Note: Before getting into this chapter, let me say that in the real world, never inject a horse with anything unless you talk to your vet. It could easily end in disaster!

[...]

Later that day, Hogan hovered beside the paddock with Newkirk and Carter beside him. Kinch hurriedly tried to coordinate with London and the Underground. LeBeau hid in one of the trailers, where assorted tack and equipment were stored. Safely out of sight, he cut the stitches out of one fine leather saddle to sew the code book inside. That left Hogan, Carter, and Newkirk with the most difficult job; convincing the horses they were sick. Hogan handed Carter a rubber curry.

"Okay, get to work. And remember, I want those horses as dirty as possible. Leave no hair untouched."

Carter nodded. "Right, Colonel."

Hopping over the fence, he coated the curry with a heaping layer of dirt and began to spread it across the nearest horse's coat. Stealing a glance at Newkirk, Hogan pulled a syringe from his pocket. Loaded with sedatives from Sgt. Wilson's stock, the syringe was one of five.

"Care to do the honors, Silver Finger?"

Newkirk nervously accepted the syringe. "Needles were never my forte, but here goes."

Slipping over the fence, he approached the first horse and casually rubbed it on the neck.

"How goes it, girl? I hope you don't mind takin' a quick nap."

With that, he pricked the horse's neck with the needle. At the same time, the mare leaped into the air with a grunt of surprise. Newkirk jumped backwards into the fence, empty syringe in hand.

"Cor, blimey," he spat as he steadied his shaking hand. "I 'ad no intention of looking death in the face when I signed up for this."

Hogan casually swapped syringes with him through the fence. "Let's hope you dodge hooves as well as you dodge krauts."

"Yeah," said Carter, "Keep going and don't get me kicked."

"I'll do me best, mate," Newkirk replied. Steeling himself, he fingered the next syringe and headed for the second horse, who eyed him with a distrustful air.

[…]

When the job was finished, Hogan grabbed Newkirk and hustled to Klink's office. Ignoring Schultz's pleas that the Kommandant didn't want to be disturbed, he burst through the office door.

"Kommandant, I protest the inhumane actions on behalf of my men, five of my men to be exact."

Klink, caught off guard by the sudden outburst, leaped from his desk and knocked his chair backwards.

"Hogan, what is this? I left orders not to be disturbed. Out!"

"Just a minute, sir. According to the Geneva Convention, the Senior POW officer has a right to present any and all complaints on behalf of the prisoners, even if those prisoners are not of the human variety."

"Hogan, I do not have time to listen to your complaints, I…" Klink paused and eyed Hogan suspiciously. "Not of the human variety? What do you mean by that?"

"The horses in the compound."

"Hogan, those horses are none of your business. They are official cargo."

Hogan whipped out his small black book and began paging through it.

"According to the Geneva Convention, prisoners of war are defined as anyone who has fallen into the power of the enemy. I believe the horses out there fit that description perfectly since you Nazis hardly take things legally. And being Senior POW officer, that automatically makes the safety of those animals to be my responsibility."

Klink, lost somewhere in the rant, threw his hands in the air. "Hogan, that's ridiculous!"

"All the same sir, I must protest this treatment."

"Burkhalter's prisoners… I mean horses… are being treated with the utmost care."

"On the contrary, Kommandant, they look awful!"

"I must agree with the Colonel, sir," said Newkirk, who until now had remained motionless by Hogan's side.

Klink pointed an accusing finger in Newkirk's direction. "What does this man have to do with anything?"

"I brought him in as proof. Newkirk's cousin is a top-notch veterinarian in Yorkshire. Believe me, this man knows a sick horse when he sees one, and he's just seen five."

"Newkirk, is this true?" Klink demanded.

"Oh absolutely, sir," Newkirk replied. "If you'll just step this way, I'll show you."

Newkirk headed to the window and swung it open, allowing a clear view of the paddock. Klink leaned heavily over his shoulder and gasped.

"You're right," the German officer agreed, "They do look awful."

Indeed, the horses' coats had lost their brilliant sheen. Their flaxen manes and tails were terribly tangled. The sedative appeared to be working already. Instead of happily munching their hay as normal, they all stood and swayed back and forth listlessly as though they were about to collapse. Klink grabbed for the telephone.

"I'll call a veterinarian at once!"

"Wouldn't do any good, sir," Newkirk said.

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone with 'orse experience could tell these animals are suffering from a bout of barn blues."

Klink set the phone back in the receiver and adjusted his monocle.

"Barn what?"

"Barn blues, sir," Hogan explained. "They long for the smell of fresh oats mingled with dry manure. The sound of roosters cackling in the morning as the sun rises over the pastures, tractors driving by with loads of hay bales to be stacked. Wouldn't you miss that if you were a horse, sir?"

Klink thought for a moment.

"Only if I were a horse," he decided. "But what can I do about it?"

"Simple. You know the farm down the road? Call the place up and see if they've got space. I'm sure the old man there can spare a few stalls for the war effort."

"Impossible! I have orders from General Burkhalter that those horses are not to leave this camp until the train arrives."

Hogan sighed and steered Newkirk towards the door. "Alright, I guess it's your funeral."

"My what? Hogan, what are you driving at?"

Instead, Hogan cocked his head at Newkirk. "How much time do you think those horses have, Newkirk?"

"Oh, it can't be more than two or three days before they drop dead from the misery, sir."

Hogan arched an eyebrow at Klink.

"And when they do," he said, "it'll be you on that train to Russia."

Klink snatched the phone once again.

"Operator? Get me the farm on the Hammelburg Road right away!"

While Klink fussed with the phone, Hogan and Newkirk slipped out the door, each throwing a sloppy salute on the way.

[…]

With some cajoling, Hogan had been able to convince the Kommandant to let him ride along as they shipped the horses and all related equipment down the road post-haste. While the local farm hands unloaded each horse, he managed to pull the farm owner, Fredrick, aside for a quick word.

"Did the Underground fill you in?"

"Ja, they did. I am to take these horses and everything with them to the pick-up location at midnight."

Hogan nodded. "We hid a code book in one of the saddles. Make sure London gets that too, okay?"

"But there's one problem, Hogan. I cannot take the horses tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"My daughter is terribly ill. No one else is available to care for her and I cannot afford to take the time to leave her. I'm sorry."

Hogan's face grew grim.

"But the horses will still be safe here?"

"Ja, no harm will come to them as long as they are here."

"Well they can't be here that long. A couple of animals this fancy in a run-down place like this will turn heads. No offense."

Fredrick didn't seem to mind. Hogan pondered the situation for a moment, watching Klink as the Kommandant supervised the removal of each horse. The horses, still drowsy from the sedatives, unloaded like children's pets. Hogan smiled as an idea began to take flight.

"Fredrick, don't look out your window tonight at midnight. It'll give you the pleasure of knowing nothing."