Klink paced back and forth behind his desk, eyeing the phone anxiously with each turn. Of course he needed to call the Gestapo. Or General Burkhalter. He just wasn't sure which option was worse.

Corporal Weiss was dead. Klink couldn't pretend he was sad about it. Panicked, yes. Petrified, absolutely. But sad? No.

Weiss had been a contemptible man. Downright nasty, Weiss was a fanatical Nazi, hell-bent on implementing some sort of racial utopia, starting with Stalag 13. That sort of thing Klink could do without.

He realized, of course, that such thoughts were downright treasonous. Weiss' goals were no different than those of the Fuhrer or any of the other men in the high command. But somehow, Klink had managed to blind himself to the most horrific parts of the Third Reich's ambitions, and had focused solely on the opportunity it provided to return honour to the Fatherland. And then Weiss had brought the more unsavory elements front and center to Klink's attention with his firm insistence on segregating the camp. And he was sure that that would only have been the beginning.

And what could he have done about it? Aside from having the backing of the Gestapo and General Burkhalter, Weiss had been huge. He could have simply used brute force to impose his will upon Klink and the camp. Might, as the saying went, makes right. It was certainly a motto adopted by the High Command.

So he would have had no choice but to let Weiss have his way. Maybe even to the point of watching certain groups of prisoners being forced onto trucks to destinations unknown.

No, certainly not. He could not be that cowardly, could he?

Well, he supposed the problem had been solved for him. Weiss was dead, meaning he would never have to face how much of a coward he truly was. He was half-tempted to send Sergeant Carter a bottle of cognac.

But only half-tempted. The fact that he now had an even bigger problem to deal with put an end to that thought.

Now he had to call the Gestapo or General Burkhalter and explain to them just how, exactly, Corporal Weiss, a man in his prime, could drop dead from a heart attack. If it had indeed been a heart attack. What if the prisoners had actually murdered him?

But how would they have killed Corporal Weiss? Surely they didn't have the proper means to accomplish such a task. Many strange things had happened since Colonel Hogan had arrived at Stalag 13, but outright murder? That would be too fantastic even for him to pull off.

But a heart attack? He had been so healthy just this morning. A heart attack couldn't just happen so suddenly, could it?

Klink groaned. What a disaster. Never mind what would happen to the prisoners- if it wasn't merely a heart attack, then the Gestapo would have him shot. Or worse.

Perhaps he should get a doctor to come and perform an autopsy. Perhaps Hogan knew someone who could give them the results they wanted.

No, that was ridiculous. Sometimes Klink found himself thinking of Hogan as some sort of magician who could make all their troubles disappear- and to be fair, it often seemed that was the case- but how could Hogan possibly help in this situation? And besides, the Gestapo would have its own doctor to examine Weiss anyway.

Klink sunk into his chair, burying his face in his hands. It all seemed so hopeless. Klink wished that Corporal Weiss had never set foot in Stalag 13. In fact, it was times like these that Klink wished Germany had never set foot in Poland.

Klink wearily stood up again and made his way to his liquor cabinet. There he poured himself a stiff drink, gulped it down, and then poured another. He took his glass and nursed it back at his desk, keeping a wary eye on the phone.

When his second drink was nearly gone, Klink reached for the phone, but stopped short. There was one important thing he had to do before he made the call.

"Schultz!"

Klink was never really sure how Schultz always heard him when he hollered- perhaps he just had great lung capacity- but it didn't take long before the sergeant of the guard filled the doorway.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?" Schultz puffed as he offered a quick salute.

"Schultz, did you get Corporal Weiss into the rec hall?" Schultz nodded. "Very good. Now Sergeant Schultz, I don't want there to be any confusion amongst your men about what happened to Corporal Weiss. It is my understanding that he..." Klink paused. He was about to marry himself to a lie and he prayed that it would turn out for the best.

"That he what, Herr Kommandant?" Schultz asked.

"That he suffered a heart attack while leading the guards in calisthenics. That is what happened, wasn't it?"

"But Herr Kommandant, Sergeant Carter hit him with a rock and then the other pri-" Schultz cut himself off under Klink's withering glare. "I mean, I remember they were quite vigorous calisthenics. I, myself, had a hard time keeping up!"

Now that was something any dummkopf would believe- even the Gestapo. "Very good. Now I want you to make sure that the other guards remember exactly what happened as well."

"Oh that will be no problem. All the men have been complaining about him," Schultz said somewhat sourly. "I mean, about all the exercise he made us do," he added quickly. "Of course we have no problem following the regulations as outlined by our glorious-"

"Yes, yes," Klink said dismissively. "Make sure you inform the prisoners as well."

"I will go to each barracks personally!" Schultz said.

"Very well. You may go now, Schultz. I have a phone call to make."

"Jawohl." And with a salute, Schultz left.

Klink let out a little sigh. The lie was set. Maybe if they all stuck to the same story, they could get out of this mess without anyone getting shot- so long as Weiss really did die of a heart attack. And if he hadn't? Well, then everyone would be shot no matter what story they told.

With that cheerful thought in mind, Klink took a deep breath and grabbed the phone.