known to be fiery and lose his temper. But this time, his unprecedented decibel level was so high, a thin glass beaker, which somehow found its way into Hogan's office, shattered.

Hogan was about to answer, but first, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Potato peelings were stuck to LeBeau's hair and his pants. Remarkably, peelings poked through the hole in the Frenchman's red sweater.

"LeBeau, what happened?" Hogan finally asked.

"Baxter and Richmond is what happened. Peels. Boom. On the ceiling. And then they fell from the sky, slowly, like a light rain." LeBeau flailed his arms in a futile attempt to demonstrate the disaster. "One or two potatoes? Bien sûr. But, enough to feed an army?" He shook his head in disgust. "And the roux? Mon Dieu." He began complaining rapidly in French. The men translated a few words. Explosion? That must have caused the rainstorm of peels. Hogan caught the word for clumps and scorched. The rest of LeBeau's rant was probably not fit for anyone under the age of consent.

"Baxter and Richmond!" Kinch quickly pulled out notes from a pocket. He glanced at them, and then said, "I thought we assigned Coleman and Walker to your cooking team."

LeBeau took a deep breath and then blew it out. "I'm a chef. Not a cook."

Kinch held up a hand. "Sorry. Chef." He chuckled. "At least you don't need to starch your uniform if you iron it."

LeBeau took a deep breath to retain his composure. "Not funny, Kinch." He continued to explain. "Coleman and Walker failed. They couldn't get past the simple task of making a proper soft-boiled egg. How can they help assist with cooking for Klink and the others, who, for some reason that continues to escape me, insist on coming here with important plans? I fired them."

"Where did Baxter and Richmond come from?" Newkirk asked. "Harrods Food Hall?"

"Very amusing." LeBeau glared at his friend. "Coleman and Walker hate those two, so they convinced them to work with me. On purpose."

"Why didn't I know those four hated one another," Hogan said, grabbing a pencil as he began to put the four on report.

"Something to do with preferences. One pair likes Typhoo and the others swear by Twinings. Arguments ensued. Wagers were made. You can guess the outcome. Not that they would ever jeopardize the operation," LeBeau quickly added. "Unless you ate their cooking."

"Oh, that makes perfectly good sense, then." Newkirk leaned against the colonel's locker and lit a cigarette, as Hogan tore up the report and tossed the pages into the wastebasket. "I'm a Yorkshire man myself."

Every man in Hogan's office talking over one another garnered the attention of the rest of the men in the barracks. They hurried to the open door and stood at the threshold, waiting to see what would happen next.

Hogan sank down onto his bottom bunk. The look of exasperation on his face was so astonishing that, at once, every man in the office stopped speaking and stared.

"You're all giving me gray hairs," Hogan finally noted. "Prematurely." He observed Carter mumbling to himself. If Hogan read the sergeant's lips correctly, the man was praying over and over, Please don't make me cook again.

"This is unbelievable. We're at war. The men will learn to cook meals for Klink and his guests." And with that, Hogan firmly hit the bunk with his hand and stood up, daring anyone to question his order.

"Perhaps you would like to try, mon colonel?" LeBeau asked as he continued to pick at the potato peels stuck to his hair and clothing.

A look of sheer unmitigated terror appeared on Hogan's face. "I can't. I'm usually the one invited to these dinners, LeBeau."

And with that, Operation Second-String came to an end. The men in Barracks 2 continued to rely on their one chef, LeBeau. The tea argument, however, was never resolved.