The prison camp spotlight lazily browsed over the barracks, completely missing the three dark shadows that glided across the yard. They crept up the steps of the guest quarters and huddled together in the crisp night air. Covering their backs several yards away, the little Frenchman waited patiently for his friends. He stood rubbing his arms and shifting from foot to foot. If the others were discovered, it was his job to create a diversion. Most likely, it wouldn't be needed; it was only a precaution.
Up on the porch, Newkirk was goading the lock into opening with a long strip of wire. Kinch crouched beside him, holding a small camera and silently urging the Englishman to hurry. Hogan stood over them both, watching Stalag 13 for signs of trouble. None seemed to be forthcoming. Kinch grimaced-a flash of white teeth in his dark face-when the lock stubbornly groaned and resisted. The sound seemed to amplify across the compound. Even Lebeau winced.
"Quiet down there," Hogan was barely audible. "Come on, Newkirk. What's taking so long?"
"It's a might bit trickier than I was thinkin', guv'nor," Newkirk hissed back. He was annoyed with himself and his words came out a little sharper than he intended. He shrugged an apology and turned back to the door. "They've changed the locks recently, I'd guess."
"Well, do your worst," Kinch encouraged. "And do it faster." So far they'd been very lucky, but who knew how long their luck might hold? Luck, fate, fortune, whatever it is, it's also very fickle. Kinch realized that. "Schultz might come by any minute. Hurry."
Newkirk suddenly stopped and grinned. Although they couldn't see him well, he looked like a man drowning in the scent of his girlfriend's perfume. "Did you 'ear that, mates?" All annoyance was gone.
"What?" They stared at him, suddenly fearing the arrival of a guard, until they saw the gleam in his eyes.
"That little 'click' sound. 'Tis music to me ears." Newkirk gently nudged the door open. "I've still got that magic touch." Kinch reached back and pulled him inside. Hogan followed them, closed the door silently behind him.
Not a minute too soon, Lebeau sighed with relief as he spotted Schultz coming around to the front of the building, his rifle on his shoulder. The tubby guard glanced curiously at the door, then shook his head and kept going. It wasn't his business. After all, he was only a guard, a guard with no desire to get mixed up in anything remotely strange or different. Lebeau suppressed chuckles as he watched the German pick up his pace and disappear around the corner. He hoped the others weren't finding trouble.
Hogan flicked on his flashlight and swept the dull beam across the room. The object of their pursuit was lying on the couch, on his back, arms and legs sprawled everywhere, mouth open in a drugged snore. "Right where you left him," Hogan told Newkirk. "He'll be out cold for hours. Let's get to work." He handed the flashlight to Newkirk and moved towards the bedroom door, navigating the furniture by memory.
Sudden movement on the floor startled him. He saw a reflection of the moon on the shiny surface of a spotless jackboot. He leaned closer; the boot was attached to a leg, and the leg belonged to the German corporal. Hogan had almost stepped squarely on his stomach.
He backpedaled instantly and made a wide berth around the sleeping form. That was…close, shall we say? He sidled up against the bedroom door, pressed his right ear to the wood.
Newkirk had glided over to the couch and gently rolled Lang into a sitting position. He pushed his mouth closed, then held the light on his face. After stumbling over a chair, Kinch arrived with his camera. He raised the tiny rectangle to his eye and snapped the first picture.
Click.
The corporal abruptly shifted his position on the floor and sighed. Everyone froze. The German's hand brushed up against Hogan's shoe. The American gritted his teeth and held his breath. At least there was no sound from the bedroom. Not yet.
Two more side profiles were taken; each time the corporal almost woke up with the odd noises. They were done. Newkirk cautiously let Lang sag back over the couch. There was no protest from the oblivious major, but the couch let out a soft squeal. The corporal flopped over on his chest, his hand finally withdrawing. A blessing in disguise. We needed one.
They regrouped in the center of the room. "Got' em all?" Hogan whispered, and received almost invisible nods. "Let's go." He led the way to the door, cracked it open, and promptly shut it again. "Schultz," he told his puzzled men.
Lebeau groaned inside himself when he saw Schultz climb the steps and sit down on the porch, his broad back to the door and Colonel Hogan. His friends were trapped, and all because Schultz's feet probably hurt. He saw the door open again and Hogan's hand emerge. One finger pointed insistently down at the unsuspecting guard, then at Lebeau. My diversion! He waved back cheerfully.
Lebeau threw open the barracks door and let out an anguished wail, followed by a stream of French. Immediately, the spotlight spun its piercing gaze on him and the alarm went off. Schultz lumbered up from the steps, hurried down to the screaming Frenchman. The minute he left the porch, Hogan, Kinch, and Newkirk fled the building. They circled the growing pandemonium and slipped back into their barracks through a side window. The siren was still screaming, almost in harmony with Lebeau, but just enough off to make Schultz hurry faster.
Schultz reached out and caught Lebeau around the arm. "Cockroach! Cockroach! What are you doing?" He was surprised when Lebeau whirled and latched onto him like a drowning man, sobbing uncontrollably. "What-? You're going to get me in trouble-Lebeau!"
The door to Klink's office flew open and the Kommandant stormed down the steps. He stumbled a little, as one boot was not completely on. "What's going on?" He cried, flustered. "An escape! Release the dogs!"
"No wait!" Hogan erupted from the barracks. "There's been no escape." He winked down at the sobbing Lebeau; he was slowly growing calmer. As his sobs grew smaller, the crowd grew larger; prisoners and guards in almost equal numbers swarmed around the dramatic performance. At the guest quarters, Rommel and the corporal were leaning against the railing, their guns drawn and expressions grim. Quite the party.
"What is the meaning of this?" Klink pulled on his boot in vain, attempted to look dignified, as every German officer should. Contrary to plan, he cut a truly pathetic figure. "I want answers," he shook a finger at Lebeau, who sniffed loudly.
"Tell him, Lebeau," Hogan ordered with a faked yawn.
"Nightmare," Lebeau still clung to Schultz.
The big guard quickly became sympathetic. He awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. "There, there now, it's going to be all right."
"SCHULTZ!" Klink's face had gone red. "No, it isn't all right! My sleep was interrupted for- for this? A nightmare! We are not nursemaids. Back to your barracks, all of you. And if this happens again-" He huffed and stomped back to his quarters.
The crowd began to disperse as the guards herded the prisoners back to bed. Hogan glanced up to look at Rommel, but the field marshal and his corporal had disappeared without fanfare. He shrugged and moved inside to get some much needed sleep. Mission accomplished. So far.
Schultz helped Lebeau back. "Sometimes, it helps to talk about it." He was encouraging. "What got you so upset?"
Lebeau shuddered. "I saw Goering in a tutu."
Schultz stiffened. "Now you go too far! I heard nothing, nothing!"
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"An interesting camp," Rommel removed his holster from his belt and tossed the gun on a chair. He shook his head in mild disbelief. "I'm not sure what to think."
"Ja, Herr Feldmarshall," Daniel kept his own gun close. "Perhaps open minds are no longer an option."
Rommel glanced over at the sleeping Lang. Something was bugging him about that, but he was too tired to think of it. "Strange that the major didn't wake up during all that fuss. I didn't think he drank that much." Something's wrong, but what? "He missed all the excitement."
"Ja, well," Daniel glanced over in disapproval. Like Rommel, he didn't drink, and he didn't trust those who did. "His fault."
Rommel nodded distantly and returned to the bedroom. He was too tired to bother with some paranoid unease. This was the middle of Germany; why should he worry? What could go wrong?