March 11, 1943, Early morning, Stalag 13, Germany

Six days had passed, and they were still no closer to breaking the code. Hogan believed it to be either absurdly hard, or absurdly simple; the thing was, he couldn't tell. It's starting to really get on my nerves, he thought, sipping at the strange coffee in his mug. Someone's been using the wrong coffee maker. Again. He instantly thought of a suspect – Lebeau. Kinch is going to be upset with him. I'm tempted to let them have at each other. This tastes terrible. He set the cup down and pushed it away from him, determined to sneak it someplace other than his mouth. He heard Carter snickering at his expression. To business. They were gathered in the small radio room, almost ready to give up.

"Kinch, radio Mama Bear and ask them for some clarification on London's latest message," he rubbed his sore neck as he spoke to the solemn black sergeant. The others looked at him in surprise; they hadn't expected him to give in yet. He rebutted their looks defensively. "Look, we've waited several days and we're still no closer to figuring this out. Maybe we're already past the deadline."

Newkirk grinned from where he lounged against a support beam. "It's a bloody good code if yer own men don't get it."

"Wi," Lebeau added, sounding confused. "Why doesn't London just say what it means?"

"That's politics," Carter was happy to explain the methods of government. "Well hey, back at home, there was this politician running for governor. He'd say one thing one day and the opposite the next. In fact, ya know-"

"Carter, we don't need a history lesson, we need a ruddy code," Newkirk smirked. "They can't tell us, 'cause someone's on our line, likely enough." Hurt, Carter fell into a sullen silence. Newkirk knew it wouldn't last long. Take the chance and run with it.

Hogan did. "Let's gather the facts, what we know. We're supposed to kidnap someone, someone fairly big. Who?" Kinch shrugged, turning back to his radio, but Carter pulled on his sleeve.

"Um, Kinch, while you're at it, will you ask how we're doing in Africa? I've got a buddy down there and I'm kinda worried about him."

"Look Carter, it's almost roll call. I haven't got much time-" Kinch started to say, but Hogan cut him off with a sheepish laugh.

"That's it!" he exclaimed. "How could I be so dumb?" Everyone stared at him as he laughed again. "Cancel that call Kinch, we've got it figured. Think fellas. London bagged a lion. Lions live in Africa. Now, what do fox hunters hunt?"

Carter's forehead scrunched in heavy thought. "Oh, um, foxes!"

"Give the man a prize," Newkirk patted Carter on the back. "So now what?"

Kinch's eyes widened with understanding. "Foxes in Africa… Africa's a desert."

"And Africa is spelled with a 'k' in the message. For a minute, I thought they were getting sloppy," Hogan grinned. "Go on."

"A fox in a desert, a desert fox…" The others finally got it as well.

"The Desert Fox, Erwin Rommel," Hogan's statement left his men robbed of their words. "We gotta capture him."

"Mon Colonel, that's impossible," Lebeau was sputtering. "He's in Africa."

"Wrong. He's here in Germany on sick leave. A little coffee pot told us, and a blabbermouth Klink. I was listening in a few days ago and heard that, but I was too dense to put it all together." Hogan moved to the ladder and began climbing up to the barracks. "And as luck would have it," he helped Lebeau out, then Newkirk, Carter, and Kinch. "he's coming through the area on his way to Berlin. London knew that, so do we now." He smacked the bed, the boards smoothly falling into place.

"Better than that, Colonel," Kinch said softly. "Klink offered him the hospitality of this camp; he accepted it for three nights. He told Klink he has business in Hammelburg." Hogan whistled long and low.

"So that's why the guards are cleanin' up," the Englishman chuckled. "What a bit 'o brass will do."

"How did Klink ever snare him?" the Colonel was curious.

"One, he's never met Klink. Two, the stay is free of charge-"

"Sounds nice," Lebeau commented wistfully.

"What, the free-of-charge stay?"

"No, never meeting Klink." The Frenchman wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Kinch grinned and continued. "Three, Hitler himself ordered Rommel to stay in a safe place. And four, I gathered he was curious about Germany's prison camps." He waited, the report delivered.

"Well," Hogan was pensively watching them. "We'll give him a tour he won't soon forget." He turned to leave the barracks.

"How, sir?" Carter asked the fatal question for everyone.

He was flashed a triumphant grin. "Details, Carter, mere details."

March 12

The next day proved bright and clear and cold. March in Germany could get a little crisp, and the prisoners rubbed themselves vigorously to keep warm. They were waiting patiently for roll call to end, heckling the guards, chattering amongst their friends. Sergeant Schultz, the tubby, amiable sergeant of the guard, waddled down the line counting out loud. His flabby face sagged with relief when he found every prisoner was present. They were even all the same from yesterday. He stopped beside Hogan, rubbing his big hands together.

"Colonel Hogan, I am ver-r-r-r-y happy to see all your men here," he lowered his voice and shook his huge head. "Very big brass today. We have to be perfect, perfect! Bigshot's orders." He rolled his eyes at the thin figure of Colonel Klink, who stood shivering on the front porch of his headquarters. Klink suddenly marched down the steps and strode towards them, riding crop under his elbow, monocle carefully in place. He swung to an abrupt halt in front of Hogan and glared at Schultz.

"Repo-o-o-o-rt!"

Schultz quickly saluted. "Herr Kommandant," he stammered. "All of the prisoners are present and a-count-ed for, I am pleased to say-"

"You wouldn't be pleased if they weren't, Schultz," Klink huffed. His eyes fell on Hogan. "Very good then. I'm not surprised, Hogan. After all," he waved his index finger through the air. "No one ever escapes from Stalag 13." He stepped back and looked out over the rows of prisoners. "Friends, and enemies (he chuckled at his wit), it is no secret that we have an important visitor today. In accordance, I want every man on his best behavior." He gave them a steely glare. "Dismissed!"

Hogan sprang after the retreating Klink, fell into step beside him. In a nonchalant manner, he asked, "So, is this fella staying for lunch, Kommandant?"

"Three 'lunches' actually," Klink confirmed before thinking. "Why?" He stopped and angrily eyed his senior prisoner of war, who was looking far too innocent. "Ho-o-o-gan, if you're planning something, I'm going to-"

Hogan raised his hands in surrender. "Calm down, Kommandant, I'm not trying anything."

"Good. Now if you'll-"

"Lebeau is, but if you don't want to listen, sir, I'll be on my way." He turned and started to leave, like a masterful manipulator. Klink fell for the bait again.

"Wait one minute, Hogan. What is that little cockroach doing?"

Acting reluctant to spread the news, Hogan looked both ways and leaned in. "Well, you know the Frenchmen. Flighty, emotional little chefs. Lebeau's just homesick for his kitchen, that's all. See you later, sir." He was held in place by Klink. "Something wrong?"

"Homesick? He wouldn't try escaping, would he?" Klink's blue eyes were wide open. Bingo, he's in the bag. "No one ever escapes from this camp, never?" It ended up as a pleading question.

"Kitchen desperate Frenchmen aren't no one sir," Hogan lowered his voice in a conspiratory manner. "They'll try anything, do everything, wipe out anyone in their way. Take my advice, Kommandant. Never come between a Frenchman and his cordon bleu. Those chef knives can be murder."

Klink flinched. "What am I going to do? I know, I'll double the guards."

A theatrical sigh. That could have won an Oscar. "If only there was a kitchen nearby, full of little French goodies. That would stay the volcano." Hogan pulled free of Klink's grasp. "Sorry sir. Enjoy your escape-free record while you can. I've got to go find a replacement for my cook."

"Hogan, I thought of something. Perhaps if the Frenchman were allowed to cook for me and my guests… Would that stop him from doing something rash?"

"It just might sir, but he might not want to cook for Germans, no offense. I could order him to, if only there was some motivation." He thoughtfully regarded the Luftwaffe colonel, who was getting desperate.

"Two extra slices of bread for a month?" Klink started the bantering with a good bargain, but the American knew what he wanted.

"Five extra slices for two months." He saw Klink grimace. The German was incredulous.

"What!"

"But since you're such a tough Kommandant and will never agree to that, I'll give you a good deal. Allow me to come for supper tonight, and you win every way." There was a dangerous twinkle in Hogan's eyes.

"How's that?" Klink was instantly suspicious.

"You get to save on bread, you get the Frenchman to cook for you, Lebeau doesn't escape, and with me at the party, your guest will never lack answers to his questions about prison life." The Allied POW was enjoying himself immensely.

"How do you say it- what's in it for you?"

"I get a good meal, and Lebeau gets to cook. No one gets hurt escaping. It's perfect."

"It might just work… All right then Hogan, we're agreed. Seven 'o clock sharp, tonight." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't try anything foolish."

"You're a great man, sir, a great magnanimous man." Hogan threw him an extremely sloppy salute and sauntered back to his men.

"I agree with that too," Klink called after him. It took him a minute, but he was soon wondering where on earth Hogan had learned that the Desert Fox was interested in Stalag 13. Oh well, does it matter? He strode stiffly back towards his office. It was going to be a beautiful day and he didn't intend to let Hogan ruin it for him. If he could impress Field Marshal Rommel, a promotion could be forthcoming. General Klink might not be too far away. Perhaps he would even break out his best schnapps. Yes, I believe I will.