December 21, 1943

Newkirk scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He looked completely ridiculous.

"Tell me again why I have to go dressed like this?" he asked peevishly.

Leaning against Newkirk's bunk, Hogan smirked. "Because we told our contact to expect an old lady with a purple shawl."

Newkirk rolled his eyes as he straightened said purple shawl on his shoulders. "Why didn't you tell him to expect a ruddy gentleman?!"

"Oh, shucks, why didn't I think of that?" Hogan replied with a small smirk.

Newkirk grunted. He knew this had to be some sort of punishment for the other week when he led that Gestapo agent into camp. How was he supposed to know such a good looking bird was actually evil?

"I think you look great, Newkirk," Carter said from the table where he, LeBeau, and Kinch were playing cards.

"Oui. Very convincing," LeBeau agreed.

"You're beautiful, Newkirk," Kinch chimed in.

"All right, have your laugh," Newkirk fumed. "But the hofbrau better be dark, or no one will believe this fine figure of a man is a little old lady!"

"You'll be fine," Hogan said. "Now get going. Our contact will be waiting with that microfilm and the sooner he passes it on, that safer he'll be."

"I'm going," Newkirk said sourly. He twisted the skirt of his dress and fixed the ties on his bonnet. "If I die, make sure I'm not buried in this!"

Soon, Newkirk found himself at the local hofbrau. It was decorated for Christmas with garlands, wreaths, and mistletoe. A cheery tune floated from the phonograph and the tinking of glasses added to the merry atmosphere.

"Oh, my old bones," Newkirk complained as he entered and hobbled down the steps. He shook a little snow off his shawl. "My, my, it just gets colder every year, doesn't it?" He dropped himself into a chair at a table. "A beer, please," he said to a passing waiter. "It helps warm up the toes, you know," he added with a chuckle.

"Right away, gnädige Frau," the waiter said. He returned a moment later and set a beer on the table.

"Bitte. And heil Hitler. Here we go." Newkirk took a big swig and then wiped his arm across his face. "Oh, but that is lovely. I'm warming up already, dearie."

The waiter smiled and nodded before heading to another table. Newkirk sat and nursed his beer, occasionally commenting about the cold or the beer. A few tables over, he noticed a group of young men–boys, really– in uniform, who were talking amongst each other. Every once in a while, they looked over at him. Newkirk adjusted his shawl and tried to ignore them. Finally, one of them stood and approached him.

"Good evening, gnädige Frau," the boy greeted, a big smile on his face.

"Good evening, sonny. Why aren't you home in your little bed? It must be past your bedtime by now."

The boy ignored his comment. He made an exaggerated bow and held out his hand. "May I have a dance?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes and suppressed a groan. It was obvious to him that this was some sort of silly dare, intended to either humiliate the boy or Newkirk. Or both.

"Oh how sweet," Newkirk cooed as he pinched the boy's cheek. "Of course I did a lot of dancing when I was your age, but my old feet aren't what they used to be, you know." He released the boy's cheek and then patted it firmly. "So sweet."

The boy straightened and rubbed his cheek. He looked back at his friends who seemed to urge him on. "Oh, you're not so old," he said, turning back to Newkirk. "Why, you're a spring chicken and I think I may die if I don't dance with you."

"Flatterer," Newkirk said as he fanned his hand infront of his face. "But don't be silly."

"Oh… but…" He looked up and then back at his friends and jerked his head upwards. The other boys grinned widely and nodded. Newkirk followed their gaze up and found a bit of mistletoe hanging over him. "At least let me have a kiss," the boy said.

"Oh ho ho," Newkirk said, shaking his finger at him. "Now I'm no hofbrau tart. Away with you, you little scamp."

"But I love you!" the boy cried. And then, without warning, he reached forward, grabbed Newkirk's face and yanked him forward, planting his lips on his.

"Oh you brute!" Newkirk cried, pushing the boy away. He grabbed his handbag and hit him over the head.

The other boys laughed as Newkirk's assailant retreated. "Oh gnädige Frau! Gnädige Frau!" they called, making kissy noises. "We love you, gnädige Frau!"

Newkirk balled a fist and was about to stand up and give them what-for when a voice cut him off.

"That's enough!" Newkirk looked over to see Olsen marching up to the boys. "You boys get out of here. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

One of the boys got up and stood toe to toe with Olsen. Olsen gave him a hard look, standing tall and firm. Eventually the boy motioned for the others to follow him. They moved past Olsen and to the door, laughing with each other. They looked back at Newkirk and blew one last little kiss before leaving.

"Are you all right, gnädige Frau?" Olsen asked.

"Oh, my heart," Newkirk said, clutching his chest. "Thank you for saving me, young man."

Olsen said down and patted Newkirk's hand. "I will sit with you until your nerves have settled." He waited until the other patrons lost interest in the spectacle before continuing. "Looks like I got here in the nick of time. You nearly lost your virtue, Newkirk."

"Very funny," Newkirk said darkly. "What are you doing here, anyway? I wasn't expecting you to be my contact." It didn't make much sense. Why would Hogan send him out looking so ridiculous just to meet Olsen? And if Olsen did have the microfilm, why didn't he just bring it back to camp himself?

"There was an incident," Olsen said. "But it's okay. The underground was able to pass the microfilm off to me."

"Would have been nice of you to tell us that before I had to come out in this ridiculous outfit," Newkirk hissed.

"I tried, but you had already left. Besides, it's always nice to see you looking so fine."

Newkirk pegged Olsen with a withering glare, but Olsen just grinned in response. Then, loudly enough for anyone around him to hear, Newkirk said, "I think I'm all right now, sonny. But I should head home. Will you help me to the door?"

"Of course." Olsen stood up and grabbed Newkirk's hand with one of his own, placing the other under Newkirk's elbow. He made a show of helping him up. Then they shuffled to the door.

"Thank you, dearie," Newkirk said. Together they stepped out into the cold. Olsen looked around before digging into his pocket and pulling out a roll of film. He tossed it to Newkirk who put it in his handbag. "Thanks." He turned to leave, but Olsen stopped him.

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?" Olsen smirked as he pointed up to a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the awning.

Newkirk replied by hitting Olsen over the head with his handbag and storming off.

Apparently, this is a Newkirk story?

Anyway, it's very hard to work around The Christmas Song, so unless inspiration strikes before the challenge is over, this will probably be the last chapter.

Cheers